LITMIR.BIZ

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the words, Michael looked in their direction for the first time. His silver eyes widened with shock at the sight of her. His skin flushed and a look of pure panic eclipsed his face.

      “Søren…” Nora was afraid Michael was about to lose it.

      “Just watch, Eleanor.”

      Michael kept looking at her. But she did as Søren ordered. Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The red faded from his face, his body went calm and slack. He opened his eyes again and met her gaze once more. And then, of all things, he smiled at her.

      “He’s fine,” Søren said. “He is one of us after all.”

      “You care about him very much. I can tell,” she said.

      “He’s become like a son to me.”

      “How sweet. Like Abraham and Isaac.”

      “I know you are still angry that I didn’t tell you his age. Had I told you, would anything have been different? Apart from this impressive claim to righteous indignation?”

      Nora opened her mouth to protest but a boy of about five or six squealed past them.

      “Owen!” Søren called out, freezing the little boy in his tracks. “Come here, young man.”

      Søren snapped his fingers and pointed at a spot on the floor in front of him. Little Owen slumped over and slunk to the spot. Nora had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Owen was the cutest little thing with his curly black hair sticking out in all directions.

      “Yes, Father S.?” the boy asked and kicked at the hardwood, making his soles squeak on purpose.

      “Owen, please examine your shoes.”

      Obediently Owen looked down. His whole body heaved the most forlorn sigh she’d ever heard come from a child.

      “I forgot.” Owen looked up at Søren with pleading eyes.

      “You forgot to tie them or you forgot how to tie them?” Søren asked.

      “I forgot how.”

      “Eleanor? I believe this is your area of expertise.”

      “I’ll try, but I’m a little out of practice.”

      Nora knelt in front of him and attempted to demonstrate the bunny rabbit method, the two loops as ears and the loop around the loop… Owen just watched her with his grave eyes.

      “Does that make any sense, Owen?” she asked as she stood up again.

      “I don’t know. It’s just so hard. Thank you.”

      “You’re very welcome, Owen.”

      Nora watched as Søren reached out and placed the tip of his finger between Owen’s eyes. Owen’s eyes crossed and both he and Søren laughed. “You’re dismissed. But do try to stay in the slow lane, please.”

      Owen took off again, but this time at a more restrained pace.

      Nora glanced across the hall, past the tables to where the parents sat talking among themselves but never taking their eyes off their kids.

      “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

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