As Peter entered the vestry following Mass, he could only think that violet wasn't really his colour. He appreciated the quiet contemplation of Lent and Advent well enough, but the vestments did his complexion no favours. The gold of feast days wasn't much better, and the red of mourning and Passiontide seemed to fight with him.
Peter liked Ordinary Time. Green liked him back, made his wild eyes look normal, natural, less alone.
He wondered when he had become so preoccupied with his appearance. No, that wasn't quite right: he knew. It was about a mile before he first set foot in town, on a day he must have looked like a drowned rat anyway.
The same reason he'd made his harrowing admission to the parish priest, same reason he was sleeping poorly, same reason he was entirely too thrilled about the prospect of his weekly pint tonight.
Even if she was still furious with him. It'll help, he told himself. Burst the bubble. Yes, seeing her upset will definitely snap me out of this senseless infatuation.
He nodded into the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door.
In fact, why delay it?
"Brunch it is," he told his reflection.
Fitzgerald's took on a special, quiet conviviality the second Sunday. Padraig cherished his cigarette like a deep massage. Niamh savoured her pudding slow and easy, dark eyes closing with each bite as dormant tastebuds came alive again. Michael seemed to huddle around his coffee protectively, as though it might run away if he failed to supervise it. Even Siobhan took a certain delight in watching horserace results and checking them against her fantasy bids.
Indeed, the only regular not enjoying a borderline-conjugal visit with vice was the publican herself. As she mulled the cruel irony of this, the blue door opened to reveal the bane of her existence. He was still in his suit, but with that neck exposed like a taunt, and that slip of white plastic sticking out his pocket in a way that would surely amuse Dr. Freud.
Assumpta was less than amused. "Well, look what the Catechism dragged in," she snapped.
"Father!" came a delighted, staggered chorus, further irritating her.
If Peter noticed her displeasure, it did nothing to spoil his own mood. Spotting Ambrose in a far corner, he silently asked Assumpta to meet him in Accomodation for a quiet word. She followed him, too eagerly.
"Where's the board?" he whispered.
"What do you mean?"
"I know what you're up to."
"Don't know what you're talking about."
"I doubt that very much. I understand there's a bet going on everyone's abstinence."
"And so what?"
"I just want to see it," he said.
"What, to place a bet?" She looked doubtful.
"I might!"
"Ante's at 20 quid."
"I'm interested."
Assumpta glanced at the Gard currently working a small jigsaw puzzle (one hundred pieces, assorted seashells) on a pub table. "Can't show it to you right now," she pleaded, eyes darting.
"Fine. I'll wait."
"Think you can stand to?"
"If you'd let me explain..."
She screwed up her face. "Not sure I'd be satisfied." She flounced back into the pub.
He watched her go, watched the bounce of her hair, the cling of her jumper, the swish of her skirt. He reminded himself to close his mouth before he followed.
"Right, then, give us a pint of lager and a bowl of stew," he said, claiming the seat beside Siobhan.
Assumpta pulled the pint and slipped into the kitchen, shaking her head.
"Good to see you come round, Father," Brendan said with a pointed look. "Must've been...seven days, now I think of it."
Peter exhaled and rolled his eyes.
"Come to mention," the teacher went on, "last time before that was Fat Tuesday."
"Given up subtlety yourself then?" Peter muttered.
"It's almost as if Father Clifford gave up the pub for Lent!" Donal observed. Siobhan shot a look as if to pat him on the head with her eyes.
"Don't be an eedjit," Liam retorted. "He'd only do that if he were coming round too often, or for the wrong reasons."
Peter whirled round to face them, his eyes bulging. "Do you mind?!"
Brendan put his hand to his forehead.
"Give up anything yourselves, boys?" Niamh asked, hoping to redirect things. The pub door swung open behind her.
Liam and Donal gave her matching looks of bewilderment.
"What would we give up?" Liam blustered.
"How about sloth!" came the thundering voice of their boss.
Assumpta returned with a bowl of stew, setting it in front of the priest without a word or a glance. "Afternoon, Brian; what'll it be?"
"Only a coffee, for the moment," he said.
Michael raised his own mug in approval, but put up a steely face.
"How goes the puzzle, Ambrose?" Peter asked.
"Be an hour yet at least," Niamh answered for him, scowling.
"Trouble in paradise, eh Niamh?" Padraig howled, his words redolent of Benson and Hedges.
Niamh stared daggers. "You ought to know."
It was enough to quiet him down.
Two hours later, Ambrose was only half finished, and Peter had worked his way through three more pints. Assumpta could see his reticence beginning to slip.
"Ambrose, would you like some help?" Siobhan asked, sensing that the rest of the gang wanted to discuss their wagers.
