The Expected One Read Online Free PDF Page A

She had never been able to account for the connection she had with her older cousin on any logical level. But from the day she had arrived in Ireland as a young girl they had been as close as twins, sharing an uncanny ability to communicate without words.
    Maureen reached into her tote bag and pulled out a blue plastic grocery sack, the type used by import shops the world over. It held a small rectangular box, which she handed to the priest.
    “Ahh. Lyon’s Gold Label. Beautiful choice. I still can’t stomach American tea.”
    Maureen made a face and shuddered to indicate her shared distaste. “Bog water.”
    “I believe the kettle is full, so I’ll just plug it in and we’ll have a cuppa right here and now.”
    Maureen smiled as she watched Peter rise from the battered leather chair he had fought to obtain from the university. Upon acceptance of his position in the humanities extension department, the esteemed Dr. Peter Healy had been given a window office with modern furniture, which included a brand-new and very functional desk and chair. Peter hated functional when it came to his furniture, but he hated modern even more. Using his Gaelic charm as an irresistible force, he had managed to stir the usually unmovable staff into frenetic activity. He was a dead ringer for the Irish actor Gabriel Byrne, a likeness that never failed to inspire women, Roman collar or no. The staff had searched basements and scoured unused classrooms until they found exactly what he was looking for: a weathered and extremely comfortable leather high-backed chair, and a desk of aged wood that at least looked somewhat antique. The modern amenities in the office were of his choosing: the mini-refrigerator in the corner behind the desk, a small electric kettle for boiling water, and the generally ignored telephone.
    Maureen was more relaxed now as she watched him, safe in the presence of a close relative and immersed in the entirely soothing and purely Irish art form of tea making.
    Peter crossed back to his desk and leaned down to the refrigerator situated immediately behind him. He removed a small container of milk and placed it next to the pink and white box of sugar resting on top of the fridge. “There’s a spoon here somewhere — wait — here we are.”
    The electric kettle was sputtering now, indicating that the water was on the boil.
    “I’ll do the honors,” Maureen volunteered.
    She stood up and took the box of tea from Peter’s desk, opening the plastic seal with the edge of a manicured thumbnail. She removed two round bags and dropped them into mismatched, tea-stained mugs. The stereotypes about Irishmen and alcohol were dramatically overstated from Maureen’s perspective; the real Irish addiction was to this stuff.
    Maureen finished the preparations expertly and handed a steaming mug to her cousin as she sat down in the chair opposite his desk. Her own mug in hand, Maureen sipped quietly for a moment, feeling Peter’s benevolent blue eyes on her. Now that she had hurried to see him, she was unsure of where to start. It was the priest who ultimately broke the silence.
    “Is she back, then?” he asked softly.
    Maureen sighed with relief. At those moments when she had thought herself truly on the distant edge of sanity, Peter was there for her: cousin, priest, friend.
    “Yep,” she replied, uncharacteristically inarticulate. “She’s back.”

    Peter tossed restlessly in his bed, unable to sleep. The conversation with Maureen had disturbed him more than he let on to her. He was concerned about her, both as her closest living relative and as her spiritual counselor. He had known her dreams would come back with a vengeance, and had been biding his time, anticipating the day.
    When Maureen first returned from the Holy Land, she had been disturbed by dreams of the regal, suffering woman in the red cloak, the woman she had seen in Jerusalem. Her dreams were always the same: she was immersed in the mob on the Via Dolorosa.