6

      Faye sat in the living room of Father Pat’s little Duke Street cottage, a pretty fern-green one-story nothing-special sort of house. Nothing special on the outside, but the inside was an art gallery, a Pantone dream. He’d painted every room a different hue—sunflower gold for the kitchen, cornflower blue living room, lagoon-green bathroom. And every wall boasted watercolor paintings of the sea and the sun; every horizontal surface held books on paintings, on how to paint watercolors, on the history of painting. She expected something in the house to give a sign that it belonged to a priest, but there was nothing, not a cross in sight.

      Pat got her settled on his sofa and gave her iced tea in a Pilsner glass.

      “I’d never guess you were a priest,” she said. “By your house or anything really.”

      “Ah, that’s the point. Now show me your husband. You have me intrigued to the point of day drinking.”

      Faye opened her laptop and showed Pat both pictures side by side as he sipped at his beer and she her tea. She’d taken an old picture of Will and run it through Photoshop, aging the background, changing the colors. But she hadn’t touched his face, hadn’t changed the way he looked at all. Pat stared at them a long time before closing the lid of her laptop and passing it back to her.

      “Okay,” he said. “So I told you about Carrick and Faith. Now you tell me about Will and Faye.”

      “I’m a baseball widow. Ever heard of us?”

      “I’ve heard of you. Women who say goodbye to their husbands in April and don’t see them again until October?”

      “I’m a real baseball widow. My husband was a professional baseball player.”

      “What team?”

      “When we met Will was playing on a Triple-A team in Rhode Island. I was the local paper’s photographer. One game I took a good picture of him making a double play. You should have seen it. This huge guy barreling toward second base, starting a hard slide, and Will tagging him, one arm in the air for balance and his glove just brushing the guy’s back, inches from the bag.” Faye mimed the move, the image burned into her brain. She’d been a baseball fan all her life and had never seen anything so athletic, so elegant as Will Fielding spinning like a bullfighter to get the out. “The picture ran in the paper with the caption, ‘Olé!’ I didn’t think anything of it other than it was a good shot with lucky timing. But the very next game after the photo ran, Mr. Olé came up to me and thanked me. His teammates had given him the nickname ‘The Matador’ after that. He’d always wanted a good baseball nickname. Hank Aaron was ‘Hammer’ and Ruth was the ‘Sultan of Swat.’ Now he was Will ‘The Matador’ Fielding. He said I’d made his dream come true with that picture. I was supposed to say something to that like, ‘No problem’ or ‘Just doing my job.’ But here was this big, tall wall of pure American maleness. Handsome and brown-eyed and grinning at me, and I ended up saying something like, ‘I will take pictures of anything and everything you want me to.’ And only after the words came out did I realize it sounded like I’d just offered to take naked pics for him. I probably would have had he asked.”

      “That handsome?”

      “Took my breath away,” Faye said. “But he was a good guy and didn’t ask for naked pics. Instead, he asked me about my work. When the game started he said he’d love to keep talking to me later. That night was our first date. Before Will I dated coffee-shop guys. You know, the skinny intellectuals with the earbuds and the Macs who drink expensive coffee and write thinkpieces for their incredibly boring blogs and magazines? Those guys. Never dated a guy who drank gas-station coffee before, who didn’t own a Mac but did own a grill and a drill. We met in July, got engaged in September and got married the next spring. Sometimes you just know. And we just knew.”

      “I’ve known many a couple who just knew. A priest has to believe in love. It’s part of our job.”

      “The day after Will asked me to marry him, he hit two home runs. He said I must be his good-luck charm, and who needed a rabbit’s foot when he had me? He called me Bunny sometimes, and you better believe he was the one man on earth who could call me Bunny and live to tell the tale.”

      “I can tell you loved him,” Pat said.

      “God, I loved him.” She blinked back her tears. “Will was one of the last good guys. The really good guys. Good inside and out. His dad worked at Jiffy Lube and his mother was a hospice nurse so...definitely not the most exalted of origin stories. But it was meant to be. You don’t grow up with the name Will Fielding without being destined to be a baseball player. And even when he was in the minors making less than minimum wage and living in cramped buses and roach motels, four players to a room, he felt like the luckiest man on earth. I can hear him in my head right now. ‘Babe, think about it—who gets to do what I do? Play baseball for a job? What’s next? Pay me to eat candy and sleep with you?’ He’d say that all the time with this look on his face like, ‘Really? Me?’ He never once thought he deserved it. He was just happy to be there. And he made me so happy.”

      “I bet you made him happy, too.”

      “I tried. And you know what? I did. I did make him happy. And it was my pleasure to do it. I hate sports puns, but Will was out of my league. I was as happy to be his wife as he was happy to be a ballplayer.”

      “You’re the prettiest lady I’ve set eyes on in a long time. You aren’t out of any man’s league.”

      “You’re sweet to say that, but it’s not what I meant. I don’t mean looks. I mean...before Will I was self-centered. Not in any way that anyone else isn’t self-centered. When you’re single, you don’t have to think about anyone else, and I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was broke, in student loan debt, worked constantly. But then Will came along, and I watched him spending his very few days off at children’s hospitals visiting sick kids and helping out underprivileged Little League teams. That was Will. You have any idea how grueling life is in the minors? He never once complained. He said a ballplayer complaining about road trips and sore shoulders was like a rich man complaining he had to hire an accountant to count all his money. I’ve been a feminist my whole life, independent. I went to an Ivy League school. I paid my own bills. I knew even if we had kids I’d never quit my working to be a stay-at-home mom. And you know what?”

      “Tell me,” Pat said, looking her straight in the eyes.

      “I’d give up the right to vote just to do one more load of Will’s dirty laundry.”

      She laughed at herself—better to laugh than to cry again.

      “I