I, Michael Bennett (Michael Bennett 5)

“Please, no candles—and especially no numbers. Not today,” Seamus said. “That can be my present from you, Michael. No mention of any numbers.”

Jane cleared her throat.

“Before we sing happy birthday, Gramps, we wanted to share with you the top ten reasons why having a priest for a grandfather is great.”

“Oh, no. I should have known,” Seamus said, shaking his head in mock despair. “First roast chicken, now roast grandpa.”

He wasn’t fooling anyone. The old man couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear as the kids stood with their index cards.

“Number ten: extra-special ‘God bless yous’ when you sneeze,” Jane said.

“Number nine: front-row pews on holidays,” said Shawna.

“Number eight: last rites before the more treacherous amusement park rides,” Eddie chimed in.

“Number seven: Roman collar provides excellent grip on horsie rides,” said Chrissy.

“Number six: top-notch pet burials,” said Trent.

“Number five: reminding Gramps that you’re an innocent child of God easily gets you out of trouble,” Fiona and Bridget said in unison.

“Number four,” said Ricky. “Fear of excommunication is a really great incentive to floss teeth.”

“Number three,” said Brian. “Sanctity of confessional box keeps Dad in the dark forever.”

“Number two,” said Juliana. “Lots of chances to wear nifty YOUR GRANDPA LIVES IN FLORIDA BUT MINE CAN EXORCISE DEMONS T-shirt.”

“And number one,” I said, standing.

The last zinger was mine, of course. Seamus winced.

“Nonstop sermons,” I said. “Every darn day of the week.”

CHAPTER 29

AFTER THE BIRTHDAY dinner, the kids took Seamus to the most recent summer blockbuster while Mary Catherine and I cleaned up. We’d wrapped up the leftovers and were breaking down the tables and chairs when I spotted something.

“Hey, what’s this?” I said as I saw something gold at the bottom of an ice bucket. I put my hand into the freezing water and pulled out a second bottle of Veuve Clicquot, which I’d forgotten about.

“Look, a straggler,” I said as the ice-water droplets tickled the tops of my flip-flopped feet.

“We can’t let this go to waste,” I said, putting the music back on. My iPod was jam-packed with fifties and sixties music these days, all the doo-wop crooning and violins and melodies and sweet, soulful love songs I could download off iTunes. I had been playing the songs during the party, to Seamus’s delight.

We took the bottle over to the southwest corner of the roof, where we could look out over the West Side and the Hudson River. As we arrived, “Up on the Roof” by the Drifters soon started floating through the warm summer night air.

Millions of tiny lights sparkled in the dark water as the Drifters sang about being up above the bustling crowd and having all your cares sail away. I peeled away the foil on the Veuve Clicquot and untwisted the wire. When the cork popped, it ricocheted off the terra-cotta rim of the building and went spinning out into the night.

“That’s a long way down. You think we hit anyone?” Mary Catherine said, looking over the railing.

I stared at her blue eyes and fine-lined face, uplit in the soft glow of the city lights.

“No chance,” I said, smiling, as I looked down. “But even so, I’d certainly take a Champagne cork over your usual New York City ‘airmail’—the kind delivered by pigeons, high-rise construction sites, and Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons.”

When I passed her the bott

le, she gave me a soft kiss on the cheek.

“What’s that for?” I said.