In spite of the mugginess of the day, a cold chill shivered the butterfly-sleeve of Charity’s pink wraparound blouse. “Ten more of Henry?” Another shudder followed. “Just shoot me now.”
Marcy smiled. “Charity, he’s just going through a stage—”
“Yes, Mother, I know—birth to college.” She blew a limp strand of hair from her eyes as she snapped a piece of thread with her teeth. “I just hope I can tame him before he marries some poor, unsuspecting girl.” She spit out a sliver of navy thread. “And while we’re on the subject of ‘unsuspecting,’ I think I have a solution to our problem with Sean.”
Three sets of eyes locked on Charity’s face. “Oh, no, what are you cooking up now?” Faith said with a chuckle, her amusement somewhat tempered by a wary scrunch of brows.
Charity eyed the seam she’d just sewn, squinting to see if it was straight. “Oh, nothing. Just a surefire way to get our unsuspecting brother back on track until he finds a job.”
Faith leaned in, elbows on the table and lips parted in doubt. “I don’t believe it. How?”
With a lift of her chin, Charity folded the school jumper she’d just mended and placed it on the growing stack in another basket. “It just so happens that Emma needs help at the store—”
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Lizzie said with a hopeful glow.
“What?” Faith’s jaw dropped a full inch. “Are you crazy?” She shooed at a fly. “I can tell you right now he won’t do it.”
Charity stared her down, suddenly remembering all the times she and Faith butted heads growing up, sometimes resulting in a hair-pulling fight. The memory tugged a smile to her lips, filling her with gratitude for the closeness she now shared with her sisters. Her smile eased into a grin. “Oh, yes he will, you mark my words. And of course I’m crazy, as if that’s any surprise.” She winked. “Crazy enough to know it will work.”
“But how?” Marcy asked, her tone as skeptical as Faith’s. “Your father already offered to give his cousin Thomas a call. You know, the one who owns the freighter company? But Sean flat-out refused, just like he did with Collin and Brady’s offer to work at the shop.”
“Yeah, how?” Faith repeated, an edge of respect in her tone. “Knowing you, sis, this ought to be good . . . and probably just devious enough to work.”
“Well, surprisingly, it’s not all that devious,” Charity said with a hint of regret. She leaned to pluck a purple silk blouse from Marcy’s basket, then settled back in her chair. “But I do believe it’ll work. That is, if I can get Sean over to dinner on Saturday night. And trust me, when he sees Emma all ragged and worn from too much work for one person to do—”
“Emma?” Faith’s mouth could have trapped flies. “Don’t tell me you railroaded Emma?”
“Not railroaded exactly,” Charity said slowly. “Think of it more like I engineered a plan and Emma’s all aboard. Frankly, the woman’s working herself to death at the store, and neither Mitch nor I can get her to cut back on her hours or hire more help. But,” Charity said with a smug hike of a brow, “she wants to help Sean, so she’s willing to hire him. And actually, she says with his retail experience, it’s an answer to prayer. So you see, it’s completely perfect—the dear friend I love gets the help that she needs, and my sweet, stubborn brother gets a job.”
“But he’s bound to suspect something,” Lizzie said, violet eyes wide with concern. She chewed on the edge of her lip as she finished the hem. “He never goes to your house for dinner.”
“I know, but I’ve got a plan—or as Emma calls it, a ‘plot’—guaranteed to put Sean O’Connor’s back to the wall, ensuring our success.”
“Our success?” The corner of Faith’s mouth tipped up. “So now we’re accomplices?”
“You’re not gonna force her to cry on demand, are you?” Lizzie asked, regard for Emma obviously foremost in her mind. “You know, like you did with me in our plot against Brady? Crackers in her eyes to make her cry and weaken his defenses?”
“Crackers?” Marcy gaped. “Charity, whose daughter are you? I swear you inherited your grandmother’s creative flair for conspiracy as well as her beauty, God rest her soul.” She sighed, a trace of tears in her eyes. “You’re so very like her, you know.”
“I know,” she whispered, squeezing her mother’s hand. “And therein is one of my greatest joys.” She swiped at her eye and turned to grin at Lizzie. “And no, Lizzie, no saltines are involved, I promise. Only used them twice, you know—once with you to turn Brady’s head and once with Mitch to turn his.” Her nose wrinkled. “Or maybe it was twice with Mitch . . .” She waved her hand. “Oh, well, it’s not important. All that matters is that it worked.”
