Rock Point. Carla NeggersЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter 1

      In all his travels, Finian Bracken had never been to America. London, Paris, Rome, Prague, Amsterdam, Vienna, Berlin, Budapest, even Moscow...but never New York City, San Francisco or Dallas. Certainly not Rock Point, Maine, where portly, thoughtful Father Joseph Callaghan served a struggling parish. Finian was a priest himself. His days of rushing from airport to airport, hotel to hotel, seemed distant, as if it had been a different man and not him at all. He didn’t know if he’d ever leave Ireland again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

      He and his friend Sean Murphy, a preoccupied detective garda if ever there’d been one, had happened upon the American priest in the bar lounge of the lovely O’Byrne House Hotel in Declan’s Cross, a tiny village on the south Irish coast.

      Father Callaghan had explained he was winding down a month-long visit to Ireland and didn’t want to go home. He said he was captivated by the land of his ancestors. Father Joseph, he called himself. Finian doubted he’d ever be a Father Finian. Even Father Bracken still sounded strange to him. He noticed his priestly black suit and collar were newer, crisper, than Father Callaghan’s rumpled attire.

      “Rock Point isn’t one of those charming Maine villages you see in the tourist ads,” the American priest said, halfway through his pint of Guinness, clearly not his first of the blustery March evening. “What do they call them in England? Chocolate-box villages? If you want that, you go to Heron’s Cove a few miles away. Rock Point’s a real fishing village.”

      “When do you return?” Finian asked.

      “Monday.” Father Callaghan counted on his stubby fingers. “Just three more days on the old sod.”

      Next to Finian, Sean took a big gulp of his Guinness and didn’t say a word. Sean could be a conversationalist, but not so far tonight. Finian smiled at his fellow priest. “Is this your first trip to Ireland?”

      “Yes, it is. I’d been wanting to go for ages. I buried a man last fall who for years said he wanted to see Ireland, but he never did. He died suddenly, still thinking he’d get here. He was seventy-six. I just turned sixty-two. Jack Maroney was his name, God rest his soul.” Father Callaghan picked up his pint glass. “I booked my flight the day after his funeral.”

      “Good for you,” Sean said, raising his pint. “To the old sod.”

      Finian, unsure if Sean was sincere or trying to be ironic, raised his whiskey glass. “To Ireland.”

      “To Ireland.” Father Callaghan polished off the last of his Guinness. “I was feeling sorry for old Jack Maroney, and for myself, truth be told. Then I thought—do I want to die with no dreams left to pursue? Or do I want to die with a dream or two still in my pocket?”

      Sean jumped in before Finian could come up with an answer. “Depends on the dream. Some dreams you know are unattainable.”

      “I’m not talking about playing center for the Boston Celtics.”

      Sean pointed his glass at the priest. “Yes, you’re right, Father Joseph, that’s different. Romantic love. Now, there’s an unattainable dream. For me, anyway. I’m not a priest.” He winced and took a sharp breath as he looked at Finian. “Ah, blast it, Fin, I wasn’t thinking. Forgive me.”

      “No worries,” Finian said quietly, then turned again to Father Callaghan. “Will you come back to Ireland one day? Perhaps when it’s warmer?”

      “I’d love to spend a year here. Maybe take a sabbatical.” The American priest sat up straight on his barstool as if to emphasize this idea wasn’t a whim but something he was determined to do. “As soon as I can swing it, I’ll be back, even if it’s just for a couple weeks. I want to see more ruins and stone circles and such, and walk the ground of the Irish saints. I was in Ardmore today. We’re in the heart of Saint Declan country.”

      Finian had visited Ardmore’s monastic ruins and twelfth-century round tower, and also a particularly good hotel with an excellent whiskey selection. “Ardmore is quite beautiful.”

      “Sea cliffs, a sand beach, fascinating ruins. It’s a wonderful place even if you don’t give a fig about an early-medieval Irish saint.”

      “But you chose to stay here in Declan’s Cross,” Sean said.

      “Another intriguing place.” Father Callaghan glanced around the bar lounge, its half-dozen tables and upholstered chairs and sofas empty as yet on the quiet evening.