Surfacing

by loquita

Summary: What was happening between Peter and Assumpta below the surface

Rating: T

Pairings: Peter/Assumpta, Niamh/Ambrose

Part 1: The Epiphany (Assumpta’s story)

I am dreaming. I’m behind the bar like usual and everyone is in the pub laughing, drinking, but suddenly I’m sinking. I sink through the pub’s wood floor and the weight keeps on pushing on me, it is pushing so hard that I can’t breathe. The cold of the cellar floor seeps into my bones as I lie there for a few seconds. Then the force pushes me further, pushing me into the dirt, and further down, and down, and down…

I sit up in bed, gasping for air.

I tell myself aloud, “Relax, Assumpta, it’s only a nightmare.” I take a long, deep breath.

I feel the night air chill my hot, clammy skin as I keep up the mantra in my mind, “It’s just a nightmare, it’s just a nightmare, it’s just a nightmare.” I force myself to think of something, anything else.

I lay back in bed, imagining myself on a tropical beach under a palm tree, sipping a drink with a little umbrella in it. A sexy local named Jose is rubbing tanning oil on my back. “Mmm,” I say, as thanks for the massage.

“Do I make you feel good?” he asks. But his voice doesn’t sound right, it’s distinctly English. I turn, and suddenly it isn’t some Latin adonis, because he has morphed into Father Clifford. Peter is massaging my back and wearing nothing but a clerical collar.

I yelp as I sit up in bed. But this time there is sunlight instead of moonlight coming through my window. I shake my head, making a mental note never to eat tacos that late at night ever, ever again, and I get into the shower.

Later that day, I’m standing in the kitchen moping and Peter is telling me something about the community play but I’m drowsy from the restless night and it’s hard to focus on him. I’m not really listening until Peter tells me he’s taking over lead for the play. The very first thought that comes into my head is it’s a damn shame all those sexy scenes of Padraig’s were taken out.

Then I chastise myself, I’ve got to stop letting my mind wander in that direction. Not only is it wrong because he’s a priest, even if he wasn’t, Peter doesn’t feel that way toward me.

Peter and I argue for a bit. Because when don’t we? I finally give in, which is what I was probably going to do from the start.

I finish it with, “God! Is moral blackmail in season in this town or what?” Just to give him something to think about.

That evening at play practice, I clear the stage and we get to the part in the scene when I’m supposed to kiss him. I mean–my character is supposed to kiss his character.

The first time Peter had his eyes closed and was leaning into me before I stopped the scene. This time, he is looking right at me. I really want this. But I’m afraid and I don’t know what it is exactly that I’m afraid of.

Peter gets distracted and I try to reassure him. But the moment I turn and see Father Mac, I shriek. I’m instantly 12 years old again and doing something wrong and the priest is going to tell my mother. I dash off.

As I walk home, I feel stupid. I’m a grown woman and all those years of guilt the church piled on me somehow still remain. Despite the fact that I believed I’d tossed it out of my life years ago.

Later, after I’ve shown out my final two customers, Brendan and Siobhan, I leave the door open as I start clearing tables. Peter comes in and pulls the pub door shut behind him. He looks around but doesn’t say anything.

I ask with eyebrows raised, “Can I get you something?”

He doesn’t answer. Peter marches to me, takes my face in his hands and kisses me. It is the sort of kiss that leaves little to the imagination as to the meaning behind it. I am shocked, I didn’t know.

I knew Peter cared as a friend but I didn’t know it was like this for him. For us both. Oh, God, what are we going to do now? I don’t have an opportunity to ask Peter this question because the instant he stops kissing me he’s gone.

I’m stunned. Then I’m angry. What kind of a person comes in and kisses someone like that and just leaves without saying a word? I am fuming and stomping around the pub finishing my tasks. What kind of man kisses so artfully, so passionately, but says nothing? Suddenly I remember the answer, a priest.

I go up to bed and lay in the dark wondering if Peter is already confessing his sin, asking for forgiveness, and saying his Hail Mary’s. It was a hell of a kiss, Mary, I’ll tell you that.

I’m grateful that over the next week there’s much to keep me busy and my mind off things I don’t want to be thinking of. Between us all getting a laugh over Niamh and Ambrose at it like rabbits, the latest Liam and Donel scheme entitled “Our Lady of the Mother Load,” and the fact that Brendan is fired from the school, I’ve almost entirely forgotten about the kiss.

Of course when we’re planning our protest of Father Mac I’m a bit harder on Peter than I might otherwise be. It could be revenge a little but I’ve forgotten about the kiss, so obviously it can’t be. I push Peter, and I mean it in more ways than one when I say, “You’re going to have to decide whose side you’re on.”

Padraig tells me I’m being a bit strong. I have my eyes on the pub door that Peter only just left through and retort, “For the clergy, every time.”

I’m pleasantly surprised that Peter shows up at our protest in support of Brendan later. When Father Mac gets angry and orders Peter into his office, I feel a twinge of guilt. But just a twinge.

That night, Enda performs at Fitzgerald’s. It’s the free gig he claims he owes me. I’m not a fool; I can tell Enda’s interested in more than just the gig. His interest in me is less mental and mostly physical. Not that there is something wrong with a little mindless physical interest now and again. But tonight I’m having a hard time keeping my attention on his performance. I’m distracted by too many other things in the room.

Niamh and Ambrose are celebrating their good news and I am happy for them. Though at times, it doesn’t feel fair that everything has always been so easy for them.

My gaze settles on Peter. It feels strange now, knowing. He smiles at me and I look away. The longer time passes and he says nothing, the more I wish I could be like him, so expertly pretending it didn’t happen.

I consider that Peter wanted one perfect moment to never speak of but to hold on to forever. It’s sort of romantic in a way. Except that the one kiss has only ratcheted up my wanting him more than ever. Now it’s not a just passing curiosity of mine, but real feelings that we both share. It’s dangerous.

On some level I suppose going out with Enda is a toss in Peter’s face. I can’t seem to stop looking at Peter as I leave on the date. I’m wondering what’s going on inside Peter’s head seeing me with another man. As I sit at the table at a fancy Italian restaurant in Graystones, the only thing on my mind is Peter and it isn’t really fair to Enda.

Later that night, I lie in bed alone and think of how complicated I’ve managed to make my life without really any effort on my part in the least. I worry for myself and for Peter. I consider saying a prayer. Then I roll my eyes, roll over at the same time, and go to sleep.

A few days later, I hand over the video to Enda that includes his singing, “When a Man Loves a Woman,” and tell him it’s no big deal. In reality, I’m relieved to have an excuse. I never want to admit to Enda, or to anyone, the real reason I’m not in interested in him.

Peter comes to my side and tells me I missed something special. I know he means the mass that morning but I can’t help but watch Enda retreating. “You reckon?” I ask.

Peter follows me inside. He helps set the stools down while telling me all about the folk mass. I listen as I go about preparing the pub for opening. Peter’s in such a happy mood that it’s contagious and I find myself smiling the remainder of the day.

A few weeks later I’m walking Finn after closing and I see Michael’s car parked outside of Peter’s house. The sight panics me. When I discover about the baby, I offer to stay the night and help, and only after the words are out of my mouth do I realize how dangerous a situation this is.

Peter and I debate for a long while about the church, responsibly, teenage hormones, choices, and on and on about our differences in the way we view the world. Somewhere in the middle of it I blurt, “Not like you’ve always acted with moral authority,” in my typical sarcasm.

When we lock eyes, we both know the other realizes what my comment was referring too.

“Assumpta, I-” Peter shakes his head and looks away. “I could say I’m sorry.” After a long pause he says softer, “But I’m not.”

I hold my breath. Are we really going to finally talk about this? I feel the heat of his eyes on me but I don’t want to look at him. If I do look at him in this moment, I know I’ll fall in love. I’ve been terrified of that for so long now that I’m tired of the battle. I want all the struggling over.

The baby cries and we both jump, literally. I’d forgotten all about it.

At dawn I leave a sleeping baby in the arms of a sleeping Peter and sneak back into my pub. I shut the door and lean against it. I feel sinful even though I’ve not done anything that warrants a confession. Not that I’d be bringing my confessions to Peter even if I were still Catholic.

I thank whatever God might be up there when the last of the customers have finally left for the night. I might have very nearly killed all of them tonight. I’m still exhausted from the lack of sleep and the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on. Peggy’s sick and Niamh’s too angry to help me, so I’ve been all alone.

The old song my mother used to listen to after my father left plays snippets in my head. “In my hour of need I truly am indeed, alone again, naturally.”

I put my head in my hands and lean on the bar for a second, I need to relax. I decide to indulge in a glass of wine to help along the process of calming down. That’s when Peter shows up and rolls up his sleeves. Having him here makes the tasks finish faster and not just because the work is divided up. I’m so involved in being near him, talking to him, that I suddenly realize it’s finished.

