Chapter Forty-Six
"Oh my god. Father Clarence? Not you again!" Kendall blurted in disbelief, trying to clear her vision of tangled hair and rain and prove herself wrong. But it was no use. The figure before her would not be cleared. He was the same Irish priest she'd encountered after her escape from Pine Valley Hospital on the Christmas Eve following Bianca's fall from the hotel balcony, when Bianca's life had hung in the balance.
"Ah, I'm that flattered you remember me then. Hasn't it been awhile since we met! Surely long enough—and seldom enough—not to earn me that 'again'?" the unusual old man chuckled.
"Oh, please, like I could ever forget you?" Kendall cried. "That was the most horrible night of my life, the night I thought Bianca—"
"The night you feared Bianca would perish?" he asked gently.
Kendall felt the gall of bitterness rise up in her from the depths of her soul, all the way up to her throat, threatening to strangle her with its mordant fingers. "Oh, she perished, all right, so you better not expect credit for being right that night—it just took her a little longer to perish than you thought! Did you know that, you phony old windbag with all your empty talk about having faith?"
"Phony old windbag, am I? Oh, Miss Hart, surely you can do better than that. I've been called far worse. A windbag I may be, but the content of my talk was not empty."
The continued tolerance of the priest's tone simply enraged Kendall further. "I tried, I really tried, I tried so hard to practice what you told me, and you know what happened? I got royally, royally screwed!" she almost screamed. "Didn't you hear me? Bianca did perish! See how wrong you were?"
"I heard you. Now it's entirely bucketing out there and there's no need to catch pneumonia with it." Father Clarence made a sweeping motion toward the interior behind him with his arm. "Come in, come in then, my girl, and let's talk about it in civilization."
His unnatural tranquility made Kendall back up nervously. "What are you, some kind of vulture who gets off on people's grief? Do you really think I'd fall for your blarney a second time?"
"It doesn't appear you fell for it the first time," he stated mildly.
Kendall swallowed. It was time to get out of here. "Look—my car is stuck in your driveway and my cell phone can't pick up a signal out here—if you'll just call Triple A for me we'll call it a draw."
"Now how might I do that?"
Fumbling in her purse for her membership card and shielding it in her hand from the rain, Kendall held it out to the priest. "Here's the information—the phone number to call, and my name and membership number, you'll need to give those to the operator. You already know where my car is and I'll just go wait for them in it."
Father Clarence chuckled again. "You may as well put that card away, Miss Hart, and come in as I suggested. I haven't a phone."
"How can you not have a phone?" she demanded. "Aren't you a priest? Don't people need to call you for—for emergencies?"
The priest smiled benignly. "'Tisn't strictly necessary for my particular line of work so why waste a good phone number? Y'see, the poor souls most in need of me seldom have time to ring me in advance."
She shuddered. "Oh, that makes me feel lots better."
"And so it should," Father Clarence replied somewhat briskly, "if you but tried to understand. Now if you'll humor me and come in before this wind wraps around my aching bones any worse, I've got a kettle on the hob and we'll wet the tea while we wait for the rain to let up."
"We'll what?"
"Wet the tea. Make tea, that is. And share a bit of a chat by the fire. I'm willing to overlook your prejudices if you'll overlook mine. Then, once the sky dries up, we'll see if between us we can slide your vehicle out of the muck."
Kendall actually hesitated for a moment. Tea by the fire, and assistance: It was tempting. The only problem was that the offer came from this deluded, deluding old man who didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. So she replied, "No, thank you. I'll assume you at least mean well, but I'm used to managing on my own."
The cheerful face of Father Clarence fell a notch. "You'll not keep an old man company this evening then? I was so looking forward to your visit. Come on, now, who'll be hurt by it?"
"Oh, please. It's not like you knew I was coming. I got here completely by accident. 'Who'll be hurt?'" After repeating the question, Kendall asked cynically, "You're kidding, right?"
"Very well, Miss Hart," Father Clarence sighed. "A well-meaning, lonely priest bows before your more energetic determination to leave him to his solitary meal."
She felt a tiny twinge. "That isn't fair. You're playing the guilt card."
