Charity shook her head, forcing rivulets of tears to stream down her face.
“Well, then, fight it!” Faith yanked her to her feet and gripped her shoulders, giving her a sound shake. Anger burned in her eyes. “Rebuke the fear in Jesus’ name and put Mitch and your marriage into God’s hands. Where’s that annoying stubbornness of yours? And since when do you lie down and let anyone ride roughshod over you? Because that’s what you’re doing—letting fear rob you of your peace, your joy, and your marriage.” Faith finally released her and stood up straight, arms crossed and fury sparking in her eyes. “Are you going to fight it, Charity Dennehy, or lay down and die?”
Charity blinked, apparently too stunned to utter a word.
Katie’s eyes widened. Her oldest sister, usually so calm and so rational, seared each of them with a look before squaring her shoulders. “Don’t you dare stare at me like I’m crazy; it’s the truth, and it’s high time you know it. The Bible says that the devil came to steal, kill, and destroy, but Jesus came that we might have abundant life. So, what’s it going to be, Charity—you going to live your life cowering in fear, or are you going to give the devil some of the same grief you always give Mitch?”
Charity’s mouth quivered before it parted into a wobbly smile. “Have you always been this volatile or have I been deluded into thinking you’re the sweet, sane one?”
Faith flushed, a bit of tease slinking into her tone. “Well, you do have a history with delusion, you know. Both in your own mind in thinking Father and I hated you all those years, and in your prior tendency to delude others.” Her lips sloped. “Especially Mitch.”
“Hey, I got my man, didn’t I?” she said with a pout.
Faith plunked her hands on her hips and leaned forward. “Yeah, but now you want to keep him, right?” Stuffing the rest of the cookie in her mouth, she chewed hard, grilling Charity with another heated look. “Which means we’re going to pray about everything—your jealousy and your fear of losing your husband.” She gave Charity a gentle shove back into her chair and then eased into hers with a lift of her brow. “Where’s that passion you used to have, that fight to the death?”
Charity scowled. “Trust me, the passion is still there—it’s just cowering behind the fear.”
The smile tempered on Faith’s lips as she reached for Charity’s hand and gave it a gentle press, her eyes moist with understanding. “I know, sis,” she whispered, “but there are ways to send the fear packing, I promise.”
“How?” Katie sat up, her interest piqued.
“By applying some biblical principles. You can figure God’s pretty adamant about fighting fear head-on when the Bible commands us to ‘fear not’ hundreds of times.”
“Yeah, but that’s easier said than done,” Katie said, rubbing her stomach.
Faith leaned forward. “Yes, but doable, trust me. The Bible makes it crystal clear we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against spiritual wickedness in high places.”
“A spiritual battle?” Katie peered at Faith, then glanced at Lizzie who nodded her head.
“Brady calls it spiritual warfare,” Lizzie confirmed.
Charity buffed her arms. “Hate to tell ya, but it all sounds a bit scary to me.”
“Not with God on our side. The Bible says ‘greater is he that is in you, than he that is in the world.’” Faith sucked in a deep breath and softened her gaze. “Look, when fear, jealousy, bitterness, or any other sin tries to take me down, I’ve learned you can defeat it with a few simple steps. And believe me, I’ve been doing this for years, so I know that it works.”
Katie propped her chin in her hand, challenging Faith with a squint. “Yeah? What are they?”
Lifting her hand, Faith ticked each point off with a finger. “Well, first you repent. Two, you bind and loose.”
“Come again?” Charity said, face in a scrunch.
“The Bible says whatever we bind or loose on earth will be bound or loosed in heaven, so if you’re battling bitterness, for example, bind it in Jesus’ name and loose the opposite, such as love, or for fear, loose peace, et cetera. Three, you counter it with Scripture. For instance, whenever I’m afraid, I pray 2 Timothy 1:7—‘Thank you, God, that you have not given me the spirit of fear; but of power, love, and a sound mind.’ Next, I praise God for the situation and pray for the person who provoked it. And finally?” One edge of Faith’s lip curled as she angled a brow. “Repeat as often as necessary.”
Katie scrunched her nose. “And it really works?”
“Every single time,” Faith said with a grin. “Give or take a few hundred repetitions.”
The blue of Charity’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Wait a second. This doesn’t mean I have to pray for Marjorie Hennessey, does it?”
Faith exchanged smiles with Katie and Lizzie. “Afraid so.”
She squinted. “I don’t suppose I can ‘pray’ for a wart? Say, on the tip of her nose?”
“Uh, not if you want God on your side.”
Charity shoved another cookie in her mouth and swiped the crumbs with a roll of her eyes. Her lips flattened as she slumped back in her chair. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
“Please Rory, no! Nothing happened, I promise. And he’s just a boy . . .”
He raised his arm, and she winced. The force of his hand flung her against the wall with a loud crack, buckling her knees as she slid to the floor.
“With a whore like you, that hardly matters, now does it?” He staggered toward her, and the metallic taste of blood in her mouth merged with the bile to cause her breakfast to rise. She cowered in the corner and curled into a ball while fear released itself in a puddle at her feet. A gasp broke in her throat at the impact of his boot to her side, and pain sliced through her, wrenching a scream from her throat.
“Shut up, you whore,” he rasped.
She twisted toward the wall to protect the babe in her womb. Anguish dimmed the light in her eyes. No, please, no . . .
“Get up!” The disgust in his voice was as cold as the sweat beading her body. He shook her with a fury that rattled her brain . . .
