V Alexander - The Taster

“Excuse me,” she said, without looking directly at him. “Someone pushed me.”

The priest’s eyes twinkled. Apparently, he was no stranger to adoring crowds. “No apology necessary,” he said, and resumed his conversation with the others.

She broke free of the circle as embarrassment rose in her chest. Cathy grabbed her by the arm when she came within reach. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” she gushed. “You got close to him! What did he say to you?” Cathy pushed back her glasses so she could focus on the priest. “Father Mark,” she said languorously. “I’d love to share my confessions with him.”

Teagan scoffed. “You can hardly get to him for all the swooning women. All we need are the other Apostles—Father Luke and Father John—to complete the set.”

Laughter erupted from the corner where her father had joined his pals. He was probably on his second whiskey by now.

“I think Father Mark fancies you,” Cathy said. “I saw the way he was looking at you.” Her friend stared at her. “My, you look dolled up today.”

“My mother made me wear this dress—and carry my jumper.” Teagan sighed. “I told her it was ridiculous, but she wouldn’t listen. And you’re daft. Father Mark is old enough to be my da—at least thirty.” Her shoulders drooped at the thought. “And even if he did fancy me, what future is there with a priest? None.” She was happy Cathy thought she was attractive enough to capture a look from Father Mark.

Cathy squinted at the young priest. “Maybe you could convince him to give up his vows of celibacy.”

“Don’t be silly.” Teagan fanned her face with her hand. “My God, it’s hot. I wish we could get air-conditioning here like my aunt Florence has in America. She tells my mother about all the luxuries they have in New York City.”

“Let’s go to the table and stand by the stairs,” Cathy said.

“Stairs?”

“Father Matthew has a wine cellar. I helped him and Father Mark bring up some bottles. It’s cooler by the steps.” They made their way to the table and the stairs that led below.

Her mother walked to the group of ladies gathered around Father Mark. In the corner, her father leaned on one of his friends, sharing the contents of the flask.

They had only been at the stairs a few minutes when Father Mark broke through the crowd and started toward them. Cathy nudged Teagan in the ribs. “Get ready. Here he comes.”

Teagan slapped her friend’s hand. “Quit it! I don’t want him to look at me.”

He stopped in front of them and extended his hand to her. “I’ve met Cathy, but we haven’t had the pleasure.” He had no Irish accent and Teagan wondered where he was from. She took his hand, warm to the touch, and shook it. A thrill shot through her, and she pulled her fingers away. She stared at the priest. He filled out his clothes like no other priest she had met. A question popped into her head: Why would such a good-looking man become a priest?

“It’s very hot and I’m looking for a particular bottle of wine,” he said. “I think a drop or two would do me good.”

“Teagan will help you,” Cathy offered.

She shot her friend the evil eye. “I’m sure Father Mark can manage by himself.”

“No, go ahead,” Cathy said.

“I don’t mind company,” the priest said, as he breezed by Cathy. He started down the stairs. Cathy shoved Teagan after him.

She scowled at her friend, grasped her sweater, and clung to the wall as she felt her way down. It was like being a child again, she thought, struggling against the feeling that she was doing something forbidden by following this handsome man. He was so different from Cullen. His maturity and charm captivated her.

Father Mark disappeared for a few moments. A flash of light flooded the stairs. She saw the priest halfway across the room standing under the glare of a naked bulb. The room smelled of must and generations of damp walls. Several dilapidated chairs sat in a corner near a writing desk with a broken leg. A large travel trunk with old books piled upon it filled another. Father Mark scrutinized the wine bottles laid out in a wooden rack against the wall.

He lifted one, read the label, and without looking back, asked, “What’s your name?”

“Teagan Tiernan.”

“A pretty name.” He turned and studied her. His blue eyes bored through her in the close quarters. “Your parents are parish members?”

“Yes. They have been for many years.” The intensity of his gaze made her nervous, but she found it hard to look away.

Something like sorrow flitted across the priest’s face and then vanished. He flipped the wine bottle in the air and caught it in his hand. “This is what I’m looking for. A nice claret. It’s almost a sin to drink it on so warm a day.” He reached for her with his free hand.

Teagan instinctively raised her sweater.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to look at the red rose on your dress. I love roses. They’re symbols of purity, you know, especially white ones.”

She nodded and cupped her hand over the flower, which had flopped forward. The rose was close to her left breast, which the dress accentuated. Her nerves got the better of her. “Maybe we should go upstairs.”

Father Mark smiled. “In a minute. I’m tired of shaking hands and answering questions. Let me ask a few.” He leaned against the wine rack. “It’s awfully hot to be carrying a jumper.”

“My mother made me bring it. She thinks a young lady should always carry one no matter how hot it is.”

“Do you know anything about wine?”

Teagan shook her head. “My da drinks it once in a while, but he prefers whiskey.”

“Take a look.” Father Mark held out the bottle.

She placed her sweater over the books on the trunk, took the bottle, and examined it. “It doesn’t mean much to me.” She handed the wine back to him.

Raucous voices and laughter poured down the stairs. She wondered if her mother might be looking for her. The thought of being alone with the priest made her stomach flutter, although she wasn’t doing anything wrong. So what if she was caught in the wine cellar with him? He didn’t seem to be too concerned about their meeting.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Ballsbridge, near Donnybrook,” she replied, and found herself embarrassed to say so.

“I’m from Dublin—north side,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“You don’t sound it.” she said. “At least not like any northsider I’ve ever heard.”

“I was educated in London. I worked very hard to get rid of my accent and speech patterns. I was ashamed of where I grew up…” He leaned against the wine rack.

She had only met a few people who lived north of the River Liffey, but she knew life was different there. “You shouldn’t be. You’ve done well for yourself.”

He tilted his head. “I’ve learned you can’t erase the past no matter how hard you try.” He looked at her with a softness she hadn’t expected.

She lowered her gaze.

“You have beautiful hair,” he said. “It’s almost blond, special in Ireland.”

Teagan fought back a blush. “My grandmother on my mother’s side was German. I don’t remember her. She died shortly after I was born—”

“Teagan… Teagan?” Their conversation was interrupted by the slurred speech of her father. He called her name successively, each “Teagan” louder than the next.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Miss Tiernan. I suppose we’d better go up.” Father Mark pulled the string hanging from the lamp and the cellar plunged into darkness.

Her father’s calls came in violent outbursts, sending a shiver through her.

“Let me go up first.” He brushed past her, the wine bottle in his hand. Teagan followed. The priest stopped in front of her father, who stood surrounded by his friends.