55. Dante
55
DANTE
I flip my collar up as I emerge onto the sidewalk, then walk down the street heading to my destination. I fight back the guilt I feel for not spending every waking hour with Kingsley. For the most part we have, but at other times, I’ve taken a two or three hour break to catch my breath.
My phone rings as I continue to walk down the street, noticing my security scattered in various directions along my path. I had pre-planned this trip and told them the night before of my intentions; they have done well covering all possible corners in the direction I am walking.
“Simon.” My voice is flat and to the point with my head of security. I never feel the need for unnecessary words when it comes to matters of safety, and he only ever calls me if it is an emergency.
“Sir, Ms Murray just left the Brownstone.”
My eyes flick across the road to my security; for a single moment, there is a doubt in my mind as to whether I should continue on my path or head back home and deal with this latest disaster. She doesn’t know New York – she has never been here and doesn’t have any business here. I had warned her against going out to avoid getting lost, and had told my men that if she tried to leave, to escort her.
“Where is she going?”
“She wouldn’t say, sir. But she’s heading in your direction.”
She must have seen me through the window and decided to follow me. For whatever reason, I can’t understand.
“Keep your eyes on her. I don’t want her left alone.”
“Copy, sir.”
I continue walking on, my feet moving in spite of my misgivings. Kingsley on the street in foreign territory is not something I relish. When I reach my destination, I’m sure I see her come around the corner then duck quickly when I turn in her direction.
I look up at the old fieldstone building, its spire looming higher than nearby homes. A text comes in on my phone; one of the security detail following me puts Kingsley at the corner where I’d seen her. So I’m right, she’s following me.
I open the gate and walk up the old rickety stairs, my gaze falling to overgrown gardens on either side of the building. The property looks like it could use some maintenance.
Father Talbot comes to the door on the first ring, pulling me to him in an embrace before he closes the door behind us. I follow him into the church, noticing the way he shuffles his feet as he walks. He is getting old, and I imagine at his age he should now retire, but knowing Father Talbot, who has lived and breathed the Church his entire life, there will be no retirement.
“My son, what brings you here today?” Father Talbot asks, taking a seat beside me in one of the pews.
It is a ritual for me to visit him on two planned visits a year. Me turning up unexpectedly is out of the norm, which tells him there is something on my mind. I sigh distractedly. He has always been good at reading me. And he has been the voice of reason when I’d turned up at the Church to undertake the required service toward priesthood. He had seen in me a hunger for the world that dictated I was not meant for the church, yet still he had taken me in and fulfilled his obligations, until I was almost over the finish line and was forced to leave.
It could be said that I was never meant for the church. It could also be said that I had decided to become a priest for all the wrong reasons.
“Why are your gardens overgrown?” I ask him, avoiding his question. The gardens had at one point been a beautiful attraction for everyone to enjoy, the blooms and shrubs enjoying front road exposure then leading the way to the graveyard at the back of the property. A graveyard that dated back to the 1860’s and held so much history.
“After Owen, I had a hard time finding anyone to replace him. It’s a different time, my boy. People don’t like to work anymore.”
I quirk an eyebrow. It’s hard to imagine that someone would not want to work in a garden all day. But times had changed, so maybe we had to look at different ways of doing things.
“I’ll send someone to clean it up, then come in once or twice a week to maintain it,” I tell him. “My donation to the church,” I say, cutting him off when he starts to protest.
“You seem troubled, Dante.”
“Things were simpler when I was here,” I admit. “I knew what was expected of me. I followed the rules. There was a manual to the way things should be. Things have become complicated now."
Father Talbot chuckles at the comparison between the Bible and a manual, then looks at me wistfully.
“You were always meant for greater things, Dante.”
“What if greater isn’t exactly God’s way?”
“We must all do things at times that we wouldn’t ordinarily do. It’s a given. There must be sinners. And there must be saints.”
“So, by definition, I’m the sinner.”
He shakes his head and looks at me sadly. “The reason you came to the church was because you believed you had committed a sin. Committing a sin comes with repentance. If saints stopped sinning, there’d be no one left to save.”
“So I’m neither a sinner nor a saint.”
“I believe you’re a little of both, Dante. To some you are a sinner. To others, you may be a saint.”
“What if I’ve had thoughts… about a woman.”
My mind goes dark as I think of all the things I imagine doing with Kingsley. All the things I want to do to her to wreck her for anyone else to come after me. All the dark thoughts I have about her. I am stepping on very dangerous territory here.
“You no longer belong to the church, my son. It is natural for you to have thoughts about a woman.”
“What if I don’t want to have those thoughts?” I ask him.
“Well, why wouldn’t you? When you can.”
The priest has a pointed way of stating the obvious. Anyone in their right mind who was not bound by the cloth or regulation, would not hesitate to consummate with a woman. Why then was I floundering? Why was I fighting this thing between Kingsley and me with all my might? Why was I looking for reasons not to be with her?
“What happened to bring you here in the first place was an accident, Dante. You can’t go on punishing yourself for something that was always meant to happen.”
* * *
I find Kingsley in the graveyard, where my security told me she would be. She has braved the unknown and waded through the overgrown weeds to get to the cemetery, and I have to give her credit as I watch her back rise and fall with every breath she takes. I approach her quietly, then say her name when I’m closer so she doesn’t startle. She turns to look at me, a flash of guilt tracking across her face, followed by a silent apology as she realizes what she’s done.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I came.” She shakes her head. “I do know. I followed you. But I don’t know why.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to spend your morning in an old graveyard,” I smirk, breaking the ice and absolving her of any wrongdoing. In telling her I didn’t invite her because I didn’t think she’d be interested in starting out her morning this way, I take the burden of guilt off her shoulders and place it elsewhere.
“There are graves here more than a hundred and fifty years old,” she tells me, surprise coating her voice. “It must have been beautiful once upon a time.” She turns back to the church and admires the old building, showing she has an appreciation for historic sites. “How do you even know this place?”
“Walk with me?” I ask, leading her out of the graveyard. She follows, and as we step out onto the street, I realise that she isn’t wearing a coat. I take mine off and drape it across her shoulders, scolding her for leaving the house without a coat.
“Can we stay here forever?” she asks. I look at her as we walk, questioning her request. “It seems like we’re a whole other world away from the mess we were in with Tate and the Savages. It’s so peaceful here. Normal. Quiet.”
“And what would you do with your father’s businesses? Properties? Contracts?”
She shrugs. Then she throws her hands up and tells me she could sell them. I try to convince her that it’s not as simple to sell things off as it is to talk about doing so.
“I don’t know that I’m cut out for being a businesswoman, Dante.”
Her uncertainty and self-doubt is something I’ve not previously been privy to. Not until we’d placed her squarely at the head of the Murray family and told her to be boss. She has a lot of catching up to do, with the fear of failure ever present at the forefront of her mind. And of course, with the added stress of Tate looming over her, she will most likely be second guessing every move she makes.
“No one can force this on you, Kingsley. My recommendation is that you give it a year, six months minimum. If you find it’s not for you, you can re-assess and make better decisions. Don’t forget, you’ll have a whole team of advisors, so you’ll literally be doing nothing but making decisions.”
“I’ve never had to make decisions,” she reminds me. “They’ve always been made for me, even down to the hideous outfit Marco resorted to burning because he was traumatized by it.”
We laugh together at the memory as we continue to walk. When we reach a coffee shop, I grab her hand and pull her through behind me, where we order coffee and slide into a booth.
“We have a nasty habit of showing up to empty restaurants,” Kingsley observes, looking around the empty coffeeshop in confusion. “What is the universe trying to tell us?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it is, I hope it’s rooting for us.”