The Siren (38 page)

“I wanted to have your children once,” she said, not looking in his eyes.

“I told you, Michael is like a son to me. And you had him, did you not?”

Nora inhaled sharply. “There’s a difference between sadism and cruelty. I hope you learn that someday.”

“Remind me which of those you prefer?”

“I’m going, Søren. Thank you for another lovely anniversary.”

Nora turned on her heel and strode from the hall. She heard footsteps behind her but kept walking. She only made it as far as the entryway when she heard her name.

She stopped and turned around to face Søren.

“It’s hard enough for me to come to this place again and see you,” she said. “You don’t have to make it harder.”

Søren raised a hand to the side of her face. He brushed her cheek with his fingertips. She glanced around to make sure no one was there watching them. It was a habit she’d never break.

“Forgive me. This is difficult for me, as well.”

“I didn’t think anything was difficult for you.”

Søren lowered his hand and stepped out of the sunlight and into the shadows by the shrine of the Virgin Mary.

“Surely you of all people cannot think so highly of me.”

Nora smiled and followed him into the shadows.

“The day I first saw you, I thought you were omnipotent.”

“You were fifteen, Eleanor.”

“I still think that.”

Søren’s laugh was empty and somber.

“If I were omnipotent you would still be with me, little one. I didn’t have the strength to stop you from leaving.”

“You did,” she said. “But you loved me too much to use it.”

“Perhaps I’ve always loved you too much.” Søren turned his eyes up to the Virgin Mary statue. “Our mutual acquaintance tells me you’ve given up work on your book.”

Nora tugged at her shirt cuffs.

“Zach found out about what I do. He killed the deal.”

“Surely you can write without him.”

“I’m not sure I can. He made me see my book with new eyes. I was just a smutty storyteller before him. For a little while I felt like a real writer.”

“Answer a question for me, Eleanor. Why did you begin your work with our monsieur?”

“I had nothing. He offered me a job.”

“You could have worked any number of jobs. Why that one?”

“He said I’d make a lot of money working very few hours. I thought it would give me—” She stopped and swallowed. “I thought it would give me time to write.”

“Your work with Kingsley was merely a means to an end. It was never meant to be the end.”

Nora didn’t know how to answer that.

Søren reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small black velvet bag and placed it in her hand.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Your real anniversary gift.”

Nora opened the bag and a silver pendant on a chain poured out into her hand. She held it close to her eyes.

“A saint’s medal.” She laughed. “I haven’t worn one of these in years. Who is it? St. Michael? St. Mary Magdalene?”

“St. John the Apostle actually.”

“St. John…patron saint of fools and ex-lovers?” she hazarded a guess.

“No,” Søren said, his voice and eyes gentle. “The patron saint of writers.”

Nora’s hand shook slightly and she couldn’t quite get the necklace on.

Søren took the medal from her and clasped it around her neck. She closed her eyes and relished the brief moment when his arms encircled her.

“Our Lord Jesus had twelve disciples,” Søren said, taking a step back. “After His Ascension all were scattered to the four winds and were persecuted unto death. Oddly enough it was only St. John, Patron Saint of Writers, who didn’t die a martyr.”

“You always hated it when I played martyr. You know, I’m not sure I deserve to wear this.”

“Genesis 1:1,
God said let there be light and there was light
… God created the world with words, Eleanor. Words are the thread in the fabric of the universe. You write because it brings you closer to God. I was foolish enough once to think I could do that for you. I know better now. This is who you are.”

“Zach doesn’t think so.”

“Then he’s a bigger fool than I was. I know you, little one. You wrote your way out of hell once. You can do it again.”

“The book’s not done, not even close, and I’ve only got a week left before he leaves for L.A. Not that he’ll even bother to read it if I do get it done.”

“Then in your vernacular, Eleanor—fuck him. Finish the book. Not for me or for Zachary or for Wesley or even for God. Finish it for you.”

Nora laughed against her tears.

“Is that an order?”

“Does it need to be?”

