"You want me to give you what?" Avril led The Cat out of her stall and looked sideways at Vincent, her eyes squinting against the cool autumn sun.

 "Riding lessons," he repeated stubbornly, with a hopeful smile glued onto his face.

 She shifted her weight and put one hand on her hip. "What do you need to learn to ride a horse for?" she asked with more than a little curiosity.

 "Well, in case I ever needed to...you know, if there was ever..." He maintained his face while searching for a plausible reason. He hadn't expected that she would ask why he wanted lessons. He couldn't possibly tell her the real reason, although he reckoned she either knew already or would shortly figure it out.

 "A petrol shortage?" she suggested, raising one eyebrow.

 "Yeah," Vincent's grin broadened and he pointed at Avril, glad she was playing along. "See, it might really come in handy. For visiting the sick."

 "Or the lame," she offered.

 "Them especially," he agreed.

 Avril patted The Cat's flank. "I think we can arrange something," she said, smiling conspiratorially at Vincent.

 "Great," he said, relieved. "Hey," he said, pointing at The Cat's leg, "she doesn't look too bad."

 "No, she doesn't, does she?" Avril said hopefully. This would be the first time she would run The Cat hard since her injury. It was a perfect day for it, too. The weather was cool but not chilly, with fluffy white clouds skipping across the sky. She could tell the animal was looking forward to it, as she tossed her mane proudly and trotted along with a lightness and ease of step that reflected perfectly Avril's own mood. Her business wasn't out of the woods yet, but with The Cat recovering and Garrett's polo ponies due to arrive shortly, along with the first installment of their boarding fees, which she had already earmarked to pay Siobhan, there were two fewer things for her to worry about. And then there was Vincent. He stopped by several times a week, sometimes every day, just to talk or hang out and watch the early-morning practice sessions. Her heart always leapt when she recognized the figure in the black jacket standing by the fence, or when she opened her door to see his smile reflecting her own delight.

 Vincent leaned against the open green door to The Cat's stall and watched Avril as she looked the horse over from head to tail. He could see the joy and lightheartedness in her movements. He had noticed the change in her since the day Garrett had come by to visit. How he wished he had heard what words had passed between them, but all he knew for sure was that Garrett would be boarding two horses at the yard. He wondered if Avril's new mood came from the fact that Garrett were back in her life, in a manner of speaking. He wished that he had been the one to ease her burdens, but he took comfort in the thought that maybe he had laid the groundwork for Avril's reconciliation with Garrett, if indeed they had had one.

 In fact, easing Avril's financial burden was the reason behind him wanting to take riding lessons. He thought that she might be pleased to have the extra income, and he figured that they were spending so much time together already, she might as well get paid for it. At least those were the reasons he gave himself. But if truth be told, he would never have come up with the idea if Garrett hadn't shown up, ready to write Avril a cheque. How could he compete with that? Why did he even feel the need to? On the other hand, he considered, maybe she didn't need him anymore. She seemed to be well on her way to opening herself up to her past and her emotions. Maybe this idea with the riding lessons would just be a waste of her time.

 Satisfied that The Cat was ready, Avril started toward the tack room. "Wait right there," she called over her shoulder to Vincent. "You're about to have your first lesson." This would be fun, she thought as she walked to the stall where the equipment was kept. After all that Vincent had done for her, now she would be able to teach him something. Of course she wouldn't accept a penny from him. She didn't believe that he really wanted to learn to ride a horse for the riding's sake, or for the love of the animal, although he clearly knew how to appreciate good horse flesh. She reckoned this was just another ploy to spend time with her, but she didn't mind. She smiled to herself. It just showed how far she had come. A few weeks ago, the thought that Vincent would use a trick to spend time alone with her would have caused a furious reaction in her. Had, in fact. But now she was attempting to accept what she understood to be Vincent's affection for her, however he chose to express it, and to allow herself to feel affection in return. It felt good. Like a synergetic feedback loop.

 She picked up the trunk and carried it back to where Vincent was waiting. He was standing next to The Cat, rubbing her nose. "You might want to take your jacket off," she suggested.

 Vincent turned toward her. "Hey, listen, I didn't mean-- I mean, you don't need to waste your time on me," he said humbly.

