IRISH FIRE (29 page)

Over the years the purity of her love for Sean had gone the way of harsh reality, taking on the appearance of a room beautiful and elegant by candlelight, only to be seen the following day in the merciless morning sun, the carpet thin and frayed, the drapes shabby, the furniture marred, in need of repair.

Theyd struck up a friendship, the dissatisfied wife who spent her days dividing her time among the post office, the store, the pub, five daughters, and a man who drank too much, and the lonely priest who ministered to no ones soul but his own.

Brigid knew that he walked alone in the long hours of summer when the sun lit the sky until well after nine. Occasionally she met him, inadvertently at first, but later too often to be other than intentional. Then they walked togethera woman, slim, lovely, her face and hair the color of the first gold leaves that fell from the trees; the man, tall, refined, lean, with distinguished flecks of silver dimming the darkness of his hair, softening the chiseled bones of his face. A handsome couple: graceful, well-matched, arresting, and, no matter how one twisted the view, utterly forbidden.

When Brigid saw him that day, she paused and caught her breath. Hed reached the top of the rise ahead of her. Instead of his Roman collar he wore regular street clothes and even though she was some distance away she could see the fineness of them. What did it mean this breaking of tradition? She stopped by a giant oak, her sepia-toned skirt and sweater blending with the tree bark. He hadnt yet seen her. Brigid watched as he stood, hands in the pockets of his trousers, head lifted toward the sky. He wasnt handsome the way Sean had been in his youth, but no one who saw the two men together would find him wanting in comparison.
Striking
was the word that came to Brigids mind,
striking
and
discriminating,
a man not easily forgotten, a man wasted on the priesthood.

Moving away from the camouflaging tree, Brigid climbed the hill to stand beside him. He reached out his hand, helping with her last few steps.

He smiled. Hello, Brigid. You look grand.

She blushed. Thank you, Father.

Id rather not be Father Duran today, if you dont mind. He stepped back and placed his hands on the lapels of his coat. Im not dressed for the part.

I noticed. Why is that?

He opened his mouth to speak, looked into her eyes, and closed it again. Shrugging, he started down the path. No reason. One gets tired of all that black.

Brigid laughed and fell into step beside him. An odd sentiment for a priest.

Laughing with her, he reached for her hand and held it a bit longer than necessary before tucking it into the crook of his arm. Im more than a priest, Brigid.

I didnt think there was anythin more than being a priest, she teased him.

Theres a great deal more than that.

This was the best part of her time with him, the bantering, the exploring of ideas, the stretching of her mind. Such as?

He tilted his head, dark eyes narrowing, silvered hair falling across his forehead, brow furrowed in concentration. Being a man is more important than being a priest.

Are the two mutually exclusive?

Yes, he said emphatically.

The road was shaded by a canopy of trees. Shaded, silent, remotethe leafy bower felt like a secluded sanctuary, separate from the world outside. Brigid stopped, her hand still securely tucked inside Michaels arm. Do you really mean that?

I do.

She knew where she was going but she wasnt about to back away from it. Nothing on earth would make her stop now. Why?

He turned and the look on his face told her everything she needed to know and more.

Have you ever wanted something that you know is wrong? he asked urgently. Something so outrageous that it will change your life forever and everything youve done, everything youve worked for may turn out to be meaningless?

No, she said honestly, not yet.

Brigid. His voice was ragged, raw with wanting. Do you know what it is that Im asking?

She lifted her chin. Never had she felt so confident, so brave, so beautiful. Tell me, she whispered, I need the words, now, from you.

He turned to look at her, smoothed the hair from her forehead, and reached for her other hand. Youre an unusual woman, Brigid Keneally, he said unsteadily.

She waited for what she knew would come.

His hand cupped her cheek, his fingers moving over the bones of her face. Have you any idea how lovely you are?

Closing her eyes, she leaned against his hand. Tell me.

It takes a lifetime to find a woman like youproud, graceful, curious.

A curious lightness took hold of her. She could do anything, say anything, and it would be all right. Hold me, she said, I want to feel you against me.

His arms moved around her, sliding past her ribcage, settling on her back, her waist, her cheek pressed against his chest. Her heart pounded in her ears or was it his? She couldnt tell. Something soft and warm brushed against her temple. Could a mans lips really feel this way? Brigid leaned into the warmth and the feeling intensified, moved to her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, and finally her mouth. Unresisting, she parted her lips and felt his tongue slip in, filling the space in her mouth.

Heat flowed through her. Standing on her toes, she met the thrust of his tongue with her own desire, giving in to a need shed only allowed herself to think about in the privacy of her dreams. She was surrounded by warmth, hard muscle, fine wool, and a tension she hadnt felt before. Her blood sang and the ache that began in a spot below her stomach moved up and outward, filling her with urgency, capturing her hands, controlling her movements until the barrier of clothing disappeared and her palms moved against the smoothness of hot male skin and rough chest chair. Moaning softly, she lifted his sweater and pressed her mouth against his breast bone.

His soft intake of breath increased her daring. This was something Brigid knew better than he. She was the aggressor, he the novice. Moving down the length of his chest, she pressed furtive kisses on his skin, relishing the trembling of his muscles beneath her fingertips, knowing, because she knew him, that he was drowning, helpless in the throes of longing, fear, and a reckless desire to experience what had always been denied him. She stopped briefly at his navel, her tongue circling, then invading until he gasped, cradled her head, and pressed her firmly against him.

