Charity’s brow pinched in thought. “You’re probably right. Maybe I just won’t bring it up at all, you know? Just go ahead and do it to spare him his grumpy mood—and me. Heaven knows the mere mention of my working makes the man downright belligerent, agreement or no.”
“My point, exactly,” Faith said. “So really, you not telling Mitch and me not telling Collin about my writing is in their best interest, right? I mean, how did I know that one of my stories would sell?”
“Well, you’re going to have to tell him sooner or later, just like I had to tell Luke.” Katie leaned in, elbow on the table and head in her hand. “Trust me, the longer you wait, the worse it will be.”
Faith vented with a loud puff of air, then plopped crossed arms on the table to cradle her chin. “I know.” Her gaze flitted to Emma. “Was it this hard for you, Emma, with you and Rory?”
Emma blinked, not used to being consulted regarding her role as a wife. Heat burnished her cheeks as memories flooded back. “Well, that was eleven years ago, Faith, and I was only with Rory for six.” Her eyes glazed into the past to when Rory would slap her for hiding bills to spare his foul mood. Or rant if she used sewing profits to secretly chip away at their debts. Her smile strained. “Yes. So hard, in fact, I lied and deceived enough to make Charity look like a saint.”
Even Charity had trouble swallowing that one. “Come again?”
Emma chuckled, helping to release some of the tension inside. “You don’t own the title of vixen, Charity Dennehy, no matter how much you think that you do.”
A muscle shifted in Charity’s throat. “I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “You—Emma Malloy? I swear I hear the flutter of angel wings whenever you enter a room.”
Laughing outright, Emma squeezed Charity’s hand. “I suspect you’ve confused it with that of bat wings in the belfry, my friend.”
“Emma—you busy?” Sean popped his head in the door.
Charity cleared her throat. “Yes, Sean, she is, as a matter of fact. In case you haven’t noticed, we are having a very important discussion here. Besides,” she said with a pout, “she’s my friend and I don’t get to see her all that much while you get to see her six days a week. So, don’t be a pig.” She swished him away with her fingers. “Go . . . lose at chess or something.”
He grinned. “Sorry, sis, but it seems Gabriella Dawn has a hankering for ice cream, and since it is her party, Mother asked me to run to Robinson’s and get a few pints. I just thought Emma might want to ride along so we could discuss the Christmas promotion.”
“Well, she doesn’t, do you, Emma? So, shoo . . .”
“Hey, it’s your store we’re trying to keep afloat, you little brat, so go bully your husband instead.” A playful smirk lifted a corner of his mouth. “Or try.”
Emma squeezed Charity’s hand and rose to her feet. “We’ll be right back, I promise.”
“It’s Wednesday night, so Robinson’s shouldn’t be too busy.” Sean glanced at his watch. “It’s 6:00 now, so we should be back by 7:00 or so, okay, if not before?”
“Oh, pooh!” Charity said. “Well, don’t dawdle—I need both Emma and ice cream.”
A sparkle lit Faith’s eyes as she took a sip of her tea. “And not necessarily in that order.”
Sean steered Emma to the door, his words suddenly low while a ridge dimpled his brow. “Thanks, Emma, I was hoping we could talk. And not just about the Christmas promotion.”
Reaching for her purse from the coatrack, she cocked her head as he opened the front door. “Looks pretty serious. You’re not giving me your notice, I hope?”
“Nope.” He closed the door behind them, bobbling car keys in his hand while he sauntered toward the street where his father’s Model T was parked at the curb. “You’re stuck with me, Mrs. Malloy, at least until some other employer snaps me up.” He gave her a skewed smile. “Which doesn’t appear to be anytime soon.”
“Well, then what is it . . . Oh!” Emma went flying, the heel of her ankle-strapped shoe caught on a raised crack in the sidewalk.
In the catch of her breath, Sean broke her fall, bracing her to his side with an iron grip. “Whoa! You okay?”
She blinked up with her heart in her throat, his shadowed jaw mere inches from her face as she stood, welded to a chest as hard and unmovable as the concrete that just tripped her up. The clean smell of Ivory soap mingled with the spicy tang of Barbasol shaving cream to flood her senses with his familiar scent, more potent now as she stood pressed to his muscled body.