 "Don't be silly," she said straightforwardly. "You've spent enough time here when you could have been practicing with the choir."

 "There is no choir," he reminded her with a wink and a nod.

 "Thank God," Avril rolled her eyes. "With that voice of yours..." she teased.

 "Hey, what's wrong with my voice?" he protested good-naturedly, unzipping his jacket.

 "I'm sure I wouldn't know. And anyway," she nodded toward the horse, "she needs to be brushed down. Whether I do it alone or you do it with me, won't matter to her." She put the trunk down, opened it up and selected a brush.

 Vincent tossed his jacket over the stall door and rolled up the long black sleeves of his priest's shirt. "So is this the part where the great karate master makes the apprentice wash his windows and paint his fence?"

 "What?" Avril asked in confusion.

 "Never mind. I take it this exercise has something to do with strengthening my wrists to hold the reins, or learning about the horse's anatomy."

 "No, you dope, this has to do with taking proper care of a horse." She tossed the brush to Vincent. "You respect her, she'll respect you."

 Vincent caught the brush awkwardly and turned it over, trying to decide on the best way to hold it. He spanned the back with his hand and held it up questioningly. "Like this?" he asked.

 "No, see that strap on the back. You slide your hand through that so you have a better grip. Here," she said, stepping close to him. "Like this."

 Vincent surrendered his hand to Avril as she maneuvered the brush onto it. She had long, round, nimble fingers that were surprisingly soft for the amount of physical work she must have done. Her hands felt cool to him as she slid the strap firmly over his hand.

 "Now watch," she said. She picked up another brush, put it on her own hand, and started running it over The Cat in long, even strokes. Then she stopped and gestured for Vincent to come over. "Now you," she said.

 Vincent stepped up to the horse and gave her a few gentle strokes.

 "That's good, but harder."

 "I don't want to hurt her," Vincent protested.

 "I know," Avril said patiently, "but you've got to be firm and confident. Look." She reached out for Vincent's hand and guided him in the amount of pressure to use. "If she knows you have no experience, she'll never perform for you."

 Vincent stopped moving his hand and looked intently at Avril. "And is that what I want? For her to perform?"

 Avril's hand was still resting on Vincent's. She met his gaze and held it for a few seconds. Then she explained slowly, "You want her to know who's in charge. Your confidence will give her confidence. If you're scared of her, or afraid you might do the wrong thing, you'll never get anywhere." She dropped her hand and nodded toward the horse. "Now brush."

 As Vincent worked, he tried to figure out what was going on with Avril. Here he had painstakingly avoided any physical contact with her whatsoever, no matter how trivial, for weeks, ever since the foaling, on the assumption that she was averse to it. But now in the space of a very few days, she had deliberately reached out to him twice, although both instances had gone unacknowledged by either of them. Once in handing the car key back to him, she had let her fingers linger on his palm for a split second longer than would have been necessary. He had been attuned to that split second, as he was attuned to everything about her presence. And now, even if it had been necessary to guide him in his first attempts with grooming, those few extra seconds when she had left her gentle fingers on the back of his hand and looked deeply into his eyes must have meant something. And what she had said. Was she really just talking about a horse?

 Avril stood working on The Cat's other side, out of Vincent's view. Had she gone too far? She was the one who was in danger of scaring him off, not the other way around. After all, she had decided that she would have to live with the pleasure she got simply from being around Vincent, and not try to make it anything more. No, that was wrong. She didn't just "have to live with it", as if it were a thing to be grudgingly put up with. She welcomed it, drank it in, reveled in it. But at the same time, she was becoming more and more uncomfortable with the fact that she hadn't told him how she felt. She still thought (hoped) that he felt the same way. And she was still afraid of what an open discussion on the topic would yield.

 It seemed like the whole town was at Fitzgerald's that night when Vincent came back after celebrating the evening Mass for a sparse congregation. So that's where they all had been, he thought. He walked up to the bar and tried to catch Óonagh's attention, but she was bustling in and out of the kitchen and only had time to call out, "Be with you in a moment, Father."

 Vincent turned to Edso, who happened to be the closest. "What's going on?" he asked.

