Grace glanced skyward. Four. Of course.
He let her go and walked from her home with a light step, buoyed by a deep contentment that left him feeling half his forty-eight years. It was good to finally tell someone the story of what S?ren had done for him and why. He felt unburdened now by the telling of his tale, like a man walking from confession with his soul lighter and cleaner. But his confession hadn’t been to a priest but about a priest, the priest he loved not despite all the sins they’d committed against each other but because of them, because the sins were what bound them together.
And the love. Of course the love. Always the love.
At dawn Kingsley boarded his plane. A short f light but the hour of sleep he caught was enough to refresh him. And when he emerged from the airport, he closed his eyes and for the first time in two decades, breathed in French air.
France, yes, but not home. Home was Juliette. Home was Céleste. Home was S?ren. But even if it wasn’t home, it was part of him. His parents were buried in French soil. His life had begun here, and when the time came, he, too, would be buried in the same Paris cemetery where they had laid his parents to rest. He’d already told Juliette those were his wishes. And because she loved him and knew how to obey an order and give one at the same time, she’d answered, “Oui, mon roi. But you’re never allowed to die.”
And he’d promised her he’d do his best to never let something like that happen.
He was tempting fate by coming back to France. He’d made enemies here, important ones. And certain people he’d known once had likely not forgotten his name. But he wasn’t afraid. Twenty years had passed. He was a low priority now. He didn’t plan to stay long anyway. Just long enough to do what had to be done.
He hired a car in Paris and drove into the countryside. The country had changed in twenty years, but not the beauty. The beauty remained. The rolling hills, the ancient churches, the crumbling castles on the roadsides, the farms, the cottages, old Europe, old magic… He would bring Céleste here someday.
By late afternoon he arrived as his destination. He parked the car at the end of a long dirt road and walked barefoot on the French soil all the way to the door.
He knocked and waited. A few moments later he heard footsteps.
The door opened.
Nora looked at him across the threshold of his son Nico’s house.
She didn’t look shocked to see him. She didn’t look surprised. In fact, she looked as if she’d been expecting him. Maybe she had.
“Before you say anything else,” Nora said without any trace of remorse on her lovely face. “Just answer one question for me. How much trouble am I in right now?”
Kingsley smiled.
“All of it.”
*
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WRITING IS A SOLITARY PROFESSION, BUT EDITING takes a village. Thank you, Karen Stivali, Alyssa Palmer, Miranda Baker, Robin Becht, Melanie Fletcher, Cyndy Aleo and Andrew Shaffer who help me beat The King into shape. Thank you, Gitte Doherty for your help with S?ren’s Danish. Thank you to Susan Swinwood, editor extraordinaire, who has claimed S?ren as her book boyfriend (sorry, ladies, I can’t fight my own editor for him). And thank you to Sara Megibow, my dream agent who is a dream agent because she’s helped me make all my dreams come true. Thank you, Andrew Shaffer, my fiancé, for being my best friend and toughest critic. Special kisses and pets to Buckley Cat and sad little Honeytoast Kitteh for keeping me entertained during long writing hours. Thank you to the good people at the Jesuit Spiritual Retreat Center in Milford, Ohio, for giving me an internet-free sanctuary in which to write The King. Apologies if I gave any Jesuits a heart attack when I honestly answered the question, “So what do you do for a living?”