Peter watched after the bright blue van until it was swallowed whole by the darkness. He remained where he stood, with the cold earth damp underfoot, even after he could no longer hear the low hum of the engine in the distance.
What was he waiting for?
Everything, probably. But first and foremost, he was waiting for his head to catch up with the speed of his heart, for his limbs to respond to the adrenaline that was fast pumping through them.
Their departing exchange still reverberated through his ears.
"I'm a Priest,"
"That's fine. Be a Priest."
And she'd meant it. Every word. That's what was so perplexing about Assumpta Fitzgerald. It seemed that she was fighting this – whatever this was – every bit as hard as Peter was.
Although he had little experience with women, it seemed to the Priest that the female interest in him piqued because of and not in spite of his vocation.
Assumpta was different however. She hadn't once propositioned him or even outwardly flirted with him. When it came to Assumpta, all that he was truly aware of was the depth of his own feeling.
Painfully aware.
As he began to lose all sensation in his toes, Peter decided to retreat for the veritable warmth of his own vehicle. He didn't envy Brendan, Michael and Siobhan, currently wading through mud to hide fake Roman artefacts under bushes and beneath trees in Kilnashee woods, but he respected their dedication all the same. He admired their ability to act on whatever their heart willed.
It was more than he could say about himself.
With an impatient sigh, Peter started the car and soon found himself on dry road once again. He had half expected to spot Assumpta's van some way along the way but there was no sign of her. She must have driven away at breakneck speed, desperate to escape the embarrassing spectacle the local curate had made of himself.
Peter felt his cheeks redden. Things were getting worse. He needed to get this under control. If he didn't – well, Father Mac had already assured his charge that county Wicklow wasn't the only parish in want of a Catholic Priest.
Yes, Peter decided. He needed to get this under control. The problem was, he didn't have the faintest idea where to start.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Assumpta made a beeline for the bar. Pouring herself a large glass from one of the open wine bottles in the fridge, the landlady considered the evening's events.
It was always one step forward and two steps back with Peter. Just as he began to open up, to even hint that this thing they'd danced around for close to three years hadn't been entirely in her own head, he retreated. Quickly. Until the next time, of course.
Assumpta mentally added tonight's exchange to the many 'almost' moments that the Priest and the publican had already shared. The time she'd given Peter a signed petition to keep him from leaving. The bottle of wine they'd imbibed after Assumpta had been accused of wanting what she couldn't have.
The night of the play rehearsal.
Although nothing untoward had occurred during any of those encounters, each played a part in chipping away at the crumbling façade of their platonic relationship.
Tonight's encounter almost blew a hole through it.
Peter had held her hand – he had actually touched her. For a split second, it seemed that he would never give it back. But then their friends returned, the spell was broken and Peter, like the coward he was, tried to fob her off with his 'I'm a Priest' speech.
Honestly, did he think that she didn't know that already? With just three words, Peter had manipulated the situation – made it seem that it was she who was making all of the untoward advances. The audacity of the man!
Draining her wine glass in one, Assumpta moved to pour another but stopped as she saw Niamh's hastily scribbled note on the order pad behind the bar.
Leo called again.
There was nothing else – not even a phone number. The publican knew all too well what Niamh thought of her friend's reluctance to return her former boyfriend's advances. Even her handwriting was passive aggressive.
'You could do a lot worse, you know... They're hardly beating the door down.' Niamh had so astutely reminded her earlier that day.
'What are you waiting for, Assumpta?'
And there it was. For so long, the publican had kidded herself that she didn't need a man in her life – she wasn't some wallflower waiting for someone to ask after her dance card. But the truth was, Assumpta was waiting. Waiting for something that would never arrive.
This had to stop. She had to stop. She needed to move on with her life. With one hand on the cordless telephone and the other clutching her refilled glass, Assumpta began to ascend the stairwell, dialing the number she knew almost as well as her own.
"Hi, it's me – listen, I know it's late but… can you come over?"
So, who do you reckon is coming over...?
Fair warning, I had intended to make my next story a lighthearted comedy but, now i'm a few chapters in, i'm afraid this might be another saucy angst. Sorry!
Rating will almost definitely change - and sooner rather than later - but I promise, i'll try to limit the M-rated content to one chapter (maybe two!)
Reviews and feedback very, very welcome.