A/N It's back... Bet you thought this was going to be another frustratingly unfinished Ballk fic? Oh yea of little faith. Actually, up until this morning i'm afraid it might have destined to be this. I think three stories in a little over a year has taken its toll on me. These days it's almost impossible to write!

As difficult as it may be, I'm determined to finish this. I just hope that our little community of ardent fans is still here?

Anyway, I hope this latest chapter finds its audience. Just a recap - Assumpta has left Peter to look after his ailing mother in Manchester. Will he return? Read on... and review!

The persistent chime of the heart monitor gave Peter cause to hope. Whether the heart rate was strong or weak, its ting was unwavering; a comfort that the Priest dared not believe.

It had been a difficult few days, least of because of his mother's condition, which the doctor's maintained was steadily improving

Peter looked at the clock. He'd relieved Angela from her bedside vigil almost two hours ago. Still reeling from a cataclysm of unfamiliar emotions – shame, humiliation and sadness, intermingled with a strange sort of acceptance – the curate had used the time to wallow unashamedly in his own emotions.

Assumpta had left. She'd actually left. He hadn't asked her to but, as loath as he was to admit it, her absence did simplify things somewhat.

For starters, his sister had been far easier to bear. Rather than volunteer any more snide observations during their infrequent conversations, she recognised the dark cloud cast across Peter's face and held her tongue.

There was his embarrassment too. After all of their patience, their years of wanting, this was the first time Peter and Assumpta were awarded? One hundred and eighty seconds of unparalleled ecstasy – and then nothing.

If he ever needed proof that God had a sense of humour, this would be it.

"Really?" Speaking to no one in particular, Peter cast his eyes to the ceiling and let out an exasperated sigh. His gaze fell on his mother, then onto his hands before finally settling on the payphone across the hall.

It occurred to him that he had many calls to return today. First, to his brother, who'd left an anguished voicemail begging his younger sibling to vouch for him so he could visit their mother.

Next, he'd have to call Father MacAnally to inform him of this new development. His mother was sick but getting stronger by the day. If she survived this she would need weeks, if not months of around the clock care. Angela was needed in Asia and the rest of the family was either incarcerated in prison or in the ground. There was no other feasible option, really.

The younger Clifford smirked darkly. This week had been about him making a decision and here he was, his decision already made for him: he would have to leave Ireland after all.

He would have to leave Assumpta.

His brow winced from the pain in his chest. Peter imagined that this must be where the concept of the proverbial heart originated. If the organ in his chest really had no connection to his emotions, why did it ache so much when he thought of her?

The wall clock silently signalled that another hour had passed. The day was fast escaping; he'd have to get moving if he wanted to make those calls today. With a strangled sigh, the curate climbed from his uncomfortable hospital recliner and walked solemnly into the hall.

The midseason rush had been its own comfort to Assumpta Fitzgerald, not in the least because of the distraction it provided. No, the extra income was welcome too, the publican accepted. Bank notes in the till had been a novelty of late and as her accountant kept reminding her, the tax man still needed to be paid.

Assumpta flicked through the empty reservations diary. Wednesday had melted into Thursday and Friday seemed to have been skipped entirely; how could it already be the weekend?

"Service," Niamh barked from the kitchen, alerting the publican to the task at hand.

"We're not a Michelin-starred restaurant, you know. You can just say the sandwiches are ready."

"Now where's the fun in that?" Niamh smiled warmly. As the only confident to the landlady's unique predicament, the young Irishwoman had been decidedly kind to her friend over the past few days.

Word from Peter had so far proved elusive. As far as anyone knew, the curate was due to return home in time for mass tomorrow. Today marked the final day of his holiday.

Hmm. Assumpta smirked at her choice of words. Despite all of his good intentions, she was certain that this week had been anything but a holiday for the Priest. Her mind turned to his poor mother – surely no news was better than the alternative?

Heavy steps through the kitchen door snapped the publican from her reverie. "Wishing it was someone else?" Brendan remarked knowingly at her expectant face.

"Brendan," she snipped impatiently. "What are you doing back here?"

"I believe that's my bacon sandwich that's going off there."

Assumpta examined the wilting dish in her hand. "Sorry," she mumbled. Get it together woman. "Here you are…"

"If I wanted self-service Assumpta, I'd have gone to the drive-through in Cilldargan."

"Just eat your lunch," she retorted.

"That's what keeps us coming back," the teacher mumbled between mouthfuls. "That magnanimous Fitzgerald charm."

"It keeps us all returning."

A voice from the open door brought the pub to a standstill. The crowd, once dense with tourists posing for photos and charging pints of Stout seemed to dissipate before Assumpta's eyes.

Peter.

He was back.