Charming the Vicar

by Jenny Frame

  “Mason’s cottage is rented at last,” Mr. Butterstone said excitedly.

  “Who was it?” Mrs. Peters said. “Did they give a name?”

  Mr. Butterstone shook his head. “No, don’t even know if it was a bloke or woman I was talking to. They weren’t very chatty.”

  “I’m sure they will soon warm up,” Bridge said. “I’ll call in on them later and give a welcome to the village.”

  Bridge was always happy to be welcoming to anyone, but someone with good taste in leather and motorbikes was even more welcome.

  * * *

  “That’s everything, mate.”

  Finn put down a box marked delicate on the coffee table of her new cottage and walked over to see the movers out the cottage door.

  “Thanks Bob. I—”

  She was cut off midsentence by her mobile, which had been ringing incessantly since she arrived.

  “Looks like someone is desperate to get hold of you,” Bob said.

  As if her management, PR company, and show entourage calling wasn’t bad enough, somehow the press had gotten hold of her number and had been calling constantly since this morning, and it was driving her mad.

  Finn had kept her destination secret, even from her management company, so determined was she to have her privacy.

  She looked at Bob and realized he and his crew knew exactly where she was and when she arrived. They’d known who she was as soon as they’d arrived at her London apartment this morning to start the job. Her look was distinctive and unmistakable. Since Finn and her show—and her two-tone hair—were plastered all over billboards and buses in London, it didn’t take her movers long to suss her out. If she wanted to keep her anonymity, she would have to buy their silence.

  She took out her wallet and pulled out a wad of notes. Unlike most people who normally carried cards and a few coins, Finn always carried paper money in her wallet. It was a quirk that had developed as she’d started to earn good money. She knew what it was like to be poor. When she had to take the sole responsibility for herself and her sister at age seventeen, sometimes all the money they would have left to feed themselves for the whole week would be five or ten pounds. The pressure and anxiety of trying to make that last would never leave Finn. So when she started to make money, it made her feel safe to know her wallet was full.

  Bob eyed her wallet greedily. She took out some notes and started to count them.

  “Listen, Bob, I’m down here for an indefinite break, and I don’t want anyone to find me.”

  She let him see the notes at the back of her wad of money were hundreds.

  “Would you and your guys like to help me with that?”

  Bob nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, no problem. We can do that.”

  Finn took out a hundred pound note for every one of the movers, and a little extra for Bob, and held it out to him.

  “You have no idea where I moved to, do you?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest, mate.”

  She handed the cash to him and he just about snatched it from her hand.

  The door shut and Finn was finally alone. She walked over to the box on the coffee table and opened it up. On top of the box was a large framed photo of Finn and Carrie, taken on the first night of her first arena tour three years ago.

  Finn sat down on the couch and let her fingers caress the glass, hoping to connect with her. She felt the tears start to well up in her eyes, as they had done so many times before. She hurt unbelievably and didn’t feel like the pain would ever end. That’s why she’d come here, to this little village no one had ever heard of, to hide from the world and work out where she went from here.

  In the space of a few months, her whole life had been broken, and she didn’t have the first idea of what to do to make things better, or if she should even try.

  This was my fault.

  Finn put the picture on the table and scrubbed her face in frustration. She was so tired of these emotions, so tired of feeling empty.

  Her head snapped up when she heard the screech of the garden gate, and then the unmistakable sound of high heels on the path.

  Great, a bloody local. Just what she needed.

  Finn’s heart sank when the person knocked on the door. The last thing she wanted was a nosy welcoming committee. She ignored the knock, and luckily the living room curtains were shut, so the visitor would have no idea she was in.

  The insistent knocker at the door then began to speak. “Hello? Hello? Is there anyone in there?”

  “Clearly not. Bugger off,” Finn said in a whisper.

  But they didn’t give up. “My name’s Bridget and I’m the vicar here.”

  “Perfect, fucking perfect. A bloody vicar.” Finn started to pace.

