It was time to come to a decision. He couldn't keep her hanging like this. She had been so patient, but she had other cares besides him. She cooked for him, cleaned up after him, had even been known to do his laundry on occasion. So much like Ma, he thought, smiling at her benevolently. And here she was standing next to him, locks of her dark hair escaping from the knot at the back of her head and falling across her face. He could have reached up and smoothed them back for her, but as if she had read his mind, she shoved the strays back behind her ear and demanded, "I haven't got all day you know, Father!"

 "Tuna melt please, Óonagh," Vincent said with a beatific smile, folding the menu carefully before handing it back to her. "With a side of chips."

 "It took you all of five minutes to decide on that? You could at least have ordered the haddock," Óonagh complained, heading for the kitchen. Her culinary talents were wasted on this lot.

 Vincent ran his hand over the gleaming varnish of the wooden table top. They had cleaned up quite nicely. He glanced around the restored pub. Almost everything looked as it had before the flood. The seat cushions had had to be jettisoned, but they had been long past their prime anyway, and the new blue ones were fresh and cheery. The water hadn't gotten up high enough to damage the wallpaper, and the wood on the lower part of the walls had just needed to be stripped and re-varnished, the work of a single afternoon.

 The big story had been in the basement, of course, full to the brim as it had been with river water. It still wasn't usable for storage and might never lose the stench of mold and rot completely, but at least the boiler and the fuse box were back in working order. The furnace had yet to be replaced, so they were making do with space heaters in the rooms upstairs. The insurance had only covered the hardware that needed to be replaced, not the labor for replacing it, so Vincent was relying on charitable tradesmen and volunteers from the community to do the needed work. Nothing like a little disaster to bring people together, he thought smugly.

 Frankie came in and made a bee-line for Vincent. "Hey Father, mind if I join you?" she asked, then pulled up a seat before he could reply.

 "Sure, Frankie, don't be bashful!" he grinned broadly, moving his nearly empty cola glass out of the way.

 "Who me? Never!" She lay her hat down on the table and took a moment to look around, commenting enthusiastically, "Looks grand! Shouldn't've thought you'd've gotten it all ready so quickly, but then you probably get priority when it comes to doling out miracles."

 "Miracle my ass! That's my elbow grease all over that floor!" he protested hotly, gesturing toward the spot directly in front of the pub entrance.

 "I don't think I'll touch that one," Frankie said primly. "How's the upstairs?"

 "Cold," he said around his last mouthful of cola.

 "Haven't fixed the furnace yet, eh?" she sympathised.

 "You'd have to be sitting on one of those heaters to even know it was turned on!"

 "Well you know, my spare room is always open for you," Frankie offered.

 " 'Spare room'?" he said indignantly. "You mean the one with the bars on the windows and the spartan decor?"

 "Now if I'd known that you had nothing against sleeping under the same roof as a..." She considered how to put it. Woman? Too general, he had slept at Kathleen's, too. Pretty young thing? Too self-flattering.

 Vincent raised his eyebrows in amusement as Frankie flailed for a word.

 She squirmed and looked away. "...well, you know, I was just thinking of your reputation is all. But seeing as you're fine with it, and the guard house is right here in town, you could have the real spare room." She looked questioningly at Vincent, trying to gauge his reaction. "With working heat," she pointed out, before finishing somewhat uncertainly, "if the need ever arose."

 Vincent started to feel ever so slightly uncomfortable. A couple of months ago, he would have jumped at the offer. Now, though, after all that had gone on, he was thinking of his reputation. And Avril's feelings. If he turned Frankie down, though, it would look like he was playing favorites (which he was), and in addition he would definitely NOT be able to head back out to the yard if things got too unbearable here at Fitzgerald's. He couldn't afford to make an enemy of the Garda, or worse, hurt her feelings.

 "Thanks, Frankie, that's a real relief," he said kindly. "I'll sure take you up on it if my teeth start chattering so loud I can't sleep!"

 Óonagh reappeared with a plate covered with a bulging sandwich and a pile of steaming chips. "Here you go, sir," she said triumphantly, placing the food in front of Vincent. "Refill?" she asked, picking up his empty glass.

 "Yeah, thanks," he agreed, picking up a chip and blowing on it.

 "Anything for you, Frankie?" Óonagh asked politely, turning to the guard.

 "Thanks, Óonagh," she said brightly and nodded toward the sandwich. "I'll have one of those, too. You sure do have a way with food," she added appreciatively.

 "Tell me about it," Óonagh responded dryly on her way back to the kitchen.

 Avril replaced the phone receiver in its cradle and tapped her pen thoughtfully against her teeth. This was certainly an interesting turn. An upturn in any case. Mrs Forbes wanted to bring Spinner back to the yard. After The Cat's recovery and highly praised recent performance, she seemed to think that Avril's was the best place for her pampered racehorse. She complained that Spinner was just getting stale with the private trainer she had engaged, and that he missed the companionship of Celtic Flash and King Ransom...more likely she was just hoping that some of their recent luck would rub off on her own horse. Avril didn't kid herself. She ran a good training program, but more often than not it came down to little things that were beyond her control. If horse racing were a perfect science, sure wouldn't she be rich by now?

