"You're an idiot, Peter."

As opening words go, these were among the most perplexing to Peter Clifford, least of all because they were delivered by his own brethren – a brother, no less.

"Excuse me?" he whispered by way of a response.

Mark rubbed his chin, unfamiliar with the smoothness he felt underhand. "That Irish woman, the Andrea Corr look-a-like, yours was she?"

Peter's brow wrinkled and then rose in recollection. "You mean Assumpta? I suppose…"

"Wrong!"

"What?"

The elder brother seemed to delight in what he delivered next, although only for a moment. "She's gone," he announced quickly. "I don't think she's coming back."

Peter searched his brother's eyes before immediately scanning the Church grounds. He'd sworn Assumpta was just behind him for the service, and then – somewhere. But now, sure enough, she was nowhere to be seen.

A mild panic rose in his throat, "Where did she go?"

"Darned if I know," Mark replied wearily. "You should keep better tabs on your women in future, Father Clifford."

"That's not fair!"

"Hey, what you do in your time is no business of mine. I'm just looking out for my wee brother."

A guffaw escaped Peter's mouth. Looking out for him… since when? A years-old weariness eclipsed the curate's desire to pick him up on this. There was no use going over old ground now. Not at their mother's funeral. Not today.

"Marky-Mark… well, well, well." Angela Clifford's clipped, efficient intonation seemed to arrive from nowhere. "You look awful."

If Mark were at all bothered by his sister's insult, he didn't show it. "Some of us wear mourning in something other than vintage Chanel."

"Now, now brother – "

"Shut up – both of you!" Peter felt his temper flare. "This isn't the place."

"Me and Angie arguing when Mum's downstairs?" Mark kicked the graveyard soil gingerly. "Seems about right to me."

Angela balked at his distastefulness. "You really have no decorum, do you?"

"I'm serious!" Their brother interjected once more. "You think this is what Mum would have wanted? You two fighting… "

Mark mumbled something under his breath before announcing in a louder voice "You really think you know what she wanted, eh Peter. You knew her that well. Hmm?"

Wounded by his suggestion, Peter continued nonetheless. "I know that she wouldn't have wanted this. You two sparring like a couple of teenagers –"

"Peter!" Mark sighed. "Ang and I have fought every day of our lives. What makes you think Mum would have thought today would be any different?"

Angela smiled sadly. "She'd be wondering why we took today off and not Dad's funeral. Or my wedding."

"Those were epic rows." Mark laughed at the recollection. "Did you ever get the wedding cake out of your dress?"

"No." his sister pronounced malevolently. "You owe me a Vera Wang."

Mark padded his pockets playfully. "It's in my other suit..."

To Peter's relief, the siblings shared a laugh. Peace was restored. Until – "Did you know about this Irish bint Pete was knocking around with then?"

"Know about her?" Angela barked incredulously. "Try seeing her in her altogether in my front room!"

"No!" Mark laughed loudly. "Oh, I'm imagining..."

"Hey!" the younger Clifford warned.

"Don't worry Peter, I met her. She only has eyes for you." Mark relented with a sigh. "Well, had."

"What did you say to her? Is that why she left?"

"Oh, brother. I don't think it mattered what I said to her."

Peter winced at the memory of his last words to her, in the car outside of the Lake house.

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

"You're not my girlfriend…"

He'd done it. Blown it.

"She seemed to think that it bothered you more what other people thought about you both together. She seemed to imagine that you cared more for them than you do for her…" Mark nodded wisely. "Like I said, Peter. You're an idiot."

"I don't care what anyone thinks."

'Except her…"

By the inflection in his voice, Peter knew exactly to whom Mark was referring. Their mother.

"Didn't you care?" he pronounced sadly. "What Mum thought of your decisions..."

Mark sniggered wryly. "Obviously not as much as you and Ms. Tokyo-Stock-Exchange over here or I wouldn't have got myself dressed in these new cufflinks, would I?"

Peter and his sister automatically glanced down at the handcuffs his brother was wearing. No, quite.

Undeterred, Mark continued. "I've lived a hundred lives – most of which I'm not proud – but Mum loved me all the same. She was proud of me all the same. She knew that her children had to plot their own course in life. Make their own decisions. All she wanted was for you to be happy, Peter. Can you honestly say that you're honouring that?"

"I'm happy," his brother reasoned uncertainly.

"You're probably never going to see Assumpta again." Mark told him seriously. "Can you tell me that you're happy now?"

A heavy sinking feeling befell the curate's heart. What had he done? Sacrificed the only thing that had given him any joy in a sea of base and empty gestures? He needed to find her. He needed to get her back.

"Where did she go, Mark?"

