before it could get him in its grip. A woman on Hurley’s staff edged over to his table with a plastic tray. She was slender and shapely, with deep gold-flecked hazel eyes and a thick golden-brown braid hanging down her back. “I’ll get these glasses, Father,” she said, anchoring the tray on one hip.
He thanked her. “What’s your name?”
“Julianne Maroney. My grandmother is helping with the bean-hole supper at the church this next weekend—that is, if she’s able.”
“Is she ill?”
Julianne grabbed Mike’s and Colin’s empty whiskey glasses. “I don’t know if you’d call it ill. More like thoroughly pissed off at God.” She blushed. “Sorry, Father.”
Finian leaned back in his chair. “I understand being pissed off at God. I was for a time myself.”
“Were you? Really? And you’re not now?”
“I’m not now. In fact, I never was. I just thought I was.”
“Misdirected anger,” Julianne said thoughtfully. “That’s Granny. She loves the bean-hole supper but she says she’s mad at God for taking Grandpa away from her. He died last year, before you arrived at St. Patrick’s. We all miss him, but it’s not good for her to be so mad all the time. I think it’s making her sick.”
“Physically sick?”
Her eyes shone with sudden tears. “I think she wants to die, too. Join Grandpa in the great beyond. Heaven. Whatever.” Julianne added the water pitcher to her tray. “Do you think you could talk to her?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t tell her I said anything. Her name is Fran. Franny Maroney. Her grandmother was from Ireland. Sligo, I think. Do you know where that is?”
Finian smiled. “I do, indeed.”
“Granny likes your Irish accent. I want to go to Ireland someday. Working on it, in fact.” Julianne snatched up Andy Donovan’s whiskey glass with more force than was necessary and banged it onto her tray. “It’s nice to see Colin back in town. He does come and go. He and Kevin are my favorite Donovans. I don’t know Mike that well.”
Given the way she grabbed Andy’s water glass and banged it onto the tray with the same force as she had his whiskey glass, Finian had an idea of her opinion of the third-born Donovan.
“Andy Donovan’s a rake,” Julianne said matter-of-factly. “You know that, right, Father?”
“I haven’t heard a man called a ‘rake’ in an age.”
“It’s fitting.” She glared out the window at the dark harbor where Andy had his lobster boat moored. “I’m working my way through school. I’m finishing my master’s in marine biology. I don’t know what I was thinking…Andy and I…” She sighed. “That son of a bitch broke my heart.” Her cheek color deepened. “Sorry, Father.”
“Not at all.”
She seemed to regret having said anything. “I told Granny I’d go with her to the supper. She says she doesn’t want to go without Grandpa, but I think it’d be good for her.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” Finian said.
Julianne spun back across the restaurant with her tray and through the swinging door into Hurley’s kitchen. Finian returned the Bracken 15 to the bar, where it would be safe until his next visit, said good-night and headed outside, the wood door creaking as it shut hard behind him.
He crossed the quiet parking lot, a sharpness in the air he hadn’t noticed earlier. He was just barely warm enough in his suit coat. He continued onto the narrow streets above the harbor, lined with modest homes lit up against the dark night. He passed a large shade tree, bright yellow leaves clinging to its sweeping branches and scattered on the pavement, a reminder that the long Maine winter was soon upon them. He had heard tales of brutal New England winters. This would be his first.
At least by winter the blasted bean-hole supper would be behind him.
A man in a black fleece jacket and baseball cap walked across the street from Hurley’s. Finian didn’t recognize him but the man approached him as if they knew each other. “Evening, Father. Nice night. Chilly.” The stranger hunched his shoulders. He looked fit, with fair skin and fine lines at the corners of his eyes. “Didn’t I just see you at Hurley’s with the Donovan brothers?”
Finian hadn’t noticed him. “Are you a friend of theirs?”
“Nah. I’ve never stepped foot in Rock Point until today. A kid sweeping the floors told me. Four brothers altogether. FBI, marine patrol, lobsterman, Maine guide. Tough guys. Their folks own an inn on the waterfront. The father’s a retired cop.”
“Are you asking me?”
“Just shooting the breeze. I needed to stretch my legs.” He ambled a few more steps up the street, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. “Colin Donovan’s the FBI agent brother, right, Father?”
“If you’d like, I can give him a quick ring—”
“Thanks, but I’m on my way to Heron’s Cove. It’ll be my first time there, too. I should let you get back to your walk. You serve a church here in Rock Point?”
“St. Patrick’s. We’re having a bean-hole supper next weekend. You’re welcome to join us.”
The man grinned. “I can’t remember the last time I was at a church supper.”
He said good-night, turned and walked back toward the harbor. Finian stood still, watching the man cross the street back to Hurley’s.
At least he hadn’t spoken with a Russian accent.
It was a fair guess that Colin’s secret work with the FBI involved Russians, Finian thought as he navigated the maze of now-familiar streets to the simple, stone-faced church and rectory that would be his home for at least a year. St. Patrick’s Church was a small parish, struggling more than some and less than others. A gnarled maple in front of the church had dropped all its leaves, but a river birch by the back steps—or what Colin had told Finian was a river birch—held on to its vibrant yellow leaves. The New England fall foliage season was as spectacular and festive as he had hoped and anticipated. St. Patrick’s bean-hole supper marked the last of the popular autumn suppers among the local churches.
Finian had no illusions that Rock Point and the people of St. Patrick’s had fully embraced him since his arrival in June. That was all right. His presence was deliberately temporary, and he was Irish and a different sort of priest—a widower who had lost his wife and two young daughters before turning to the priesthood.
He entered the rectory kitchen and pulled off his clerical garb, then slipped into a hand-knit Irish sweater. He went still, his pulse quickening as he noticed several envelopes on the floor by the old stove. All the windows were closed. Had he brushed them with his arm before he had left and simply hadn’t noticed?
He thought of the man who had intercepted him. Could he have sneaked in here before heading to the waterfront?
Why would anyone sneak into a rectory?
Finian started for the telephone to call Colin but stopped himself. The poor man was just back home after what had obviously been a difficult ordeal. Finian shook off his uneasiness. He hadn’t observed any sign of a break-in at the back door.
To further reassure himself, he checked the threadbare living room and dining room, but nothing was out of place, broken or disturbed. He had let his imagination run wild.
His gaze rested on a framed photograph on the china cupboard of his beautiful wife, Sally, and their sweet daughters, Kathleen and Mary, together on a sunlit Irish morning at their home above Kenmare Bay. They were smiling, and he could hear their laughter as he took the picture, only a few weeks before he lost them forever.
He didn’t