 Speaking of rich... She paged through a stack of papers on the desk in front of her. When was the next loan payment due? Ouch. Too soon. She sighed. She was full up now. If she accepted Spinner back, then one of Garrett's horses would have to go; those had been the original terms of their agreement. However, she knew that if one of the polo ponies went, both would go. He wouldn't separate them for her convenience. She could charge Mrs Forbes more than Garrett was paying, but not twice as much. If only Mrs Forbes had two horses...or if she could get Mr Keane from Rathdrum to commit. He was hemming and hawing, trying to talk down her price, reasoning that he could transport his own horse to and from races, but that wasn't the way she ran things. A certain standard had to be maintained.

 In addition, she would feel bad having to ask Garrett to move his horses again already; they had only been with her for a couple of months, and pretty soon winter would be setting in. Unless he had a place for them in Spain, it wouldn't be doing them any favors to move them now. Still, business was business, as he himself was fond of saying. She flipped through her address book for Keane's number.

 Vincent inserted the white plastic strip into his collar and checked in the mirror that it was centered. He ran a hand through his thick brown hair. Time for a cut. Paul had mentioned a barber named O'Hare. Talk about being predestined for a profession.

 He looked himself in the eye. What was he doing? They had warned him in seminary about getting too close to women. Well, actually not in so many words, but they had certainly spoken about what it meant to be celibate. Once. And then they had gone over every New Testament scripture in which the vow was grounded, especially First Corinthians, in meticulous detail, examining the historical commentaries and praying together and in private for the fortitude to emulate St. Paul. They had never really discussed the shouldn'ts, but had focussed instead on the shoulds. Keep your whole mind on God. Keep your thoughts and deeds pure (was sex something evil?). Walk away from transgression (were women the embodiment of sin?). It was all for God, it was what God wanted, of him and of every man He had called to do His glorious work. But now the Bishop had summoned him. Again. Every time he had been called in, it had been for another dressing down, and he had a pretty good feeling it wasn't going to be for mere insubordination this time.

 "You do know this thing's on its last legs, don't you?" Edso closed the engine cover and studiously wiped his hands on a greasy rag.

 "Grand." Avril rolled her eyes and kicked absentmindedly at the front tyre. This old horse box was a heap, but it was her heap, free and clear. "I just need it to get me to Galway and back," she said, almost plaintively.

 "Galway?" Edso gulped, shaking his head slowly. That meant a good three hours, each way. "Can't guarantee it," he said finally.

 Avril thrust her hands into her coat pockets. She knew she'd be pushing her luck, but she had two horses declared for Saturday, and come hell or high water-- "Come with me," Avril said. It came out more like a command than a request.

 "Wha-- I can't do that, Avril, I've got a business to run!" Edso squawked.

 "You came with me to Wexford," she pointed out.

 "But that was different," he protested. "That was only half a day!" And there had still been the possibility of a romance between them. Now, though, it would be a waste of his time. She had not only made it clear that she wasn't interested in him, the priest had practically moved in with her. This would be a business opportunity only, and Edso had a pretty clear idea of how sticky Avril's financial situation was. She'd be in no position to pay a retainer up front, and if he did have to do any work on the vehicle along the way (which was a pretty safe bet), it'd be weeks or longer before he saw any sort of return. To say nothing of what would happen if any class of larger part needed replacing. He couldn't take along a whole second engine in his tool box. They might end up stranded an hour's walk from the nearest town, in the dark, with nothing but each other and the animals for company, Avril upset and frantic, needing to be calmed and comforted--

 Avril chewed on the inside of her lip. If this contraption broke down, she'd have to call the auto club and even if it were just a minor repair that was necessary, the whole day would be shot. What she really needed was more reliable transportation, but that was out of the question at the moment, so until then-- She gritted her teeth and put on her best smile. "Look Edso, I wouldn't ask if I weren't really in a bind. I'll make a deal with you." She hated to do it, but if she didn't, she'd lose even more money. "A percentage of the winnings."

 Edso had already been about to agree to go along, but now he saw that he could milk the situation even further for his own benefit. "Got a sure thing have you?" he asked with as much disinterest as he could muster, glancing at Avril from beneath his blond fringe.

 "Absolutely," Avril swore. "Flash and the King are both in top form. They can't miss."

 Edso heaved a heavy sigh and shook his head again. "I don't know Avril, it's a big gamble for me. I mean, I trust your judgment and all, but horse racing...well it just ain't football, know what I mean? And what if we never make it?"

 "That's your responsibility," Avril teased. Now she knew she had him. "Call it an incentive."

 "What are we talking here? Fifty percent?" he asked hopefully.

 "Dream on, young Donald!" she laughed. "Try five!"

 Vincent stood stiffly with his hands clasped tightly his back before the Bishop's desk. The old man was speaking in syrupy tones to a reporter on the other end of the phone line.

 "You will understand that I cannot comment on that as long as an internal investigation is pending..." He listened distractedly to the reporter's next question while gazing out the window into the distance. He had not so much as acknowledged Vincent's presence yet. "Did I say that?" he asked with feigned astonishment. "Of course the Church recognizes the authority of the civil courts, although I must say I find it a pity that the courtesy is not reciprocal..." Here he listened to the other party's reply, then laughed, politely and with restraint. "My good man, if it were only so, the world would have no need of the Church at all, and then where should I be?..." He chuckled with real amusement this time as he leaned forward onto his desk, nodding toward Vincent as he did so. Vincent smiled uneasily. "Just so. You will have to excuse me, my next appointment has been standing at attention here for several minutes now, and I'm afraid the suspense is just about to kill him." He listened to the reporter's final comment with the receiver already an inch away from his ear and called out as it was halfway to the handset, "A good day to you too, sir and God bless!" Click.

