On Sunday morning, Bridge shook hands with her parishioners as they filed out of church. It had been strange without Harry, Annie, and Riley in the front pew. They were such an integral part of the community now, and the church and the village seemed empty when they were gone. Normally Bridge and Mrs. Castle, and sometimes Quade, would go to Axedale for lunch after church for one of Annie’s famous roast dinners, but today would be a much longer, lonelier day.
“Lovely sermon, Vicar,” Mr. Finch from the pub said. “But here’s hoping no mere mortals can turn water into wine, or I might go out of business,” he joked.
“Fear not, Mr. Finch—” Bridget’s witty retort was interrupted by the roar of a motorcycle engine. The sound was out of place in the quiet village.
Everyone looked around and gazed at the bike which slowed down just across the road from the church. It pulled up next to Mr. Butterstone, who had just left the church, and then he started directing the rider with some animated hand gestures. Although she couldn’t see the rider’s face, Bridge admired their leather jacket, biker boots, and jeans. She had always had a thing for leather and motorbikes, and wasn’t an expert, but it looked like the bike was a classic Harley-Davidson.
The rider then nodded and zoomed off towards the other end of the village, and Mr. Butterstone hurried back over to the church. In this insular village, newcomers were big news and those still at the front of the church gathered around to hear his report.
“Mason’s cottage is rented at last,” Mr. Butterstone said excitedly.
“Who was it?” Mrs. Peters said. “Did they give a name?”
Mr. Butterstone shook his head. “No, don’t even know if it was a bloke or woman I was talking to. They weren’t very chatty.”
“I’m sure they will soon warm up,” Bridge said. “I’ll call in on them later and give a welcome to the village.”
Bridge was always happy to be welcoming to anyone, but someone with good taste in leather and motorbikes was even more welcome.
* * *
“That’s everything, mate.”
Finn put down a box marked delicate on the coffee table of her new cottage and walked over to see the movers out the cottage door.
“Thanks Bob. I—”
She was cut off midsentence by her mobile, which had been ringing incessantly since she arrived.
“Looks like someone is desperate to get hold of you,” Bob said.
As if her management, PR company, and show entourage calling wasn’t bad enough, somehow the press had gotten hold of her number and had been calling constantly since this morning, and it was driving her mad.
Finn had kept her destination secret, even from her management company, so determined was she to have her privacy.
She looked at Bob and realized he and his crew knew exactly where she was and when she arrived. They’d known who she was as soon as they’d arrived at her London apartment this morning to start the job. Her look was distinctive and unmistakable. Since Finn and her show—and her two-tone hair—were plastered all over billboards and buses in London, it didn’t take her movers long to suss her out. If she wanted to keep her anonymity, she would have to buy their silence.
She took out her wallet and pulled out a wad of notes. Unlike most people who normally carried cards and a few coins, Finn always carried paper money in her wallet. It was a quirk that had developed as she’d started to earn good money. She knew what it was like to be poor. When she had to take the sole responsibility for herself and her sister at age seventeen, sometimes all the money they would have left to feed themselves for the whole week would be five or ten pounds. The pressure and anxiety of trying to make that last would never leave Finn. So when she started to make money, it made her feel safe to know her wallet was full.
Bob eyed her wallet greedily. She took out some notes and started to count them.
“Listen, Bob, I’m down here for an indefinite break, and I don’t want anyone to find me.”
She let him see the notes at the back of her wad of money were hundreds.
“Would you and your guys like to help me with that?”
Bob nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, no problem. We can do that.”
Finn took out a hundred pound note for every one of the movers, and a little extra for Bob, and held it out to him.
“You have no idea where I moved to, do you?”
“Haven’t the foggiest, mate.”
She handed the cash to him and he just about snatched it from her hand.
The door shut and Finn was finally alone. She walked over to the box on the coffee table and opened it up. On top of the box was a large framed photo of Finn and Carrie, taken on the first night of her first arena tour three years ago.
Finn sat down on the couch and let her fingers caress the glass, hoping to connect with her. She felt the tears start to well up in her eyes, as they had done so many times before. She hurt unbelievably and didn’t feel like the pain would ever end. That’s why she’d come here, to this little village no one had ever heard of, to hide from the world and work out where she went from here.
In the space of a few months, her whole life had been broken, and she didn’t have the first idea of what to do to make things better, or if she should even try.
This was my fault.
Finn put the picture on the table and scrubbed her face in frustration. She was so tired of these emotions, so tired of feeling empty.
Her head snapped up when she heard the screech of the garden gate, and then the unmistakable sound of high heels on the path.
Great, a bloody local. Just what she needed.
Finn’s heart sank when the person knocked on the door. The last thing she wanted was a nosy welcoming committee. She ignored the knock, and luckily the living room curtains were shut, so the visitor would have no idea she was in.
The insistent knocker at the door then began to speak. “Hello? Hello? Is there anyone in there?”
“Clearly not. Bugger off,” Finn said in a whisper.
