Clinton Priest

Chapter Seventeen

I sneak out of the house after changing my clothes to a pair of trousers and a large knitted sweater.

The path I choose is isolated and dark. I tread carefully through the high grass of the lonely path.

The old cathedral towers over the trees surrounding it. Many people believe it was built about the same time as the Priest estate, the oldest building in Haven. It's made of stone and its windows are made of wooden shutters. It's doors have been torn down and the grass in front of it are overgrown. I'm scared there might be snakes around. I'm terribly frightened of snakes.

"You are late," Clinton says from behind me. I jump a few steps back in fright. My heart is beating so fast, I think it's trying to leap out of my chest.

"You scared me," I tell him. There is no light around except for the torchlight I hold in my right hand. I squint at him in the dark. He's dressed in a pair of tailored trousers and shirt with the sleeves rolled back. In his hand is a basket, a wine bottle peaks out of the picnic cloth covering the mouth of the woven basket. "What is in the basket?" I ask after regaining my composure.

"Food and wine," he tells me. "Tonight, we celebrate a life well lived."

There's something strange about his voice. It's tinged with sorrow and a hint of bitterness. It reminds me that Augustine had friends. And one of them is the man in front of me. I fight the urge to hug him and comfort him.

"He was a good man," I say not just because he's dead but because it's the truth.

Clinton places the basket on the grass and spreads the cloth on the ground. He gestures for me to sit and hands me a plate and a fork. On it, he places some sliced apples and cut strawberries. He opens the bottle of red wine and pours a glass. He raises it up in a toast.

"To Augustine Love," he says. "May your eternity be well lived and your death be worth it."

I raise a brow at his weird eulogy but I say nothing. Instead I nod and after a few seconds, I add, "may his soul rest in peace."

"How is Anabelle," He asks, "and Martin? I assume you've been to their house."

"I can't tell," I respond. "They seemed okay when grandpa and I visited them. But how well can you be when you lose your father?"

We sit in silence as I chew on both my thoughts and the tasty fruits on my plate. I empty my plate within minutes and place it on the space next to me.

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" I ask, my wide eyes completely focused on the star lit sky.

"I've never thought about it," he says, placing his wine glass down. "Why do you ask?"

He's staring at me intently, his fingers drumming lightly on the grass.

"Nothing."

"Is this about Augustine's death?" He asks curiously.

I lick my bottom lip as I gather my thoughts.

"No." I shake my head. "I talking about life and death in general. I wonder if what I've been taught to believe in my whole life is all there is. I mean haven't you wondered the same thing?"

"Are you having a crisis of faith?" He asks gently. His eyes twinkle with amusement in the candle lit room.

"What is faith without doubt?" I say, thinking back on my meeting with Montserrat earlier in the day. I should have listened to what she had to say.

He reaches out to me and I take his fingers into mine. I'm usually not so forward but with him, I feel I can be anything I choose to be.

"When did you become so philosophical?"

"I'm not," I say. My eyes are focused on my hands in his. I like the conflicting feeling of safety and dread that envelopes me anytime he's near. It's consuming; on the verge of being addictive. He feels like I'm free falling of a cliff and into an endless abyss. He makes me feel alive.

"What did you study in the university?" He asks as he pulls his hand out of my grip and reaches for a cigar from his pocket.

"I didn't go to any university," I confide in him, "my parents didn't think it was necessary for me to pursue any academic venture. So, I dropped out in high school because I wasn't intelligent enough to earn a scholarship."

"Isabelle was a lawyer," he says. I know what he's implying. But he doesn't understand. Isabelle was meant to inherit father's company. It wasn't surprising that he spent a lot of money on her education when she decided to go to Harvard. She wasn't only a lawyer, she was a weapon specialist as well.

"Father wanted her to go to university because she was his heiress."

"Don't you ever get angry at the way you are treated by your family?" He asks curiously.

"No," I answer. It's the truth. I get sad, depressed, heartbroken and sometimes I feel as though the walls are closing in and the only escape is a blade to the wrist but I never get angry. I can't force them to love me if they don't.

He takes my face in his hands, staring deep into my eyes, shattering every wall I've built to guard me from moments like this and whispers wildly.

"I want you to get angry. I need you to feel that flaming emotion, and I want you to let it consume you."

My eyes fall to his lips and back to his eyes.

"Only then will you ever feel alive," he ends.

"I feel alive when I'm with you," I tell him softly and I hear him take in a shaky breath.

Our lips are almost touching and I doubt he notices it with the way his eyes are focused on mine. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul but I see no soul in his. There is only a chasm so dark, I wonder what would become of me if I should tumble in.

"I want to kiss you," he says, "but your heart beats for someone else."

"It doesn't," I tell him, "but it could beat for you." For the first time in a long while, I know it's the truth.