Julie | Fanfic | Ballykissangel

Home for the Holidays
by Julie Barrett

"What do you want for Christmas, Orla?"

Orla looked back at Niamh, one hand clutching a pair of pint glasses, and the other holding a damp cloth over a table. "Ah, you don't have to get me anything."

"No, I wasn't fishing for gift ideas. Besides, I've already finished my Christmas shopping - just barely. What I meant was, if you could have anything you wanted, what would it be?" Niamh looked out of the window. "Oh, look. It's snowing." A parade of small flakes danced down to the street.

"It's a bit warm for it to stick yet," Brendan observed. The teacher shrugged and turned his attention to the last drops of stout in his glass.

"Yeah, I know," Niamh responded wistfully, "but perhaps by Christmas..."

Brendan closed his newspaper and stood, placing his large brown hat on his head. "Speaking of which, we've got the school Christmas party this afternoon. I'd better be heading back."

Orla finished wiping the table. "Need any help?"

"They can always do with extra hands with the little ones. Your brother is coming this afternoon, to give them a proper talk on the meaning of the season. As if they'll be paying attention." Brendan gave a wink to Orla shrugged into his coat. "They've only got one thing on their minds today - they can't wait for the holidays to begin."

"The joys of childhood," Orla said. "Sure, I'll drop by after we close up."

"Thanks." Brendan exited, allowing a cold burst of air through the door. Both women shivered.

Orla turned back to her tables. "Best get this finished."

"You never answered my question."

The priest's sister pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat down. "You know, what I'd really like is for Aidan to be happy."

Nimah brought two cups of coffee to the table and handed one to Orla. "Oh, he'll be okay. Most people seem to like him well enough."

"He's wracking his brains over his Christmas Eve homily."

"As is every priest on this planet, I expect."

"Yeah, it's just I wonder sometimes if he's really fitting in here."

"He's a big boy, Orla. Give him a little room to find his way."

"Oh, I suppose you're right."

"Of course, I am. Now, tell me what you'd really like."

Orla briefly considered the question, and then smiled broadly. "Okay, How about a good looking man under the tree?"

Niamh grabbed Orla's towel and playfully swatted the other woman on the back of the shoulders. "You're wicked." With a smile, she took the glasses into the kitchen. After she vanished the bus from Wicklow rumbled across the bridge, disgorging a single passenger. The man looked around the village, eventually settling his gaze upon the door of Fitzgerald's. Orla hoped that there was still some lunch left in case he decided to pop in. On taking a second glance at the man, she hoped he would stop for lunch. After a long moment he turned away and began to walk purposefully up the road. "Hmm. Maybe Father Christmas is going to be good to me after all."

"What's that?" Niamh had just walked back into the bar.

"My Christmas present. I think he just got off of the bus."

Niamh went to the window and looked down the street, Orla behind her craning her own neck for another glance. She tried to make out his features, but he was too far down the road for her to see anything beyond a bulky coat. The figure walked up to Dr. Ryan's surgery. "You didn't ask for a healthy man, did you?"

Orla shrugged her shoulders. "He's probably married anyway. It'd be just my luck."

Siobhan's Land Rover came to a stop in front of the bar. The vet opened a rear door and extracted a large bundle of blankets which she placed into a carrier. Orla opened the front door to let the woman inside. "Not taking any chances with Aisling, are you?"

"Not at all. Can you still do lunch?"

"Of course." Orla took the carrier while Siobhan wriggled out of her coat and scarf. The baby began to stir, and Orla moved the top blanket to look at the child's face. "Ah, she's growing like a weed. What are you feeding her?"

"Mom's best, what else?" She looked at the taps as if trying to make a decision. "Better make it an orange juice for me, Orla."

Niamh emerged with a bowl of hot Guinness stew. "Here, this'll warm you up."

"Thanks." She took her spot at the bar and placed the carrier next to her. "Where's Brendan?"

"Had to get back to the school. It's party day."

"Of course." Siobhan took a spoonful of stew. "Oh, that's delicious, Niamh. Did he say anything about his friend?" The two other women glanced at each other and shook their heads. "I was going to have him out for dinner tonight, but he said that he's got a friend coming in for the weekend. I was just wondering..."

"I'll bet it's one of his friends from Dublin. Maybe he's looking for a nice quiet place to grade term papers."

"Or she," Orla said with a twinkle in her eye.

Siobhan dropped her spoon into her stew. "Come on. You don't think..."

"No I don't. I was just joking." Orla's thoughts turned to the man she'd seen arriving on the bus a few minutes earlier and wondered if he might be Brendan's friend. But he had gone to Michael Ryan's place. "He'd better not be married," she wondered aloud.

"Who?"

"Oh, just some man she saw getting off of the bus. I didn't get a good luck at him, but Orla believes that he's just the man she wants for Christmas." Orla blushed. "You know," Niamh said with a wink, "if he's a friend of Dr. Ryan's, maybe he's a doctor himself. Some of 'em make good money, you know."

"I don't care about money, you know that."

"Orla, I can't see you settling down with a man just yet."