“Oh dear,” Marcy said, her tongue making another quick swipe. “This isn’t going to cost anyone anything, is it? Like someone’s job or Emma’s authority at the store or . . .” The faintest of smiles shadowed her lips. “Your brother’s ire?”
Charity shook her head, her confidence unshaken. “Nope, only his pride. Not all of it, mind you, because heaven knows I can’t perform miracles . . . but enough.”
“So, Miss Mata Hari, Queen of Intrigue . . . how exactly are you planning to bait the trap? Barbecue ribs, perchance? Because Lizzie is right—Sean will sniff a mercy dinner a mile away.”
“Just don’t you worry, because I know—”
“Hey, Lizzie . . .” Sean pushed through the screen door, the sleeves of his old work shirt rolled up and splotched with telltale paint.
“—that as far as marriage is concerned,” Charity continued seamlessly, as smooth as the silk blouse in her hand, “Katie will get the lay of the land soon enough, you’ll see. I just wish poor, little Kit wasn’t still under the weather, so Katie and she could be here. I, for one, would like a newlywed update.”
“I think I heard jabbering down the hall, so I suspect Molly may be up from her nap.” Sean wiped his paintbrush with a wet rag obviously saturated in turpentine, prompting Charity to wrinkle her nose. His smile was lackluster at best. “Didn’t want to peek in case she shouldn’t be up yet, you know?”
“Uncle Sean!” Henry called, relief evident in his voice. “Wanna play catch?”
“Sorry, bud, I’ve got work to do, but maybe later, okay?”
Charity glanced up. “So, Mr. Handyman . . . I understand you fixed Mother’s leak.”
“Dry as dust in the desert,” he quipped, his own tone equally so.
“Really . . . ,” she said, giving him her full attention. She propped her chin in her hand and wiggled her brows. “So . . . what do you think you could do for my kitchen sink?”
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked, slacking a hip as he swiped the sweat on his face.
She tilted her head. “Leaks like a sieve. Mitch has been meaning to look at it, but with the hours he’s pulling at the Herald, I’m lucky to get a grunt and a kiss.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, chancing a peek at her twins in the backyard. “But between you and me, I’d just as soon he didn’t get another chance, if you know what I mean. It’s gone downhill since he fixed it the last time, and I’m tired of having water in my best pot.”
A half smile flickered on Sean’s mouth. “Sure, I’ll look at it. Tomorrow okay?”
“Actually,” she said, her smile dimming somewhat, “tomorrow probably won’t work.” Her nose crinkled in thought before she suddenly looked up, eyes as bright as the idea in her head. “Wait—how about Saturday after your game? We’ll be home all evening.”
His blue eyes squinted in thought. “That could work. My game should be over by six.”
“Perfect! And you may as well stay for dinner.”
He hesitated—prey stilled by the scent of the hunter. “I don’t know, sis.” One side of his mouth lifted a fraction of an inch. “I probably won’t smell too good.”
“But you’re coaching, not playing, right? And you gotta eat anyway.” Charity appeared hopeful as she cast her imaginary line.
Nobody breathed as the l
ure sailed through the air . . .
“Look, sis, I’m not the best company lately—”
“I don’t mind if you eat and run, honest.”
He cocked his head and gritted his teeth with a smile, his decision likely edging toward “no,” given the apology in his eyes.
Uh-oh, fish or cut bait. Charity smiled and switched strategies. “That’s okay, really—I understand.” With a nonchalant air, she grabbed a spool of purple thread from the sewing box and gave him a wink. “Just more ribs for us.” She held the thread against the silk blouse and looked up. “Hey, do these colors match?”
“Ribs?” Sean said weakly.
Charity fished in the sewing box again, ignoring his gaze as she fiddled with more spools. “Yes, sir . . . Mitch’s apple-wood smoked variety, his secret sauce, candied carrots, my prize popovers, and—” she looked up, her face the picture of innocence—“potato salad.”
