Peter clutched the door handle in a death grip as the van sped around another rain-slicked curve. She was in a temper today, that much was clear. What he hadn't figured out yet was what was behind it. Most people kept a safe distance from Assumpta in a temper, but Peter never had – never had been able to keep much of a distance under any circumstances. He knew better than most that what looked like anger could just as well be fear or frustration. The trick was telling the difference.

"Mind the sheep, there," he told her, his voice carefully mild, "You'll lose a customer if you take out one of Eamonn's girls."

"Oh, how would I ever manage without selling that one Diet Coke every other day?" Assumpta snapped. But she slowed to a slightly more reasonable speed.

"What're we after in Cilldargen?" Peter ventured.

"A new carpet, some cloth for curtains and some groceries." Assumpta sounded as though she were talking through clenched teeth. "Though where exactly I'm supposed to put them if I can't go into my own pub, I'm sure I don't know."

"You could store them at Niamh's if you needed to," Peter said evenly, "or leave most of them in the van, for that matter. The wiring should be done by the end of the day and then things will start to move along."

"Some things," Assumpta said pointedly. "I don't know why I worry -- between Brian telling me how to run my business and the Church telling me how to run my life, I scarcely need to think for myself at all!"

Peter flinched. The familiar vitriol toward the Church seemed oddly more personal now that he was no longer in its employ. It went a long way towards explaining Assumpta's mood, though. He'd grown used to Father Mac checking up on him, but Assumpta saw last night's intrusion as another example of the Church trying to drive a wedge between them. "I don't like it either, Assumpta, but I'm trying to do this in a way that'll work out best in the long run."

"Oh, the long run," she mimicked sarcastically. "You mean when Father Mac decides that it's all right for us to be together? Do you really think that's ever going to happen?"

"Come on, Assumpta. He hasn't made nearly as much trouble as I thought he might. And besides, this thing about giving the new priest time to settle in – that's the diocese speaking, not Father Mac."

Her laugh was sharp, bitter. "Oh please. Do you really believe that? Don't you ever get tired of just doing exactly what he tells you to do?"

If she'd reached across and slapped him it would not have cut any more deeply. "Assumpta, that's not fair…"

But she had pulled the car off to the side of the road, so angry now that she was shaking. "If you're going to be making excuses for him all day, I'd rather be by myself. Out!"

Peter struggled to keep his voice calm. "I'm not making excuses, I'm only saying…"

"Out!!"

He stared at her in disbelief. "Assumpta, we're halfway to Cilldargen, and it's pouring rain! How do you expect me to get back to town?"

"Maybe you'll get lucky and Father Mac will come along and give you a lift, since he's so helpful. Now, out!"

There was no reasoning with her, so Peter got out. Assumpta could see him in the rear-view mirror as she gunned the engine and pulled away, standing there with a hurt look on his face, turning up his collar for whatever protection it could offer against the rain. It served him right, if he was just going to go on letting the Church dictate his every move, and hers as well.

She seethed all the way into Cilldargen, blocking out that little voice that told her maybe she was being unfair. But the voice refused to be silenced; in fact it grew steadily louder with every landmark she spotted. The driver's license testing centre. The spire of the parish church nearly piercing the low clouds off to her right. The distant clustered rooftops of the project where Mr. Quinn was helping his daughter Grainne raise the baby Father Mac had insisted should be put up for adoption. Their baby, Peter and Assumpta had joked, to cover the pain of its impossibility.

What've I ever done to him?

You rock the boat!

By the time Assumpta parked the van in front of McGowan's Carpet, panic gripped her chest so that she could hardly breathe. There was a nagging ache behind her left eye that Assumpta recognized as the beginnings of a migraine. What the hell was she doing? She'd been so desperate for Peter to return from Manchester, and now she was treating him like this? Never mind Father Mac making Peter leave – she was more than likely to drive him away herself!

