One week later, there is still no call from Professor Cailean Patrick Murphy. I hadn’t seen him at Mass on the one early morning weekday service I’d attended, nor on Sunday. And Father Sean was always surrounded by admiring parishioners — besides, what would I say to him, “Why hasn’t your brother called me?” That was totally out of the question.
So last week I concentrated on work at the office and my new house, stopping every day to check on the progress, consulting with the new architect and the contractor who oversees the subcontractors, and making crucial decisions. Although we have really only begun, I am amazed each day at the progress. I’ll have to start shopping for more furniture soon, I know, but it can wait until Sharon gets back at the end of the month. Wish she were here now to talk to. Since there really isn’t any “news” about the “non-priest,” I haven’t made any overseas calls. But I do realize just how much I miss my friends.
I also miss Doug’s cooking and find myself doing takeout for dinner most nights, once even stopping at McAllister’s—like a fool. I thought maybe I’d see Josh and could casually ask if he’d moved in to Colin’s house, or something? But Josh wasn’t working that night, and yes, I chided myself all the way back to the Nest. “Silly, foolish woman. That’s what you are Margaret Riley Grant. Acting like a lovesick teenager. I just won’t think about him anymore.” And so I didn’t, at least until I crawled into bed at night.
Damn him, was what I think whenever I do allow Professor Murphy to come to mind, which unfortunately is often. He’s just not interested in plain-Jane me, I’ve decided. When I think about the La Diosa encounter, isn’t it reasonable to assume if he’d been even a little intrigued, he would’ve at least glanced in my direction that night and surely seen Sharon instead of assuming Doug was my date?
Damn him. What a fool I’ve been to think a handsome, charismatic guy would be the least bit interested in plain old me. He’d asked me out to dinner because he felt guilty about running me over and eating the last piece of pizza. And Monsignor Fitzpatrick had probably asked him to show some pity for the new widowed parish member, that’s all.
Then why ask me to join him on the Fourth? And why hold my hand? I swear I can still feel the heat of his touch. Damn him. He’s probably holding more than Dixie’s hand right now.
She wrapped her arms around herself for comfort but found little.
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