Nora thought about it a moment, thought about the energy that now surged through her veins. She had one week before Zach left for L.A. What if she did finish it without him? She could walk up to him and throw the book in his face. The contract be damned. She’d finish it just because she wanted to know how it ended.

“No, I think I’ve got this one.”

“Then go.” Søren nodded to the entrance.

Nora almost ran to the door. But she stopped at the last moment and turned around.

“You could have kept me, you do know that, don’t you?” she asked.

Søren struck a match and lit a candle under the shrine.

“I would that you had kept me.”

Nora didn’t, couldn’t speak. But it didn’t matter if she spoke or not, as long as she could write. She stepped out of the foyer and into the sunlight. She took one last look back at Sacred Heart and knew her most sacred heart remained inside.
Sometimes,
she thought to herself,
I wish you’d kept me, too.

* * *

Wesley was waiting for her in the living room when she got back to the house. He wore a look of profound relief when he saw that she was unharmed. She smiled at how much more thankful he would be in just a few minutes.

“You came home,” he said.

“I’ve got a book to write.”

A smile as bright as the sun spread across Wesley’s face. But it wavered when he held out her red hotline phone.

“It rang while you were gone.”

Nora took the phone from his hands and pressed the number eight. For herself and no one else she would finish the book. But this at least she could do for Wesley.

“Pardonnez-moi, madame,”
Kingsley began as he answered the phone.
“Mais—”

“Forget it, King. Don’t take this personally, but Mistress Nora is out of business.”

“For how long this time,
chérie?
” She heard the laughter in his voice.

Nora looked at Wesley and smiled.

“Forever.”

She dropped the phone on the floor. With one quick stomp she smashed the cell phone with the heel of her shoe.

Wesley hugged her so hard he lifted her off the ground.

“Down boy. I don’t have a lot of time and I’ve got a helluva lot to write. Brew coffee and turn off all the phones, unplug the internet, don’t answer the door. For the next week, it’s nothing but all-nighters.”

“I thought you said Zach said—”

“Fuck Zach. I’m writing it for me.”

29

One week left…

Z
ach sipped his coffee and grimaced.

“You know, you should really let me make the coffee, boss.” Mary entered his office holding a Starbucks cup. She passed it to him, and he took it with gratitude. “Yours is disgusting.”

“You’d think with a doctorate from Oxford I’d have learned how to make a proper cup of coffee somewhere along the way.”

“Some of us have the gift. Some don’t. Poor you, swilling gross coffee all your life.”

Zach grinned at her as she sat in the chair across his desk. “Grace always made our coffee. She had the gift apparently,” Zach said. “American coffee is vastly superior to English coffee anyway. She knew some little shop in London that carried the real beans. She got up early to brew it every morning.”

“She sounds like a keeper.” Mary smiled and then seemed to realize she’d said something she shouldn’t. “I’m sorry, Zach.”

“It’s all right. It’s apparently no secret that Grace and I fell apart. Even that arse Finley knows.”

Mary shuddered with revulsion. “I can’t believe he went to all that trouble, leaving all those dirty little presents, just to get under your skin. And then all that stuff he said about Nora…I never told you this, but I really like Nora’s books.”

“Mary, I had no idea you were of that persuasion.”

“I wouldn’t say I was of that persuasion, but I do love a good story. And she writes some torrid ones.”

“Her life is her most torrid story,” Zach said.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Mary, her books aren’t the only thing she sells.”

“Yeah, I heard she was the real thing. I can’t believe I’ve been working for someone who was working with a real live Dominatrix.”

“Not simply a Dominatrix.
The
Dominatrix apparently. I can’t have it. She’s just supposed to write about it. She’s not supposed to live it.”

“She doesn’t write murder stories, boss. She doesn’t kill people on paper and in real life. She just…”

“Beats them on paper and in real life,” Zach finished for her.

“But they like it. Slightly lower rung on the ladder of horror than murder and rape, don’t you think?”

“Mary, you don’t mind your husband had other lovers before he met you, do you?”

“Of course not. I had my fair share, too.”

