He grinned, obviously pleased with Emma’s assessment given the barbecue wars that raged in the O’Connor clan. “Yeah, the secret’s in the sauce and the apple-wood smoke, but don’t tell that to Collin. Rumor has it he plans to usurp my authority come Labor Day.” Mitch’s blue eyes met those of his daughter. “Hey, what’s the matter, honey? Did you get hurt?” He picked her up and bundled her in his arms, scanning her from head to toe.
“No, she’s not hurt,” Charity said with a kiss to her cheek, “but Henry’s at it again. Threatened her with worms.”
Mitch blinked. “Worms?” His jaw shifted while the blue eyes narrowed. He adjusted his daughter in his arms and slacked a hip, measuring the air with his finger and thumb. “The Red Sox are this close to humiliating the Yankees, and you call me away from the radio for worms?”
Emma couldn’t help it—she snickered.
Charity engaged her chin to match his. “Last time I checked, worms were part of the animal kingdom, Mitch Dennehy, so don’t give me any grief.”
He bussed his daughter’s cheek, then propped a firm finger beneath his wife’s chin. “Wouldn’t consider it, little girl,” he said with a hasty kiss to her mouth. “That talent belongs to you and you alone.” He turned and headed to the back door with Hope snug in his arms. “Come on, princess, let’s go talk to your mother’s son.” The door slammed behind them.
“So you see, Emma, we don’t have a choice,” Charity continued without missing a beat. She tucked the deviled eggs into the icebox. “You need help at the store, and Sean needs a job, and this is the only way that bullheaded brother of mine will even consider it.” Absently chewing her thumbnail, she wandered off into a pensive stare, obviously lost in thought for several seconds. She suddenly glanced up in a squint. “Hey . . . can you cry on demand?”
Emma chuckled, Charity’s talent for manipulation never ceasing to amaze her. She shook her head as she rinsed the carrots. “Sorry, I don’t have much experience with crying.”
“Humph . . . at least not anymore, thank heavens,” Charity said with a grunt. She peeked into the oven to check on the barbecue butter beans. “Well, I know you’re not as devious as me—what can I say? It’s a gift. But that’s exactly why you’re the perfect person to convince Sean to take the job. My brother respects you, Emma, admires you and loves you like a sister.”
With a heavy exhale, Emma cut off the carrot tops and pulled out a pot from the cabinet, wondering if that still held true, given her shock and dismay over the scene he’d made at the wedding. She filled it with water and put it on to boil. “Well, there’s certainly a need for Sean at the store, no question about that. And, he’s got some time on his hands until he finds another job.” She reached for a knife and sighed. “I just hope I don’t let you down.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t.” Charity looked up from the rolls she was placing on a cookie sheet and cocked her head. “Turn around.”
Emma glanced over her shoulder with a pucker between her brows. “What?”
“Turn around, please . . . all the way.”
Knife in hand, Emma reluctantly faced her friend, quite sure that Charity’s expression, now kinked in thought, did not bode well.
“Mmm . . . you don’t look as tired as I hoped, although that faded blue dress certainly washes you out—good job.” She studied Emma intently, arms crossed and finger tapping her chin. “I’m afraid that lipstick has to go. It brings out the soft hint of green in those amazing gray eyes of yours, and we don’t want that—too serene.” She handed her a handkerchief. “Here, wipe the lipstick off, and then I have the perfect touch.”
“Uh-oh, I don’t like the sound of that,” Emma said, wide-eyed as she cut a carrot into pennies and tossed them into the pot. She took Charity’s handkerchief and blotted her lips, more than a little skittish over what her friend had in mind. “I’ve heard that tone before, and it’s trouble.”
“Oh, hush,” Charity said, sliding a manicured finger along the dark edge of her own eyelid to smear her fingertip with eyeliner. “You’re my best friend, Emma—you’re supposed to trust me.”
Emma’s mouth tipped up. “Why should I when your own brother won’t?”
“Exactly,” Charity said, as if Emma had just proven her point. She leaned to dab her finger beneath both of Emma’s eyes, smudging the dark makeup until a grin lit her face. “There—perfect!” She reached into her cabinet for a shiny stainless steel frying pan. “Here, see for yourself. You look like a zombie who hasn’t slept in days.”
