"Ah. Good morning, Father. Help yourself to some breakfast." Brian was just tucking a napkin over his immaculate white shirt as Peter came into the sunny kitchen. "You're up and at it early today."

"I thought I'd try to make it to morning mass," Peter replied. He took a mug down from the shelf and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Brian looked up from his plate. "Bit of a busman's holiday, eh?"

"More like getting right back on the horse." Peter felt slightly nauseous every time he thought about entering St. Joseph's as a parishioner for the first time, but he doubted whether delay was going make it any easier.

"I'm counting on you for practice tonight," Brian said. "We've got some work to do if we're going to beat Cilldargen next week."

This was the first Peter had heard of a match against Cilldargen. "I may not be here next week," he told Quigley. "In fact, I probably won't be. The diocese requires that I leave town to allow for a smoother transition for the new priest."

"Ridiculous." Brian waved his toast crust dismissively. "I'll have a word with Father Mac. I'm going to have some business associates at that match and I could use you in goal."

Peter frowned. "I don't think Father Mac's likely to put the outcome of a football match before diocesan policy, Brian. Anyway, you've got Ambrose in goal."

"Ha!" Brian completely ignored Peter's first objection and went straight to the second. "You've seen Ambrose play. Do you think I'd have him there if I had anyone better? Ambrose is completely respectable at midfield, but he's useless in goal."

Peter shook his head and fixed Brian with a stern stare. "No way. I'm not taking Ambrose's position."

Brian rolled his eyes. He removed the napkin from his collar and used it to wipe the corners of his mouth. Then he consulted his wristwatch. "Please yourself," he said. "I don't have time to argue with you now anyway. You can warm the bench if you like. It'll still wake the lads up a bit to have some fresh blood on the team." He carried his dishes to the sink, shrugged on his suit jacket and snatched up his briefcase. At the door he paused. "So we're agreed, then? I'll see you at the field?"

"I'll be there," Peter agreed warily. He raised his voice to call after Brian as he stepped out the door. "But I'm not taking Ambrose's position!"

The door clicked shut behind Brian before his last word was spoken.

---

Kathleen released the final chord of the hymn and moved quietly from the organ bench to the nearest pew. She took the opportunity to glance around the sanctuary, taking her daily count of the congregation. Discouragingly sparse, as usual. Of course, it was to be expected that weekday masses would be less well attended than Sunday's, but still… seven people scattered amongst the first five rows of pews left the church feeling completely empty. It further mystified her that, if anything, attendance had declined rather than increased since Father MacAnally took over for Father Clifford.

As she turned to take her seat she spotted someone sitting alone at the very back of the church. Kathleen could see only the top of his bowed head, and she did not recognize him immediately. She couldn't very well crane her neck around for a better look, so she puzzled about it all through mass, even as she struggled to keep her mind on what Father MacAnally was saying. When finally it was time for the closing hymn, she allowed herself another look. As she had suspected, it was Father Clifford. Or whatever we're supposed to be calling him now, Kathleen muttered to herself, sniffing disdainfully.

By the time the benediction had been given and Kathleen had closed up the organ and reached the door where Father MacAnally was greeting the parishioners, the object of her consternation was disappearing down the street…in the direction of Fitzgeralds's, of course.

"You surprise me, Kathleen. Not happy to see a new face in the pews at morning mass?" She looked, Father Mac thought with a mix of amusement and annoyance, as though she'd bitten into a rotten apple.

"Hardly a new face, is it?" replied the shopkeeper pointedly.

Father Mac sighed. He found he was rapidly losing patience with the whole situation. "He hasn't been excommunicated, you know, Kathleen. He is a child of God and a Catholic in good standing. He is welcome in St. Joseph's -- or any other church, for that matter."

Kathleen managed to look both wounded and reproachful at once. "Yes, Father."

Father Mac sighed again. "Was there something you wanted to talk to me about, Kathleen?"

"Why, yes there was." She brightened. "I wanted to ask what young Timmy is doing these days. Has he received a parish yet?"

"Not on full-time basis, no," Father Mac replied. "He's been doing some hospital work in Dublin in the meantime. It's thoughtful of you to ask after him."

Kathleen leaned towards him eagerly. "I was just thinking, Father, how well he got on when he was here at Christmastime. Wouldn't it be lovely if he could come back to us?"

In truth, the same thought had been flitting around in Father Mac's own head over the last few days. He thought his nephew might be an excellent fit in Ballykissangel and the idea of being able to guide and mentor him was certainly appealing. On the other hand, he didn't want to give the impression of favoritism. He spread his hands, showing that the matter was out of his control. "You and I may think so, Kathleen, but the Bishop will send us the man he feels is best suited to the church. Surely it's not my place to be custom ordering curates."

"Certainly not," Kathleen agreed quickly. "Still, His Grace would surely value your opinion. After all, who knows the needs of the local church better than the parish priest?"

Father Mac smiled benevolently at her. "Thank you, Kathleen. I wish everyone shared your confidence." He considered for a moment. "I suppose I might mention it to His Grace when I speak to him this afternoon. May I may tell him it was you who brought it to my attention?"

