It was with a perspiring brow and arms laden with shopping bags that Assumpta found her companion enjoying lunch with another woman – that woman from his past.

Jenny.

Her first instinct was to hide. Ducking behind a pillar, Assumpta tried to make herself as small and as inconspicuous as possible – not an easy feat, judging by the sea of big and bulky bags that spilled at her feet.

The publican took a laboured breath. What was Peter doing with her? That northern harlot. After everything she'd put him through?

An accidental meeting, the reasonable side of her brain wagered. Peter must've run into her and now couldn't get away.

For a second, Assumpta considered making her presence known. Marking her man – her territory. Jenny's come-uppance was a long time coming and it gave the publican chills of anticipation to realise that she'd be the one to deliver it.

But then she saw it.

Peter was laughing – actually laughing. The first genuine smile that the publican had witnessed in days and she hadn't been the one to yield it. A feeling of dread overcame her.

What if this thing that she had with Peter wasn't real? What if she was purely a stop-gap – an experience that the Priest would always cherish but never completely remember after it ended.

What if he suspected this also?

As if confirming her misgivings, Peter glanced up and caught Assumpta's eye, before immediately returning it to his companion. To Jenny. To the devastatingly attractive woman whom he was currently sharing jokes and handfuls of fries with.

To know how Assumpta felt at that precise moment, you would have to had experienced such public rejection yourself. Ironically, you would have had to be Jenny.

Feeling foolish, the publican ducked her head out of view before finally deciding to return back to the rental car. She wanted to drive away – she needed to drive away and even though the keys burned a hole in her pocket, something told her to stay.

It was just a few minutes later that Peter caught up with her. If he were at all aware of the torment that ravaged Assumpta's heart, the Priest was careful to skirt around it.

"Sorry," he murmured quietly. "When a man has to eat…"

Assumpta raised her brow with incredulity. That was all he was offering an explanation for? The fast food? The man's audacity knew no bounds.

"Quite alright," she found herself saying. Then, in a lowered voice, "the body wants what it wants."

Peter smirked nervously, ignoring the hidden subtext of her comment, and stared out of the window, content on spending the rest of the journey in silence.

But Assumpta wasn't so easily quietened. Thirty minutes into their journey home, the publican broached the only question that was stitched on her lip.

"So, you saw Jenny? Must've been nice for you."

"Assumpta," her companion returned, his voice full with warning.

"No, it's fine. Really. I mean, you hadn't planned on bumping into her…"

Although there was no inflection in her voice, it had seemed to Peter like a question.

"No, I hadn't," he assured anyway. "Look, Assumpta – "

"Certainly seemed like you had a lot of catching up to do."

At first, Peter ignored her flippancy. But then, "She was a friend of my mother's."

The publican's lips tightened into a line.

"Or at least her parents are. Were."

An uneasy silence befell the vehicle. In a meek voice, Assumpta was the one to break it.

"Will she be at the funeral?"

"Hmmm?"

"I'm asking," continued the Irishwoman, "because I'm not sure whether you'll want me by your side if someone's there to blow our cover."

Peter wore a neutral expression as he considered his response. When one didn't come soon enough, the publican goaded, "She knows who I am, Peter. If you're not ready to come clean –"

"I'm not ready," the Priest interjected unexpectedly. "But not for the reason you think."

"No?"

"It's the wrong time. That's all. My mother's funeral isn't the occasion…"

He allowed his sentence to trail and his companion wasn't about to finish it for him. The disappointment that she felt was so pronounced, Assumpta feared it might engulf her.

"So who will be holding your hand tomorrow, then? Her? Jenny?"

"This isn't a competition, Assumpta" he replied wearily. "This is my mother's funeral."

"Do you even want me there?" Another uneasy silence filled the car. Assumpta pressed, shakily "Do you?"

After a beat, in a barely-there whisper, the curate croaked. "Of course I do. But Assumpta – "

"Don't worry, I'll keep inconspicuous."

"It's not, that. I –"

"I won't go around introducing myself as your girlfriend, if that's what you mean."

"You're not my girlfriend…"

And there it was. With one sentence – one flyaway comment with the emphasis erroneously misplaced, their happiness was broken – and along with it, Assumpta's heart.

Peter tried to backtrack. "I didn't mean – that's not what I…"

But the publican had heard enough. In a slight voice that was as sombre as it was eerily calm, she assured him "It's okay, Peter. Really it is" when it was anything but.

On cue, they arrived at the Lake house. Without another word, both parties exited the rental car carrying bags of solemn garments that Assumpta wasn't sure she'd ever wear.

Peter searched him mind for something to say – some way of swallowing the words already spoken, but there was nothing. "I'll put the kettle on then, shall I?" he tried instead.

Unexpectedly, she replied. "Coffee would be good for me." And so went the rest of the afternoon. Polite conversation exchanged at times of pure necessity.

By the evening, Angela and her husband had descended on the house, which gave Assumpta all the more reason to make her excuses, gather her things from Peter's bedroom and retreat to the box room next door.

"Moved in now, has she?" observed Angela, after the publican had gone to bed.

