Chapter Two
The morning after the wake, the rattle and roll of a thunder and lightning storm shook Lassi into semi-consciousness. “I’ve got her,” she mumbled, fighting with the sheets. “I’ve got Roberta.”
She tried to organize her thoughts between the storm outside and the horror of Roberta’s coffin nearly crashing to the floor yesterday.
Somehow, she and the lingerers—Garda Galbraith, Ailis and Father Ward—all raced into the great-room and managed to steady the casket. They secured the table, shooed all the other wake-goers outside, and left the front room empty. Hopefully, Roberta hadn’t crashed in the night.
The mothball smell emanating from her black shirt tickled her nose. Keeping her eyes shut tight, she peeled it from her body, crumpled it into a ball, and pitched it across the room. A clatter and dry, hollow thud forced her eyes open.
“Ugh.” Another dead kitty lay on its side on the floor, partially obscured by the shirt. Parts of it had snapped in two from hitting the floor. She scanned to see where it had fallen from. Her gaze landed on a high shelf secured to the wall. On top of the wooden plank sat three more deceased felines, their vacant eyes fixed in her direction. “Gah!”
Lassi shivered and pulled the sheet over her head. How did I miss those when I arrived a couple of days ago? She knew the answer. The house was an utter pigsty. To keep from going insane—or maybe to keep from stumbling and breaking a toe—she kept her head down when she trekked through the house.
She lingered beneath the sheet, preferring to avoid the hangover waiting to torture her for her overindulgence last night.
After everyone left the wake, she had hustled toward the kitchen. She’d placed the dried feline she’d tripped over the night before on a paper towel spread on the counter to keep her company. The brittle orangish cat proved better company than yesterday’s mourners. Well, save for Father Ward, perhaps.
Not wanting to waste the liquor she’d purchased, she’d poured the remnants of scotch-filled glasses onto her tongue, sucked droplets from the bottles of near-empty Guinness, and finished off at least one bottle of Ireland’s top-shelf whiskey. She’d toasted her dead great-aunt, told stories of the bits she remembered to the dead cat and celebrated, or maybe cheered, the passing of life.
Her great-aunt had always been bitterly unhappy. And, she made it her mission to have all in her presence join her in misery.
By the time Lassi had staggered to bed, however, a sense of depression had clawed at her insides. The whole house, steeped in decay, mildew, and debris; the wake; the neighbors—they all reminded her of why she hated Bally-nightmare.
“And, the sooner I get to cleaning it, the quicker it can be sold and I can get back home to Dublin,” she muttered into the hot, damp space surrounding her sheet-covered head. She flung the covers away, rolled out of bed, and wrapped her arms around her naked body to keep some of the chill of the room away. Then, she picked her way through the debris to find her backpack. Rummaging inside it, she retrieved a t-shirt, clean panties, and boy shorts, as well as her wool jumper. She quickly yanked them on. Not wanting to step in anything disgusting, she retrieved a pair of socks, too.
She made her way into the small kitchen, kicking aside the boxes, crumpled papers, plastic bags filled with who knew what, Tupperware, and other junk littering the hallway. She’d made a trail when she’d arrived, but apparently the crap had collapsed back into disarray in the night.
Once she entered the kitchen, she let out a disgusted sigh. The dingy room didn’t look any better in the daylight than it did during her celebratory binge last night. Glasses, paper cups, plates, liquor bottles and other signs of yesterday’s celebration assaulted her eyes, as well as Roberta’s hoarded crap. Someone’s bra dangled from the old land line on the wall. It’s probably Ailis’s. The crispy, dried cat glared at her from the counter where she’d left it.
“Christ on a cracker,” she muttered. She stepped across the grimy floor, opened the pantry, and found a pack of garbage bags. Pulling one free, she carried it toward the kitchen table. She opened the sturdy black plastic with one hand, balanced one side against the table, and swept the table clear with her other arm.
Clinks and clatters rang out as the waste and bottles landed either in the bag or on the floor.
“At least nothing broke.” She kicked the bag into the corner and set to making tea.
The dead cat seemed to scrutinize her every move.
