by Diane Kelly
It took a few seconds for this information to sink in. “So this happened years ago? Back in Ireland? Before seminary?” Before he met me?
He nodded.
Relief surged through me and I could finally breathe again. “Shame on you!” I teased.
His shoulders lifted. “I’ve had absolution.”
The next question popped into my head and out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Were you good at it?” I clapped my hand over my mouth. It was bad enough for me to wonder how he’d be in bed without coming right out and asking him.
He chuckled and leaned back against the couch. “Didn’t hear any complaints.”
I opened and closed my mouth several times, unsure what to say, probably looking like a gaping fish. “Wow,” I said finally. “This is shocking.”
“Shocking? Why?”
“I . . . I guess I’ve just never thought of you in that way.” What a lie that was. Of course I’d thought of Brendan in that way far more times than I wanted to acknowledge. But I’d only thought of him that way with me. I looked down at my hands, at the dark television screen, out the window. Anywhere but at Brendan, afraid he’d see through me, see through my lies.
He reached out a hand, touching my chin, gently but firmly turning my face to his. “You’ve never thought of me as a man, Erin? Not even once?”
His gaze locked on mine.
Questioning.
Demanding.
Accusing?
A hot blush raced to my cheeks. This conversation had taken a dangerous turn. A very dangerous turn. And it had to stop. Now. Before things were said that could never be unsaid. Nothing good could come from me admitting that my feelings for Brendan extended beyond friendship, that I dreamed not just of making love to him, but of making a life with him. How could I admit my feelings to him when I could barely admit them to myself? If I told him, it would only put a strain on our relationship, make things weird between us.
Time to change the subject. Fast.
I picked up the gift bag and shoved it at him, leaving his question unanswered. “There’s more.”
Brendan stared at me for a moment, his gaze moving from my eyes to my flaming cheeks, but he didn’t pursue the matter further. He reached inside the bag again and pulled out a small gift wrapped in pink paper printed with white hearts. He squeezed the soft bundle in one hand. “What might this be? A kitten?” The wrapping crinkled as he tore through it to find three pairs of black dress socks.
“I figured you could use some new socks for next month’s performance.” My small class of step dancers was scheduled to perform at the Irish Festival in Dallas for the tenth year in a row. The audience enjoyed all of the performers, but our troupe always drew the greatest numbers. Not to brag—pride is one of the seven deadly sins, after all—but my original style of choreography might have something to do with it. I mixed traditional steps and music with contemporary routines. There was something for everyone and the result was crowd pleasing. I loved performing, and the Irish Festival was one of the few chances I got to show off.
I’d get a second chance to show off next month at the Thorn and Thistle’s wet T-shirt contest. That is, if God didn’t provide another way for me to raise the funds for Blarney’s surgery before then. And if I could make myself go through with it. The whole idea was so sinful. Depraved. Icky.
Brendan thanked me for the socks, laying the three pairs side-by-side on the trunk.
“Got something for you, too,” Brendan said.
“Besides the flowers?” I said. “You’ve already gone above the call of duty.” Not that I was complaining, of course.
He stood, walked into his bedroom, and returned a few seconds later with a small jewelry box covered in burgundy velvet.
My heart tap danced across my ribcage. Jewelry? From Brendan? Sure, we’d exchanged gifts on holidays for years, but they’d always been practical things. He’d given me a wall clock, a space heater for my cold storeroom, a footbath to rest my weary feet after standing on them all day at my shop. On my birthday in January he’d given me a pair of slippers. Pretty, girly slippers, made of shiny pink satin with low heels. Okay, so maybe that gift hadn’t been so practical.
I cocked my head, glancing down at the jewelry box in his hand, then up at him. “Are you proposing?” I joked. The mere idea was preposterous, of course. Wonderful, but preposterous.
He didn’t laugh at my joke about the proposal, giving me only a small smile that seemed a bit . . . sad? He held the box out to me. I took the box from him and opened it. Inside was a gold heart-shaped locket etched with tiny flowers, hanging from a dainty chain.