Peter didn't dignify his sister's comment with a response. All he had to do was to get through tomorrow. Bury his mother and with her all of his grief. All he needed was to get through tomorrow and he'd be able to turn his attention to Assumpta. Freely and unaffectedly.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Although she had fully intended to stay away from the funeral proceedings at 10.45am Assumpta Fitzgerald found herself standing graveside of the Clifford matriarch.

Perhaps graveside was a little too generous an approximation. She could certainly make out the ceremony from her vista at the very top of St Agnes' rolling hill but the words spoken by the minister proved more elusive.

Not that it mattered. Not that anything did, really. For all intents and purposes, Assumpta's relationship with the younger Clifford son was all but over. Although it was tempting, the publican refused to be so tacky as to leave right before Peter buried his mother. She would leave immediately afterwards instead.

The rental car was packed with the few possessions she'd arrived here with. Her plane ticket and passport were weighing heavily in her pocket.

Assumpta had shared a few perfunctory words with Peter this morning but no more than that. She certainly hadn't informed him of her plans.

And now she was here. And he was there. And never the twain shall meet.

"First funeral, is it?"

A deep northern drawl snapped Assumpta from her thoughts. She turned suddenly to find a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed clumsily in a cheap-looking suit had joined her on the graveyard mound. His hands were joined at the wrists conspicuously in front of him. His hair was hastily combed.

"No, not the first," she answered quietly, trying to rid her memory of the many funerals she'd attended before this.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that." The man exhaled deflated through his teeth. "Pretty rubbish offering, all things considered."

"Sorry?"

He gestured to the decidedly sparse gathering below. "If this is all they laid on for the funeral, I'll not be sticking around for the wake."

Assumpta tried to repress a smile. "What were you expecting?"

"I don't know," he smiled brazenly. "Some gospel singers. A few fireworks…"

"Well, by all accounts the deceased was a sober woman."

"You don't know the half of it," he relented, cryptically. "Not a friend of the departed then?"

Assumpta shook her head carefully.

"Just passing through?"

"I'm a friend of her son."

At this, the man's ears pricked. "Oh really?" he chimed. "Well, you must mean Pete because I'd certainly remember you."

"You're Peter's brother?"

"You sound surprised."

"I am… I mean, he never mentioned…"

If the man was at all hurt by her revelation, he didn't show it. "I'm Mark."

"Assumpta."

"Excuse me?"

"Ass-umpta." She pronounced slowly.

"Not from around here, are you?"

The publican smiled. "How'd you figure?"

"So, Ass-umpta" Mark enunciated labouredly. "If you're such a friend of my wee brother's, why are you up in the cheap seats with me?"

Assumpta frowned thoughtfully and returned, "Could ask you the same question."

By way of response, Mark jangled the metal chain binding his wrists. "Could say I'm the black sheep of the family."

"Oh." Assumpta flushed bashfully. "Oh…"

"S'alright." Mark gestured languidly to the plain clothed policemen behind them. "I've got my detail with me. No need to run for the hills."

"I wasn't… I mean," she took a calming breath. "Sorry, I just wasn't expecting that."

"I wasn't expecting Priestly Peter to be courting such attractive company, so we're both out on a limb here."

"He's not courting… I'm here as a friend."

"Sure you are."

"I am," she pronounced defiantly, signalling an end to their uncomfortable conversation.

Neither spoke for a moment. From the corner of her eye, Assumpta ventured a sneaky glance at Peter's brother. He was shorter than his brother that much was certain. Older too, but perhaps less than he appeared. Very good looking but the publican wagered that he knew it.

As if on cue, Mark caught her gaze and offered, "If you're looking to defect, I'm available you know." Taking her silence at face value, he continued quietly. "More so than my brother, that's for sure."

Irritated by his assertion, the Irishwoman heard herself snap "You don't know anything."

"So I've been told," Mark consented. "But I know heartbreak when I see it. I know a hopeless situation…"

"It's not hopeless!" she returned a little too quickly. "At least, it wasn't always… Look, I shouldn't be talking about this with you."

"Because you've a great number of people you could tell."

"It's not that, it's…" Assumpta struggled for the words. "It doesn't matter now, anyway."

"No?"

In a quiet voice she added plainly. "I doubt that it ever did."

"Pfft, get over yourself will you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Looked in a mirror have you recently?"

Assumpta didn't dignify his comment with a response and inwardly chided herself for feeling elation at being paid a compliment of sorts.

"Pretty girls like you – even Catholic Priests aren't immune to your charms." Mark continued unperturbed. "Least of all my brother who has always had a thing for the brunettes."

At this, the publican couldn't help but smile, encouraging the elder Clifford to add with a wink, "Had Nolan sister posters all over his wall as a teenager – honest truth!"

Although she didn't offer an immediate response, Assumpta felt herself calm. Despite his lewd, abrasive manner and the cuffs that adorned his wrists, this man was easy company to keep. And, despite having never heard Peter mention his name, Mark seemed to know a lot about his younger sibling.

"You really think that this is hopeless?" she enquired eventually, trying to disguise the desperation in her tone.