“We can’t have you staring at me, can we?” A search under the sink revealed some yellow rubber dishwashing gloves. After tugging them over her hands, she gingerly picked up Mr. Meow’s brittle body and carried him into the living room. She pried open Great-Aunt Roberta’s coffin and placed the dead kitty at her feet. Then, she traipsed into the bedroom, climbed on top of a dresser, and stretched to retrieve the three dead felines from the high shelf. She stacked them one on top of the other and trekked back into the living room. There, she arranged them around her Great-Aunt Roberta.
Eager to get to her tea, she rushed into the bedroom to retrieve the cat which had fallen when she threw her black shirt. She daintily picked up his tail and front leg, and stacked them on top of the dried body. Holding them at arm’s length, she scurried into the front room. Carefully, she arranged this kitty next to Roberta’s head. Both cat and aunt had similarly pinched faces. They kind of look like sisters. She tucked the tail and the leg like a bouquet underneath her dead aunt’s hands, which lay folded in repose over her chest.
Finished with that ghoulish task, she hurried to sanitize her hands and the counter and make some tea. Once she had a steaming mugful in hand, she picked her way through the gloom and waste to sit on the front stone steps.
Even the surrounding countryside brought no cheer. The dark sky cast shadows over an ancient stone dwelling to the south. It had lost most of one outer wall over the centuries. She squinted. In the flickering light, revealed by rapidly moving clouds giving way to seconds of sun, it almost looked like someone was scurrying from one side to the other inside the stone structure. She shivered and looked away, in the direction of the dirt road leading away from here.
A dense fog coiled and billowed across the road. It appeared to originate from the swollen creek and vast wetlands which lined the edge of her aunt’s property. Fingers of tree branches curled through the thick mist.
She blinked, her heart beginning to race, as the dim outline of a figure pushed through the low haze.
The wind gave a gusty blow, whistling around the side of the house. It knocked the mug from her hands. Hot tea splashed on her legs.
“Ouch. Shite.” She bolted to her feet, wiping the liquid from her pants. As the black clad figure grew near, sharp prickles of fear frosted her skin. “Feckity feck.” She glared at the person as if he were the cause of the spill. “I can shoot a gun,” she called, not that she had one in her hands.
“As can I,” a familiar male voice called. His footsteps crunched through the gravel. “But I prefer to perform last rites, tend to the sick and needy, and help young women sell houses.”
She squinted, putting her hand above her eyes. “Father Ward?”
“Who did you think it would be?”
As he came into view, an amused smirk on his face, she relaxed.
He’d come dressed the same as yesterday, in a clerical black suit and vest, with a white Roman collar. His arms strained the jacket sleeves with hard muscle—something she hadn’t noticed yesterday since she’d been overwhelmed by all the people. His dark hair had been pushed back from his chiseled face. He regarded her with clear, unflinching green eyes, and his full lips curved into a smile. His broad chest led to narrow hips. Even his thighs filled the pants legs of his suit.
And when he turned to the side, she caught an eyeful of a linebacker-worthy butt. Do priests lift weights?
She pictured him in handcuffs, naked, writhing on her bed, begging for her to blow him, until her gaze drifted to the huge gold cross dangling from his neck. She shoved away her lusty thoughts with a silent, forgive me father, for I have sinned, adding an extra and I’ll probably do it again so don’t hold your breath. Her adherence to any kind of faith or rules was sadly lacking.
Her gaze skittered back toward his face.
His attention seemed glued to her bare legs, perhaps in some Christian priestly concern for her attire.
She wanted to pull on some sweatpants.
Casting her gaze at the sparse grass and pebbles lining the walkway, she lowered herself to the front step. “How are you this morning, Father?”
She hunched around herself, feeling naked.
“Very well. And you?” He settled his bulk next to her, leaning his elbows on his knees, exuding the kind of warmth she wanted to snuggle into.
“How’s the cleaning coming?” He stared straight ahead.
“Ugh. It’s a disaster in there. I need a fumigator and a Haz-Mat suit to get the job done right.” She flipped her head behind her, indicating the house. “You know all those boxes and bags I stacked to make a clear path from one room to the next?”
“Yes. What about them?”
“They’re yielding to entropy. When I got up this morning, they’d all fallen.” She nudged her mug with her toe. “Maybe the dead cats were playing in the night.”
“Dead cats?”