But they didn’t give up. “My name’s Bridget and I’m the vicar here.”
“Perfect, fucking perfect. A bloody vicar.” Finn started to pace.
“I know you’re in there.” The vicar certainly wasn’t giving up easily. “I saw the movers just leave.”
“Fuck me, why can’t people just leave me alone?” Finn said with anger.
In the end, Finn thought it would be easier to open the door and get rid of the no doubt frumpy, old, do-gooding vicar directly. She pulled open the door and said, “What is it? I’ve no time—”
Her words died in her throat when she saw who was standing there. Instead of a frumpy grey-haired crone, there was a stunningly good-looking woman in a tight miniskirt, heels, and a biker jacket.
The woman gave her an open smile, and Finn’s eyes dropped to her legs, in that skirt, in those heels. She had always been a leg woman.
“Good afternoon. My name’s Bridget, and I’m vicar here. I just thought I’d pop over to welcome you to the village, check if you were settling in okay, and…”
Finn never heard the rest of the sentence. Her eyes travelled up the vicar’s body and soon were captivated by her lips, and the deep, dark lipstick she wore.
She quickly pulled herself together in time to hear Bridget say, “Is there?”
Finn was lost in the conversation, and her annoyance had returned. “What?”
“I wondered, is there anything you need?”
“I don’t need anything from anyone, and I certainly don’t need ministering to,” Finn replied sharply.
Bridget’s brow furrowed as if she was assessing Finn and how to handle her. “Well, if that’s the case, I’m delighted.” Bridget reached into the pocket of her biker jacket and pulled out a church leaflet. She held it up for Finn to take. Finn did, and as her fingers touched Bridget’s highly polished manicured nails, a jolt of static electricity made them both jump.
Bridget chuckled and said, “As a woman of God, I’d say that was a sign. We’d be happy to see you in church on Sunday, if you would like to join us.”
Finn looked down at the leaflet and saw it contained all the times and information for church services. “I’m gay and an atheist. You wouldn’t want me.”
Instead of provoking surprise or anger, which was Finn’s intention, Bridget gave her a wink and a quick reply. “So am I—gay, that is—and we can work on the atheist bit.”
She’s gay? Axedale had a gay female vicar in heels and a biker jacket? Had she walked into the twilight zone?
Finn was lost for words. Being well schooled in human response, cold reading, and suggestion usually allowed her to steer most conversations wherever she wanted them to go, but in this moment, with this strange woman in front of her, her mind was blank.
Feeling a little bit panicked, she tore up the leaflet, threw it at the vicar’s feet, and slammed the door.
* * *
Bridge felt a lingering annoyance all day. She couldn’t remember anyone being as openly rude to her as their village newcomer had been today.
“Bloody obnoxious fool,” Bridge said under her breath as she walked into the village pub, The Witch’s Tavern.
She was greeted warmly by the villagers as she entered, and she soon spotted Quade at one of the tables by the open fire in the corner.
Quade waved her over. “Evening, Vicar. I got your usual.”
Bridge sat and just about downed her usual drink of Campari and soda. Quade looked surprised. “Bad afternoon, Vicar?”
“I paid our new resident a call.” Bridget swirled what was left of her drink around her glass.
“And? Man, woman, or beast?” Quade joked.
“Woman—and a beast, by my reckoning.”
“Uh-oh. It takes a lot to rile you up, Bridge. What happened?”
Bridge sighed and placed her glass down on the table. “I took over the church leaflet and my best smile, and she slammed the door in my face.”
Quade raised an eyebrow. “She must be brave to slam a door in a vicar’s face.”
“It seemed to be the vicar part that was most egregious to her. The worst thing was she’s one of us.”
“One of us?” Quade asked.
“As gay as the day is long.” Bridget sipped her drink. “But with the worst attitude, and very rude.”
Quade leaned closer and smiled. “Sounds intriguing. Another lesbian in the village. Your type?”
Bridge snorted. “Hardly.”
“Mine?” Quade said hopefully.
Bridge shook her head. “I doubt it. She’s boyishly butch with the strangest haircut.”
“Looks like our impending marriage is safe then,” Quade joked.
“Exactly. I was sure I knew her face from somewhere though.” Bridge stood. “I’ll get some more drinks.” The newspaper Mr. Finch was looking at behind the bar caught Bridge’s eye. Now she was seeing the newcomer everywhere.
“Bridge? What’s wrong?”
She went over to the bar and asked to see the tabloid, confirming her suspicion. It’s her.
Bridge turned and showed Quade the picture, gesturing. “This is her. The famous magician who’s gone AWOL.”
“Finnian Kane?” Quade said.
The low chatter in the pub stopped suddenly. Obviously, they all knew the celebrity better than she did.
Bridge nodded. “That’s her.”
Suddenly Bridge felt a sense of guilt welling up inside. From what she had picked up from the news media, Finnian Kane had gone to ground after her younger sister died of an aggressive cancer.
She was grieving.