the window and caught sight of her daughter squatting in the dirt, playing jackstones against herself. A ragged bunch of mill boys had gathered around to watch in silent admiration as she tossed up four jacks and caught them all on the back of her hand.
Bria had to smile at the sight of it. You wouldn’t think their Noreen, with her brown, pointy face and prickly ways, would be such a draw for the lads like she was.
“God save us!” Bria exclaimed aloud, for one of the boys had just offered her daughter a drag on his cigarette, and sure if thenaughty child hadn’t just taken him up on it. “Her da will be having to beat them off with a shillelagh afore long.”
“You are speaking, maybe, to the fairies?”
Bria whirled so fast she nearly knocked over the open flour tin. “Donagh! You scared the breath right out of me.”
The man who stood in the doorway gave her such a smile it outshone the sun. Laughing, she ran up to him and stood on tiptoe to plant a smacking kiss on his cheek. She smiled to herself at what the neighbors would say: Mrs. McKenna behaving so shamelessly forward with the Saint Mary’s parish priest, and never mind that the brave and beautiful lad was her very own brother.
She took him by the arm, pulling him inside. “Set yourself down. I’ve just put a kettle on.” She took his hat and hung it on a wall hook for him, then watched, smiling, while he settled the long length of him into one of her ladderback chairs. “You’re looking fine, mo bhriathair .”
Father Donagh O’Reilly was indeed a handsome man, with his thick, dark red hair and warm brown eyes, and the wide mouth on him that always seemed but a tickle away from a smile. God’s gain had been some good woman’s loss, surely.
Just then the kettle began to shriek and Bria went to set it on the hob, while she prepared the tea for steeping.
“I was pleased to see you at the five o’clock Mass this morning,” her brother said over the dying whistle.
She cast a smile at him from over her shoulder. “Have you eyes in the back of your head, then?”
He grinned at her, but then his mouth took on a serious set. “Maybe not in the back of my head, but I’ve eyes. And ears. So faithful to the Mass every day, you are. Not one day have you missed in all the months you’ve been here. Yet not once have I heard your voice in the confessional box. Not once have I placed the sacred host between your lips.”
Bria turned her back to him, pretending to be busy with fittingthe teacups so carefully into their saucers. While her belly clenched with such a misery she feared she would be sick.
“Bria, lass . . . I may be God’s anointed servant on earth, but I was your big brother before that, and I understand how you might . . .” His words trailed off, and she imagined he was looking at her now with the worry and the hurt plain in his eyes. “If it’s a thing you can’t say to me, there’s a priest up in Warren, and a kind, understanding man he is. I can drive you up there in the cart, maybe?”
She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around the swell of her belly. “I can’t,” she nearly shouted. “I can’t, I can’t. So don’t ask it of me, Donagh. Anything else, but not that.”
She heard him get up and a moment later she felt the heavy warmth of his hand on her shoulder. “There’s no sin greater than God’s capacity to forgive,” he said softly.
She wanted to lean back into the comfort he was offering, but she held herself still. Never would she go kneel in that golden oak box to beg forgiveness for something she wasn’t sorry for.
He turned her around, trying to look into her face. But she pulled against him, averting her head, and so he let her go.
“I heard they’ve given you the sack up at the mill,” he said after a moment.
“Hunh.” She had meant it for a laugh, but it came out strangled. “I suppose your ears had the telling of the tale before the shift whistle had even finished its
Bria had to smile at the sight of it. You wouldn’t think their Noreen, with her brown, pointy face and prickly ways, would be such a draw for the lads like she was.
“God save us!” Bria exclaimed aloud, for one of the boys had just offered her daughter a drag on his cigarette, and sure if thenaughty child hadn’t just taken him up on it. “Her da will be having to beat them off with a shillelagh afore long.”
“You are speaking, maybe, to the fairies?”
Bria whirled so fast she nearly knocked over the open flour tin. “Donagh! You scared the breath right out of me.”
The man who stood in the doorway gave her such a smile it outshone the sun. Laughing, she ran up to him and stood on tiptoe to plant a smacking kiss on his cheek. She smiled to herself at what the neighbors would say: Mrs. McKenna behaving so shamelessly forward with the Saint Mary’s parish priest, and never mind that the brave and beautiful lad was her very own brother.
She took him by the arm, pulling him inside. “Set yourself down. I’ve just put a kettle on.” She took his hat and hung it on a wall hook for him, then watched, smiling, while he settled the long length of him into one of her ladderback chairs. “You’re looking fine, mo bhriathair .”
Father Donagh O’Reilly was indeed a handsome man, with his thick, dark red hair and warm brown eyes, and the wide mouth on him that always seemed but a tickle away from a smile. God’s gain had been some good woman’s loss, surely.
Just then the kettle began to shriek and Bria went to set it on the hob, while she prepared the tea for steeping.
“I was pleased to see you at the five o’clock Mass this morning,” her brother said over the dying whistle.
She cast a smile at him from over her shoulder. “Have you eyes in the back of your head, then?”
He grinned at her, but then his mouth took on a serious set. “Maybe not in the back of my head, but I’ve eyes. And ears. So faithful to the Mass every day, you are. Not one day have you missed in all the months you’ve been here. Yet not once have I heard your voice in the confessional box. Not once have I placed the sacred host between your lips.”
Bria turned her back to him, pretending to be busy with fittingthe teacups so carefully into their saucers. While her belly clenched with such a misery she feared she would be sick.
“Bria, lass . . . I may be God’s anointed servant on earth, but I was your big brother before that, and I understand how you might . . .” His words trailed off, and she imagined he was looking at her now with the worry and the hurt plain in his eyes. “If it’s a thing you can’t say to me, there’s a priest up in Warren, and a kind, understanding man he is. I can drive you up there in the cart, maybe?”
She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around the swell of her belly. “I can’t,” she nearly shouted. “I can’t, I can’t. So don’t ask it of me, Donagh. Anything else, but not that.”
She heard him get up and a moment later she felt the heavy warmth of his hand on her shoulder. “There’s no sin greater than God’s capacity to forgive,” he said softly.
She wanted to lean back into the comfort he was offering, but she held herself still. Never would she go kneel in that golden oak box to beg forgiveness for something she wasn’t sorry for.
He turned her around, trying to look into her face. But she pulled against him, averting her head, and so he let her go.
“I heard they’ve given you the sack up at the mill,” he said after a moment.
“Hunh.” She had meant it for a laugh, but it came out strangled. “I suppose your ears had the telling of the tale before the shift whistle had even finished its
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