Molly tried to ignore the feather-light warmth of his breath on her neck. “He’d better be.” They both glanced at Lucy and Paul. Paul mistook the cue and leapt to help Lucy with her coat, although she already had it halfway on. She reached for the second sleeve, but the much-taller Paul yanked the collar of her navy coat up, moving the armhole out of Lucy’s reach.
“I got it, thanks.” Lucy pulled her coat free. Once she’d shrugged it on, she turned to smile at Molly, though her smile petered out somewhere north of her lips. “No dessert?”
“Not tonight,” Father Tim answered. “Work in the morning.”
Lucy stared at the doors with trepidation and fiddled with her coat buttons. “Never heard you say no to free food. I seem to remember you eating pizza from a dumpster.”
“College doesn’t count, and you threw away a whole pizza in the box.”
“You two went to college together, too?” Paul frowned, echoing Molly’s own dismay. Why did Tim and Lucy always have such a strange undercurrent of tension?
“Saw each other on breaks,” Father Tim said. “Our parents are very close.”
Lucy snorted. “I’ll say.” She turned to Molly. “Isn’t the rectory on your way home?”
Molly glanced at Father Tim. Her flat and the parish house were in opposite directions — but she had to protect at least one of the people with her. “Sure now.”
“Actually, it’s closer for you, Luce,” he said. “And the seminary’s not too far from Molly’s.”
He knew where Lucy lived? Heat leaked into Molly’s veins, bypassing her protective instincts. “The parish house isn’t that far out of my way.”
“Yeah,” Lucy said, staring at each of them in turn. “It’s basically all the same.”
“Molly.” Father Tim’s voice carried the intense determination she’d only seen from him once before — when he’d ordered her away from Doyle Murphy. “It’s better this way.”
She readied her best resolute stare, but Tim pulled his cruelest trick. His decisiveness wavered, revealing real care in his blue eyes.
Her gaze faltered of its own accord. “I suppose you’re right.”
Father Tim led the foursome out of the restaurant. By unspoken agreement, he scanned the right side of the car park while Molly scanned the left. The lot was packed, but no maroon Mercury. She checked with Tim; he nodded the all clear.
But the clamp around her heart was still tight.
Oblivious to the danger, Paul and Lucy were already at the corner. Molly hurried to join them, but her heel hit a lifted pavement crack. She teetered until Tim caught her elbow and steadied her with a hand on her waist. Molly seized his arm to regain her balance, then raised her gaze to his — and stopped.
His face — his lips — were centimeters from hers. If either of them even thought of leaning in — her stomach plummeted. Tim’s eyes searched hers. Her breath came in short gasps; blood rushed to her cheeks.
Paul cleared his throat. “What was Lucy like when she was little?” he asked.
Tim released Molly so suddenly he almost pushed her backward.
What had she nearly done — again? Molly turned to Lucy and Paul. The constant furrow of concern between Paul’s eyebrows seemed even deeper under the streetlight. Her back to them, Lucy surveyed the car park. Tim reached them. “Shorter, if you can imagine.”
His answer was too late to dispel the awkwardness, even if Lucy hadn’t noticed. She scowled and punched Tim’s arm, hard. “I’m over there.” She pointed across the street.
“And I’m here.” Molly pointed down the aisle. With a glance at Father Tim and Lucy, Paul started for Molly’s car. Molly stepped off the curb and willed herself not to look back.
She was a fool for staying tonight, even if she’d managed to keep her friends safe.
Zach gripped the door handle and his seat belt, but he was still reeling from that second almost-kiss.
Like the first time hadn’t been enough.
No — it wasn’t enough. Because it didn’t really hit him until tonight, the reason he felt so bad: he was falling for her.
“What is your problem, you freak?” Lucy shouted over her car stereo.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Zach snapped the stereo to off. Lucy hadn’t seen that moment with Molly — right?
“Um, if you’ll recall, the whole point of tonight was to make sure Molly doesn’t think there’s something going on between us.”