She had no choice but to finish the shopping she had come to do; time was short enough that she could not afford another trip to Cilldargen before Friday. An hour and a half later, when she climbed back into the van for the return trip to Ballykissangel, her headache was in full swing. She held her head very carefully still as she drove and willed back the nausea, which the windy road did nothing to help. Periodic flashes of white light blurred her vision, forcing her to reduce speed even as she wished desperately to finish the trip as quickly as possible.

Assumpta had never been so glad to see the stone bridge that led into the village, or the lone figure looking down into the water. She parked the van on the gravel shoulder and walked toward him through the rain, which had slowed to a drizzle by now. She leaned against the wall beside him. After a moment's silence, Peter said quietly, "Seemed easier from a couple hundred miles away, somehow."

The pressure of tears behind her eyes intensified the pain. Assumpta shook her head. "Peter, I…" she began, but a wave of nausea overcame her. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she ran, just making it to the bushes on the riverbank before she vomited. Oh, God, could this day possibly get worse? She felt Peter there behind her, sweeping back her hair and holding it at the nape of her neck. When she finally straightened and turned, his face was full of concern. He pulled a cloth handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded, embarrassed. "I will be. It's a migraine." She chuckled weakly. "Stress induced."

"Ah."

"Real people our age don't carry these, you know," she told him, wiping her face with the handkerchief. "Besides, it's damp."

"Yeah, well…I got caught in the rain."

She grimaced. "About that...."

"Shhh." A hand on her back guided her toward the van. "We'll talk later. You need to be home in bed."

She groaned, passing the back of her hand across her eyes. "I'll have to go to Niamh's. Brian…"

"I'll deal with Brian." Peter held out his hand. "Keys?"

Assumpta sank gratefully into the passenger seat of the van, leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes as Peter drove the rest of the way to the pub and parked the van. "Right. Stay there. I'll be right back." And he was – opening the door and guiding her into the pub, past the workmen and up the stairs, through the door marked "Private".

This is not how this was supposed to happen, Assumpta thought, but she felt too sick to protest. As Peter drew the curtains, she sat on the edge of her bed, took off her shoes and crawled beneath the covers. Through a fog of half-sleep, she heard Peter ask, "Is there anything you need?"

She shook her head, eyes still closed. "Just sleep."

She looked so uncharacteristically vulnerable lying there, curled in a ball, her hair a jumble on the pillow. It tore at Peter's heart. She deserved a fairytale romance, not this charade of secrecy and delay. He drew a hand across her hair. "All right. I'll be back later to check on you."

---

The hallway at the National School smelled of wet socks. Siobhan wrinkled her nose as she made her way to Brendan's classroom. A country vet couldn't afford to be too picky about such things, but she preferred the smell inside Eamonn's pigsty to this. Ah, well. To each his own. There was a narrow window in the classroom door, and Siobhan peered through. The students were all bent industriously over their desks except for two who were working out long division problems on the blackboard. Brendan strolled among the desks, stopping here and there to point out corrections that needed to be made.

"Excuse me, missus." A small girl with fat blonde braids had come up behind her, returning from the lavatory, most likely.

"Sorry." Siobhan stepped aside so that she could open the door. "Would you ask Mr. Kearney if I could have a word, please?"

The girl went inside the classroom and spoke to Brendan, who looked up and caught Siobhan's eye through the window. His voice drifted out into the hallway. "All right. Courtney, why don't you work out number eleven for us on the board. The rest of you, check your work on that last problem. I'll be out in the hall for a minute and I don't want to be able to hear you from out there. That means you, Ryan." Fifteen pairs of eyes turned curiously toward the door to see what was going on. Anything was more interesting than long division.

He was frowning as he came through the door. "All right, Siobhan?" She'd barely been speaking to him the last week, let alone dropping by school to visit.

"Fine, fine." Siobhan shifted awkwardly on her feet. Her voice was just above a whisper. "Listen, Brendan. I've got an appointment with Michael at 4:00, and I wondered if you were available." She glanced up and down the hallway, making sure it was empty. "He said he might be able to find a heartbeat by now."

Brendan wasn't sure what he was hearing. "You…want me to come along?"

