In the days that followed, Peter and Assumpta did as little as they could manage. Meals were taken in the comfort of their shared bed; clothes were entirely optional. Conversations varied from the deep and forlorn to the entirely superficial via long stretches of not speaking at all.

It was meant to be a period of mourning – and in many ways it was – but when all Peter could see was the alabaster of Assumpta's skin against his own, when all he could feel was her warmth, it was easy to forget.

On day three, things began to change. Eating breakfast on the deck, Peter and Assumpta shared another of their easy silences. Fresh pastries, coffee and yesterday's unread Sunday supplements were the order of the day and who were they to argue?

Tearing into her second cinnamon bun, Assumpta remarked lazily, "So, what now?"

She'd meant today. She'd meant to say 'what are we going to do today?' but the look of sheer panic on Peter's face gave her pause.

"What… do we really need to decide?" he began hastily. "What do you mean, 'what now'?"

"What are we going to do today?" she eventually clarified. "But I'm glad that you're so comfortable with the long-term ramifications of that question."

"Meaning?"

Assumpta felt a flush of anger coarse through her. "I ask 'What now?' and you immediately go on the defensive?"

"I didn't… that's now what I –"

"I thought we were on the same page with regards to that. I thought we'd agreed…"

"We haven't agreed any…" Peter allowed his sentence to trail but it was already too late. In one seamless movement, Assumpta had swung her legs off his lap and had marched into the kitchen. "Assumpta… Assumpta!"

"I can't believe we're having this conversation again! After everything that's happened…"

"There's no conversation. Can't we just go back to how things were before?"

"Before when?" Assumpta spat. "Before 5 minutes ago or before last month?"

"You know what I mean."

"Do I? Do I really? I thought we were on the same page with where we were headed but now –"

At this, Peter felt his own temper rising. "We are on the same page," he pronounced calmly. "It's just… right now isn't the time for us to make any rash decisions."

"Rash decisions?" As the reality of her situation began to sink in, Assumpta backed wearily against the sideboard. "Oh god, you haven't decided whether to leave yet, have you?"

Peter's face dropped. It was true. She was right. As loathe as he was to admit it, in his heart he still felt like a Priest. "I'm 99% certain…"

"So that's alright then? You're almost decided to leave the Church, so that's enough of an excuse to screw me…."

"Assumpta!"

"Well it's true, isn't it?"

Peter's voice began to rise. "You think my mother was the only obstacle between us? You think that now she's dead I can forget that I'm a Priest."

"I think that you forgot that a long time ago."

"Cheap shot," he snapped angrily.

"Well it's true."

Neither spoke for a moment, each lost in the ramifications of their seemingly hopeless situation.

"None of this is easy." Peter reasoned eventually.

"I never assumed that it was."

"Before she died," the curate began, in earnest. "Before she was gone I wanted to remain a Priest to make her happy. Make her proud. Now, I…"

"You think you owe it to her memory." Assumpta spoke in a calm voice although she felt anything but calm.

"It just seems sort of tacky, doesn't it? To admit that the one hurdle keeping you from being who you really wanted to be was your mother, and now that she's out of the way – "

Peter couldn't finish his sentence – he didn't have to. His face creased up in a kind of pained anguish, the kind that Assumpta recognised from her own features in the weeks that followed her own mother's death.

"It's all she ever wanted for me."

"Now, I know that's not true." Assumpta relaxed her grasp of the sideboard and reached out to touch the Priest.

"Do you? How?"

The publican was immediately dumbfounded. She didn't know. How could she? "She's your mother…" she acknowledged, eventually.

Peter looked down at his feet, watching as they kicked imaginary snow on the ground. After a moment, he replied in a voice so low that it was barely there. "Was my mother."

"What?"

"She was my mother," he clarified. "Now – I don't know…"

Peter wasn't offered the opportunity to follow that thought to its depressing conclusion. As soon as he paused for breath, Assumpta weaved her way over to him and simply held him close without speaking, without even breathing too heavily.