 Bishop Goldberg folded his hands serenely on the desktop and studied Vincent with his pale inscrutable eyes. He decided that Father Sheahan looked nervous. More than that. Anxious. He looked like he expected to be whipped. What had he been up to? Might Frank have been withholding information on this young curate? He cleared his throat and gave Vincent a tight smile. "Reporters. Worse than lawyers in their own way."

 Vincent wasn't sure whether he was meant to respond to that, so he didn't. He had had his own experience with reporters in Brazil and he had found them to be quite acceptable. In fact, one had saved his life. He was in enough trouble already though without his mouth getting him into more. He tried to smile indulgently.

 Bishop Goldberg waited until the tension was just short of being unbearable, then slapped his hand down on the desk. Vincent jumped. "By God, Father!" the Bishop barked. "Stand down! This isn't a court martial!"

 Vincent unclasped his hands and shrugged his shoulders to release some of his tension. He hadn't realized he'd been so tight. "I'm sorry, Bishop," he said. "It's just that I didn't know exactly what you wanted to see me about."

 "No," Bishop Goldberg mused, "I suppose not." He narrowed his eyes and scrutinized Vincent again, as if he were attempting to read his heart. "Is there anything that you think I should see you about?"

 That was a trap he'd be able to spot blindfolded. "I wouldn't presume to know," Vincent answered with a poker face.

 The Bishop chuckled shortly. "Good. We all have our little secrets, don't we. But not from God." He wagged a finger at Vincent and admonished him, "Remember that, not from God."

 It seemed to Vincent that this time he should provide a response. He opted for the tried and true, "Yes, Bishop."

 The Bishop pushed his chair back and stood up from his desk. He wandered seemingly aimlessly toward the wall, where he stopped before a framed photograph of Pope Pius XII. "Do you remember him?" he asked, half turning toward Vincent.

 Vincent squinted in order to see better. Of course he recognized the Pope, but that had been before his time, and he said as much.

 "Now there was a man who put the Church before everything else," Bishop Goldberg said admiringly, examining the face on the wall with a deep interest. "I know what the historians are saying about him, but he really had the best interests of the Church at heart. Service. That's what it's all about, isn't it? Serving the Church."

 "I'd like to think I serve God and my fellow man," Vincent offered. It seemed a harmless enough comment.

 The Bishop now turned his full attention back to Vincent. "Ah now, Father, there's a fine line, isn't there? Our brother monks serve God through their constant prayers. Our sister nuns serve our fellow men through their devoted work among the poor and needy. But we, only we, are blessed to serve the Mother Church in our offices."

 Vincent had never thought of it like that. He was still considering the idea when the Bishop returned abruptly to his desk, set his glasses on his nose and consulted a paper. "Father Sheahan, we should like to give you the opportunity to serve the Church more fully."

 Vincent's heart sank into his stomach. He was being transferred. He knew he wouldn't get very far by arguing, but if the decision had already been made, he didn't have anything to lose. "Your Lordship, I've only been here such a short time, I don't think I've had a chance yet to--"

 The Bishop made a dismissive gesture and looked at Vincent over the rim of his glasses. "Pish posh. We heard about your exploits during that little flood up in BallyK. Too bad the sandbags didn't hold but, well, these things happen. The important thing is that you tried, isn't it, and made a good impression." He consulted the paper again. "We also saw the numbers from your Mass the next day. Not bad."

 Vincent didn't know what to say. Was he being praised? '...exploits during the flood...' Did he mean how Vincent had helped salvage people's belongings? Surely not the fact that he had moved out to Avril's again and been seen driving her car around. That wouldn't jibe with the 'good impression' the Bishop seemed to have.

 Bishop Goldberg sat down again and removed his glasses. "You may have heard that Father Beaumont has been ailing lately."

 This non-sequitor brought Vincent's attention back to the Bishop. "Excuse me?"

 "Father Beaumont. At Baleach na gCapaill. Never recovered properly from that last bout of bronchitis."

 "Ah yes." He had been sounding a bit croupy the last time they had spoken, but that had been weeks ago.

 "We need someone to cover his duties on a more long-term basis. Since you have a certain..." the Bishop waved his glasses around noncomittally, "...familiarity... with the area, we've tapped you to do it."

 Baleach na gCapaill. That wasn't too far from Ballykissangel. At least they weren't sending him to the ends of the earth. "Thank you, Your Lordship. Will Father MacAnally be taking over at Ballykissangel then?"

 The Bishop dropped both arms heavily onto the desk. "Whyever should he do that? Good God Father, no, you'll be handling both congregations!"

 "Both?" Vincent's head was spinning.

 "Unless you think you can't handle it?"

 "Both will be fine," he replied through his daze.

 When Vincent returned to Fitzgerald's that evening, Brendan, Doc Ryan, Liam and Dónal, were sitting in the lounge area before a roaring fire. Vincent was dog tired and had a lot to think about, so he greeted the men briefly and headed straight for the stairs. Paul came over from the bar, bringing a tray full of drink orders.