“Oh, joy,” Emma said, her enthusiasm as flat as the pan in her hand. She angled it just so and gaped. “For pity’s sake, Charity, I look like a raccoon!”
Charity chuckled. “That’s good, because pity is exactly what we’re going for. Everybody knows Sean is a sucker for kids, animals, and a good cause. And you, Emma Malloy, whether you know it or not, are a very worthy cause.” She paused, head tilted to listen before she shot a glance at the clock. “Oh, good—he’s here, and he’s early.”
Emma froze, pan in hand. The sound of Sean laughing outside with Mitch threatened to upheave the butterflies in her stomach, worthy cause or no. Apparently “plotting” did not agree with her. Her lips slanted into a wry smile as she focused on cutting another carrot. Maybe I should throw up . . . then “sick” and “tired” wouldn’t be stretching the truth at all.
“Emma! I didn’t know you were going to be here.” Sean stood at the screen door, muscled arm braced to keep it from slamming behind.
All of Emma’s butterflies nosedived in her stomach as she stared at the man who had toppled her trust. She attempted a welcome smile to cover her nervousness, completely forgetting Charity’s instructions to mope. “Sean, hello! Yes, your sister twisted my arm—dangling the promise of her husband’s smoked ribs, no less.”
He strolled in to give Charity a hug, then grinned, his white teeth a stark contrast to the deep tan obscuring his freckles. “Yep, the ribs got me too. That and the warm peach cobbler.”
“Well, I had to do something to get Emma away from the store,” Charity said, worry threading her tone. “The woman’s worn herself to a frazzle working day and night.”
“Now, Charity, you know that’s not—” Emma began, forgetting her role.
“Day and night?” Sean’s smile dimmed as he set his toolbox on the table. “That can’t be good.” He wandered over to give her a hug while ridges lined his brow, calling attention to errant strands of blond hair that tumbled into his eyes. “You look tired.”
She peeked up at him, catching the scent of Snickers, soap, and the barest hint of sweat. His wilted shirt was dusty and open at the collar, revealing both a glimpse of sandy hair against a bronzed chest and muscled forearms taut with veins beneath rolled sleeves. Her smile felt strained as she pulled away, uncomfortable in his hold. “Well, I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Don’t believe her,” Charity said, “it’s sheer exhaustion. She clocked in over eighty hours at the store last week alone and still refuses to hire any help.”
Heat dusted Emma’s cheeks. “It wasn’t eighty hours.”
Charity jutted her chin. “Oh, all right—seventy-six—same difference. Either way, you’re killing yourself, and I, for one, am worried.”
Sean’s mouth slacked open. “Seventy-six hours? In one week?” He sent his sister an accusing stare. “And you let her?”
“That’s just it—I can’t stop her.” Charity slid the rolls in the oven, then cranked the egg timer with a huff. “And you think I’m stubborn.”
Emma shook her head, a smile edging her lips at Charity’s gift for drama.
Sean slanted against the counter with a fold of his arms and a hint of a smile. “Who would have thought? Sweet Emma Malloy, as pigheaded as my sister.”
“More,” Charity confirmed.
“Oh, now there’s a trip to confession if ever there was,” Emma said with a grin.
Sean’s smile faded. “Seriously, Emma, working those kinds of
hours is deadly. If you wear down and get sick, then who’s going to run the store?”
“Yes, Emma, who?” Charity demanded. She flipped a flaxen strand of hair from her eyes and slapped her hands on her hips. “You know Mitch only allows me to work two days a week while the kids are in school and not at all in the summer. What if something happens to you?”
Emma blinked, caught off-guard by the truth of Charity’s point. “Well, I . . . I guess I never thought of that.”
“You should, you know,” Sean said. “I had an assistant at Kelly’s, and it’s only half the size of Dennehy’s. Trust me, Andy saved my hide more than once when I was out with the flu.”
“But my budget can’t afford an assistant manager,” Emma said, sincerity softening the plea of her tone. “Sales are down 25 percent, and I’ve had to make staff cuts as it is.” She chanced a peek at Charity, who winked, then spun around to check on the boiling pot. Steam misted the warmth of her cheeks as she turned the flame down, grateful that every word she spoke was truth. She drew in a deep breath and turned to face him once again. “Besides, where would I find someone trained in retail who would be willing to work from now through Christmas, our busiest season, for practically nothing? Goodness, we’re talking merchandising, buying and selling, inventory, advertising, promotion, personnel, accounting, scheduling—the list is endless.”