 "Ah, some club or other in town for the day," he mumbled.

 "Club?"

 "Sure, touring or birdwatching or something. It's been pretty busy round here."

 "Didn't notice," he said distractedly, looking around for Óonagh.

 "Well they weren't here for the horses."

 "Sorry?" Vincent focused on Edso again, trying to parse what he had just said.

 "Nothing," Edso said sullenly.

 Vincent dismissed the comment without another thought, but got the drift that Edso wasn't up for a chat that evening. Of all the young men in the village, Edso was the most difficult for him to warm up to. In fact, he couldn't remember having had a single meaningful conversation with him.

 Óonagh passed by, carrying a full tray of drinks. "What can I get you, Father?" she asked over her shoulder.

 "Soup and some bread'll be fine, Óonagh," he called to her over the din. "And a coffee," he added, pointing over their heads to the far end of the bar, where Brendan was standing, gazing off into the middle distance.

 Óonagh waved and nodded to him to indicate that she had understood before moving on to the next table.

 Vincent made his way down the bar, working the room as he went. Hey, missed you last Sunday, Bernie. No hard feelings, eh Father? Nah. How're the twins, Brian? Eight already! Evening, Violet, nice to see you out again. Finally, he landed at his destination and squeezed in between Brendan and Dónal.

 "Evening, fellas," he said to Dónal and Liam, who were deeply engrossed in scoping out two young ladies at a side table. They acknowledged his presence with a brief, "Father," without taking their eyes off the women. Vincent smiled and turned to the man on the other side of him. "Good evening, Brendan," he said amicably.

 Brendan continued to stare into the distance. Vincent looked at the spot that he gauged Brendan's gaze to be fixed on, but saw nothing of particular interest. He looked Brendan up and down. "Didn't turn around and look at Gomorrah by mistake, did you?" he joked, nudging Brendan with his elbow.

 Brendan snapped out of his reverie. "What?" He slowly focused his eyes on Vincent. "Oh. Good evening, Father."

 "Didn't mean to interrupt you," Vincent apologized.

 "What? Oh, no," Brendan smiled and tapped the newspaper crossword lying on the bar top in front of him. "Just trying to think of an eight-letter word for 'Being true to Cuba'." He squinted his eyes at Vincent. "Ring a bell?"

 "Can't say that it does," Vincent admitted.

 "Me either," Brendan sighed.

 "Hey, what's up with Edso?" Vincent glanced toward Edso, who was morosely studying his glass.

 "Hm? I've no idea," said Brendan disinterestedly.

 Dónal turned halfway around and looked over his shoulder at Vincent and Brendan. "Edso? Oh all he needs is a girl," he said wisely.

 Liam gave up on trying to make eye contact with the girls and spun around to face the others. "Don't we all," he leered. He caught Vincent's amused expression and added solemnly, "Oh, present company excepted of course, Father." Then he delivered his punch line, "Seeing as you've got one already!" He guffawed at Dónal, who looked confused. Liam leaned over and whispered something into Dónal's ear, which made him giggle and look down.

 Vincent couldn't let that remark go unanswered. "Here, what do you mean by that," he asked with a polite smile pasted onto his face.

 "Oh nothing, nothing, sure what would I mean by that?" Liam assured Vincent with a studied innocence. He and Dónal exchanged a look and burst out in malicious laughter again. Liam looked around toward the more crowded end of the pub and said eagerly to Dónal, "Hey, I think I see a couple of unattended ladies down there." He turned to Vincent for his parting shot. "Excuse us, some of us is still in the trenches you know," he said as he hopped off his bar stool.

 Vincent turned to Brendan. "What was that all about?" he asked, slightly dazed.

 Brendan had followed the exchange in silence. Now he watched as Liam sauntered away with Dónal in tow and considered whether to stick his neck out.

 Óonagh arrived with Vincent's meal and set it on the bar top before him. "Anything else?" she asked both of them.

 "You wouldn't happen to have any fresh grapes back there, would you, Óonagh?" Brendan asked.

 Óonagh looked slightly bewildered, but answered regretfully, "Fraid not. Did you want some?"

 "It's just that Liam and Dónal seem to have gotten some sour ones," he said, raising his eyebrows and giving Vincent a knowing look.