"Yes, you big eedjit, I want you to come along. Will you?"

"You know I will. Anything you want, Siobhan."

She raised her eyebrows. "I'm going to wish I had a witness for that one. Well, good, then. I'll meet you there, shall I?"

"All right." A hopeful smile softened the edges of Brendan's face. Siobhan smiled back. Through the window she saw a crumpled up piece of paper sailing through the air. She tipped her head toward the classroom. "I think the mice are playing."

Brendan followed her gaze in time to see the paper fly back across the classroom. His smile turned to a scowl. "It's been two minutes, for the love of God! This is the future of our country?"

Siobhan chuckled. "You'd better get back in there and straighten them out." She'd gone only a few steps down the hallway when Brendan called softly after her. "Siobhan?"

"Yes?"

"Have you told him? Michael?"

She winked at him. "And spoil the fun of seeing his face when we show up together?"

Brendan grinned. "Ah, you're right! Brilliant!"

This time she was almost to the corner. "Siobhan?" She turned. His face was serious now, earnest. "Thanks."

She smiled. "Ah, go on. I'll see you later."

---

Niamh was rather proud of the way she'd managed to fill the day since Siobhan's visit. The washing was folded and put away and she'd called to sort out the mix-up in the telephone bill. After ten minutes of wrangling with straps and buckles, she'd managed to get Kieran secured in his baby carrier and had done the hoovering with him strapped snugly to her chest.

While the baby took his afternoon nap, she set up the ironing board in front of the television and went to work on Ambrose's shirts. The chef on the cooking channel was making chicken with a lemon-caper sauce that Niamh felt certain she could replicate for dinner. So, after Kieran had woken and been fed and changed, she put him back in the baby carrier, accomplishing the task in slightly less time than before, and set out for Hendley's.

She found the proprietor alone in the shop, stocking shelves as though the tins had done her some personal wrong. Her head snapped around at the sound of the bell. "Oh, it's you," she observed.

"Have you got any capers, Kathleen?" Niamh inquired.

"Capers? What on earth d'you want those for?"

"I'm trying out a new recipe."

Kathleen sniffed. "Well, there might be some behind the vinegar there. Maria Feeney puts them in tomato sauce, of all things. Her parents were from Italy, you know." It sounded as though she thought this had shown very poor judgment on their part.

Niamh moved several malt vinegar bottles aside and peered behind them, triumphantly fishing out the single jar of capers. "Don't you like Italian food, then, Kathleen?" she asked curiously, carrying her purchase to the cash register.

The shop keeper wiped her hands on her apron and came to make the sale. "Oh, it's grand if you live in Italy, I'm sure," she answered. "As for myself, I've chosen to live in Ballykissangel, and I want a good cup of tea in the morning and a nice Irish stew at dinnertime. I don't need folks coming in from hither and yon trying to change things from the way they've worked perfectly well for years." She gave an ill-concealed glance in the direction of St. Joseph's.

"Like English priests, you mean?"

"I'll thank you not to put words in my mouth, Niamh Egan!" Kathleen took the bill Niamh handed her and made change from the drawer. "Though I doubt an Irish priest would walk away from his vows as easily as if he were breaking a dinner date."

Niamh hesitated, debating whether to point out the various flaws in Kathleen's reasoning or to escape the shop as quickly as possible, but the older woman went on before she could decide. "I'll tell you, Niamh, I never got used to hearing the Holy Scriptures read in that accent." She shuddered slightly, then brightened. "It was so lovely when that nice nephew of Father MacAnally's was here for Christmas. We can only pray we're sent someone like him this time."

The glimmer of an idea began in Niamh's mind. "Oh yes," she said nonchalantly, putting her change into the coin pocket of her purse. "Timmy, wasn't it? I wonder what he's doing now."

Kathleen's face lit up. "Why, he was just recently ordained. Don't you remember…well, no, you wouldn't…but Father MacAnally had to change the time of Mass one Saturday so he could travel to Dublin for the service. I wonder if he's been sent to a parish yet. Wouldn't it be wonderful if he could come back here?"

