Drinking is for celebrating, not for suicide.

Too bad he didn’t have anything to celebrate.

Maybe it was a Catholic feast day or something. He pushed the bottle aside, picked up the phone behind the bar and dialed a number.

“What day is this?” Kingsley asked.

“It’s Sunday,” Søren said, “which means it’s still been eleven years.”

“Is it a saint’s day or a feast day?”

“It’s always a saint’s day. It’s also Clergy Appreciation Day, according to Diane. Seems to be the only explanation for why my desk is covered in baked goods,” Søren said, sounding utterly bewildered.

“Clergy Appreciation Day. That will work. On my way.”

“On your way?”

“Yes. I need to get drunk. I’m depressed and miserable and angry. And you said I can’t drink unless I’m celebrating something. You and I can celebrate Clergy Appreciation Day together. And you owe me. I destroyed First Presbyterian for you.”

“I owe you?”

“Oui.”

Søren paused. Kingsley waited.

“The rectory at nine,” Søren said.

“You want to celebrate, too?”

“I’m a priest in love with a sixteen-year-old girl. Bring a big bottle. We’ll both crawl inside it.”

36

KINGSLEY LAY ON the floor with an almost empty bottle of pinot noir in his hand and a full glass in the other. Søren sat at his piano playing a familiar song. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt, and if Kingsley could ignore the crosses on the wall and the Bible on the table, he could almost forget Søren was a priest. The lamp-lit room throbbed in time with the music. The piece ended, and Søren turned around on the piano bench.

“That’s a good song,” Kingsley said, raising his glass in a salute.

“No idea what it is,” Søren said. “I heard it while making hospital visits. I’ve spent the last week trying to work out the melody. You know it?”

“Is called ‘Purple Rain.’” Sam had that CD. She had a huge music collection, and he’d come home one day to Prince, the next day to Nine Inch Nails. He’d caught her and Blaise dancing to something called The Humpty Hump one rainy Thursday. “I’ll buy you a copy.”

“‘Purple Rain?’ Who’s the composer?”

“A man named Prince.”

“Prince? Is he an actual prince?”

“I don’t think so. But am I an actual king?” Kingsley asked with a disdainful shrug. “Pfft.”

“Pfft?” Søren repeated. “Pfft? Is that French for something?”

“Is French for pfft,” Kingsley said. “Where did you get the piano? You are a priest with no money.”

Søren picked up his wineglass. “I told my sister Elizabeth how our dear father tried to bribe me into quitting seminary with a Ducati. She said she’d buy me a Steinway if I did get ordained. I thought she was joking. The piano showed up in June.”

“Ahh...Elizabeth. You still talk to her?”

“She’s my sister, not my ex-girlfriend.”

“That, mon ami, is debatable,” Kingsley said, watching the burgundy liquid swirl in his glass. “You are good, you and she? You and her? Fuck, I hate English. Tu et elle.”

“We’re...better. We try to avoid being in the same room together. Too many memories.” He stared into his wine like a red looking glass. “But we speak on the phone once or twice a month.”

“How drunk are you?” Kingsley asked, raising his head to look at Søren. The room swam underneath Kingsley, and he could have sworn he heard the ocean. “Am I on a boat?”

“Five.”

“I’m on five boats?”

“No, I am five drunk. You are not on a boat.”

“Five?”

“On a scale of one to five.”

“Clergy Appreciation Day...” Kingsley said. “Why haven’t I celebrated this day before?”

“It was only invented last year.”

“That would explain it.” Kingsley rolled up and crossed his legs. He sat next to a fireplace with no fire in it. There was some symbolism in that, some meaning. If he were sober he might have recognized it. As he was not, he merely considered starting a fire. “Do you have a lighter? I left mine at home.”

“You’re not allowed to start fires when you’re so drunk you think you’re on a boat.”

Søren stood up and walked to Kingsley. At least Kingsley thought that was what was happening. Søren held out his hand, and Kingsley took it.

“I’m not holding your hand, Kingsley. I’m taking the wine bottle away from you.”

“That’s much more in character,” Kingsley said, taking his hand out of Søren’s grip and replacing it with the bottle. “You were never much of a hand-holder.”

“I held your hand,” Søren said. “Didn’t I?”

“You held my wrist,” Kingsley corrected him. “And almost broke it.”

“The wrist is part of the hand,” he said without any hint of remorse. Søren took the bottle into the kitchen.

“I wasn’t complaining. I liked it. You can break my wrist whenever you want.”

“You’re speaking Russian now. Thought I would let you know in case you didn’t realize that.”