Her stomach did an odd little flip, and she jerked back, cheeks aflame. “Goodness, I can be so clumsy.”
He cleared his throat and opened the passenger door. “My money’s on that nasty crack in the sidewalk, Emma, in the dark, no less. ‘Clumsy’ is the last thing I’d call a woman like you—you’re the epitome of grace.” He slammed her door and glanced at the crack. “I really need to fix that.”
Adjusting her skirt, she drew in a deep breath, unsettled at the way she’d felt in his arms. “So, what’s on your mind?” she asked too quickly, grateful the dark hid the blush in her cheeks as he slid behind the wheel.
He turned the ignition and glanced behind to make sure traffic was clear, then shifted into gear before easing down Donovan Street. His tone was suddenly strained, so foreign for the man who always seemed to smile with his voice. “This is a very uncomfortable subject for me, Emma, but I swear I’ll go crazy if I don’t talk to somebody.” He shot her a sideways look encased in a frown. “I can’t talk to my mother or sisters because I’d never hear the end of it. Nor can I bring it up with Pete and the guys because they think I’m crazy.” He shifted to maneuver the corner, jaw set in stone as he stared straight ahead. “And maybe I am.”
A tiny stab of jealousy took her by surprise as she angled to face him. “This wouldn’t be about Rose Kelly, would it?” she asked quietly.
Another blast of air parted from his lips. “Unfortunately, yes. I mean, come on, Emma—have you seen anything else put me into ill humor like Rose?”
A smile tickled the corners of her mouth. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. I did notice you got a wee bit testy the day Bert ate the last fudge brownie.”
His face relaxed into a smile. “Yeah, that did sour my mood. But I only have you to blame. Your brownies are downright sinful.”
She grinned. “Goodness, I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”
His smile was halfhearted at best before he returned his attention to the street ahead. Arms resting on the steering wheel, he drove with torso hunched forward in apparent malaise. Quiet for several blocks before he finally spoke, he shifted gears with a low grunt, his voice just above a whisper. “What am I going to do, Emma?”
“About what?”
Turning the corner, he slowed to a stop down the street from Robinson’s, then turned the ignition off and pocketed the keys. He heaved a heavy sigh and finally turned to face her. “I mean what am I going to do about Rose? We have a date tomorrow night.”
Emma opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
A tungsten streetlamp crackled overhead, highlighting the tension in his face with flickering shadows. “Yeah, that’s how I feel too—kind of numb and jaw sagging in shock.”
She swallowed a knot. “But how . . . I mean, when? I thought you despised the woman.”
“I do . . . or I did. Before she tricked me into seeing her again.”
On a date? For some reason Emma felt herself bristle and folded her arms. “Now how can a woman ‘trick’ you into seeing her a second time, Sean? For heaven’s sake, did she put a gun to your head?”
His forehead crimped, as if he’d expected more sympathy. “No, but she’s devious, like I said.” His thick blond brows dipped low over slatted blue eyes. “I’d appreciate some understanding here, Emma, instead of more grief. Rose already gives me enough of that.”
It was her turn to sigh. “I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t know how a self-proclaimed bachelor of
thirty-four, almost thirty-five—and a stubborn one at that—can allow an innocent girl of nineteen—”
“Twenty-two,” he said, grinding the words, “and as innocent as a time bomb.”
“Even so,” she said with a frown, “a man of your age should have more control.”
He blinked, his gaping mouth a mirror image of hers moments before. His usual good humor went as flat as his lips. “I don’t know why you’re acting so huffy, Emma, I’m the one with the problem. Forget I even brought it up.” He opened his door.
A merge of guilt and hurt squeezed in her chest. I am acting huffy, she thought with surprise, and a chill slithered through her because she didn’t know why. She reached for his arm before he could exit the car. “Sean, I’m sorry—forgive me, please?”
He dropped back against the leather seat, one hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m just touchy because Rose makes me so crazy.”
“How did this happen?” Emma asked gently, trying hard to focus on the problem at hand.
He expelled a weighty sigh and closed the door once again. “She showed up at my game and warded off a dinner invite from a widowed mother.” He peered at Emma out of the corner of his eye. “Actually had the nerve to say she was my girlfriend. And I’ll tell you what, you never saw a widow hightail it so fast.”