"Lovely. But I don't know if they'd do that with his uncle as the parish priest."

"Well I don't know why not. Who could be a better mentor for the boy than Father MacAnally? You know, I believe I'll mention it to him after Mass tomorrow!"

Niamh smiled sweetly at her. "It certainly would be nice to have someone who already knows the community. Well, thanks, Kathleen. I'll let you know how the recipe comes out." She managed to make it down the steps and out of sight of the shop's windows before laughing aloud.

---

Assumpta had slept like the dead, as her mother would have said, all afternoon. When Peter's soft knock woke her around 4:30, she opened her eyes gingerly, testing to make sure the hours of sleep had done the trick. She sat up in bed. "Come in," she called, and Peter did, pushing the door closed with his elbow.

Carrying a bottle and glass, he crossed to the nightstand. "I come bearing ginger ale," he announced, his cheerful voice masking worries he'd had too much time to dwell on while Assumpta slept.

"Ah, you are a saint," she responded, teasing, "I suspected it all along."

Peter tipped his head thoughtfully. "No," he said slowly, "I'm pretty sure that's several steps up from priest, not a step down." He poured some ginger ale into the glass and handed it to her. Then, with a flourish, he turned the switch on the bedside lamp, and a pool of soft light appeared around them. "Voila!"

Assumpta nearly choked on her drink. "The wiring's done!"

"The wiring's done and the floors are done," Peter said, smiling at her excitement. "I don't know how you did it, but you slept through the whole thing. It's starting to look like Fitzgerald's down there again." He pulled up the chair from Assumpta's desk and sat down next to the bed. "Now all we need is the landlady back on her feet. How are you feeling?"

"Almost human. And like an absolute fool." She shook her head, recalling her behavior earlier in the day. "You may not be a saint, but you must have the patience of one if you're still here after the way I treated you this morning. And then this…" she waved her hand vaguely, indicating her current situation. "Apparently you've been treated to all my most winning characteristics in one day."

The corners of Peter's mouth twitched. "Yeah, if only I'd known you had such a temper!"

She swatted at him. "Stop it, you. I'm trying to apologize!"

His smile faded and he looked down at his hands. "Assumpta, you don't have to apologize…or explain, even. You didn't sign on for any of this." He took a deep breath. "If it's too much…"

She stared at him. "What are you on about?" she demanded. "Do you think I'm looking for an out?"

"I don't know. I hope not. Are you?"

"No!" She swung her legs over the side of the bed so that she sat facing him. "I want us to be together. I thought I was pretty clear about that in Manchester."

Peter nodded sheepishly. "Well, yeah, but then you kicked me out of the car in the middle of nowhere."

"I know. That was stupid." She touched his knee softly, and he looked up and met her eyes. "The thing is," she said quietly, "I'm horrible at waiting. Now that I've found out I can have you, I want you now. But that doesn't mean I won't wait. I'm not going to be happy about it, and I probably won't do it gracefully, but I'll wait for you…as long as it takes."

A long, uneven breath escaped Peter's body. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that." He caught Assumpta's hand and pressed her fingers to his lips, looking straight into her eyes with an expression part desire part fear that made tingles run along her skin. They sat frozen like that for a long moment, before Assumpta forced herself to break the spell.

"This is quite a compromising position we find ourselves in," she said lightly, glancing around the softly lit bedroom. "If Kathleen saw you come in, she'll be on the phone to the bishop in about two minutes." She gently pulled her hand away and stood up. "Anyway, I'm starving. Let's go see if we can find something to eat."

She led the way down the back stairs and into the kitchen. While she rummaged through the cupboards for a tin of soup, Peter put on the kettle. "I saw Padraig while I was unloading the van earlier," he told her. "Apparently the party's at his garage until you reopen here. Something about fire sale beer?"

"Oh, Ambrose will have a fit. That's always fun to watch," Assumpta grinned. "Bring your sense of adventure, though. I've seen that beer!"