by Diane Kelly
“Brendan!”
“Congregations!” Brendan said. “They brag about the size of their congregations.”
“Oh.” I covered my mouth to hide my embarrassed grin. “Right.”
We shared a chuckle. A chuckle overheard by Stella Nagley, who’d just exited the ladies’ room. This time her accusing gaze traveled between me and Brendan.
Brendan was unfazed. “Have a blessed day, Ms. Nagley.”
“You, too . . . Father.” She seemed to have trouble with the word. “And don’t forget to come see me tomorrow at the hospital.”
“How could I forget my favorite parishioner?” He gave her an exaggerated wink.
She forced a smile that looked more like a grimace.
After she’d flitted out the door, I turned back to Brendan. “You know that whole ‘love thy neighbor’ thing? Are there any exceptions to that?”
“No,” he replied. “Trust me. I’ve looked all through the Bible for a way out but couldn’t find one.”
I laughed again. How could he be a man of God but be so down to earth at the same time? Brendan was truly something special.
I glanced back at Seamus, who was hanging with Riley, the two making paper airplanes out of their church bulletins and launching them across the now-empty foyer. “I see you took Seamus shopping for clothes.”
“Had to. Every time I looked at those goofy knee-pants and hat I wanted to laugh.” Brendan removed the long satin sash from around his neck and began to fold it. “Seamus said he’d like to see Tammy again.”
“She told me the same thing last night. She’s working later. Maybe we could all meet at the Thorn and Thistle?”
“It’s a date.”
It wasn’t truly a date, of course. But it would be time with Brendan, time with a good friend. And that was good enough for me.
Had to be. Right?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A PRIEST AND A LEPRECHAUN WALK INTO A BAR
After dinner that evening, I helped Ma with the dishes, then begged off to meet everyone at the pub. I pulled into my usual “Irish Only” parking spot, noting Brendan’s truck parked in the adjacent spot.
As I approached the door, a green flyer in the window caught my eye. It was the same flyer Tammy had given me, the one advertising the upcoming Saint Patrick’s Day festivities, wet T-shirt contest and all. I hoped Brendan hadn’t seen it.
Being a Sunday evening, the crowd in the pub was sparse, the bar relatively quiet. The big-screen TV played the Dallas Mavericks’ basketball game, but the volume was turned low. The score was Mavs 73, Spurs 68. Go Mavs.
“Over here,” Brendan called, waving me over to an empty stool at the bar. He wore a Mavs jersey, one I’d bought him years ago, the player whose name appeared on the back having long since been traded to another team. I’d bought the same jersey for Riley, only Riley had outgrown his years ago. But the two of them had looked cute in their matching jerseys as long as it lasted, almost like a father and son.
I slid into place between Brendan and Seamus. Tammy stood on her stepstool behind the bar, drawing a draft beer, looking cute as ever in a denim mini-skirt, bright yellow high top tennis shoes, and a yellow baby-doll top. “Hey, Erin.”
“Hey, Tam.”
Tammy delivered the beer to a man at a table behind us, then returned to her spot behind the bar, mixing orange juice and vodka in a glass, giving it a quick stir with a straw, and adding an orange garnish. She handed the glass to Seamus. He handed her a Leprechaun gold coin in return.
She held up the coin. “What’s this worth?”
“A little over twenty bucks,” I said.
Brendan turned to me. “How do you know that?”
Oops. I lifted a shoulder. “Just a wild guess.” I opened my eyes wide as if to communicate that I was simply humoring Seamus, playing along again.
Tammy dropped the clover-imprinted coin into her tip jar and Brendan handed Tammy a ten-dollar bill to pay for their drinks.
Seamus raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to getting hammered on screwdrivers.”
“You’re such a tool, Seamus,” Tammy replied.
“Please,” I begged. “No more lame puns or I’ll lose the leftover colcannon I had for dinner.”
Tammy snapped her bar towel at me. “Want to try my latest concoction? It’s something I’ve been working on for Saint Patrick’s Day.”
“Sure. I’m game.”