I pour another glass. I won’t deny there’s part of me wishing to anesthetize myself from the reality of my life.

Peter sits next to me and brings up Niamh’s comment from earlier in the day. The one that was dead on. “You always want what you can’t have.” Niamh’s not my best friend just for the glory. She does know me awfully well.

The baby crying cut short my conversation with Peter, and I wonder if it is a good time to continue. I’m not sure, so I only hint at it, giving him an opening.

I say quietly, “Do you ever want what you can’t have?”

I can tell Peter’s uncomfortable even before he gives me only a one-word answer, “Sure.”

I’m a bit annoyed by it. I already know more than one word so why can’t he just talk about it? What do you think, Peter, I’ll pounce on you and you won’t be capable of fighting me off? I push him, but not with what I want to say, ‘You can’t tell me you didn’t want more that night?’ Instead I ask, “What stopped you?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Just me, I guess.”

Oh, this is ridiculous. You’ve got to be kidding me, Peter. I feel edgy and angry as I allow him an out, both from the conversation and from the pub. “And thanks,” I say dismissively.

The next day when Peter comes around I aim at him like he’s got a bulls-eye painted on his chest. I tell him I never want to see him in my pub again. All of this, despite the fact that I know the kiss was wrong, he likely feels guilty about it, and I should probably forgive him. But I just never imagined this is where we’d end up. Especially because I didn’t start it, he’s the one that kissed me. Well, OK, I kissed back but that is beside the point.

Over the next weeks it seems Peter is taking baby-steps with me. He’s very careful to not provoke something. Instead of him, I deliberately concentrate my attention and time on Niamh. She needs the support of everyone after having just lost her baby. I realize I can be a proper friend to one person in my life so I must not be a total loss.

I also start to consider getting away from Ballyk for a while. I could use a holiday. And I wonder if the complications in my life would be less so if I could think of other things for a change. I have a number of college friends in Dublin I could certainly stay with for a while. I think about it for more than a week, even make a few calls to explore the possibility.

The fact is I miss Peter all the while we keep our distance from one another. Even with the confusion and tension he brings, without him I feel worse like I’m living in a dark cave. When Peter and I mend fences around festival time I’m finally able to breathe fresh air again. Life seems to instantly fall back into a routine I enjoyed before things went off track. And I pledge to myself that attempting to talk to Peter about deeper topics is not worth losing his friendship. In the very least, I have that to hold on to.

It’s spring in Ballyk and the days are warmer. Even if the rain is about the same as always, the atmosphere seems more uplifted. That is, until suspicious men in dark suits show up in town and have us all scrambling about. Rumor is that they’re tax men after someone in town. Of course, only one of us has ever been completely honest, Father Clifford.

Peter comes into the kitchen while the men are just outside. He asks in a whisper if it’s true that I’m leaving. I’ve only just suggested the idea to Niamh two days before and it’s still in an early stage, only a thought twisting around in my mind, not a true plan just yet.

“This place drives you mad. You say something you might as well post it on a wall.”

“Are you?”

I sigh, not knowing what exactly he wants to hear from me.

“Right now I have something rather more important.” I admit about the beer I bought duty-free because I was in a pinch with the bill for fixing the pipes. I can’t run a pub without running water or without beer, it’s not like I could choose between them.

Now I have Mr. Morals looking at me with his disappointed expression. I hate that look because it always makes me feel incredibly guilty. Probably due to the years of Catholic guilt drummed into me.

He asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Whether I sell bootleg beer?”

He gives me the other famous Peter-look, the one reserved for when I’m being sarcastic even though I should know better. Peter says, “You know what I mean, about leaving Ballyk.”

“It’s my business.”

“Assumpta, I care about you.” Peter pleads with helplessness in his voice. “I thought we were…”

Oh, God, please don’t say it aloud, Peter. I don’t want to deal with more complication already. We’ve only just gotten back on speaking terms.

He pauses long enough for me to cut him off. “Yeah, I know, Peter. But um, I haven’t decided anything yet. When I’m ready, you’ll all know what I’m gonna do.”

Later that evening we’re celebrating both the fact that the men from the state are gone and Niamh’s pregnant again. Peter looks across to Ambrose and Niamh. Then he asks me, “Is that what you’re lookin’ for?”

I almost laugh, as I say, “No.”

I have no idea why I answer that way because it’s not particularly true. I think I would like a family one day. I think, but I’m not sure. Of course the way I just said it makes it sound like there’s no way I’d live in that level of Dante’s Inferno for even a second. I push aside the wish to analyze my response until I’m not near Peter. He clouds my thoughts.

We banter like normal until Peter says, “You can find it anywhere,” and there seems to be a look in his eye. It’s as if the words are almost a suggestion. But no, I must be fooling myself, seeing and hearing only what I want to see and hear. He’s a priest and a good one at that. Even I can admit that much so it must be true. Good priests don’t give a girl an opening like that, even if he did kiss that girl once.

‘Damn it,’ I think as I gulp my illegal beer. That statement of his is going to make its way into my dreams tonight and be twisted into all manner of sinful enunciations and meanings… “You can find it…” Shite, I’ve got to stop doing this.

I wake up that night not because of dreams as I had predicted, but because I am in pain. Again. It’s been in the middle of my lower back but once in a while in the front on the left and that’s where it hurts now. I should go see Doctor Ryan, I should, but I’m afraid.

I think about how many people in Ballyk would be stunned to discover that Assumpta Fitzgerald is capable of that emotion. But I am, and I’m almost frozen with it. If I don’t hear the doctor say the words than it can never be the thing the cancer that took my mother in less then three months. There’s-I’m afraid of something irrational but comforting in not hearing, in blocking it all out, and living in denial. I’m very accomplished at living my life in denial.

I curl into a tight ball under the covers and take deep breaths. I imagine all the pain is gone and I’m floating in the sea and the waves are rolling over me.

The following morning Niamh comes to see me and has that look as if she’s fearful I’m going to be angry with her. That’s never a good sign because usually she ends up being right.

I say with warning, “Don’t tell me your father is opening another Bar and Grill.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Niamh has tea, I have coffee, and she tells me her and Ambrose are leaving to visit his family for a while. He feels Niamh’s in need of rest, no stress, and a nice long holiday, to ensure the health of her and the baby. He also wants to show off to his family in person. Ambrose has a great deal to show and tell all his distant relations in the north of Sligo apparently, because the plan is to be gone for a month.

“A month?” I say with as much shock and as little disappointment as I can muster. It means I’m not leaving Ballyk as soon as I had hoped. At least not until Niamh’s returned.

The thought of being forced to stay in Ballyk keeps working at my mind all day and it makes me snap at everyone. I need to get away. Being delayed a month feels like needles sticking me everywhere. The horrible part is that I know I’m taking out my frustration selfishly on everyone else around me, but I can’t seem to stop.

Peter drops in for a late supper and notices my mood. How could he not? But instead of egging it on, like the very mature Padraig and Brendan are currently doing, Peter leads me into the kitchen. There’s always something about being alone with Peter in the kitchen, it is both tender and agonizing at the same time.

“What is it?” Peter asks straight, no preamble at all.

I give him a glare because I’m very much in the mood for a good knock-down row. It’s a glare of daring him to start it.

He sighs, “Assumpta…” but trails off.

I wonder if he’s going to say, “I care about you,” in his carefully worded style again.

Instead we just stare at each other for a moment in silence until abruptly the pain starts in on my left side, sharp and hot. It’s not slow in developing like it had been. This time it is so sudden that it shocks me and because it does, I have no time to hide it from him. I put my hand there and give way to it. Peter grabs me to prevent me from falling and guides me into the chair.

This time when Peter asks, “What is it?” his tone of voice is very different from a moment ago. I’ve really worried him, I can tell by the panic in his expression. And now the realization comes that I can’t live in denial with this any longer. Peter will certainly get the doctor and from now on it’s all going to be dreadfully real.

Dr. Ryan comes into the pub the day after my diagnosis of endometriosis. He is looking a bit uncomfortable, which is highly unusual for Dr. Ryan. He explains that as a doctor, he can talk to my immediate family about my medical condition but is not allowed outside of that to say anything to anyone.

I wonder if this is going to turn into a discussion of me not having any family, immediate or not. But instead it takes a left turn, Dr. Ryan tells me that Father Clifford came by his house late last night and was asking questions about my condition.

“I know you two are friends, Assumpta, but-”

I cut Dr. Ryan off by waving a hand dismissively. “This is Ballyk, we don’t have medical or any other kind of privacy. Father Clifford’s going to hear about it eventually.”

