Page 18 of Saint
“Excuse me?” I ask hoarsely. I didn’t hear the beginning of what he said, and so I must be wrong, I must be so wrong about what I think he’s asking me to do. Because there’s no way he can ask me to do that.
The abbot beams at me. “You’ll be Mr. Iverson’s host while he’s here. I knew it would please you both, since you’re basically family.”
Right. Because my brother Sean is married to Elijah’s sister Zenny, and they’re currently producing squishy, dimpled babies at a rate that would make the pope himself shed an approving tear.
But while that makes us family in a sociological sense, Elijah and I are not family in anynormalsense, unless family is being defined in extremely kinky terms these days. This is going to be less like walking around with a brother-in-law and more like walking around with...well, with a guy I want to shove against a cloister wall and kiss. Preferably while I’ve got my hand down his pants.
“I know that normally the guestmaster would see to Mr. Iverson,” the abbot continues, still beaming. At me, at Elijah, at me again. Lots of beaming going on. “But this will be so much cozier. And since you are already acquainted, I know you’ll be able to provide Mr. Iverson with the answers to any questions he has while he’s researching his article. Especially about the brewery and taproom, since you work on the financial side and help with production.”
Oh.
The brewery and the taproom. Right.
Now all the beaming is starting to make some kind of sense. These are the beams of a man who knows he’s only a few well-written paragraphs away from free publicity on a national scale. These are the beams of someone who might sellmanycases of artisanal, monk-made beer merely by loaning out his resident CPA-slash-lumberjack for a week.
It’s smart—the businessman I used to be appreciates that—but that won’t make this week any easier on me, and surely the abbot knows this. Surely Brother Connor told him that my surprise visitor last month was actually my ex; surely Brother Connor told him I’m still in love with him. But then again, maybe not...as gossipy as monks can be about abbey goings-ons, sometimes we’re also really good at respecting confidences, and I could see Brother Connor doing exactly that. Which normally would be great! So wonderful!
I love what good and loyal friends I have!
But it means that I either have to blurt out the truthright now, or wait until I’m not with Elijah, and then find the abbot and plead my case.
And I’m so, so far away from holy, because my pride balks at both of those possibilities. It absolutely refuses to say anything now, in front of Elijah, and if I say something later, if I manage to get someone else assigned to the role of Elijah’s host, then Elijah might guess the truth.
He might guess that I’m still affected by him in some kind of way, and then he might be able to guess the reason why, and I don’t think I can exist with him knowing it. Not after I flounced off to become a monk—breaking his heart in the process. Not after he fell in love with someone else.
No, if he discovers I’m still in love with him, I really will have to find a beer barrel big enough to pickle myself in.
“Yes, Father Abbot,” I say, nodding down at my lap. “Whatever you need.”
“Excellent!” the abbot says, probably beaming again, I don’t know, I’m not looking at him. I’m looking at Elijah’s feet as he uncrosses them, I’m watching the smooth, brown contours of his ankles and the barely-there dustings of hair on the tops of his sockless feet before they disappear under the tongues of his loafers. I’m watching as Elijah rubs the soles of his shoes ever so slightly on the industrial carpet, and then crosses his ankles again.
It’s the only tell for restlessness or unhappiness he’s never been able to shake, that crossing and uncrossing of his legs. Even cotillion lessons and a career of pretending to be interested in keynote speeches hasn’t been able to rid him of it.
I’m glad.
It’s a little glimpse of him, the real him, underneath the style and the distant amusement. It’s a reminder that he must be feeling something too right now, and maybe that makes me a selfish monster, but I’m relieved I’m not the only one.
The abbot stands, and we stand too. “Now,” he says, smiling more and gesturing in the direction of the door like any cheerful host about to have free publicity for his microbrewery. “Let’s get you to the guesthouse. Brother Patrick will get you acquainted with the schedule and all that, and then when you’re ready, he can start taking you around. And if you need anything at all, Brother Patrick will help you. Isn’t that right, Brother Patrick?”
Chapter Fifty-Three of St. Benedict’s Rule says that all guests are to be welcomed as Christ himself would be. With the caveat that even Christ would have to endure scratchy bath towels and lukewarm scrambled eggs, I suppose. But I understand the heart of the rule, the idea behind it. Anyone who comes here should be greeted warmly, with trust and kindness.
Even if you’ve screwed them in multiple hot tubs and still want to put your tongue in their navel sometimes.
“That’s right,” I say.
Out of the edge of my vision, I see Elijah look down. As if he doesn’t want anyone to see what’s on his face right now. I know the feeling.
Abbot Jerome guides us out of his office and then on to the hallway, where he gives a small bow and a beam for the road. “Thank you for visiting, Mr. Iverson. Looking forward to speaking with you more at dinner—and possibly in the beer garden.”
Beam. Beam.
Elijah doesn’t look like he knows whether he should bow back or not, so I give a slow nod toward the abbot, which he mimics. And then we step out into the covered walkway, which will lead us to the classroom building, and then onto the guesthouse via another covered walkway.
“The guesthouse is through here,” I say as we walk. I still can’t look at him, but I have an excuse now. I’m showing him the way around; I couldn’t possibly look over at him when I have so many emergency exits and benches to gesture at. “The refectory is accessed by the walkway on the other side of the cloister there, and beyond that is the lawn where most of the walking paths start. The cloisters, paths, and refectory are shared spaces, as are the common rooms in the guesthouse. The only real food is in the refectory at mealtimes, but there’s always coffee on and some fruit and stuff like that. The building we’re approaching is full of classrooms for conferences and large retreats, and there are a few vending machines scattered between the floors too, if you ever need a non-fruit snack.”
The first cloister is thinly populated with the usual mix of gardening monks and visitors with sticky name tags badged to their chests. Beyond, the classroom building is full of men milling around with paper cups of coffee as they chatter to each other.
The average age appears to be somewhere between fifty-nine and one hundred and twelve.