He’d probably convinced her of that. The look in Molly’s eyes as he’d held her flashed in his mind. A cold fist punched into the pit of his stomach again.
Definitely falling.
“What was with trying to take her chair, anyway? Like it actually matters. You didn’t have to sit next to me — way to make that one seem normal.”
“You’re the one that brought a gangster with you. Did you want the person with the gun to have the best shot or the second best shot?”
Lucy jerked around to stare at him. “Gun?”
Zach kept his gaze steady and strengthened his tone with steel. “Moving on.”
“Then you insist on riding with me, and practically shove Paul into her car.” She shook her head and hit the steering wheel.
“If you wanted your alone time that badly, you should’ve said something.” He checked the side mirror. No one behind them.
“I tried — I mean, that’s not the point. What if the people that followed me —?”
“Molly will keep Paul out of trouble, and she can hold her own.” But, Zach realized, he hadn’t believed that up until the second he’d said it. He’d almost liked the way she’d stood up to him, rising to the challenge.
“Yeah, well, one way or another, I’m sure neither of us have to worry about our love lives after tonight. Good job.”
Could Molly doubt after that moment?
Lucy pulled into the parish parking lot. “Later.”
He nodded and got out of her gold sedan. No way could he let Molly wonder if he was only leading her on. But how could he tell Molly? Halfway to his room, it hit him — a code. Weren’t all Guards required to speak Irish? He’d promised he’d sing at the talent show, and he’d learned songs in German, French and Italian before; he could learn one in Irish. Maybe if he impressed the Bureau and the archbishop, they’d let him sneak back for one last night.
Zach picked up his pace, though he probably couldn’t find a traditional Irish song called “It’s Okay If You Like Me, I’m a Spy.”
Molly stayed in the office for lunch Thursday. She didn’t dare go out and run into Father Tim. How could she face him after last night?
But she also had something to do. Several times already, Kathleen had casually mentioned she’d spoken to Cathal Healey that week. If Cathal was hanging out with Doyle and Kathleen, he had to have heard what kind of people he was dealing with.
Molly locked the office door before she opened her drawer. She searched every pocket of the organizer — but Cathal Healey’s business card wasn’t where she’d left it, on top of the barmbrack ring.
She sank back in her chair. Could she have thrown it away and forgotten? No, she’d remember that. She’d wanted to toss the card in the rubbish the minute he’d given it to her, but she’d hung on to it just in case.
Molly sat up again. Cathal had moved on to chatting up Kathleen, and Molly could only imagine she’d regaled him with all the gossip Molly had worked so hard to keep her from telling Father Tim. She used a letter opener to force the feeble lock on Kathleen’s desk and raked through the disarray.
If Kathleen had Cathal’s card, Molly couldn’t hope to find it in this mess before Kathleen returned. Molly racked her brain for the name of his company. Stockton? Saxon?
Stockman. She returned to her computer and searched the Internet. One Chicago listing came up. Molly crossed her fingers and dialed the number. A man’s voice answered after two rings. “Hello?”
“Is this Stockman De
velopers?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah, Cathal Healey speaking.”
That was a little . . . convenient. Why was his number listed as their public contact number? She pushed aside the unsettled feeling in her middle as they exchanged pleasantries.
“Did you think of something else we should know about the area?” Cathal asked.
“Nothin’ specific, but . . . I wanted to be sure you realize that if you’re wantin’ to keep children out of trouble, this isn’t the right neighborhood. After the people you’ve met with this week.”
Cathal was silent a long moment. “I see. Any reason you’d say that?”
Molly rubbed the wood grain of her desk. “Just rumors, Cathal. But better safe than sorry, don’t you think?”
He agreed a bit reluctantly. Molly ended the call quickly as she could, though she wasn’t sure he was convinced.
Why would Cathal Healey answer the publicly listed number for the company? Unless . . . perhaps it wasn’t a real company at all. But did that make him an undercover LEO or a rival mobster?