But the doctor doesn’t seem to want my mocking the Ballyk grapevine as a response. I shake my head and say, “It’s fine. He’ll only annoy me with endless questions and I’d rather not deal with it. If you answer Father Clifford’s questions at least he’ll be getting accurate information as opposed to what is likely traveling through the Ballyk Gossip M50.”

Dr. Ryan chuckles and in his doctor-tone adds, “And remember, you’ll need to rest after the operation for a few days, no running the pub.”

“Brendan, Siobhan, Padraig, and Father Clifford have all offered to lend a hand. Siobhan’s putting together a schedule of shifts for everyone. I’d worry about Brendan and Padraig drinking me dry but the intercession of the church should keep them honest.”

Dr. Ryan smiles at this. Then, “And if there’s anything I can do-”

“I know. Thanks.”

When I am released from the hospital, I come home weak and hurting. They’ve all gathered to welcome me. Someone put up a homemade sign and hung some crape paper. I sit at the bar and pretend the party is enjoyable. But the longer I sit, the more the pain takes over. Finally, they all leave except for Peter. He offered earlier to tidy up for me tonight. I stand and make my way into the kitchen but my head begins to buzz and my ears ring.

Peter is next to me instantly, and as my vision clears, I can see the fear on his face. Is this how he’s always going to look at me now? Like I might collapse any moment?

“Assumpta, you almost passed out.” His voice is shaking a little. “You’re white as death.”

I hate that anyone sees any weakness in me, but especially Peter. I don’t want him seeing any part of my weak side because it’s the side that cares for him more than it should. It doesn’t care that he’s a priest, it wants to throw all the rules and vows and right and wrong out the window, and be with him anyway. It is that side of me that wants to give into Peter now and allow him to comfort me.

I snap at him, “Don’t look at me like that.” I hope the anger will make Peter back off and give me room to breath.

“Just let me help,” he says. Peter puts an arm around my waist, taking on some of my weight.

I smack at him, rather feebly. “Will you stop, I’m not an invalid. I can walk.” Even though my legs are wobbly and I’d never make it on my own.

Peter ignores my protests and my pathetic fists and begins guiding me out of the kitchen and toward the stairs.

“You’ve had enough for today, you need to rest,” says Peter. As we reach the landing he looks down at me. “And you don’t have to be Wonder Woman all the time.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I want to.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re being an idiot.” Peter mimics back at me. He’s right, I am being an idiot and childish and irrational. But I have good reasons, not the least of which is the collar he’s wearing right now. At the top of the stairs, what little remaining strength I had leaves me and I start to sink.

Before I realize what he’s doing, Peter has his arm behind my knees and lifts me. I try to protest because I’m still being an idiot of course, but he cuts me off, “Which way?”

This catches me off-guard. I expected Peter to know even though he’s never been to my room. I guess he’s been there so many times in my imagination that I forgot.

“Down the hall on the right.” I lay my head on his shoulder and give in, just for a moment. Peter’s arms carrying me, caring for me, I can smell his shampoo and soap, and I can feel the strength of his muscles.

My mind screams, why give me this and only this much of him? Why can’t I have more? It’s not fair. I have tears in my eyes that I don’t notice until Peter sets me on my bed and notices. “Did I hurt you?”

Oh, what a loaded question. But I know what he means. I say, “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.” Peter responds with a touch of sarcasm and wipes the tears from my cheeks.

As he touches me, we both pause in another one of our moments, naked emotion swimming between us, the worry, the wanting, and the helplessness. It takes my breath from me. Peter leans in, then stops short, and doesn’t move.

I don’t know what to do. I know I’m not thinking, but I’m sure he is. He is thinking through everything. Peter leans closer and kisses me on the cheek where one of my tears fell a moment ago.

My brain is fuzzy, both from him and from the pain. I briefly wonder if this is all real or just a dream, another of my fantasies playing out. Peter puts a hand to my cheek again and stares at me for a moment.

“For once why can’t you just let-” Peter stops and then starts again, carefully, “let someone care for you? Why…” But he trails off. He seems to know I’m not going to answer him.

That was the first night he stayed in the pub, in the room near mine. In the beginning, I thought it would be just that one night. But Peter has essentially moved in. It’s been more than a week since he’s been at his little house with the red door. He’s off to mass or to confession but afterwards, right back in Fitzgerald’s, and usually behind the bar instead of sitting in front of it.

When anyone has asked, which honestly hasn’t happened often enough in my opinion, Peter claims it’s for “work experience.” Which is accompanied by a funny little look directed toward me, he remembers.

But I know the real reason Peter is constantly here is to take care of me. He knows I know. I know that he knows, but neither of us has said anything because we’re apparently playing a game. One we’re very good at by now.

Someone, Brendan I think, told me that Father Mac had some heated words to say to Peter about it. Something like, “You don’t even help out to that extent for parishioners let alone someone who hasn’t attended since she was 16.” But that is of course through the infamous Ballyk grapevine so who really knows what the original wording of it was.

Peter hasn’t said a thing to me about it, if in fact anything was said between him and Father Mac. And if there were words, I somehow doubt Peter would share because I know they weren’t kind to me. I don’t have kind words for Father Mac either so I assume we’re even, in the cosmic sense.

The only little worry I have is how people will treat Peter differently if they feel something inappropriate is happening. Not that it is. Not that I’d mind it if it were happening.

But the nagging reality is Peter always seems to overestimate the good in people and underestimate how much hurt they can cause. I don’t want him being hurt and learning the lesson on account of me.

I suppose I also recognize that if the stories get terrible enough Peter will pull away from me and move out to end the talk. I don’t want him pulling away. I’m a selfish, manipulative woman, I know. But I can’t help taking any little part of him I can steal away. It’s pathetic. It’s love.

In the room next to mine, Peter has extra clothes in the wardrobe, books of his are on the counter in the kitchen, and a few of his favorite CD’s are stacked next to my player behind the bar. He’s always a bit sheepish about it and considerate, asking me if it’s all right.

I’m starting to get annoyed. Not with the stuff, but the way he’s acting. Peter tiptoes around me. He is overly kind, all the time. Asks permission for this or helps with that, and it’s the way I imagine people might treat me if I were dying. It’s driving me mad.

I want to tell Peter that I miss the way he’d stand up to me. There were times when everyone else knew better than to put themselves in my path, except Peter. He’d knowingly walk directly in the way of my temper and give me that look of half-disapproval, half-understanding. God, I miss that look.

At closing, it’s become a routine. I wash up glasses and Peter sweeps, mops, wipes down the bar, and covers the taps. I’m lost in my thoughts so I don’t realize what I’m doing; I lift a crate and drop it on a whimper. Too much, too soon I scold myself as my side cramps.

Peter sees and he rushes to me. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I gasp a little at the pain, and also at his arms coming around me from behind.

“Where does it hurt?” Peter’s voice is a little deeper than usual. His hands skim across my abdomen to where mine are. Peter moves my hands aside and gently rubs. I sigh.

“Better?” he asks.

“It’s easing. Thank you.”

But he doesn’t stop. It becomes less like easing a cramp and more like caressing a lover. It’s too easy and feels too natural. I yield to it and lean against him.

Peter’s reminds me, “I told you to let me do the heavy lifting.” But he’s not angry.

“I forgot.”

“I know.” And he does. This wasn’t about me exerting my independence. I really did forget and somehow Peter knows the difference.

“Tell me what I can do, Assumpta, anything. Please.”

What an invitation. I am swimming in feelings.

“Just don’t let go of me. That would be enough.” I realize after, that I said it out loud when Peter answers.

“Come on.” He takes my hand and guides me upstairs.

A little flutter of panic, mixed with hope, starts where the cramp was a moment ago. I really didn’t intend to force Peter into this situation. I don’t want to take advantage of his sympathy for me and his friendship. I was just feeling so warm and comfortable that I didn’t want it to end.

I pass through my room and into the attached bath to change into my pajamas. I figure it’ll give him an out. But when I come back, Peter is still in my room. He also has his shoes and collar off and is sitting nervously on my bed. That image will forever be vividly seared into my brain.

I act a whole lot more confident than I feel. I go to the other side of the bed and say to Peter as I get in, “I’m fine now. I shouldn’t have said that. I was just-”

“It was a moment of truth from you. For once.” Peter looks at me. “I understand, Assumpta, and there is no reason…”

I raise an eyebrow at him. Peter sees and stops his line of thought. But he gets under the covers and opens his arms to me, “Until you fall asleep, OK?”

Even if I wanted to I couldn’t stop myself. I settle next to Peter, his arms tighten around me.

I wake in the night because of the pain, this time deep in my back. Peter is still in my bed, now sleeping on his side and facing me. One of his arms is limply across my middle.

