Building From Ashes
Page 23

“Hello, Father! Can I help with anything this evening?”
He frowned. “Currants for the sister? I’m not sure where they would be.”
She waved him over to a row. “I’m not surprised. We keep moving the baking things about the store and I often get lost myself.” The clerk handed him a small package of the dry red berries and then started back to the front of the store.
Carwyn frowned. What was her name? Ginny? Jennifer? Her mother’s name was Mary, he was sure of that, but the young woman hadn’t been to mass in quite some time.
“Thank you…” His embarrassed expression must’ve given him away. He shot her his most charming grin.
“Jenna.”
He smothered the laugh when she blushed. He’d caught her looking for his teeth. They always did. Only the children asked directly, and even then, it was rare. His life, such as it was, was not questioned by the people in the town. He was the Father. They were his people. “Thank you, Jenna.”
“You’re very welcome. Is there anything else?”
“No, thank you. Tell your mother I said hello.”
“I will, Father.”
The girl’s mother had entertained a furious crush on him when she was younger. It hadn’t been the first, nor would it be the last. Far from a deterrent, his vocation was an attraction for a few. It always had been. For some, it was the allure of the forbidden, never mind that he’d been a married man when he was human. For the other, shyer sort, he was considered safe. A man, but not a threat.
He smiled to himself. Except for the teeth. They always forgot about the teeth.
Carwyn whistled as he walked into the pub and waved at the man behind the bar. David had been pouring pints for years in the small, cozy establishment, as his father had before him. Carwyn could see David’s son, Dylan, helping another customer as he sat at one of the stools. Father and son working together, following a tradition, year after year and generation after generation. The farmer’s son. The teacher’s daughter. He thought of his own children. Not a single one in ministry to the church. Of course, a lifelong commitment took on an entirely different tone when you were talking about hundreds of years instead of fifty or sixty.
“What’ll you have tonight, Father?”
“What do you have local on tap?”
“I’ve a new chestnut brown from that brewery in Colwyn Bay.”
“I’ll take that.”
“Nice to see some of the local boys putting their name out, isn’t it? Keep some of the younger folk around.”
“Nice to see any jobs staying.”
They passed news back and forth for about an hour, with some of the older men chiming in with stories or jokes. Carwyn laughed and chatted. He shared his own stories—the ones they could relate to, anyway—and jokes. He asked polite questions and tried to remember the details. The village was his home, but he’d come to maintain a careful distance. It was necessary. He couldn’t afford to become attached to those he ministered to. They were too short-lived and their lives too ephemeral. But he could help when he could.
That’s what he was called to do, after all.
London, England
November 2007
“Does it bother you that they all dislike you?”
Gemma looked up from inspecting the books at the shelter she had started two years before.
“Not at all. I’m here to make sure things are run properly, not be their friend.”
“You’re not nearly as unpleasant as you pretend to be, Gem.”
“And you’re not nearly as much of a clown as you pretend to be, but we all put on the masks we need. The children who come to these shelters don’t need me to be the director’s friend. They need me to make sure they have beds and food to eat. That the lights stay on and the water is warm. They don’t care if everyone thinks I’m a raging bitch to get it done.”
He walked behind her and squeezed her shoulders as she sat at the desk. “You’re a good woman. I’m very proud of what you and Terry are doing here.”
His daughter nodded. “He’s a good man. A good choice for me.”
Ever the pragmatist, Carwyn thought. His oldest daughter may have had humble origins, but she took her responsibilities as the leading woman in London immortal society very seriously. Terry was the jovial cad who ruled with a fist, and Gemma was the elegant lady who assisted with the satin glove. An unlikely a pair as he ever could have imagined, they were a force to be reckoned with when they had formed their partnership.
Gemma’s quiet voice drew his attention again. “If you ever grow weary of your disappearing mountain town, we could certainly use your help here. We have plenty of money, not as many people as dedicated to helping.”
“And you think any of these children would want to talk to a collar?”
Gemma lifted an eyebrow and scanned his garish red- and blue-flowered shirt. “When was the last time you wore a collar?”
He grinned. “Last Sunday night at mass.”
She snorted, but couldn’t stop the smile. “You’re so ridiculous.”
“And proud of it. Too much seriousness in the world as it is. I hardly need to contribute.”
“Speaking of seriousness, did you hear that Murphy’s finally cracking down on the drug trade in Dublin? I have a feeling Ioan and Deirdre were putting the pressure on. He was just on the phone with Terry about it last night.”
“Really?” Carwyn had never paid much attention to Dublin politics. The damn city was always a mess, in his opinion.