She was sick with worry, the tension like an acid eating at her reserve. A knock at the door caused her to explode into action. She hurled it open, expecting Michael, and found Father Hillary. “Oh,” Kate said, spirits sagging. “Hum, I have had more cheerful greetings,” the priest replied. “But then, I suppose the early Christians had worse.” “I’m sorry. I thought you were Michael.” “Hoped, you mean.” “Yes,” Kate said. Hillary’s honesty was infectious. She stood aside as the priest entered, toolbox in hand. “You’re worried about him. So am I,” Father Hillary said. “I feel so helpless.” “You brought the letter to Gude. You’ve done all you could. They brought Michael over and are talking to him now.” “How …?” “I’ve been building a planter box for Tyrell, which happens to be outside an open office window.” Hillary brought a single cutting in a clay pot out of his toolbox. His broad square features brightened with mischief. “Now, if someone were to take this cutting over and plant it in the planter box, that someone would hear what was going on.”
