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 didnât know if heâd ever leave Ireland again. He wasnât sure he wanted to.
He and his friend Sean Murphy, a preoccupied detective garda if ever thereâd been one, had happened upon the American priest in the bar lounge of the lovely OâByrne House Hotel in Declanâs Cross, a tiny village on the south Irish coast.
Father Callaghan had explained he was winding down a month-long visit to Ireland and didnât want to go home. He said he was captivated by the land of his ancestors. Father Joseph, he called himself. Finian doubted heâd 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 Callaghanâs rumpled attire.
âRock Point isnât one of those charming Maine villages you see in the tourist ads,â the American priest said, halfway through his pint of Guinness, clearly not his first of the blustery March evening. âWhat do they call them in England? Chocolate-box villages? If you want that, you go to Heronâs Cove a few miles away. Rock Pointâs a real fishing village.â
âWhen do you return?â Finian asked.
âMonday.â Father Callaghan counted on his stubby fingers. âJust three more days on the old sod.â
Next to Finian, Sean took a big gulp of his Guinness and didnât say a word. Sean could be a conversationalist, but not so far tonight. Finian smiled at his fellow priest. âIs this your first trip to Ireland?â
âYes, it is. Iâd 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 heâd get here. He was seventy-six. I just turned sixty-two. Jack Maroney was his name, God rest his soul.â Father Callaghan picked up his pint glass. âI booked my flight the day after his funeral.â
âGood for you,â Sean said, raising his pint. âTo the old sod.â
Finian, unsure if Sean was sincere or trying to be ironic, raised his whiskey glass. âTo Ireland.â
âTo Ireland.â Father Callaghan polished off the last of his Guinness. âI was feeling sorry for old Jack Maroney, and for myself, truth be told. Then I thoughtâdo 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?â
Sean jumped in before Finian could come up with an answer. âDepends on the dream. Some dreams you know are unattainable.â
âIâm not talking about playing center for the Boston Celtics.â
Sean pointed his glass at the priest. âYes, youâre right, Father Joseph, thatâs different. Romantic love. Now, thereâs an unattainable dream. For me, anyway. Iâm not a priest.â He winced and took a sharp breath as he looked at Finian. âAh, blast it, Fin, I wasnât thinking. Forgive me.â
âNo worries,â Finian said quietly, then turned again to Father Callaghan. âWill you come back to Ireland one day? Perhaps when itâs warmer?â
âIâd love to spend a year here. Maybe take a sabbatical.â The American priest sat up straight on his barstool as if to emphasize this idea wasnât a whim but something he was determined to do. âAs soon as I can swing it, Iâll be back, even if itâs 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. Weâre in the heart of Saint Declan country.â