She afforded him a glance.
Lines of puzzlement creased his face.
“Yep. Apparently, besides being a hoarder, Great-Aunt Roberta had a lot of cats at one time. And, she kept them when they died. Maybe they brought her a reminder of happier times.” She shrugged. “If there were any.”
“I’m sure your aunt had a few happy memories,” he said, without much conviction.
“I doubt it. You did know her, right? She was a miserable woman.”
“I knew her, yes. Very well, in fact. People tend to have a good reason for their misery.”
She turned to give him her full attention.
He stared into the distance, melancholy shadowing his face. His hands clasped together as if in desperate prayer.
Her eyebrows drew into a furrow. I wonder what’s bothering him? Can he read minds? Look, Father, I was only kidding about the handcuffs. Sort of...
Lifting her empty mug, she asked, “Would you like some tea? Or maybe some Irish whiskey? I’m thinking this day could use something strong.”
He stared at her empty mug. “It’s a sin in certain circles for a priest to drink whiskey.”
“Which circle do you stand in?” She rose to her feet.
His eyes lingered at her chest, once more making her feel shivery, but not in an unwelcome way.
“The one that says I’d love a touch, thank you.” He seemed to jerk upright, as if he were yanked to standing. “Then, again, water will be fine.”
“Suit yourself.” She shrugged, grinning at him. “More for me. I’m afraid I indulged in my own separate wake last night.”
His eyebrows pinched together.
A lion’s roar of a yawn escaped her throat. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “This whole thing. I can’t wait to be done with it.”
She stepped inside, heading for the kitchen with Father Ward at her heels.
“You opened the coffin?” he said.
“Is that some sort of mistake?” She whirled around to face him.
He stood stock still in the front room. “Well, it’s not a mistake if you merely wanted to say your goodbyes.” He took a few tentative steps toward the coffin. “But it looks as if you’ve added a few of her deceased pets as companions.” His chin lowered as he clutched the edge of the coffin. He stared hard at the bouquet of cat tail and leg resting in her hands. “She’s holding parts of her dead cat?” He appeared to be torn between repulsion and wanting to laugh aloud. “Miss Finn, I’m afraid you’ve rendered me speechless.”
He let out a small, nervous chuckle, turning to study her face.
As their eyes met, the same flush of heat as yesterday spread through her neck and cheeks. Her gaze dropped to her stocking-clad feet. “I, uh...Let’s see to that water you requested, shall we?”
By the time she’d handed him his water, tossed back a shot of breakfast whiskey, and sat at the kitchen table across from him, he seemed to have recovered his calm tranquility.
“The fellows from the local boneyard will be by shortly to fetch the coffin.” His lips curved in the barest of smiles. “Let’s make sure to close the lid before they arrive. Others might not share your sense of humor.”
She nodded. “We might wait to see if I find more dead kitties before they get here. I’ll make a quick scan of the closets and such.”
His face furrowed. “I’ll arrange for a truck to cart off any furniture you don’t want.”
“Oh, god, I want none of it,” she blurted. “Sorry, I used the Lord’s name in vain,” she added, in case she’d offended him.
He took a sip of his water. “Just...” He waved his hand in a circle. “Just act yourself around me, please.”
“Will do.” She nodded vigorously. “Be myself.”
They sat in silence for a few tortured seconds.
“You might want to dig through her paperwork to see if there’s anything useful to be found. Sometimes the relatives of the departed are surprised at what they find. Those who have crossed over have been known to look after their living relations in unexpected ways.” He tipped his head back to finish his water.
She focused on his strong neck and jaw.
When his head lowered, he caught her stare. He cleared his throat.
She looked away. “I’m, um...I guess I’m the last of the family name, aren’t I?”
Her head swiveled back to meet Father Ward’s gaze.
“You’re right. You’re the last of your line.” All sorts of emotion played in his eyes, and none of it seemed particularly happy.
She wrapped her hands around her arms and rubbed up and down.
“Are you cold?” He leaned forward in her direction, looking concerned.
“No, I... It’s just weird, you know? I never put much thought into it but it makes me kind of sad I’m the last of the Finn women. It seems significant somehow.” She shook her head.