She didn’t have enough time to puzzle that out now. Molly dialed Father Fitzgerald’s mobile. After their greetings, she broached the subject. “Father, I’m afraid I need to move out of the parish’s condo.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
Molly groaned inwardly. She hadn’t figured he’d ask — why hadn’t she prepared an excuse so at least Father Fitzgerald could remain blissfully ignorant of the mobsters? “My parents. I’d feel better if I were closer to them.”
Father Fitzgerald accepted that better than Cathal had taken his excuse. “Is this your thirty day notice?”
“It is.” She’d hoped to be out sooner — but if she moved out too far before her deadline, Molly was sure to draw more suspicion. Even a cursory check would show her parents were in perfect health.
She was stuck with Doyle and company for a few more weeks.
Though he muscled through the congestion Thursday, when Zach woke Friday, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move without aching, and he couldn’t go back to sleep. Light streamed through the window of his small, sparse bedroom — mid-morning. He’d missed Mass.
With two weeks till his deadline, Cally Lonegan contemplating repentance, and Healey assigned to breathe down his neck, Zach didn’t have time to get sick. Between fits of coughing, he heard an insistent knock at his bedroom door and called for them to come in.
“Oh, he lives.” Fitzgerald smiled at his own joke. “I told you to pace yourself.”
“Good morning to you, too.” Zach sniffled for emphasis, though he probably didn’t need to with his raspy voice. “Sorry I missed Mass.”
“That’s all right; I can do it on my own.” Fitzgerald stepped out of the room and returned with a glass of orange juice.
Zach took the cup and tried, unsuccessfully, to clear his throat. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I tried.” Fitzgerald pursed his lips. “You coughed in my face.”
“Sorry.”
“You need to stay home today. Obviously someone’s telling you something.”
Zach almost choked on his orange juice. Stay here with Fitzgerald all day? “No — I have to —” He stopped to cough, but after several seconds of continued hacking, Fitzgerald resumed the conversation without him.
“I’ll take care of all that today. You rest. You’ve been running yourself ragged, Tim. You had to know this was coming.”
Zach pointedly looked away and climbed out of bed. How did Fitzgerald always make him seem like a sulky teenager? He followed the older priest into the living room and found the cold medicine above the fridge.
“I know you’re eager for the work, Tim, but if you wear yourself out, you won’t be doing God any good.”
Zach blinked at him slowly and drank the bitter green medicine. “I’m not wearing myself out.”
“What time do you usually get up?”
He shrugged. “Six.”
“And you’re walking everywhere, aren’t you?”
“I don’t mind.”
Fitzgerald folded his arms. “When do you get home?”
“Midnight, one.”
“The archbishop isn’t too happy with your schedule.”
Zach groaned inwardly. Fitzgerald settled at the bar and flipped through his paper. “A wonder it’s taken you this long to get sick.”
Zach turned away and rolled his eyes.
“One way or another, Tim, you’re going to have to slow down.”
If he didn’t know better and if Fitzgerald didn’t sound so casual, he’d take that as a threat. Zach headed back to his bedroom to wait for Fitzgerald to leave for the day.
Molly gathered the bulletin from the office Friday and started to leave. But as she straightened the pages, she realized the top sheet wasn’t hers. “Legacy accounts,” read the header. She stopped on her way to the door. The names on the list included Flynn, Lonegan and Murphy.
“Oh.” Kathleen stood. “I forgot I printed something.”
Molly handed over the paper. “What’s this?”
“You know — the kids attending the school on the trust account. I wanted to see how many of them attend Sunday services.”
The trust account? A chill of realization swept over her. But before she could fully process that, the door swung open. Molly held out her foot to stop it. For one irrational second, her stomach plummeted — it was Father Tim. Could she face him after Wednesday night?
But Father Fitzgerald came into view. “Oh, Molly, didn’t see you there.”
“That’s all right.” Her breathing steadied, and she moved toward the doorway.
