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

it’s been tucked deep down, waiting to come out of hibernation at the right time.

Speaking of which, I’m sure you’re dying to know how she reacted to the news. Spoiler alert: she hasn’t … yet. After this long apart, I can’t risk getting interrupted by reports of Miranda the Sheep attempting to parkour by the cliffside again. A reunion requires a celebration, so you’ll have to wait for that. There’s no party in Kilroch without a ceilidh to accompany it, so if I can drag Moira away from the thigh-slapping, skirt-spinning chaos for long enough, all will be revealed.

***

‘I think my fingers are sweating,’ I say, bent double over my knees.

‘My ears definitely are. Is that possible?’ says Moira, blinking. ‘I feel like I’ve opened my eyes underwater, it’s so salty.’

‘Well done, ladies! Same time next week! Alana, you’re on biscuit duty. No ginger nuts or I’ll come out in hives,’ says Teresa, unplugging her CD player from the wall. The pulsing tones of Enya’s ‘Orinoco Flow’ are abruptly clipped short, as static gives way to the chatter that drifts across the room like dandelion fluff. I look out of the windows for maybe the fiftieth time since the aerobics session started, but I can barely see the tombstones, masked as they are by thick condensation and rusty ferns.

‘If he comes from that direction, I’d be a bit concerned,’ says Moira, nodding at the gravestones.

‘Shh!’ I hiss, fumbling with the window latch to disguise my very obvious surveillance of the church grounds. I push it open and cold air slips inside, cooling my damp skin so quickly I start to shiver.

‘He’s a priest, so I don’t know what the rules are about how public we’re allowed to be.’

‘You sound five hundred years old,’ says Moira, jostling me with her hip. ‘He’s not a priest, anyway. Not in the way you’re thinking.’

‘Priests aren’t allowed to get married. Didn’t Reverend Dingwall live alone?’

‘Yeah, but not through lack of trying. Everyone said that church attendance had gone down because our generation have “sold our souls to smart phones”, but I blame his gingivitis. You wouldn’t want to stand within three feet, let alone take Communion off of him.’

‘Let me get this straight. Ross – The Rev – he’s allowed to …’

‘Have sex?’ says Moira, mouthing the word in a whisper. ‘Yep. Pretty sure he is. You’d probably have to get married first. You could do it here! We could train one of the sheep to walk the rings up the aisle, how cute would that be?’

I breathe out slowly and shake my head. Moira grins at me, dimples deep set in her cheeks.

‘Fly me to the moon, Jack!’ she says, yanking my wrist to spin me round in a circle. We burst into laughter and I feel like a kid again, giggling in the back of a school assembly. Moira stops and I spin to one side, stumbling on the edge of my borrowed plimsoles.

‘Ava. Ava!’ says Moira.

‘Gah! I should have bashed these against the wall outside, I’ve left a little Hansel and Gretel trail of muck across the floor,’ I say, inspecting the underside of my shoe.

‘Ava … I’ll see you outside, yeah?’ she says, her eyes insistent.

‘OK, but do you know where I can find a dustpan or something—’

‘Hi,’ says Ross, a few feet away. His hair is fluffy, like he’s towel dried it too hard, and for some reason, seeing him like this – with a black shirt and a little white dog collar – makes me feel on edge in a way that I didn’t before. This time, I have no wine or whisky in my system. Useful for balance, but not nerves.

‘Hi yourself,’ I say, lowering my foot. Moira zips her coat up and leaves so fast I’m surprised she’s not strained her Achilles.

‘I wouldn’t bother with that. There’s going to be about ten wee ones in here for messy play and I can vouch that it’ll be carnage.’

‘Right. We should get out of the way, then,’ I say, as parents start to drift in, their toddlers stumbling from one side of the room to the other like drunk uncles at a BBQ.

‘Egg boxes. I need to give you some back,’ says Ross, pointing at me.

‘Yep, sure.’

‘There are quite a few.’

‘I should come with you. To help.’

‘Yes! Good idea.’

Ross leads me round the side of the building, where flagstones lead to an overgrown cottage garden, the skeletons of herb plants brown and withered beneath the kitchen window. I follow him as he heads towards the back door, my pulse thumping like I’m about to raid a jewellery shop. I tug my T-shirt down, hoping that it covers the waistband of my leggings. They’ve somehow cinched tighter in the past hour, giving me the look of an overstuffed sausage.

Inside the kitchen, evidence of Ross’s morning is cast around the room. On the counter, an Italian coffee pot and half eaten multi-pack of Kit Kats sit beside an open Bible stickered with coloured tabs. The dining table is bare except for a pair of scissors and a half-mangled milk carton.

‘Craft project?’ I ask.

Ross blinks and opens one eye as though he’s been caught out.

‘Shit. Ah, this is embarrassing. I couldn’t find my dog collar so I had to improvise.’

I stand on my tiptoes. It’s only up close that I can see the textured plastic slipped into his shirt, only part opaque.

‘You’ve not done a bad job here.’

‘Cheers,’ he says. I rock back onto my heels but he tilts towards me, wavering.

‘I’m very sweaty,’ I say.

‘You’re not.’

‘I am.’

‘OK, you are. Can I kiss you anyway?’

I answer by accidentally standing on his foot, but it gives me some extra height to grapple my way upwards and he’s too polite to complain. His hand presses on the small of my back and that’s when my lips land on his, heavier than planned. He softens, I pause, our bodies so close that I can feel the buttons on his shirt along my stomach. We