I have painkillers that I can take if the pain is unbearable. But I don’t want to get up to locate them. I don’t want to miss the opportunity to be this close to Peter; it may be my only chance.

I can’t seem to stop it and I’m not totally sure why, but the tears come. I’m quiet, but somehow Peter wakes anyway.

He shushes me and gets up from the bed. I stop crying when I hear him fumbling in the dark looking for something. Then Peter returns a minute later with my pills and a glass of water. I realize he assumes the crying is because of the pain. It is, just not the one he assumes.

Peter gets back into bed and holds me close. I tell him he should leave before anyone sees. There are a few tourists staying with me tonight and it will be morning soon.

But Peter won’t listen. “Who’s going to be here for you then? Don’t be ridiculous, Assumpta, I’m not leaving you alone like this.”

“What kind of friend would you be?” I ask rhetorically in a flat, emotionless voice. Peter doesn’t answer, just continues to caress my back..

A week later, I’m at the kitchen table settling my accounts. Peter is manning the bar again.

My mind wanders from the numbers in front of me. I consider for a moment a scenario where Peter was never a priest. We’d most likely have been together a long time ago. But then again, I’m not sure.

If he wasn’t a priest the first time we met, I might have been the same way with Peter that I am with every other man I meet that is single and available. I’m not good at flirting or letting my interest in someone be known. When a man shows interest in me, even one I like, I can’t help but think cynically, ‘Here we go again.’ It’s like a reflex and I automatically go on the defensive.

Because Peter’s a priest and he’s been off-limits, all along we’ve grown closer without many of the usual trappings. I began to see Peter’s commitment to the things he believes in, his strong sense of giving to others, his willingness to put himself on the line, and so many other parts of his character. Without watching Peter as priest in our community I wonder if I ever would have noticed these things in him because I never would have given him the chance. They are the same things I now have grown to love and cherish about him. I don’t agree with Peter’s beliefs but because of them, I fell in love with him. It’s a startling thought.

Peter comes into the kitchen where I’ve abandoned my books and have been sipping my tea. He senses something about my mood and he looks at me with such meaning. “Do you need something?”

“A kiss,” I blurt it out before I realize what I’ve done.

Peter’s eyes change with his emotions. I wonder if he knows that he gives himself away like that. He tries to hide behind the collar but like a bad poker player, he has a tell that always lets me know he’s bluffing. His eyes change from joyful to a beseeching green and that’s how I know.

He leans down to me and stops when his lips are close to my cheek. “Where?” Peter asks warmly, with a hint of teasing and a suggestion of promise.

He honestly wants to know and he’s going to follow through, I realize suddenly. Our little game just went to a new level.

I turn my head and hardly get out, “Here,” before I kiss him on the lips. It is short but intense and I back off. I don’t want to scare Peter away. I meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

Those eyes of his are changing through too many different colorful emotions for me to make any sense of one of them.

Peter seems to understand that I’m going to leave this as is, for now. He says lightly, “Anytime I can be of service.”

I lower my head and pick up the pen I was using to settle my accounts. As I hear Peter start to shuffle off, I tease, “I’ll keep a running tab.”

For nearly two weeks it’s been unspoken. I’m back to working fully, yet Peter is still sleeping next to me. He has- somehow without my notice- even snuck a pair of track pants and a t-shirt into my bathroom. They appeared one day hanging on the hook behind the door alongside my nightie.

I wake up tonight in the dead of night, but this time not because of pain. That has become increasingly better over the weeks since my surgery and is almost entirely gone now.

No, tonight I wake with my heart racing, my skin hot, and Peter’s hands under my nightclothes. He thrusts his hips against my thigh as his hand grazes across my breasts. Without warning, Peter’s fingers boldly move between my legs and stroke the fire there. All the while, his eyes are closed. After a few seconds of convincing myself this is real, I realize he’s asleep still.

Oh, Peter, I’ve hand those dreams too.

He is doing amazing things to my body with plenty of skill and I’m starting to become unable to think clearly. Despite my efforts to keep quiet, a moan escapes my lips.

Peter’s eyes fly open and he freezes. I see the minute it all registers and he pulls back like I’m a hot stove that has just burned his hands.

“Oh, God,” the self-loathing in his voice is excruciating for me to hear. “Oh, no,” he says and leaves the bed.

A second later I hear the shower running. Cold, I’m betting.

I consider getting into the shower with him, and immediately rule that out for too many reasons I’m not willing to explore now. I consider trying to get him to talk to me, but I know from experience that pushing him is the worst thing I could do. Space is always my answer to everything, but this time I think it’s legitimate.

The next night, Brendan helps me at close while explaining that Peter had an emergency. Then 40 minutes later, Brendan is gone and the phone rings.

“Emergency?” I ask Peter, dryly.

“Tommy Dolan died and I gave him last rites. I sat with his wife and son for a while until Michael showed. They’ll be alright, Tommy was sick for so long.” Peter changes the subject. “Did Brendan stay? I phoned and asked him too.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to. I haven’t had any pain for five days straight now, it’s definitely getting better.”

He sounds relieved. “Good. That’s good. But you’ll call if you have trouble?”

“You’re not coming over?” I ask innocently.

“No.” There is a long silence. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Then Peter goes through the normal linty of questions, are you okay, do you need anything… that he normally asks when he’s here. This just frustrates me.

“Come over,” I say emphatically.

Peter’s response is full of hurt, “I can’t.”

“What, are you afraid of me?”

“No.”

I ask, “Are you afraid of yourself?” getting increasingly infuriated.

There is a long pause. Finally, his voice is gravelly over the line, “Not afraid, Assumpta.”

A bit of my temper seeps out. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“That’s part of it.” I hear him sigh. “But not as much as you might think. I’m trying to be there for you. I know you don’t let people in often and I am grateful that you’re letting me in. You need a friend, not some sick pervert who can’t-”

He starts again after being quiet for a moment. “I just want to be the friend you expect me to be. But this is very hard for me. Even when I know- I know what you want, it’s still hard for me to be only a friend. I’m trying, Assumpta.”

All my carefully constructed walls, all the times I’ve held back from him. I’ve never shown him the few kisses meant a thing to me. Is it possible that to Peter it all adds up to me not feeling more than a comfortable friendship with him? Could it be that all this time it hasn’t been the church or his vows that kept us apart? It was me?

“Assumpta?” Peter asks, obviously worried that I’ve been quiet for too long.

“Just a minute.” I can’t talk right now, Peter, I’m having an epiphany.

I’ve been the one standing in the way all along. I’m the one that won’t allow him to see how much he means to me.

I blurt, “Come over. Now. I need to talk to you.” This is far too important to say over the phone.

I plan to tell Peter all the things in my heart. I even rehearse the words while I’m waiting for him. But when he arrives we don’t talk, not really. I don’t know why words fail us all the time. Maybe I’m afraid of what I’m willing to admit. Or afraid the words won’t be enough and never come close to explaining it properly. I’m sure a therapist would have quite a chore shorting through all the landmines in my life and deconstructing why I can’t open up.

When Peter arrives I take his hand and lead him upstairs, deciding to show him instead of tell him. I take off my clothes and reach for Peter. He puts up some sort of choking protest but doesn’t stop.

“Won’t I hurt you?” He sputters. The protest is not the obvious one I’d expect of Peter. “I remember reading on the internet that some women with your… condition… that sometimes it’s very painful to-”

“You won’t hurt me.”

I will not allow him to use any excuse, but certainly not this one. “It’s been weeks since my surgery and I’ve had no pain for days now.” I press up against him, close enough to feel Peter’s growing response to my body. “I want you. I thought you knew, but I’m telling you now.”

“You’ll say if I hurt you.” Peter looks in my eyes, and I realize this time he intended for his words to have a double meaning. “Promise me, Assumpta, you’ll tell me if I’m hurting you.”

How many ways do I love this man? I kiss him.

When we finally come together for the first time I swear I sigh relief. It’s like being out in the bitter cold all along without your coat and finally finding home, sitting in front of the fire and sighing relief. All the cold inside me melts. Peter doesn’t hurt me, of course it’s the opposite.

After he asks, “Are you alright?” as his hands move to my back and rub there, where I used to have pains.

“I’d have thought that was fairly obvious. What about you?”

Peter responds, “What?” like his mind has been elsewhere and I’ve pulled it back.

I expand, “What about you? Has the guilt started in yet?”

He sighs deeply. “Not like it should, and not for the reasons you’d think.”

I’m suddenly afraid this will be it. That it will only be one night and I’ll never have the chance to share this with him again. I’m reluctant to ask so I tell a story instead.

“I had a friend at college that used to say, ‘You sleep with a man once you’re a tramp. He keeps coming back, you’re fabulous.’”

