The Original Sinners: The Red Years

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…

Zach 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.