The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [44]
“I’m beginning to wish that they had taught gardening in seminary, it’s true. I’m not exactly qualified for this. But being a country mouse isn’t so bad.”
She put her hands on the fence and leaned forward flirtatiously. Old habits die hard. “I’m a little surprised you’d have accepted the offer to come to Barnwell to begin with. It’s not like this is a hip and happening assignment.”
Aidan shrugged, slapping his gloves lightly against his thigh, and leaned up against the fence himself. “Man proposes, God disposes,” he said. “I go where I am sent.”
“That’s an awfully Zen way to look at it.”
“What about you? Missing the big city already?”
Bean suppressed a grimace. “Not exactly. It was time to get out of there for a while.”
“So you’ll be sticking around? Good. I do like it here, but we really could use some younger blood at Saint Mark’s. You haven’t forgotten that you promised to come to services?”
Bean flushed. “No. It’s just been . . . well, you know.”
“I promise it’s more fun than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick,” he said with a smile. Man, he really was cute. Bean’s mind wandered for a moment. She could be Mrs. Moore, couldn’t she? Virtuous wife of a virtuous pastor? Live in the vicarage? Bake cookies or whatever it was the vicar’s wife did?
“I’ll be there this Sunday,” she said. “With bells on.”
“We’ve got our own bells,” he said. “But it would definitely be nice to see you.”
He seemed about to say something else, when a caterwaul came from the front of the house.
“Father!” a woman’s voice called sharply. “Father Aidan!”
“Duty calls,” Aidan said, but he didn’t seem put off by the interruption, which made Bean feel slightly put off.
“Dr. Crandall,” Bean said. “I’d recognize that voice anywhere. She used to yell at us all the time for trampling through her garden when we were playing hide-and-seek.”
“You really shouldn’t trample people’s gardens,” Aidan said, mock stern. His eyebrows were light, drawn together over his piercing eyes. “Ten Hail Marys for that one.”
Bean rolled her eyes. “I’m not Catholic,” she said. “And, just in case this slipped your attention, neither are you.”
“Excellent point,” he said. “I’ll have to look it up in my Catholic to Episcopalian penance converter.”
“Father Aidan!” Dr. Crandall howled again.
“I’m in the back,” Aidan called, and then turned back to Bean. “So I’ll see you later,” he said. “My apologies.”
“No need to apologize. You’re allowed to do your job. There are middle-aged ladies in the town that need a little spiritual tending.”
“We all need a little spiritual tending,” Aidan said. “It was nice to see you, Bianca.”
“Likewise, Aidan,” she said, and his name on her tongue was chocolate-warm. She turned and began to jog gently back up the path she had come from, hoping the days away from the gym had not left her with more jiggle than was feminine. She allowed herself one quick glance over her shoulder as the path faded into the woods, but he had disappeared. She turned back, her ponytail whipping her cheek lightly, bitter.
She ran a little harder now that it didn’t matter who saw her. Men in bars moved closer as they were drawn in, touched her as often as possible. How do you rate a conversation with a priest on a sunny weekday morning over a fence? Not the same game.
And what was she doing evaluating this conversation anyway, as though he were target practice? He hadn’t really been flirting with her, had he? Except why else would he take the time to talk to her?
Maybe he could tell. Maybe priests had some kind of sin radar that beeped to tell them when someone had been naughty and needed spanking. Metaphorically, of course.
Did that mean he could see through her? She clenched her teeth and ran harder, as though the dirt turning up behind her heels could obscure everything she wanted to hide.
When Bean returned, sweat-laden and exhausted, we were in the living room, reading. Cordy had her slightly less grubby feet resting on our father’s knee, the rest of her sprawled over the couch as she pillaged some postmodern tome she had