Peter chuckles softly. Then rolls on his side, and gathers me close. He says, “Assumpta, you’re fabulous,” and kisses me goodnight.

I’m finished clearing up and I hear the usual soft knock at the back door. I smile despite myself. I open it and stand aside for him to enter. But Peter surprises me by turning and backing me against the wall. He pins me there, and kisses me hard.

He whispers, “I missed you all day,” as his hands glide over my curves. “Everything finished down here?” There is no way I’d let this assault of my senses end.

“Even if it wasn’t, it is now.”

“Assumpta,” Peter pulls back slightly and touches forehead to forehead with me. “I know how much you hate to come down to more work in the morning. I can finish up for you.”

“It’s done,” I promise him. “I’ll race you upstairs.”

He laughs. “I thought the goal was to reach the finish line together. You go on up.” Peter backs to give me room to move. “I’ll shut off the lights and be up in a moment.”

I start to go and he adds, “Put on something sexy for me.”

I twirl around and face him with hands on hips. “And what’s the point of that, when you’ll have it off me in 3 seconds.”

“Ah, but there’s the image to consider,” Peter winks. “I’ll imagine it all day long.”

My sarcasm appears, “While you’re–” I was going to say ‘hearing confession’ but I stop myself.

We’ve gotten into the habit of never saying things that reminds us of his vocation while we’re alone together. It’s as if we’re pretending he’s not a priest.

“What?” Peter asks.

“Nothing.” I walk away, but feel his eyes on me so I ask, “Want me to wiggle my arse a little for you?”

The fall leaves are changing and one day out on a walk, the leaves force me to realize that something’s changed in me as well. Like individual grains of sand blowing in the desert, I could not see the little moments that have led me here. But now, all of the sudden, I stand back and notice the sand dune that was once all the way over there, is now right in front of me. Peter and I are different people than we once were and it’s not just that he sleeps in my bed most nights.

I open up to Peter all the time. I’ve told him about my childhood, my parents, my fears. How I was afraid at first that my endometriosis was cancer and I was going to die like my mother, in pain and alone. I talk about the guilt I’ve carried with me, of being away at college and not at her side when she slipped away. I even alert Peter tonight when the pain happens again, for the first time in more than a month.

I can tell it worries him. When Peter asks if there’s something he can do I don’t hesitate to ask him to rub my back. I relax under his hands and say, “I’m not holding back from you.”

“I’ve noticed.” Peter’s voice is rich and fills the room. “I’m proud of you.” I smile at this, the irony of his pride. He’s a priest who should counsel me that my life is filled with sin and I should be ashamed, yet Peter knows my secrets and is proud of me.

Niamh and Ambrose return the following night to Ballyk and everyone gathers in the pub for an impromptu welcome home. I even make up a tray of treats for the occasion. The regulars are gathered in the reception area and it reminds me of the celebration of Niamh’s news a little more than two months ago. So much in my life has changed that it feels like years have passed. I also briefly wonder if Peter will take a chance tonight and flirt with me a little over a beer like he did that night. A tingle goes through me at the notion.

As the evening goes on, I become busy with customers. Heading into the kitchen for the 18th time that night, Niamh follows me.

“So, what’s the news, girl?” she asks.

I’m relieved that there is no hint of suspicion in Niamh’s voice. For some reason, I was worried that Niamh would be able to tell I was having sex and would force me to admit with whom. I put the kettle on while we talk.

“Oh you know Ballyk, nothing changes here.” I change the subject. “How was the trip then?”

“Fantastic,” Niamh glows. “We stayed longer because it was just beautiful there and we were having such a grand time.”

I can’t tell if her glow is due to joy over having had a nice, extended holiday or if it’s the pregnancy. Suddenly, without warning, my mind flashes to, “Is that what you’re looking for?”

“Yes,” I utter.

Niamh raises both her eyebrows at me in surprise. My stomach flip-flops while I search for words to recover.

“Yes… you both certainly deserved a break. What did you say it has been since Ambrose took any time off?”

Now Niamh is a bit suspicious, but she answers my question. “More than two years now, he’s saved up time and he’s earned some extra days as reward for a few outstanding achievements. Once we where there, it didn’t take much for me to convince him to stay a bit longer.”

Her father calls to Niamh from beyond the kitchen and I sigh relief as she leaves while saying, “We’ll talk more later, Assumpta.”

What is wrong with my head, I wonder, where did that come from? I rub my temples and I scold myself.

The next day I wake next to Peter as he's nuzzling my neck. I open my eyes then sit up suddenly as I notice the time.

"Peter, you've got to go. You're late."

He jumps and flies into action. Before I know it, he's out my back door. Thirty seconds later he's returned, grabs me, kisses me hard on the lips and is off a second time yelling over his shoulder, "Bye, see ya tonight."

I'm still wearing a little grin on my face as I unlock the front door for Niamh a few minutes later.

"Look at you, the cat with the canary in her mouth." She says, with a grin herself. "Pleased with yourself are ya?" I can tell she's just messing with me.

I roll my eyes and go about taking the chairs off the tables. Niamh stands and crosses her arms in front of her.

"We've got something serious to discuss," her tone has changed. "I've heard what's happened and you didn't ring me. You didn't even tell me last night when I asked."

Niamh stands there, waiting. My heart begins thudding in my chest and it feels like waves are crashing in my ears. First, I don't know how she could have heard. I thought no one knew but Peter and myself. Second, how in the world am I going to begin to explain it…Ah, well, Niamh, it's no big deal...?

I turn slowly toward her and I'm certain I must be turning red, or orange, or some unnatural color.

"Assumpta, we would have rushed back and been here. Our holiday wasn't more important than your health. I should have been here to help you recover." Niamh seems really hurt.

I know I should be sad that I've made her feel that way. But I can’t help the relief that floods me as I realize she's not talking about me and Peter, she's talking about my surgery.

"I'm fine." I counter, while shifting my mind from defending immoral behavior to mending a bruised ego. "Really, Niamh, it was no big deal, I was in and out in a day and there were plenty of people here willing to lend a hand with the pub."

Now Niamh looks smug. “See, Assumpta, and here you thought I’d be the only one that would miss you if you went away. Maybe now you believe me that others around here care about you. No one wants to see you go.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

A week later, I pad downstairs in the darkness in the middle of the night. I know this place well so that I only need instinct, not light, to find my way.

In the kitchen, I switch on the kettle and listen for the click off before pouring the near boiling water over a tea bag and into my cup. Then I sit at the table but as I lift it to my lips, it occurs to me that I’m not very thirsty.

After another minute or so, I hear a thud outside the kitchen door followed by a soft curse. Peter enters while rubbing his knee.

I know he can’t see my face in the dark so I allow a small smile to cross it, briefly. It’s not that I enjoy seeing him harmed, it’s that his occasional clumsiness is just one more trait I find irresistibly adorable. I don’t want him to know this, of course, so I use a neutral tone.

“You all right?”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Enjoy prowling in the dark, do you?”

“Like all things illicit”

“Assumpta.” He says my name like it is all there is to say. Peter takes a deep breath and sits down. “I am…”

The darkness surrounds us and the room seems to grow colder each second. Finally he speaks again, this time in complete sentences. “I’ve been thinking, it seems like forever, on the subject of ‘us’ and I just don’t know what to do.”

We sit for a long time. He’s been brooding a little bit lately, just now and again, and I’ve been patient.

“I want only the best for you, Assumpta. I don’t want to keep going on like this but I don’t want to stop. I care about you, I need to be near you, I can't seem to… On the one hand, I want it to always be like this between us. But then I realize it can't. It can't be like this forever for a thousand different reasons. I don’t want people finding out and lookin’ at you like-”

“Peter, I don’t care what people think or say.” I halt his monologue with my scolding. “You shouldn’t make your choices based on the opinion of others.”

He blurts, “Even God’s?”

Stinging silence encases the room. It is the one part of this we never talk about. Though, I know it eats at him more than the rest.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, Assumpta, I know you don’t believe.”

I say softly, “It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

After a beat, his voice is throaty and thick, “Come’re.” He reaches toward me and I move into his lap.

We cling to each other like two people drowning at sea, knowing we’re going down and all will be lost, but at least we’re going down together.

Weeks later, as we’re tidying up at close, Peter asks me without prelude, “Don’t you want a family of your own one day, Assumpta? Don’t you want to get married?”

This is the third time now he’s brought this up. Once before we were sleeping together and twice in these last months. Peter never asks, “Do you want to marry me?” Only, “Don’t you want to someday?”

Each time I beg off and don’t answer as I do again this time. What am I supposed to say? I know why he’s asking. One answer I give will hurt the priest and the other will hurt the man. I love both the priest and the man so I have no answer for either.

