Chapter 6: Breakfast with the Greenes
The knock came at seven-thirty, a rhythmic tap-tap-tap that was pure Erin. Riley opened the rectory door to find her bundled against the morning chill, two small, sleepy-eyed shapes clinging to her legs. “I made French toast,” she announced, as if this explained the dawn raid. “The kind with the brown sugar crust. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Paul appeared behind Riley, his hair still damp from the shower, wearing a soft grey sweater that stretched over his stomach. He smiled, a real one that reached his eyes. “You had me at brown sugar,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep. “Let me just grab my coat.”
The short walk to Erin’s cottage was a procession of yawns and murmured greetings, the island shrouded in a gentle, silver mist. Inside, her kitchen was a sanctuary of warmth and chaos. Bacon crackled in its own fat on the stove. A bowl of whipped butter sat softening on the counter. The air was a thick, sweet blanket of maple and frying bread.
“Sit, I’ve got it,” Erin ordered, but they were already in motion. Riley lifted her youngest, Maisie, into the highchair while Paul carefully sliced a banana into coin-thin rounds for Leo, who was squirming in his booster seat. It was a practiced, unspoken ballet.
They settled around the crammed table, plates loaded. The French toast was a masterpiece, crisped at the edges and custard-soft within. Paul, after a week of Riley’s dedicated attentions, ate with a serene, focused hunger. Riley watched him, a forkful of eggs hovering, captivated by the simple act.
“Milk?” Paul asked Leo, his voice dropping into that gentle, patient register he used with children. He helped the small boy guide a cartoonish mug to his lips. A drop escaped, tracing a white line down the child’s chin. Without a thought, Paul took a napkin and dabbed it clean. The gesture was so natural, so inherently parental, that Riley felt a physical ache in his chest—a swell of love so profound it bordered on pain.
Erin saw it too. She saw Riley’s gaze, soft and devastated with affection, locked on Paul. She saw the way Paul’s free hand drifted absentmindedly to rest low on his own belly, a protective, almost unconscious curl of his fingers. She saw the new, subtle roundness beneath the sweater, the fuller curve of his face. It was more than a good week. It was a transformation.
“So,” Erin said, pouring more syrup onto her own plate. “Bev stopped me outside the post office yesterday. Wanted a full medical report on our ‘ailing priest.’ I told her you had a spiritual malaise that only rest and Riley’s cooking could cure.”
Paul snorted, a genuinely happy sound. “I’m sure that went over well.”
“She looked like she’d bitten a lemon. Then she started in on the drainage ditch by the school again.” Erin rolled her eyes. “My plans for the day involve ignoring any and all petitions signed by Beverley Keane.”
“I’m on the St. Sebastian ‘til four,” Riley said, finally eating his eggs. “Supposed to be mending nets, but Joe will probably just talk about baseball the whole time.”
“And I,” Paul said, wiping his own mouth with a napkin, “have a mountain of paperwork that I have blissfully ignored for seven days. And then I promised Sarah I’d help her with her history paper on… what was it? The maritime history of insular communities? I think she’s just writing about us and calling it academia.”
They laughed, easy and comfortable. The children giggled at the sound, banging their spoons.
“What about you, Erin?” Riley asked. “Big plans?”
A faint, uncharacteristic blush touched her cheeks. “Might have a date, actually.”
The table stilled for a beat, then erupted in enthusiastic chatter.
“Who?”
“When?”
“Why are we just hearing about this now?”
“Her name’s Betty,” Erin said, shushing them with a wave of her hand. “She’s a botanist. Studying coastal erosion flora. She’s here for a few weeks. We met at the general store, arguing over the last decent avocado.”
“A meet-cute over produce,” Paul said, grinning. “I approve.”
“Advice,” Riley declared, pointing his fork at her. “Be yourself, but like, the most interesting version. Tell her about the time you faced down a drunk fisherman during the whole… you know. Angel thing. Shows grit.”
Paul shook his head, laughing. “Absolutely not. Do not lead with celestial trauma, Riley. My advice is to cook for her. Something simple. Pasta. Everyone is disarmed by a good carbonara.”
“Grit versus pasta,” Erin mused, tapping her chin. “The eternal dilemma. I’ll split the difference. I’ll make pasta and then, if it goes well, I’ll tell her about the fisherman.”
They finished breakfast in a bubble of contentment, clearing plates, washing sticky fingers. As Riley helped Leo out of his seat, he watched Paul lean down to talk to Maisie, their noses almost touching, the little girl grabbing at the collar of his sweater. Sunlight, now stronger, broke through the window and gilded them both. Paul’s profile was serene, his body cast in a soft, luminous halo. In that moment, he looked not just like a man potentially carrying a child, but like the very icon of motherhood itself—patient, kind, and boundless.
The hunch in Erin’s mind solidified into a quiet certainty. She caught Riley’s eye over Paul’s bent head and gave him a small, knowing smile. He held her gaze for a second, then looked back at Paul, his expression one of awestruck surrender.
On the walk back to the rectory, Riley laced his fingers through Paul’s. The mist had burned away, revealing a clear, hard blue sky.
“They’re great kids,” Riley said quietly.
“They are.”
A pause, filled with the crunch of gravel underfoot and the distant cry of gulls.
“You were… really good with them,” Riley said, the words loaded.
Paul squeezed his hand. “I had a good teacher. In patience.” He glanced at Riley, his brown eyes warm. “You’re going to be an incredible father, you know.”
Riley stopped walking, right there in the middle of the lane. He turned Paul to face him, his hands coming up to cradle his jaw. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The promise of the previous week—the whispered vows against sweat-slicked skin, the intent behind every touch—hung between them, more real now in the stark morning light.
He kissed him, soft and deep, a seal on a future they were already building.
“We’re going to be late,” Paul murmured against his lips, not moving an inch.
“Don’t care,” Riley whispered back, but he let him go, keeping one arm slung over his shoulders as they continued home, to their separate work, to the ordinary rhythm of their day, which now thrummed with an extraordinary, secret potential.