CHAPTER FOUR – FALLEN ANGEL

Anne found herself not moving as Patrick continued into the back room of the church.

"Coming?" he asked poking his head through the door way.

"Ah, yeah," Anne stuttered.

The first somewhat eligible bachelor she found herself attracted to in months and it had to be the parish priest. Maybe she was more like her cousin than she first thought. She watched as Patrick pulled a large leather bound book from a high shelf and laid it on the table with a thud. He flipped through the pages until he came to a portion labelled 1990's.

"Ah, here she is, Assumpta Fitzgerald McGarvey, born April 17 1973, died May 3 1998, she was only 25 it seems," Patrick rattled off methodically.

"25? That seems so young," Anne commented.

"Yeah, only a few years behind us really," Patrick paused for a moment before carrying on, "any it appears she is buried in the church cemetery, plot 56 row B, I can show you if you like?"

"Yeah, I think you better."

Anne followed the plain clothes priest out into the courtyard behind the church. They walked a short distance before stumbling upon the neatly kept cemetery. Patrick walked through without taking much notice of the graves behind him. At the very end of the row he paused in front a rather small grave and crossed himself.

"Is this her?" Anne asked.

"This is Assumpta, Assumpta, you have a visitor."

"Do you always talk to the graves?"

"Sometimes when I am alone, sure they still are with us even though they have passed on."

"I thought Catholics didn't believe in ghosts."

"I believe we call them 'spirits,'" Patrick smiled.

Anne rolled her eyes and knelt before the grave. The flowers looked relatively fresh and a few cards had been tucked around them.

"Assumpta Fitzgerald, you said she was married? Why is her maiden name only on here?"

"Apparently who ever made the funeral arrangements at the time asked her married name be left off the stone."

"Curious."

"Very, but this is rural Ireland, home of the bizarre," Patrick smiled.

"You're not from rural Ireland."

"Ear for the accents? Mine tends to give me away."

"More like an ear for a good bit of gossip in the pub."

Anne turned her attention back to the cards attached to the base of the stone ignoring Patrick.

"Go ahead, I am sure she wouldn't mind," Patrick gestured towards the cards, "you're family after all."

Anne picked up the cards. A few were from Niamh saying how much she missed her best friend, one was from Brendan, another from a man named Padraig, a third from a woman named Siobhan, and then a very colourful red card tucked in at the very bottom. Its bright colour attracted Anne's attention, carefully she unfolded the card.

"I will always love you my Irish rose." – Yours P

"P?" Anne asked.

"Think about it," Patrick smiled.

"Well it's not you," Anne laughed.

"No, a bit before my time," Patrick laughed back.

"Peter, Peter Clifford?"

Patrick nodded in response.

"May I keep this?"

"I don't see why not."

"So he still comes back then?" Anne asked folding the card into her handbag.

"Not exactly, you have met Brendan?"

"Yeah last night in the pub."

"Well it sounds like Mr. Kearney isn't telling you the whole story."

"And can you tell me this story?"

"It isn't really my place to, but if you ask him about the card I am sure there will be more to tell."

"Thank you Patrick, you have been very helpful."

"Will I be seeing you at Mass tomorrow?"

"Hardly, I am not a Catholic."

"Oh I just assumed..."

"I did away with guilt and fairy stories years ago Father," she said with some distain.

"Are you staying in Fitzgerald's?"

"I am."

"Sure I will have a drink with you later then?"

"Are you asking me out on a date Father?" Anne asked coyly.

Patrick stood silent, slightly taken aback.

"A joke Father," she said with emphasis on 'father, "I think I have plans to be in Cildargan tonight, but when I get back afterwards, if you are still there, then yes a drink would be lovely."

"Only in the town a day and plans already?"

"I'm popular!" she shouted over her shoulder before heading back into the village.

Anne walked through the pub doors to find the regulars having their lunch. She plopped herself down at a bar stool near Brendan, ordered a glass of red wine and asked to see a lunch menu.

"Was the trip a success?" Aidan asked handing her glass of wine across the bar.

"I believe it was, but has left me with more questions than answers, questions for Brendan."

Brendan lifted his head at the sound of his name.

"Questions how?" he asked his eyes shifting around in his head.

Anne picked up her wine glass and moved down a few seats closer before sliding the card across the counter in Brendan's direction. He took the card, opened it briefly and slapped it back down on the counter.

"You know it is wrong to steal off of other people's graves," he muttered.

"It's wrong to lie too."

"I didn't lie to you; I just haven't told you everything."

"Did Peter come back?"

"No."

"Then who is P?"

"Peter, he mails the cards to me and asks me to place them there, he hasn't been back since her death, and I thought no one knew I was the one bringing the cards, but clearly the busy body priest has been keeping a visitors log," Brendan said sarcastically.

"It's a small village."

"It's a small bleeding country!"

Aidan walked over to the chatting pair placing another pint of stout in front of Brendan before turning his attention back to his house guest.

"So anything looking good on the menu? Or anything else that can satisfy your appetites?" Aidan said flirtatiously.

"Actually I have gone off eating," she said glancing towards Brendan, "I will save my appetite for tonight," she smiled redeeming herself.

"Tonight? You mean you are actually going to let me take you out to dinner?"

"If the offer still stands?"

"Oh it does it does!"

"Great, I will see you down here around 7 then?" she asked sliding off the stool and heading back up to her room.

"Great," Aidan sighed happily.

"She's from Dublin, don't get too attached, she will leave like all tourists," Brendan commented.

"I don't know, I think it is different this time. I think this little village is getting to her that is if the locals will behave themselves."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You have the answers to her questions; maybe you should try telling her the truth instead of covering for this priest friend of yours."

"Peter was a good man."

"Does Peter know she is here?"

"Not yet."

"So you going to call him?"

"What's with the third degree?! Can't a man just come in and enjoy a pint?!" Brendan shouted before gathering his coat and storming to the door.