The incarnated man smiled benevolently, as if his next pronouncement would be the only advice his younger brother would ever beseech of him. "Where would you go?"

Home. Assumpta had returned home.

The monotony of the day did nothing to improve the mood of Assumpta Fitzgerald. Pint after pint; sandwich after sandwich – no more, no less. The pub was packed with the usual suspects. Brendan, Siobhan and Padraig propping up the bar one end with Michael Ryan, Donal and Liam, sat quietly on the other.

Everyone was accounted for. All present and correct. Everyone except Peter.

Stop it, Assumpta.

It had been days. A week even, the publican quickly realised. She'd be lying if she'd claimed that part of her hadn't wished that Peter had followed her to the airport. Made a grand overture of sorts. Stupid. What was she thinking? That an affair with a Catholic Priest would go any other way but south? And quickly.

No, she'd brought this on herself. She'd let her guard down this time but not again. Never again.

"Bacon sarnie, please Assumpta."

Great. Even Ambrose was here now. It was Tuesday afternoon for goodness sake. Don't these people have jobs to go to?

"It'll be a while," she grumbled wearily. "You'll have to wait." Turning on her heel, the publican sighed and made her way to the kitchen.

"Ireland's inimitable hospitality at work, right there" Brendan joked warmly to a chorus of laughter.

The mirth seemed to follow Assumpta to the back room where she set about slicing the bread for the Garda's sandwich. But as the bar door closed behind her, so did the mood.

Alone. At last.

But Assumpta soon realised that this wasn't the case entirely. A presence lingered on the other side of the back door, outside in the street. From the way the frosted glass obscured her view, her eyes were unable to make out any greater detail bar the significant height and breadth of the figure. It didn't matter, though. Assumpta knew exactly who was there.

Her heart quickened.

Peter…

She was in two minds whether to open the door. What the hell did he want? Hadn't they said all that needed to be said, over and over again?

A soft knock broke her reverie. It seemed that her visitor was as much aware of the publican as she was of he. How that was even possible, with her obscurity from the door, flummoxed Assumpta but she didn't have time to dwell.

The knock grew louder.

Oh, great. Preparing herself for the meeting she'd been both hoping for and dreading, Assumpta straightened her wispy curls and in one tortured movement traversed the room and pulled softly on the handle.

The first thing she saw was Peter. All she could see was Peter. Cold, wet and shivering on her doorstep. Despite his level of disarray – or perhaps because of it – Assumpta couldn't help but fall in love with her Parish's former curate all over again in that split second.

He still resembled that wide-eyed 12-year old man she'd met in the rain all of those years ago, but today there was something more. Something else.

Perhaps it was something in the way his eyes immediately softened when he saw her or maybe it was because she had seen him naked. Or perhaps it was the fact it had been raining and Assumpta had seen too many cheesy rom-coms, as Peter had once accused her of that evening at the Lake house in front of When Harry Met Sally.

Peter ran a hand through his newly shorn hair, allowing beads of moisture to run down the arch of his face, gathering in a pool beneath his earlobe. Mingling with his perspiration, his sweat…

The rain. Yes. Definitely the rain, Assumpta quickly assured herself, shutting all other thoughts away.

"Can I come in?"

His request was simple but she wasn't about to allow it. "I don't think so, Peter. Not now. Not anymore."

Peter flashed a wry smile, as if fully expecting this would never be the easiest conversation of his life, but feeling disappointed all the same.

"We need to talk."

Now it was the publican's turn to purse her lips sadly. "We've talked enough."

"You left," he announced immediately. "Not a word, not even a note."

"I left a message –"

"What, with Mark?" Peter shot her a look of incredulity. "My first actual conversation with my brother in five years and it's a Dear John… from you."

Assumpta looked briefly ashamed. "You knew things weren't going to work." She reasoned.

"How did I know?"

Mimicking his northern accent with surprising proficiency, Assumpta reiterated those heart-breaking words Peter had uttered to her no more than one week ago in a voice no louder than a whisper.

"You're not my girlfriend."

It was now Peter's turn to look ashamed. "I didn't mean… " he stuttered nervously. "I meant that you were more. More than that to me."

"I can never be more."

"But you are. You're everything." Peter's eyes softened as the publican felt her heart do the opposite.

"We're nothing. This – " she gestured wildly "is NOTHING."

She knew that she was being dramatic. She needed to be dramatic. How he had the audacity to come here and demand so much from her… Assumpta could barely keep her thoughts straight through her rage.

"I need you to understand. I need for you to understand."

"I understand," she assured him. "I understand that you need to go. Now."