"Who said I wanted to settle down? I'd just like a good long..." The vet and the publican gave Orla a shocked glance. "...snog. What did you think I was going to say? Seriously, if I found the right man I just might settle down."

Siobhan pushed her empty bowl aside. "And the right man would be good looking, kind, sensitive, yet manly."

"Might as well ask for something impossible," Niamh looked across the street at the Gard house. She was one to talk about perfect men. And from the looks on the faces of the other two women, they were thinking the same thing. She busied herself behind the bar.

 

"Looks pretty much like strep throat." Michael Ryan tossed the tongue depressor into the stainless steel trash receptacle and turned to Nora Dinsmore. "You get to start your Christmas holiday a few hours early." The girl began to cry.

"She'd so looked forward to this afternoon's party." The mother put her arm around the crying child's shoulder.

"Perhaps they can send some goodies home to you. Right now, you're contagious. Do you know what that means?" The girl nodded. Dr. Ryan reached into a small refrigerator set underneath his work surface and produced a bottle of red liquid. "This is an antibiotic. You can take this for only five days instead of seven to ten. Give me a minute to mix up some and you can take it with you." He turned to the mother. "Maeve, you'll need to keep it refrigerated. And in 24 hours she'll no longer be contagious. I'm sending the swab I took into Cilldargan, but I probably won't have the results until Monday . If on the off chance it isn't strep or some other bacterial infection, I'll call and you can discontinue the antibiotic." He removed an empty bottle and a chart from a cabinet and began to mix the medication. He heard the front door open and close quietly. Another case, he thought to himself. At this rate, half the kids in BallyK will be sick by Monday. "Here you go, Maeve." He handed the bottle over to the mother and helped the child down from the examining table. "Oh, I forgot." The doctor slapped his head. "There's something else I need you to take." Nora made a sour face as Dr. Ryan reached into his desk drawer. "Take this when you get home," he instructed as he pressed a candy cane into her hand. "After you take the medicine. The candy works better then," he said with a wink.

Nora looked at the treat and smiled. "Thank you, Dr. Ryan."

"You're more than welcome. I'll bet you'll feel a lot better by Monday, just in time for Christmas."

The adults exchanged pleasantries as the mother bundled up her child against the cold. As they exited through the waiting area Maeve noticed a man waiting his turn, his face buried in a magazine. Before she could take another look, she heard the rattle of cellophane. "When we get home, Nora. Remember what Dr. Ryan said." She took the candy and placed it in her purse as she herded her child out the door. The man closed his magazine and placed it on the side table. He entered the dispensary and stood in the door, watching the doctor clean up.

"I'll be with you in a minute," Michael called.

"Do I get a candy cane as well," asked the man.

Dr. Ryan spun around. His jaw dropped, and then his mouth spread into a smile.

The parties were over, the students had all gone home to begin their holidays, and the teachers at the National School were anxious to get home to their families. Orla helped Brendan clear up the mess left behind. "So," she asked. "I hear you've got a friend coming for the holidays."

"Just for a day or two," he replied without looking up from gathering paper plates and cups.

"Bring him up to Fitzgerald's tonight, won't you?"

"If he's up to it. He'll have had a long journey." Orla nodded. Siobhan will be happy that Brendan's visitor is a man. "He wouldn't be the same man I saw get off the Wicklow bus this afternoon, would he?"

"I wouldn't know about that." The response was cryptic, which simply made Orla more determined than ever to find out about the man who had arrived in town earlier in the day.

The classroom door swung open and Aidan entered. "Need any help? We're all finished down in the primary rooms."

"Good of you to stay and help, Father," Brendan said. "I think we're about finished here." He placed the last bit of refuse into a plastic bag, sealed it, and dropped it on the floor.

"I noticed some food left over."

"Help yourself."

"Actually, I thought I'd take a bit over to young Nora. She was so upset about having to leave early."

"She'd like that. Just be careful. There's a case of strep throat going around. You'll be wanting your voice next week."

"Considering how my sermon is going, it might be better if I didn't have a voice at all."

"Come on. A man who has spent the last few years living in contemplation ought to have some very interesting things to say on Christmas day."

"Thanks for that, Brendan, but I don't know if I'll be able to come up with anything relevant."

"I'm sure you'll come up with something," Orla said.

"I certainly hope so."

The door opened again, and a teacher stuck her head inside. "Brendan, there's a phone message for you. You're to go see Dr. Ryan when you have a chance."

The teacher nodded. "Thank you, Jane. And you have a lovely Christmas."

"So," Orla said, teasingly, "maybe your guest is at Dr. Ryan's."

The teacher's eyes narrowed as he looked his inquisitor in the eye. "Orla, maybe he is, maybe he isn't. Dr. Ryan may just want to wish me the best of the season. He keeps some good Irish whiskey, which he doles out very sparingly, and perhaps he's shut his practice down for the day." Orla frowned.

"Orla," Aidan took his sister's arm. "Let's leave Brendan to it, okay?" The pair left the building and walked in the direction of the church.

"Are you coming to Fitzgerald's tonight, brother?"

"I suppose I will."