“Yes, where is she supposed to find somebody like that?” Charity piped in. “Even if she would allow us to increase her budget, which she won’t.” She shot Emma a pointed look.
Emma sighed, a tired smile lining her lips, both from Charity’s pretend badgering and the reality of a budget already strained to its limit. “A good merchant works within a budget, Charity, and never more so than during difficult times.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Right, Sean?”
Blue eyes the exact shade of Charity’s studied her intently. “True, but not at the expense of your health, Emma. If you’re drowning at the store, you need to hire someone to assist.”
“Exactly,” Charity said with a noisy sigh. She bent to retrieve a large pot from under the sink and tipped it toward Sean to reveal the dirty water inside. “And speaking of drowning . . .”
Peeking into the pot, Emma wrinkled her nose at an odor that made her nauseous. “Oh, that doesn’t smell so good.”
Sean looked in the pot, blond brows dipped low as he drew air through clenched teeth. He waved off a fly buzzing the stagnant brew. “No, it doesn’t.” He hiked the toolbox from the table and set it on the floor, then squatted to assess the damage beneath the sink.
“Here, give me that.” Emma held her breath as she retrieved the pot from Charity and tossed the contents out the back door onto the grass.
“So, what’s the verdict?” Charity asked, bent over to follow her brother’s line of vision. “Think you can fix it?”
“Yep. Got an old rag?”
“Sure.” Charity pulled a man’s dress shirt with bold blue stripes from a bottom drawer and handed it to Sean.
Emma squinted, unable to believe her eyes. “Wait, is that Mitch’s favorite shirt? The one he was looking for the last time I came to dinner?”
“Hush, Emma, he’ll hear you!” Charity’s gaze flicked to the screen door and back. “The sleeves are frayed and the collar’s worn.” Her chin nudged up. “Besides, it makes him look old and I hate it.”
“Charity!” Emma feigned shock despite the smile on her lips.
She blinked, eyes wide. “What? The man has dozens of new shirts in his closet, but what does he always wear? The one that makes him look like he should be standing in a breadline, for mercy’s sake.” She tossed the shirt under the sink. “Please, do me a favor, Sean—finish it off.”
A low chuckle rose from below. “I feel like a traitor to my sex,” he quipped as he dried off the pipes. “Will somebody plug the sink and fill it halfway?”
“I’ll do it,” Emma said, anxious to help. She quickly inserted the stopper and turned on the tap.
Sean stretched out on the floor, face up beneath the sink. “Hmm . . . looks like a new sink trap. Did Mitch put this in?”
One edge of Charity’s mouth crooked up. “Unfortunately. Obviously the man belongs in a newsroom, not under a sink.”
“Emma? Mind pulling the plug now?” Sean shifted, long legs cocked at the knees.
“Sure. Here goes . . .” Emma tugged, silently praying while water glugged down the sink.
“Thanks.” Long pause. “Okay, found the answer.”
“Ban Mitch from the kitchen?” Charity asked, innocence dripping from every syllable.
Sean laughed. “Nope, the trap looks good. Just a loose slip nut. Happens all the time. Hand me the wrench, will you, Emma?” Mitch’s shirt flapped, appearing to get quite a workout.
Charity peeked under the sink. “You’re a lifesaver, Sean—bless you!”
“Yes, you are,” Emma said, handing him the wrench. “Goodness—wish I had ten more just like you down at the store.”
A faint squeak sounded below as the wrench tightened the nut, merging with a low chuckle. “Well, how ’bout just one?”
Emma’s face went slack as she rose to her full height, gaze locking with Charity’s. “W-what did you say?” She gulped, not trusting her ears while Charity pressed palms skyward, mouthing her thanks.
Sean rolled out and lumbered to his feet with a crooked smile. He tossed the wrench back and rolled his shoulders, blue eyes twinkling as they took in Emma’s gaping stare. With a boyish grin, he tucked a finger beneath Emma’s chin and lifted. “I’d close your mouth if I were you, Emma. You might catch that fly.”