A few nights later, I roll over and reach for him but I touch a leg. I open my eyes and see Peter sitting up in bed. He looks down at me.

I ask, “You all right?” It is normally Peter asking me this question, and it feels odd to do this in reverse.

“Yeah,” he skims a finger down my cheek. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought about a walk but I didn’t want to leave in case you woke up. I knew you would worry.”

“So you should have woken me.” It’s not like he hasn’t plenty of times before in the middle of the night, often by interesting and stimulating methods.

“Then we’d both be lacking sleep.”

I flirt with him. “Isn’t that the point? Neither of us getting any sleep?”

But Peter’s tone is serious, “Is it?”

It startles me. I expected a laugh from him, possibly some flirting back. But now I know the “talk” that I’ve battled off for ages is finally here and I’ve got no ammunition left. I’m not ready for this at all, but Peter apparently is.

“I want…” Peter trails off then starts again. “I want all these things for you- a wedding, a marriage, a family. You won’t say it, but I know you want those things for yourself, Assumpta. I think about leaving the church but I can’t seem to. I can’t give you those things unless I do leave. I just- I can’t go on like this- like things are. The only part of this that is wrong is keeping you from the things you deserve. I’m being selfish.” He drops his head.

Oh, that’s fantastic, the perfect martyr sacrificing himself for his God.

“Bog off, Peter.”

He looks at me because the dismissal gets his attention more then my temper ever would. So he’s decided for me that my only options are a disappointing life as a priest’s mistress or utopia with some other man. Oh, and I hope he realizes I might well smack him any moment.

I say in a carefully controlled voice, “I made my choice.”

“Even if it’s wrong?”

It makes my blood boil. I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you pull that pious act on me.”

I dare Peter to go down that road, that he knows right from wrong better than I do. He seems to get the point, his shoulders slump in retreat. He scoots down and we go back to sleep.

I won the argument but apparently I don’t get the prize. Peter hasn’t come to me in four nights. I believe that’s a record. Besides that, Christmas is in two days and I really don’t have the strength to be fighting with him and also have to face the holiday alone.

On a whim I pick up the phone and ring my friends in Dublin inviting them to come down. At least they may distract me a little, so I’ll only think of Peter every 5 minutes instead of constantly.

Brendan tries to convince me to invite Father Clifford to my party as well. If Brendan only knew half of the complication that would result, he’d bite his tongue.

I’m proud of myself, actually, at how well I’ve put up a good front. Up until everyone shows up at my pub door on Christmas Day, including Peter and his new recruit. I’m sitting at the bar twirling a cracker in my hands when Peter sits down next to me. He looks me in the eye for the first time in almost a week.

“Assumpta…” he starts but trails off, glancing around at all the available ears. Peter’s tone is apologetic and that is enough for me, for now.

“It’s Christmas, Peter.” I say in a soft voice, trying to put all my forgiveness into it. “We’ll talk some other time, yeah?”

He smiles. “It’s Christmas.”

But three days later he still hasn’t come to me and we still haven’t talked. I know he’s been busy with the sweating statue but I have a lot that has been building up to say to him. Most of all, I just miss him.

Peter comes into the pub after mass and admits to Brendan he thinks the statue is a hoax. I rip into Peter. I honestly don’t mean to hurt him, it’s just getting to be too much for me- the frustration, the secrets, the silence. The disagreements between us bubble to the surface in front of everyone. It’s not an excuse, I know there is no excuse, but I miss him and I’m hurting and he’s pulling further and further away everyday and I’m helpless to stop it. Peter storms out.

I already hate myself when Brendan says, “That’s his vocation you just kneed in the groin.”

Thanks, Brendan, I didn’t feel bad enough already.

After Peter leaves on retreat, I feel numb for days. I’m not entirely sure all of it can be attributed to the pains that have returned, worse now then ever before. I make the decision to take Michael’s advice and see a specialist in London, the one he most recommends.

They want to do another surgery, much more extensive this time. I know I can’t drive myself after the procedure and since Leo’s been living in London for the last few months I ring him. He’s more than happy to help me.

As the anesthesiologist starts to put me asleep, my mind floats through all the colors and shades of my life. Especially love. I’m not entirely sure I could explain it to someone else because I don’t fully understand it myself. But I love Peter and Leo, both in different ways. They are very different men and I am a different person when I’m around each of them.

Leo has known me for ages and he’s become an expert at handling me. He never fights me. There was a time that I thought I wanted a man like that. I thought that it would be the only type of man I could ever hope to have a successful relationship with. Especially when I’m down, there’s no one better than Leo and I don’t think I’ve ever been as low as I am now.

As I come out of the drug-induced sleep, I wake in a stark room. Leo is there and smiles at me, he takes my hand. A short time later the specialist comes in and tells me the procedure went well and like before, I have to take several weeks to fully heal.

At my one-week follow up appointment, the doctor informs me that I will never be able to have children. There is too much damage and scar tissue to realistically believe I could carry a child to term.

My mind flashes back to Niamh telling me that I always want what I can’t have. Maybe it’s keen insight into my psyche. Or it’s that before this news I wasn’t ready to admit to myself yet, I did want to have children one day and I wanted them with Peter. Now that both things are taken from me I feel as though I’ve lost every remaining piece of my dreams and hopes. It is like I’ve hit the bottom of a pit and I’m in total blackness. Yet, I have no desire to find my way out.

One night in Leo’s flat I start to cry and I can’t stop. In desperation I sob to Leo, “Who will ever want me now? I’m not even a woman any more. I’m empty.”

I sound pathetic even to my own ears. It’s not like me. I have never ever worried about these sorts of things. I was the one out of all my girlfriends who couldn’t have care less if I never got married. Though I hoped to find someone, someday, I know I would be contented sharing love whatever form it took. That was the thing- the only thing- Peter never understood about me. But in my despair I’m self-deprecating and indulgent and I can’t seem to stop.

“I’ll be an old maid,” I wail, “like my mother I’ll die alone because the only man who ever loved me walked out on me. I don’t want to die alone.”

Leo holds me while I weep. Finally, as I quiet down and breathe normally, he says the same things he has for years.

“I love you, Assumpta.”

This is the one thing- the only thing- I never heard from Peter and it is bittersweet to hear it said now.

Leo keeps reassuring me. “This doesn’t change a thing, not for me. I will always love you.” And he starts to build me back up again.

It feels wonderful to marry Leo. To hear those promises from him is like light and life finally coming back to me after weeks in darkness. It clears away all the self-doubt and self-pity and I feel healed. Leo makes me stronger everyday.

But I begin to miss home. The place I swore I’d never return to becomes the last missing piece in my life now. I convince Leo to try it, if only for a while. I am sure if he gives it a chance he’ll see the charm of Ballyk and share my love for it, even despite its obvious flaws. Leo loves me, after all, and isn’t that the same challenge as loving Ballyk?

The comfortable thing about Leo is that he has never once hesitated to try something simply because I ask it of him. It has never been his way to fight me on anything, but to go along. Leo is never bold, never stands in my path. I wish for that sometimes, fleetingly. But Leo is soothing.

The moment I am home, it all feels off. Peter looks at me with eyes swimming in hurt, accusing me of betrayal. I want to scream at him. “You wanted this for me! You wanted me to marry another. Or did you think I’d spend all my days pining for you?” But of course I don’t say it. I just focus on Leo and on my recovery.

This time around, I don’t tell anyone in Ballyk about the surgery. I don’t want to handle the pity and the looks. Mostly, I’m afraid of the questions, and having to admit the flaw in my body that I’m ashamed of. Perhaps one day I’ll be ready.

It all seems to be working for a while. But the problem with me being in Ballyk is that I can’t seem to fool myself like I could back in London. The things I purposely left behind in Ballyk are still here waiting for me. They are blatantly obvious. I can’t pretend them away and they begin to seep in between the cracks that always existed in the foundation below my and Leo’s relationship. It begins to crumble.

“I’ve never really thought about this time or that time, I’ve only ever thought… us.”

I want to talk to Leo, really I do. But it’s hard to admit to him let alone myself that I’ve become this misguided and made far too many mistakes. I sigh and look up at Leo, seeing the pain in his eyes even before I speak. Oh, where to begin? It seems too late now to make it right. I want to try, though, because I do care for him. I’m grateful for him in ways he’ll likely never understand.

“I love you, Assumpta.”

I can’t say it back, not in the same way that he means it. I know I could lie but it would only make things worse, for both of us. It’s just not fair. I want to love him, so desperately, the way he does me. It would make all of our lives so much easier, happier.

Leo’s eyes drop to my lap. I’ve always had the habit of twisting my fingers around each other when I’m feeling guilty. I didn’t know it was a habit until Leo pointed it out to me years ago when we first began dating. I had lied to a friend in order to get out of a movie with her, so that I could see Leo instead.