"Excellent. Which reminds me," she looked at her watch. "I promised Niamh I'd help her cook. She's got quite a spread planned. "

Michael Ryan brought a pot of tea and a large box of biscuits into his sitting room. "Sorry it isn't anything stronger, but I'm still on duty. But if you want anything..." The other man waved off the suggestion. "Brendan told me you were thinking of coming, but he didn't say when."

"I'd asked him to keep it low-key, but I thought he'd at least tell you. It wasn't my intention to leave you in the dark, Michael."

The doctor poured two cups of tea. "Brendan can play it close to the vest when he wants." They heard the door to the surgery open. "That's him, I expect. In here, Brendan," he called. The visitor set his tea cup aside and stood, waiting for the teacher to burst through the door.

"I was afraid you'd back out." Brendan tossed his hat aside and gave the visitor a hug. "It's good to see you, Peter."

Peter Clifford gave the other man a squeeze, but he was no match for Brendan Kearney in the bear hug department. "What did I tell you before I left?"

"Never say never?"

"No, after that."

"A man's gotta do..." Brendan gratefully received a cup of tea from his host. "I'm just happy you finally came back." Peter frowned and sipped at his tea. "I know this has been a bad year for you and all."

"I'm hoping to put a little of that behind me with this visit." He looked each of his friends in the eye. "I'm ready to move on...at least to some extent."

"Glad to hear that." Michael passed around the biscuits. "I know things didn't exactly go swimmingly in Manchester."

Peter stared into his tea for a moment. "That's an understatement." He took a sip and swallowed, staring off into a painting of the seaside hanging on the sitting room wall.

Brendan let out an exasperated sigh. "Now to be fair, Peter..."

Peter settled his cup and saucer on a nearby table and looked each of the other men in the eye in turn. "Fair? For whom?"

The other two men exchanged a glance. "What did the bishop say about it?"

Peter moved forward on his chair and straightened his spine and began to mimic (the others supposed) his superior reading a report: "Father Peter Clifford behaved in an exemplary manner. While the incident is nevertheless regrettable, he did everything in his power to prevent the tragedy, as the police report bears out." He sank back into the chair, staring coldly at his audience. After a moment he shook his head as though to clear out the memories. "I know here," he placed his fingertips over his heart, "that I did the right thing. Here," his hand moved to his head, "I keep thinking that I could have done something differently." A crooked smile briefly crossed his face. "But damned if I know what it would have been."

Michael poured another round of tea. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought that Peter was describing his last few days in Ballykissangel. "I take it you'll be requesting another posting?" Knowing Peter as he did, he fully expected to hear that his friend was once again wrestling with his vocation. His next statement, therefore, came as a bit of a surprise.

"Actually, I have got an offer to stay in Manchester if I want." Once again he leaned forward, taking a biscuit from the box and dipping it in his tea. It was with no small relief that Michael noted the ease with which Peter returned to a more relaxed posture.

"Will you," asked Brendan.

"I'm giving the matter some thought. The diocese would like to establish a new youth outreach, and they have asked me to head up the effort. It would be an opportunity to make a bit of a fresh start."

"Sounds like a good fit, Peter," Brendan stated.

"I'll admit that it does. Yet, I'm not sure if this is what I want."

Brendan and Michael exchanged a glance. "Okay," Brendan responded, "what do you want?"

Peter looked into his teacup. He chewed on his biscuit for a moment, and then washed it down with some of the brown liquid. "I'm not sure."

"Peter," Dr. Ryan took a seat opposite the priest and looked him in the eye. "Are any of us really sure about what we want in life?" Peter Clifford shrugged. "What I mean to say is...well, it's like that song. Sometimes you get what you need." Brendan and Peter both let out a giggle. "The Stones got me through many a long night in med school."

"I'm sure they made for interesting case studies," Brendan retorted.

Michael laughed, and took the cue to change the subject. "So what did you listen to when you were at university?"

"John Lennon. How about you, Peter?"

"Black Sabbath."

Brendan nearly choked on his tea. As it was, Michael Ryan was glad nothing was in his own mouth. "That must have made for interesting nights at the seminary."

Peter held up a finger to make a point. "Ah, but I went to university before I went to the seminary."

"You never were one to follow convention," Michael observed. "That's why I think you'd do so well in a youth ministry."

"Perhaps you're right. It's just that..."

"Perhaps," Brendan interrupted, "you can lay some of those old demons to rest while you're here."

Michael raised his teacup. "To casting out demons." The other men raised their cups in salute.

Orla climbed down from the ladder and surveyed her handiwork. "That's the last of it," she called in the direction of the kitchen.

Niamh stuck her head through the door and admired the decorations. "Looks grand, Orla. Thanks."

"Need any help in there?"

"Oh, all I can get. I want to get as much of this as I can out of the way while Kieran's down for his nap."

Orla folded the ladder and carried it through the kitchen. "Smells good in here. What are you cooking?"