 Óonagh waved off Brendan's silliness and walked away.

 "Am I in the twilight zone?" Vincent asked Brendan with a furrowed brow. "It's like everyone's in on the joke but me."

 Brendan knew that it was beneath him to reply that Vincent was the joke, so instead he said, "Father, how would you like to go fishing with me tomorrow?"

 Vincent cast his line into the dark green water of the Angel. "How's Siobhan?"

 "Doing well," Brendan answered optimistically. "I think that cancer scare really brought home to her how important family is."

 "Have you ever thought of getting married?" Vincent asked with the hint of a suggestion in his voice.

 Brendan turned halfway toward Vincent and looked at him from under his fishing hat. "You know, we have. Once we even made it as far as the altar before calling it off."

 "Why?"

 Brendan looked out at the play of the early morning sun on the river. "We decided we were better off just being friends," he answered without regret.

 "I'd think that'd be the best basis for a good marriage."

 Brendan paused thoughtfully before answering, "Maybe."

 They watched the river flow past for a minute. Vincent wondered if that was what Brendan had wanted to discuss with him, his relationship with Siobhan. They did seem to be treating each other more kindly and with more consideration in recent weeks.

 "What about you?" Brendan asked suddenly.

 "What? What about me?"

 "Ever think of getting married?"

 "What?" Vincent squawked as if that were the most ridiculous thing in the world.

 "I don't mean now," Brendan said soothingly. "I mean ever, you know, before you became a priest."

 Vincent looked at the point where his fishing line disappeared into the water. "I was too young to think about marriage then."

 "But not too young to get married to the church," Brendan pointed out.

 "That was different, I was full of ideals, ready to charge off and change the world."

 "And have you?"

 Vincent looked sideways at Brendan. "You tell me," he replied with the hint of a smile.

 Brendan grinned at Vincent's humour. "And now?"

 Vincent sighed. "Now I still have those ideals, but I've learned you can't change the whole world at once, you have to do it one person at a time, starting with yourself."

 That seemed like the perfect opening for Brendan to bring up the subject that he had actually wanted to discuss with Vincent. "And Avril? Are you working on changing her?" he asked as nonchalantly as possible.

 Vincent shook his head, disappointed. So that was the point of this talk. He turned to Brendan and challenged him, "So Brendan, what do you want to know? Am I sleeping with her? No."

 "I'm not trying to judge you, or her, Vincent," Brendan said defensively. "And I believe you. Really. It's just that, well, there was that incident the night you were minding Aisling. And there's been talk."

 "Sticks and stones, Brendan."

 "I know. But I'm not asking just out of idle curiosity either."

 "Then why?"

 Brendan exhaled through his nose. "You know the story of Father Clifford? Was curate here a few years ago?"

 "No, what about him?"

 "He was a good friend. We all liked him. Very much. And some of us, one of us, liked him more than that."

 "A woman?" Vincent ventured.

 "Assumpta Fitzgerald."

 "Of Fitzgerald's?" Vincent asked in surprise.

 "The same."

 "But she died, didn't she?" Of course he had heard of the tragedy, but mainly in the context of how her sudden demise had sent the ownership of the pub into limbo.

 "She did," he confirmed sadly.

 "You don't mean that had something to do with this Father Clifford?" Vincent said in surprise.

 "No, no," Brendan rushed to assure him, "it was a freak accident."

 "But she had been in love with him."

 "Yes. And he with her."

 "So had they been having an affair?"

 "Well, nobody knows for sure, but I think not. I think that both of them fought against their feelings for a long, long time, until it was too late. Then when she died, Peter, that is, Father Clifford, was so distraught that he left town virtually the next day, his faith in shambles."

 "Well he should never have let himself get pulled in. He should have kept his distance," Vincent said virtuously.

 "Maybe," Brendan shrugged. "Or maybe he didn't realize how close he had gotten to her until it was too late."

 "So are you telling me I've gotten too close to Avril?"

 "I like you, Vincent. I don't know what goes on behind closed doors, and it's none of my business. I just don't want this town to lose another good priest. The church is going to be scraping the bottom of the barrel pretty soon."

