from him in a high-backed chair. Lord, I hope not. I cant bear it when a horse is slow at the gate. My insides feel like theyre slipping out.
Brian laughed. Perhaps Im mistaken about him. Its too soon to tell.
Caitlins eyes widened wickedly. Is it possible that you, Mr. Hennessey, could actually be wrong?
Brian was beginning to enjoy himself. There is the remote possibility.
She shook her head. How disappointing.
Her smile was lovely. He wanted to see it again.
Were you truly planning on attending the
cruinni,
Brian? she asked.
Words he never intended came from somewhere deep inside of him. Only if you dance with me. Across the room his eyes challenged her.
Slowly she nodded her head. I can manage that.
Ben Claiborne ran into the room and planted himself in front of Brian. Where were you today? he demanded.
Trainin a colt, replied Brian. I didnt expect to see you so soon or else I would have waited.
Gran said I should phone first, Ben admitted. But I couldnt wait that long.
Brian rose from his chair and ruffled the boys hair. Come around tomorrow mornin and bring your sister. Ill be expectin you.
He glanced at Caitlin. I have a few things to do before I collect my dance.
Dont wait too long, she warned him. There are more men in this town than women.
He laughed. Somehow he knew she wouldnt make it easy on him. Then Ill have to show up and take my chances like the rest of the lads, he said, winking at Ben.
He stopped at the door. I dont expect you to wait for me, lass.
I wouldnt dream of it, said Caitlin dryly.
8
B rigid dipped her finger into the marble font of holy water, felt its cool wetness against the warmth of her skin and crossed herself. Then she walked through the double oak doors, into the small sanctuary reserved for those who had special requests, and knelt before the altar. She looked up briefly at the gentle, doe-eyed face of the Virgin Mother and then at the candles flickering in the scented darkness. Bowing her head she began to pray.
As always, the familiar ritual soothed her. Brigid took comfort in rituals. She lived her life by the ringing of church bells, the rumble of the milk truck, the whistle of the train on its way to Tralee, the howling of Margaret OHares tomcat on his nightly prowl. The Mass had its own rituals: the melodic chanting of the priests, the monotone responses of the faithful, the sweet smell of incense, the stale dryness of the communion wafer, the numbing ache of knees spent too long genuflecting, and the final, hopeful blessing, Peace be with you always.
Young people who abandoned the church didnt understand the power of ritual. They thought by missing Sunday Mass they could escape what they called the cloying grip of an outdated clergy. Brigid knew better. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic, she maintained. One could no more escape tradition than one could deny ones father. She frowned. Better to leave that one alone.
Traditions were the heart of a people. If the Catholic church allowed half of what the Protestants introduced into their folds every day, it would no longer be what it was; the strength, the rock of millions of its faithful. If only she could convince Caitlin of the peace and comfort to be found in true faith.
Brigid felt rather than heard the movement behind her. It was no more than a stirring of the air. Whoever it was disturbed her devotions. She needed the peace of the sanctuary this evening, especially after the phone call shed received earlier in the day. Deliberately, she stiffened her body and bent her head over her folded hands, the picture of a true pilgrim in communion with her God.
This time she heard it. The rustle of stiff material against wooden floors. She sighed, lifted her head and turned to look around. Father Michael Duran sat directly behind her.
Hello, Brigid, he said.
She nodded. Father.
How are Caitlin and the children settling in?
As well as can be expected, Father, considerin the circumstances.
She always was
Brian laughed. Perhaps Im mistaken about him. Its too soon to tell.
Caitlins eyes widened wickedly. Is it possible that you, Mr. Hennessey, could actually be wrong?
Brian was beginning to enjoy himself. There is the remote possibility.
She shook her head. How disappointing.
Her smile was lovely. He wanted to see it again.
Were you truly planning on attending the
cruinni,
Brian? she asked.
Words he never intended came from somewhere deep inside of him. Only if you dance with me. Across the room his eyes challenged her.
Slowly she nodded her head. I can manage that.
Ben Claiborne ran into the room and planted himself in front of Brian. Where were you today? he demanded.
Trainin a colt, replied Brian. I didnt expect to see you so soon or else I would have waited.
Gran said I should phone first, Ben admitted. But I couldnt wait that long.
Brian rose from his chair and ruffled the boys hair. Come around tomorrow mornin and bring your sister. Ill be expectin you.
He glanced at Caitlin. I have a few things to do before I collect my dance.
Dont wait too long, she warned him. There are more men in this town than women.
He laughed. Somehow he knew she wouldnt make it easy on him. Then Ill have to show up and take my chances like the rest of the lads, he said, winking at Ben.
He stopped at the door. I dont expect you to wait for me, lass.
I wouldnt dream of it, said Caitlin dryly.
8
B rigid dipped her finger into the marble font of holy water, felt its cool wetness against the warmth of her skin and crossed herself. Then she walked through the double oak doors, into the small sanctuary reserved for those who had special requests, and knelt before the altar. She looked up briefly at the gentle, doe-eyed face of the Virgin Mother and then at the candles flickering in the scented darkness. Bowing her head she began to pray.
As always, the familiar ritual soothed her. Brigid took comfort in rituals. She lived her life by the ringing of church bells, the rumble of the milk truck, the whistle of the train on its way to Tralee, the howling of Margaret OHares tomcat on his nightly prowl. The Mass had its own rituals: the melodic chanting of the priests, the monotone responses of the faithful, the sweet smell of incense, the stale dryness of the communion wafer, the numbing ache of knees spent too long genuflecting, and the final, hopeful blessing, Peace be with you always.
Young people who abandoned the church didnt understand the power of ritual. They thought by missing Sunday Mass they could escape what they called the cloying grip of an outdated clergy. Brigid knew better. Once a Catholic, always a Catholic, she maintained. One could no more escape tradition than one could deny ones father. She frowned. Better to leave that one alone.
Traditions were the heart of a people. If the Catholic church allowed half of what the Protestants introduced into their folds every day, it would no longer be what it was; the strength, the rock of millions of its faithful. If only she could convince Caitlin of the peace and comfort to be found in true faith.
Brigid felt rather than heard the movement behind her. It was no more than a stirring of the air. Whoever it was disturbed her devotions. She needed the peace of the sanctuary this evening, especially after the phone call shed received earlier in the day. Deliberately, she stiffened her body and bent her head over her folded hands, the picture of a true pilgrim in communion with her God.
This time she heard it. The rustle of stiff material against wooden floors. She sighed, lifted her head and turned to look around. Father Michael Duran sat directly behind her.
Hello, Brigid, he said.
She nodded. Father.
How are Caitlin and the children settling in?
As well as can be expected, Father, considerin the circumstances.
She always was
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