“What can we help you with, Father?” Kathleen smiled.
Father Fitzgerald glanced from Kathleen to Molly. “Actually, I need to speak with you, Molly. About Father Tim.”
She stopped short. Clammy fear crept up her neck, and she could feel the blood draining from her face. She should’ve left sooner. How much did Father Fitzgerald know?
“I need you to clear his schedule for the next few days.”
Molly nodded, more surprised than relieved. “How long exactly?”
“Depends on how long he’s sick.”
“He’s sick?” Kathleen interjected.
Father Fitzgerald sighed. “Might just be a cold, but if he doesn’t get some rest, it could become something much worse.”
Tim, ill? Molly caught herself reaching for her elbow. “I’ll cancel his appointments through Tuesday, as soon as I run off the bulletin.”
“In the future, no matter what Father Tim says, let’s keep him under a hundred hours a week.”
“A hundred hours?”
Father Fitzgerald shook his head sadly. “Yes. He’s up by six, and he’s out after midnight half the time.”
That wasn’t her doing. “Now, I haven’t —”
“I was trying to ease him into this. I know how easy it is to take it all on at once — the zeal of starting out. Guess I didn’t warn him enough.”
“It’s not your fault.” Kathleen pinned Molly with an accusatory smirk.
“I tried to get him to take even an hour off, some leisure time,” Father Fitzgerald said. “He was always too busy. Let’s try not to overschedule him so much in the future. Everybody needs time off.”
“Father Tim has leisure time.” Molly mentally winced at her defensive tone, especially when Kathleen and Father Fitzgerald turned to her. Eager to escape their scrutiny, she started toward the still-open door.
“Basketball with the students?” Father Fitzgerald propped up a skeptical eyebrow. “Two hours a week isn’t enough, and it’s too cold now anyway.”
“He has other time off,” she insisted, doubling back.
Kathleen rolled her eyes. “Five minutes in the office doesn’t count, either.” She echoed Father Fitzgerald’s reasoning with a note of incrimination, as if it were Molly’s fault Father Tim worked himself to death. �
�You really need to go easier on him, Molly. He’s allowed to have a personal life.”
“He has one.”
“Oh, really?” Kathleen’s haughty tone was even more mocking than usual.
“Wednesday he went to dinner with — friends.”
“One night?” Kathleen scoffed. “You don’t have to give everyone and their dog an appointment. Think about him for once. When is the last time you let him have time to relax?”
Was she really saying this was Molly’s fault? “Last week we had dinner and watched a movie.” The second the words were out, her brain screamed to call them back. The heat sapped out of her defiance, replaced by a cold surge of nausea. She steadied herself on the doorknob.
“You and Tim went to dinner and a movie — together?” Father Fitzgerald asked slowly.
“No, it was at . . .” Her rejoinder snagged in her throat. This wasn’t any better. “My flat.” Molly looked from Father Fitzgerald to Kathleen. Surely this was the final tidbit Kathleen needed to power the parish gossip mill about Molly and Tim for the next six months.
Some defense that had been.
Molly held up the bulletin to explain her reason for leaving, but she doubted they were fooled.
If only she’d escaped a minute sooner.
When she returned from her errands, Molly let herself in the parish house, ducking the chilly rain and her misgivings. She was only here to repay Tim’s kindness — and prove everything between them was platonic.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Tim jolt upright. “Oh, Molly. Wasn’t expecting you.” He tugged the cuff of his track pants down and slouched into the couch. Even when he’d played basketball, she’d never seen him in anything but clerical clothing. Tonight, he wore a tracksuit emblazoned with “W&M.” As if she needed another excuse to forget his vocation.
She tried to focus on anything else. Tim was pale, his eyes faintly rimmed with red, and his voice hoarse. “You are ill, aren’t you,” she said. Molly emptied the grocery sack on the counter, then opened the chicken soup. “You’ve been workin’ yourself too hard.”
Saints & Spies Page 20