“Don’t be sorry. I have never begrudged Eleanor her dalliances. The sacrifices she’s made to be with me are so profound that I would be the worst of men if I demanded complete fidelity from her.”
“I wish more people were as open-minded as you and Nora. A few of Zachary’s friends, well, ex-friends now, hate me because I dated someone while we were separated. No matter how many times he tells them he was involved with someone else, too...boys will be boys but a woman who has sex with anyone other than her husband, that’s an unforgivable sin.”
“Not to me. And not to God, either. Eleanor and I have always had an open relationship, and it was entirely at my instigation. Because of what I am—”
“And what are you?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her. She suddenly felt like a naughty schoolgirl about to get scolded.
“You know what I am, Grace.”
“I know you’re a sadist. That’s what Nora says. And I also know you’re a good man and a wonderful priest. Which she also told me.”
Søren sighed and sat next to her on the roof ledge. She studied his profile as he weighed his words. It had been years since she’d taken pen to paper and written a poem. She’d been quite a good poet in her university days and had dreamed of making poetry her life’s work. But marriage, her career, the real world, had taken that dream from her. Now she suddenly felt inspired to try to write again. She knew she would remember this quiet moment on this roof with this priest for the rest of her life. The still-forming memory fluttered about her head like a moth. She would net this night with words and pin it to paper so it would stay in place forever.
“There are those of our kind who play at sadism like a game. That might sound crass and sordid to you.”
“My brother plays rugby. I’m familiar with the concept of inflicting pain as a game.”
“They’re the lucky ones. The ones who can play at it. The whistle blows, the game ends, they walk away. But for me...it’s not a game. I can’t walk away from it.”
“Nora explained it to me a little. She said it’s like being g*y or straight. It’s what you are instead of what you do.”
“I’m glad she helped you understand. Not everyone does. It scares people. As it should. I would worry about someone who was blasé about the concept of hurting another person for pleasure.”
“It must be terrifying, doing what you do.”
“It can be. The greater the pain I inflict on someone, the greater my pleasure. It’s a tightrope walk, a balancing act. There’s always the fear of going too far, of falling off. And in such a situation, you don’t fall off alone. You take the other person down with you.”
“But that’s what the safe words are for, right? To stop the fall?”
Søren nodded. “They help, the little safeguards we have. Eleanor and I have been together for so long she knows how far she can take me without me losing myself.”
“Have you ever—” Grace tried to find the right words “—lost yourself?”
“Yes. Once with Eleanor shortly after we became lovers. She taunted me in play. I retaliated in earnest. In her shock she forgot that she had her safe word to stop me. I didn’t stop.”
Grace shivered as his voice dropped to not much more than a whisper. I didn’t stop... She didn’t want to know what he didn’t stop doing. That was a secret she would let him keep.
“Any other times?” Grace brought the glass to her lips.“Several. All with Kingsley.”
Grace nearly choked on the wine. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath.
“With Kingsley? Really?”
“You seem surprised.” She wasn’t surprised. She was shocked and Søren seemed entirely amused by her shock.
“I thought you two were teenagers when you were together.”
“We were. Although there have been a few occasions since then. Rare ones. They have to be rare.”
“Why?”
Søren stopped speaking for a moment. He held out his hand. Grace laughed, handed him the wineglass and watched him drink. He returned the glass to her, slightly less full than it was before.
“Kingsley Edge...not his real name. Would you like to know his real name?”
“Very much.”
“Kingsley Théophile Boissonneault.”
Grace blinked.
“Can you spell that for me?”
“B-o-i-s-s-o-n-n-e-a-u-l-t.” Søren spoke each letter with the French pronunciation. “As you can imagine, he was rather keen to divest himself of such a name when he settled in America.”
“That is quite a mouthful.”
“Not unlike the man himself.”
Grace nearly dropped the glass, but she saw the glint of wicked amusement in Søren’s eyes.
“You’re doing it again.” She pointed at him. “You’re trying to play with my mind.”
“I am and entirely without remorse.”
“You’re the one who’s half-drunk. I’m the one who should be in control of this conversation.”
“You’ve already forgotten what we were talking about.”
“That is not true. You were...” She paused and retraced their conversational steps. The “mouthful” remark had blown her far off course. She would get back on it. “Kingsley. You were telling me why your encounters,” she said, trying for the most tactful word possible, “with Kingsley are rare.”