Rock Point by Carla Neggers - Sharpe & Donovan 0.50 - Rock Point

Author:Carla Neggers - Sharpe & Donovan 0.50 - Rock Point [Neggers, Carla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin MIRA
Published: 2012-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 5

Rock Point, Maine, was just as Father Callaghan had described. A bit run-down and struggling but located on a beautiful stretch of the northern New England coast. Finian had a car—not a parishioner or another priest—pick him up at the airport in Boston and then drop him off on the quiet street above the harbor where St. Patrick’s Church and rectory stood side-by-side, sharing a lawn that was freshly cut but appeared to be mostly weeds. Father Callaghan had explained that the rectory was a Greek Revival house “due for a facelift,” and the church was a granite-faced building that had originally been an American Baptist church.

Finian appreciated the mature shade trees as he carried his luggage to the back steps of the rectory. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, late in the day—even later if he considered that Ireland was five hours ahead. He’d slept little on his flight, but he’d be foolish to try to sleep now. Best to get on Maine time as soon as possible.

He left his luggage on the back steps and walked down to the village. He observed a bank, hair salon, pharmacy, liquor store, hardware store, insurance business—if not thriving, Rock Point was holding its own. He crossed the main street to a restaurant, Hurley’s, a rough-wood building set on pilings and jutting out over the horseshoe-shaped harbor. High tide would reach under its floorboards. The harbor itself was crowded with working boats and a handful of pleasure boats, all bobbing in gentle waves.

Only when he walked past Hurley’s down to the waterfront did Finian realize he’d been so caught up in taking in his new home he hadn’t experienced his usual gut-twisting reaction at seeing sailboats.

It was a start, anyway, but as he walked out onto a pier, he felt the rush of excitement at arriving in Rock Point fade and melancholy creep in. He stood next to a stack of rectangular wire cages that smelled of dead things. It was low tide, which brought out more dead smells.

In his mind’s eye, he could see the green of Ireland.

“They’re lobster traps,” a man at the end of the pier said, turning, giving Finian and his priest’s garb a quick scan.

The American was solidly built, with dark hair, small scars on his eye and cheek and perhaps the most penetrating gray eyes Finian had ever seen. He wore a gray sweatshirt, jeans and trail shoes. A local man? Yes and no, perhaps.

“I’m not much of a fisherman,” Finian said.

“Me, either, these days. You’re the new priest at Saint Patrick’s?”

“I am, yes. Finian Bracken.”

“Colin Donovan. I’d heard we were getting an Irishman. My folks are members. I’m not much of a churchgoer.”

“Easter and Christmas?”

“Funerals and weddings. When I can. I’m not in town that often.”

“But you live here?” Finian asked.

He shrugged. “I have a place a few blocks from the church, but I work in Washington.”

“For the government?”

“I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The FBI, then. The words seemed to come

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