"Why, of course, if you think it will help," Kathleen cast her eyes down demurely, secretly delighted with the prospect of her idea being the subject of discussion between the parish priest and the Bishop.

"Good." Father Mac patted her shoulder. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've another mass to say and barely enough time to get there."

He mulled over the conversation as he prepared for the drive back to Cilldargen. Timmy had indeed been very well received during his short stay in Ballykissangel. And the part he had played in rescuing the O'Kelly boy had earned him near-hero status. His appointment to St. Joseph's would likely make it unnecessary for Peter Clifford to leave town. If this suggestion had come from any other parishioner he might have questioned their motives, but Kathleen had no affinity for Peter, and that was putting it mildly. Father Mac chuckled to think of the long litany of complaints she had managed to raise against the young Englishman over three short years. No, Kathleen's motives were unassailable. As he walked to his car, Father Mac paused for a last look up at St. Joseph's. He nodded to himself. What better place for Timmy to begin his ministry?

---

The clang of the mail slot closing behind the afternoon post startled Mary out of another unintended nap. She'd been feeling unusually tired these last few days – not entirely surprising given all the excitement last week, but a little worrisome, nonetheless. And she was lonely. She remembered feeling this way in the months following Rob's death, alone in the house after all those years of sharing it. But she had kept busy with her garden, her church activities, her friends and family and in time she had gotten used to living alone. She was not completely happy, but not really unhappy either.

What she missed most was that sense of living a life truly connected to other people, and having Peter and Assumpta in the house had reminded her what that was like. Peter's previous visits home from Ireland had been marked by a certain reserve, a holding back that Mary had attributed to his vocation. Surely all priests were like that, even with their own mothers. Now she wondered how much of that reserve had been born of a fear of revealing too much and disappointing her with the uncertainty he was feeling in his vocation. The joy of this most recent visit was that it had been not with Father Clifford, but with her son Peter. Genuine, human, imperfect Peter. Regaining that connection and then losing it again so soon left her feeling bereft.

Enough of this! Mary scolded herself. She pushed herself up out of her chair, got her balance and went to collect her mail, her legs throbbing in protest as she stooped to pick up the small pile from the mat. The clouds that had been threatening rain when she walked to mass earlier in the day were now producing it in torrents, and the ink on the postcard that topped the pile had begun to smudge. Carrying the mail into kitchen, she blotted the postcard with a tea towel, puzzling over the unfamiliar handwriting.

After a brief search for her glasses, Mary sat down at the table to examine the card properly. Too curious to wait, she read the signature first: Love, Assumpta. A smile came to her face, and she went back to read the rest of the message. The one with no steeple is mine – though it's looking a bit sootier than this right now. The invitation stands – come and see 'heaven on earth' for yourself!

Trust a woman to know she'd want to see what the town where her son had been living looked like, Mary thought, turning the card over to examine the pictures. Peter was good about telephone calls and always sent cards for important events, but in three years she hadn't seen a single picture of Ballykissangel. And it was lovely – green hills descending steeply on both sides of a narrow, sparkling blue lake, sheep grazing among craggy rocks, the beautiful old gray stone church with its steeple reaching for the heavens. Mary peered closely at the center photograph which showed a trim yellow and blue building situated along a village street. Sure enough, she could just make out the name on the sign: Fitzgerald's.

How sweet of Assumpta to invite her, and how she would love to accept. Not right away, of course, but after a bit of the furor over Peter's announcement had had a chance to die down. Five years ago she wouldn't have thought twice, but now, especially the way she'd been feeling the last few days…well, she had to admit that her traveling days were probably behind her. Mary would have to settle for the next best thing: telling the story. Tomorrow after mass, she decided, she would go and visit her best friend, Cecilia.

---

Siobhan pulled her truck to a stop behind Assumpta's van and set the brake. It was only twenty past eleven, a little early for lunch, but she'd had enough for one morning. She pushed open the pub door and paused on the threshold, trying to decide whether she could stomach the smell of fresh paint. It's either that or find my own lunch, she thought grimly and stepped the rest of the way inside.

Padraig and Peter were perched on ladders at opposite ends of the room, applying paint and discussing the prognosis of Peter's car. "A new battery'd probably do the trick," Padraig was saying. "Matter of fact. I think I've got one we can try when we're done here." He caught sight of Siobhan and began to descend his ladder. "How 'ya, Siobhan? Here, I'll get a stool for you."

"Get on back up there," Siobhan snapped. "I'm pregnant, for God's sake, not terminally ill."

"Right you are." Padraig held up his hands and grinned. "Deadly things, hormones," he said to Peter. "Didn't take me long to learn to keep out of Fionnula's way when she was expecting Kevin."

"Like that woman ever needed an excuse to be unpleasant," Siobhan pulled a stool up to the bar and sat down.

"Siobhan!" Peter's voice held a note of warning. He paused with his brush in mid-stroke and watched the grin disappear from Padraig's face.

"Thought you'd given up preaching," Siobhan grouched at him, but she relented. "Sorry, Padraig. I was out of line."

"Didn't keep you from being right, though," Padraig replied wryly.

