24
Rock Point, Maine
Sam Padgett stopped at Finian’s office late on Saturday. “I’m heading back to Boston. I know the past few days have been difficult for you,” the FBI agent said. “For what it’s worth, thank you for your assistance.”
“You’re welcome,” Finian said.
Padgett nodded to Finian’s breviary. “They have that online now.”
“I like having it with me. An e-reader wouldn’t be the same somehow.”
“You keep the photos of your family close to you. Is that wise, Father?”
Finian got up from his desk, picked up his breviary. “I took them out. I’ll frame them and put them in the dining room with several others I treasure. I only...” He hesitated, uncertain whether to finish. He rubbed a thumb on the worn cover of the breviary. “I put the photographs in there a few weeks ago. I wanted to keep Sally and the girls close during my daily prayers.”
“You have doubts about your vocation, Father.”
“I miss my family, Special Agent Padgett.”
He nodded. “I know. The novelty of seminary and now Maine has worn off and the hurt is still there. Good luck sorting things out. Anything else I can do for you?”
“The priest you mentioned. Was he the villain?”
The FBI agent’s eyes darkened. “Was and is. We’ll get him one day.”
“I know you will,” Finian said.
“See you around, Father. Thanks again.”
After the FBI agent left, Finian returned to the rectory. He saw he had an email from his sister, Mary, in Ireland.
I’m in Declan’s Cross, on my way to Dublin on distillery business. Aoife O’Byrne is painting porpoises again. She says it’s Oliver York’s influence. She insists they’re not whimsical, though. She says she thinks of you when she pours her Bracken 15.
Mary had attached a picture of a painting Aoife had given to her for the distillery. She refused any payment, saying the publicity of having one of her paintings at Bracken Distillers was enough profit given the increasing popularity of their whiskey tours.
The simple life in the painting depicted one he wasn’t leading and Aoife wasn’t leading. Even on his laptop screen, Finian could feel the longing in the painting for something that was out of reach.
That was the effect of Aoife’s work, its union with the viewer.
As he took in the colors and light of the south Irish coast, he could see Sally turning to him from the line at their cottage in the Kerry hills, with their girls’ clothes drying in the summer breeze.
The memory faded, and as he looked at the image, he could hear the sounds of the sea and sheep, as if they were calling to him with the promise of home.
He shut off his laptop. Finian glanced at his breviary on the table next to him. Tonight he would give thanks for the safety of his friends, and he would start again tomorrow, a priest in a small Maine village far from home.
He was where he meant to be and so was Aoife.
* * *
Emma and Colin drove to London on Sunday, conducted their meetings on Monday and were on a flight to Boston later that day. They arrived at the HIT offices in time to meet with Matt Yankowski and Sam Padgett first thing and review the past few days.
“Oliver’s growing on me,” Colin said. “Still wouldn’t call him a friend.”
He noticed Emma smile, even if Yank and Sam didn’t.
Back to work, Colin thought.
By Friday, he and Emma were in Maine. They entered Hurley’s on a beautiful June evening. Colin wasn’t surprised to find Finian Bracken at his favorite table in back, in front of the windows overlooking the harbor.
Finian rose, kissed Emma on the cheek and shook hands with Colin. “More Donovans will be joining us,” Finian said. “I’ve a new Bracken expression for us to try.”
“Excellent,” Emma said, taking a seat.
Colin sat between her and Finian. “Hell of a week, Fin. You and Sam Padgett at loggerheads. My mother getting interviewed by the FBI. Worked out. I think she’s got a crush on Sam. Pop does, too. Gets a kick out of it. She admit anything in confession?”
“Your parents are never bored,” Finian said, neutral.
“Has Mike tried to get you to find out which one of us stole his baseball glove when we were kids? What if I told you it was me?”
“This isn’t a confessional, Colin.”
“Can’t wipe the slate clean?”
“I’m not sensing contrition, regardless.”
“I never said it was me.”
Colin grinned as Finian opened the Bracken Distillers pot-still and splashed some into three glasses. The mystery of the stolen baseball glove would keep for now.
Finian handed Emma and Colin each a glass and then raised his glass to them. “Sláinte.”
They raised their glasses. “Sláinte,” they said in unison.
In another moment, Mike, Andy and Kevin Donovan joined the gathering. Colin slid closer to Emma to make room. He slung his arm over her shoulders, everything right in his world.
* * *
It was late when Emma followed Colin into the small home they now shared above the harbor. They had a quiet weekend planned. Then it was back to Boston on Sunday and to work again on Monday. Matt Yankowski had called a full HIT meeting for ten o’clock.
“We complicate Yank’s life but we get things done,” Colin said. “He’d be the first to say so, but if it stops working—we have a good life, Emma.”
“Yes, we do.”
“A six-pack in the fridge and an apple pie in the freezer.”
“Oliver’s sheepskins on the floor.”
Colin grinned. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“That reminds me. I promised to let him know when we were back in Maine.”
“It’s late in England.”
“Who says he’s in England?”
She grabbed her phone and texted him. Colin and I are home.
His response came within seconds. Excellent. Henrietta and I have garden tips.
Meaning info the FBI could use. Or not. They could, in fact, have gardening tips. Emma typed a quick response. We welcome any and all garden tips.
She hit Send and set her phone on the counter.
Colin didn’t ask about the texts. “Even jet-lagged,” he said, “I bet I can carry you upstairs.”
“I’ve no doubts whatsoever.”
He swept her into his arms in a single, smooth movement. Emma laughed, and he had her up the stairs in no time. He laid her in their bed, and his mouth found hers as he settled on top of her.
“Let the honeymoon continue,” she whispered, a familiar warmth spreading through her.
“I love you, Emma.”
She hooked her fingers into his. “The two of us, Colin. Always and forever.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from by Carla Neggers.