“It’s very hot and I’m looking for a particular bottle of wine,” he said. “I think a drop or two would do me good.”
“Teagan will help you,” Cathy offered.
She shot her friend the evil eye. “I’m sure Father Mark can manage by himself.”
“No, go ahead,” Cathy said.
“I don’t mind company,” the priest said, as he breezed by Cathy. He started down the stairs. Cathy shoved Teagan after him.
She scowled at her friend, grasped her sweater, and clung to the wall as she felt her way down. It was like being a child again, she thought, struggling against the feeling that she was doing something forbidden by following this handsome man. He was so different from Cullen. His maturity and charm captivated her.
Father Mark disappeared for a few moments. A flash of light flooded the stairs. She saw the priest halfway across the room standing under the glare of a naked bulb. The room smelled of must and generations of damp walls. Several dilapidated chairs sat in a corner near a writing desk with a broken leg. A large travel trunk with old books piled upon it filled another. Father Mark scrutinized the wine bottles laid out in a wooden rack against the wall.
He lifted one, read the label, and without looking back, asked, “What’s your name?”
“Teagan Tiernan.”
“A pretty name.” He turned and studied her. His blue eyes bored through her in the close quarters. “Your parents are parish members?”
“Yes. They have been for many years.” The intensity of his gaze made her nervous, but she found it hard to look away.
Something like sorrow flitted across the priest’s face and then vanished. He flipped the wine bottle in the air and caught it in his hand. “This is what I’m looking for. A nice claret. It’s almost a sin to drink it on so warm a day.” He reached for her with his free hand.
Teagan instinctively raised her sweater.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to look at the red rose on your dress. I love roses. They’re symbols of purity, you know, especially white ones.”
She nodded and cupped her hand over the flower, which had flopped forward. The rose was close to her left breast, which the dress accentuated. Her nerves got the better of her. “Maybe we should go upstairs.”
Father Mark smiled. “In a minute. I’m tired of shaking hands and answering questions. Let me ask a few.” He leaned against the wine rack. “It’s awfully hot to be carrying a jumper.”
“My mother made me bring it. She thinks a young lady should always carry one no matter how hot it is.”
“Do you know anything about wine?”
Teagan shook her head. “My da drinks it once in a while, but he prefers whiskey.”
“Take a look.” Father Mark held out the bottle.
She placed her sweater over the books on the trunk, took the bottle, and examined it. “It doesn’t mean much to me.” She handed the wine back to him.
Raucous voices and laughter poured down the stairs. She wondered if her mother might be looking for her. The thought of being alone with the priest made her stomach flutter, although she wasn’t doing anything wrong. So what if she was caught in the wine cellar with him? He didn’t seem to be too concerned about their meeting.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Ballsbridge, near Donnybrook,” she replied, and found herself embarrassed to say so.
“I’m from Dublin—north side,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“You don’t sound it.” she said. “At least not like any northsider I’ve ever heard.”
“I was educated in London. I worked very hard to get rid of my accent and speech patterns. I was ashamed of where I grew up…” He leaned against the wine rack.
She had only met a few people who lived north of the River Liffey, but she knew life was different there. “You shouldn’t be. You’ve done well for yourself.”
He tilted his head. “I’ve learned you can’t erase the past no matter how hard you try.” He looked at her with a softness she hadn’t expected.
She lowered her gaze.
“You have beautiful hair,” he said. “It’s almost blond, special in Ireland.”
Teagan fought back a blush. “My grandmother on my mother’s side was German. I don’t remember her. She died shortly after I was born—”
“Teagan… Teagan?” Their conversation was interrupted by the slurred speech of her father. He called her name successively, each “Teagan” louder than the next.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Miss Tiernan. I suppose we’d better go up.” Father Mark pulled the string hanging from the lamp and the cellar plunged into darkness.
Her father’s calls came in violent outbursts, sending a shiver through her.
“Let me go up first.” He brushed past her, the wine bottle in his hand. Teagan followed. The priest stopped in front of her father, who stood surrounded by his friends.
Her father’s eyes shone red in a drunken rage. He reached past the priest and grabbed her arm. The room grew quiet.
“I’ve been lookin’ for yeh,” her father said, his words slurred. She knew he was angry when his accent burst forth from too much drink.
Her mother put a hand on his shoulder. “Stop it, Cormac. Don’t make a scene.”
“A scene? I was looking for me daughter.” He knocked her mother’s hand away and bellowed, “What’s to be done when you can’t find your own flesh and blood?”
Father Mark put the bottle on the table and extended his hand to Cormac, but the friendly gesture wasn’t returned. Her father glared at the priest.
Father Mark lowered his hand. “I’m afraid I’m to blame, Mr. Tiernan. I asked Teagan to read the titles on some of the holy books in the cellar. I’m not much good without my glasses.”
Her father shook as the priest smiled at him. He pointed a finger at Teagan. “She’s good at reading, but slow at other things, such as learnin’ about life.”
“Da, please,” Teagan said. She used the only term of affection she knew that might cool her father’s anger.
“Yes, daughter, please your ‘da.’” He spit out the words and then slumped against the table.
Father Mark caught him before he could knock over the punch bowl and the wine.
“Get your hands—” Her father shook the priest off and grabbed the edge of the table. Father Mark backed away.
Shavon clutched her purse and stared at her husband. “I think we should go.”
“It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” the young priest said to her mother. Father Matthew, who had been entertaining a group of older parishioners across the room, walked with wide eyes toward the new priest.
“Yes, let’s go,” her father said. “But not before I’ve had another spot of whiskey.” He held up his thumb and forefinger in a pinch.
Father Matthew’s cheeks turned a bright red. “I think you’ve had enough for one afternoon, Cormac.”
“All right, then.” He hiccupped and his feet shifted unsteadily beneath him.
“I’m sorry,” Teagan whispered to Father Mark. “Sometimes he drinks too much.”
“No, I must apologize,” he replied. “Get home safely.”
Her father muttered incoherently and leaned on her mother as they trudged toward the door.
Her mother offered to drive, but her father would have none of it, declaring that he was “sober as a church during Mass.” The ride home was quiet except for a sniffle now and then from Teagan’s mother. Every time she blew her nose, her father pounded the steering wheel with his fist. He did seem remarkably sober despite the number of drinks he’d had. She had heard one of her friends talk about “functioning drunks.” He was one, on many occasions.