“Brave girl.” Brendan grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the counter and tossed them into his mouth.
The three of us watched as Tammy poured every green liquor imaginable into a blender. Midori. Crème de Menthe. Green apple liqueur. She added a dash of bright yellow Limoncello and a scoop of ice before whirring the whole shebang together in the blender. The end result was a drink that smelled excessively sweet and emitted a faint fluorescent glow.
“What are you calling this?”
“’Nuclear Waste.’”
Seemed an appropriate name for a day-glow drink that appeared toxic.
I took a sip. “Mmm.” I took another, careful to avoid a brain freeze. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
The four of us chatted as Tammy worked, Seamus making surprisingly rational and coherent conversation today. He told us about working as a shoemaker in Ireland, entertained us with Irish drinking jokes of which he seemed to have an endless supply, and cheered on the Mavericks with the rest of us.
“Hey!” Tammy picked up her clear glass tip jar and eyed a small gray stone resting at the bottom. “Who put a rock in my tip jar?”
Seamus began to whistle, his eyes darting to and fro as he avoided Tammy’s gaze.
She poured out the contents of her jar. “Wait a minute. The Leprechaun coin is gone.”
“We’ve been sitting here the whole time,” I said. “I haven’t seen anyone take anything out of the tip jar.”
“Haven’t seen anyone put anything in it, either,” Brendan added.
“Cheapskates.” This from Seamus, still looking around in wide-eyed innocence, which only served to made him look guilty, of course.
I gave him the evil eye. “Anything you’d like to tell us?”
He threw up his little hands. “Oh, all right. The coin I gave Tammy earlier is my replenishing coin. You give it away and it returns to your pocket, leaving whomever you’d given it to with a stone instead.”
“So you can spend it over and over?” I asked.
Seamus gave me a “duh” look. “Exactly. Hence the name ‘replenishing coin.’”
I ignored his sarcasm and stirred my drink. “I sure could use one of those.”
“’Told ye I’ve got your pot of gold,” Seamus said. “I’ll take you to it anytime you’re ready.”
Brendan and I exchanged glances. I turned back to Seamus. “Right. I’ll get back to you on that.”
“You don’t believe me. Fine. See if I care.” He took a long drink of his beer.
A guy stepped up to the bar next to us and ordered a draft. When he glanced our way, I recognized him as the lecherous jerk from Valentine’s Day, the one who’d tried to seduce me by jerking off a pool cue.
He took one look at Seamus and snorted. “Two midgets in one bar. What are the odds of that?”
What an ass.
Beside me, Brendan straightened in his seat.
Seamus took the man’s words in stride. “I’m not a midget, you ball bag. I’m Snow White’s eighth dwarf. Randy.”
Tammy shook her head. “Seamus, you’re shameless.”
Unsure whether he’d been bested, the guy gave Seamus a puzzled look, took his beer, and returned to his pool game. Brendan’s gaze followed the man’s back. Being so reserved, so controlled, so priestly must be difficult and tiresome. I had to wonder if he was thinking back to his bar-brawling days, wishing for just one more chance to kick some ass. That jerk definitely deserved a thorough ass kicking.
A queasy feeling invaded my stomach as I realized the obnoxious, lecherous blonde
—or other guys just like him—would be in the audience for the wet T-shirt contest. I didn’t want to shake my tits for disgusting jackasses like him. If I had to shake my boobs, I only wanted to do it for nice, upstanding men, ones who went to church, gave to charity, attended Rotary Club meetings. Of course men like that weren’t likely to be in the pub that night.
When it was time for Tammy’s break, the four of us made our way to the back of the pub for a game of darts. Another of the Saint Patrick’s Day flyers was tacked to the wall to the right of the dart board. I hoped Brendan wouldn’t notice it. No such luck. On my first throw, my aim went wild and the errant dart hit the flyer dead center, drawing his attention to it. Damn. Should’ve aimed left.
Brendan stepped over to retrieve my dart, reading the flyer as he wiggled the dart loose from the wood paneling. He turned to Tammy. “The pub’s having a wet T-shirt contest?”
