Chapter Two
Assumpta had vacated the seat beside him a good twenty minutes ago, and no one had felt moved to take her place. Many in the room smiled at him; some dropped a casual greeting as they wandered past, but mostly Peter was left to his silent observation of Niamh's impromptu celebration. He smiled warmly as he watched his parishioners. He watched couples banter with one another, friends squabble over rounds of drinks, families bicker over who was responsible for the pile of dirty dishes at home. He watched a secret smile spread over Niamh's face as Ambrose whispered in her ear. It gladdened his heart to see these people living their lives together, but he knew he watched it all as an outsider.
It's part and parcel, comes with the job – "Goes with the territory," Assumpta would say. A priest is never really part of the community. He is always a third party, a (usually) welcome observer responsible for keeping everybody in line. People treat him well, people are kind and hospitable, but no one ever truly connects with him. Peter knew that all too well. No one was ever completely, one hundred per cent real with him.
No one, he realised, except for her.
She was the only one who didn't give a damn about his collar. She was the only one who didn't censor herself in his presence – quite the opposite, actually. She loved to test him, to push him to his limits. She spoke to him with a lack of respect for his vocation that would have been downright offensive coming from anyone else. But with Assumpta... there was an air of intimacy about it. She was playing with him, baiting him, gauging his reaction. And – let's be honest – he couldn't get enough. He considered it an honour that, after all this time, she still deemed him a worthy sparring partner.
And in those moments, those rare but real moments, when she treated him with gentle kindness, he knew that it wasn't because of his collar, but in spite of it, that she cared. That was something that he'd never known before. That's what made this place feel like home.
A nervous nausea welled in his stomach as he felt himself lose control of his emotions. A sudden panic set in, hitting him like a bucket of cold water to the face.
I can't let her go.
Peter immediately rebuked himself for allowing the thought to form itself into words. These ideas, these feelings, this atmosphere – it was too dangerous. He got to his feet. He had to leave, to get his head straight, to pray. He was sure that he headed towards the door of the pub, but he somehow ended up at the top of the stairs. Ashamed of his weakness, he turned back, but in doing so caught a glimpse through a half open bedroom door.
There she sat, her back to him, leaning over the vanity. She had a single flake of white paint in her hair, from where the ceiling had given way in the kitchen. Peter had no idea why, but that flake of paint made him want to break down and cry. His gaze drifted to her face, reflected in the mirror. She had her eyes closed and fingers to her temples.
Why do you look so sad?
As if she'd heard his thoughts, Assumpta opened her eyes and gave a start.
'God, Peter! You scared me half to death.'
In silence, Peter floundered. He tried desperately to think of something to say – an explanation of why he was standing in her bedroom, a reason to excuse himself and get back to hiding from his problems. But then...
'Peter?'
She spoke gently, and lines of concern appeared on her forehead. She cocked her head to one side and her hair tumbled over her shoulder and her eyes anxiously sought his in the mirror, and his chest was gripped violently by the sudden realisation that he could never face another day without her.
'Don't go.'
Any reader of romantic fiction would have expected rain to be pouring down over the grey streets as the conflicted young curate fled temptation and stumbled desperately toward the lonely safety of his cottage. Alas, the night was fine, the streets brightly lit by the waning moon, the village's residents merry and gay, their laughter following Peter down the street. As soon as his door closed behind him, Peter collapsed against it, heaving, he felt, his first breath since leaving Assumpta's bedroom.
Assumpta's bedroom.
Oh, God.
What had he done?
He didn't know whether he was more ashamed of betraying his vows or of leaving Assumpta standing there alone. God, what must she think of him? What must God think of him? His cheeks burned as if branded by the mark of shame, and he wholeheartedly wished that the floor would swallow him up.
Only vaguely aware of the tears wetting his face, he staggered up the stairs and fell straight to his knees by the bed. He prayed long into the night, not relieving his conscience one little bit. He begged for wisdom, but he couldn't tell the voice of God from the voice of his own desires, and he was left more distressed than ever. Eventually he collapsed, face first and fully dressed, onto his bleak single bed.
No sooner had Peter's eyes shot open than he had to squeeze them shut against the morning sun. Groaning, he brought his cold hands to his face. He had never been so uncomfortable; a full priest's uniform was not the most luxurious of sleepwear choices. His shirt twisted awkwardly, his belt dug into his skin, and his shoes hung heavily over the edge of the bed. His eyes burned from inadequate sleep. Most painful of all, however, was the now-familiar contortion of his stomach when he remembered what had landed him in this state.
'Assumpta...' he moaned, as her hurt and confused face etched itself on his mind.
A sense of urgency overtook him, and he sat up so quickly that his head spun. He had to make sure she was okay. He glanced at the clock. Half nine; the pub would still be closed.
He walked quickly to Fitzgerald's. He took no time to plan what he would say. There was no point; when he stood face to face with Assumpta, everything always came out in moron anyway. The most he ventured was a silent prayer that he might somehow make her understand.
He'd pounded on the big blue door four times before it finally swung open.
'Assumpt – Niamh?'
'Morning, Father,' said Niamh, raising her eyebrows and folding her arms across her chest. 'You look like death warmed up.'
'Niamh, I need to speak to Assumpta.'
'What's wrong?' Her tone was more curious than concerned; she was kind-hearted, Niamh, but a sucker for gossip.
'Please, Niamh,' begged Peter, breathless.
'"Please, Niamh" what?'
'Where's Assumpta?' he asked, growing frustrated.
'Oh...' Niamh shifted her weight awkwardly. 'She's gone.'
