Gabe’s elfin features screwed into a mask of pain. She sagged against the table as if Marcy had banned her from her beloved Dubble Bubble for life rather than the one-week punishment Patrick had doled out before dinner. “But I’m no good at catechism,” she moaned. “And besides, Sister Mary Vomit hates me.”
“Gabriella Dawn Smith!” Marcy gaped, hand to her chest. “If I ever hear you refer to your teacher in such a crude manner again, you will be banned from Dubble Bubble for a year, is that clear? Now, apologize this instant!”
“Sorry,” Gabe mumbled. Her lips hardened. “But she does. Picks on me all the time.”
“Only because you probably make her life miserable, squirt.” Sean pinched the nape of Gabe’s neck with his fingers, eliciting a giggle and a squirm from the little girl. “Come on, kiddo, I’ll help you do your homework, okay?” He glanced up at Marcy. “And, Mother, you go finish your sewing. Gabe and I’ll do the dishes.”
Marcy adjusted the stack of dirty plates in her hands. “Oh no, Sean, you worked all da—”
He tugged them from her grip and attempted a scowl, the effort unsuccessful given the twinkle in his eyes. “Hardly work. I spent the day building a sports display, which was a labor of love. Go on now, get busy in the parlor while Gabe and I polish off the pie.”
“Gosh, Sean, really?” Gabe’s face glowed as if Sister Mary Vomit had just choked on Dubble Bubble.
“No!” Marcy and Sean’s voices rang as one.
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to bite my head off,” Gabe said with a pout. She collected utensils on a plate, then glanced up at Marcy with hope brimming in her eyes. “If I finish my homework early, can I stay up and play checkers with Sean?”
Marcy studied the delicate heart-shaped face framed by loose curls and felt her heart swell with love. Almond-shaped eyes, as deep brown as the girl’s rich mahogany hair, stared back in innocent question, confirming to Marcy once again that Gabriella Smith was nothing more than a battered little soul who needed to be loved.
“Can I, Mrs. O’Connor, please?”
Mrs. O’Connor . . . , she thought with a twinge in her chest, when it should be Mother.
The childlike plea of Gabe’s tone, the innocence of her freckled face, disarmed Marcy completely. She thought how a game of checkers could disrupt Gabe’s nine o’clock bedtime, which in turn would disrupt her husband’s rigid code of discipline, and knew she dare not risk it. She glanced at the clock in the hall and sighed. “Gabe, it’s almost seven-thirty, darling, I don’t think you’ll have time tonight.” Her heart squeezed at the look of disappointment on Gabe’s face, but it couldn’t be helped. Not if Marcy wanted this waif as her daughter. She stroked the girl’s cheek with a gentle hand. “How about I let you stay up to play the very next time Sean is home for dinner? I’ll even do the dishes by myself so you can get an early start.”
Gabe flung herself into Marcy’s arms, and Marcy thought her heart would melt. She closed her eyes and squeezed tightly, certain that this little girl was a gift from God for the daughter she’d lost so many years ago. Tears pricked at the thought of Faith’s twin, Hope, lost to polio at a young age, leaving her twin sister and her family devastated. No, there was no doubt in Marcy’s mind that Gabriella Smith was not only an answer to prayer . . . she was Marcy’s last chance at motherhood as well.
“Wow, thanks, Mrs. O’Connor, you’re the best! I wish I had a mom like you.”
Oh, Gabe . . .
“Come on, squirt, if we fly through dishes and homework, there just may be a few extra minutes for a game of catch in the backyard.” Sean hoisted the plates in his hands and headed for the kitchen with Gabe on his heels, bubbling like it was Christmas.
Marcy drew in a deep breath of air and put a shaky hand to her chest. Please, Lord . . .
The pinch of Patrick’s lips immediately told her that Steven was winning, a revolting development that caused Marcy’s tongue to glide across her teeth several times. She glanced at the board and uttered a silent groan. Steven had won the advantage of white while Patrick was black. Black, indeed, like his mood is prone to be. The parlor windows were wide open, but they may as well have been closed. Nothing stirred in the steamy summer night but heat—not children, not locusts, and not air, for that matter. Marcy dabbed her handkerchief to the V of her summer dress and glanced at her husband. He had dispensed both vest and tie, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves—not a good sign for a man prone to be neat. Sweat gleamed on his tan face, neck, and just above the dark hairs of his chest. His forearms corded with strain as he assessed the board before him.