Niamh opened the oven and pulled out a tray of cakes. "Odds and ends. These cakes, some cookies, a couple of pies. And it's time for this to go in." She placed the tray on the work table and picked up a pan containing a large roast. "Hope it's all done in time for the party. Now, let's decorate some of these cookies, and we can put the cakes away after they've cooled."

The women got to work, Niamh whipping up some icing for the cakes and cookies and Orla assisting with the decorating. "So Orla," Niamh finally said, "Did you find out any more about your dream man?"

"I think he is Brendan's guest. I've asked him to bring his friend along tonight."

"Good. There's a lot of food here. I'd hate to see it go to waste."

"Will Ambrose be in?"

Niamh frowned. Things had not been going well between the pair of them as of late, but she had determined to give their marriage another try, for Christmas if for no other reason. "I hope so. He's supposed to be watching Kieran tonight, and I'm hoping he can lend a hand if things get busy. If nothing else, he'll be here to enforce closing time."

"Ever the Gard, eh?"

"Yeah." Niamh set herself back to work. His devotion to duty was one of the things that had endeared him to her. Now it seemed to stand in the way of their relationship.

"Will Brian be here tonight?"

Niamh shook her head. "No, dad's in Dublin, finishing up some deal or other. Only God knows what he's up to."

"Do you know if Sean is coming?"

Niamh's face darkened. He was the last person she wanted to see tonight. No, that wasn't true. She'd make time to see Sean Dillon whenever she could. And if she were totally honest with herself, he was another reason her marriage was going down the tubes. But this was Christmas. And she was determined to make one last shot at repairing her relationship with Ambrose. Besides... "I think he and Emma went back to England for a couple of weeks. He said he had to take care of some business."

"Ah. Then how about Liam and Donal?"

Niamh's smile returned. "Are we serving beer tonight?"

The women shared a laugh. "That's a yes, then?"

Aidan dropped to his hands and knees, searching the sacristy for a reference book he just knew had to be hiding in there somewhere, perhaps in a storage bin. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a shadow pass by the window. Probably someone going to tidy up a loved one's grave, he thought. He made up his mind to go out after a discreet amount of time had passed. In the meantime, he needed that book to verify a point for his sermon.

"Ouch!" His hand hit something sharp and pulled a tack from his hand. It hadn't gone in very deep, and he knew the pain would pass in a moment. "Where were you last week when I dropped you?" He rose and put the tack in its place and saw a figure kneeling over one of the graves. That grave was somewhat recent, as Aidan recalled. Perhaps it would be a good idea to go out and offer some comfort. He threw on his jacket and walked outside.

A fresh red rose lay in front of the marker for Assumpta Fitzgerald. Peter Clifford knelt down, crossed himself, and said a prayer. He was mildly surprised that she had been buried in the churchyard, and wondered what she would have thought about it. Peter let out a long sigh. "Assumpta, I have missed you so much." He closed his eyes and let a tear go down his cheek. In the last few weeks he had rehearsed this moment, figured out exactly what to say and how to say it, and now that he was here, the words seemed so empty that he couldn't bring himself to speak them. "I think you know how I feel, don't you?" Peter picked one of the few pieces of grass that had survived into the winter and held it in his hand. This was the closest he would get to ever holding her, to smelling her hair, to just being with her. The snow began to fall again, this time coming down in large flakes that stuck to the grass and the markers in the cemetery. He heard a pair of shoes crunch on the hard ground and looked up.

"I didn't mean to disturb you. I'm Aidan O'Connell, the curate. Was she a relative?"

Peter looked at the marker, then back at the priest, tears in his eyes. "I was very close to her."

"I don't think I've seen you around town before."

"I left after she...she died." Even after all these months, it still sounded so final. The wind picked up, blowing the snow around the graveyard.

"Why don't you come inside for a bit, ah..." Aidan fumbled, realizing the man had not introduced himself.

"Peter. My name is Peter."

"Come in and get warm, Peter. You must be freezing."

Peter shook his head. "I'm fine, really. I just want a few minutes alone, if that's okay."

"Of course. Come on in when you're finished. I'll be in the Sacristy. There's an electric kettle in there and..."

"I know." Peter winced at his near admission of his past post. It seemed that the curate didn't know who he was, and for now, that suited Peter just fine. He wanted to grieve in peace. And besides, what did this man know about his predecessor? It simply did not seem prudent to let the proverbial cat out of the bag. And he actually had no problem with never revealing his identity to the curate. God, he thought. It's not as though I'm a superhero. No, he was simply a man trying to ease his burden on his own terms. Peter looked at Aidan and forced a small smile. "I mean, I know you want to help and I appreciate it."

Aidan began to leave, and then turned back to face the other man. "I suppose you know that's just a marker, then."

What little there was left of Peter's smile vanished. "Actually, no. I didn't." Peter was seized by the idea that Leo might have taken her away for a burial nearer to him. If so, where was she? Who might know?

"Her friend told me that they scattered part of her ashes in the hillside near the lake, and the rest in the grotto."

"The grotto?" Peter repeated numbly. The thought of the little clearing with the statue of the Blessed Virgin brought back a mixture of feelings.