The Gard shrugged and waved her over. Siobhan winked over her shoulder at the publican. Grateful for the distraction, Assumpta shot Peter a daring look, pulled the whiteboard from under the bar, and slinked into the kitchen. Peter followed her once again.
"Fine," she whispered. "There it is."
He wasn't looking.
"Peter, why are you staring at the sofa?"
"Nothing! What?"
She frowned. "You wanted in on the pool?"
He leaned over the grid.
"Anything tickle your fancy?"
"Just...hang on," he stammered.
It was quiet for a few moments. She watched him hunch over the table as if the stakes included his very life. Why are you here? she wanted to ask. Why is this place only good enough for you once a week?
He noticed something. "You can't give up self-denial for Lent, Assumpta!"
"Why not, Father?"
He flinched. "It's counter to the point!"
"Ah, well! Maybe I should have given up the pub. Great hotbed of temptation and sin that we are."
"I told you I could explain," he said, looking nowhere near prepared to do it.
"And I'm still waiting."
He swallowed. "I spend too much time here."
"Says who? Father Mac?"
He looked away.
"Oh, for the love..." she trailed off.
"It gets in the way of...I have a hard time focusing on..." He sighed.
She sighed back. "Lots of priests hit the bottle in this country, Peter. I never thought you indulged more than you should."
His voice got small. "It's not the bottle."
"Then what?" she asked, looking away, her own voice shaking.
"Assumpta," he began, as if begging her to let him off the hook.
She met his eyes. "Know what?"
"What?"
"Don't worry about it." She clumsily pressed the purple Expo marker into his hand, then beat a quick exit.
Not livid.
Not burning with rage.
Almost...resigned.
Halfway through the vulgar-sized bottle and Assumpta was already sick of the champagne bubble bath. Booze did no good when applied topically, and the supposed luxury seemed a waste when she knew she'd be soaking alone. Besides, no one would be at the intimate distance necessary to take in the fragrance, which struck her cloyingly sweet anyway.
Still, there had to be a way to eke some indulgence out of it. She lingered in the water until the foam subsided, until her fingertips wrinkled...
Until the water wasn't comfortably warm anymore.
Dammit!
Brian's little revelation a week ago had created a most inconvenient association in her mind. Every little thing seemed to trigger thoughts of the curate, naked and wet and shivering. Cold showers and he's avoiding the pub! If I didn't know better...
His strange antics in the kitchen today, his "none of your business" remarks as he changed Kieran a week before...no. No, it would do her no good to dwell on it. It had certainly done no good the last hundred times he sent mixed signals. Peter Clifford was a living fountain of absurd behaviour; a woman could go mad taking any of it personally. Her own stupid attraction finally its chance to languish. It was time to take advantage of that chance.
She drained the bath and stepped into a dressing gown.
But dwelling on it is what I'm tempted to do. And I promised myself...
Then again, it is Sunday...
Bloody Hell, even when I'm deliberately breaking his rules, I end up following them!
She allowed herself to imagine him again, dousing himself in ice-cold water to chase away the ardour he couldn't fulfil, eating half-frozen microwave entrees because he couldn't face her. She felt possessed of an urge to track him down, wrap him in a blanket, give him a hot toddy, warm him up by a fireplace. Warm him up by any means necessary...
She was done denying herself these tawdry fantasies. She sank into them now, immersed herself in them, felt them wash over her.
At about the same time, Peter was finally surrendering to sleep.
Soon he was on the bridge overlooking the river, naked once again but warmed by an unseasonably balmy breeze, and she against the opposite wall, just as naked, pushing hair off her face. He tried to look away, but he couldn't; then he tried to stare, and couldn't do that either.
He noticed a tree had sprung up from the middle of the bridge. He didn't question this, didn't question the bottles of beer that hung from it like fruit. He walked over to it, took a bottle in his hand.
"And yet, everybody always blames Eve," she called to him.
He smiled and let go of the bottle.
She moved closer and took his hand. "Think someone will notice us?" she asked.
"We'd be hard to miss," he said, trying for levity. Her hand moved up his arm, over his shoulder, pulling him close.
Her breath, her skin was warm against him, and he noticed the breeze getting warmer as well.
"Have you decided what you're giving up?" she whispered.
He was holding her, caressing her. He was not meant to be doing this. "Twenty for the ante?"
"No. Peter, come on. What is it you're giving up?"
"Self-denial?" he pleaded into her neck.
"Getting warmer..." Oh, and it was! "But no."
"Assumpta..."
"Peter, you have to decide what it's gonna be. There isn't much time."
"Why?"
"Because the bridge is on fire."
He stared at the wall of approaching flames in disbelief.
"It's a stone bridge!" he yelled, waking himself.
4:01, the clock sneered.