  “I know you’re in there.” The vicar certainly wasn’t giving up easily. “I saw the movers just leave.”

  “Fuck me, why can’t people just leave me alone?” Finn said with anger.

  In the end, Finn thought it would be easier to open the door and get rid of the no doubt frumpy, old, do-gooding vicar directly. She pulled open the door and said, “What is it? I’ve no time—”

  Her words died in her throat when she saw who was standing there. Instead of a frumpy grey-haired crone, there was a stunningly good-looking woman in a tight miniskirt, heels, and a biker jacket.

  The woman gave her an open smile, and Finn’s eyes dropped to her legs, in that skirt, in those heels. She had always been a leg woman.

  “Good afternoon. My name’s Bridget, and I’m vicar here. I just thought I’d pop over to welcome you to the village, check if you were settling in okay, and…”

  Finn never heard the rest of the sentence. Her eyes travelled up the vicar’s body and soon were captivated by her lips, and the deep, dark lipstick she wore.

  She quickly pulled herself together in time to hear Bridget say, “Is there?”

  Finn was lost in the conversation, and her annoyance had returned. “What?”

  “I wondered, is there anything you need?”

  “I don’t need anything from anyone, and I certainly don’t need ministering to,” Finn replied sharply.

  Bridget’s brow furrowed as if she was assessing Finn and how to handle her. “Well, if that’s the case, I’m delighted.” Bridget reached into the pocket of her biker jacket and pulled out a church leaflet. She held it up for Finn to take. Finn did, and as her fingers touched Bridget’s highly polished manicured nails, a jolt of static electricity made them both jump.

  Bridget chuckled and said, “As a woman of God, I’d say that was a sign. We’d be happy to see you in church on Sunday, if you would like to join us.”

  Finn looked down at the leaflet and saw it contained all the times and information for church services. “I’m gay and an atheist. You wouldn’t want me.”

  Instead of provoking surprise or anger, which was Finn’s intention, Bridget gave her a wink and a quick reply. “So am I—gay, that is—and we can work on the atheist bit.”

  She’s gay? Axedale had a gay female vicar in heels and a biker jacket? Had she walked into the twilight zone?

  Finn was lost for words. Being well schooled in human response, cold reading, and suggestion usually allowed her to steer most conversations wherever she wanted them to go, but in this moment, with this strange woman in front of her, her mind was blank.

  Feeling a little bit panicked, she tore up the leaflet, threw it at the vicar’s feet, and slammed the door.

  * * *

  Bridge felt a lingering annoyance all day. She couldn’t remember anyone being as openly rude to her as their village newcomer had been today.

  “Bloody obnoxious fool,” Bridge said under her breath as she walked into the village pub, The Witch’s Tavern.

  She was greeted warmly by the villagers as she entered, and she soon spotted Quade at one of the tables by the open fire in the corner.

  Quade waved her over. “Evening, Vicar. I got your usual.”

  Bridge sat and just about downed her usua
l drink of Campari and soda. Quade looked surprised. “Bad afternoon, Vicar?”

  “I paid our new resident a call.” Bridget swirled what was left of her drink around her glass.

  “And? Man, woman, or beast?” Quade joked.

  “Woman—and a beast, by my reckoning.”

  “Uh-oh. It takes a lot to rile you up, Bridge. What happened?”

  Bridge sighed and placed her glass down on the table. “I took over the church leaflet and my best smile, and she slammed the door in my face.”

  Quade raised an eyebrow. “She must be brave to slam a door in a vicar’s face.”

  “It seemed to be the vicar part that was most egregious to her. The worst thing was she’s one of us.”

  “One of us?” Quade asked.

  “As gay as the day is long.” Bridget sipped her drink. “But with the worst attitude, and very rude.”

  Quade leaned closer and smiled. “Sounds intriguing. Another lesbian in the village. Your type?”

  Bridge snorted. “Hardly.”

  “Mine?” Quade said hopefully.

  Bridge shook her head. “I doubt it. She’s boyishly butch with the strangest haircut.”

