The Disenchanted Widow Read Online Free PDF Page B

Grant?”
    “What’s that ye’re sayin’?”
    Bessie pinched Herkie’s arm. “Say thank you to Mr. Grant, son.”
    Herkie squirmed. “Thank you, Mr. Grant.”
    “Right ye be. Well, if ye want tae lock her up there, I’ll run yis over tae the house. She’ll be safe enuff tae I come back with me tow-rope.”
    “Okay…I’ll…I’ll just get a couple of things from the boot.” She turned away from him to cover her unease. “Come on, son. Help me out here.”
    A scene from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre flashed into Bessie’s mind. Well, she’d have to take her chances. Augustus Grant, homicidal maniac or improbable gift horse?
    She’d soon be finding out.

Chapter five
    F ather Connor Cassidy paced the aisle of St. Timothy’s parish church, one hand clenched behind his back, the other extended in front of him and gripping his breviary. At forty-five he was one of those fortunate men for whom the passage of time seemed to be having a beneficent effect. The lush, dark hair turning silver at the temples, as opposed to gray; the proud symmetry of a lean physique; the fine hands and gracious manner—all conspired to lend an elegance that he himself seemed unaware of. When ladies met him they wondered why he’d become a priest, and when men met him they felt grateful that he had.
    He mumbled the prayers he knew so well, trying to instill some sincerity into the all-too-familiar words. But that afternoon his mind was on other things. Just six months into his tenure in Tailorstown, he was still smarting from the fact that he’d been plucked from his Derry City post to fill in for Father Billy Brady. Father Billy had tripped on the hem of his alb one Sunday morning while saying Mass and struck his head on the altar. Father Cassidy suspected that drink, not clumsiness, was the likely cause. On the few occasions he’d met Father Billy, the older man had smelled like a distillery in high summer, so who was to say when he’d be coming back? Between drying out and getting his head in order,he might well be leaving his stand-in, Father Cassidy, stuck in the backwoods parish of Tailorstown for the best part of a year. And that was being optimistic.
    At the same time, Cassidy was discovering that there might well be an upside to being stationed in such an isolated little place. A priest running a one-man show in a small town was left pretty much to himself, to conduct himself very much as he pleased—behind closed doors, at least. He’d also had the good fortune to be blessed with a particularly unobservant housekeeper.
    But his luck had not held. Miss Betty Beard, the dithering housekeeper, had announced she’d be taking a leave of absence. Her mother had been laid low by a Baker’s cyst on her left leg, thus forcing Father Cassidy to look for a replacement. He’d already put an advertisement in the post office window, but so far the only respondent had been Rose McFadden, a woman who seemed to shadow his every move like some kind of Stasi spy. As a last resort he’d typed up a card advertising the vacancy, which the town’s stores and eateries had put on display. And, just to be on the safe side, he’d commenced a “never known to fail” novena to St. Martha of Bethany, patron saint of cooks, cleaners, and domestic servants.
    The priest came to a halt by the confessional at the back of the church and sighed deeply while gazing raptly at the solid oak box with its red velvet curtain and half door. He’d been a priest for fourteen years. The first ten had been spent serving parishes in Belfast and Derry—cutting his teeth on the raw, working-class housing estates of both cities.
    How many confessionals have I sat in? he mused, as he stared at the box. What truths and lies have been told to me?
    He was contemplating those questions when the rear door of the church creaked open. Who should appear, like an overweight bird of paradise in a blue frock, yellow cardigan, and pink tam-o’-shanter, but Mrs. McFadden