 "Evening, Father."

 "Evening, Paul. How's business," he asked automatically.

 "Lousy. When do you think that furnace'll arrive?"

 "What do you mean?" Vincent stopped and looked around. He realized that, aside from the four regulars huddled close to the hearth, the bar was completely empty. He sighed, "I've no idea," and continued up the stairs.

 St. Joseph's and St. James's. Ten miles each way, uphill and down, winter was coming, and he didn't have four-wheel drive, let alone snow tyres. No snow ploughs in those hills, especially not in time for early morning Mass. Speaking of which...twice the Masses, twice the christenings and confirmations (at least the population was sparse), twice the funerals (more deaths around Christmas as everyone knows), twice the counseling (he'd make those that could, come to him), twice the confessions (he cringed), twice the inventory and orders (he was yawning already), twice the bookkeeping...he was getting a headache just thinking of all those numbers.

 After leaving the Bishop's residence, driving down the N11 on his way back to Ballykissangel, the reality had sunk in, and his first thought had been, he was ashamed to admit, that he wouldn't have any time left to see Avril. His second thought, he had to give himself credit there, had been that that was probably a good thing. A little time apart would be good. Things had been getting a little too intense. Not that he had been shirking any of his duties for Avril's sake. In fact, many times, talking to Avril had given him the needed boost to get on with things that he was putting off. Also, if he didn't have someone like Avril-- or rather, if he didn't have Avril, he just might have taken up drinking again, if only to relieve the monotony of the weather and the routine on this tiny speck of earth. He understood now why the Irish were infamous for their drunkards. Australians might drink a lot too, but they did it for the fun of it. The Irish did it to escape.

 "Morning."

 Avril started around and gasped, "Dammit, do you always have to do that?"

 Vincent smiled lazily and leaned on the stable door. "I like making your heart beat faster."

 Avril laughed briefly and tightened the strap around The Cat's chest. "Yeah well just make sure you don't make it stop one of these times! What's up?"

 "Eh, I've got a lot on my mind," he shrugged. "You?"

 "Same." She shot him a look. "Business, I mean."

 "Same here," he sighed.

 "Frank on your back again?"

 "Father Mac? No, the Bishop actually--"

 Avril winced, "Sorry."

 "No, I mean, he's not on my back, he wants me to take over more responsibilities."

 "You? Like what?"

 "Like St. James's."

 "They're transferring you up there?"

 "That's what I thought at first, too, but no, they want me to take on both congregations."

 "BallyK and Baleach na gCapaill?"

 "Mm-hm."

 "Is that a reward or a punishment?"

 Vincent laughed. "I think it's a reward."

 "I'd hate to hear what the punishment is."

 "I think I've been there."

 "Brazil? Ooh, sorry."

 "No I meant here!"

 "Oh we're that bad are we?"

 "Only you!"

 "You wish! I'll have you know I can recite a mean rosary."

 "Once more with feeling!" Vincent crowed.

 They both laughed at the memory of the afternoons they had spent together learning the rosary prayers.

 Once her giggles had died down, Avril asked, "So are you going to do it? I reckon you don't have much choice, do you."

 "No. I mean yeah, I do, I can choose to go back to Van Diemen's land."

 Avril frowned. "But that's--"

 "Where the Bishop thinks I'm from."

 "Lovely."

 "So I just wanted to let you know I might be scarce around here for a while."

 "A man's gotta do..." Avril quipped and moved around to the other side of the horse. She patted the animal's flank and looked her over. Scarce. It didn't seem to be what he wanted, either. But she felt proud of him. He was doing the right thing. He was always trying to do the right thing, and she wasn't making it any easier for him. On the other hand, she wasn't exactly pursuing him. He was the one who kept popping up out of thin air. She led The Cat out of the stall.

 As she passed by Vincent, he changed to a more upbeat subject, "Hey, you ever heard of a barber named O'Hare in Cilldargan?"

 Avril stood outside while Vincent closed the gate and said, "Well I know there's a barber shop named O'Hare's, right across from the Flying Dutchman, but I doubt very much that there's an actual barber there by that name."

 "No?"

 "I think that's what they call an advertising gimmick."

 "Oh." Vincent was disappointed. He walked over toward Avril.

 "Why, thinking of getting your hair cut?" She reached up and fingered the ends of his hair. "It is getting a bit long there, Samson."

 Vincent shook his hair free and protested goodnaturedly, "I like it long, Delilah! But you're right, it could do with a trim."

 "I'll do it for you," Avril said firmly.

 "Yeah right, I'd end up looking like that!" Vincent gestured toward the mare.

 Avril looked at her in genuine concern. "What's wrong with how her hair looks?" She brushed at the mane, straightening it with her fingers. "No really, I can cut hair. I mean, I never went to beauty school or anything, but my mum used to cut my dad's hair, and so I learned how to do it. Piece of cake."

 "But have you actually ever done it before?"

 "Yes," she said defensively. It was true, but Garrett hadn't liked it. The cut itself had been acceptable, it just hadn't been exactly the same as his barber did it. No sense bringing that up now.

 "Do you have any references?" Vincent teased.