Marcy chewed on her lip. Patrick hated the heat almost as much as losing at chess, a thought that iced Marcy’s skin despite the warmth of the room. She reached for her sewing basket and settled in her chair, only to startle at the sound of glass shattering in the kitchen.
Sean popped his head into the parlor with an awkward smile, an apology evident in the sheepish look on his face. “Sorry, Mother, but I’m afraid ‘we’ had a little mishap—the coconut cream pie took a dive along with your glass pie pan, but we’ll clean it up.”
Patrick groaned. “Not my pie . . .”
“Check!” Steven said with a deft move of his rook, and the very sound shattered Marcy’s calm as thoroughly as Gabe had shattered the pie plate.
She tried to focus on threading the needle, but her hands refused to comply, shaking while Patrick’s fingers drummed incessantly on the table. Please, God, let him win . . .
Twenty minutes passed before the muscles in Marcy’s stomach began to relax. The jangle of the phone jarred her in her seat and she flinched, stifling a cry when she pricked her finger. Sweet heavens, what else can go wrong?
“Father, it’s Mr. Hennessey.”
A dangerous groan garbled in Patrick’s throat as he stood, eyes fixed on his son in a veiled threat. “As if you need more time to strategize my demise,” he said with a thin smile. He adjusted his trousers with a sharp tug and strode for the kitchen, leaving Marcy in panic mode.
“Steven!” Her voice was hoarse. “I need your help.”
He turned, forehead crimped. “What’s wrong?”
Sucking the blood from her finger, she rose and hurried to her son’s side with a nervous peek over her shoulder. “Steven, I beg you—you’ve got to let your father win tonight.”
His mouth parted in surprise. “But I’ve got him just where I—”
“I don’t care!” she rasped, her whisper a harsh plea. “Please, do this for me . . . for Gabe.”
“What do you mean, do it for Gabe?”
She rattled his shoulder, fingers as pinched as her voice. “I don’t have time to explain, but just trust me on this—please.”
Steven blinked. “All right, Mother, if it’s that important to y—”
The kitchen door blasted open. “You may as well put me out of my misery now, because when Mitch hears what Hennessey wants me to do, he’s going to be sorely tempted to do the same.” Patrick stormed back into the room with a deep ridge in his brow. His eyes narrowed as he took his place across from Steven. “That is, if my son doesn’t finish me off first.”
Marcy hurried to her chair, grateful Patrick hadn’t noticed her collusion with Steven. “What does Hennessey want you to do?” she asked, settling in with less composure than she felt.
“It’s not what he wants me to do—it’s what he wants Mitch to do. Marjorie needs a cochair for the Fogg Museum auction, and apparently, Arthur has handpicked Mitch for the job.”
“Who’s Marjorie?” Steven asked.
“Hennessey’s spoiled niece,” Patrick said with a press of his jaw. “Who will make Mitch’s life miserable. Which,” he said with a press of fingers to his temple, “will in turn, make my life miserable. The man is so overworked now, he’s like a sleep-deprived grizzly without a cave.”
“Can’t he decline . . . or at least get some help?” Marcy asked.
Patrick’s brows shot up a ha
lf inch. “In this economy? At an understaffed newspaper that’s just itching to lay somebody off? It would be sheer suicide.” His lips flattened as he studied the chessboard. “Which may not be a bad option at the moment, come to think of it.”
Steven made a move, and Marcy noted the subtle lift of Patrick’s mouth, easing the tension in her chest. Bless you, son. She exhaled slowly while knots untangled in her stomach.
It was almost nine when she finished mending several school uniforms—Gabe’s bedtime. With a weary sigh, she folded each of the mended items in a neat little pile and rose from her chair, her only thought to get that girl safely in bed and out of harm’s way.
The kitchen door squeaked open and Marcy froze, fingers stiff on the plaid material of Kelly O’Connell’s school uniform. Sean steered Gabe through the door, hand gripped at the back of her neck while he ushered her into the parlor with a somber look in his eyes. “Uh, Father—Mr. Lambert would like to speak to you outside.”
Patrick looked up, forehead rippling. “What about?”
One glance at Gabe—sullen gaze glued to her feet, lips compressed—told Marcy that no win at chess would save her tonight.