Now, suddenly, I realize Leo’s caught me at it and I still my hands. He knows. His eyes flicker up to meet mine.

“I’m sor-”

“Don’t,” He cuts me off. His tone is soft, controlled, and full of pain. “Just don’t.” He turns from me.

Leo starts up the stairs slowly. “I’ll pack up my things in the morning.” Now he just sounds defeated. “The great cosmopolitan will be out of your way by noon.”

“Leo,” I breathe out. He’s at the landing now and he stops.

“You talk in your sleep, Assumpta, did you know that?” Then Leo keeps on climbing without waiting for my response.

It seems to happen in a blur. Leo’s left town and Peter is gone as well. I’m left struggling to find my balance. I have the deep desire to play my mother’s song, my song, “Alone again, naturally,” over and over. But I refuse to give into that pathetic, self-indulgent side of myself again. Look what trouble it got me into last time.

The worst is that no one, even Niamh, really understands. Not that it’s their fault. I’ve kept my secrets well, and therefore, they have no way to know.

Brian’s partner in the outdoor pursuits business keeps using terrible pick up lines on me. But all I can think of is the futility of it all. I’m tired of the game. Perhaps being alone for the rest of my life isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Peter returns one night. He walks into the pub right in the middle of Padraig’s tale. I had been priming myself for facing Peter again. Ending up in the cellar alone with him only a short time later, on his very first night back, is not what I was ready to handle. But I manage to get through it. We agree to talk and I feel better that there may be a start to the process of closure, in the very least.

I balked at Ambrose request days before, but that doesn’t excuse me from being the friend Niamh expects of me. So, I come tonight to their house with a bottle of wine in my hand as an apology. I’m not very good with the verbal sort anyhow.

Peter’s voice rises from the kitchen and I cringe. I haven’t yet prepared myself to be around him without the crowd and sounds of the pub around me. I don’t want to be alone with him. I don’t want it to become apparent how vulnerable to him I am still.

But I take a breath and go down to the Egan’s kitchen to find Peter cooking. Not at all how I usually view Peter, but then, most of the time I’ve known him I’ve been distracted by other activities. Cooking wasn’t one of them.

He opens the wine and we each take a sip. Somehow, miraculously, the easy nature between us returns like it never left.

“Kieran’s not on solids yet.”

Peter starts to tell me a joke. But he ends up fighting tears by the end of it. I understand where he’s coming from, feeling lost, being uncertain. I open my arms to him and he fits perfectly. It takes me a moment to realize that the tears have dried.

Then the feel of his lips on my skin suddenly registers. It is so right, and it has been so long that I automatically yield to it. Thoughts awaken inside me of where this has always led. But suddenly I can’t. Peter told me this was wrong, on the very last night he slept in my bed.

I push back. “No, it’s wrong.” If it is what Peter truly believes than I cannot do this. No matter how much I want to. I run away from him and hide in my own kitchen.

Even Brendan cannot pull me from falling into sorrow. Then somewhere in the middle of filling last orders and closing up, the sorrow turns like wine to vinegar.

Peter is still toying with me, I tell myself. I turn the chair and place it on the tabletop with a little too much thud. If Peter had really made his decision, the least he could do, for my sake, was to sick to it.

I stomp up the road and knock on the red door of his house. When Peter opens it, I don’t bother with pretenses. We’re past that.

Peter and I have arguing down to a science. They should put us under a microscope and study us for the good of all of humanity. Besides, anger has always been the emotion I feel most comfortable with. I can escape to it at will, and it always protects me from all manner of dangers, like flaws, fear, humiliation, and truth.

The next day passes in a blur, seemingly unreal. But in the midst of all the changes happening too fast, he says the words I’ve longed to hear over the phone. It is somehow all I need to forgive the past and begin to build a future.

“I love you, Assumpta.”

************

“Heaven is the place where the donkey at last catches up with the carrot.” -Anonymous

Part 2: The Confession (Peter’s story)

I’d spend years blaming myself and trying not to think about it. But even though it was my worst sin, I would do it all again. Exactly the same. If only I had the chance.

The first time Assumpta and I almost kissed, we were interrupted. Then the next time, when we did kiss, there was no doubt where it all would lead eventually. And it’s strange thinking about it now, but that play and those lines we said, we ended up living it. “We maybe only have tonight, maybe less, maybe only an hour.” It happened that way exactly.

I came to her that night after play practice. I waited until the pub closed I kissed her. I never explained, I just needed to finish it and I knew I’d never sleep until I did. Only one thing would have stopped me and it wasn’t being reminded that I was a priest, it was her.

If Assumpta said anything, gave away in any look or gesture or word that she was uncomfortable I would have walked away from her. And well, it was not your average kiss. We were completely consumed by one another. Then suddenly I remembered the thing my murky mind was easily forgetting. But I didn’t feel in the least bit guilty about what had just happened. That’s when I should have known.

I remember, clearly, her eyes. She looked at me with such fear but I knew Assumpta wasn’t afraid of me, not exactly. It was all the consequences and repercussions wrapped up in what just happened. And probably fear of what I was going to do next.

I didn’t say anything and I left. In that moment, I realized I couldn’t be the lead in the play. I just knew I couldn’t kiss her in front of an audience and not give myself away. Look at what had just happened- our kiss went on and on, my hands were all over her, I was ready to make love to her right there. What a show that would have made. That would have sold a lot of tickets the following year.

I tried to act normal and pretend it never happened. She seemed to do the same. For a long while, I thought that’s where it would be left.

Until one night I happened to walk by, I saw Assumpta was alone, cleaning up the pub late at night. She was obviously down, and I felt bad for her. So, I decided to help her out.

Didn’t take long for the conversation to come around to my vows. At the time, I didn’t understand where she was going with it. Did she want me to apologize for kissing her? Did she want a repeat performance? And with Assumpta, you never know when she’s going to launch into one of her lectures on the flaws of the church. I’d given her fantastic evidence to use against me. Plus, I was a little afraid of my willingness to agree with her complaints.

I was consumed with my own internal conflicts. I didn’t need one with her as well. So, I ran from her and the failure she exposed in me.

In fact, I avoided her quite a lot, until the day Assumpta was diagnosed. I was so afraid, I had never heard of it before, and I knew nothing about it. Of course, the rumors circulating in Ballyk were terrible and had Assumpta at death’s door.

I pumped Dr. Ryan for information and I searched the depths of the Internet. It seemed for many it was a minor annoyance, but for others it caused infection, infertility, cancer. I was filled with worry and fear. Especially knowing how Assumpta would never ask for help if she needed it. She’d never even allow others to know she even had a problem to start with.

I suppose I could blame everything on helping her recover. I could say it was tempting fate to be that close to her day in and day out. Accuse my sympathy and need to comfort her as the reason. But if I were truly honest with myself, I always knew one day I would no longer be able to fight my feelings.

Assumpta never hesitated even for a moment. She took my hand and led me upstairs. I remember I could feel my cheeks redden. I never was very good at hiding the sensitive side of myself. It accounted for my failure as a priest, among many things.

Amazingly, I was worried only about two things. Her health, since it had only been a short time since her surgery, and gossip about her. Should have been other things, like breaking my vow to God, but it wasn’t.

Assumpta probably assumed it was a one-time thing, a mistake that I’d ask forgiveness for and forget about. The next few times it was unspoken. It was understood that we both wanted this to happen. I felt so amazing I didn’t think, I just acted.

I almost skipped down the street with happiness in the morning light. I’d leave at dawn, having been up half the night but feeling rejuvenated and alive and rested. It was the nights I didn’t spend with her that I couldn’t sleep and I was lost the next day.

In the beginning, I ignored everything else- my vows, my vocation, what would happen in the future- there was nothing but her. I told her once that being a priest was a very lonely life, cut off from everyone, and that the best part of being with her was having someone to talk to.

Assumpta asked, “Not the sex?” Sarcastic and ready to be insulted just a little.

I told her that part was great and I wasn’t lying. But over time it became less about that, or maybe not only about that. It was mostly about having that connection. I told her that at the end of the day, no matter how much of a disaster it may have been, I knew I would find sanctuary in her arms.

We started to talk each night. Being there for her, and the way she would open up to me, made me feel privileged. She never let many people in to see what was really going on in her head. She’d tell me things I was sure she’d never told anyone, about her past, her fears, her dreams for the future. And I knew I made her happy, that was priceless. I could even get her to laugh.

Her laugh was beautiful, like music. My favorite moments were little things, sitting together holding hands in front of the fire and she put her head on my shoulder. It was those simple moments that I wanted to live over and over.