 "God," Avril rolled her eyes in momentary exasperation, "OK, just forget I said anything! I didn't know you were so vain! It's just a little chop here, a little snip there, make sure everything's even, what's the big deal."

 "You don't have to go around wearing the haircut," he pointed out.

 "Hey, if you don't look good, we don't look good!"

 Vincent agreed to come back that evening for the hair cut, as they both had a full program that day. He had his misgivings, though. Should he really let her do it? He wasn't so much worried about how it would look, he could always get it fixed up later if it were too awful, but to tell the truth there were more parallels between the two of them and the Biblical pair than he was comfortable with. Would Avril really turn out to be his Delilah? In addition, he had to prepare himself to answer the inevitable question.

 Back in town, Vincent was pleased to see the van from McKeegan's Heating and Cooling double-parked in front of Fitzgerald's. He fervently hoped for McKeegan's sake that Frankie wasn't around. She had been wielding the pen like a sword lately. As it wasn't raining, he parked up at the church just to be on the safe side, then walked back down to the pub to see how the work was progressing. The air was nippy, and the tip of his nose was already cold by the time he opened the door. However, the only difference between inside and outside was that it was darker and there was no wind inside. Vincent couldn't see anyone, but he heard loud metallic banging noises coming from the basement, then a man's voice shouting a stream of epithets.

 Vincent heard Paul's voice from somewhere behind the bar calling tremulously, "Everything all right down there?" He leaned over the bartop and saw Paul kneeling next to the open trap door leading into the cellar. Paul looked up at Vincent and his expression changed abruptly from worry to cheer. "Furnace arrived," he said brightly, pointing downward.

 "So I gathered," Vincent commented. "Are they...?" he asked, somewhat concerned.

 "Fine, fine, never better," Paul assured him. "They're professionals."

 "Yeah, well let me know if I can help. Like with the Sacrament of Anointing," Vincent said dryly and pushed back off the bar.

 Paul chuckled weakly and waved as Vincent backed away and went back outside.

 The wind had picked up a bit, and the bare tree branches scratched at the sky. Vincent put his hands on his hips and watched a tour bus trundle across the bridge, then turn up toward the weavers colony. A couple of tourists snapped pictures through the bus windows of him standing before the pub. He tried to look Irish. As soon as the bus had passed, he made his way up the hill himself. All he needed to run two churches was a little organization, he said to himself. And that's just what he had: very little organization.

 Late that afternoon, Vincent was just finishing up writing in all the Masses he needed to say for the rest of the year on a calendar when a knock sounded at the sacristy door. It was Father Mac.

 "Well Father, I hear you've been hand-picked to take over Father Beaumont's congregation," the older priest said, making it sound like this was not the most precipitous turn of events.

 "Looks that way," Vincent replied matter-of-factly, laying his pen down.

 "Congratulations," Father Mac said with complete lack of enthusiasm.

 Vincent shifted in his chair to face the doorway. "What I don't understand is why the Bishop had to call me in. Doesn't this kind of thing fall more under your jurisdiction? You know, assignments within your parish?"

 "It would," he answered flatly.

 "So why the Bishop?"

 "You'd have to ask him," Father Mac replied evasively.

 "He also didn't seem to have heard anything about my...erm...my temporary lodgings."

 Father Mac raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. "No?"

 "Or if he did, he didn't say anything."

 "Should he have?"

 Vincent regarded his superior intently. Then realization dawned on him. "You didn't tell him, did you?"

 A faint smile played at the corners of Father Mac's eyes. "Now why would I keep that a secret?"

 "I don't know." He really didn't. He would have thought that Father Mac would have run straight to his superior with the incriminating evidence of Vincent's trespasses. What could Father Mac hope to gain by protecting him?

 Father Mac's face broke into an open smile at Vincent's confusion. "Well good luck with your new position. Looks like you'll be awfully busy from now on," he said smugly.

 "Now, what would you like? GI Joe cut? Flattop? Maybe a tonsure?" Avril flicked on the electric clipper and stood in front of Vincent, grinning maliciously.

 "Whoa, you won't be needing that!" Vincent flinched and batted at the clippers with one hand from his perch on the kitchen stool, the other hand gripping the towel around his neck.

 Avril turned the instrument off and shifted her weight to one leg. She considered her options, then exclaimed, "You're right. What am I thinking? I'll just go get the razor."

 "You'll do nothing of the sort, Sweeney Todd!" Vincent warned her, playfully grabbing her wrist. Avril let her arm relax into his grip. His misgivings about this entire undertaking immediately resurfaced, but he didn't let go. They watched each other attentively. Who would pull back first? Finally, without breaking eye contact, Avril opened the hand holding the clipper. Vincent took it slowly from her and placed it on the table. Then he let go of her.

 "Not Sweeney, but have you tasted my meat pies?" Avril said softly.

 Vincent relaxed slightly and gave Avril a grateful smile. "Very good," he said appreciatively.

 Avril stepped over to a drawer and got out her sharpest scissors, trying to calm her breathing. She had made a completely innocent offer, thinking she would be doing him a favor, save him a few Euros and especially a couple of hours of his precious time, but as always when they were alone together and in close physical proximity, things were starting to happen. Well, it would have to be up to him to call it off, if he wanted to. If not...?