"I just wish I could have told her, you know? As much as I was dreading it, I wish that she would have known about you. About how I felt about you."

Assumpta buried her head into Peter's shirt as she conceded, "I know."

"She asked me point blank just before her death. She asked if I was happy. I had every opportunity to tell her the truth and I didn't." A perfectly straight, horizontal line formed on Peter's mouth. "And now I can't."

Assumpta remembered her own mother and her ability to smell a rat at fifty feet – an uncanny ability that plagued the teenage Assumpta right up until her eighteenth year. "She'll have known, Peter. She will."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mothers always do."

At first, Peter seemed to accept her insight – to whole-heartedly endorse it, even. With a solitary tilt of the head, he permitted his mouth to be found and allowed himself to be kissed chastely, first on the lips and then cheek.

"I wish she could have known you."

Assumpta considered his statement for a moment and to her surprise, honestly wished she could have met the elder Clifford also. The odds of the two getting along were slim at best. She was by all reports the carbon copy of Angela in looks as well as temperament, as well as being a steadfast Catholic. How she would have taken the arrival of Father Peter Clifford's atheist Irishwoman was anybody's guess, but Assumpta would be willing to stake a wager.

Not that she felt any need to share this with the man who was currently holding her hand with his.

"Let's go out today," she suggested instead. "Wear actual clothes and see actual people. I need a dress for tomorrow anyway."

Peter inwardly cursed himself for forgetting that the funeral was tomorrow before answering with a casual, "Okay."

"Manchester too far to get to?"

"Could be there by 12 if we leave now."

"That's settled then," Assumpta decided, feeling happier now they had moved on to lighter topics. "I'll even buy you lunch."

"You'd better," Peter laughed falsely, unable to completely quell the sinking feeling in his heart.

You're in mourning, his head told him. It's okay not to feel fantastic.

But as he watched Assumpta dance towards the stairs he wished momentarily that he could feel as excited about their future as she was feeling. He wished he could feel something other than this overwhelming guilt that threatened to devour him whole.

"The capped sleeves or the straps?"

"Hmm."

"…or perhaps the long sleeve." Assumpta mulled dreamily in the Debenhams woman's department in Manchester's Arndale shopping centre. In front her was a sea of black and navy evening dresses, each interchangeable with another, or at least so it seemed to Peter.

He didn't want to be here. But then, at the moment, he didn't want to be anywhere really – least of all anywhere public. They'd been here for over an hour already and judging by the number of unworn garments still available, the pair weren't going anywhere else anytime soon.

"I like the one without sleeves," he volunteered elusively, in a bid to hurry things along.

Assumpta eyeballed him with incredulity. "You couldn't…" she wagered. "For a funeral?"

"The black one, then. Look Assumpta, just pick one will you."

The publican sighed wearily. She knew this was tortuous – hell, she was almost bored herself. But how could she emphasise the importance of picking the right thing to wear on this, her first meeting with Peter's entire family.

"Alright," she relented. "You wait outside, I'll just try these on." Assumpta tried to disguise the annoyance in her voice with a weak smile.

"Thank you!"

Peter didn't need telling twice. In no time at all, he'd managed to traverse the vast space of the woman's department, pass kids wear and find himself outside the department store, in the veritable refuge of the packed food court.

The smell of fast food was intoxicating. He'd been promised lunch by Assumpta but that mealtime had come and gone. It was now a quarter past three and the Priest was half-mad with hunger.

"Cheeseburger, please" he found himself saying to the nonplussed teen behind the counter of Happy Burger. What she doesn't know won't hurt her, he wagered.

"Going to get me one of those, then?"

A woman's voice stopped Peter dead in his tracks. Without turning, he knew immediately who it was.

"Jenny"

A/N Aaaggghhh, this story is just impossible to finish! Don't worry, the introduction of Ballyk's most loathed female character isn't taking this story in another direction. I fully intend to complete this story in the next chapter (or maybe the one after that!)

Thanks for still sticking with me :)