Ian and Patrick made their way through the crowd that mingled in front of the church. They turned the corner, walked out to Second and went south, headed home with others who attended the service. Once they had gone a hundred feet, and the crowd began to thin, Ian leaned close to his father.
“Abigail asked to see me,” he said, ensuring no one was close enough to hear.
Patrick nodded to a woman standing on the pavement with a teenage boy, likely her son. They made eye contact, each smiling. “Good morning to you,” Patrick said in his Irish brogue.
“Good morning, sir,” she replied, eyes twinkling.
Ian tugged at his father’s arm, leading him down the street. “What are you doing?”
“I only stopped to say hello,” Patrick protested. “There’s nothing wrong with that now, is there? What better