"That's right. Apparently she felt some sort of connection to both places. You should talk to Niamh Egan, she - of course, I'm sure you know her." Peter nodded. "I'll leave you, then."

Peter stood. He didn't know quite why he spoke the next words to come out of his mouth: "Perhaps I will take you up on that cup of tea." He followed the curate to the door of St. Joseph's and paused. What am I doing? I can't go in there, can I?

Aiden held the door open. "After you, Peter."

"Uh, thank you, but..." He stood at the threshold, part of him wanting to go inside, but part of him afraid to face his past. It's just a church, Peter. He swallowed and took a step. But it's not just any church, is it? "Oh, this is silly."

"What is?"

Peter closed his eyes. I said that out loud, didn't I? "I guess it's silly to stand out in the snow, isn't it?" He took a deep breath and crossed the portal. St. Joe's was just as he had remembered. The smell of oil and incense hung in the air. The Virgin Mary and the Infant of Prague still stood watch over the sanctuary along with the stained glass saints above the altar. Slowly, reverently, he approached the altar and knelt. Peter crossed himself and bowed his head. Once again the tears began to flow. He prayed. For Assumpta. For forgiveness - both from God and his friends.

Peter lost track of the time. It might have been just a few minutes, or it could have been a few hours. Finally, he crossed himself again and rose. Father Aidan sat in a nearby pew, his head bowed in contemplation. He started at the sound of Peter's clothes rustling. "Are you all right, then?"

"Yes, I think I am. Thank you."

"How about that cup of tea?"

"Thanks, but I ought to get back to Brendan's."

Aidan nodded. "So you're his mysterious visitor, then?"

Peter let out a small nervous laugh. "What's he been saying?"

"Nothing. My sister saw you get off of the bus."

"Your sister?" he repeated.

"It's not as though she's a busybody, but..."

"I know; it's a small town," Peter finished.

"That's for sure." Aidan smiled. Whoever this man was, he seemed like a nice sort of fellow. It wasn't his place to ask the other man about his connection to Ballykissangel, but he certainly was curious. "Will you be staying for long? You're more then welcome to come to Mass at any time."

Peter shook his head. "I have to get back to my own...to my job."

"Working on Christmas day, are you?" While Aidan felt for anyone who had to work on such a holy day, he also understood that sometimes it was necessary. The sick just couldn't languish in the hospitals, for instance.

"You work on Christmas, don't you?"

"I'm happy to serve on Christmas day."

"Of course." Peter felt a pang of guilt at covering up his past. "Do you like it here in Ballykissangel?"

Aidan took a bit to consider his answer, and then surprised himself with his response. "It's a lovely community. But I can't help but think that there's something..."

"Something more?" Peter asked.

Aidan shook his head. "Something I ought to know, but..."

Peter looked down at the floor. "Is this 'something' getting in the way of your relationship with your congregation?"

Aidan shrugged and looked his visitor in the eye. "I'm supposed to be comforting you."

Peter took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy, yet he felt a need to tell his story. The new curate couldn't possibly serve his community well if he was unable to connect with his people. Peter felt responsible. "Ah, I haven't been completely forward with you."

"What do you mean?"

"For starters I think perhaps you should plug in the kettle. This is going to be a very long story."

Aidan turned off the kettle and rinsed it and the cups in a small sink which stood in the corner of the sacristy. "I think I understand now," he said. "I've heard bits and pieces about how Assumpta Fitzgerald died, and I understood that she was an important part of this community, yet no one..." he fished for the right words.

"Connected the two of us?" Aidan nodded. "Frankly, that surprises me." He could think of at least one person in town whom he thought wouldn't have hesitated to fill in the empty spaces. Peter admired her restraint in the matter, for it must have been difficult for her to hold back.

Aidan dried his hands and turned to face the other priest. "I'm not going to pretend that I understand, Father, but I'm not going to judge you either." Peter began to speak, and Aidan held up a hand. "It would be hypocritical of me to even pretend to understand. I've only been out of the monastery for a few months, you see." Peter nodded. "My sister says my one failing is that I tend to see the best in people. Perhaps I am a bit naive, but I do believe that God sets out different paths for different people. You and I are on different paths, Father Clifford, but that doesn't mean that either one is wrong."

"I appreciate that."

"Well, I appreciate your filling in the blanks for me. Now, I hope you don't mind my saying this, but it might do you good to get out and mend a few friendships."

"I don't know if some people in this town would want to see me ever again. The last thing I want to do is make waves."

"I understand that, but you at least ought to talk to Niamh. I know she took Assumpta Fitzgerald's death very hard as well. I think the two of you could be of comfort to each other. You know she's running Fitzgerald's now."

"Yes..." Merely hearing her name still caused pangs of grief tinged with guilt.

"Why don't you come down this evening?"

Peter hesitated. "I know that I should, but I'm not sure if I can."

"You can because there's a well of strength on which you can draw." Peter shook his head. Even though he was in church, he did not want to hear a sermon. "I'm talking about your friends."

Laughter and talk filled Fitzgerald's as Niamh and Orla served food and drink. Ambrose walked downstairs carrying Kieran. "I thought he might go to sleep," Niamh said.

