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“Fine,” I said. “Just taking in the view.”
He smiled at me like I was a Christmas morning. “Where did you come from? I don’t see a lot of new faces around here.”
“The cottage,” I said, pointing back at the tiny little building nestled in the folds of the hills. There was no smoke from the chimney, so I guessed Ronan was still sleeping. But for how long? He’d come find me and then what? Adrenaline made sweat break out along my hairline. The clock was ticking.
“Sinead’s gaff?” he asked. The wind blew his brown hair over his face and he swept it back. “Where’s Sinead?”
“We rented it for a few days.”
“We?”
“My . . . husband and I.”
Oh, wow. The lies just fell off my lips. There was no reality in the universe where Ronan and I ended up married.
“I didn’t know Sinead did that,” he said. “Sorry, my manners.” He tugged on his sweater, swept a hand down the front of his shirt. “I’m Father Patrick.”
“I’m Poppy . . . Smith.” Lord, I could practically see my sister rolling her eyes at me.
“Nice to meet you, Poppy. You don’t look too sure-footed. Can I walk you back to the cottage?”
“Actually,” I said. “I’d like to go see the church if you don’t mind.”
Delight widened his eyes. “Grand. Of course. Let me . . .” He held out his elbow and I took it gratefully up the last of the stairs. At the top, I dropped his arm and stepped to the side, putting more distance between us. “You and your husband, you’re traveling, like?”
It was nice hearing Ronan’s accent and turns of phrase in this man’s voice. Made me miss that man at the party in the dark. The man who never was. “Yeah. Yes. It’s our honeymoon.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t be wasting time with the likes of me and this old church,” he said, blushing and looking at me out of the corner of his eyes.
“My husband is sleeping.” Forgive me, God and Father Patrick, for the lie.
The wind practically blowing us sideways, we walked by a fenced garden the size of the cottage down the hill and a small shed with a cow chewing grass outside of it.
“You’re a farm too?” I asked, voice raised to be heard over the wind.
“Well, the village is far away when I run out of cream,” he yelled back. “Come. Let’s get a cup of tea in you before you catch a chill.”
“You might be too late,” I said through chattering teeth.
The door built into the side of the church was a heavy thing made to withstand Viking raiders and English soldiers. Father Patrick probably got those shoulders of his from opening this door day in and day out. He wrenched it open with his whole body and stood aside as I entered a small stone alcove. Two steps led up to a dark hallway that opened into the sanctuary and two small steps led down to a dark hallway that opened into a wood-paneled room.
The door slammed shut behind us and the silence was suddenly very loud. I had the extremely disconcerting thought that I wasn’t sure I could open that door on my own if I had to.
“Follow me,” he said.
We took the two stone steps down to the wood-paneled room.
“This is the vestry,” he said, rushing ahead of me to move books off a chair and a sweater that he threw in the corner. It was like visiting a boy in his college dorm, except the boy was a priest and a fire crackled in the fireplace. “Looks a bit shabby, I reckon, but when it’s just me, there’s not much reason for housekeeping.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Cozy.” The wood paneling was carved with acorns and vines. The top half of the windows was diamond-shaped stained glass.
“Grand, won’t you sit down?” He stepped over to a low hutch where there was an electric tea kettle and a tin of cookies. He shut a door that had been open, revealing what looked like a bedroom.
“It’s a church and a small farm and you live here too?” I asked.
“Aye. St. Brigid’s used to be a school too,” he said, smiling at me over his shoulder.
“A school?” A tingle started in the back of my brain.
“Of a kind,” he said. “Parochial. A sort of juvenile detention for court-placed kids.”
Juvie, I thought. In a church?
The priests liked my surrender. That was something Ronan had said to me. The priests here? Why would he bring me back here?
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Oh. Ages,” he said. “Twelve years.” The whistle on the kettle blew and a minute later, he came over with cups of tea and a chagrined smile to where I was sitting. “I added sugar and milk. I’m not used to people visiting, so I just made it the way I like it before I thought to ask.”
