I half expect it to be Connor McBride again, or one of the other men from the Irish Council, but it’s a woman who introduces herself as Meredith and says she’ll be handling the wedding logistics.
Logistics. The word sounds so normal, like we’re just doing paperwork and handling something simple and straightforward. Not like a ceremony is being organized against my will that’s going to take away all of my agency.
“The ceremony will be at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross,” she says, her voice brisk and efficient. I lean back against the wall, my chest so tight that I feel like I can barely breathe. “Father McCleary has agreed to officiate, even in the tight time frame allowed, but he does insist that you and the groom attend the requisite marriage counseling with him first. Is that acceptable?”
I don’t know why she’s asking me. What am I going to say,no? I tried that last night, and it was made very apparent that refusing the marriage isn’t an option. And if the only way the Church will marry us is to go to some pseudo-marriage counseling, I’m not going to be able to say no to that, either.
Maybe it’ll be so clear that this isn’t a good match that Sean will be the one to refuse.They’ll probably just marry me to someone else, but wouldn’tanyoneelse be better? I think of his hard eyes and angry expression as he looked at me, and a cold chill runs down my spine. I remember what Mrs. Brady said about him being a killer for hire.
Surely that man won’t agree to sit through a meeting with a priest in order to marry me.
“Father McCleary knows your family well, yes?” Meredith continues, clearly taking my silence as acquiescence to her first question, and I try to pay attention to what she’s saying, and I hope I haven’t missed anything I was supposed to hear.
“I… yes,” I manage.Knowis putting it lightly. He’s done every rite for our family over the years. Marrying me is the next logical one, and I feel a tight pain in my chest at the thought of him presiding over this farce of a marriage. It feels almost blasphemous.
“The guest list will involve all of the most important Boston connections, of course. The Council wants to make certain that it’s clear that the Connelly fortune is in good hands, and that the goodwill between families will continue.”
Like my brother trying to murder Ronan O’Malley and his sister?I clamp my lips together in an effort to force back the bubble of hysterical laughter that wants to burst out. “Okay,” I say after a moment. I don’t really know what other input I’m supposed to have.
“There will also be the immediate Council members in attendance, and a few associates. Mr. Flannery has no family to invite. Do you have anyone you'd like included?"
A lump blocks my throat for a moment before I can speak. "Very well. We'll arrange for a photographer, flowers, the usual. If you have input on colors or flowers you’d like, please let me know, as these orders will need to be put in as soon as possible. You'll need a dress, of course. I can recommend someone. You’ll need to ensure that the dress is appropriate for the occasion, of course, so consider the venue and guest list when choosing.”
Appropriate.As if there's an appropriate dress for a forced marriage. I swallow hard. “Okay,” I manage. “Just send me the information and I’ll… make an appointment.”
None of this feels real. I listen to Meredith chatter on about flower arrangements and letting her know if I have a preference on cake flavors or any allergies she should know about, as if this were all perfectly normal, before she finally gives me the date and time for the meeting with Father McCleary, leaves me her contact number, and hangs up.
I stare at the phone for a long time, trying to wrap my head around what’s happening, before I go back upstairs and crawl under a heavy blanket on my bed, Fluff wrapped tightly in my arms despite her protests.
Two days later, I’m escorted to Father McCleary’s office, surrounded by both my security and some hired specially by the Council to ensure my men’s loyalty. I slide out of the SUV, wrapped in a plaid wool trench coat against the wet Boston cold, and walk into the entryway of the small building that houses the priests’ offices.
The smell is comforting, bringing back memories of when I was younger, when my mother insisted we go to Mass more often than my father ever did after she left. It smells like worn carpet and incense and the dust from an overworked heating unit, and I breathe in slowly, trying to calm myself. There’s no sign of Sean yet, and I go straight to Father McCleary’s office, hoping to get a few minutes alone with him before my unwilling groom shows up.
Father McCleary is at his desk when I walk in, and his gaze instantly sharpens when he sees me. He closes the book in front of him and sits up a little straighter, motioning to one of the two chairs in front of his desk. Sean isn’t waiting for me in the office, and I feel like I can breathe a little easier.
"Maeve, child…” he begins, trailing off for a moment. “I was sorry to hear about this… arrangement."
The word hangs between us. Arrangement. Not marriage, not union, not blessed sacrament. Arrangement.
I don’t know what to say, so I just nod silently.
"You don't have to do this, you know," he says after a moment. "The Church doesn't condone forced marriage. If you're being coerced?—"
For one wild moment, I want to tell him that yes, I’m being coerced. That four men appeared at my house last night and gave me orders about my future without asking what I want or considering my thoughts on the matter. That when I tried to sayno, I was told that wasn’t an option.
But what good would that do? If I refuse, if Father McCleary refuses to marry us, they'll just find someone else. And I'll have made enemies of the Council for nothing.
I swallow hard. “I’ve agreed to it,” I say finally.
Father McCleary gives me a knowing look. “Agreement doesn’t necessarily mean willingness, Maeve.”
“Then I’m willing,” I say quietly.
The look he gives me says he knows I'm lying, but he doesn't push. Maybe he knows, like I do, that there's no way out. And I realize, sitting there, that I desperately want Father McCleary to agree to do the ceremony, despite what I felt before. I want someone familiar there, someone I trust, so that I’m not surrounded by strangers and enemies and people who I don’t know if I can rely on.
Sean arrives ten minutes late, his presence filling the small office immediately. He's wearing dark jeans and a black leather jacket over a grey Henley, and his hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered. He’s not wearing the hat this time, and I can see every inch of his face, from his sharp cheekbones to his stubbled jaw and the scar running down one side. When he gets closer, I catch a whiff of his cologne, a scent like cedar and salt mixed with a warm masculinity that makes my stomach flip nervously. That strange, twisting shudder runs through me again, a feeling I don’t understand and have never felt before last night.
He doesn't apologize for being late. Doesn't even look at me. Just nods at Father McCleary and sits in the chair next to mine.
