The Saint

“Is that short for …?”

“Eleanor. Eleanor Louise Schreiber, at your service.” She grasped the ends of her skirt and gave him her most sarcastic curtsy. “Now who the hell are you?”

“Try that again. More politely please.”

She tapped the toe of her boot on the ground.

“Well?”

“Fine. What is your name, Father?”

He studied her face for a moment and didn’t answer.

“Don’t you know your own name?”

“I’m deciding how to answer the question. In the meantime, allow me to say this. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Eleanor.”

He reached out his left hand for her to shake. She had no choice but to give him her own left hand. As soon as her hand was in his, he gripped her fingers and pulled her toward him. He pushed at her sleeve and examined the two burns on her wrist.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” she demanded, trying to pull her arm back. He didn’t give an inch, merely held her in place with his impossible strength.

“You have two second-degree burns on your arm and large scrapes on your knees. Care to tell me how those came about?”

“It’s none of your business.”

The priest studied her through narrowed steel-colored eyes. He didn’t seem the least offended by her language.

“Eleanor,” he said. “Tell me who hurt you. And tell me right now.”

She felt the force of his will like a wall pressing against her.

“No. You won’t even tell me your name.”

“If I tell you my name, will you tell me about the burns?”

He let her hand go and she pulled her arm back and held it to her stomach. Her entire body fluttered from the touch of his hand on her hand, and the unrepentant way he studied her.

She stood still and silent while he stared at her face until she reluctantly met his eyes.

“Will you tell anybody what I tell you?” She wasn’t wild about telling anyone something so private about herself, but for some reason, a reason she couldn’t name, she trusted this man, this priest.

“Not a soul.”

“Okay. Fine. Name?”

He reached into the black leather saddlebag on his motorcycle and pulled out what appeared to be a Bible in some foreign language. He flipped opened the well-worn cover to a page where he’d written his name in thick black ink with strong legible handwriting.

Søren Magnussen.

She reached out and with the tip of her finger traced the letters in the name.

“Søren … Did I say that right?”

“You say it like an American.”

“How am I supposed to say it?”

“I like the way you say it. You should know, that’s not the name anyone here will ever call me. That’s what my mother named me. Unfortunately I’m forced to go by what my father named me—Marcus Stearns.”

“So no one here knows your real name?” That he wrote Søren Magnussen in his Bible seemed to hint that he considered Søren his real name, not Marcus.

“Only you. And now that you know it, I believe you owe me an answer to my question.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Eleanor—”

“I go by Elle, not Eleanor.”

“Eleanor is the name of queens. Elle is merely a French pronoun that means she or her. I will call you Eleanor. And now, Eleanor, tell me how you arrived at the burns on your wrist. Then we’ll discuss the knees.”

“Curling iron.”

“Self-inflicted or is someone in your home hurting you?”

“Self-inflicted.”

“Why did you do it?”

“For fun.”

“You enjoy hurting yourself?” He asked the question without shock or disgust. She heard nothing in his voice but curiosity.

She nodded.

“You think I’m crazy?”

“You seem quite sane to me. Apart from your clothes.”

“What? Not down with grunge?”

“Your hair is also a cause for concern.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“It’s gone green.”

“It’s not moldy,” she said, laughing at the playful look of disapproval on his face. “That’s hair gel. I put green streaks in it.”