Peter felt the heavy weight of the object he held close to his heart in his inside jacket pocket. The very same object he'd purchased at the antique's arcade in Kendal when Assumpta was haggling over the price of her fake Clarice Cliff.

How easy would it be to produce this hallowed symbol at this very moment? Show Assumpta that she meant the world to him, even then. Make her understand that the word 'girlfriend' wasn't enough for Peter. In his heart, Assumpta was his wife.

His hand hitched at his coat but went no further. "I love you," he said instead.

If these words meant anything to the publican, her practiced look of nonchalance didn't reveal it.

"Just… don't."

"I love you," he repeated, edging into the kitchen.

"Stop."

"I love you."

"Go home, Peter."

"I love you."

"LEAVE."

Peter drew closer. He needed to tell her. She needed to know. "I. Love. You." He whispered gently. "I love you."

"Fine, if you won't go then I will."

Assumpta stormed into the bar, signalling an end to their conversation but Peter was undeterred. Here goes nothing he thought as he followed in after her.

The pub was full – predictably. Michael rose expectantly upon seeing the former curate and moved to shake his hand but Peter's focus was elsewhere.

"I love you, Assumpta."

The bar silenced immediately. The chatter that had reverberated from these four walls just moments earlier had been replaced by a shocked quiet. You could hear a pin drop.

"I love you." Peter repeated with more certainty than ever before. "And if you think that out here I love you any less, you're wrong."

"Peter, you don't have to – " The crimson of Assumpta's cheeks flushed to the same shade as her cardigan.

"What? You think this is news to everyone here?" As Peter glanced back, his former parishioners suddenly became oh so interested in their respective drinks. "Everyone knew."

"Then why didn't I?" The publican announced suddenly. "If this was so crystal clear to so many people for so long, when was I supposed to know, hmm?"

Peter didn't miss a beat. It was as if the answer was in the front of his mind – on the tip of his tongue – all this time. "The night of the play rehearsal. Ryan's Mother. Even the play itself. I loved you. The night you stayed with me – with our baby – "

At this fresh revelation, the locals' eyes widened. "The abandoned baby" their former Priest clarified. "I knew then what an amazing mother you'd make. How much I wanted to make a child with you. How much I loved you."

"Peter, stop…"

"Our first time… together" Peter immediately flushed bright red at his ill-conceived decision to share this particular nugget of information. "I loved you so much – too much. I couldn't see straight."

Assumpta felt her cheekbones moisten as those carefully constructed walls around her began to crumble.

"You think that I don't love you? I loved you even when I wasn't supposed to. I loved you then and I love you now." Peter smiled once and softly declared, "I'll always be in love with you."

At that moment, every woman's heart in the building melted – the publican's notwithstanding. But Assumpta wasn't about to bow down so readily to sentiment.

As if realising this, Peter approached her warily, extending his hand just half an inch at a time.

"I know that I wasn't the Priest that anybody wanted – least of all you." He began earnestly. "But I wonder if one day I could be the man that you wanted."

By now his hand had found hers, his fingers lacing between the publican's as his voice began to falter. "At least half as much as the man wants you."

At this, the walls finally came tumbling down.

Assumpta closed the gap between them and to her surprise and Peter's, brought him into a soft and urgent embrace. The only individuals who weren't at all surprised were the parishioners, who could only stare, open-mouthed and in want of something to do, clap politely at this new development.

"And you say that nothing ever happens in Ballyk," Siobhan whispered into Brendan's ear.

"Kathleen's going to be sorry that she missed this!" another parishioner announced happily into her co-conspirator's ear.

Once again, Peter considered reaching for the ring that was burning a hole in his pocket.

Was this the right occasion?

No. He decided. No. He was still technically a Priest and the onlookers around them were still technically his former parishioners. There was a long road ahead for them and plenty of time for grander gestures.

For now, Peter was happy enough to have Assumpta in his arms and their future in a box, safely stowed until he was free to give it to her. And she was free to accept.

Amid the steadily raising noise of chatter and confused jubilation, Assumpta whispered happily into Peter's ear. "What now?"

Peter searched lovingly into her eyes and suggested, honestly "I was thinking of taking a holiday…"

The publican laughed out loud at his request. "You're not getting me again with that one, Peter." She wrapped her arms around his waist securely. "You're exactly where I want you now."

Peter allowed himself to become lost in her gaze, in her touch and in that moment agreed wholeheartedly. He was home – finally home. And he never had to leave.

A/N Bit of a cheesy ending there, but hey, they deserved it! Let's just say it's my homage to those cheesy rom-coms we all like. Did it work well, do you think?

Thanks again to the many ardent followers of this story. You comments have spurred me to finish this, even when the prospect seemed nigh-on impossible. You're all wonderful.