Father Mac's heart attack probably could not have come at a better time. Peter tried to stay away from Fitzgeralds but, despite his attempts, he couldn't get on with life as if she weren't there. Between her woman's group and his lack of suitable accommodation he was forced to think of her at every turn.

She was all too aware of his avoiding her. Unfortunately he was not so absent from her thoughts. When he did come into Fitzgerald's she couldn't help but bait him - if he were fighting with her, at least he was there. This time was easy. He was forwarding complaints about her woman's group.
"I've had no complaints."
"That's because you're not the one that the busy-bodies complain to. I've had an earful."
"Well, that's your job Peter, caring and listening." She knew she was being harsh but quickly moved on, realizing which busy-body he spoke of. "So, she's the one who's been destroying my posters." She excused herself and tore across the street.
While there was action to be taken, she took it, but come evening Peter's expression and her harshness still haunted her. She needed to get out.
Once she got outside she kept going. It was a cool evening, but still and clear. The church looked beautiful and haunting, drawing her unwilling attention. The sacristy door was open, the light on inside. As if drawn by her thought, he stepped through the door.
She couldn't read his features clearly, but watched as he turned to face the church and looked up. As if giving up, he returned inside. She stopped, out of concern for him or the need to heel the breech between them, and followed him inside.
He walked up the aisle and rested, frustrated and exhausted at the front of the church.
Why are you downcast, oh my soul, why so disturbed within me? The memory came from no where. It was a psalm, he couldn't be certain which one. How did it continue? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise Him, my saviour and my God. Huh. Hope in God. Hope for what - less tangible things like peace perhaps, more tangible, like rest, a good night's sleep... wouldn't hurt. Other hopes, less likely to be found in liturgy, he pushed from his mind.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He turned, surprised. What was this, an answer to prayer? "What?"
"Whatever has you looking knackered." She walked to the front of the church without a look at the altar.
"You think talking solves everything, don't you?"
"Well, a trouble shared." She shrugged, stopping in front of him. She wanted to know, she really did. But he wasn't going to talk. He turned away and her biting response covered her frustration, "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot. Priests only talk to God."
"I haven't got the strength Assumpta."
His honesty surprised her but he quickly sought a lighter tone.
"Most of it's your fault anyway."
"Look, I..." What did he mean?
"No, I mean, I'm living in the Sacristy, I've a lot on my mind, and I don't need half the parish upset, coming up to me about your woman's group."
Just that - all this for her silly group that no one even came to - except Niamh of course.
"I know it's stupid. But you put ideas in their heads." Her turned to the front, suddenly angry - and it had nothing to do with the woman's group, or anything else she had control over. "You put ideas in people's heads."
His accusation took her back. She saw the pain and frustration in his eyes and the strain in his features as he tried to keep his emotions in check.
"You just don't think, do you Assumpta."
She backed away. This was too much. What could she do? Woman's group aside, she was causing him pain by her very presence. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah."
She stopped, her back to him. "Peter," she didn't want to push him, only to show that she cared, that she was there for him, however he needed her to be.
"What?"
"You can tell anything to a friend."
"Priests don't have those kind of friends."
Now it was her turn to bite back a much stronger reaction and walk away.
As soon as she was out the door, he realised he'd been cruel, missed his chance, and carelessly pushed her away. He followed her out, "Assumpta, wait."
She turned at the gate, steeling herself for whatever was coming.
He wasn't sure what to say but the invitation need not be spoken. She walked back to the doorway and he stepped aside for her to go in. They sat side by side in a back pew.
She waited for him to speak, afraid that if she spoke first she'd only cause him further pain.
"You want to go back - to how we've always been."
"I don't know what I want Peter." She admitted it to herself as much as him.
"No?"
"No. But I do know I've missed you these past weeks. You been busy?"
He looked at her, surprised, confused. "Yeah, I guess.
She sighed. "Or avoiding me."
He looked down.
"Look, no one came anyway. Niamh and I hardly need posters to get together and complain about various members of the community. Consider that problem... solved."
"It's a good idea."
She shook her head.
"It is. Just, I don't know, maybe there's another way to go about it."
"Funny, that's what Kathleen said - well, except for the good idea bit."
He was clearly thinking about something else.
"Peter, I don't know what to do. I mean, does it make any difference if I'm in Ballyk or London, married or all on my own?"
He looked up at the altar, afraid of his own answer.
"I'm hurting you - I know it. Do you want me to leave?"
"If I wanted you to leave there wouldn't be a problem."
She let that sink in and sighed. "Something's got to change."
He finally looked at her. "I need to think."
She nodded and stood. "And pray, right?"
He smiled at her. "Worth a try."
Her breath caught in her throat. "Yeah, it might be." She looked at the floor, then to the front of the church. "Goodnight."

She walked further that night, not certain that she was praying at such, but if God were there, his presence was more tangible outdoors, and with Peter at the forefront of her mind it was something like a prayer for him, without exact words.