  “Looks like our impending marriage is safe then,” Quade joked.

  “Exactly. I was sure I knew her face from somewhere though.” Bridge stood. “I’ll get some more drinks.” The newspaper Mr. Finch was looking at behind the bar caught Bridge’s eye. Now she was seeing the newcomer everywhere.

  “Bridge? What’s wrong?”

  She went over to the bar and asked to see the tabloid, confirming her suspicion. It’s her.

  Bridge turned and showed Quade the picture, gesturing. “This is her. The famous magician who’s gone AWOL.”

  “Finnian Kane?” Quade said.

  The low chatter in the pub stopped suddenly. Obviously, they all knew the celebrity better than she did.

  Bridge nodded. “That’s her.”

  Suddenly Bridge felt a sense of guilt welling up inside. From what she had picked up from the news media, Finnian Kane had gone to ground after her younger sister died of an aggressive cancer.

  She was grieving.

  Chapter Three

  The next day, Bridge was walking back from visiting one of her parishioners when she noticed a motorcycle parked outside the post office. There was only one person in the village who owned a motorcycle, and that was the enigmatic Finnian Kane. Bridge stopped for a second and admired the bike from afar. You do have very good taste, Ms. Kane.

  Although she had never ridden herself, Bridge always had a liking for motorcycles—the leather and everything that went with it—which, she believed, would account for the ripple of excitement running through her body at the moment.

  The one thing that didn’t seem to fit the Harley was the artist’s easel strapped to the back of the bike. She would never have guessed Finnian Kane to be the arty type. Bridge resumed her walk and saw Kane exit the post office with a gaggle of schoolchildren behind her. At the head of the bunch was Riley’s best friend Sophie, saying, “Please show us a trick, Finn! Please, please?”

  Bridge smiled at the exuberance. It was a big thing for a small village like this to have a celebrity living here, no less a famous magician.

  Her smile soon wavered when she heard Finn snap, “No, I don’t practice magic any more, okay?”

  Bridge was only a few feet away now, and Finnian looked up and met her eyes. There was so much pain, anger, and confusion in those eyes that her heart ached.

  “Good morning,” Bridge said.

  Finnian held her gaze for a few more moments, and said, “Is it?” She pulled on her helmet and mounted her bike. The children looked entirely crestfallen, but just then Finnian flipped up her visor and rummaged in her pocket and handed some money to Sophie. “Buy some sweets for you and your friends.”

  With that she drove off and the children hurried back into the post office.

  So, you’re not as bad as you want to make out. Bridge walked into the post office and up to Mrs. Peters at the counter.

  “Good morning, Vicar. You’ll never guess who we had in here.”

  She watched as Mr. Peters tried to serve the excited children at the sweetie counter.

  “Finnian Kane?”

  “Yes, she’s nothing like she is on TV though. Mr. Peters and I always enjoy watching her shows. She’s bright, happy, charismatic, but here she was moody, and a little lost.”

  “A lost sheep,” Bridge said.

  That was exactly what she thought when she’d looked into Finnian’s hurt and emotional eyes.

  “Although,” Mrs. Peters added, “she is as good-looking in real life as she is on the TV.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Bridge thought back to meeting her at the cottage and outside the shop. There was no doubting she was a delightfully good-looking butch, but very different than her friend Quade. Quade was what she would call old-school butch, rugged, handsome, and traditional, whereas Finn was what she would describe as boyish in her looks and charm.

  I wonder how old she is. She looks younger than me.

  Bridge realized she had become lost in her thoughts when Mrs. Peters said, “Wouldn’t you say so, Vicar?”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Peters. Say again?”

  “Ms. Kane is very intense. She walks around as if she is carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.”

  “I think you are right.”

  As rude as Finn had been to her the twice she had met her, Bridge did feel as though she should persist in trying to help her. After all, wasn’t it every vicar’s job to lead the lost sheep back to their flock?