 "Thanks a lot, Brendan!" Vincent protested goodnaturedly.

 The horse danced back and forth, shook her head and snorted, displeased. Vincent pulled harder on the reins in an attempt to get control, while he kicked at the horse with his heels to make her move forward.

 "No, no," Avril cried, "you can't pull back on the reins and kick at the same time!"

 Vincent stopped all his efforts, letting the reins go slack. The horse snorted again and shook her head to feel the loose reins slap against her neck, then nodded calmly and stamped. "Now what did I do wrong?"

 Avril walked up to them and patted the horse's neck to reassure her. "She doesn't know whether you want her to stop or go."

 "Go," Vincent declared.

 Avril felt slightly frustrated that she wasn't getting through to him. "But you send mixed signals. A horse is trained to follow a few simple, specific commands, and if everyone plays along, it's all well and good. But if you pull to the left while leaning to the right, what's she going to think?"

 "I'm Tony Blair?" Vincent suggested with a hopeful grin. Why couldn't she just lighten up?

 "Ha ha," Avril said dryly. Sometimes she thought he wasn't taking things seriously enough. She looked around, trying to order her thoughts and find a way to explain herself. "I mean, even if you keep the reins straight and steady, but then you start waving good-smelling clover around behind her or you touch her in a way that gives her a different message, then how's she going to know what to do?" She stopped to catch her breath, as she was starting to get a little worked up, and stared up at Vincent, for he was giving her the oddest look.

 Vincent all of a sudden was getting the distinct feeling that Avril wasn't talking about riding a horse at all. In a flash, it all became clear to him. The looks, the gestures, the reactions. He had been so concerned about keeping his own involvement with Avril under control that he had been, if not blind, then at least discounting toward how deep she was getting in. He looked at her with a mixture of self-reproach, sympathy, regret, and love. He did love her; how could he not, after all that they had shared. But he wasn't calling his vocation into doubt.

 "Maybe I need to go over those commands again," Vincent said quietly. "Can we call it quits for today?"

 Avril nodded. That look he had given her gave her shivers, in a profoundly gratifying way. It was an image that would stay with her. "I'm sorry, I know it's a lot to remember," she said sympathetically, getting back to the instruction. "We can go slower."

 Vincent carefully dismounted and looked over the horse's back at Avril. "I don't know, maybe it's something I'm just not cut out for."

 "No no, don't give up," she protested. She wanted to encourage him to continue. He genuinely seemed to enjoy being around the animals. "You'll get there." She hesitated before adding, "If it's something you really want." She knew that Vincent had no real need to learn to ride, and could most certainly use his time to do more service around the parish. But at the same time, she wanted him to feel that he belonged here, too.

 "It is," Vincent assured her firmly and with complete sincerity. "But sometimes there are more important things in life than what we want."

 That statement seemed a little too philosophical to apply to horseback riding, to Avril's mind. Was he saying that he wanted her? Avril tried to look at him more closely, to read his expression, but he was already walking around toward the corral gate.

 Vincent was deep in thought as he walked back to town from the yard that afternoon. There was no doubt in his mind that Avril was attracted to him beyond what he could in all good conscience give to her. In another time and place...but it didn't do anyone any good to think about that. What should he do now? Ask for a transfer? He didn't think that it would take much to convince the Bishop to ship him back out to Australia.

 Frankie's patrol car passed by and pulled over just in front of him. "Father Sheahan," she greeted him as she got out. "Can I give you a lift?" She stood by the open door and leaned one arm on the roof of the car.

 Vincent walked up to the car. "Thanks, Frankie," he said tiredly. "I think I'd rather walk."

 Frankie noticed that he wasn't his usual chipper self. "Anything wrong?" she asked with friendly concern.

 "Just...you know, priest stuff," he tried to placate her.

 "Priest stuff. Sure," Frankie said neutrally. She didn't believe him, but didn't want to get too nosy. She knew he was coming back from Avril's place. "Listen, Father, if you ever want to talk," she offered open-endedly.

 Vincent appreciated the gesture, but this was definitely not something that he could discuss with Guard Frances Sullivan. "Thanks, Frankie, maybe another time," he said kindly.