Quickly, her fingers moved to his belt. With the precision of a craftsmen, she worked it apart, releasing the button, pulling at the zipper, until the hard swollen length of him fell into her hands. That first time he came in her mouth, one more sacrilege against Holy Mother Church, the spilling of seed for no purpose other than sheer pleasure. Her lips on his sensitive flesh were his undoing and, like a schoolboy, he came instantly, explosively, unable to control the surging heat, the rush of blood, the curse of Adam.

Because it was only a beginning, because having tasted a pleasure hed only imagined he wanted more and so did she. His fine cashmere coat spread on the long grass away from the road was warm against Brigids skin.

She loved him, not that first time, or the time after that, but sooner than she would have thought. A woman of forty was more cautious than one in her first bloom of youth. Love was more than fire in the loins. It was shared thoughts, laughter, knowing the others failings and loving despite them.

Brigid came to the realization of her love on a cold February night. Mrs. Clarke, the parish housekeeper, was having her holiday, and they had taken advantage of her absence. Two weeks had passed since theyd managed to meet and their first bout of lovemaking in his narrow bed was intense and urgent. Their passion sated, they lay together quietly, neither one in a rush to rise, to dress, to take up the normalcy of their lives.

He combed her hair with his fingers, winding the long golden strands several times around his hand, pulling back her head so that he could look into her eyes. I love you, Brigid, he said fiercely, for the first time. Youre the best thing that has ever happened to me. No matter what happens, never doubt that I love you.

Caressing his arrogant, strong-featured face, she smiled and pressed a kiss against his jaw. Has somethin happened?

He hesitated. Im thinking of leaving the priesthood.

Alarmed, she pulled back. Because of me?

Because of what Ive done. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. I feel like a hypocrite, saying Mass on Sunday, hearing confessions.

Her voice was hollow, but calm. Are you tellin me were finished?

No! There was no doubting the horror behind the word. I wont give you up. I cant give you up.

What do you want, Michael?

He reached for her, bruising the delicate skin on the inside of her arms above her elbows. You. I want you with me, always.

I love you, too, Michael, she said, voicing the truth to herself and to him. But Im a married woman with children. We cant be together, not here, not in Ireland.

Ill think of something, my darling. I promise I will.

They came together once more and this time their loving was slow and so sweetly tender that whenever Brigid looked back, it was this night she remembered and the promises he made, muffled, but unmistakable, against her throat.

Dark days loomed ahead, heavy with gloom amid moments of green hills and bright mornings. There was hope, weighted down by the inexorable pull of reality, the rhythms of long hours spent in the pulse of everyday life. In the end it was that night she would recall above all others, when their love met and was matched and for a single, crystalline moment, everything was possible.

How often had she wished that she could have had a look ahead and seen the way it would all turn out. And yet, what good would it have done her? If she were completely honest with herself, Brigid knew she would do the same thing over again, despite the gossips knowing looks, the averted eyes from well-meaning friends, those frantic, desperate couplings behind the old arbor when the end was near, and finally, the birth of a child, dark-haired and dark-eyed, so different from the others that even Assumpta, her dearest friend, shook her head, took Brigids two hands in her own, and pleaded with her, Be done with it, lass. Nothing in this world can ever come of it.

And nothing had. When Brigid, newly widowed, pressed for more than stolen moments, he refused her, choosing his life and his past over their future together. That was the end of it. Thirty years had passed. They met infrequently, in the streets, at Mass, in her pub, and yet she had spoken no more than a few sentences to him in all that time. But she hadnt forgotten. She would never forget, not the pleasure nor the pain. Only her headstrong, obstinate, late-in-life daughter remained her one regret.

Caitlin sat across from her, cheeks scarlet, eyes accusing, waiting for her mothers answer.

Brigid nodded. Aye. I loved him, more than anythin. More than my children, more than my honor, more than the life Id made. I would have gone anywhere with him. The relief of admitting it was overwhelming.

Did he love you?

Not enough.

Caitlin pointed to the painting. He left me two hundred thousand pounds and this picture. He had it painted from a photograph. Its like the one in the pub, only a different pose.

Brigid knew about the picture. She hadnt known about the money. Two hundred thousand pounds was a windfall. Thats a great deal of money.

Caitlin glared at her accusingly. You knew, didnt you?

I knew what the two of us were to him, if thats what you mean.

Did you know about the money?

Brigid shook her head. No.

Caitlin rubbed her eyes, fluffed the couch pillow and positioned it behind her head. Why did he leave you?

He didnt. I left him.

But you said

This is difficult for me, Caitlin. Try t understand. I wanted him t leave the church, t go away with me and the children. He asked t be released from his vows and was refused. Then he changed his mind. The old hurt, diamond sharp, closed around her heart. I wanted more than we had. I wanted t walk down the street with him, smile at my friends, hold my head up in a public place.

In Kilcullen? Caitlin was aghast.

Brigid couldnt help laughing. It was good to laugh. It was a start back to where theyd been before today. Perhaps not in Kilcullen, she agreed.

Im not Caitlin Keneally at all, Caitlin said in wonder. Who am I, Mum?

I was Brigid Keneally when you were born. Youre as much a Keneally as I am.

Caitlins brow furrowed. How long were you together?

A year.

Did anyone know?

Assumpta knew.

And John?

I dont know, Brigid said honestly. Some women can keep what needs to be kept from a husband. Others cant. I wouldnt have minded if shed told John. He isnt a man for gossip.

I mind, Caitlin said coldly. This isnt only about you anymore. Its about me and my children, and I mind very much. I wanted to stay here in Kilcullen with Annie and Ben. The last thing I need is for everyone to know that Father Michael Duran, the pastor of Saint Patricks, was their grandfather.