Chapter 1
Luke Bennett’s first mistake at St. Matthew’s was arriving during a funeral.
His second was assuming the man carrying folding chairs through the side entrance couldn’t possibly be the priest.
“Sorry,” Luke said, dragging his suitcase out of the doorway. “Do you know where I can find Father Mercer?”
The man stopped.
Two metal chairs were hooked beneath one arm, another balanced against his hip. He wore black trousers and a black clerical shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, and around his neck was the unmistakable white of a Roman collar.
Luke looked at the collar.
Then at the man.
Then back at the collar, as though there were still some reasonable explanation for why he had missed it.
“Ah.”
The priest waited.
Luke cleared his throat. “I’d like to revise the question.”
“Probably wise.”
“Are you Father Mercer?”
“I am.”
“Excellent.”
Father Mercer glanced at the suitcase still occupying half the doorway.
Luke immediately moved it.
“Excellent,” he repeated.
The priest was younger than Luke had expected. Not young, exactly. Early forties, perhaps. Dark hair, grey beginning at the temples, a lean face and a serious expression that somehow stopped short of looking unfriendly.
And attractive.
Very attractive.
Luke decided immediately that this was unreasonable.
“Bennett?” Father Mercer asked.
“Luke.”
“I know.”
Of course he did.
“Father Reilly said three.”
Luke checked the clock above the parish office door.
2:47.
“I thought being early was generally considered virtuous.”
“Not during a funeral.”
From inside the church came the muted rise of an organ.
“Right.”
Something almost happened at the corner of Father Mercer’s mouth.
Luke stared.
Was he trying not to laugh?
Before he could decide, a woman appeared in the office doorway carrying an enormous ring of keys.
She was small and silver-haired, wearing a navy cardigan despite the warmth of the building.
“This him?”
“This is him,” Father Mercer said.
She looked Luke over.
Then his suitcase.
Then Father Mercer.
“He’s thin.”
Luke blinked. “I can hear you.”
“Good. Saves repetition.”
This time Father Mercer definitely smiled.
It lasted perhaps a second.
Unfortunately, that was enough.
Luke had known the man for less than two minutes and already wanted him to do it again.
That seemed like something worth worrying about later.
The woman took hold of his suitcase.
Luke reached for it. “I can carry that.”
“So can I.”
“I didn’t mean you couldn’t.”
“You’ll do well here,” she said gravely.
Father Mercer turned away, his shoulders moving once with what Luke suspected was another suppressed laugh.
“Margaret Doyle,” the woman said. “Parish administrator. Michael is in the church and will forget you exist until the funeral is finished.”
“Comforting.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
Luke followed her into the parish office.
Behind them, Father Mercer disappeared through another doorway with the chairs.
Luke did not look after him.
He made it almost four seconds.
St. Matthew’s was older than the photographs Luke had seen. Dark wooden doors, pale stone walls and a bell tower that seemed disproportionately large for the narrow street surrounding it. The parish office occupied a renovated section connecting the church to the community hall.
Margaret showed him the kitchen, toilets, copy room and Father Reilly’s office at a speed that suggested there would be an examination later.
She pointed through a glass door toward another building.
“St. Gabriel Outreach. Food parcels, emergency assistance, housing referrals, community meals. You’ll spend time there.”
Luke nodded.
He had read about St. Gabriel before accepting the placement. That part, at least, had interested him.
“Who runs it?”
“Currently? Everyone.”
“That sounds efficient.”
Margaret gave him a look.
Luke smiled.
She didn’t.
Then, unexpectedly, she did.
“Michael is going to like you.”
“That sounded almost threatening.”
“It was.”
A door opened behind them.
A young man in a grey sweater came through carrying a cardboard box. He stopped when he saw Luke.
“You’re Bennett.”
Luke sighed. “Apparently I have no secrets here.”
“Give it a week.”
He set down the box and offered his hand.
“Mateo Alvarez.”
Luke recognized the name from the formation residence emails.
“Luke.”
“I know.”
“Everyone needs to stop doing that.”
Mateo grinned. “You’re in the room across from mine. I came to rescue you, but Margaret got here first.”
“Rescue me from what?”
“Father Reilly.”
Margaret clicked her tongue.
“He talks.”
“So do you,” she said.
“Yes, but I’m interesting.”
Luke liked him immediately.
By the time the funeral ended, Mateo had explained the residence rules, warned him which shower had unreliable hot water and informed him that Father Reilly kept biscuits in the second drawer of his desk and believed nobody knew.
The church doors opened.
Voices drifted into the corridor.
“Come on,” Mateo said. “You can meet Michael before someone gives him another job.”
They reached the vestibule just as the mourners began leaving.
Luke spotted Father Mercer near the doors.
He looked different now.
The sleeves were down, and vestments had replaced the plain black shirt Luke had first seen. His attention was fixed on an elderly woman clutching a folded funeral program.
Luke couldn’t hear everything.
“I should have made him go sooner,” the woman said.
Father Mercer shook his head.
“He wouldn’t go.”
“I should’ve made him.”
“You tried.”
“He was so stubborn.”
A pause.