Hand to mouth, Emma stifled a gasp. “No . . .”
“Yep, afraid so. I told you she was devious. So when Bobby begged his mother to invite me to dinner, Mrs. Dalton—or Barbara, as she suggested I call her—was mortified, but went ahead and extended an invitation for Saturday night.” His mouth twisted. “For me and Rose.”
“Oh, dear!”
“Rose apologized, saying we already had plans, and all I could do was nod my head like some woodenheaded bobble toy. So when Barbara dragged Bobby away, I turned on Rose, faster than a blind slugger on the third strike. Called her a liar, a manipulator, and a floozy . . .”
Emma’s hand dropped from her mouth as if wrapped in a fifty-pound cast. “You didn’t . . .”
“I did. Felt like a heel the minute the words were out of my mouth.”
“So what did you do?” Emma whispered, unable to imagine Sean saying such hurtful words, even to Rose Kelly, despite the disastrous effect she obviously had on him.
He closed his eyes, head resting on the back of the seat. “What could I do—I apologized. That’s when she finagled going to Robinson’s.” He massaged his temple with the ball of his hand. “Right before she insisted we keep our ‘date’ so it wouldn’t be a lie.”
“Oh, my.”
“So, now I’m stuck having dinner with her tomorrow night.”
Emma worried her lip. “Well, it’s just one night. How bad can it be?”
His eyelids nudged up to give her a dubious stare. “Uh, I don’t think you understand, Emma—this is Rose Kelly. You know, the woman who not only cornered me in the storeroom with a lip-lock but got me fired by giving me mouth-to-mouth while perched in my lap?”
A tiny gasp popped from her lips as heat steamed her cheeks.
“Yeah, now that’s more the reaction I was going for.” He shifted to face her, arm draped over the seat and his manner serious. “Look, Emma, I know it sounds like I’m making light of this, but trust me, that’s only a cover. Deep down inside, the woman scares me silly.”
She tucked a leg beneath her skirt and slanted against the seat to study him, an unsettled thought churning in her brain. “That’s more than obvious, Sean, but I can’t help but wonder why.”
He glanced up, eyes expanding and brows jagged high. “Why? I already told you why! The woman’s as loose as a pocket of change.”
She hesitated, a difficult question poised on her tongue. “Which would only be a problem if . . . ,” she swallowed the sour taste in her mouth, “you were attracted to her, right?”
It was his turn to blush, and he complied nicely with a swoosh of ruddy color bleeding into his cheeks. He gouged the back of his neck. “For pity’s sake, Emma, I’m a man, not one of those blasted mannequins down at the store. Of course I’m attracted to her.”
For some reason his words stung, but she ignored their effect and tilted her head, brow wrinkled in concern. “Well, for the first time, I guess I find myself wondering just why that would be such a bad thing? You know, why you fight this attraction to a woman who is obviously crazy about you?” She paused to draw in a deep breath, then laid a calming hand to his arm. “But most of all I can’t help but wonder why you have an aversion to falling in love when it might be exactly what God has in mind?”
He blinked, her frank question obviously catching him off-guard. She noted the sharp shift of his Adam’s apple and immediately knew she’d struck a nerve buried deep. Averting his gaze, he stared out the windshield, lips compressed.
She removed her hand from his arm to rest it on the purse in her lap, her palm idly smoothing the cool leather while her voice carried low. “Actually, it’s been a curiosity of mine for a while now—why someone with such a capacity to love would be so deathly afraid of giving that love to a woman. Charity’s always been convinced that some woman broke your heart during the war, but I’ve never given much credence to that theory.” She studied his chiseled profile, his face as serious as she’d ever seen, and slowly released a tenuous breath. “Until now.”
He remained silent, but the muscle flickering in his jaw told her she was treading on ground where no one had ever gone. And in the slow rise and fall of his chest, she suddenly knew. Knew without a word uttered, that the man beside her—the friend she loved—had been fatally wounded during the war. A protective instinct rose up in her so strong, that she reached for his hand, clutching it as tears stung her eyes. “Talk to me, Sean,” she whispered. “Please . . . so I know how to pray. Because I love you too much to watch you suffer this way.”