"I never indulge in cards, Miss Hart. Now I'll bid you goodnight, and go in to say a small prayer to Saint Christopher to speed your safe arrival home."
In response, a thoroughly drenched Kendall shivered and sneezed violently—at the same time lightning flashed in the sky, introducing a low threatening growl of thunder and leaving a scorched smell in the air. "Shit!" she screamed, eyes widening in fear. "What are you really doing, unleashing plagues?"
The priest wagged his great shaggy head. "'Tis the unstable atmosphere above us responsible for that, Miss Hart, and not my doing. However, I will repeat my invitation should you care to avail yourself now of a nice cup of tea and my fireside while waiting for the storm to abate."
"Well…," Kendall vacillated, torn once again now her physical safety was at stake, but still reluctant to give in to him, until a fresh, ear-splitting boom of thunder finally sent her scuttling wildly in the direction of the doorway, Father Clarence retreating without a word.
To Kendall's surprise, she found herself in a small, cozy room. A wide chimney and mantelpiece of fieldstone, a small blaze burning merrily in its hearth, occupied the width of one wall. Ceiling-high shelves, sagging under vertical and horizontal stacks of books, took up much of the remaining wall space. Before the fire two armchairs deeply upholstered in a dark blue willow leaf print were positioned at a slight angle to each other, a round walnut pedestal table between them. The wide-planked floor was covered with a fringed oriental carpet in deep jewel tones of ruby, emerald, and sapphire.
"I thought I was going into the chapel. This doesn't look anything like a chapel," Kendall said, looking around and feeling rather relieved by her inspection. This space she'd entered was not the one she remembered. It was secular, devoid of the placidly blank-faced plaster religious figurines she'd longed to smash during her first meeting with Father Clarence. But it had an unworldly feeling of its own that Kendall found unexpectedly charming. The flames danced off a brass lantern and crystal decanter on the table and a large gray cat snored before the hearth in an alluring, timeless kind of way.
"No, my dear, you arrived via my private entrance tonight. This is the sitting room of my own little cottage behind the church."
"Well, I—I'm dripping all over your carpet," Kendall said uncertainly.
"'Tis only a bit of rainwater sent from the heavens above. Let me take your coat, Miss Hart. I suspect you're dry underneath."
In a few moments, Kendall was installed in an easy chair, not quite sure how her wet hair had so efficiently become swathed in a linen towel turban, her wet shoes propped before the fire, her bare feet swaddled in terrycloth toweling, and her coat hung from the edge of the mantelpiece. The rest of her was reasonably dry, but she continued to shiver and sneeze.
Tsk-tsking over the skimpiness of her sleeveless flounced dress, Father Clarence tactfully draped a warm crocheted afghan over Kendall's bare shoulders. By the time the priest carried in a tray loaded with a blue onion-patterned tea service, she was curled up in the comfortable chair, almost dozing. But she came to with a start at the sound of shifting crockery as he lowered the tray to the table beside her, snapping back to unpleasant reality. When he handed her a brimming cup of steaming tea, Kendall sniffed it suspiciously.
"There's nothing in that cup but good old Irish breakfast tea, Miss Hart—and water from the tap," Father Clarence smiled down at her.
"You can't blame me for wondering," she argued. "I don't trust you. I don't share your beliefs. I already had a really crappy evening, I just wanted to get home to my fiancé, I take a wrong turn, and my car gets stuck practically at your door. Go figure, huh? Don't pretend there's not something not quite right about that."
The priest took a seat opposite her. "Will you tell me something, Miss Hart?" He asked curiously, not giving her a chance to assent before adding, "Do you never tire of putting up a fight?"
The question reminded Kendall so of her earlier internal soliloquy that it silenced rather than prompted her to speak. Instead she took an offended sip of tea. Who the hell was this priest—this purported priest—to interrogate her, who was he to imply there was anything wrong with the way she did things, when her actions sprang from necessity rather than choice?
"Did I hear you make mention of a fiancé?" Father Clarence tried again as the silence between them lengthened.
"Yes," she said shortly.
"Why, my heartiest congratulations indeed to the lucky groom!" he beamed. "And best wishes to you, of course. Might I be acquainted with your intended?"