Then Daniel said quietly, “He was.”
The woman gave a broken laugh that became a sob.
Daniel didn’t rush to fill the silence. He didn’t offer some polished explanation about God’s plan or try to make the grief smaller than it was.
He simply stood beside her, one hand resting lightly against her upper arm while she cried.
Eventually, the woman whispered something.
Daniel bent closer to hear.
Whatever he answered made her nod.
Luke looked away.
It felt intrusive suddenly.
“That’s Mrs. Hanley,” Mateo murmured. “Her husband had cancer.”
Luke nodded.
A moment later, he found himself looking back.
Daniel walked Mrs. Hanley toward the doors and waited until her daughter came to collect her.
There was nothing dramatic about it.
Maybe that was what Luke noticed.
Daniel had seemed dry and slightly intimidating ten minutes earlier. Now there was a gentleness in him that Luke hadn’t expected.
Then Daniel glanced across the vestibule.
Their eyes met.
Luke immediately pretended to be examining a noticeboard advertising a parish quiz night.
Smooth.
“You must be Luke.”
A cheerful voice saved him.
Father Michael Reilly approached with both hands extended as though Luke were a relative returning from war instead of a seminarian arriving thirteen minutes early.
Michael was nearing sixty, round-faced and slightly rumpled.
“Sorry about this,” he said. “Funeral moved from yesterday. Family logistics. Awful business. Journey all right?”
“Yes, Father.”
“You’ve eaten?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
Luke hesitated.
Michael pointed at him. “That means no.”
“I had something on the train.”
“What?”
“Coffee.”
“Coffee isn’t food.”
“I also had crisps.”
Michael stared.
Mateo said, “I’ll feed him.”
“See that you do.”
Michael put a hand on Luke’s shoulder and began steering him toward the office.
“You’ll be with me mostly. Pastoral visits, liturgy, St. Gabriel, whatever else they throw at us. Father Daniel will occasionally terrify you.”
Behind them, Daniel said, “Father Michael.”
Michael didn’t turn around.
“He’s very sensitive about it.”
Luke bit the inside of his cheek.
Daniel passed them carrying a stack of service sheets. He gave Luke one brief look.
“Try not to encourage him.”
“I’ve been here less than an hour.”
“You’re already encouraging him.”
Then Daniel was gone.
Luke watched him disappear into the sacristy.
Michael continued explaining Monday’s schedule.
Luke heard perhaps half of it.
The formation residence was a fifteen-minute walk from St. Matthew’s.
Luke’s room was small but clean. Single bed. Desk. Wardrobe. Crucifix above the door. One window overlooking the backs of several terraced houses.
Mateo leaned against the doorframe while Luke unpacked.
“So?”
“So what?”
“St. Matthew’s.”
“It seems nice.”
“Margaret?”
“Terrifying.”
“Correct.”
“Father Michael?”
“Talkative.”
“Correct.”
Luke folded a shirt.
Mateo waited.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing a face.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You definitely have a face.”
Luke threw a sock at him.
Mateo caught it.
“Mercer?” he asked.
Luke’s hands stopped for approximately half a second.
Apparently, that was sufficient.
Mateo’s eyebrows rose.
“No,” Luke said.
“I didn’t ask anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to ask what you thought of him.”
“I think he’s a priest.”
“Remarkable observational skills. They’re lucky to have you.”
Luke turned back to the suitcase.
He should have found the joke funny.
Instead, an old discomfort had already begun crawling beneath his skin.
A priest.
His supervisor’s colleague.
A man nearly twenty years older than him.
And Luke was here to determine whether he himself had a vocation to the priesthood.
Perfect.
His father would have found the situation almost poetically disappointing.
Luke pushed the thought away.
He hadn’t come here for his father.
At least, that was what he had been telling himself.
“You all right?” Mateo asked.
“Fine.”
Mateo studied him but, to Luke’s relief, didn’t push.
“Dinner at seven. If you’re late, Brother Thomas eats everything.”
“That’s slander.”
“You’ll see.”
Mateo tossed the sock back and left.
Luke sat on the edge of the bed.
The room became very quiet.
On the desk lay the placement folder he had been given months earlier.
ST. MATTHEW’S PARISH FORMATION PLACEMENT.
He had read it so many times the corners had softened.
Six months.
That was all.
Six months of parish work, supervision, prayer, study and pretending he was certain enough about his future to deserve being here.
Luke picked up the folder.
He thought about Father Michael’s easy welcome.
Margaret’s keys.
St. Gabriel.
Mrs. Hanley crying in the vestibule.
Then, annoyingly, his mind returned to Father Daniel Mercer standing in a doorway with three folding chairs.
Luke dropped backward onto the bed.
“No.”
The ceiling offered no assistance.
It was a stupid crush.
He had experienced those before.
They passed.
This one would too.
Probably.
Luke closed his eyes.
He remembered Daniel trying not to laugh.
Then Daniel beside Mrs. Hanley.
Then that brief glance across the vestibule.
Luke opened his eyes again.
Six months suddenly seemed like a very long time.
And, with considerably less justification, not nearly long enough.
