Siobhan had taken remarkably little drink for the hours she spent in the pub this Boxing Day - hadn't much felt like it lately, so she joined Eamonn in an early diet cola; after he tired of discussing ovine mental health and headed home, she stuck to water. Perhaps in light of the morning's events, or because of the quiet post-Christmas turnout, Assumpta seemed less inclined to harangue her for squatting. Seemed downright grateful for the company, in fact. Anyway, however little the vet drank, she'd certainly ordered enough food. In recent years, the pub seemed more amenable to the notion of a good Catholic Friday fish special. Perhaps the landlady was softening with time.

Siobhan looked up from her second slice of pie to see the place otherwise deserted. Just as she was about to announce her own departure, the door swung open to reveal Father Peter, dressed in civvies and looking freshly scrubbed, if a bit beleaguered. When the familiar skewed smile overtook him, she followed his gaze to the publican, who had suddenly gone beet red.

Impossible. Perhaps the priest's legendary inability to pokerface was transmissible by close contact? Oh, dear. Get on with you, Siobhan. You've a dirty mind.

Her own inappropriate grin was threatening to emerge. "Best be on my way home," she managed. "Goodnight, you two." At this choice of words, Assumpta's nostrils flared. Classic tell.

After latching the door behind Siobhan, Assumpta turned to face Peter. Neither spoke for a moment. She was unprepared for what he finally said.

"I love you."

He was clearly enjoying this new game of being the cat that got her tongue.

"I spoke to the bishop. Meeting him and Father Mac tomorrow. I can be released from my duties immediately, except hearing the last confessions of the moribund. The vow of chastity officially sticks until the Pope clears it, but..." he looked sheepish. "His Grace said I should tell you how I feel because it won't always be illicit. Make sure you'll still have me when the thrill gives way."

She made a sour face. "Oh, you know me. Defrocking them and breaking their hearts. Eat you for breakfast, really."

"I'd let you, you know. I mean I hope not, but..."

How could he disarm her so easily? "Peter..."

"I. Love. You."

She was shaking. He couldn't know she'd never said it to anyone. It wasn't normal in the Fitzgerald household, wasn't even something her parents said on their deathbeds. Her old boyfriends had tried to get her to parrot it after them, and invariably given up after a few awkward "thank you" responses. The memory of this brought the nagging feeling that she'd forgotten something, but in the urgency of the moment it soon washed away.

She felt it. Finally she felt it.

"I love you, too. Believe it or not I'll even love you without the vocation."

He took her in his arms. She found she was crying, also relatively unfamiliar territory.

"Peter, you're giving up everything!"

He stroked her back. "Guess you'd better take good care of me then, hm?"

"I'm serious, this is so much..."

"Believe me, I've thought about that."

"How do I earn this?" she whispered.

"Well, for a start, promise you won't leave town."

"Done." Again that twinge. What was she forgetting? She'd been so hazy from the meds all afternoon...Niamh said something...

"More immediately," he breathed against her ear, "you could kiss me."

She lost the train of thought as she complied, tears subsiding. "Oh, if you're not careful, I could do all kinds of things," she said.

"I found that out," he replied with a naughty smirk.

"Do you want to come upstairs?"

"Is that a good idea?"

"No. Want to anyway?"

He inhaled sharply. "Last night, we didn't talk about..."

"Preventive measures?"

"Right," he said uneasily.

"It's sorted. Saw the doc today, got a device..."

"Oh."

"I know it isn't what you'd preach," she said, breaking away.

"Well, we English Catholics have a reputation for taking those pronouncements with a grain of salt, compared to you lot."

"How do you feel about it?"

"I like to think God is more understanding on these matters than we give him credit for. Not the first doctrinal conflict I've had, not the last."

She moved close to him again. "Amazing they put up with you for this long."

"Your turn for that now."

"Oh, I can handle you."

"Seem to recall that as well, yeah."

She broke one arm loose from the embrace to swat him lower down.

He made a now-familiar noise. "Now, about keeping you in line..."

"Like to see you try, Peter Clifford."

"Better take me upstairs."


By the time Ambrose got home, ready to crash from his sugar binge, Niamh was already in bed. She was wide awake, though. And sniffling.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she sobbed.

"Niamh-"

"I can't talk about it, all right?"

"You can't tell me?"

"I went to Fitzgerald's to lend a hand tonight, and I found out something I shouldn't know."

He knew it! Rats? Roaches? E. coli?"Is it a health matter? More food poisoning at the pub? Do we need to send in an inspector?"

