*

Chapter 30: Father Michael

            The sun is high in the window when Teresa wakes up from a blissfully deep and dreamless sleep.  Before getting out of bed, she closes her eyes to better recall Margaret’s appearance.  Now Teresa remembers that she did see Margaret’s shoes, a pair of sturdy leather boots, repaired and worn.  One more detail comes to Teresa in the daylight.  Margaret’s wrist was wrapped in a dark, stained cloth.  Teresa shivers, remembering the reason for the bandage.  Eddie Thomson’s version of the story seems to be true.

            Teresa is hungry.  She decides to have a real English breakfast at the cafe in town.  She washes and dresses quickly, thinking of fried eggs and tomatoes, sausage, and toast.  She is delighted to get a seat at a table by the window.  She orders her breakfast while pushing down the guilty knowledge of how the heavy food will make her feel later on.  She is sipping her first cup of tea and gazing out the window when Father Michael passes by.  Here is the one person in Mantecombe she can tell about Margaret.  Even if he doesn’t believe her, he will listen and keep her tale in confidence.

            A moment later, Father Michael steps into the cafe.  He sees Teresa just as she is lifting her hand to wave to him.  He strides over to her table.

            “What serendipity!” he says.  “Miss Salerno!  I was hoping to catch you.  May I?” He indicates the chair opposite her.

            “Please, Father Michael.  Sit down.”  She returns his broad smile.  “I’m having the death-defying English breakfast.  Would you like to join me?”

            “That would be a pleasure, one that I allow myself to indulge in perhaps twice a year.”  They laugh together.  Teresa notices the crinkles by his eyes when he smiles.

            “I have to confess, Miss Salerno, that I googled your publications after our last meeting.”

            “You did?”

            “Yes, and I found you to be quite a prolific writer.  A good one, too, I might add.  I read the articles you wrote on the effects of television on young children.  Rather horrifying.”

            Teresa finds her cheeks getting hot.  When was the last time I blushed? she asks herself.

            Father Michael leans forward over his teacup, his expression earnest.  “But don’t you think there should be more longitudinal studies, ones that follow the children through their secondary schooling?”

            “Absolutely.  In fact, one of the teams of scientists that I interviewed is trying to get funding to do just that.”

            Their conversation flows easily through breakfast, ranging from children and television, to the Middle East, to the New York Times Book Review that Father Michael reads weekly.  Teresa joins him in laughter often during their talk.  When he leans toward her to make a point, she catches a whiff of his after-shave, fresh and citrus-y.  She likes everything about this man, his kind face, his intellect, and his zest for life.

            Finally, the last cup of tea is drained, the plates are removed, the cafe is almost empty of customers.

            “This has been a delightful meal,” Father Michael says, standing up.  “I have another confession.  I also googled your bio, Miss Salerno.”

            “Oh, dear.  I haven’t looked at it for months.  I hope it wasn’t too pompous.”  Or too revealing, she adds in her mind.

            “Not at all.  However, you have had quite an interesting life so far.  And quite a few losses,” he adds after a pause.

            “Yes, well…” she hesitates, embarrassed, and determines to google herself as soon as she gets back to the Manor.  Then she gasps and covers her mouth.  “Oh!  Father Michael!  I have the most amazing news about Mar— my research.  I completely forgot that I wanted to tell you about it.”

            “I should love to hear,” he says.  Then wrinkling his brow, “Today I’m all booked up.  I know!  How about we have dinner tomorrow evening?  There’s a little inn just north of here, quiet, good food.  What do you say?”

            “That would be lovely,” Teresa answers, her mind racing.  Is this a date? What shall I wear?

            “I’ll meet you in the Manor car park, at seven o’clock.  How is that?”

            “Perfect,” she says, smiling.  “That will be perfect.”