"I doubt it."
"When is your big day to be, if I may inquire without being intrusive?"
"Once he recovers from surgery." Kendall was immediately sorry for volunteering that much information.
"Oh, 'twas for nothing too serious, I hope?"
"For him? Not really."
"And doesn't he have the best reason to make a speedy recovery then, with you, Miss Hart, waiting to become his bride!"
"Maybe." She stared into her cup of amber tea. Zach, if only I took your car instead of mine. It wouldn't have gotten stuck like mine did. I'd be home with you right now instead of with this—this lunatic.
The priest looked thoughtful. "If you don't mind me saying so, you don't put me much in mind of a woman about to wed. Why are you not overflowing with joy?"
"And why do you ask so many questions?" Kendall retorted.
"Why, when you want to know something, you must ask, of course," Father Clarence said good-naturedly. "And 'tis not idle curiosity on my part. I would be remiss in not inquiring about your young man. Since meeting your sister two Christmas Eves ago and meeting you and Miranda last Christmas Eve, I've taken quite the interest in your family, you know."
Though settled in its saucer in Kendall's hand, her teacup began to rattle dangerously. Before the urge to throw it at him became too strong, Kendall hastily lowered it to the table. "Don't go there, Father Clarence," she cautioned, trying to keep her voice steady. "Just do not even go there."
"Or you'll start calling me by descriptive names other than my own again?"
"I…no. No, I can't," she admitted grudgingly, "not when I'm accepting your hospitality, even if I never wanted to accept it in the first place, but…."
"My memories of them are delightful, you know," the priest said softly.
Gazing into the blazing fire, Kendall replied, "Yeah? Well, so are mine. And that's all I have of them now, of Bianca and Erica, anyway. Memories. I'm sorry, Father, but your advice really stinks. Nothing you told me last Christmas panned out."
Father Clarence stepped across the room to lightly prod with the poker a hissing log threatening to escape the grate. Turning back to Kendall he asked gravely, "Did I not advise you to have faith, and were you not shown its worth when Bianca survived her fall and was reunited with her wee daughter—a matter I was allowed to play my own small part in, may I remind you?"
Kendall shifted uncomfortably in her chair before leaning forward and saying heatedly, "Oh, I let you talk me into having faith all right—like a complete idiot I let myself believe everything would finally work out for Bianca and Miranda and Erica and me—and then boom! It totally blew up in our faces!"
Intently, tapping the cooled poker against his other hand, Father Clarence asked, "Weren't you just sure as fate of that the last time I saw you then, Miss Hart?–and if I may be blunt, weren't you in the wrong. Are you so very sure you're in the right now?"
"All you have to do is read the papers to know the answer to that question," Kendall said more quietly. What, after all, was the point of losing her temper with this stubborn old Irishman whom she couldn't seem to budge? "The very thing I feared most not only happened after all, it happened ten times worse. So I'd really like to know what good having faith ever did me in the long run. I'm all ears."
The priest replaced the poker in its stand on the hearth and returned to his seat. "Miss Hart, may I suggest we not continue to waste our brief time together at odds over temporary philosophical differences? Tell me instead about this young man of yours."
"And if I don't? Or are you planning to keep me here until I do?" Kendall asked dubiously.
Father Clarence's blue eyes twinkled. "No, my dear. My time here is really rather short, you might say. I've missionary work to finish elsewhere and I must return to it before you and I will meet again."
"Okay, then, I'll make this real short for both our sakes. His name is Zach. May I go now?" Placing a hand on each arm of her chair, Kendall prepared to rise, but the priest motioned her to stay seated.
"Zach…hmm, doesn't that name ring a teeny bell…," the priest mused. "You wouldn't be meaning by any chance Zach Slater? Young Miranda's uncle on her father's side of the family?"
"That's the one. So you do read the papers."
"If I must. Now, Miss Hart, you may find this a wee bit comical coming from a confirmed celibate such as myself, but I'm a bit of the romantic persuasion, not having it in my own life, y'see. I'd dearly love to hear how Mr. Slater won your heart."
