night air had made his gray hair curlier.
Blinking, Father Keaneâs hand shot up to protect his eyes from the glare. âTurn that blasted torch away,â he said, still trying to determine who they were. âWho is it?â He squinted against the light. âAre ye the nuns from America?â he asked in disbelief.
âWe are.â Eileen beamed the flashlight on the ground between them.
âWhy in Godâs name are you two out here in this field? Donât you know there are all kinds of potholes? You could easily stumble in the dark and hurt yourselves?â
âWe are fine,â Eileen said quickly, then skipping over the whys of their being outside, she told the priest what they actually had stumbled upon.
âWe have come to find Owen Lynch,â she said, her words coming out in small icy puffs.
By now both the nuns and the priest were shivering with the cold. âYou must be nearly frozen,â he said. âI know I am. Let me go and find Owen myself and tell him what youâve told me. You neednât trouble your heads.â He thought for a moment. âWhy donât you two go around the outside of the tent to the Monksâ Table? Have a cup of hot tea. Iâll join you there as soon as I can.â
Without another word, Father Keane started back toward the tent. Silently the nuns stared after him.
âA cup of hot tea sounds good,â Eileen said, making a path with her flashlight.
The combination of fear, cold, and weariness made Mary Helen feel almost drugged as she followed her friend toward the Monksâ Table. It didnât occur to her until they had almost reached the pub that they hadnât asked Father Keane what in Godâs nameâif it was in Godâs nameâhe was doing out in the cold, dark, dangerous field himself.
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Sister Mary Helen drew back the heavy wooden door of the Monksâ Table and stepped aside to let Eileen go in first. The sudden blast of warm air fogged up her bifocals, momentarily blinding her.
âWelcome,â she heard the publican call.
Finding a clean tissue in her sweater pocket, she wiped her glasses. Once she did, she saw that only three men were at the long bar. One sat at each end and one squarely in the middle.
Making sure the publican gets his exercise,
Mary Helen thoughtâ
that is, if they ever actually drink from their glasses.
From where she stood, all three seemed to be doing more staring at the rich dark liquid than actual sipping.
âMind your step,â the publican reminded them as they made their way toward the dining area in the back of the pub.
âLetâs get a table close to a fireplace,â Mary Helen suggested. Her feet and hands felt like ice sculptures. She wondered, as the warmth began to make them tingle and burn, just how long it would take for them to feel normal again.
âAny place at all,â a middle-aged waitress said. âWhat with the gala tonight, the place is nearly empty.â
Eileen chose an alcove with a table that was next to an open fireplace. âHowâs this?â she asked.
âGreat.â Mary Helen slid into the high-backed bench. The two of them put their feet as close to the fire screen as seemed safe.
âHot tea?â the waitress asked in a weary voice.
âAnd two scones, please,â Eileen added.
âSorry, dearie. No scones at this time of night.â The waitress tapped her pad with the tip of her pencil. âBut the rhubarb pie is grand tonight.â
âRhubarb pie it is, then,â Eileen said, smiling over at Mary Helen. âYou have never tasted anything like this rhubarb pie.â
âWill you be having that with the whipped cream?â the waitress asked.
âPlease,â Eileen said.
Mary Helen groaned. âJust thinking of the calories.â
âWe need it for energy,â Eileen rationalized, as if they needed a reason.
âThe place really is
Pierre V. Comtois, Charlie Krank, Nick Nacario