 Avril returned with the scissors and picked up the comb she had already laid on the table. "OK now, seriously, I'm just going to follow what you've already got here, just an inch or so off the ends."

 "A whole inch?" he yelped.

 Avril turned serious. This routine was getting tired. "Do you want your hair cut or not?"

 Vincent closed his eyes. He had to trust her. "Go for it." He felt her pull the comb carefully through his damp hair. A shiver ran down his back and arms. He tried to imagine that it was Hank, the village barber in Cuiabá. Hank had always smelled of sweat and rum, though, and Avril smelled of saddle oil and freshly cut grass standing there next to him, and when she moved he caught a whiff of that sweetness again that permeated his dreams. She ran the tip of the comb along his scalp, dividing his hair into sections, and soon he heard the metallic snipping sound of the scissors. At least it felt like she knew what she was doing.

 Avril started at the back, then moved around to his left side. Several minutes passed in silence, during which Vincent let himself be lulled into complacency by the hypnotic effects of the rhythmic clipping sound and the soothing repetitive motions. He had even forgotten about the scar when he felt Avril pause. She ran her fingers over the skin above his ear to lift the hair up. He didn't open his eyes. "Leave it long there," he said quietly.

 She leaned in closer to see better. Her being so close made his scalp prickle. She carefully moved his hair aside and saw what she had felt. A thick, pink scar ran from just in front of his ear all the way around the side of his head and ended five inches later in the back. "My God, Vincent, what happened?" Avril whispered. Her first thought was brain surgery of some sort.

 "That's where they tried to scalp me," he said in a forcedly cheerful manner.

 "What? Who?" Avril asked in horror, sitting down heavily on a nearby chair.

 "Some bald Brazilians," he attempted to joke. "Said they'd never seen such a fine head of hair." That much was actually true, but the reason for the attack had been much more serious.

 Avril pulled her chair up close to him and fingered the scar tenderly. The skin was still slightly puffy. She could tell it must have happened not all too long ago. "Does it still hurt?" she asked with concern.

 "No." Especially not now, not with her here. He didn't dare open his eyes, because then he'd have to look at her, and he was afraid of what might happen next if he did that.

 Avril swallowed over the nervousness in her stomach. Sometimes she wasn't sure when Vincent was kidding. She supposed it was possible, maybe he had gotten drunk with some Indios and they had really tried to scalp him. It was like when he had told her about the alcoholic priest who had had an affair with a 19-year-old girl. Had it been him? Was it even true? She silently combed the hair back down and resumed cutting.

 The jumbled events of two years earlier pushed their way back into Vincent's mind. Guerrilleros in mismatched camouflage and rags...a profusion of machine guns...darkness...a confusion of shouts, cries, screams, silence... --Avril's fingers, suddenly cold, moving through his hair-- ...He had tried to talk to the soldiers, shield his friends, but they had only taken the drunken padre with the broken Portuguese seriously enough to silence him with a rifle butt to the eye... --The comfortable weight of Avril's hip pressing against his arm, snip, snip-- ...Head throbbing...dirty, cracked faces grinning at him... --Avril gently brushing away the cuttings from his face-- ...Sharp, blinding pain...red... He opened his eyes.

 Avril was in front of him, standing between his knees. She was just feeling the hair on either side of his head to make sure it was even. She had on a short-waisted blue jumper over her jeans, and when she raised her arms, her midriff was exposed. Vincent reached out and put his hands on her bare skin. "Avril..." he murmured and leaned forward so that the crown of his head rested against her stomach. He squeezed her waist tightly. This whole game of keep away was crap. All he wanted was a little warmth, a little human companionship. They didn't have to actually sleep together, if he could just--

 Avril froze. This was the last time. Either one of them had to put an end to this constant pas de deux of two-steps-forward-one-step-back, or they moved onward. Avril knew which way she wanted things to go. She rested one hand on his head and gently pressed him to her.

 God doesn't want this, Vincent thought. God doesn't want me to be here, like this. What I'm about to do is wrong. No, it's not wrong! It's just against the rules. And I'd be breaking a promise. I broke it before, but that was different. Really, really different.

 Vincent released Avril and pushed himself back. "I can't go on like this."

 Me, either, Avril thought. Sometimes things went so smoothly between them, and then suddenly something would happen, a gesture, a look, a touch, that sent both of them ducking for cover. She thought back to how he had kissed her the night of the party. Even without either of them having said anything, she had known from that moment that he loved her, but it was something that she didn't dwell on. Maybe she was afraid of the implications.

 Vincent regarded her, clutching the comb and scissors in one hand, the other one balanced in the air where she had been holding his head against her body. Her pulse was visible beating rapidly in her neck. She looked vulnerable, like a wild animal unsure whether to run away or approach. "Do you want me to go?" he asked carefully.

 Avril seemed to recover some of her self-assuredness. She let her hands fall to her sides. "It doesn't really matter what I want. I know the rules you have to play by."

 He took a deep breath and asked, "And if I forget the rules?" It was almost an offer.

 Avril's nervousness rose into her throat. She was pretty sure that he had just asked to sleep with her. He was asking her to make the decision for him, but she knew that it couldn't work that way. He still knew what was right and what was wrong. "You haven't," she answered.

 Vincent set his jaw stubbornly. "Well maybe I want to."