"He's not ready yet. I thought perhaps if I brought him downstairs for a bit he might tire out." He pulled a cookie from a tray and handed it to his son, who took a large bite from the confection.

"Oh, sugar will help."

"It's Christmas, Niamh."

"So it is." She put the empty glass she was carrying down on the bar and kissed both of her boys. "Sorry, I'm just run off my feet tonight."

Ambrose surveyed the bar. "The party was a good idea, you know. I haven't seen the place look this festive in a long time."

"It is good, isn't it?"

Siobhan occupied her usual corner of the bar. The vet nervously looked at her mobile phone. "Relax," Niamh admonished. "She'll call if anything's wrong. Fiona's always done well with Kieran."

The front door opened, letting in a burst of cold air. "It's about time Brendan got here," Siobhan said, turning to face the door. A look of disappointment momentarily crossed her face. "Michael. Come join us. It looks like Brendan's spot is free."

"Orange juice," asked Niamh. The doctor nodded. Niamh placed the drink on the bar. "Help yourself to cookies and cakes."

"Looks delicious. Thank you." He turned to the vet. "Brendan's coming."

"Is he bringing his friend?"

"I hope so." The door opened again, and Aidan entered. He'd exchanged his black pants for blue jeans, yet still wore his black shirt and clerical collar. Orla waved and began to pull a drink for her brother, who looked around the bar expectantly.

"Got a hot date tonight," asked Orla with a wink.

"How'd you guess," Aidan shot back. That sort of comment coming from anyone else might embarrass the young priest, but he was used to gentle ribbing from his sister. "No, I thought someone might be here tonight. Perhaps he's coming later."

"Brendan's friend?"

"I believe so."

She tried to be nonchalant, but it wasn't playing with her brother. "Ah, then perhaps I'll get to meet this mysterious stranger."

"Orla, there's something I should tell you..." Before he could finish his sentence Brendan popped his head inside the door and looked around. Then he opened the door to admit his guest. The other man walked in slowly, as if unsure of himself. He dusted the snow off of his black hair and looked around, wide-eyed.

Conversation in the bar ground to a halt as everyone noticed the visitor. Orla surveyed the scene with a mixture of amusement and bemusement. Now that she was able to get a close look at the man, she thought he was even better looking than he had seemed at first glance. Yet, his presence certainly had an odd effect on the crowd.

"Mind if I join you," he asked quietly.

Niamh's hands began to tremble, and she sat her tray of empty glasses down on the bar with a rattle. "Is it really you?" She ran around the bar and gave her visitor a hug. Ambrose let out a sigh of relief. Conversation began to pick up again, but every once in a while someone would cast a sideways glance at the visitor. Niamh led the guest to the bar. "What'll it be? Anything you want."

"A lager's fine. He turned to the end of the bar. "Siobhan, how are you?"

The vet stood up and hugged the man. Orla wondered if he might be someone's brother. "I'm doing grand."

"And Aisling?"

"Beautiful. You'll come see her, won't you?"

"I wouldn't miss it."

Aidan put an arm on Peter's shoulder. "Glad you could come. I'd like you to meet my sister, Orla." Peter stretched his hand across the bar. "Orla, this is Father Peter Clifford."

"Ah." Her smile briefly flickered, but she quickly regained her composure. "Nice to meet you, Father." Oh, well, she told herself. There's still a few days before Christmas.

"I think someone wants to say hello." Ambrose handed Kieran over. Peter held the boy in his arms. "My goodness, you've grown. Still feeding this boy wonton noodles?"

Ambrose smiled. "He'll eat just about anything we put in front of him."

Peter bounced the child in his arms and Kieran giggled with glee. The former curate grinned. "He still laughs at me."

Brendan moved next to Peter and gave him a nudge. "I'm glad you made the journey."

"Thanks for talking me into it." He looked down at Kieran, who had fallen asleep in his arms. "Niamh, looks like someone's ready for bed. Can I put him in his cot?"

"Sure. His room is upstairs, second door." He turned to his wife. "Have you heard that Murty Quinn's leaving? He's found someone to look after his cottage." Orla cocked an ear and listened in to the gossip.

Peter went slowly up the stairs, taking care not to jostle the child. He found the room and lowered Kieran into his cot, then pulled the covers over the sleeping form. For a moment he just stood there, watching the baby sleep.

"Father Clifford." Niamh stood in the doorway. "I've got something for you." She motioned him down the hall to another bedroom. This, he noted, was not where Assumpta had slept, but it appeared to serve as Niamh and Ambrose's room. Niamh rummaged around in a drawer and produced an envelope. "I found these in Assumpta's things, and thought you might like to have them.

Peter opened the envelope and looked inside. "Niamh, I don't know what to say." In the envelope was a dainty silver crucifix of the type a girl might receive on her first Communion and a picture taken at Ambrose and Niamh's wedding. It was a standard wedding shot, showing the happy couple with the maid of honor and the priest. He had never had a photograph of Assumpta, and he was glad to have one of her and him together - albeit separated by another couple. Assumpta smiled self-consciously, which was unusual given her usual self-assuredness.

