Clinton Priest

Chapter Two

Lizzy refuses to leave, content with making me increasingly uncomfortable until at last the clock chimes at six and I make my way downstairs to the dinning room. I pause in front of the antique mirror set next to the staircase. It was grandma Linda's. She'd bought it from a collector at Paris and she'd cherished it a lot.

I stare intently at my reflection, taking note of the changes in my appearance. There are none. I'm still the same brown eyed, curly haired twig I've always been. My skin is still the color of mocha and my hair is still the same length it's been since I was sixteen. Shoulder length.

I pull at the collar of my black ankle length dress. It's hideous now that I consider it with a critical look.

Lizzy brushes invisible specks of dust from her dress and runs her hands through the ends of her hair giving it a more relaxed look.

I make my way downstairs and take my seat at the table next to my grandpa Edwin. He's staring blankly into space, his grey eyes misting over with unshed tears. He's probably thinking about grandma Linda again. Since she died in April last year, he's retreated into a shell only coming out when he pleases. The only reason why my father hasn't sent him packing to the retirement home is because despite everything, he is still the head of the Sinclair family and still capable of changing his will.

"Good evening, grandpa," I say to him, kissing his sunken cheek. He turns to me and smiles. It's a surprising turn of events. I can't remember the last time he smiled since his wife died.

"Angel," he says, "you came back."

"I did," I respond as I swallow back guilt. I should have gone to see him when I came back last night.

"You are here early," mother says as she, father, Adrian and their guest step into the dinning room.

"I figured I should show up early," I tell her. "I have nothing to do."

She takes a seat next to me. "If you'd stayed in Germany, you would have had plenty to do."

"I would like to have dinner in peace," grandpa says just as the maids bring in the first course.

Dinner, from that moment, is awkward and I feel uncomfortable, sitting stiff separating the peas from my rice. I can't eat. The food clings to my throat like children clinging to the dresses of their mothers and refuses to let go.

Often, my deviant eyes strays to the man in front of me. He is engrossed in his conversation with Adrian. Something about the purchase of a new altar for the refurbished cathedral.
I sip some water and breath heavily through my nose. I should have taken my dinner upstairs.

"Tell me, Scarlett," Mr. Priest, as Adrian calls him, says, his husky voice cuts through my thoughts like a knife cuts through butter. "What do you suggest?"

"Huh?"

His hazel eyes glints with concealed humour. I'm instantly entranced. His eyes are a hypnotizing mixture of greens, browns a dash of yellow and amber.

"The altar. Should it be made of wood or glass and steel." He sips from his glass of sangria.

"Oh. Wood," I mumble.

The ruby eyes of the snake like silver ring he wears on his forefinger glistens in the artificial light of the room as he rubs his stubbled chin thoughtfully.

"I agree," he says finally. "The building is too old for drastic modern changes."

Father places his fork down gently and wipes his mouth with the napkin.

"You must understand, Mr. Priest," he begins, "I agreed to fund this project because Isabelle was for some reason enamoured by the building. She is... " he breathes in deeply, "was a modern woman. I want her immortalized in that building."

Mr. Priest leans back in his seat, his brows furrowed lightly.

"Isabelle wasn't a saint," he states.

"He's not saying she was," Adrian says.

"Then there's no reason for her 'immortalization' to take place in the church, is there?"

The scraping of utensils against the smooth surface of expensive glass plates slows to a stop.

"Mr. Priest, you did not know her like we did. She was a beautiful soul who deserved more than life handed to her. If you knew her as much as we did, you will know that there is nothing too sacred to do for her," mother says.

She sits straight in her chair, her red painted lips thinned and curved downwards in disapproval. Her short clear nails dig into the pale hand of papa as he rubs his thumb soothingly along the dark smooth skin.

"Calm down, Veronica," papa says. His blue eyes focused on her. "There's no reason to get worked up over this."

I stuff my mouth with a spoonful of rice and beef and look down at the rosewood and glass table.

"So, Mr. Priest," Lizzy says suddenly, gently sipping her wine. "How long have you been in Haven?"

"Four weeks," he says. He hasn't eaten anything, I notice. His food is still untouched just like it had been when the maids placed it in front of him.

"Where were you before coming here?"

"Everywhere."

"Why settle here? Haven isn't exactly a tourist centre," she says, twirling a lock of her hair between two fingers.

"She has her charms," he says looking straight at me with those fiery orbs.  His finger teases the long stem of his wine glass as he lifts it to his lips. "She is the embodiment of wild abandon, of treacherous liaisons. She is a fruit forbidden to a man like me." He smirks. "And I've always preferred the taste of the forbidden. It's addictive."

I shudder as his words teases my mind and drowns my body in a pool of erotic sensations. I forcibly swallow the lump in my throat.

"You talk as if Haven were a woman," Lizzy pauses. "A lover."

"Every city is a woman," he says.

"You are an oddity, Mr. Priest," she smiles.

"I am an odd man," he agrees.

"I can't say I dislike it though. I've always leaned towards odd men and if you weren't celibate, we might have had something special," Lizzy says.

"I doubt you will give up."

Lizzy laughs out loud. From the corner of my eye, I see mother shake her head indulgently at the scene.

"Finally! Someone who understands me."

All too soon, dinner ends and Mr. Priest prepares to leave.

"Please walk me to the door," he says to me.

I follow him steadily, matching his long strides with my shorter ones until we step outside.

"Are dinners always so stifling for you?" He asks suddenly, staring at the dark starlit sky.

"Only family dinners," I answer truthfully.

He is close and when I breathe in deep, his scent, wild and woodsy, fills my lungs.
I instinctively bring my fingers to my wrist, scratching hard.

"Don't," he says as he takes my hand in his and rubs the irritated skin gently.
I know he can feel the slightly raised skin of healed injuries.
"Do you do this often?"

"No. Only when I'm nervous," I answered.

"Do I make you nervous?" He asks.

I hesitate briefly, biting my lips as I look away.

"Yes," I whisper.

"Good."

He holds my face with both hands, running his thumbs along my cheeks as he leans down and places a lingering kiss on my forehead.

"The next time I have you this close, maybe you'll be interested in talking more. I heard you're a novice at St. Mary's Convent. I'd like to hear more about it," he murmurs as he pulls back.

"Until we meet again, Scarlett Sinclair."

He walks down the short flight of stairs and enters into the car. I stand watching as his chauffeur shuts the car door and drives away.