  * * *

  “Fuck! You can’t do anything right.” Finn pulled her headphones from her ears and threw them on the ground beside her easel.

  Finn couldn’t stare at the four walls of her cottage any longer and had to get out. One of the reasons she had rented the cottage was the summer house in the garden. The previous tenant had been a potter and it was fully set up and ready to be a painting studio, but today she needed some space and fresh air in her lungs. She had grabbed her easel and set off on her bike to find the perfect spot.

  She’d stopped when she saw a car park and signs for the beginning of a forest trail, and eventually made her way up to the top of a small hill. It had a bench that looked out over a valley, and a ruined castle in the distance. Perfect for painting.

  Finn had been there since the morning but had been making frustratingly slow progress. Painting was something she had always enjoyed but hadn’t had the chance to do in a long, long time. The last few years of her life had been twenty-four-seven performances and travelling to venues all over the world. She had been so busy, she hadn’t stopped to appreciate what she had, and now her happiness was gone. The colour of life had deserted her, and she couldn’t see how she could live on in this bleak world.

  Finn looked down at her paint-covered hands and saw them tremble. It was no wonder she couldn’t paint the way she wanted—she couldn’t even control herself.

  Finn, I’m scared. What if you were right? What if there’s nothing?

  The voice that haunted her thoughts threatened to bring tears to her eyes. She pulled off her baseball cap and scrubbed her face vigorously. Just then Finn heard the telltale sounds of footsteps on the gravel path leading to the lookout area.

  She had been lucky that all day there had only been a couple of dog walkers passing her spot. Finn quickly smoothed back her hair and replaced her baseball cap, back to front.

  As she had done with the others who had passed by, she kept her eyes low and hoped they would walk on without incident. But instead of a pair of trousered legs and a dog come upon her, she saw a pair of knee-high broad-heeled lady’s biker boots that nearly made her swallow her tongue.

  Finn’s eyes travelled up the boots that had various buckles and zips all the way to the top and ended at the knees of the sexiest pair of legs she had seen.

  “Good evening, Ms. Kane.”

 
; That upper-class voice she would recognize anywhere. The vicar. Her brief arousal was extinguished by the image of the dog collar around Bridget’s neck.

  Finn was lost for words, and Bridget said, “Are you going to reply to me or my boots?”

  She looked up and gave her a hard stare. “It’s Finn, and I don’t intend to talk at all.”

  “Such nonsense,” Bridget said. “Budge up.”

  Before Finn had time to protest, Bridget plonked herself down on the bench beside her, and leaned in to her. “Budge up, unless you want me to sit on your knee.”

  Bridget was in such close proximity that Finn could smell her perfume, and her body reacted in a way it hadn’t in a long time.

  Whatever perfume Bridget wore, it made Finn think of sex, and that was wrong on so many levels. She was grieving, and the woman in question was a bloody vicar. Finn scooted up the bench like a frightened rabbit, something she had never felt like around a woman before.

  Finn tried to feign nonchalance, and leaned back against the seat. “Didn’t think you would be much of a walker, Vicar.”

  “Well that’s good then, because I don’t like to fit people’s expectations.” Bridget gave Finn a smile and a wink. It was always thrilling to surprise people. No one quite believed she was a vicar, anywhere she went or any who she met. “I like to walk here just before dinner and find some peace, sort out my thoughts, and make my sermon plan for Sunday.”

  “Just before dinner? What time is it?” Finn quickly looked at her watch. “Five thirty? I completely lost track of the time.”

  “Have you been up here since this morning?”

  Finn nodded. “Got lost in my painting.”

  Bridge narrowed her eyes. Finn must have missed meals. “Have you not eaten anything all day?”

  Finn scowled like a moody teenager. “Does it matter?”

  She resisted the urge to bite back, and sat back against the bench. Bridget wondered again how old Finn was. She did seem to be much younger than her, but that could be simply the effect of Finn’s boyish looks and appearance, today made even more apparent by her ripped jeans, checked hooded shirt, and baseball cap worn back to front.