Assumpta came through the kitchen door, marking something off on a clipboard. "I thought I heard you, Siobhan. Can I get you something?"

"What do you have in the way of lunch?"

"I can give you a sandwich and some crisps," the publican replied apologetically, "but that's about it. I won't be back to a full menu till after the grand re-opening, and that's if I survive it." She tossed the clipboard on the bar and stuck her pencil in her ponytail, sighing.

"A sandwich is fine," said Siobhan, "and an orange juice to go with it, I suppose. Wouldn't want the pregnancy police to come in and find me behaving badly."

Assumpta glanced at her as she reached beneath the bar for a glass, freshly washed and put in its place just an hour before. "Aren't you a ray of sunshine this morning!"

"Yeah," Siobhan sighed. "Sorry. It's just every time I turn around somebody's telling me something else I can't do. How do they think I've managed this far?"

Assumpta smiled. "Pretty well, probably. Who are we talking about here?"

"Whoever it is that writes all these blasted pregnancy books, for starters. Don't eat this, don't drink that, don't stay up late, don't cross your legs, stay away from sheep…it's a wonder any babies were born at all before they were around to share their wisdom."

"All the studies show there's a lot more healthy births nowadays, though," Padraig chimed in.

"Hush, Padraig!" Assumpta stared daggers at him.

"What? I'm only sayin'…" he looked to Peter for support, but Peter shook his head. Padraig heaved an exaggerated sigh and went back to his painting.

Assumpta turned back to Siobhan. "Is that it?"

"Well, no. Then there's Michael. And Brendan."

"Ah."

"They ganged up on me just because my blood pressure was a little high yesterday and insisted if I was going to keep up my work schedule I'd have to hire an assistant."

"You took Brendan along to see Michael?" A look of pleased surprise had come over Assumpta's face.

"Yeah, well. It seemed like the thing to do at the time."

"Oh, Siobhan. I'm so glad. And he must have been thrilled."

This was not at all the direction Siobhan had wanted the conversation to go. She felt as though the wind had been taken out of her sails. "Well, I hope he enjoyed it," she said petulantly. "It's not likely to happen again soon if he's going to be such a nuisance."

"Come on, Siobhan. He's trying to help the best he knows how." Assumpta set the orange juice and a packet of crisps in front of her friend. "So, are you going to hire an assistant?"

"I've already hired one. From that agency in Cilldargen."

"So? Where is he?"

"Quit."

"Already?! What did you do to him?" Assumpta put a hand to her mouth in an attempt to hide her amusement. She noticed that Peter and Padraig had abandoned their painting and turned on their ladders in order to hear the story better.

"I didn't do anything to him! Apparently it never crossed his mind that veterinary work might not be all fluffy kittens and frolicking puppies. We took one step inside Eamonn's barnyard and he began to get a funny look on his face and by the time I asked him to clean the prize sow's infected teat he ran outside and lost his breakfast all over his shiny new boots."

A snort from Padraig was all it took for both Assumpta and Peter to lose their composure completely. All three dissolved in gales of laughter and, after looking around at them indignantly for a moment, Siobhan joined in. Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes several minutes later, she said, "So, if you hear of anyone who's looking for a job – and has a strong stomach…"

Peter looked thoughtful. "I might know of someone." He laid down his brush and came to lean against the bar, wiping his hands on a rag.

Siobhan raised an eyebrow at him. "Still have the ear of the people, even without the collar, eh, Peter?"

"Actually, I was thinking of myself."

"What?!" Assumpta sputtered, "I thought you were working here!"

"And I am," Peter assured her, "but there's not that much left to do." He lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "Besides," he gestured toward Siobhan, "I think hers is a paying job!"

"I gave you a cup of coffee not an hour ago," Assumpta exclaimed indignantly. "What payment do you want, exactly?"

"Don't answer that, for heaven's sake!" Siobhan exclaimed. Both Peter and Assumpta turned bright red, and Padraig looked mystified. Siobhan regarded Peter doubtfully. "Do you have any experience with animals at all?"

"Well…I had a pet hamster when I was nine. And then there was my turkey, until he deserted me to go back and live with Eamonn."

"And his last employer was a good shepherd, I hear," Padraig added. He ducked, laughing, to avoid the bar rag Assumpta threw at him. "All right, I can see this is a conversation that doesn't require my presence. I'll just go and see about that battery, shall I?"

Siobhan shook her head as the door closed behind Padraig. "You're going to have to tell him what's going on before he's the only one in town left in the dark."

Peter and Assumpta shared a look. Peter nodded. "You're right. I'll have a word with him. But, to get back to the matter at hand – what do you say, Siobhan?"

"You know yourself he has a way with sheep," Assumpta commented mischievously.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times…that was a ram!" Siobhan snapped. Then she saw that she was being teased. "Are you going to bring me my sandwich or what?"

"All right, all right." Assumpta turned for the kitchen, tossing a smile in Peter's direction. "I'll let the two of you work this out."

As she went through the door, Peter was musing, "Of course, I might be away for awhile after this week. Maybe you want someone more reliable."

"You're already more reliable than the last fellow," Siobhan answered. "I think we can cross that bridge when we come to it – if we come to it."