“Potato salad?” He paused. His voice was the pained whisper of a man used to simpler fare prepared by a frugal mother victimized by the depression. He swallowed hard, as if drool were clogging his throat. “Mustard or mayonnaise?”
She plopped back into her chair and flashed him a bright smile. “Sorry, didn’t catch that. What was the question again?”
“The potato salad—is it the mustard kind or the mayonnaise?” It came out as a croak.
Charity worked the edge of her lip, trying to remember Sean’s favorite. “Uh . . . mayonnaise, I think.”
The man groaned as if a sharp lure had just pierced the soft flesh of his lip.
Bingo!
She set the hook and reeled him in. “And, of course, my homemade deviled eggs, those barbecue butter beans you’re so fond of, and last but not least . . .”
His mouth hung open like a large-mouth bass.
Victory coursed through her veins with a rush of adrenaline. “Warm peach cobbler in a pool of caramel sauce with cinnamon ice cream on the side—from Robinson’s no less,” she breathed, her tone hushed with respect.
“Oh, man . . .” His voice was a moan of defeat. He blasted out a sigh that could have ruffled the leaves on the lilac bush at the edge of the porch. “What time again?”
“Six,” she said with a flutter of lashes. “You can fix the drain, and then I’ll feed you at six-thirty.”
His lungs expanded and released, as if he’d given up the ghost. “Okay, sis.” Shoulders slumped in surrender, he glanced at his mother. “Do you know where the mower is? I was hoping to mow the lawn, but it’s not in the shed.”
“I’m afraid your father lent it to Mr. Morris last week when his broke.”
Another sigh that seemed to weigh as much as he did expelled from his lips. “Okay, I guess I’ll pay him a visit.” He turned to go, his heart clearly not in hobnobbing with neighbors.
“See you Saturday,” Charity called after him.
He waved a hand in the air, not even sparing a glance. “Yeah, sure—Saturday.” The screen door squealed open before he turned halfway, a touch of contrition in his eyes. “Sorry, sis, I forgot to ask if there was anything I could bring, like maybe the ice cream?”
“Nope, just your appetite . . . and your tools.” Her smile was beaming.
He nodded, and the screen slammed behind him.
“Soooo . . . ,” Charity said with a smug lift of her chin. She smiled at her mother and sisters, then cocked a brow in Faith’s direction. “He won’t do it, eh? You think you would have learned by now not to underestimate me.”
“He hasn’t shown up yet, nor agreed to take the job.” Faith bit off the end of the thread from a shirt she’d just sewn and tied it into a knot. “Besides, you did have to pull the ‘ribs’ card, you know. For a moment there, I thought you were dead in the water.”
“I know,” Charity said, her tone humbling considerably. A sigh of relief wavered from her lips. “But the hard part’s done. Now, all we need is for Emma to come through.”
“You think she can do it?” Lizzie asked.
Charity tilted her head, thinking of the soft spot her brother harbored for Emma Malloy. “I think so. I mean the woman is as honest as the day is long, and I know Sean trusts her.” Her lips twisted. “At least more than he trusts me. So if Emma tells him she needs his help, I think he’ll do it. Because let’s face it, he may be a man, stubborn to a fault, but he’s also a sucker for anyone who needs his help. Which, as we all know, makes him the perfect knight in shining armor to rescue our damsel in distress.” Charity eased a strand of thread through the eye of the needle, then grinned. “See? The perfect plan.”
“No plan is perfect without prayer,” Faith said in a wry tone. She tilted her head, giving Charity a mysterious smile. “We are going to pray about this, right?”
“Of course,” Charity said, clearly aghast. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
Faith opened her mouth.
“Don’t answer that,” Charity warned. She slithered the needle into the silk as she prepared to patch a hole, then slid Faith a half-lidded smile. “Give me a little credit, will you? I may be crazy . . . but I’m not stupid.”
Meow.
Emma pooled cool water in her hands to wash the soap from her face, then carefully patted herself dry. She eyed Guinevere who perched on the back of the commode with all the regality of a queen on her throne as she groomed snow-white fur with dainty, ladylike strokes. “I’m moving as quickly as I can, Your Grace,” Emma said with a quirk of a smile, “but one must never rush hygiene, as you surely must know.”