Sean hiked a brow. “Well, it seems our Gabe has developed a fondness for tomatoes. Mr. Lambert claims she stripped his vines bare.”
“What?” Patrick was on his feet faster than Marcy could gasp. He strode to within an inch of the little girl and jerked her chin up. “Did you steal Mr. Lambert’s tomatoes?”
The tiny jaw quivered against his thumb as she nodded.
“For the love of all that is decent, why? You don’t even like tomatoes.”
“I needed ’em . . . ,” she whispered, eyes downcast. “For Civil War.”
Patrick jerked his rolled sleeves down and rebuttoned the cuffs while a tic pulsed in his cheek. “What are you talking about?”
Gabe’s gaze flicked to Marcy and glazed with tears before she faced Patrick once again with the barest lift of her chin. “We play Civil War in the neighborhood, girls against boys,” she said with all the dignity of a soldier caught behind enemy lines. “And I’m the general.”
Patrick folded his arms. “And the tomatoes?”
“Cannon fire,” she muttered.
A cough that sounded suspiciously like a strangled laugh hacked from Sean’s throat. Pursing his lips, Patrick shot his son a narrow gaze before returning his attention to Gabe with folded arms. “I see. Well, General Smith, the battle is lost. Not only will you pay for your thievery with Dubble Bubble, you are now Mr. Lambert’s prisoner for an entire week.”
“What?” she sputtered.
“You heard me,” Patrick said. “Which means your troops will have to do without you for the next seven days while you complete every mission Mr. Lambert or I assign, is that understood? Tending to his garden, hoeing, sweeping, planting—whatever the man needs.”
“But that’s not fair!” Gabe cried.
“Neither is war, young lady, nor pilfering vegetables for that matter. Now, I’m going out to apologize to Mr. Lambert, and I suggest you go to bed—you’re going to need all the sleep you can get.”
Gabe groaned.
Patrick strode toward the kitchen. “And, Marcy, after you’ve tucked the prisoner in, I’ll need her shoebox of Dubble Bubble please. Compensation for Mr. Lambert’s tomato supply.”
“No!” The blood drained from Gabe’s face as if she had just been shot.
Hand on the swinging door, Patrick turned, eyeing his foster daughter through pencil-thin lids. “Yes, General Smith, something needs to convince you that stealing is wrong. Just think of it as an opportunity to give yourself to the great and glorious cause . . .” He gave her a mock salute. “Preservation of your backside from the blistering you so richly deserve.”
The kitchen door whooshed closed and Marcy wasted no time steering Gabe upstairs. “Did she finish her catechism?” she asked Sean with a worried glance over her shoulder.
“In record time.” He winked at Gabe before plopping onto the sofa with Patrick’s discarded newspaper. “She’s a quick study when she wants to be. G’night, squirt.”
“Sleep well, Gabe . . . hear tell Gus Lambert can be a real slave driver.” Steven’s grin deepened the little girl’s scowl as she shuffled out with shoulders slumped.
Marcy’s eyes flitted to the swinging kitchen door and back. “Pssst . . . Steven,” she whispered. “I’ll make double-fudge brownies for you if you let the man win and win fast. Sean, tell your father I went up to tuck Gabe in and I’ll see him upstairs, okay? Good night, boys.”
Steven grinned and Sean chuckled. “Good night, Mother.”
Marcy bundled Gabe close and trudged up the stairs, quite certain that tonight her foster daughter would sleep more soundly than she. Her heart softened as she ushered the sleepy girl through the process of brushing her teeth, washing her face, changing her clothes, and saying her prayers. Curling into a ball under the cover, she yawned sweetly and told Marcy she loved her, and the moment the words parted from the little girl’s lips, Marcy knew she was doing the right thing. She placed a gentle kiss on Gabe’s freckled nose and turned out the light with a quiet sigh.
Now to convince my husband.
Getting ready for bed, Marcy tried to ignore the guilt that needled her mind, but it bothered her all the same as she slipped into the satin nightgown that Patrick loved. She dabbed the barest hint of perfume on her throat, telling herself that her cause was just—Gabe was way too important. A halting breath wavered from her lips as she stared in the mirror. And my husband way too stubborn, she thought with a glide of her teeth. She drew in a fortifying breath, grateful that she didn’t make a habit of coercing her husband, but the fate of some things—and some people—just couldn’t be left to chance.
