Assumpta leant against the bar, lost in thought. It was early evening; there were only a few of the regulars sitting at the bar.

'Whiskey please, Mrs McGarvey,' a voice stated, more than asked. She snapped her head up, her eyes fixing on the only person who would call her that. Her eyes met the cold, dark eyes of Father MacAnally, who was sitting at the bar.

'There's no one by that name in here,' she retorted acidly, not moving. Father Mac leant on the dark wood of the bar.

'The church does not condone divorce, Assumpta. You know that,' he said simply. A smile played across her face, much to Father Mac's confusion.

'I am not divorced, Father.' She leant back against the back wall of the bar, holding Father Mac's unwavering gaze, the small but definitely smug smile still firmly plastered on her face. He wasn't going to win this one.

He eyed her, considering his options. Eventually he dropped his gaze. 'I'll have that whiskey,' he announced. Assumpta bit her tongue as she poured him his drink; he was a paying customer, after all.

She looked up as Alex walked in the door and pulled up a stool next to Father Mac. 'Father,' she said, smiling at Alex, more for Father Mac's benefit than out of her own goodwill.

'Ms Fitzgerald,' he replied lightly, smiling back.

'Ah, I see you've met our new curate, Assumpta,' Father Mac said.

Ignoring his comment, she turned to Alex. 'What can I get you?'

'Ah, just an orange juice,' Alex replied, eyeing Father Mac. Assumpta almost grinned to herself; he certainly was new. It had taken Peter only a couple of weeks to start drinking alcohol in front of Father Mac… She shook her head, frustrated with herself, but not for the first time that day.

'Are you enjoying Ballykissangel, Father?' Father Mac asked Alex. Alex nodded.

'Yes, Father. It's a beautiful place,' he said eagerly. Assumpta smiled; few who came to Ballyk were unimpressed by its beautiful landscape. 'The people are very friendly,' he added.

'Yes,' Father Mac replied, looking directly at Assumpta. 'The people are very friendly to the clergy around here.' She clenched her jaw, but said nothing, choosing to ignore the Priest's comment. 'Very friendly,' he muttered, sipping his whiskey. Alex looked over at Assumpta worriedly – even he could see the tension between them.

'Could I have a ham sandwich, please, Ms Fitzgerald?' he asked, trying to change the topic. Assumpta glared at Father Mac before moving down the bar to accommodate Alex's request.

Brendan walked through pub door, shaking the rain off his coat as he hung it on the door. He stood at the bar next to Alex. 'Father,' he said, greeting the younger man, before he spotted Father Mac. 'Ah, Father. To what do we owe the pleasure?' he asked.

'Just keeping an eye on things, Brendan,' he replied. 'I don't feel I've kept a close enough relationship with my curates over the past couple of years. What do you think, Assumpta?' he asked, as she returned with Alex's sandwich. She eyed him, keeping her anger at a simmering burn.

'I couldn't care less what you do, Father,' she replied acerbically.

'Oh, I thought you had a keen interest in the church,' he said quietly. 'Or was it just a particular aspect?'

Brendan turned to face the priest, incensed. 'You are out of line,' he said quietly.

'Get out,' Assumpta said, her voice almost inaudible, barely containing the fury building up inside of her. Father Mac just eyed her, not moving from his seat. 'GET OUT!' she roared at him, exploding from the back of the bar, her arm pointing to the door. The bar went quiet at the sound of her voice; the ten or so faces of the regulars all turning towards the pair. Brendan stood still, glaring at the elderly priest, his own anger barely contained. Father Mac held her gaze for another second before standing and turning to leave, slowly walking to the door. She watched him go, her eyes burning with hatred for the older priest.

Alex stood. 'I'm sorry, Assumpta,' he said, shaking his head, clearly not knowing what to say. Assumpta didn't look at him, instead concentrating her anger on the now-closed door of the pub, where Father Mac had just exited. Brendan put a hand on his shoulder and motioned for him to move down the bar, out of Assumpta's path. He'd seen Assumpta that angry before, and the poor priest didn't deserve to cop what was inevitably coming.


Assumpta stared at the door. She would like to think she couldn't believe what had just happened, but she knew Father Mac. Even still, he'd gone too far this time.

She felt the rage overwhelm her. She had to get out. She threw the towel she was holding down on the counter and stormed out, blinded by her fury. She raced up the stairs, ignoring the pain in her foot, the nerves protesting the abuse. She walked into her room and started pacing.

She had to get this under control. She couldn't let him get under her skin like that. She'd overreacted, she knew, but he was completely out of line. Peter wasn't even here anymore…

Her face crumpled as the ferocity she had felt turned suddenly to pain. She felt the tears wet her eyes. She pounded the wall with her fist. She was exhausted by the constant emotion she felt; anger, fury, hurt, sadness. It was as if the wound in her heart was still weeping, and she couldn't stem the tide of anguish – an anguish that so swiftly turned to rage. A rage she could not control.

As much as she told herself she didn't – as much as she didn't want to admit Brendan was right – she knew she needed to know why.

The gaping wound that Peter Clifford left in her heart needed to be filled.


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