“Oh, Brendan, it’s beautiful!”
Brendan gestured at the locket. “Open it. There’s photos of your two favorite lads inside.”
“Riley and . . .” Using my thumbnail, I popped the locket open to find two small photos inside, one of Riley, and one of—”Blarney?”
I loved the locket. Loved my son, of course. Loved the darn dog, too. The locket was a thoughtful, sweet gift. But something that felt like disappointment swirled around in me, too. But what was I disappointed about?
I was disappointed there wasn’t a picture of Brendan in the locket, that’s what. Disappointed he wasn’t an official, permanent part of my life. That he wasn’t mine.
Never had been.
Never would be.
Obviously I’d been reading too much into things, been hopeful on some subconscious level he harbored secret feelings for me. But now he’d openly acknowledged Riley and Blarney were the two main men in my life. He’d left himself out, sent me a message. But what did I expect? That he’d turn his back on the church? On God Himself? For me? I should be ashamed of myself. But why had he asked me that question early, whether I’d ever thought of him not as a priest, but as a man?
“I love it, Bren. Thank you so much.”
He made a rotating motion with his finger, directing me to turn around. I handed him the locket and turned my back to him, reaching one hand behind my neck to lift my long red tresses out of the way. Brendan moved closer behind me, so close I could feel his warm breath on my bare neck. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment, fighting the urge to melt back against him. He unclasped the chain and draped it over my shoulders, his warm, rough fingers brushing the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck. The locket slid down my chest, nestling between my small breasts.
I felt his fingers on my bare skin, felt him breathe again. One breath. Two. Three. He seemed to be hesitating, but I didn’t want to ask why, didn’t want the intimate moment to end.
Finally, he fastened the clasp. “Done.”
I reluctantly opened my eyes and glanced at the clock. As much as I hated to leave, it was after nine on a school night and I’d have to herd Riley away from the television and into a shower. Would the kid ever learn to keep an eye on the time?
“I better get going.” I gathered up my tote bag, tucked the small velvet box inside, and stepped to the door to put on my shoes.
Brendan walked me out to the driveway. At my car, I turned to say goodbye, surprised to find him standing close, directly behind me. “G’night, Bren.”
“Goodnight, Erin.” He held out his arms and I stepped into them. I expected his usual quick hug, but instead he wrapped his arms around my back and pulled me to him for a full-fledged, full-body hug.
We fit together perfectly, his chin resting on top of my head. Instinctively, I closed my eyes and lay my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, my palm flat against his ribcage. His body felt warm, soft in the right places, hard in the others.
“Erin,” he whispered into my hair, his breath now warm against my ear. He moved his hand up to my face, taking that rebellious curl between his fingers, winding it around them, tying us together.
All of my nerve endings began to tingle. I snuggled tighter against him. It felt so right. Maybe I hadn’t been fooling myself. Maybe Brendan was attracted to me. Maybe he wanted me as bad as I wanted hi
m. Yes, I thought. Yes!
Then, no. No! This wasn’t right! I wasn’t sure exactly what was happening here, but it seemed as if Brendan were having a moment of weakness, reaching out to me in a physical way. Who could blame him? He’d enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh—albeit over two decades ago—but a man wouldn’t ever forget that, would he? I’d only had sex once, but I hadn’t forgotten what it was like to make love. That sense of being totally, absolutely connected to another human being. The sensuous physical sensations, that moment of pure, intense bliss two people could give each other. If Brendan were weak, I had to be strong. I owed it to him. He’d been strong for me so many times.
But I could only be so strong. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I put both of my hands on his chest and pushed him back, unable to look up into his face. I jumped into my car, threw the gear into reverse, and roared back out of his driveway. I glanced his way as I threw the gearshift into first. He stood there watching me, his shoulders slumped with an unseen burden.
I’d sinned once, given in to lust, and God had forgiven me for that. But if I tempted a man of the cloth, gave in to my lust for him, let him satisfy his lust with me, would God ever forgive me? Would I ever forgive myself for leading Brendan to violate his vows, to stray from his faith? Would Brendan be able to forgive me?