“Not my idea,” she said, raising her palms in innocence. “I only suggested the Irish coffee and the Celtic band.”
Brendan shook his head. “Why in the world would any woman enter this type of contest?”
To save her dog, of course!
Tammy’s eyes flickered to my face. Was it just my imagination or did Seamus eye me, too?
I pointed a dart and narrowed my eyes at Brendan. “Judge not, that you be not judged.”
This time Brendan held up his hands in surrender. “You and the apostle Matthew got me there.”
“Saint Patty’s is my favorite holiday,” Seamus told Tammy. “How about I wear my green suit and perform some of my magic faerie tricks for your customers. The crowd will love it.”
“I’ll have to get the okay from Franco,” Tammy said. “But I’m sure he’ll go for it. That would be a hoot. A real live Leprechaun on Saint Patrick’s Day.”
Except he wasn’t a real live Leprechaun. They didn’t exist. Right?
The rest of the evening was fun, relaxing even, and by the end of the night my feelings toward the little green man who had terrified me all week had done a complete one-eighty. Seamus was witty and uninhibited, entertaining and insightful. A little odd, to be sure, but not creepy any longer. And from the way he and Tammy kept watching each other, it was clear the two were hitting it off. If Tammy wanted a man she could look in the eye, Seamus was it.
Tammy’s shift ended at nine and she begged off. “Guess I’ll be going. There’s an episode of MI-5 on BBC America I want to see.”
“Let’s watch it together,” Seamus suggested. “Clothing optional.” He shot her a wink.
“My couch is vinyl,” Tammy said. “Trust me, you don’t want to sit on that naked. You’ll lose a layer of skin.”
“Well, then,” he replied, “guess me knickers’ll stay on tonight.”
Seamus headed out with Tammy, who promised to drive Seamus to Brendan’s place when the show was over.
Brendan and I were alone now. He fiddled with his napkin for a moment, then looked up at me. “We need to talk, Erin.”
“About what?” I knew what. I just didn’t know what to say or do about what.
“About what Seamus said last night.”
I looked away. “Seamus said a lot of things last night. That I’m a Leprechaun. That my dad’s not really my father. That he’s brought me a pot of gold.” That you and I are in love with each other.
“I’m not talking about fairies and gold, Erin.”
I knew it wasn’t. But I didn’t ask for clarification. My heart and my head were spinning.
He leaned toward me. “I’m talking about what Seamus said about us. About us being in love, Erin.”
I looked around the room again, down at my hands, anywhere but at Brendan. “The guy thinks he’s magical. What does he know?”
“He may be a bit weird, but he’s also very perceptive. Intelligent even.”
I shrugged.
I could sense Brendan’s gaze seeking mine.
“What aren’t you looking at me, Erin?”
Because I can’t. Because if I do my eyes will betray me and you will know just how truly and hopelessly in love with you I am. Then we’ll have to avoid each other and my entire life will fall to pieces.
When I failed to either respond or turn his way, Brendan put his hand on my cheek and gently forced me to face him. The joke was on him. With tears welling up in my eyes he was nothing but a blur. Surely the tears would mask my feelings, too.
His voice was soft but insistent. “Tell me how you feel about me, Erin. I need to know.”
The tears broke free and ran down my cheeks, clearing my vision. I saw Brendan, the pained, questioning look on his face. I shook my head.
“Why not?”
I picked up my glass and removed the napkin from underneath it, using it to dab at my eyes. “Because it doesn’t matter how I feel about you, Brendan.”
“Sure it does.”
“No. It doesn’t. And for that matter it doesn’t matter how you feel about me, either.”
“Why not, Erin?” His tone was hurt, but he kept his voice low. “How can you say that?”
I forced myself to look him in the eye now. “Isn’t it obvious? You’re a Catholic priest, forbidden to marry. Even if we were mad for each other, nothing can happen between us. Ever. It’s pointless to even talk about it.”
Anger flashed in his eyes, but it didn’t seem to be directed at me. “Maybe it’s not so pointless, Erin.”
