Chapter 2: Miracles and Morning Breath
The morning after the storm, the world felt remade. Not just for them, in the warm cave of Paul’s bed with their limbs tangled and the scent of each other on their skin, but for the whole damned island.
It started quietly. A lifted burden. Riley’s father, Ed, stopped groaning when he stood from the kitchen table. He’d just… get up. One afternoon, Riley came by to drop off a tool and heard Frank Sinatra spilling from the open window. Inside, his parents were swaying in the middle of the living room, his mother’s head on Ed’s shoulder, both of them smiling like teenagers. Warren, rolling his eyes from the sofa, caught Riley’s gaze and smirked, a real one. The kind that reached his eyes.
“They’re insufferable now,” Warren said later, over a beer on the porch. He didn’t sound mad.
Then it got louder.
Leeza Scarbrough walked.
It happened in the middle of Wednesday Mass. Riley wasn’t there, but Erin was, and she described it to him later over fierce, excited whispers at the docks. Leeza had been sitting in her wheelchair as Paul gave the homily. She just… stood up. Took a step. Then another. The whole congregation gasped, a sound like one organism being punched. People cried. Bev Keane’s voice rose above the murmur, loud and sanctimonious, “Praise God! A miracle!”
Paul, from the altar, had looked stunned. Not joyful. Watchful. His eyes found Erin’s in the crowd, wide with something that looked more like fear than wonder.
The island thrummed with a strange, electric vigor after that. Ailments vanished. Chronic pains dissolved. The general mood lifted from Crockett’s usual grim endurance to something approaching optimism. The talk in the grocery store, at the pub, was of God’s work. Of Father Paul’s holy presence. Bev was everywhere, organizing prayer groups, taking credit for the surge in faith, her pinched face arranged in a mask of pious authority. It made Riley’s skin crawl.
He’d seen the settlement papers years ago, after the oil spill poisoned the waters. His family got a pittance. The Keanes, with Bev’s “shrewd guidance,” had secured a sum that let them live comfortably while others struggled. Sheriff Hassan never talked about it much, but the way his jaw tightened when Bev’s name was mentioned said everything.
“It’s not right,” Riley said to Paul one evening in the rectory kitchen. They were doing the dishes, shoulders brushing. The domesticity of it was still a quiet shock. “She’s using this. Using you.”
Paul handed him a wet plate to dry. His hands, Riley noticed, were trembling slightly. “I know,” he murmured. “I see it. But the good that’s happening… it’s real, Riley. Leeza is walking. Your father is dancing. If this is a form of grace, who am I to police how people interpret it? Maybe… maybe it can soften her, too.”
Riley didn’t believe it. But he loved the hope in Paul’s voice, fragile as a bird’s egg. He leaned over and kissed the worried hinge of his jaw. “You’re too good.”
Paul turned his head, capturing Riley’s lips with his own. The kiss tasted of toothpaste and the red wine they’d shared with dinner. It deepened, easily, naturally. The plate clattered softly into the sink.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom. The living room floor, with the rug bunching under Riley’s back, was fine. It was frantic and slow by turns, a conversation they were still learning. Paul’s cassock was a puddle of black wool by the door, his clerical collar a small, white plastic smile on the floorboards.
In the firelight, Paul’s body was a map of revelations. The soft, adorable curve of his breasts under Riley’s callused hands. The eager, wet heat between his legs that took Riley in so completely it stole the breath from both of them. There was no awkwardness, only a shocking, profound rightness. Paul arched beneath him, his eyes wide, not with fear this time, but with a kind of ravenous welcome. He chanted Riley’s name like a prayer, and for the first time, it didn’t sound like a sin.
After, wrapped in a quilt, Paul traced the prison tattoo on Riley’s bicep. “I feel real,” he whispered. “With you. In this.”
Riley just held him tighter, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex and Paul’s cheap shampoo. The hollowed-out place inside him didn’t feel so empty. It felt… filled.
Erin cornered him two days later on the Saint Patrick, helping him re-coil some lines. The sun was high and the air was crisp, that strange new energy humming in the very salt of it.
“So,” she said, not looking at him, her fingers neat and quick with the rope. “You and the priest.”
Riley froze. The line went slack in his hands. He felt a flush climb his neck, a cold spike of old shame. But Erin’s tone wasn’t accusatory. It was… knowing.
“How did you…”
“Please.” She finally glanced at him, a wry smile on her face. “Riley, I’ve known you weren’t straight since we were sixteen and you spent an entire summer staring at Mark Lardner’s shoulders instead of mine. This isn’t a shock.”
He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Is it… are people…”
“Nobody knows,” she said softly. “And it’s nobody’s business. But you seem… lighter. He does too, when I see him. Less like he’s carrying that big invisible cross.” She nudged his foot with her boot. “I’m happy for you. Seriously. Even if it’s weird that my brother’s shagging a man of the cloth.”
He laughed, the sound raw and relieved. “Thanks, Erin.”
“Just don’t let Bev Keane find out,” she said, her smile fading. “She’ll use it as kindling. She’s already building a damn bonfire with these ‘miracles.’ Acting like she’s the archangel Gabriel and Father Paul is just… the messenger boy.” She spat the last words with a venom that mirrored his own.
Later, walking to Paul’s, Riley saw the proof. A new sign was being hammered into the ground outside the church, Bev supervising with her hands on her hips. It read, in ornate letters: “CROCKETT ISLAND: A PLACE OF MIRACLES. ALL FAITHFUL WELCOME.” It looked permanent.
Paul opened his door before Riley could knock. He looked tired, the blue of his eyes dimmer.
“You saw the sign?”
“Yeah.” Riley stepped in, the warmth of the house embracing him. “Paul… what is happening? Really?”
Paul sank onto the sofa, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low. “People are healing. That’s undeniable. It feels like… a blessing. But the intensity of it. Bev’s certainty. It scares me. When Leeza walked, I didn’t feel empowered. I felt like a door had been opened that I didn’t mean to unlock.”
Riley sat beside him, taking his hand. The tremor was back. “We’ll figure it out.”
Paul looked at their joined hands, then up at Riley. The fear in his eyes was plain. “What if it expects something in return?” he whispered. “Grace this fierce… nothing that powerful is free, Riley.”
Outside, the wind picked up, whistling around the eaves. It didn’t sound like a storm coming. It sounded like a breath being held.