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

entries I’ve sent back to Snooper, remembering Duncan’s last email that insisted I provide ‘spicier content’ or risk being pulled back to the office. Where does he think I am, Coachella?

‘A couple of weeks.’

‘Great. You can celebrate whatever mark you make on the farm by coming to the ceilidh I’m organising. It’s fundraising, really. Arthur fell straight through a rotten pew last month. The timing was excellent; the whole thing collapsed right as we were belting out the last hymn.’

‘I wish I’d seen that,’ I say, laughing. ‘One problem. Ceilidhs … organised dancing?’

‘Yes. But “loosely organised” is probably more accurate. If you’re dancing with me, we can be terrible together,’ he says, biting the end off a parsnip. A blob of sauce lands on his finger. I answer my own question. Yes, it would be weird if you licked it off, Ava.

Ross dollops another spoonful of tagine on his plate. In the past, I would have held back, not wanting him to think that I had too much of an appetite. Sod that for a laugh. If Ross had an opinion on how much I eat, I’d be long gone. I pick up the dish of burnt potatoes and ladle a mound onto my plates, drizzling them in sauce from the tagine. Ross goes to speak, but I jump in first.

‘I’ve got to ask, how come you ended up doing this?’

‘What, Moroccan food?’

‘No, this,’ I say, motioning to the dog collar. Priesting. That can’t be the right word, but I stick by it.

Ross crosses one leg over the other knee. I understand that he’s taking a moment to really think about it, but I’m distracted by how unbelievably handsome he is: mouth slightly open, his bottom lip pink from where he’s bitten it. It’s like the opening shot of a perfume advert: all furrowed brows and the sense that at any moment he’ll run through a ballroom of billowing chiffon in search of an unattainable something (it’s always Keira Knightley).

‘I haven’t always done this.’

‘Hmm, let me guess. I don’t think you’re very old, are you?’ I ask.

‘Thirty-one.’

‘OK, that’s enough time to have had a proper career. Not that the church isn’t proper in the sense of, err …’

‘Normal? Conventional?’

‘Yeah, exactly. Teacher?’

He grimaces. ‘No,’ he says, elongating the vowel. ‘Can’t stand paperwork. Also, you’re being far too nice with that suggestion.’

‘Estate agent?’

‘Calm down.’ Ross puts on a parody of offence. I laugh and run my finger up the stem of my wine glass.

‘Think of a job that sounds really generic but you wouldn’t be able to explain it to someone else,’ he says.

I take a second to sift through the shouted conversations I’ve had in bars with interchangeable men wearing expensive suits and unironed shirts. ‘Business consultant.’

Ross points a finger gun at me. ‘Bingo.’

‘Wow.’ I glance around at the room, at the bric-a-brac utensils and oppressive French dresser, its wood stained coffin-dark. ‘You went from that to this?’

Ross bites his lip and nods.

‘Well … you must have been making a fortune.’

‘I was. I thought I was rich. A nice apartment on Princes Street, private booths in clubs, that sort of thing. I had one of those silk pocket squares. I had dozens of them, different colours to match my socks. Can you imagine? I’d buy huge bottles of Grey Goose that came with its own firework taped to the neck, and the cost of it …’ He puffs his cheeks out and shakes his head. ‘It would cover a month’s pay for the waitress who brought it over.’

‘Sounds horrible,’ I say, my voice monotone. This is going to come back to Jesus somehow. I’ve listened to my fair share of heavy-handed evangelists outside Peckham Rye station.

‘It was glorious, especially if you looked at my highlights on social media. But that’s where it ended. I couldn’t tell you a single thing about the people I worked with. I was rich, but I wasn’t wealthy.’

‘And you are now?’ I ask. I run my finger under the table, over the carpenter’s staples and grooves in the wood.

‘Not in that sense. Don’t get me wrong, I’m never been worse off financially. But I’m really fucking content.’

‘Does the bishop know you swear like that?’

‘Oh, he’s worse,’ says Ross, leaning across the table.

We sit in silence for a moment, but it’s not awkward like it was before. He drops his arm on the table, his little finger alongside mine.

‘Did you choose to come here?’ I ask.

‘No. Did you?’

I open my mouth, but my reply is stuck in my gullet like a fish bone. Ross leans in towards me. My heart palpitates, but I can’t tell if it’s the red wine or him. Just as I feel warm breath on my cheek, he leans back in his chair.

‘How did you come across Braehead Farm?’ says Ross, his eyes questioning.

‘Google.’ I drink a gulp of wine.

‘So, is it farms you’re interested in or the area?’

‘A bit of both, I guess. I write for an online magazine, so Kilroch’s a nice change of scenery. Small. Not much going on.’

‘Ah, there’s always something going on,’ says Ross. ‘What made you choose Kilroch?’

‘I like pigs.’

‘I heard they have pigs down south too …’

‘I like Scottish pigs especially,’ I say, cringing at how unsophisticated I sound.

‘Hmm. And how do you find the people here?’

‘Nice, although there aren’t many of them,’ I say, pushing a forkful of couscous around my plate. Ross leans in, his eyes soft. I’m in the grip of a red wine haze, which has conveniently stopped me from overthinking how close we are. If it wasn’t for the table …

‘There’s a real joy in serving a community so small. I’ve covered every rite of passage since I’ve been here, and a lot of them in the same family. I’ve got a simile I’ve been working on to explain it. Can I try it out?’ His cheeks dimple with a smile.

‘Go on then,’ I say. The moment’s gone now that Jesus has found a way to enter the room. It feels