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“Madelena, this is Father Michael. Father Michael, my wife, Madelena.”
“Wife?” Father Michael’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “That is happy news. I’m delighted to meet you. You must be tired after the drive. I’ll get out of your way. Dinner is in the oven. Don’t worry, I didn’t bake it.” Santos laughs at that, but it’s forced. “Mary’s chicken pot pie. Your favorite.”
“You remembered.”
“I remember how you devoured a whole one yourself once. The refrigerator is stocked, and the bed is made.”
“Thank you, Father. Let me get Madelena settled and I’ll come over.”
Father Michael looks at me then back to Santos. “No need. Let’s talk tomorrow morning. You two enjoy the peaceful night.”
Santos nods and I get the feeling coming here is exactly what he needs. But the thought worries me more now than it did at the house. Something has happened, and it’s not good.
After Father Michael leaves, Santos carries our duffel bag to the bedroom and shows me around.
“I hope you don’t mind the simple accommodation,” he says.
“It’s perfect. I love it.”
He smiles, pleased. “Good.”
“Let me just let Odin know where I am,” I say, thinking to send him a quick text.
“Ah,” Santos says with a grin. “That’s part of the beauty of Hells Bells. No cell service.”
“What?”
“You can use the land line at the rectory. If you can find the phone, that is. Father Michael has a habit of hiding it away. There isn’t enough quiet left in the world according to him.”
“There’s some truth to that. Has he always been a priest?” I ask because that scar on his face tells a different story.
Santos studies me. He shakes his head. “He took vows about ten years ago. Before that, well, let’s just say he has his history. But he found God.”
My stomach growls and although I want to know more, I see Santos is relieved not to have to talk about it.
“You’re hungry. Let’s go eat. You can call Odin tomorrow.” He takes my hand, and we walk down to the kitchen together. Once there, he tells me to sit down, and I watch as he takes the pie out of the oven and sets it on the mat in the middle of the small, round table with its two chairs. There is an opened bottle of wine and two glasses.
“Would you like some wine?” he asks me.
“You’re not drinking, are you?”
“No. But you can, Madelena.”
“I’m fine. Water is okay. Sit with me.”
He does and serves me then himself. I watch him take his first bite.
“You don’t strike me as a chicken pot pie lover,” I say, eating my first forkful and closing my eyes as I savor the perfect texture and rich flavor.
“Mary makes the best. Father Michael used to get me my own pie for dinner when I’d come. Best comfort food anywhere.”
And he needs comfort. I can see it. “Did you used to come here a lot?”
He’s quiet, face darkening. “Not a lot, but when we were up north.”
“We?”
“The Commander.” A shadow falls over his features. “I ran into Father Michael one night when I was out on the beach after a particularly bad event. I was drunk. Being an idiot.”
