Page 58 of Priestly Sins

Me:Other thing?

Bobby:The car.

Me:Yeah

Bobby:DMV records show the title in Gloria Tremaine’s name, insurance has been issued.

Me:Glad she got it.

Bobby:Yeah. She’s also been notified that the two college scholarships you endowed are ready for her kids when they are. She doesn’t know who her guardian angel is, but she’s very aware she has one.

Me:Any word on Henry?

Bobby:He’s been home more, nothing beyond that.

Me:Thanks, brother. Hug the family for me.

Bobby:Will do. You do the same.

I’m too shocked to reply.

* * *

A weekor so into our new arrangement, it dawns on me I don’t have a job. It’s stupid. I have more than enough money to never work again, but I have to do something with my time. I’ve had the “wake up early, run, shower, coffee, work” routine for so long, this sleeping in, lounging thing has gone from relaxing to uncomfortable. Must say, though, Sirona’s cooking and my lack of a paved trail to run on is impacting the area near my belly button.

I procrastinate by reorganizing in my office, trying to reassess my life. I hadn’t planned on anything after Enzo. Avenging my mother was the endgame I never thought beyond to consider a non-priestly life. Certainly never factored in a woman or a child. I had this home built as an out but never suspected for a moment I could have this life.

I pace and think. I’m not accustomed to either without my red chair or my doubloon. I miss the chair; I do not miss that damned doubloon.

Until dinner that night, I move throughout the room, as if I’m trying to get to know it. I only settle one issue before me—and it’s not my career—I would die to protect the people under this roof and always want them with me.

Time to make sure they know it.

As has become a bit of a habit, I head over to Killian’s the next morning, carrying the now-frosted cupcakes, I walk because I need the exercise. The ground is hard and ice-cold but not icy.

The land that our homes sit on has rolling, verdant hills. We’re not far apart, although Clara could scream and he may not hear it. The property is vast and we didn’t have to build my house as close to his as we did, but, since March when I discovered I had an uncle, I’ve made an effort to get to know him. We’ve talked off and on and together decided the best placement for the house.

He knows the cottage is his home, and I’ll never kick him out, barring anything egregious, but I can’t imagine what that would be. It’s nice to have family. For him, I suspect it’s nice to have family that isn’t Patrick.

Over the last nine months, he’s opened up about shitty things my father did and I’ve reciprocated. He’s given me unflinching honesty. I’ve given him the same. I trust him, more than I ever did Patrick O’Shaughnessy.

Killian oversaw the building of my house from foundation to finishing. He has since unexpectedly welcomed Sirona and Clara and never been rude or grumpy or uninviting.

I knock and enter without awaiting his greeting. This took us both a little getting used to but he dispensed with the formalities quickly and told me he wasn’t going to wait on me hand and foot.

I smell the coffee and head for the kitchen, pouring myself a cup after placing the cupcakes on his counter.

“Killian?”

“Here, lad.”

He wanders in, mug in hand, led by the orange tabby I met my first time here. Winkles is a crotchety old man but will purr and act sweet for treats.

“Morning.”

“Aye.”

“I need a dog.”