Taking a deep breath, Kendall prepared to block his request for the second time. "Father Clarence—"
"Oh, please," he begged beguilingly. "Humor an old man."
And suddenly Kendall found herself saying, "I'm not sure I can explain it. I hated Zach at first. I even blamed him for the plane crash. But he just—he started helping me so I could get custody of Miranda."
"Mr. Slater must love you very much then," Father Clarence said expectantly.
Kendall laughed. "Zach had no more use for me than I had for him. He only helped me for Bianca's sake, because he loved Bianca, too, and he knew that was what she would want."
"And didn't the two of you go falling in love with each other and didn't he go popping the question because of it and isn't that just how it should be," the priest sighed almost blissfully. "Restores my own faith in love, it does then."
"It wasn't exactly like that," Kendall explained, almost against her will. "I thought being married would help me with custody, and especially if I was married to Zach, because of him being Miranda's uncle. So I proposed to him. I was surprised when he accepted."
Father Clarence's open features creased in abject disappointment. "'Tis hopelessly old-fashioned I must be, Miss Hart. Didn't I just assume you and Mr. Slater were making a true love match, although of course marriage for the sake of a child is a fine substitute."
Somehow Kendall couldn't let the priest keep the impression she'd been unable to avoid giving him. Deluded he may have been on some things, but he shouldn't be deluded on that point. "You put events in the wrong order, but you came up with the right end result. I'm not just marrying Zach because of Miranda. I'm marrying him because he's been so wonderful to me that he did win my heart and I love him. Are you satisfied now, Father Clarence?" she snapped.
The downcast expression on his face metamorphosed into a more inscrutable one. "Not entirely, Miss Hart. A marriage where only one does the loving is a poor lopsided thing indeed. Does Mr. Slater return your feelings?"
To her dismay, Kendall's cheeks reflected a visible warmth owing nothing to the crackling fire before which she sat. Before she could speak, the priest gave one of his chuckles.
"'Playful blushes, that seemed naught but luminous escapes of thought.'(1) Say no more, Miss Hart, say no more."
"Yeah, well, I've already said too much already, and I don't know why." Restlessly, she unwound the linen wrapped around her hair and shook out her long ringlets, combing through them with her fingers as best she could. Her hair was damp, but wringing wet no longer. "I need to go. I gave you your little chat, and now you're on to help me move my car." Slipping her feet into her shoes, Kendall found they were damp as well, though wearable, as was her coat, which she also slipped on in order to preempt any resistance to her departure. "Whether or not the rain has stopped."
Cupping a hand to his ear and tilting his head toward the ceiling, Father Clarence agreed jovially. "What cooperative weather after all. I do believe it has stopped. Would you be objecting if I merely showed you to the door? Y'see, I have others to tend to after you and they're waiting."
As if to prove how seriously he suddenly meant business, the priest took Kendall by the arm and began to conduct her out, while she remonstrated, "But what about my car?"
"'Tis an odd thing I've kenned about the mud in these parts. D'you know that as soon as rain stops lashing, the mud dries up altogether. I predict you won't have a bit of trouble with it now."
"But—" Kendall now stood on the doorstep, very much wondering if the priest was about to slam the door in her face in his abrupt zeal to send her on her way. He already had his hand on it. But it seemed he had one thing more left to say first.
"Miss Hart, you have my gratitude for chatting with me and I do hope the pleasure was mutual. And doesn't that just put me in mind of one more question. Have you and Mr. Slater arranged for a wedding officiant yet?"
It took Kendall a second or two to comprehend his meaning. "If you're asking whether we have someone lined up to marry us, the answer is no. We're having a civil ceremony so I guess it'll just be a judge or a justice of the peace."
"A civil ceremony," Father Clarence repeated. "Are you now? Sure and if you change your minds…I'll be back in a few days' time."
"I—I'll discuss it with Zach." No, I won't! He'll think I've lost my mind.
Holding her breath, Kendall started her car, put it in reverse, and eased down on the accelerator. Just as the priest had predicted, it rolled freely backward, out of the mud and back onto the road. Feeling almost as if she'd just awakened from a very strange dream, Kendall headed back the way she'd come.
(1) Sir Thomas Moore.