Not pointless? “What do you mean?”
Brendan didn’t answer, just stared at me for a few moments, the flare of anger in his eyes gradually dimming. When he finally spoke, his shoulders sagged. “When I took my vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, I meant them. With all my heart.” His gaze locked on mine, his eyes full of pain, his expression conflicted. “But now . . .” He looked down and shook his head. “I just don’t know anymore.”
Instinctively, I put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.
He looked up at me, his voice a hoarse whisper. “God help me, Erin, but Seamus was right. I’m in love with you.”
Before I could stop them, the words tumbled out of my mouth, too. “I love you, too, Brendan.”
I’d never felt more absolutely happy—or more completely miserable—in my entire life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 21ST
MY NEW ASSISTANT
Needless to say, I hardly slept Sunday night. Being loved, especially by such a wonderful, caring, and handsome man, should be a beautiful thing. But our love seemed wrong, impure, dirty even. Knowing how Brendan felt about me, knowing he loved me—Dear, God! He loved me!—only made the ache in my heart all the more acute. Before, I had only wondered if I was missing out on something. Now I knew for certain I was. Missing out on a life with the man I loved, the man who loved me back.
But he loved God, too, and he’d taken vows, and Brendan was nothing if not honorable. He’d made a decision when he’d taken those vows. And he was stuck with that decision.
Right?
Not surprisingly, our conversation the night before had ended with no real resolution. There was no solution to this problem. Our love was forbidden. Our love could go no further. It was that simple. Excruciatingly simple. Surely the Geneva Convention prohibited this type of torture.
Coming into the shop this morning, seeing the now-wilted flower arrangement, the one Brendan had brought me on Valentine’s Day, only reactivated the pain. The drooping, dried-out flowers seemed to symbolize my future with Brendan. Hopeless. Destined to fade, die.
I snatched the spent flowers from their vase and crammed the damn things in the trash, giving the can a kick afterward for good measure.
I spent the morning catching up on my bookkeeping. It took me twice as long as usual given that I had a hard time concentrating, my mind constantly replaying the conversation from the night before. Once I’d finished the books, I booted up the computer and spent a half hour on iTunes listening to a variety of songs, trying to pick the perfect music for my we
t T-shirt performance.
I’d worn a pair of spandex dance pants and a bright blue form-fitting V-neck tee that would allow me to move freely. On my feet were the sparkly red stilettos. As I sampled each song I tried out some of the moves I’d come up with at the rec center, trying to get a feel for which moves went best with which type of music. Of course I stuck my head out the door and peeked up and down the sidewalk first to make sure no customers were coming. Didn’t want one of them walking in to find me bent over suggestively, undulating and slapping my own ass. How would I explain that?
I still hadn’t decided on the music when a shiny black Lincoln Town Car pulled into a spot between my shop and the yoga studio next door. The building’s owner, a trim, sixtyish man named Richard Reinhardt, climbed out of the vehicle and walked toward to yoga studio. Odd, really. Mr. Reinhardt rarely stopped by, leaving most management and repair duties to the staff of his property management company. The few times I’d seen him in person since signing my lease he was tacking an eviction notice to the space next door.
After jotting down a list of possible songs, I logged off iTunes, slipped out of the stilettos and into a pair of sneakers, and set to work removing a red wine stain from a pair of suede boots. A rap sounded on the door glass and Mr. Reinhardt stepped inside. I laid the boot on an old towel on the counter, and we exchanged handshakes and greetings.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” I asked.
He gestured toward the space next door. “Just wondering if you’d seen the owner of the yoga studio lately. The only people there right now are a couple of students and an instructor.”
I shook my head. I’d met the owner several weeks ago when the business has first moved in, but I couldn’t recall having seen her since. “Problems?” I asked.
He nodded. “She’s late on the rent. Avoiding my phone calls.”
“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.” Mr. Reinhardt considered me the ideal tenant. I paid my rent on time, demanded little of him, kept my shop tidy. In return, he’d kept my rent low, raising it only once in all the years my shop had occupied the space.