He slowly withdrew his hand, gaze glued to the dash. “Don’t do this, Emma. It doesn’t make for pleasant conversation.”
The hackles rose on the back of her neck, lending an uncustomary sharpness to her tone. “I’m not interested in ‘pleasant’ conversation, Sean, I’m interested in seeing old wounds healed for one of my dearest friends.”
He turned. Thick, blond lashes lifted, revealing hooded eyes dark with pain. “I’ve never talked about it before.”
“I know,” she whispered, “but if it still hurts, then it’s time.”
Still, he didn’t answer, his gaze lost in a hard stare into the cobblestone street where couples strolled in the hazy lamplight. It seemed a surreal contradiction—the muted strains of laughter and music from a pub down the way while his breathing tumbled out shallow and harsh, filling the silence with his torment. He finally straightened and draped sturdy arms across the top of the thick, black steering wheel to rest his chin on massive hands. “It’s been so long,” he whispered, his voice laced with melancholy, “since I’ve allowed myself to even think about it . . .” A muscle worked in his throat as he stared, his profile little more than a shadowed silhouette. “So long since I’ve even whispered her name.”
She had sensed it was a woman, and yet his words shocked her anew, plumbing the depth of their friendship in a way no other words had. Air stilled in her lungs while she waited.
“Clare.” His mouth seemed to caress the word as it breathed from his lips, and Emma’s heart stopped at the tenderness emanating from that single name. A silent heave shivered the broad expanse of his shoulders before he sagged back against the leather seat, lamplight glinting off the sheen in his eyes.
“Did you . . . love her?” Her whisper wavered, all breath suspended.
“Love her?” he repeated. The barest of smiles hovered at the edges of his mouth. He nodded, and the words from his lips, though barely a whisper, pierced her heart with his sorrow and regret. “How could I not? She was the mother of my child.”
His statement drifted in her brain, its impact silent, slow, and deep, like a knick she
didn’t know she had until she saw the blood on her hand. And then in a harsh catch of her breath, her heart constricted, and a low moan died in her throat. She reached for his palm. “Oh, Sean . . .”
He gripped her hand until the pain in her heart throbbed like her fingers, and then as a chasm yawning wide, the man before her quietly unburdened his soul, allowing a glimpse into Sean O’Connor she suspected few had been privileged to see.
He’d met Clare in November 1917, he said, while stationed in Château-Thierry, and they’d fallen desperately in love. His eyes took on a faraway look that made Emma feel alone in the car despite the lifeless drone of his voice.
“I’d never felt like that before, Emma, nor since—consumed by a love that made me almost grateful for the war that brought us together.” He told her how General “Black Jack” Pershing mandated months of extensive training before the American Expeditionary Force faced combat in the spring, which allowed the soldiers frequent leaves that he and Clare always spent together. He looked away, more wetness shimmering in his eyes. “I wanted to marry her, Emma, I swear—more than anything in this world. But her parents wanted nothing to do with me.”
“Did she love you?” Emma asked, her pulse slowing to hear his answer.
The strain on his face eased as a faint smile curved on his lips. “Yeah, she did. Enough to want a lifetime together . . . and enough to give herself to me.” He looked up then, as if to measure the assessment in her eyes. “What we did was wrong, I know, and I was certainly raised to know better.” He drew in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, his sorrow appearing to be more from his loss than his actions. “But the world was at war and men were dying, and at the time it seemed as if our lives might be snuffed out too. We’d both waited a lifetime for this and didn’t dare squander it because in the next moment we knew . . . it might all be gone. All we had were fleeting moments where we could see inside of each other’s souls, two people who might never speak a word and yet somehow knew . . . knew what the other was thinking.” He exhaled again, and the tenor of his tone went as flat as the press of his mouth. “When she told me she was pregnant, I vowed to marry her, only her father refused.” His eyes were glazed and fixed straight ahead. “I found out from one of her friends that he hated Yanks, so he beat her in a rage and she . . . ,” he lowered his head, shoulders slumped as if weighted with memories that crushed not only his heart, but his spirit, “. . . lost the baby.”