"She never did like that dress."

"I will treasure these, Niamh. Thank you." He gave her a hug. "Can we talk sometime?"

Niamh looked in the direction of the bar. "I think they've got things under control down there."

Peter gestured to a chair next to the bed and asked Niamh to sit down. He took a spot on the floor. "I just wanted you to know that I regret leaving as I did. I can't expect you to begin to understand what was going on inside of my head. You lost your best friend, and I could only think of myself. Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?"

Niamh rocked back and forth in the chair for a moment. Tears began to form in her eyes. "I was so angry at you." Peter tried to fight his own tears and was unsuccessful. "But I wasn't thinking at the time either. We always expect the priest to be there for us, and that's what really made me angry. I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I had completely forgotten that you'd lost your mother as well as Assumpta. Eventually, I tried to put myself in your place, and realized that priests are human beings as well. We tend to forget that sometimes."

Peter sniffled, and Niamh reached over to the bedside table for a box of tissues, which Peter accepted. "Do you understand that I would have had to leave St. Joseph's anyway?" Niamh shook her head. "Looking back at all this with a somewhat clearer head, I can see that my presence would have caused some division in the community. After all, I'd fallen for one woman, what was to stop me from doing it again?" Niamh took a tissue and blew her nose, but was otherwise silent. "Assumpta Fitzgerald was a very special woman. I don't need to tell you that. I can't imagine anyone else filling that void - for you or for me. But what I did broke the bond of trust that a priest has to have with his congregation, at least in the eyes of some people. It wouldn't have been right for me to stay."

Niamh sat in silence for a moment, wiping her eyes. "Can I ask you a question?

"Anything."

"Why didn't you leave the priesthood?"

"You know, I did think long and hard about it, and I nearly did. To be honest, I still can't tell you if I can stay a priest for the rest of my life. Even if Assumpta and I had never..." He looked away for a moment and swallowed. It was still hard to talk about her. Niamh put a hand on his shoulder in reassurance, and he looked back up at her. "You see, I was beginning to question my vocation. I know that I want to help people, but I've come to realize that while I can do it without the Church hierarchy, although right now I think I can accomplish more if I stay as a priest." Peter paused and looked away from her eyes. "I did almost lose my faith in God as well."

Niamh leaned forward. "To be honest, Father, I've been questioning a lot of things lately myself."

"Like what?"

"My marriage. God."

Peter reached up and took her hand. "Niamh, don't give up on either."

A dusting of snow greeted Ballykissangel the next morning. Not much had stuck to the roads thankfully, but the grass and verges wore a light white mantle. Peter Clifford awoke early, stealing out of Brendan's house on foot. He wasn't ready to leave town just yet, but he needed to take care of something on his own.

Last night's visit to Fitzgerald's had done him good. He hoped it had done Niamh good as well. Still, he felt guilt over not having been there for her. After all, she had also lost someone very close to her heart. They hadn't talked for as long as either of them had liked, but the conversation did end with forgiveness from Niamh and what he fervently hoped was a light at the end of the tunnel for her. They had promised to write to each other in the future.

Finally, he came upon the grotto. Niamh had confirmed that some of Assumpta's ashes had been scattered at this spot. He knelt before the statue of the Blessed Virgin and said yet another prayer for the woman he loved.

This spot had a special meaning to Peter on several levels. First, it was a shrine set up by persons unknown, but obviously out of devotion to the Virgin Mary. It was a place of quiet contemplation. Second, and just as important in Peter's mind, it was where he first realized that Assumpta just might have feelings for him. This was where he first came to mourn her; and where she (partially, at least) found eternal rest. Scattering the cremated remains of a person was against Church teachings, but then when did Assumpta Fitzgerald ever follow that path? Niamh had explained to him that she initially thought she should bury the remains in the churchyard, but after much thought she decided that if God could make the Earth out of nothing, then surely He could raise Assumpta Fitzgerald from scattered ashes. If sailors lost at sea (and presumably devoured by multiple fish) were not considered lost souls, then what was different about scattering someone's ashes? Peter chuckled to himself at what Father MacAnally must have said about the situation. Assumpta Fitzgerald got the last laugh on him, which was undoubtedly her intention.

Peter heard the crunch of footsteps on the hard soil and gravel. Speak of the Devil, he thought, but then said a prayer to ask forgiveness for harboring such a notion. He turned to see just the man of whom he was thinking.

"I thought I'd find you here. No, don't get up on my account."

Peter swallowed and tried to force a smile. "Father MacAnally." He did try to rise to meet his former parish priest, but the cold had set into his joints, which made standing rather difficult. He finally made it to his feet. "I didn't think I was getting old, but I sure feel ancient today."

"The cold will do that to you." He extended his hand, which Peter accepted. "I've been keeping an eye on you." The parish priest motioned in the direction of a bench. Doubtless it was cold, but probably easier on the knees.

"I had a feeling you'd been keeping tabs on me." He waited until the other priest sat, then followed. "I had thought I might give you a call before I left town."

Father Mac raised an eyebrow. "Not staying for long, eh?"