Her mouth snapped shut and she swallowed hard. She couldn’t believe that Charity’s ploy had actually worked. “Y-you’d consider helping me out?”
The grin eased its way across his handsome face as he wiped his hands with Mitch’s shirt, butting back to lounge against the counter with legs crossed. “Sure, that was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Yours and my sister’s?”
Her eyes drifted closed as a flash of heat moistened her face and neck. Oh, Lord, I’m going to faint . . . She started coughing, and Charity patted her back while Sean quickly filled a glass with water.
“Plan?” Charity said with a convincing crimp of her brows. “What plan?”
Sean handed Emma the glass, and she gulped it down. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice a raspy squeak.
He slung Mitch’s shirt over his shoulder and replaced the stopper, then shot them a smile while refilling the sink. “You know, the one to get your poor, unemployed brother a job?”
A fine mist of water sprayed from Emma’s mouth. Sean offered her Mitch’s shirt with a grin that made her wish she could claim his spot under the sink. Grabbing it, she wiped her mouth and then handed it back.
“You? A job?” Charity looped an arm around Emma’s waist. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s poor Emma I’m worried about here—”
Me too! Emma started hacking again and immediately upended the glass, draining it dry.
Dipping the clean sleeve of Mitch’s shirt under the faucet, Sean squeezed out the excess water and eased the tap off. He turned and gave Charity a patient smile. “Oh, there’s no doubt about that, sis, which is the only reason I’d consider it in the first place. Emma is clearly tired and needs the help.” He angled a brow. “Although the dark circles are definitely overkill.”
Emma wanted to die. Her fingers flew to the shadow Charity had smudged beneath her eyes. “You know?” she whispered, her voice a mere croak.
He chuckled. “Oh, yeah, I know—my sister, that is. The woman who hates to cook. I mean, come on—ribs, peach cobbler, and deviled eggs? You forget I lived with her for almost twenty years.” He nodded at Emma. “Although I have to admit—I haven’t seen this trick since the eighth grade.”
Emma bit her lip, desperate to rub the dark circles away. Oh, Charity!
“What do you mean, ‘trick’?” Charity demanded, hands propped on her hips.
> “I mean,” he said with a gentle stroke of Mitch’s wet sleeve beneath Emma’s eyes, “the ploy you used on Mother when you didn’t want to go to school before you perfected the routine of throwing up.” He looked at the sleeve, now stained black, then gave it a quick sniff. “Although I’m guessing this is eye makeup rather than ashes from the wood-burning stove, right? There you go, Emma.”
“Thank you,” Emma whispered, appropriately humiliated.
“Oh, bother.” Charity snatched Mitch’s shirt. “I forgot it was you who ratted on me.”
He patted her cheek. “For your own good, sis. Just like now.” He pulled the plug and squatted in front of the sink, squinting at the pipes beneath. “Well, that should do it. As dry as Mitch’s shirt used to be.”
“So, you’ll do it, then?” Charity asked, her voice hushed with hope as she pulled a bowl of the neighbors beets from the icebox.
Sean rose, the affection in his gaze warming Emma’s cheeks. “For Emma? You bet. And for you too—with or without plotting. Although the ribs and cobbler sure didn’t hurt.”
Charity beamed. “I knew it!” She thumped the bowl of beets on the table.
“On one condition.”
Emma’s eyelids fluttered close. Lord, help me, please . . .
“Uh-oh.” Charity paused, her gaze thinning. “What?”
Eyelids edging up, Emma chanced a peek.
Sean folded brawny arms across his chest. The press of his jaw tightened the smile on his face. “All volunteer, no salary. And mornings free to look for work and help out at church.”
Emma’s eyelids popped all the way open. “Absolutely not.”
The sharp clip of her tone dropped several jaws in the room, but she didn’t care. She may allow Charity to mastermind the plot to employ Sean at the store, but when it came to running it, it was Emma who called the shots, and it was best that Mr. Sean O’Connor learned that right out the gate. Surprise flickered in his eyes, but Emma forged on before he could lodge a protest.
“I am not a charity case, Sean O’Connor, and if you work for me, you will do so under my conditions.”