 Avril walked over to the sink and began to rinse off the comb and scissors. "That's something you have to decide yourself."

 Vincent turned on the stool to talk to Avril's back. "I reckon you have a say, too."

 "No, I definitely do not have a say." She turned off the taps with a flourish and faced Vincent. She tapped at the air with the comb for emphasis. "You have a say," she wiggled the comb toward the ceiling, "God has a say, Father Mac sure as hell will have something to say--"

 "We may have misjudged Father Mac," Vincent said mildly.

 "What?"

 "Not important," he muttered. He stood up and started pacing around the kitchen. "It's not what you call the rules that are stopping me. Rules by themselves haven't ever been that important to me. But duty and honour are. I took an oath to dedicate my life to God, and that means not to bind myself to any other human being. Even my family theoretically have no greater place in my life than Siobhan or-- or Kathleen... or you." Here he stopped and looked at Avril from the other side of the table.

 "So what does that mean?"

 "That means...that I can't give up my life in the church."

 This sounded like the old story rehashed. He had said it over and over in the past: 'I'm a priest...I can't give you what you want...It's better this way...I do, but I can't...I'll be more circumspect...' But then he had also said, 'Stay.' Not just that one time after the flood, but in so many ways during the past few months. Avril would have been happy to remain "just friends", at least for now, but Vincent apparently was having a much harder time with it. It looked like she would have to force the issue or he would never get past it. "So are you giving up our friendship?" she asked in exasperation, tossing the comb and scissors onto the table as if she were throwing down the gauntlet.

 "I don't want to. But I can't keep just being friends with you. It's using too much of my energy."

 Maybe he had come to a final decision. If so, she wouldn't argue. She had that much respect at least for herself and for him. "Well I guess this is it then," Avril said stiffly.

 "No, that's not what I mean." He stepped around the table and stood next to Avril. This was it, but not how she thought. He wasn't going to back off again. Vincent put one hand on her cheek, stroking it with his thumb.

 Avril was so surprised by this move that she didn't realize at first what it meant. Was this his way of saying good-bye? The look in his eyes wasn't one of regret or farewell, though. It was a look full of promise and hope. Slowly it dawned on her what he wanted.

 Vincent searched Avril's face, looking for permission, and found assent. Finally, there was nothing standing between them. There was nothing stopping Vincent from tasting Avril's lips and mouth, nothing stopping Avril from sliding her hands up along Vincent's ribs and across his back as she eagerly returned his embrace, nothing stopping them from enjoying this newfound freedom and the accompanying sensations and emotions. More than anything, though, it was a great relief.

 For Avril, being so close to Vincent and sharing such intimacy with him felt at once unfamiliar and cozy. The newness of the experience was certainly thrilling, but it was also something she didn't think would fade as quickly as the novelty. It felt so deeply satisfying, but maybe that was because she had been holding back from even fantasizing about it.

 For Vincent, it felt as if he had come home. Avril's arms around him, the subtle curves of her body pressed against him, her passion awakening in him what he had long denied himself, it all fell into place like the last pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Yes, he thought, God, let me just have this, I won't neglect your work for a second, not one Mass, not one confession, not one lamb.

 When their first thirst had been quenched, they paused to look at each other and had to laugh at the joy they saw reflected in each other's eyes. "But you're not going to leave the priesthood," Avril said then, half questioning.

 "No," Vincent confirmed.

 "And this is something that you can reconcile with your sense of duty and honour?" she asked, raising her eyebrows suspiciously.

 "God will always come first for me. But I need to have you in my life, too."

 "As...what?"

 "I don't know. Can we try to find out?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye as he leaned in for another kiss.

 On approaching Fitzgerald's that night, it seemed to Vincent that the pub was much louder than usual. The reason soon became clear: the doors were propped open, allowing the clinking of glasses and the buzz of conversation to escape into the frosty fog drifting down from the mountains.

 When Vincent entered the pub, it was like stepping into a sauna, and not just because of the temperature and humidity. The amount of clothes the patrons were wearing was in inverse relation to the amount of alcohol they had imbibed. In practice, this ranged from long-sleeved, button-down shirts with loosened ties right down to undershirts, with one particularly hairy, meaty fellow having been inspired (or was that perspired) to remove everything from the waist up, much to the amusement of his buddies and the dismay of everyone else. Paul was currently trying to convince the man to place at least one layer of fabric between his skin and the public eye, if only for the sake of the ladies.

 Vincent waved to Paul across the crowd and made his way to the bar looking for Óonagh, squeezing in between Edso and an older man.

 Edso looked up at Vincent and offered, "Eh, here you are Father, I was just leaving." He pulled a note out of his pocket and dropped it onto the bar as he stood up.

 "Ah no Edso, don't bother, I just wanted to grab a soda," he said distractedly, craning his neck in order to spot the barwoman.

 "No bother, really, Avril and I've got an early start tomorrow," Edso announced. He was interested to see how the priest would react.

 At the mention of Avril's name, Vincent turned to face Edso and responded politely, "You have?" He knew that Avril had plans to attend the afternoon races at Galway Downs, but she hadn't mentioned anything about Edso accompanying her.

 Edso noted Vincent's interest, masked by a polite lack thereof. "Sure, me and her are spending the day together," he said with some pride, then without waiting for a reply, cheerfully made his way to the door, calling out, "Good night then."

