XXIV

It was Sunday again. Jean was going with the Collins family to Mass and then a luncheon at their home. It was so nice that they still invited her, though she was no longer freshly new in town. But she counted the family among her few friends in town, and she enjoyed the company. Little Joseph Collins was excited about the nativity play, as he had been cast as one of the wise men.

"I wanted to be Joseph because my name is Joseph, but the older kids get to be Mary and Joseph," he told her.

They spent the rest of the walk discussing what he wanted for his costume, as Jean had volunteered to help make them for the children. It meant a lot of nights alone with her sewing machine, but she was happy to do it. She'd always enjoyed sewing. And she'd made costumes for the children in Ballarat as well.

Mass went as it always did. Mrs. Williams led the choir in their hymns. Ned and Peter served at the altar. Father Blake gave his lovely but somewhat odd homily—this one part of the advent in the lead up till Christmas. Jean watched him with appreciation and affection, as always.

It was strange, the way the vision of Lucien, the man she loved, and Father Blake, the priest she admired and worked for, were starting to become more of the same person. There had been such a divergence before, between that sad drunk and that brilliant priest. It seemed the more she learned of Lucien, the more she understood Father Blake. And while his title and position still presented the most dire of problems for them, she was able to see him in his vestments, presiding over the congregation like this, and still see him as her Lucien. She was proud of the work he did and proud to assist him in it. And just watching him here like this made her love him even more.

Jean and the Collins family did not linger after Mass ended. She shared a smile with Lucien before she left. She would see him in the morning for breakfast as usual.

As they walked back to their neighborhood, Mrs. Collins and Jean caught up. "How is working for Father Blake?" she asked.

"It's very good," Jean replied. "A bit difficult at first, just adjusting to what he needed from me and learning about this church versus my old one. But we get on quite well." She could have kicked herself for that last bit. Got on quite well indeed. That was not something she should be telling people. Particularly not with the Father Blake everyone else knew. He was a kind man and a good priest to them, but he was not overly personable or friendly. After all, other than visiting the sick and dying, Jean was rather sure he never bothered to see anyone outside of church services and Confession. It was only Jean who had that privilege. And it would not do well to draw too much attention to that fact. Particularly not now.

"I mean, what sorts of things do you do?" Mrs. Collins pressed.

It was a fair question, she supposed. No one had much idea of what she did. And Jean herself hadn't really known for a while. Early on, her main job was keeping the priest alive and competent, what with the incessant drinking that threatened his reputation, his job, and his very life. But over time, of course, her duties had changed. Now it was more of doing anything that she saw needed doing. "Whatever is needed. He is mostly able to keep house for himself, but I make him breakfast to start the day and do a bit of tidying when needed. I planted a garden behind the rectory and I use the flowers to make the arrangements for inside St. Catherine's. Sometimes I assist in his preparations for the homily, letting him bounce ideas off someone. I've cleaned pews on occasion. I help teach catechism to the children. Just whatever's needed." And all of that was quite true. Jean did all those things. Nothing untoward about any of it. The personal things, the ways they had learned each other's pasts and tragedies and secrets, those things that had caused them to fall in love and into their current mess, none of that was really very related to the work she did for Father Blake. None of that was to be shared with her neighbors.

"Sounds like a lot of work," Mrs. Collins replied. "And I suppose it makes you wonder what he did before you came along."

Got piss drunk and whined a lot, Jean thought to herself. But Mrs. Collins did have a point. It seemed incredible that Lucien had been able to manage on his own for so long. Thought Jean now knew that he was so incredibly unhappy all those years, so lonely and alone. He did the minimal amount of work he needed for the parish just to get by because it was all he had. That wasn't the case anymore.

Over lunch, the conversation was dominated by Mr. Collins complaining about the difficulties he was having with the factory workers' union. He worked for the town council and regulating the factories and managing negotiations between the union and the management took up most of his time. Jean had no experience with anything remotely like that, so she found it quite interesting.

The telephone rang and Mr. Collins went to answer it while Mrs. Collins served second helpings of pie. Maggie then asked Mrs. Beazley about her costume for the nativity play. She'd been cast in the coveted role of Mary, and she wanted to look beautiful for the part. Jean thought it was more to do with impressing Peter, who was serving as the narrator, but it honored the Virgin Mary as well for Maggie to look nice in the role. They discussed fabrics and designs and such with Joseph giving his opinion along the way, annoying Maggie to no end.

Jean enjoyed being with the Collins family. They were a nice bunch and they reminded her of what it was like to have a family, to be part of all the talking and laughing and bickering and practicality of getting everyone through the day, safe and well. It gave her a pang of loneliness, knowing her boys were so far away, knowing that having a family of her own like this was a thing of the past.

As soon as lunch was over, Jean excused herself to go back home. She'd gotten herself a bit maudlin and wanted to be alone. She went inside her pretty little house. Unconsciously, she gave a sigh of relief. She felt safe her. At home here. Every little thing was hers and hers alone.

Alone.

Without a second thought, Jean turned right around and walked out of the house again. And she did not stop walking until she passed the old willow tree and made her way behind St. Catherine's to the rectory and knocked on the door.

Lucien answered it quite quickly. "Jean!" he greeted in surprise. "Come in."

She went inside and let him close the door behind her. She noticed he'd removed his cassock, as he always did when his priestly duties were done for the day. He wore only his white shirt with its sleeves pushed up and the top two buttons undone and tucked into a pair of black trousers. He looked absolutely gorgeous.

"This is a surprise. Is anything wrong?" he asked her.

Jean did not normally see him after Mass on Sundays unless there was an obvious need. Her showing up was certainly out of the ordinary. Though everything nowadays felt somehow out of the ordinary. "I was just wondering if maybe we could have a cup of tea."

"Of course," he replied. He gave her an odd look, likely because she did not answer his question of whether anything was wrong. And there wasn't anything wrong. Not really. Only the obvious things. The things they couldn't do anything about.

Jean put her handbag down where she always left it and made her way to the kitchen. Lucien followed close behind. She put the kettle on and he moved past her to get down the mugs from the cabinet. As he passed by, his hands landed on her shoulders and ghosted down her back until the rested on her hips. A shiver passed through her, just as it did every time he touched her.

The both of them froze, lost in the moment. She turned to look up at him and found his eyes shining with affection and concern.

"What are you doing here, Jean?" he asked softly.

She swallowed hard. "I missed you," she confessed.

He slowly leaned in and Jean's eyes fluttered closed. But at the last moment, she turned her head. His lips landed at the corner of her mouth. She could feel his breath on her cheek and the slight scratch of his beard. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered at the feel of him, the anxiety and the desire churning within her in equal measure.

Before things could go any further, she pulled back. "Tea," she reminded. Hopefully he did not notice the way her voice shook.

He let out a slow breath and nodded in response. "Yes. Tea."