But what I was feeling wasn’t lust. Not really. I didn’t want to make love to Brendan. Well, okay, truth be told I did. But it was more than sexual pleasure I was seeking. I’m not sure what Brendan wanted, but I yearned to connect with Brendan fully, completely, absolutely, not only on an emotional level but on a physical one, too, as a woman to a man.
Oh, dear God. It was true.
I was in love with my priest.
Put out the welcome mat, Satan. Here I come!
CHAPTER EIGHT
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 15TH
CINDER-ERIN
I woke the next morning feeling silly and embarrassed. My emotions had been all over the place last night. I’d read far too much into Brendan’s hug the night before, reacted far too strongly. It was just a hug, for goodness sake. People hug all the time. He’d intended it as nothing more than a friendly, comforting gesturing. After all, he knew I was upset about Blarney’s tumor. He’d probably wondered why I’d pushed him away, jumped in my car, and raced off like a crazy person. Of course I couldn’t explain my behavior to him. If I did, I’d have to admit my feelings for him and no way was I doing that. He’d just have to consider it a hormonal mood swing.
But things had been a little strange last night, hadn’t they? Surely it wasn’t just my imagination. Brendan had opened up to me more than ever before, trusted me with his secrets, touched on some taboo subjects. We’d taken another step closer to . . . to what?
God only knew.
It was too early to face these troubling thoughts. Especially since I’d hardly slept last night. A faint but persistent tapping sound woke me several times during the night. Per Irish folklore, a tapping sound meant a Leprechaun was about. Of course I didn’t believe such nonsense. I’d looked out the window, into the dark backyard, but spotted nothing unusual. I supposed it could have been a woodpecker, but I couldn’t recall hearing one in the neighborhood before. And weren’t most birds usually quiet at night? Probably it was nothing more than the winter wind blowing a tree branch against the house.
I shuffled to the kitchen, started a pot of coffee, and added “trim tree branches” to Riley’s chore list on the fridge.
A jingling sound came from Riley’s room, no doubt Blarney hopping off the bed. The dog sauntered into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to stretch. While the coffee pot gurgled, I let Blarney out to pee, watching him through the small window in the back door. The darn dog did his business on my rosebushes, then put his nose to the dry brown grass, sniffing out a trail to the large live oak at the back of the yard, the one in which Riley’s tree house was built. Blarney snuffled around the base of the tree, then inspected the ladder, looking up at the tree house expectantly. After a minute or two, he bounded back to the door, ready for breakfast.
I took advantage of his hunger, surreptitiously slipping him a Prednisone pill wrapped in a slice of American cheese. He wolfed the cheese down, none the wiser, then turned to his bowl of kibble.
I said a quick prayer. Please, Lord. Please help these pills shrink Blarney’s tumor. And please make this coffee pot hurry up before I keel over.
Once I was sufficiently caffeinated to function properly, I showered and dressed in my stretchy black jazz pants, a fitted knit top, socks, and sneakers. Light makeup, hair up in an easy ponytail, simple gold hoop earrings. And, of course, my beautiful new locket, the one with two of my three favorite chaps inside.
After downing a quick bowl of granola and brushing my teeth, I rustled Riley out of bed to get ready for school and headed off to work with Blarney in tow.
When I opened the door of my shop, the bouquet Brendan had brought me yesterday greeted me with its soft, sweet smell. A smile spread across my face. I hadn’t thought the flowers could be any more beautiful, but today they seemed even more full, their colors more vibrant. While the ancient radiator sputtered to life, the metal clanking and clanging as it heated up, I unlocked the register, opened the blinds, and flipped the sign in the window to “Open.”
Another day, another dollar.
The morning was typical, a flurry of early customers dropping off their shoes before heading off to work, followed by the usual mid-morning lull. Finally, a chance to do some research about my birthday coins. I’d dug them out of the bottom dresser drawer late last night after everyone had gone to bed. I’d examined the small gold coins closely, even bit into one. I wasn’t sure what for, but I’d seen prospectors do it in movies. All I got for my trouble was a sore tooth. I’d snuck one of the coins into my tote bag, and I pulled it out now and set it on the countertop next to my computer.