"I was able to manage a short leave."

The elder priest chuckled. "Yes, it is the busy season."

Peter smiled and relaxed a bit. "That it is."

"How is Father Lambert?"

"He's recovering quite nicely, thank you."

"Please tell him that he's in my prayers. His er, predicament spurred me to have an exam. I have a clean bill of health in that quarter."

"I'm glad to hear it. And how's the heart?"

Father Mac tapped on his chest. "Still beating."

Peter smiled. "Glad to hear it."

"So tell me, how are you doing?" Peter let out a long sigh. "Oh, come. It's not that bad, is it?"

"You tell me. You've been following my progress."

Father MacAnally let out a breath, clearly uncomfortable that the tables had been turned upon him. "Well, I know things have been a little rough for you, but from everything I've heard, it sounds as though you behaved in an exemplary fashion."

"High praise."

Frank MacAnally chuckled, remembering the incident in St. Joesph's so many months ago when he sent the younger priest away on retreat. "Every word is true. You really are a good priest." He paused, looking over at the statue of the Blessed Virgin. "You know, I wish I hadn't been so inflexible with you."

"You only did what you thought was right."

"So, are you going to take that youth service position?"

"I haven't completely made up my mind, but I am leaning in that direction."

Father Mac tried to hide his exasperation. "This is a great opportunity for you."

"I know, Father MacAnally. I'm praying about it. And I will go wherever God leads me."

The elder priest patted the younger one on the back. "No one could ask for anything more." He rose slowly, the stiffness in his joints evident. "At least the heater in that car still works. Can I give you a lift back into town?"

"No thank you. I think it'll do my joints some good if I walk." Peter stood and made a face. "At least I think it will."

Father MacAnally extended his hand. "You and I have had our differences, but I know you did the right thing to come back. We all need to heal."

Peter took the proffered hand with both of his. "You know what? I think you're right."

The parish priest smiled. "Take care of yourself, won't you?"

"And you do the same."

Peter watched Father MacAnally amble to his car and drive off down the road. He took one last look at the statue of the Blessed Virgin and decided that it was time he returned to town. He glanced at his watch, remembering that he had promised to visit Siobhan and Aisling before he left town. For once he was glad that he had spent the extra money on a flight instead of opting for the ferry.

As he wandered back into town, he spied Aidan McConnell sweeping blown snow off of his walk. "Good morning, Father."

"'Morning. You look like a different man this morning, if I may say so."

Peter laughed. "I feel better than I have in ages."

"Would you come in for a cup of tea?"

Peter looked at his watch and decided he had just enough time. "Do you mind if I go inside first," he said, indicating the church.

"Door's open."

Peter thanked the other priest and walked into St. Joseph's. He made his way to the altar and genuflected. He looked up at the crucifix and beyond to the saints in the stained glass, flanked by images of Christ and the Blessed Virgin. Finally, he felt at peace.

 

Aidan poured two cups of tea and offered a slice of warm soda bread, which Peter gratefully accepted. He pointed at a stack of papers on the kitchen table. "Your homily for midnight mass?" Aidan nodded. "Do you mind?" On the other priest's okay he picked up the stack of papers and read the first page.

"I thought I'd use the birth of the Christ child as a springboard to the topic of forgiveness."

Peter returned the papers to their spot. "An apt subject."

"We've got a service this evening. Can you come?"

"I'd miss my flight back to Manchester. Besides," he looked the other priest in the eye and took on an American accent, "this town isn't big enough for the two of us." Aidan looked at him quizzically. "It's a joke."

"Ah."

"Seriously, my place is elsewhere. Besides, if I'm not back in Manchester for dinner, my sister will kill me."

Aiden brightened. "Sisters. Where would we be without them?"

"Lost."

Aidan looked around conspiratorially. "Don't tell Orla."

"As long as you don't tell Helen." The men shared a laugh.

Brendan drove Peter up to Dublin - in spite of his protests - and saw him to the gate. "Don't make yourself a stranger." Peter grasped Brendan's hand, and in turn the other pulled him into a hug. "I mean it, Peter."

"Thanks for everything."

Peter Clifford boarded the airplane and squeezed into a seat. The 737 was old and cramped, but it was certainly faster than the ferry. He would be home in time for dinner. Once the seatbelt light flickered off he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the envelope Niamh had given him the night before. He took a lingering look at the picture and squeezed the crucifix. Before long, they were approaching England. Peter closed his eyes and said a brief prayer, and then extracted a chain from underneath his shirt. On the end of the chain was a silver crucifix his mother had given him when he was a teenager. He'd only had it off of his neck a few times, and then just for cleaning or repair. Carefully, he undid the latch and cradled the pendant in his hands. Next he opened Assumpta's necklace and added her crucifix to his. He then replaced the chain around his neck and leaned back in his seat. Before long he would be back in Manchester, his other home. He made up his mind to call the diocese after Boxing Day and inform them of his decision to take the post. But first, he had to endure his brother-in-law's gentle ribbing over Middlesbrough's loss last week. He could handle that. After all, it was the season of forgiveness.

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