LIVERPOOL

The wee-hours drive from Manchester had been a quiet one; the priest and the gard-turned-TV prank mascot were losing steam, still coming to terms with the absurd weight of the journey ahead. Phoning the doc, they had expected at most an address in Belfast. In fact, he'd surprised them with the news that Assumpta was staying at Fitzgerald's, and that Niamh and Kieran would get in from London the next afternoon.

Peter had been impressed by his old friend's initiative, phoning in a last-minute reservation for a car plus two. Now here they were, boarding their vessel to race the sun...and sure to lose. Badly. They made their way to their recliners, with a view in the opposite direction from the coming dawn.

"Wish we could've made the night crossing," Ambrose muttered, the first words either had spoken aloud in an hour.

Peter yawned. "I'm surprised we made this one."

"Should've got us a cabin."

"Ambrose, would you stop it? You've paid through the nose as it is."

"Well, I could never have faced it alone."

It was a subdued thanks - masculine, no fanfare - but Peter recognised it from arm's length. "I'm glad to be here." He realised he meant it. "At least let me pay for petrol once we're back on land."

"You can't afford it. You're a priest."

"With no house payment. You're an actor."

Ambrose let himself smile at this, and was quiet for a moment.

He picked up as if Peter had been along on the intervening reverie. "Do you think he'll remember me?"

"Kieran? How could he not?" Peter returned, almost automatically.

Ambrose shook his head. "Barely remember my own father."

Peter felt his heart lurch. "You believe he's still alive?"

Ambrose pointed his pale eyes at the black horizon. "I believe he might be. I figure if I come clean, Michael might as well."

Peter thought of a million questions. None seemed appropriate. So he simply sat beside his friend, looking out on the water, waiting for a bit of illumination to break across it.

BALLYKISSANGEL

Siobhan took the kettle off the heat with one hand, and set Aisling's sippy cup in place with the other. The whistling died down just as Brendan let himself in.

"You'll be cooking your own egg if you want one," the vet advised, pouring water over her tea bag.

"I've already eaten. Been up for hours." Brendan tousled their daughter's wild honey curls.

Siobhan's eyes were a bleary blue-green, like a sky threatening a hailstorm. "Something I ought to know?" She sipped her tea.

Brendan turned to the sink to wash his hands. "Oh, nothing much. Saw Assumpta Fitzgerald last night."

Hot breakfast tea rained across the table. Aisling, currently obsessed with the magic of spitting, gave a delighted laugh.

Brendan looked glib. "Would you believe, not so much as a hello? The nerve of that woman!"

"Brendan," Siobhan warned.

"Can't help but wonder who was in the know all these years."

"You never considered the possibility?"

"What was I to think? I saw her! I gave mouth-to-mouth!"

"You felt no breath?"

"I felt my own breath coming back, I thought! Michael said he couldn't revive her!"

Siobhan sighed, dabbing at their daughter's messy chin. "Brendan, you watch too much television."

It was a brutal accusation. Brendan went white, then red. "How dare you!" he hissed.

Siobhan was unruffled. "You really think CPR takes thirty seconds! You think she'd have woken right up!"

Brendan clamped his mouth and widened his eyes, confronted with the horrifying possibility of knowledge he didn't have.

Siobhan went on. "Brendan, if you start it, you keep it up till the cardiac unit arrives. Then you hand the patient over for a few jolts. If you're very lucky, there's a small chance the patient will survive. You don't give a few cursory pumps and puffs and expect a miracle."

Brendan shook his head. "I saw her. She was motionless."

"In the dark of the cellar. She was also lying flat, in an awfully dignified pose for the currents to have thrown her into. Did her hair look like someone's who'd been struck by lightning?"

"You knew all along?"

"I'd an inkling, Brendan. I thought we'd all gotten over it, kicked the habit. But..." she sighed, "Michael bent his elbows. That's how they fake it on Baywatch, so they won't crack a rib."

Brendan made a face. "I wouldn't know. I've never heard of Baywatch."

"Of course not."

"You wouldn't tell me she faked her death-?!"

"Ah!" This rode on a pointed scowl and a nod in their daughter's direction. "Not in front of her."

"What are we, to keep it a secret?"

"To stop handing it down!"

"Oh, same as we all agreed thirty years ago?"

"Till Ossian Egan got sick of the family life."

Brendan pouted at the mention of the name. "At least he could stick to his other commitment."

Their voices had grown quieter, but harsher. Aisling was engrossed, which served to deepen Siobhan's frown.

But it also softened her tone. "It was inevitable, I suppose. Someone was bound to blow the lid off it."

"You'd think it would've been Ambrose, right after."

"Wouldn't be surprised if he's right behind her."

Brendan pounded a fist on the table. "You don't mean to tell me Ambrose did a runner?!"

Siobhan shrugged. "Apple never falls far from the tree."

"Apple fell pretty damned far from the cliff!" Brendan appeared to disgust even himself with this.

Still, Siobhan half-buried her response in the teacup: "None of us witnessed him landing."

"Siobhan!"

Undaunted by the temperamental display, Aisling reached up expectantly toward her father. He lifted her from her chair, hoisting her on his side, calming somewhat at the sight of her. "You reckon we have any reunions on our hands?" he asked her mother.

Siobhan shrugged. "We'll have a lot to answer for if we do. In the meantime, there's no need to get a new generation in on it." She met his eyes and detected the pain in them. "Brendan, I'm sure Assumpta had her reasons."

"Siobhan, I helped raise her. When her parents let her down, I was there. I just thought..." He looked at Aisling; she pointed at her sippy cup, and he delivered it to her. "I only hoped I'd done a better job than that."

Tenderness crept in, uninvited. "You always do a fine job. Doesn't he, Aisling?"

Aisling spit a mouthful of juice in her father's face, and laughed again.

Outside, the clouds were gathering.

Assumpta awoke disoriented, taking a moment to remember she was not in her bed at home. What day was it? Did she have a hair and makeup call?

The bells of St. Joseph's were what finally reminded her. She flicked on the bedside lamp and looked around her.

She tried to imagine what must be taking place up the hill. Peter had prayed as he put on his vestments, and now he would be processing as Kathleen tortured the organ.

I miss you, Assumpta thought, in spite of herself. I miss all of it.

Did he still think of her? She supposed he must, sometimes. But he'd have healed by now; grown stronger. He'd have a little reminder here and there, maybe; babies, wine, Chinese food. But he'd have moved on, and the town with him. Ballykea needed him more than it needed her.

Was her name still above the pub door, hovering over him like a ghost? Maybe the place was "Dooley's" now, or "The Shell of its Former Self." She'd not even thought to look.

She made her way to the shower at the end of the hall, convincing herself once again that staying out of sight was the right thing. It was too late with Brendan, but then maybe he'd be bright enough not to tell anyone else.

Only Peter's best friend. Right. Probably telling him at St. Joseph's right now.

She shook her head. Lathering up a leg for a decidedly precarious shave, she felt a heaviness in her gut. She would have to meet Michael today. He would tell her again it was time to come clean.

If all went as planned, he'd be the only other familiar face she saw.