“And it’s not just because you’re a great help in the practice . . .”
Barry blushed.
God, O’Reilly thought, but he was an easy man to embarrass. “Watching you and your Patricia got me thinking.”
“What about?”
O’Reilly stood, walked to the window, and peered out at the tilted steeple and the ragged clouds tearing over it. He heard the rain thrashing against the windowpane. He turned. Barry was looking up expectantly. Perhaps, O’Reilly thought, listening to me has lifted his mind from his own troubles for a while. He just needs one more nudge. “When I lost Deidre . . .”—he saw Barry’s eyes widen—“Deidre Mawhinney was my wife’s name before we were married.” He’d not spoken her name aloud for as long as he could remember, and it pleased him to have done so without great pain. “When I lost her I turned inward and decided never to open to another woman again.”
Barry frowned and his eyes softened. “That’s very sad, Fingal,” he said softly.