 "You know, even Doc Ryan sees a doctor in Cilldargan when he's sick," Frankie said sagely.

 Should he talk to Father MacAnally? There had been some rare moments of understanding between the two men. And Father Mac was certainly more experienced. Maybe it would help to discuss things with him. On the other hand, Vincent already knew how Father Mac felt about the whole Avril situation and couldn't expect him to be all that sympathetic. "Yeah, I might do that," Vincent said noncomittally to Frankie and continued on his way.

 When he got back to town, Vincent went straight to the church and knelt down in prayer. If ever he needed guidance, now was the time. He tried to clear his mind of the day's events and remember the words of the prayer he wanted to say.

 "Lord," he whispered, "Grant that I may always allow myself to be guided by You, always follow Your plans, and perfectly accomplish Your holy will. Grant that in all things, great and small, today and all the days of my life, I may do whatever You may require of me. Help me to respond to the slightest prompting of Your grace, so that I may be Your trustworthy instrument. May Your will be done in time and eternity, by me, in me, and through me. Amen."

 He remained so, letting his consciousness float in the cool dank air of the old Irish church. He had a strong conviction that he God was still blessing his work here. There was no reason for him to give that up. He was still invigorated by serving the community, as much as he was by being with Avril, maybe even more. She was certainly an enrichment to his life, but he knew that he could live without her and not be devastated. Not for long, anyway. He would survive. But what would it do to him to lose his position in the church? That was something he had fought tooth and nail to keep all these years, despite his many mistakes, shortcomings, and run-ins with the hierarchy. He hoped that it wouldn't come down to that, having to choose between Avril and the church. He knew that he would choose the church, but at what personal cost, to both of them?

 Vincent turned around when he heard the church door open. He quickly made out the familiar figure of Father Mac limping toward him. Was this his godsend? He stood up to make his presence known.

 "Ah, Father Sheahan," Father Mac said pleasantly when he spotted Vincent near the front of the church. "A little bird told me you might welcome an open ear."

 Vincent nodded and smiled to himself. "Frankie."

 "She said it was 'priest stuff'. Trouble with a parishioner?"

 "No, no trouble." Yet. That's what he was trying to avoid.

 Father Mac sat down with some effort in a pew a couple of rows behind Vincent and waited.

 Vincent sat down, too, and looked up at the altar. Jesus had suffered a man's anguish, surely, at the thought of people He loved getting hurt for His sake. Vincent felt certain that He empathized with Vincent's dilemma. Not that Vincent considered his situation in any way similar to what the Lord had suffered. It was just that he needed desperately to talk to someone, and other than God, Father Mac was the only one around here who would keep his mouth shut. Even if it was only to protect his and the church's reputation. He hoped that the older priest would also be able to muster at least a sliver of understanding. He tried to think of a way to pose his question as a hypothetical situation, but found it to be impossible. Father Mac hadn't been born yesterday. He would know it was Vincent. Nothing like the truth.

 He kept his gaze steady on the statue over the altar and announced, just loud enough for Father Mac to hear, "Father, I love Avril Burke."

 Father Mac pursed his lips. So it had come to that. "Shall I hear your confession?"

 Vincent shook his head and looked down. "It's not like that."

 "I see," said Father Mac suspiciously. They had had this once before, hadn't they? "And what are you going to do about it?"

 "Nothing. I don't mean that I'm IN love with her, I just care very much for her, personally, and I don't want to see her get hurt."

 "Then you should keep your distance," Father Mac said sharply. "Maybe a transfer to somewhere else within the diocese would be just the thing. I know that the Bishop doesn't want to lose you." He said the last part with a grain of bitterness, knowing that the Bishop was at that very moment hurrying Father Mac's retirement along.

 "No, I'm not going to run away. Not this time," Vincent said, more to himself.

 This time? Father Mac thought to himself. Had there been other times? But he knew better than to ask about another priest's past. God forgives all. And the hierarchy will cover it up. "Father," the older man said with exaggerated patience, "I am only suggesting it for your own good. And hers."

 Vincent doubted that very much. He turned around in the pew to face Father Mac. "But that's just it," he explained matter-of-factly. "I don't think it would do either of us any good."