Mark considered her question carefully. "Well, if you're asking how devout my brother is, I think you already know the answer to that question."

"Very" she concurred in a quiet voice.

"But" Mark offered, "If you're asking how important love is to him, I'd tell you the very same answer."

Assumpta shook her head dejectedly. "What does Peter know about love?"

"Ay, not romantic love maybe. But he loved our mother. Adored her. Picked his vocation out of the clear blue sky just to impress her, I'd wager."

When he was offered no response, Mark continued. "And you want to know the kicker? Mum didn't care. Well, she cared about Peter sure – and about what he did. But she didn't want him to be a Priest if it made him so unhappy."

"How did she know that he was unhappy?" Assumpta asked quickly before hitting upon the real question that plagued her. "How do you? Did Peter tell you that?"

Mark considered her question with a smile before gesturing sagely to the congregation down below. "Them down there – the nearest and dearest" he jibed playfully. "Even my own brother and sister. They thought she was done with me. Thought my own mother had washed her hands of me as soon as I went down."

"She hadn't?"

"Mother's don't do that. It's impossible. Can't be done." The elder Clifford paused momentarily before delivering his next revelation. "Mum visited me every single week. Every Thursday. Until she fell ill. Who do you think sent the Ambulance when she didn't show last month? Neighbours? Friends?"

"It was you?"

"Peter and Angela had all the freedom in the world but neither of them ever bothered to see her. It was me, locked up nearly 40 miles away, who knew something had happened. I knew that wild dogs wouldn't have kept mum from keeping our visitation so I called Emergency Services. Sent them straight over. If I hadn't, well… s'pose it doesn't matter now."

A flash of bitterness crossed Mark's face as he studied the flower-laden casket as it was being lowered into the ground. "I never saw her again after that."

Assumpta was at a loss with what to say next. So much of this man reminded her of Peter that she had to fight the overwhelming urge to go to wrap a conciliatory arm around him.

"I'm sorry" she offered weakly instead.

"Not your fault. Not anyone's really. I should be grateful for the time we did have. And the letters. Ah, yes the letters…"

"Letters?"

The colour returned to Mark's face. "I may not have been allowed to see Mum when she was in the hospital but nothing could stop me from writing to her. And from her writing back…"

"What did she say?" the publican bit her lower lip as soon as the words left her mouth. "I'm sorry, none of my business…."

Mark answered unperturbed. "She knew she was dying. Told me that she'd leave me the house for when I get out. Sure Angie will have something to say about that!"

Assumpta smiled briefly as her companion continued.

"She told me to look out for Peter. Said she was worried that he wasn't happy with his current lot. Told me that I should try and find him a wife. Get one myself while I was at it."

"She really said that? She wanted Peter to leave the priesthood?"

"Mum always said that this Chruch phase was transitory. We used to place bets on it. I said he'd hold on until the new millennium, but Mum. She always knew."

Assumpta considered the weight of what she was hearing. Peter's one worry – the one thing that was holding him back from committing to her – his Mother's pride in his vocation… and it never really existed? If Peter knew this, would it change everything? Would it change anything?

"I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"You can't say that Mum's approval really mattered to him?" Mark joked, knowingly.

Before she could stop herself, Assumpta replied. "It's the only reason he's still a Priest!"

Below, the publican was half aware that there was a break in the proceedings. Mourners, like shapeless black dots began to dissipate into the distance, leaving behind patches of dry green grass in their wake.

"My cue to leave." Mark announced heavily, signalling to his suited escort.

"Wait, you're not going to speak to Peter? Tell him what you told me?"

"You really think it'd change things?"

There it was. The question she'd dare not ask herself. Would Mark's revelation about his mother's opinion of Peter really make a difference in the grand scheme of things? If Peter loved Assumpta as much as he claimed to – as much as she needed him to – should a dead woman's blessing really be the thing that divided them?

No.

No it would not.

"It was good to meet you Mark." Assumpta nodded her head meekly to keep her heart from breaking.

"Maybe I'll see you again. At some family thing – if I'm invited," he joked, half-seriously.

"Oh, I think I'm the one who won't be invited." Assumpta forced a smile that came out as a grimace and turned on her heel.

As Mark watched the woman leave he lingered a moment on the grassy knoll. Peter, he noticed, was heading in the opposite direction, making his way to the ostentatious limousine hired, no doubt, by their sister.

This was his moment, he figured. His moment to do the right thing. Those instances had been few and far between in Mark Clifford's lifetime and when they did arrive, he seldom acted selflessly.

But today was different. He was different.

Peter was about to climb into the car when Mark felt his voice and arms simultaneously rise to beckon him.

"Peter."

Yes. Today.

It was as good a day as any to turn your life around.

A/N Again, so many apologies for the slow updates. I think i've just one more chapter left in me... perhaps forever! Although I do have a story based around "For one night only" that is itching to come out. I'll give you guys a break from me for the moment though I think.

Thanks so much for your amazing comments about this story. I'm so glad it's been so well received. Let me know what you think of the latest installment...