Out came a horrific banshee wail. "Oh, will you let it drop?! No one's got any food poisoning, Ambrose!"

Ambrose huffed and reached into the drawer for his pyjamas. He was exhausted. He was worn out. He'd had too many root beers, too many caramels, and too hard a time explaining the merits of Teenage Fanclub to unappreciative middle-aged men, and now his wife was being moodier than ever and senselessly cryptic. He could hardly comfort her if she wouldn't let him in. He disliked the idea that a married couple should have secrets from one another.

"Niamh, I'm your husband. You can confide in me."

She set her mouth in a tight straight line. "If I tell you, it doesn't leave this room." She sounded like a treble version of her father. She meant business.

He paused, his eyes flicking left to right. "Is it criminal?"

"Ambrose!"

"If it's criminal, I have a duty-"

"See, this is exactly why I can't tell you."

He turned his back in frustration and began to disrobe.

Suddenly, she felt like talking. Civilly, even.

"It's not criminal. I guess. But it's a betrayal. And you must swear on your father's grave that you can keep this quiet, Ambrose, because it's going to ruin everything once it gets out, and we can't be the ones responsible."

He turned to face her with his shirt sleeves still caught on his wrists. "You have my word." He jerked free of the cloth manacles and knelt beside her on the bed, taking her hand in both his own. It wasn't quite swollen to the point that her wedding ring would have to come off, but it wouldn't be terribly long now. He thought of all she must be going through, of the last time she was afraid to tell him something, this pregnancy - and the time before, the end of the last one.

Whatever this was, he had to be there for her. He had to know.

"Assumpta and Peter had sex."

He did not want to know that. "Oh, eugh."

"On Christmas night."

"Eugh!"

"In the pub!"

"EUGH!"

"I know!"

"In the pub?!"

"She said he was naked in the kitchen."

"Oh, EUGH!"

"You're tellin' me!"

"That can't be sanitary."

"Ambrose..."

"Do you think the health inspector should be notified?"

"AMBROSE!"

"Shh! Parents!"

Her brow softened and her pout swelled. "How could they do it, Ambrose?"

He thought back to his own crisis, the cold feet that manifested as a higher calling days before they were to marry. Father Peter had insisted, you don't want to be a priest. Believe me, you don't. It had never occurred to him to wonder how deep that "believe me" really ran.

He took Niamh in his arms now. He felt her relax just a little against him, felt her breathing slow.

There but for the grace of God go I.


Leo McGarvey had known it was a long shot when Niamh had offered to have Assumpta return his call. She might forget, or leave the note somewhere inconspicuous; the pub might be too busy. Or Assumpta might be hurt that the old clique from Uni had flaked on her, Leo included. He couldn't blame her for that. He was still trying to figure out how to explain their about-face on Christmas Eve. He would need something far better than the truth if he was to make it up to her, but he had the rest of the drive to get his story straight. He had every intention of winning her back.

He'd taken the holiday to Dublin with the blessing of the newsroom in London, hoping against hope that a good story would fall in his lap sometime along the way. The paper had already cut three staff writers in as many months - a political hotshot and two human-interest rookies - citing poor sales figures. (It had also hired a crew of five new commissioned salespeople to pester would-be subscribers and advertisers over the phone. The success of this strategy was yet to be determined.) Leo felt the pressure to prove his relevance on the job.

He also wanted to prove his relevance to his old girlfriend. The Dublin crew, particularly Fiona, had their sights on her for a wine bar; he'd be willing to relocate there if his own job dried up soon, and he'd want to hit the ground running. He wondered now if Fiona herself would be a problem, in light of what had taken place his first night back in Ireland. He hoped she shared his impression that it was a whim, fuelled by the effects of hot buttered rum and mistletoe, but the uneasy vibe between them on Christmas Eve morning had ultimately been what damned the group roadtrip to Ballykea. He didn't feel guilty for the rendezvous itself - he was presently committed to no one, and there had only been the hint that something might rekindle with Assumpta once he got out to the boondocks. But then when he backed out of the visit over the phone, she'd sounded so disappointed. Lonely, even. He was determined now to set things right.

The Saab had a six-CD changer, but even the sixth disc he'd chosen for this trip was now on its second loop. It was the Pogues, the same album he'd sent Assumpta by post in case the paper wouldn't give him enough time off. He wondered if she'd had a chance to spin it yet. And in spite of himself, he wondered exactly why she hadn't ever rung him back.

He settled in for the home stretch, grateful for cruise control and heated seats, eager to rescue her from a humdrum life in the middle of nowhere.