Deep lines of sorrowful anguish etched his face, as if he carried the weighty sins of the villagers—or, the even weightier sin of what she’d like to explore with him. He worked his mouth around, and then let out a bottomless sigh.
The nurse in her wanted to comfort—more like swaddle him and rock him, since she worked in OBGYN. That hardly seemed appropriate since he was a grown man and her interest in him was hardly maternal.
“I’m being stupid. Don’t listen to me. I think this place is getting to me, what with the surprise dead cats and all.” She bolted to her feet. “I’m an idiot.”
She reached for his glass.
“Don’t.” His searing fingers wrapped around her wrist.
Her breath caught, and she stared at his fingers.
“I can manage my own glass.” He withdrew his hand.
She huffed out a breath and hurried to the stained sink.
“I’ll be heading to Dungarvan this afternoon to pick up a few things,” she said, starting to speed-talk. “I’ve got to get some more cleaning supplies. I can’t linger here any longer than necessary. I’ll be needing to get back to the hospital. Babies can’t deliver themselves, you know? I tried to tell the moms to stall until I return but some of them look like bloated cows. I’m sure they want to shove their babies from their loins so they can breathe again. Breathe again. Listen to me. They’re breathing just fine, now.” She clamped a hand over her mouth. Shut up, shut up, shut up. After letting out a long exhale, she said, “Can I give you a lift?”
He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. In two short steps, he brought his glass to the sink. Standing far too close for comfort, he turned on the tap and rinsed it out. “No, thank you. I love to walk.”
She winked. “You’re not used to being driven hard by a Dubliner, are you? We like it fast. You probably prefer a slower pace.”
The double entendre spewing from her lips made her cringe. Her cheeks flushed with fiery heat.
He seemed amused by her flustered babbling. “Actually, I don’t drive. Hard or otherwise.”
She blinked and pivoted, tipping her face toward his. “You don’t?”
“No, Miss Finn. Never have.” His eyes twinkled.
“How can a red-blooded Irishman not drive?”
He shrugged. The heat rolling between them warmed her to her bones. “I prefer it that way. I like to savor what’s around me, not blaze through it like a lightning bolt.”
Oh, good Lord, my path to hell is being paved. She wanted to rip off his clerical garb, wrap her arms and legs around him, and get good and sweaty. Stop it. He’s a priest!
A mirthful smile danced at the edges of his lips. “Although we each have our preferred speeds. Yours is no better or worse than mine.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d best get on my moseying way. I’ve got a baptism to perform this afternoon.”
“Right.” Annoyance rumbled through her belly at her reckless desire for him. He was far too attractive, appealing to her refusal to follow rules of any kind. Fecking forbidden fruit. She stormed from the room. As she exited the kitchen, her foot caught on a pile of boxes. One of them fell open, its contents exploding along the linoleum floor. “Gah!” she exclaimed, as three dead parakeets tumbled in her path.
“Allow me,” Father Ward said. He retrieved a paper towel, crouched, and picked up the dead birds. “Where shall we put them?” He rose to standing, extending them in her direction.
She glanced at the birds, then at Father Ward. “Follow me.”
She stepped to the counter and pulled another paper towel from the dispenser. Then, she made haste toward the front room, with Father Ward behind her.
When she stood before the coffin, she plucked the birds one at a time, arranging them in a fan along her aunt’s breastbone. “There. Pretty, huh?”
“It’s something,” Father Ward said, bewilderment obvious in his wide-eyed gaze.
She shrugged. “Look, she was lonely. Maybe they’ll keep her company in the afterlife. Lord knows she could use a few friends. And, I had to do something to dispose of them.”
He gently closed the coffin lid over Great-Aunt Roberta, her five dead cats, and her three dead parakeets. He made the sign of the cross and mumbled something about resting in peace, dear soul. Then he turned back to her. “You’re a strange one, Lassi Finn.”
“I could say the same of you, Father.” She side-eyed him. “I mean no disrespect.”
“None taken. We all have our secrets.” Again, his earlier melancholy tugged at his face. “I’ll be seeing you. Stop by the church later today so we can deal with the house sale arrangements, will you?”
She nodded.
Somberly, he turned and picked his way through the front room, leaving Lassi wondering exactly who this priest was, and what were his secrets.