art theft, then?” Finian asked.
“I didn’t ask you here about Kitty O’Byrne or an old art theft.”
Finian would have been surprised if he had. In their friendship of almost seven years, anytime Finian had brought them up, Sean had changed the subject. Sean came down to Declan’s Cross as often as he could, given his demanding work in Dublin. He’d always wanted to be in the guards. An Garda Síochána, in Irish. The Guardians of the Peace. He’d never discussed with Finian the sacrifices his position required. He preferred, he’d said many times, to leave the job in Dublin when he was home in Declan’s Cross.
Finian had sold his house in the southwest of Ireland years ago, but he still owned a traditional stone cottage in the Kerry hills. The home of his heart. His wife, Sally, had seen its possibilities, and they’d set to restoring it, doing much of the work themselves. He couldn’t bring himself to stay there but loaned it to friends. He’d cleaned out all the personal items and put in a new bed, but it was still decorated with Sally’s taste.
He hadn’t slept there since the first anniversary of the tragedy that had taken her life, and the lives of their two small daughters. He’d been in and out of a drunken haze for months. Friends, family and even perfect strangers had tried to help, but he hadn’t wanted help. He’d wanted oblivion.
He’d drunk bad whiskey that night. Why waste good whiskey on a man such as himself?
He’d been half asleep on the cottage floor when Sean Murphy had burst in, dragged his friend’s drunken carcass to the bay and shoved him into the ice-cold water, swearing next time he’d let him drown.
Freezing, furious, Finian had crawled out of the cold water, staggered to his feet and taken a swing at Detective Garda Murphy. Sean easily could have sidestepped the blow but he took it square in the chest. Finian had been too weak—too pathetic—to hurt him.
He’d vomited on the pebbled beach until he collapsed onto his knees with dry heaves and then sprawled face down on the hard, cold ground.
He’d wanted to die. For the past year, he’d wanted nothing else.
Sean had fetched a blanket and a bottle of water and set them next to Finian on the beach.
“Live or die, Fin. It’s your choice.”
Then he’d left.
Finian remembered mist, rain, wind, wails—a banshee, he’d thought at first, then realized it was himself. Keening, cursing, sobbing. He’d flung stones, clawed the cold, wet sand and attempted to dig his own grave with his hands, and he’d cried.
Dear God, he’d cried.
Sally, Kathleen, Mary.
My sweet girls.
Gone, gone, gone.
Sober, desperately sad, Finian had collapsed again, hoping to die in his sleep of hypothermia, or something—anything. Instead he’d awakened to sunlight streaming through high, thin clouds and the soothing sounds of the tide washing onto the pebbled beach.
He’d sat up and drunk Sean’s water, and then he’d walked back up to the cottage.
He didn’t stay. He’d loaded up a pack, emailed his brother not to worry and walked out of the cottage, past Sally’s empty colorful flowerpots, hearing her laughter, and kept walking.
For days, he’d walked.
When his mind would wander off, he’d bring it back to where he was—he would notice the warmth of the sun, the crunch of stones, the cry of birds, the taste of cheese, apple and brown bread, the green of distant hills and the deep pink of foxgloves on old stone walls. He’d passed waterfalls and cliffs, cold lakes and misty bays, sheep wandering down grassy lanes, lively villages, lonely cottages and tourists oohing and aahing at the gorgeous Kerry scenery. He’d stopped in pretty places for a bite to eat, sitting in the sunlit grass, or on a hilltop, or amid wildflowers, taking in his surroundings.
When he heard the voice of God calling him to another life, he had no doubts. It wasn’t the work of depression, grief, alcohol withdrawal, loneliness or insect bites. He couldn’t explain and eventually realized he didn’t have to. He just had to decide what to do.
It hadn’t been an easy road. It still wasn’t.
Finian slowed his pace as he and Sean came to the top of the hill. With the lights of the village no help to them now, Finian produced the key-size flashlight he had with him, a lesson learned from previous walks up to the Murphy farm with his friend. Sean would never have a flashlight. He didn’t need one on this land.
“I have a favor to ask, Fin,” Sean said, still clearly preoccupied.
“Of course.”
“Don’t be too quick. There’s only so much I can tell you, even as a priest.”
“It’s about an investigation, then.”
Sean gave a curt nod.
“I’ll do anything I can,” Finian said. “You know I will.”
Sean walked a few steps ahead, then stopped, a dark silhouette against the shadows of the night as he turned to Finian. “This you won’t want to do.”
Finian heard a sheep close by, near a fence. “Let me be the one to decide. What do you need?”
“A name,” Sean said. “I need a name.”
A ewe cried out in distress just before dawn. Finian went out to the barn with Sean and helped deliver a healthy lamb. With mother and baby safe and warm, Finian followed his friend back to the farmhouse, grinning as he hung his coat on a hook. “I hope I didn’t misunderstand and this is the work God called me to do.”
Sean laughed. “Farm work, Fin? Delivering lambs at dawn? I don’t think so.”
The kitchen was cool, a dampness in the air, but Sean got a turf fire going in the old fireplace and it was soon warm enough. Finian sat at the pine table. He’d jumped into jeans and a wool shirt. No clerical suit for working in the barn.
Sean put the kettle on to boil. “A full Irish breakfast this morning, Fin?”
“Perfect.”
Sean set to work, and Finian’s mind drifted, as it sometimes still did. He could see his fair-haired, beautiful wife, and he could hear her laughter when, years ago, facing the uncertainties of business, he’d wondered aloud if he should be a farmer.
“You a farmer? Oh, Fin. That’s just so funny.”
“We were farmers as boys. Declan and I.”
“And now you’re whiskey men.”
He and Sally had been enjoying a pint and traditional Irish music at a Kenmare pub. She was such fun—and so smart. A young marketing consultant who’d just finished a project for Bracken Distillers.
He’d fallen for her on the spot and asked her to marry him three months later. They’d been hiking in Killarney National Park. She’d said yes without hesitation and burst into tears and laughter as she’d hugged him so hard they both fell to the ground.
He’d been twenty-four. She’d been twenty-three.
Kathleen had been born the next year. Mary three years later.
My sweet girls.
Finian returned himself to the present. He smelled the turf fire, and he noticed the chipped paint on the old-fashioned dresser, the plates lined up on its open shelves, the crooked lower doors worn with age and use. He watched Sean drop tea bags into a brown pot and then fill the pot with the hot water. His garda friend looked at ease, totally natural, in his torn flannel shirt and muddy work pants. Maybe at heart he was