Heron's Cove

“‘Hate’ is too strong. He’s a loner. An observer. That’s why he lives the way he does. Being here in Rock Point helping your parents with their inn, with their worries, has worn his patience.”

“Have you been out to the Bold Coast where he lives?”

“Not yet, no.”

“It’s way down east on the Bay of Fundy. Strong tides, huge rock cliffs. Remote. Stunning scenery. Mike deals with people just enough to make a living, then spends the rest of his time on his own. He’s always been like that, even before he joined the army.”

“He came home from the military a different man?”

Colin shook his head. “Same Mike, just more so. What’s going on with him and Emma?”

“My assessment? She looks at him and wonders if she can fit in among the Donovans. He looks at her and wonders if he really knows his brother, perhaps wonders if he’ll ever have a relationship in his own life such as the one you and Emma have.”

Colin frowned, then grinned suddenly. “I think I actually understand what you just said.”

“This Russian woman, Colin…”

“Not your problem. Worry about your bean-hole supper. I’ll worry about Emma’s Russian.”

“She’s making pies for the supper.”

“The Russian?”

Finian sighed. Colin, of course, knew better. “Emma.”

Colin hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Finian could see that his friend wasn’t so sure about his new love inserting herself into his life in Rock Point, perhaps less sure than he had been a few weeks ago in the heat of their first days together. It was only natural, Finian thought.

“I’ll clean up here,” he said. “You’ve had very little to drink. You’ll be fine to drive.”

“I walked down here.”

“But you’ll be driving to Emma in Heron’s Cove.”

“So I will.” Colin rose, a spark in his gray eyes. “Thanks for the whiskey. It’s good to be back.”

Finian studied his friend, noted the clear pain he was in, the depth of his fatigue. “How bad was it, Colin?”

“I’m here drinking whiskey with you, so it could have been worse.”

“Your brothers know you didn’t get your cuts and bruises in Washington.”

Colin grinned. “You don’t think I can convince them I tripped on my way to a cocktail party?”

Finian gave up and smiled. “Go, my friend. Be with your woman.”

“An excellent plan.” But as Colin pulled on his jacket, he pointed a finger at Finian. “If this Russian jeweler shows up again, you call me. Got that, Father Bracken?”

Colin left without waiting for an answer, and Finian corked the Bracken 15 year old, then poured himself a glass of water. He had to remember to keep a clear head when dealing with a Donovan. He put the uncomfortable conversation out of his mind and looked around the quiet restaurant. An elderly couple was sharing a piece of wild blueberry pie—a local favorite—and two young sisters he recognized from the church were talking themselves out of ice-cream sundaes.

His previous life in Ireland seemed so long ago, so far away.

He shook off his melancholy before it could get him in its grip. A woman on Hurley’s staff edged over to his table with a plastic tray. She was slender and shapely, with deep gold-flecked hazel eyes and a thick golden-brown braid hanging down her back. “I’ll get these glasses, Father,” she said, anchoring the tray on one hip.

He thanked her. “What’s your name?”

“Julianne Maroney. My grandmother is helping with the bean-hole supper at the church this next weekend—that is, if she’s able.”

“Is she ill?”

Julianne grabbed Mike’s and Colin’s empty whiskey glasses. “I don’t know if you’d call it ill. More like thoroughly pissed off at God.” She blushed. “Sorry, Father.”

Finian leaned back in his chair. “I understand being pissed off at God. I was for a time myself.”

“Were you? Really? And you’re not now?”

“I’m not now. In fact, I never was. I just thought I was.”

“Misdirected anger,” Julianne said thoughtfully. “That’s Granny. She loves the bean-hole supper but she says she’s mad at God for taking Grandpa away from her. He died last year, before you arrived at St. Patrick’s. We all miss him, but it’s not good for her to be so mad all the time. I think it’s making her sick.”

“Physically sick?”

Her eyes shone with sudden tears. “I think she wants to die, too. Join Grandpa in the great beyond. Heaven. Whatever.” Julianne added the water pitcher to her tray. “Do you think you could talk to her?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t tell her I said anything. Her name is Fran. Franny Maroney. Her grandmother was from Ireland. Sligo, I think. Do you know where that is?”

Finian smiled. “I do, indeed.”

“Granny likes your Irish accent. I want to go to Ireland someday. Working on it, in fact.” Julianne snatched up Andy Donovan’s whiskey glass with more force than was necessary and banged it onto her tray. “It’s nice to see Colin back in town. He does come and go. He and Kevin are my favorite Donovans. I don’t know Mike that well.”

Given the way she grabbed Andy’s water glass and banged it onto the tray with the same force as she had his whiskey glass, Finian had an idea of her opinion of the third-born Donovan.

“Andy Donovan’s a rake,” Julianne said matter-of-factly. “You know that, right, Father?”

“I haven’t heard a man called a ‘rake’ in an age.”

“It’s fitting.” She glared out the window at the dark harbor where Andy had his lobster boat moored. “I’m working my way through school. I’m finishing my master’s in marine biology. I don’t know what I was thinking…Andy and I…” She sighed. “That son of a bitch broke my heart.” Her cheek color deepened. “Sorry, Father.”

“Not at all.”

She seemed to regret having said anything. “I told Granny I’d go with her to the supper. She says she doesn’t want to go without Grandpa, but I think it’d be good for her.”

“Thank you for letting me know,” Finian said.

Julianne spun back across the restaurant with her tray and through the swinging door into Hurley’s kitchen. Finian returned the Bracken 15 to the bar, where it would be safe until his next visit, said good-night and headed outside, the wood door creaking as it shut hard behind him.

He crossed the quiet parking lot, a sharpness in the air he hadn’t noticed earlier. He was just barely warm enough in his suit coat. He continued onto the narrow streets above the harbor, lined with modest homes lit up against the dark night. He passed a large shade tree, bright yellow leaves clinging to its sweeping branches and scattered on the pavement, a reminder that the long Maine winter was soon upon them. He had heard tales of brutal New England winters. This would be his first.