I mounted my stool, logged onto the internet, and Googled “Irish currency.” The euro had replaced the traditional Irish currency in 2002, but luckily I found a site that showed pictures of the coins formerly used in the Republic of Ireland.
The first photo was of an Irish penny. One side sported an engraving of a bird that vaguely resembled a peacock, while the other side featured an Irish harp. No four-leaf clovers. Besides, the penny was bronze, not gold.
“Not an Irish penny,” I said, glancing down at Blarney. He lay on his back at my feet, all four paws in the air, snoozing and snoring, not a worry in the world. Lucky dog. He had me to do all the worrying for him.
The Irish two-pence coin also featured a bird. It wasn’t gold either, apparently made of copper-plated steel. The five-pence coin was an amalgam of copper and nickel and pictured a bull with his head down, as if preparing to charge. Seemed more Spanish than Irish to me. Still no match. The ten-pence coin was engraved with a salmon, the twenty-pence with a horse, the fifty-pence with yet another bird, this one a woodcock according to the website. An impressively antlered deer stood proudly on the one pound coin.
None of the coins were gold. And none featured a four-leaf clover.
I picked up my birthday coin and looked closely at it again. What the heck was this thing? With my luck, it was probably nothing more than a Ballincollig bus token, a worthless relic from our homeland. Maybe I should just come right out and ask Da about them. Ma had sworn me to secrecy, but I’d been but five years old at the time. Surely the statute of limitations had long since run on that promise. I picked up the coin and tucked it back into my bag.
Tap-tap-tap. Another tapping noise reached my ears, similar to the one I’d heard last night. I cocked my head, trying to determine where the sound was coming from. Out front, maybe? I stepped to the door and opened it, sticking my head out into the cold. Nope. Not coming from out front. Actually, not coming from anywhere now. The sound had stopped. Probably a construction crew somewhere nearby, going on break.
While Blarney napped in the front room, I decided to take advantage o
f the downtime to organize the storeroom, a task that had long been neglected. But anything was better than thinking about what had happened at Brendan’s last night. It was too confusing, too complicated, stirred up too many mixed emotions.
After stowing my bag under the counter, I headed to the storeroom. Riley kept my shop clean, my floors swept, and my shelves dusted, but even he drew the line at organizing my supplies. But who could blame him? It was a daunting task.
I pulled the chain that hung from the bare bulb in the dark, chilly storeroom and used the toe of my tennis shoe to flip the switch on the space heater Brendan had so thoughtfully bought for me. The heater kicked in with a soft whirrr.
Where to start? I glanced at the metal supplies shelves, the jumbled bottles of oils, glues, lotions, conditioners, polishers, waxes, and dyes. On the bottom shelf, in an open plastic tub, the lifts and arch supports were having a veritable orgy with the insoles and heel grips. I groaned. No one could ever accuse me of having obsessive-compulsive disorder.
These shelves were as good a place as any to start.
Working my way down from the top tier, I removed all the bottles and set them on the floor at my feet. Then I shook, sorted, and consolidated, tossing the empties into the trash can. A half hour later, the remaining bottles stood neatly lined up on the shelves. No more hunting for what I needed. I pulled the plastic bin from the lower shelf and sat down on the cold concrete floor to sort through it. A few minutes later, the items in the bin were also organized. I slid the bin back onto the bottom shelf and emitted a self-satisfied sigh.
It was then I first noticed a large box of leather oil. The box was virtually hidden behind the stack of flattened cardboard boxes leaning against the wall next to the shelves, waiting to be hauled to the recycling center. The box was taped shut. Funny, I didn’t remember ordering any leather oil recently. I still had a full supply on the now-organized shelf. The company must have sent the box on accident. It had probably been delivered yesterday, while Ma was tending the shop. Oh, well. No sense in returning the stuff. I’d use it all eventually.