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

‘Ah, I’m not as prompt as Reverend Dingwall.’

‘Quite. I’ve come to …’ She looks down at the flowers and across to the memorial, at which point our eyes meet and my stomach freezes into a little cube.

‘Ava.’ She gives me the slightest of nods.

‘We were just talking about the rig tragedy,’ says Ross, motioning towards me. He’s articulating sympathy with every part of his body, right down to the head tilt and slightly furrowed brow.

‘You were? Good,’ she says, turning towards me. ‘Folk should know what something like that does to a place like this.’ The look she gives me is like a taut wire between us. I break away first, sidestepping towards the connecting door, my arms covered in goosebumps.

‘Ross, I better call John. Thanks for the dinner, it really was nice.’

‘Right, right. Let me show you out—’

‘No need, I’ll just grab my bits and … yeah.’

I pull open the heavy door that leads into the rectory and stand on the other side, my lungs heavy like I’ve been wading waist-deep in the firth.

Chapter 23

I turn over a postcard that Rory has sent me, the purple gel pen blotchy on the back. Underneath a rough sketch of a human body, Rory has drawn three objects with the question:

For ten points, which of these did I remove from a patient’s rectum today? A = a toy car, B = a small string of Christmas lights, C = three rocks of crack cocaine. I’ll give you a clue. THERE IS MORE THAN ONE RIGHT ANSWER. PS nothing to report from Mumland apart from the standard consumption of Malbec. Peace out, lassie! Rory xoxo

As the kettle builds to a shrill whistle, the back door opens and Moira steps inside, rubbing her bare arms. Her fringe sticks up in a number of directions that she attempts to smooth by licking her palms and running them over her crown.

‘All right?’ she says, her cheeks ruddy. ‘Sun!’ Moira points outside with a broad grin pinned to her face.

‘Yeah! Good, isn’t it,’ I say, taking down another mug for her.

‘Practically bikini weather. You have to soak up the vitamin D whilst you can up here.’ She unties her jumper from around her waist, pulls it over her head, and gestures to the table. ‘What happened?’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, tucking Rory’s postcard under my laptop.

‘The table. I can’t remember the last time I saw the surface.’

She looks over my shoulder at the open folders, skim-reading the sticky notes tacked to statements and invoices that I’ve yet to pull figures from.

‘How bad is it?’ she asks.

‘Well, it’s hard to say. I don’t know enough about the financial side of things, you know? I’m trying to get the farm administration digitised, but I’m struggling to input the numbers in a way that looks … viable.’

‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, really bad,’ I admit.

Moira grimaces, eyes wide. ‘I did suspect so, but Kian gets defensive about it whenever I bring it up. It’s not like I don’t know what I’m talking about. My family have never owned farmland, but I must visit eight or nine every month with the vet stuff, so I know what goes into it.’

‘His ideas aren’t all bad,’ I say, zipping my fleece to the chin.

‘Oh, I know, but he jumps from one to the other without seeing the first one through. I wouldn’t say this to him, but it’s like trying to shoot a rabbit with a shotgun. If something hits, it’ll be luck, not aim.’

I sit back in my chair and tap my fingers on the table.

‘I’ve been trying to think of a way to make it work for him,’ I say. ‘There are university grants he can apply for, agricultural courses that need farms to partner with, but the applications are properly tedious.’

I gesture to the plastic sleeves in front of me, each stuffed with records so dense and complicated that it takes a strong coffee to read a page without yawning.

‘If we make sense of all this, he could apply for one. They want working land and modern farmers who are open to new concepts. That’s Kian, right?’

‘Oh, aye. I don’t think it’s a bad idea at all. Ingenuity runs in the Brody family. Before his granddad got kicked in the head by that bull, he used to ride a horse to the pub. He’d tie it up outside and get a leg up from Mad Steve after last orders, then sleep all the way home because the horse knew the route without him having to do anything. Pretty ingenious, right?’

‘Yeah. Cheaper than a taxi, for sure.’

‘Speaking of which, I’ve sorted us a ride back from the ceilidh next week. John’s got the night off, but my Uncle Mike can drop us back because he’s on dialysis so can’t drink anyway. If it goes tits up with Kian, I’m going to get hammered and there’s no way I’m walking home across the fields.’

‘Positive mental attitude, Moira. There’s every chance it could be the origin story you tell your kids in the future.’

‘Oh me, no pressure. Speaking of which … dinner with The Rev! How was it? Do you have any reason to say extra Hail Marys?’ says Moira, quirking an eyebrow.

‘Ha! Nothing quite like that, although there were some prolonged bouts of eye contact that felt pretty raunchy, by Jane Austen standards, anyway.’

‘Good vibes, on the whole?’

‘Maybe? God, it’s hard to say. It got really deep really quickly. Intimate, but not physically. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Like your brains were making out with each other?’ says Moira.

I blink, a little disturbed by the image.

‘I know it’s lame, but I wouldn’t expect to get off with someone on a first date, let alone a date with a priest. That would be weird, right? If he was snogging parishioners on the regular.’

‘The last woman he had round for dinner was Teresa and she still wears a girdle, so I’m going to say that’s unlikely.’

‘I guess I don’t know how to