Page 14 of Priestly Sins

“Nothing could be more true. He was an ass.”

“Was?”

“Was. He died in December.”

“I’m sorry, lad.”

“I’m not. I didn’t even know I had an uncle. Will you tell me about yourself?”

Afternoon turns to evening and too many drinks later, Killian offers me a blanket and the sofa. My body will hate me in the morning. Hotel reservation in Galway or not, I won’t make it there with the whiskey I’ve drunk.

* * *

I run each morning,fighting for clarity on how much has changed in the last week. The money, the properties, the businesses. More so the lies, the half-truths, the denials. I run and each morning I stroke one out in the shower. I work hard not to think of the blonde while I do. Mostly, I fail.

* * *

Three days later,I board my flight from Dublin, dreading the seven-plus hour flight to Boston. More so, I dread another meeting with Hal Staunchley. The three-hour time change means I can meet with him this afternoon and finalize all the paperwork.

After deplaning and going through customs again, I check into my Boston hotel and shower. I shave off four days’ worth of stubble and put on my blacks and collar and head to Staunchley’s office.

At six, I am greeted by the man himself and an otherwise empty office. His demeanor is combative, but I don’t care.

“Is it done?” I ask in lieu of greeting.

“Sean…”

“Is it done?”

“I must advise against this.”

“You must do what I have directed with the estate I was bequeathed. For the last time, Is. It. Done?”

He drops his head in defeat. “All but the business dissolution.”

“And what is the delay?

“I wanted to talk with you again about your father’s wishes.”

I crowd his space and drop my head to look at his defiant, upturned chin. “My father has no more wishes. I know what he wanted. I don’t give a damn about what he wanted. Draw up the dissolution papers now. I’ll wait.”

“Sean?”

“Father O’Ryan,” I say through clenched teeth and hold his gaze until he acquiesces. “And bring me the rest of the paperwork. I’ll review and sign while you work.”

“I don’t work for you.” His reply is impudent.

“You damn well do.” I turn on my heel, walk to the conference room table, and grab a seat. “And you know it. And, bring me a cup of coffee when you bring the paperwork. I’ll be here a while.”

Friday night runs into the wee hours of Saturday morning. My body never fully acclimated to the time change in Ireland, but I’m feeling the effects the multiple time zones, the long early-morning flight, and longer evening with Staunchley. His presence is exhausting.

We shake hands and part ways a little before two Saturday morning with a promise that everything will be filed legally on Monday morning, and I’ll have confirmation before noon of each dissolved business, money transfer, trust creation, property and the like.

I make a pit stop on my way home the following day, to the Indianapolis suburbs and Bobby O’Shea’s office where he’s agreed to meet me.

“Bobby.”

“Sean.”