We talked about everything, or so I thought. Often, it was just news of what friends were doing or a joke heard that day. One night, I even admitted to her how conflicted I was. How much I wanted to leave the church for her but that I felt dreadfully selfish. I was supposed to be serving God and others. And then if I stayed in the Church, I knew I should stop coming to her. She became stiff and cold. I knew she wanted me there, at any price, even if it was wrong.

I didn’t realize how Assumpta still didn’t understand what she meant to me. What she would always mean, no matter what happened. All along, I told her the things I felt in my heart for her, how beautiful she was, how perfect it was between us, but never that I loved her. I couldn’t, and to this day I’m not sure why. Maybe part of me was ashamed of the affair, but only because it wasn’t worthy of my love for her. She never said either. Even later, after I finally did tell her, she never said.

I knew she wanted something else, though she never asked. Assumpta never once requested I leave the church or that we change the way things were. But I could tell just the same.

Once, she talked of her dreams as a young girl of having a family of her own some day because growing up her family had been so fractured. I knew the way things were it wouldn’t happen. I’d keep her from that by keeping her in this limbo with me. That’s around the time when the strain of me being a priest was becoming too much for either of us.

It was becoming difficult for us to be with our friends and still act normal around one another as if nothing was happening behind the scenes. One day in the pub, a simple discussion on a sweating statue went too far and I realized how bad things had become. When she came to apologize, she must have realized then it was falling apart because I agreed with her views on the church.

Even if in the short term it would hurt us both, I honestly believed in the long term it would be better, she would be happier, free to live her dreams and it was the right thing. I stood in her kitchen… My heart aches even now at the mere memory… and as I told Assumpta, she cried. I hated myself for making her cry, I only ever wanted to make her laugh.

Assumpta did the last thing I expected her to do, go and marry someone else. She told me later it was only to drive me from her head but all I understood at that time was betrayal. I wasn’t sure if I meant so little to her that it was that easy to move on from me. Or was this some form of revenge, knowing it would tear me to pieces?

At that point I never slept at all. I spent nights considering, weighing, vacillating. Asking myself questions like, if I’d left the Church and married her, would it have saved us? Or would I have regrets one day? Would my guilt over leaving the Church destroy us just the same? I know there are no guarantees but a sign, even a small one, would have been nice.

Memories of being with her haunted me night and day. And I started to dwell on details like him sleeping in the same bed I did. I wondered if Assumpta made those same sounds when she was with him, if she pleaded his name just the same. Was he there for her, did he listen to her and comfort her when she was upset or angry? Did Assumpta care for him more than she ever did me?

She came one night wearing his sweater. I was half afraid she wanted us to be together. But half afraid she didn’t ever want that again. It was one thing for me to break my vows but I never would have allowed her to break her marriage vows. I missed her and I wanted her still but I couldn’t. She was better than that.

It didn’t matter, Assumpta only wanted to talk. That was the worst part of the whole mess. As much as I missed loving her, more, I missed having that one person to share everything with.

I sensed that was what she was lookin’ for but I couldn’t… how could I? How could I say I’d made a mistake and I’d do anything to make it right again? She wasn’t free now. I was so frustrated by circumstance that I lost my temper- much more like Assumpta to get angry like that. If I knew she only had weeks to live I never would have let her walk out that night. I would have told her the things in my heart.

I got word Mum was dying and I left for Manchester. But just as bad, I wasn’t even able to be there for Assumpta when her marriage fell apart. Though part of me was happy, I also knew how embarrassed and distressed she must have felt.

And I, well, I was even more lost, aching, lonely, needing Assumpta. More than ever, and I didn’t think that was even possible. When I returned to Ballyk, I literally shook in her presence.

Finally one night, we ended up alone by chance at the Egan’s. I tried to tell some polar bear joke but by the end I couldn’t deliver the punch line because I was near tears. It was really about me missing her so. I couldn’t function properly without her, I was cold and lonely and I pleaded with her, “Why am I always thinkin’ of you?”

She took me in her arms then. It had been so long it was like coming home after years of wandering. I missed us talking and sharing things and being alone together just as much, maybe more than her body. But I was crying on her shoulder and I could smell her hair and I couldn’t help myself. I knew every inch of her, where she was ticklish, what parts were soft and which were firm with muscle. Most of all, I knew those places that made her sigh with pleasure including her neck and I kissed her there.

I wanted to hear that she wanted me still. I wanted to know that I wasn’t alone in this torture. But Assumpta pushed me away and ran off. She said it was wrong, which was true but she’d never pushed me away before.

Assumpta came to me later that night, she’d never come to my home late at night, we’d only ever been together at the pub. But she was angry, demanding. I told her I needed to think and she stormed out.

We did finally talk, we met outside of Ballyk and once again I tried to explain my wanting to be with her, but to do so was selfish. It meant I should leave the church, she deserved that but I’d be letting people down, letting myself down. It was in that conversation that I finally realized what the problem had been all along, she didn’t know what was in my heart, not completely. Those three words are so little and yet if you never hear them, that means everything. I know now how she felt then. The next day I told her I loved her.

After she died I spent months on that one moment alone. I was glad that I did tell her, that Assumpta knew when she died. But I wished just once I could have heard her say it.

I’ve punished myself for the fact that she died just as I was about to leave the church and finally make it right. I should have come to that decision sooner. Maybe God wouldn’t have been angry with me and taken her from me.

Charlie suddenly interrupts my prayers, “God isn’t that vindictive.”

I look up, startled, I forgotten he was sitting next to me this whole time.

“You’d know better then I would,” I counter. “I have to admit, Charlie, I really expected to be headed in the other direction. I did break my vow.”

“You and Assumpta…” Charlie shakes his head. “It was fate. It was a near impossible situation because you were meant to be together and yet you vowed otherwise long before you met her. Peter, you did the best you could with it. You were always trying to do what was right and you asked forgiveness when you made mistakes. God expects nothing more.”

“Besides,” Charlie says, grinning, “Boss once told me that if He were too strict, it would be boring up here because all the interesting people would be in Hell. I’m pretty sure He was kidding.

“But He did expect you two to move away where Assumpta wouldn’t be anywhere near that electrical box. He underestimated the influence of Ballyk and all your you never know what-friends on you both. One of the many downfalls of free will sort of unexpected choices humans make. Even God was sorry that Assumpta arrived here so soon, told her so in fact.”

Charlie laughs again. “Yeah, it was an interesting one, she was mad and went several rounds with Him. But He put her on his Board of Directors… could see she’d be honest with him and not intimidated. Most are, you see. That Board of Directors idea seemed to shut her up quick.”

I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around all of this, “Board of Directors?” I ask Charlie.

“Oh, we’re very new millennium.” Charlie quips.

“What’s it really like in there?”

“Heaven’s different for everyone,” Charlie shrugs. “It’s what someone wants most, a lot of times what they couldn’t have in life, but sometimes the same as their life. It’s always whatever makes that person the happiest.

“Usually I get people choosing to be with their family and friends, their favorite team to win the championship, a big plasma screen TV… that sort of thing. I have had a lot of heartbroken Cubs fans for almost a century now so the Cubbies win most of the World Series up here. But I get surprises once in a while, one guy last week wanted to do nothing but to eat ice cream. He was a lifelong diabetic. You just never know, keeps me on my toes. You ready now?”

“I’m not sure.” I’m anxious but nervous too.

“Just through those gates,” Charlie points. “Go on, she’s waiting for you.”

“Assumpta?” Is it possible?

“Sure. Runs a good pub in there too, but she could use a hand. I think you’d be perfect for the job. What do you say?”

“I get to-” It was almost too unbelievable, I couldn’t form words for a moment.

Charlie finishes for me, “To spend eternity together. It’s your reward, and hers. Assumpta wanted that also, but she’s been waiting. I won’t say all that patiently.”

I smile now. I’ve missed her so intensely that I have even come to miss her temper. I can clearly picture an image of Assumpta’s eyes flashing, hands on her hips, saying, “What took you so long, for God’s sake, Peter?”

With tear-filled eyes, I step through the gates and the clouds break. I hadn’t seen Ballyk for many years, but now it stood before me suddenly.

I am on the bridge over the river Angel and I look down to see I’m now wearing a white shirt and jeans and have a rucksack over my shoulder. A gold band on my left hand reflects the sun.

There are men who would feel that spending eternity married was Hell, not Heaven. Many more would agree if it were Assumpta they would be married to. But this is not their Heaven, it’s mine.

I head toward Fitzgerald’s, my steps quicken the closer I get. As I open the door, I meet her eye. Her beautiful smiling eyes draw me in. I rush closer to her and kiss her without saying a word first. A sweet slow kiss, it had been so long.

Then Assumpta speaks against my lips. “Peter, I love you too.”

Yes, this is Heaven, finally.

FIN