The fluffy Persian stretched and purred when Emma grazed beneath her chin with a finger. Pale eyelids closed in contentment, concealing the fact that “Her Majesty” was missing an eye, a fate befallen her as a stray kitten abused by a cruel boy with a stick. A neighbor had rescued her and Emma had begged to keep her, feeling a kinship with this helpless creature with whom she shared a bond. Whether the loss of sight had sharpened her sense of smell or Guinevere was just a true female who loved the smell of chocolate, Emma wasn’t quite sure. But the fact remained that Emma’s nighttime ritual of bathing and cocoa butter applied to her scars was truly a highlight of Guinevere’s day.
Coaxing the cat into her arms, Emma carried her into the bedroom where Lancelot presided over Emma’s floral bedspread like a regent over a jungle of tropical blooms. Having no interest whatsoever in female primping, he ignored them both, happily snoring away. With the utmost care, she placed Guinevere on the marred Victorian vanity she’d salvaged from the store and then padded to the parlor to turn on her phonograph, the soothing sounds of Duke Ellington trailing her down the hall. With a gentle stroke of Guinevere’s fur, she took her seat before the vanity mirror, thinking for the thousandth time what an oxymoron it was for her to possess anything that bore the name “vanity.” Nonetheless, she couldn’t help but admire the lacy white nightgown she wore, one of the few luxuries she allowed because it helped her to feel so feminine, something she desperately needed in a world void of romantic love. Her lips tipped into a smile. Although never would she have chosen something so daring if Charity hadn’t been along. But she had to admit that the soft swell of her breasts against the scalloped neckline did make her feel pretty, a rare accomplishment indeed. Leaning forward, she pushed chestnut waves behind her ears to examine her face in the glass, noting that the cocoa butter Charity had hounded her to apply had actually paid off, fading her once-blatant scars until they almost appeared not to exist.
But Emma knew better. Eyes in a squint, she saw herself as she’d been years ago—a child of inordinate beauty with the gift of song that had put a gleam of pride in her father’s eyes. A father who’d flaunted that same beauty on nightly treks to the pub, toting his eight-year-old daughter along to sing for his friends. Against her mother’s wishes. That is . . . until the song was silenced . . . and the beauty tainted forever. Emma’s eyes fluttered closed, a familiar stab of pain at the memory of her father’s revulsion, his fury, when his thirteen-year-old prodigy had been defiled by one of t
he same young men he’d taunted with his daughter’s beauty.
Damaged goods. Just like the vanity.
And a father’s love.
“Meow . . .”
She opened her eyes to Guinevere, grateful for the distraction. Shaking off the unwelcome memories, she started to reach for the jar of cocoa butter while humming along with the Duke, when her gaze lighted on the silk scarf from Charity. Unbidden, her fingers glided to where it lay, neatly folded next to the obsidian earrings, and with a deep draw of air, she picked it up. The silk was sensual to the touch, catching her pulse while she slowly grazed it against her cheek, a perfect caress against imperfect skin. Swirls of pale green and the softest of grays blended to create a hue that seemed to illuminate her eyes, pools from a mossy mountain stream as deep as the secrets she could never share. From scars to silk, and suddenly she felt beautiful again like so long ago when men’s fingers, instead of silk, had grazed her skin . . . and hungry kisses replaced the love a father could no longer give.
“I love you, Emmy,” Rory had whispered the first time he’d kissed her, setting her skin aflame with the tingle of his touch, the nuzzle of his mouth. His body had molded to hers in a way that assured her he wanted to love her, possess her, make her his own. Even now, her body warmed at the memory of his touch, and for one brief, blinding moment, she was a woman again, alive with passion and desire and the need to give of herself in every possible way.
Heart pounding, she twirled the scarf around her neck and closed her eyes, swaying to the music while its easy rhythm flowed through her veins, melting away the sins of her past. Instead, she saw herself as she might have been if temptation hadn’t led her astray—clean, pure, and free—to be the woman she so longed to be.
The soft wisp of fur tickled her arm and she opened her eyes to Guinevere’s delicate paw, poking for attention. A soft chuckle bubbled in her chest and she bowed at the waist. “Why, yes, Your Majesty, I would be honored to give you this dance.” Swooping the cat up into her arms, she cuddled her close while they twirled to the music, drifting off to places she could only go in her mind.