Clinton Priest

Chapter Nine

Three weeks after lunch with the bishop, Clinton's presence is felt in the house in the form of a grand piano. It's huge, glossy black and it takes up most of the space in my bedroom and causes Lizzy to rush out of the house in anger.

"Well, this is certainly extravagant," Annabelle Love, my friend, says as she looks up from her phone, her kinky hair held up in a perfect bun.

"It's an apology gift," I tell her as I fold the letter that came with it and place it in my bedside drawer.

"Apology? You never tell me anything," she sighs dramatically. "You know I live for drama."

"There's nothing to tell. We went to his house after church service and we had a little argument," I tell her, my gaze still firmly fixed on the piano. "I honestly haven't thought much of it."

"Well he certainly did."

Anabelle stands from her perch on my bed and dances her way to the piano. The servants are gone and we are alone once more. She caresses the smooth surface, running her slender fingers along the black and white keys. Her beautiful dark eyes twinkle with excitement.

"You have to play it," she says. "You can't let it go waste. In fact," she pauses dramatically, "you can perform live at my father's birthday party."

"I haven't played in such a long time," I tell her.

"You were the best pianist I knew when we were teenagers," she says as she twirls round on the tips of her toes. She's always loved dancing.

"It's been years," I say in an attempt to dissuade her from adding me to the list of performers at her father's birthday party.

"I haven't danced in years either," she says, "yet, I'll be dancing for papa on his big day."

"That's different," I say, slumping on the bed, "you are gifted."

"I've been practicing with Gabriel," she whispers conspiratorially.

My eyes widen in shock. "Gabriel Prince!"

She nods excitedly as she clutches my hands. Gabriel Prince, the violet eyed stepfather of Anabelle, is the best occasional dancer in Haven. Occasional, because he rarely dances preferring to sit in solitude penning down words of poetry.

"Mother doesn't know yet," she adds. "Then again, she doesn't know anything about me."

"She won't find out from me," I tell her vehemently.

"You know what," she says suddenly after a moment of silence, "I think you should go to Clinton."

I nearly fall of the bed. "What!"

"Think about it," she says, "he's sent you a gift. The least you can do is thank him."

"I intend to send the piano back," I tell her halfheartedly. I like the piano. It's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

"Oh please," she rolls her eyes, "you and I both know you are not doing that."

I turn my gaze away from her choosing instead to focus on the gardener working on the garden.

"Listen to me," she says gently, "go to him. Talk to him. I won't lie to you."

"You don't understand," I tell her.

"Explain it to me," she says exasperatingly.

I part my lips ready to tell her but I hesitate. How can I tell her that despite the short time I've known Clinton Priest, that despite the fact that I barely know him at all, he's all that I think of? How can she possibly understand that my very being is pulled in two directions; that I feel as though my heart is slowly being turned away from God?

"You won't understand," I repeat.