 "G'night," Vincent responded automatically.

 Vincent spent a restless night that night, but not because of Edso's obvious and childish attempt at getting his goat. It was the heat, pure and simple. There seemed to be no way of turning it down, and even with the windows thrown wide open, it was just short of sweltering in his room. It was like being on the edge of the rain forest all over again. At least there weren't any monkeys screeching in the treetops at 4 am. Unless you counted Paul. It was apparently hot in his and Óonagh's room as well, and he must have tried to cool off under the shower at one point, but the water heater also seemed to have been set to 'Inferno', and his frantic screams of pain had shattered everyone's hope of any sort of repose. Luckily for Paul, he had come away with nothing more than a red streak on his back, but the way he was playing it up, you'd think he had been given thirty lashes with a red hot poker. Vincent decided not to interject his own experiences along those lines, but promised wearily to get McKeegan back down first thing in the morning. The real morning, which didn't begin until Vincent had had at least six hours of sleep followed by a nice hot cup of coffee, no matter what the clocks might say.

 "What does it look like this time?" Avril asked, hoping beyond hope that Edso would be able to pull another miracle out of his big black box. This morning, a problem with the muffler had delayed their start by 40 minutes; then a misfiring cylinder had brought them limping onto the racing ground, leaving Edso with his work cut out for him while Avril rushed to check in and get the animals fed and loosened up. But the mechanic's presence had paid off, at least as far as Avril was concerned. If she had missed showing up to the race, it would have been a disaster for her reputation. For Edso, though, it was a loss on all counts. Neither horse had ended in the money, meaning his cut amounted to less than nothing, and Avril, although more friendly than Edso was used to her being, had shown no more than a polite interest in any of his attempts at chatting her up. Now was his last chance.

 Edso clucked his tongue. "Gee, it don't look good."

 "What does that mean," Avril asked, dreading the answer. It was already getting dark, and they were only about halfway home.

 "It means," Edso shook his head gravely, "it don't look good." It was true, it was an ugly old engine. But at the moment it was his best friend. This new problem with the electrical system could be fixed in a matter of minutes with some of the copper wire in his tool box, but Avril didn't need to know that. "Sorry," he said with an air of finality, "there ain't nothing I can do until the morning."

 "What will you be able to do in the morning that you can't do now?"

 "See what I'm doing!" Edso exclaimed indignantly. "You wouldn't want me to cut through your fuel line in there by mistake, would you?"

 "How about if I hold the torch for you?" Avril asked hopefully.

 "No good. I've got to get right down there in the engine, and that'd block the light, see?"

 "Well what are we supposed to do now? I can't leave them here," she complained, pointing toward the trailer where the horses were stamping nervously. She looked around them in the fading daylight. They were pulled over at the side of a two-lane road. Traffic was brisk but not heavy. They could easily hitch a ride with someone, if it weren't for the two animals.

 "Hey, I think I saw a sign for a farmhouse B&B back about half a mile," Edso said, as if the idea had only just occurred to him. "Maybe they'll let us board the horses as well."

 Avril looked skeptical.

 "Worth a try?" Edso coaxed, putting on his biggest puppy dog eyes.

 Avril rolled her eyes and relented. "Oh all right, worth a try," she said grudgingly. "You go ask, I'll stay here with them."

 Vincent resisted the urge to call Avril. If he showed up at her place tonight asking for a place to rest his head, he might get just that...and more. But tonight, all he wanted was a good night's sleep. If he turned up on Avril's doorstep now, without heading for her bedroom, she'd start to wonder why, and she might conclude that he regretted what he had said and done the previous night, which he didn't, not at all, it was just that he didn't want to move so quickly; actually all he wanted was the freedom to be himself around her, let it all hang out, as it were, and not have to constantly be walking on eggshells when certain topics or situations came up. He'd thought that setting aside the celibacy would make things easier, but it was already starting to get complicated.

 The choice was clear: Frankie, or a slow death by roasting. McKeegan had said it was teething pains, the furnace was just 'overenthusiastic', it must have gotten a flood of oil at first, but once it burned through that the temperature regulator would kick in. Vincent had thought it sounded like so much blarney and wanted to have them take it back, but Óonagh had insisted it was better for the children to be a little too warm than to shiver all night, and Vincent had acquiesced. But that didn't mean he had to stay. He checked out the window and saw that the light was still burning at the garda station across the street, so he packed up a few items in his trusty backpack and headed out.

 Frankie was secretly delighted to find Father Sheahan at her door. Maybe she'd be able to offer him a second home even better than Avril had, she thought to herself as she showed him her spare room, which was already set up for just such an eventuality. She was lonely herself, and he was nice, safe company. Very nice.

 Edso was just as delighted that the farmhouse arrangement had worked out, although unfortunately they had had two rooms available. On the other hand, Avril might have out and out refused to spend the night there if they had been forced to share a room, so he kept her engaged in conversation in the lounge as long as possible, feeling that he had made real progress when she finally excused herself for the night.

 But as Avril and Vincent went to bed that night, their thoughts were not on the other occupants of their respective accommodations, but on each other and their new situation. What did they really feel for each other? Was it just circumstances that had brought them together, or was this something that was truly meant to be? How should they act around each other in public? And most importantly, where would they go from here?