The Sister Surprise Abigail Mann (most difficult books to read TXT) 📖

‘Excellent. Wait there,’ she says, taking a few coins from the cash tin. ‘This deserves a toast, over hot chocolate, of course. Marshmallows?’

‘Always.’

Chapter 21

I’m in a conundrum. If I ring the doorbell and wait on the step, the curtain of ivy will force me to stand so close to the actual door that when Ross opens it, I may fall forward onto his face. Not the worst consequence, admittedly, but not smooth. On the other hand, if I stand partway up the garden path, I’ll look like a creepy lurker, which is more accurate. Is there a chance I’m over-thinking this?

As I hover by the bell, the door shunts in its frame and a muffled voice filters through.

‘Can you push it from your side? The rain has made the wood swell.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

I use my shoulder as leverage. When I step away, the spiderwebs strung on the latticed windows stick to my jacket.

‘Let’s try it together,’ he says, ‘one, two, and three for a big one!’

I shove, he yanks, and I stumble into the hallway, my boots slapping against the floorboards.

‘Ah, y’fucker!’

As the door wobbles on its hinges, Ross appears from behind it, cradling his left hand. ‘Ava, hi! That comment was aimed at the door, of course, not you. I really need to get it fixed, but I’m not so good with my hands.’

Is he sure we can’t test that theory?

Ross looks like he’s stepped out of a billboard in east London. The only thing he’s missing is an ironic form of transport, like an adult-sized scooter (or worse, a penny-farthing, which I did see once whilst walking up Dalston Junction). Ross wears a lumberjack shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and corduroy trousers that are clearly new going by the packet folds either side of his knees. I hand over a bottle of wine that he takes it from me, brushing my little finger with his thumb as he does so. I’m overwhelmed by the scent of fabric conditioner. It’s like he’s spritzed it on as aftershave. Is he nervous?

‘Thanks! That’s so kind.’ He looks at the label and grins. ‘I’ll keep this apart from the cheap stuff we bulk order for Sunday service.’

‘You get wine at church?’

‘No, you receive the blood of Christ. Very different.’

‘Sounds … vampiric.’

‘That’s what Protestants used to say back when they were burning all the nuns.’ He claps his hands. ‘Right! I was a bit keen, so it’s basically ready to eat.’

I follow him through to the kitchen, where three separate cookbooks are open on the counter, scattered with potato peelings and spice jars. A clunky Eighties oven whirrs in the corner and the smell of warm cinnamon, apricots, and wood smoke hangs in the air.

‘Here, take a seat. This one’s best. There’s a draught that comes down the chimney. Christ, I sound so fucking old. Wine?’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

I sit down on an embroidered cushion, the edges stitched with bloated cherubs so pink it’s like they’ve succumbed to scarlet fever. I’ve barely recovered from The Locker, but there’s something subversively appealing about being offered alcohol by a priest.

‘Cheers,’ says Ross.

‘Cheers!’ I tap my glass against his and take a far bigger gulp than I intend to, spluttering as it hits the back of my throat. I catch some of it in my hand before it hits the tablecloth like an ill-timed nosebleed.

‘Take this,’ he says, handing me a linen handkerchief.

I put the glass down and soak up the wine, my neck warm with embarrassment. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it. We’ve already got you apologising to God,’ he says, grinning.

‘What are we eating?’ I ask, my throat hoarse and acrid.

‘Well, my brother “gifted” me some of his old books when he moved to Canada. In all honesty, I think he couldn’t be bothered to dump them in a charity shop, but I can make a roux from scratch now, so who’s laughing? I baked some sun-blushed tomato soufflé things that you cook in a muffin tin, right? Threw in some black pudding and served them to the parish committee. I’ll be straight with you, I was sucking up.’

I take a cautious sip of my wine, watching Ross as he scrapes vegetable scraps into the compost bin. Is it weird to find men more attractive when they’re doing menial domestic tasks? If he paired socks on the washing line, I think I’d scream with joy.

‘Did it go down well?’

‘All our meetings are brunch-based now, so I’d say so. It does mean I have to cook for ten every third Friday, but they’ve said yes to near enough all of my ideas since, so it’s worth it.’

Ross takes my goblet-shaped glass from me, refills it and hands it back. I twist the stem between my fingers and glance down at my jumper, which is now splattered with red wine droplets. Excellent.

I fold an arms across my chest to hide the stains. I hadn’t thought ahead to what happens now. The last time I had dinner with a man was over a year ago and I ended up paying for both of us (and his Uber home) because he’d just forked out for his daughter to go on a school trip to Montpellier. Incidentally, that’s also when I found out he had a daughter. Ross is different. For one, there’s no way anything can happen between us, which is far less pressure than being on a date. Priests love denying impulsive urges, which might be why we get on so well.

‘Do you have people round for dinner a lot?’

‘Yeah, a couple of times a week. It’s a nice part of the job. Not to speak badly of Reverend Dingwall, but he did get one of the local divorcées to cook his tea every night, so there was questionable give and take at play. That thing still had the manual taped to the grill when I first switched it on.’ he says, motioning to the clunky oven. As if on cue, it