 "Don't you? I gather you're confiding in me to benefit from the wisdom of my years. I've seen it all, believe me. And in your case, a transfer is the only sure way of averting a catastrophe."

 By this time, Vincent could see that Father Mac was not going to be in any way sympathetic to either him or Avril. Just out of curiosity, he asked, "What would be a catastrophe, in your eyes?"

 "You need to ask?" Father Mac nearly roared. "Temptation, scandal, a fallen priest, broken vows," he thundered. Then he lowered his voice to express the most loathsome thing that could befall a clergyman: "Sex."

 "Don't you care about people's feelings?"

 "A priest has no feelings," said Father Mac harshly.

 "A priest is still a man," Vincent reminded him.

 "A priest is a man of the cloth, a man of God," said Father Mac haughtily. "His feelings have no place here."

 "And Avril?"

 "Ms Burke, as a divorced woman, has made her own bed. Let her lie in it. Alone!" And with that, he stood as quickly as his stiff joints would let him and awkwardly maneuvered himself into the aisle. He stood and delivered his final word to Vincent. "If you don't take this situation in hand and put an end to it, then mark my words, I will!"

 Vincent stopped and rested his arms on the top of the rough-hewn wooden fence next to the road. He looked out across the rocky field with its long late-afternoon shadows. The country here was superficially quite different from what he had known back in Australia, the contrast between the dry, scrubby, sun-bathed landscape of his homeland and the verdant green, wet panorama of this island nation being the most striking. But underlying the surface dissimilarity was a basic kinship of type. Both lands were still wild, rough places where you could get lost...or find yourself.

 Avril leaned her back against the fence and put her hands into her jacket pockets. She inhaled deeply and took in the odor of damp earth and decaying greenery. When Vincent had stopped by the yard that afternoon, she had noticed right away that it wasn't one of his usual friendly visits. He had seemed a little tense, and she had agreed right away to temporarily turn over the supervision of the yard to John Joe so that she and Vincent could take a stroll down the road behind the stables. She suspected that this wasn't just a casual walk in the countryside, but she really didn't know what Vincent had on his mind.

 Vincent felt nervous. His heart was beating at an accelerated pace and his hands were trembling slightly. He had never told anyone this before, outside of the confessional. But he didn't want to be the cause of anyone else's pain again. He cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady. "Can I tell you a story?"

 "Is this going to be one of those agricultural parables?" Avril asked skeptically.

 "No," Vincent laughed, glad for the release. "No seeds, no vineyards--"

 Avril rolled her eyes. "Lord knows I've gone through enough of those," she said.

 "Right. Anyway," he turned more serious. "True story. There was a man...well, actually, he was a priest, but he sometimes forgot that and so let's just say he was a man."

 "Aren't all priests men?" Avril asked with a twinkle in her eye.

 Vincent wasn't up for banter, so he answered her straight, "Sure, but in this case it was his undoing."

 "What was," Avril asked quietly, getting the feeling that this wasn't going to be a funny story.

 "I'm getting there. So there was a man, and he was living in a place that was completely foreign to him. He was an outsider, didn't speak the language at first, but due to his job--"

 "Which was priest--" Avril interjected.

 "Right, which was priest," Vincent confirmed. "The people used to give him things, you know, food, little gifts, drink, whatever, make him feel at home, welcome."

 "Sounds like a nice place," Avril said with a gentle smile.

 Vincent smiled briefly, too. "It was. So he was living it up, officiating at weddings and staying on for the festivities, officiating at funerals and staying on for the wake, working with the people in their fields and getting swept along to their parties afterwards."

 "Party on."

 "Yeah, that's what the man thought too. Plenty of food, music, dancing." Vincent looked Avril in the eye and spoke with emphasis, "And drink."

 "Drink," Avril repeated solemnly.

 "Drink," Vincent confirmed. "And...women. Women and girls."

 Avril thought she could see where this was going, but she remained silent. She got the sneaking feeling that Vincent was speaking of himself, especially since he had mentioned the drink. But the part about the women was new to her.

 Vincent tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. He shivered slightly and looked down. "Well you can imagine what happened. Good-looking young man with a certain amount of social leverage, too much alcohol, looking for acceptance, dark, close quarters, pretty girl..."