It was almost an hour later when Patrick finally entered their room with a yawn that told her he was as tired as Gabe. Marcy lowered the book in her hands and smiled, watching as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it toward the hamper. “Did you beat him?” she asked.
He glanced up with a secret smile, and her stomach fluttered for the first time in a very long while, taking her by surprise. His dark hair was sifted with gray at the temples and badly in need of a trim, and the clean line of his jaw was shadowed with dark stubble, but to Marcy, Patrick O’Connor had never been more handsome. He stepped out of his trousers and tossed them over the trouser press, his grin gleaming white in a tan face etched with the rugged lines of a man who was aging well. “Humiliated might be a better word.”
She studied his tall frame as he slipped into his pajama bottoms and felt her pulse catch when he stripped off his T-shirt and sailed it toward the hamper, revealing a broad chest matted with hair. “It’s too blasted hot to wear clothes tonight,” he muttered, flipping the switch on the fan before dropping down beside her, eyes closed and hands folded on his stomach. She traced the curve of his bicep with her palm, suddenly aware she’d been so focused on Gabe, she’d forgotten just what a gift her husband truly was. “I love you, Patrick,” she whispered.
One eyelid edged up. The breeze ruffled a stray curl on his forehead. “Don’t toy with me, Marceline, I’m way too tired.”
She laid her book aside and grinned, snuggling into his embrace while she feathered her fingers through the dark and silver hair on his chest. She thought of Gabe, still a little girl while her own daughters now had children of their own, and wistfulness laced her tone. “Do you ever feel like time is passing us by, Patrick? You know . . . moving too quickly?”
His chuckle sounded more like a grunt. “Every day, darlin’, especially when Steven now holds his own at chess.” He kissed the top of her head. “Makes me feel old.”
The edges of her lips tilted as she breathed in the scent of musk soap and the hint of maple and vanilla pipe tobacco. “No, my love, ‘old’ will be when you lose to Sean.”
His chuckle was warm against her ear. “Heaven help me if it comes to that.”
She paused. “Patrick . .
. can we talk?”
“I thought we were, darlin’.” Gliding his palm the length of her satin gown, he suddenly shifted to face her, tugging her close to bury his lips in the crook of her neck. “Although with the way you feel and smell tonight, darlin’, I could be coerced into communication of a more intimate nature.”
Coerced. Heat fanned through her body, but not for the right reasons. The usual flutters from Patrick’s touch gave way to skitters instead as she gulped, grateful for the drone of the fan that helped to diffuse the waver in her voice. “I mean . . . about Gabe.”
Her stomach kinked at the sudden press of his lips. His hand dropped to the bed, leaving her feeling exposed. “If you’re trying to kill a mood, Marceline, you’ve succeeded. Heaven help us, if ever a child needed a firm hand, it’s that one. I thought Katie was bad, but saints almighty, Gabe is the queen.”
Her breathing shallowed. “Really, Patrick, she’s not that bad . . .”
He flopped back on the bed, fingers tightly laced as they rested on his chest. The ridges in his brow deepened as he closed his eyes. “No, she’s worse. Tell me, Marceline, don’t you find it a wee bit ironic that my heart problems began the month after Gabe came to live with us?”
Marcy gasped. “Patrick! That’s an awful thing to say.”
His eyelids nudged up halfway, contrition in his gaze. “I’m sorry, darlin’, but the thought has crossed my mind more than once in the last year.” He closed his eyes again, tone tired and lips flat. “I know you’re attached to her, Marcy, but I’d be lying if I said there aren’t times when I wonder if we’ve made a mistake.”
The air seized in her lungs. God, no, please! “How can you even think that, Patrick,” she whispered, the rasp in her voice betraying her fear. “Gabe is like family, and you love her, I know you do!”
He glanced up, brows dipped in concern. Reaching for her hand, he squeezed and gave her a tired smile. “Of course I’m fond of the girl, Marcy, and yes, she is like family. But the fact remains that she is not, and quite frankly, I’m grateful. I’ve always prided myself on my firm discipline of our children, something that Gabe has made increasingly difficult. For pity’s sake, she’s the age of our grandchildren, Marcy, and I no longer have the energy of a young man to stay the course in raising any child, much less a difficult one.” He sighed, settling in on the pillow once again. “I suppose I should be grateful we’re only foster parents or I couldn’t live with myself for my failure to rein the girl in.”