Back in their street clothes, Peter and Assumpta lingered a moment in the dressing room.

"Not ready to go back out there either?" she said.

"Still need a moment to get into character, I think."

"You mean out of character?"

"No, that was me up there. Only you're the one who knows that. They're expecting someone else." He nodded toward the exit.

"Right," she whispered.

"I've a feeling Father Mac will want a word," he added, mimicking the older man's voice.

She smirked guiltily. "Mmm. We in trouble?"

"Big trouble." He risked a brief but intense kiss. "Worth it, though, I'd say."

"Meet up later at Fitzgerald's?"

"Maybe. Got any rooms available?"

Her eyebrows jumped. "Only all of them; why?"

"Brian gave me the most wonderful idea of drawing a bubble bath and trying to act my way out of it."

"Well, that's a show I'd pay to see." She moved to go.

"'Sumpta?"

She looked back over her shoulder.

"We'll figure this out. Believe me."

Her smile was uncertain, but her shoulders relaxed. "I know."


The play was over, but the theatrics had just begun.

Doc Ryan had arranged the lightheaded Kathleen Hendley on a bench outside, her head gracelessly between her knees to stimulate blood flow. Perhaps she had hyperventilated in a moment of sheer righteous indignation; then again, it seemed as if fainting spells were all the rage this week. Maybe a virus was making the rounds.

At any rate, a vasovagal episode did little to quiet the shopkeeper. She kept repeating the word "shocked." Michael dutifully remained at her side, but he scanned the growing crowd in the street for more entertaining dialogue.

Ambrose, still misty-eyed, was lavishing adoration on a bashful Padraig; the co-writer, meanwhile, was getting an earful from the producer. Smelling blood in the water, the parish priest moved in on the exchange.

"A very convincing performance," Father MacAnally sneered. "Tell me, where might I congratulate the leading man?"

"Father Clifford was terrible," Brian laughed. "Told him before he couldn't act his way out of a bubble bath."

"I thought he did well enough under the circumstances," Brendan said.

"I'd hardly call it acting, however," said the priest. "Typecasting, perhaps."

"How's that?" asked Brendan. He looked as if he knew damn well. Michael had a hunch himself. Father Mac stared at the stage door, arms folded, foot tapping.

Brendan sighed. "Shall I go check on him for you?"

The response was a grimace.


Brendan let himself backstage and knocked at the change-room door. "Decent in there?"

Assumpta opened the door, eyes downcast.

"Can't hide in here forever, you know."

"Yeah, yeah..."

"How's the vibe out there?" Peter asked.

"Well, no one else has puked yet. But, three guesses who wants to speak with you."

Peter nodded soberly and stepped out into the night. Brendan noticed his longtime charge still wouldn't look him in the eye.

"What's on your mind, Assumpta?"

"Brendan, I'm fine."

After all these years, it was still a crapshoot to get her to open up about her troubles. The old Fitzgerald stubbornness ran strong in the family's last survivor.

"Is it anything to do with yesterday's rehearsal?"

She didn't answer.

"I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

"It's hardly your fault," she mumbled.

He wasn't about to pry. "Well, on another matter, you performed beautifully. You're exactly how I imagined Mary when I wrote her."

Her perfunctory thanks rode out on an odd sound that was half laugh and half sob. Brendan knew he'd stepped in some irony, so he nodded goodnight and moved to go.

"Brendan, wait."

He pivoted.

"I'll explain everything soon enough. 'Til then could you please humour me and pretend you haven't the slightest?"

He abruptly hugged her. By Fitzgerald standards, that was a brave disclosure.