 "Yeah, I think I can fill in the blanks," Avril murmured sympathetically.

 "But the worst part is," Vincent closed his eyes in pain at the memory, "the worst part is, the man didn't have the decency once he was sobered up to face up to his mistake and try to make amends, but he kept getting drunk and doing it again and again." He gripped the top rail of the fence with both hands and squeezed the prickly wood hard.

 Avril raised one eyebrow and looked at Vincent intently. "So it was the alcohol, was it?" she asked sharply.

 "No," Vincent said firmly and a little too loudly, releasing his grip. He straightened up and met Avril's gaze. "It was the man's weakness. His ego. The alcohol was just an excuse, and then it became his problem as well." He looked out across the field. Overhead, a flock of swallows was wheeling in perfect unison.

 Avril waited a few seconds before softly prompting, "So what happened?"

 Vincent flicked his eye toward Avril, then looked down again. "The man remembered he was a priest. The girl was in love. Her life was over."

 "You don't mean-- I mean, she didn't..." Avril asked in horror.

 "Kill herself? No, but she might as well have. Or rather, he might as well have."

 "How do you mean?"

 "She thought he was going to give her a life."

 Avril thought about this for a moment. Actually, it wasn't completely unlike her situation with Garrett. She had thought that Garrett was her life, but when he had left, she had had to make her own way. Although, she admitted, he had never taken advantage of her. And she certainly hadn't been an innocent victim. "And the priest?" she asked.

 Vincent gave her a bitter little smile. "He ran away. Got transferred. But he's still around somewhere."

 "Do you know him?" She still wasn't completely certain whether Vincent's story had been autobiographical or not. Maybe the priest had taken advantage of his sister. Or maybe it had really just been someone he had known.

 He shook his head slowly. "Not anymore."

 Avril and Vincent looked at each other. Avril saw that it had been difficult for Vincent to tell her. Her heart went out to him. She laid her hand gently on his sleeve. "Why did you tell me that story?" she asked.

 Vincent looked at his arm where she was touching him. He reached over and covered her hand with his. This time, hers was warm and comforting, and his was cold and clammy. "Because," he said simply, raising his head to look at her, "I'm a priest." That said it all. That told her that he had recognized her feelings for him, and perhaps his feelings for her, and that he was drawing a line between the two of them, a line that could never be crossed.

 Avril accepted that; it was nothing less than what she had expected all along. She slowly withdrew her hand and turned toward the field, resting her arms on top of the fence. Despite what was on the face of it a rejection, she felt jubilant and excited, relieved that they were finally having this conversation. But now she had to let him know that nothing had changed for her, and didn't have to for him either. "How old was the girl?" she asked.

 "Nineteen."

 "I'll be thirty next week. And I've already lived one life, and I'm well into my second lease all on my own," she said proudly.

 "Avril--" Vincent began to protest gently. Of course she wasn't the same person as Elena. But that didn't mean that she couldn't get hurt just as badly.

 "All I'm saying is," Avril continued, turning toward Vincent and holding up one hand to indicate that he should hear her out. "All I'm saying, is that...you're right. In telling me that story. You're right. But I'm not looking for anyone to give me a life. I'm happy. Now. With everything. The way things are now." Not that she would have been unhappy if Vincent had been free, but he wasn't, and it was no good dwelling on might-have-beens. Each day was a gift.

 Vincent had to smile when he heard her say that with a look of such deep caring on her face. "You seem happy," he said. It was true. She was much more at peace within herself, more able to handle stressful situations, than she had been when he had first met her.

 She smiled back at him. "I am."

 They understood each other. Neither one had anything to fear from the other. They were both free, not having to hide anything. They both knew, without having said it directly, that they shared a love that nothing else could take the place of.

 "I thought maybe it was because of Garrett," Vincent admitted, although now he saw that it had been himself, and Avril's renewed confidence in her own senses and abilities.

 "I am happy that I am past Garrett," she stated with conviction.

 "And Rosie?" Vincent asked tentatively.

 Avril smiled wryly. "Let's take one day at a time, eh?"

 Vincent grinned at her. She was going to be all right. "They don't come any other way."