“Now, would you mind if you found out these other lovers had paid him for sex?”

Mary laughed at the idea. “I see your point. But still—”

“I can accept it as a private practice between consenting adults. But to do it with strangers for money?”

Mary exhaled and rolled her eyes.

“Boss, do you really think her personal life means she doesn’t deserve to be published? That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? Is this really about her book?”

Zach looked at Mary.

“Please don’t share this with anyone—”

“Jesus, Zach, I’m not J.P. You can tell me anything.”

“Nora and I… It wasn’t strictly business.”

She nodded her head. “Well, obviously. Your mood definitely improved when you started working with her. Is that why you’re so pissed?”

“She lied to me. That’s what I can’t get over. I cared about her. For the first time since Grace and I separated I could vaguely imagine myself happy again. Or at least not miserable anymore.”

“Maybe she was imagining the same thing with you. Maybe that’s why she was afraid to tell you. Or maybe she just wanted you to see her as a writer and not as, I don’t know, a character.”

Zach sighed. He knew Mary had a point. He just didn’t want to admit it yet.

“Tell me something, boss. What do you think is the highest form of art?”

“Literature,” he answered without hesitation. “Painters and sculptors require elaborate supplies and tools. Dancers must have music. Musicians must have instruments. Literature needs nothing but a voice to speak it or sand to scrawl it in.”

Mary walked to his office bookshelf and pulled down three Royal House titles. She laid them facedown on top of his desk. She pointed one by one at the UPC barcodes on the back.

“Even the highest form of art is for sale, Zach. And you, editor extraordinaire, help up the price.”

Zach met her eyes. “You think I’m a prude.”

“Prude…ish. Poor J.P. was heartbroken when you told him it wasn’t going to work out with Nora.”

“I know. He looked like a boy whose puppy just died. But he kept his promise.”

“He trusts you. If you say the book shouldn’t be published, he won’t publish the book. Do you really think the book shouldn’t be published?”

Zach stared at Mary. Twenty-eight years old and she was far wiser than he. She was right. At least Nora deserved a chance to tell her side of the story.

“You deserve a raise.”

“For what? Bringing you coffee?”

“And telling me off. And coming in on a Sunday to help me clean house a little.”

“It’s Easter Sunday. You and I are both members of the tribe. Might as well. Besides, you’re the best boss I’ve ever had.”

“And you’re by far my best assistant ever. Here.” He dug in his messenger bag and pulled out Finley’s most recent gift to him. “Would you like to have these? Finley’s last gift. Earrings, I think.”

Mary opened the box and burst out laughing.

“What?” Zach asked.

“Nice nipple clamps, boss.”

Heat rushed to Zach’s face. “Nipple clamps? I should have known.”

“Well, they do look a lot like clip-on earrings,” she said.

“But you knew what they were immediately.” Zach raised his eyebrow at her.

Mary looked up to the heavens in feigned innocence. “I don’t know. Maybe I am of that persuasion.” She stood up and headed for the door.

“You think I should call Nora?” Zach asked. Mary turned around.

“I think you should think about it,” Mary said as she left his office.

He picked up the phone and dialed Nora’s house number, but there was no answer. He called her cell phone but it went directly to voice mail. He sent her an email that said only,
Will you call me please?
but got an automatically generated away message back from her. All it said was,
To Whom It May Concern: Fuck off. I’m busy.

He sighed and gave up. He could only imagine what she was so busy doing. Even on Easter Sunday, a day that meant nothing to him but he knew was very important to Catholics, she was clearly hard at work at her other job.

He’d tried to call her. It just wasn’t meant to be. He considered calling Grace. He picked up the phone again, stared at it, then put it back down.

* * *

He sighed, knowing he was caught. It amused him to think that while he was ostensibly in charge of every aspect of her life, Caroline still believed she could control his choice of reading material. Her benign feminine disapproval trumped any act of dominance he could muster.

“In the effort to retain my status as the dominant partner in this relationship, consider the following a preemptive strike—I give you permission to criticize my book,” William said to Caroline as she knelt on the ground at his feet.