“Get up now!”
Emma lurched up, eyes glazed and breathing harsh.
“Forgive me for waking you, Emma, but I knocked and knocked, and you didn’t answer.” Mrs. Peep stroked her hair, her voice fraught with concern. “I came to your door to talk about Casey, but I heard you scream, and I was worried sick, my dear, so I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind. You were having a nightmare.”
Emma blinked, the horror of Rory’s attack still thick in her throat. She swallowed hard and looked up, pushing the hair from her eyes. “No, no, that’s fine . . . is something wrong?”
The worried slope of her landlady’s eyes was enough to put Emma on guard. She jolted up in the bed and braced a hand to Mrs. Peep’s arm. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
The old woman patted her shoulder, her touch shaky. “Now, now . . . nothing specific, my dear, it’s just that . . .” Her throat shifted. “Well, I’ve been uneasy all night, you see . . .”
“Why?” Emma’s gaze locked with hers as she slipped from the covers. She swung her legs to the floor, the cool wood chilling her as much as the hesitation in her landlady’s tone.
The old woman exhaled, two silver brows converging with the wrinkles in her brow. “I heard noises last night . . . from Casey’s apartment.”
“What kind of noises?” Emma’s breath slowed in her lungs.
“Bumping noises, like something had fallen. And she had her radio on louder than usual.”
Emma reached for her robe. “Casey loves to dance, maybe she was just practicing.”
“Maybe, and that’s what I thought too.” Mrs. Peep shook her head, lips clamped tight. “But when I checked on her last night, she seemed strange, almost a glazed look in her eyes.”
“Was she sick?”
Mrs. Peep nodded. “She said she was, as a matter of fact, thought she might be coming down with the flu. She even asked me to tell
you not to come by because she wanted to sleep in this morning. Said she’d talk to you later.”
“Poor thing.” Emma exhaled. “I’ll let her sleep and then check on her later.”
A frail hand lighted on Emma’s shoulder. “I don’t know how to explain it, Emma, but something’s not right. I’ve been tossing and turning all night, and yet I have no idea why. I thought that . . . well, maybe that . . . you know, you might—”
Emma shot to her feet. “I’ll get dressed and go check on her right now.”
Mrs. Peep puffed out a sigh, wrinkled hands clasped to her chest. “Oh, thank you, Emma, that would make me feel so much better.” She handed her the spare key. “I tend to worry.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Peep,” Emma said with a hug. “You’re a dear friend who cares about those she loves. Now, go back to your apartment, and I’ll stop by after I check on Casey, okay?”
“Bless you, my dear.” Mrs. Peep toddled toward the door and turned. “And then you’ll stay for breakfast, you hear? And I won’t have an argument about it, either.”
Emma smiled. “Sounds lovely, Mrs. Peep, thank you.” She drew in a deep breath and released it when she heard the click of her front door. Goose bumps that had nothing to do with the cool of the room prickled her arms and legs. Dressing quickly, she ran a brush through her hair and hurried to the door, shutting it quietly before she tiptoed up the steps.
Ear to Casey’s door, she slipped the key quietly into the lock, intending only to check on her and not wake her up. She eased the door open without a sound and then closed it again. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the burgundy velvet love seat she’d given to Casey when she’d decluttered her own apartment. A small vase of roses from Johnny, no doubt, stood on a makeshift coffee table of stained wood blocks Emma had asked Sean to make, along with two similar end tables graced with secondhand lamps. Everything seemed in order, and Emma sighed, relief parting from her lips in one slow, steady breath.
Drawing in air, she started for Casey’s bedroom and stopped, her pulse slowing at the scent of something amiss. She closed her eyes, and she could smell it, the memory of Rory—as vile and vicious as the stench now hovering in the room. God, no, please . . . Her blood froze at two empty glasses toppled beneath the love seat. Heart in her throat, she stooped to pick up a glass and sniff. A raw moan left her throat as it tumbled from her fingers onto Casey’s rug.
Alcohol. A coward’s courage, the devil’s poison . . .
A lover’s curse.
Heart hammering, Emma flew down the hall and jolted to a stop at the sight of Casey alone in her bed. She exhaled her relief and bent to shake her. “Casey—wake up!”
“Emma?” Her voice was groggy as she pushed blond strands from her eyes. Clarity sharpened her gaze and she clutched the covers to her nightgown. “What are you doing here?”
A muscle twittered in Emma’s cheek. “Mrs. Peep said you were sick, and now I know why. You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”
The whites of her eyes expanded. “Just this once, I promise. We were celebrating because Johnny proposed. Let me get dressed, please, and I’ll come right down.”
Emma’s eyes hardened as she glanced at Casey’s left hand. “Where’s the ring?”
A knot hitched in Casey’s throat. “Please, Emma, go—I’ll come right down.”
The toilet flushed, and Emma’s blood froze.
Casey sprang from the bed with panic in her eyes. She grasped Emma’s arm just as the bathroom door opened. Her whisper shuddered with fear. “Emma—go! He’ll hurt you, he will!”
“That’s no idle threat, darlin’.” Johnny stood, arms propped in the doorway and blue eyes as cold as slate. He wore a bath towel draped low on his hips and nothing else, forcing a blast of heat to Emma’s cheeks. He strolled in, dark curly hair as unruly as that which matted his muscled chest. His voice was hard despite the charm of an Irish brogue. “Just who in the devil do ya think you are, barging in like this?”
Casey eased in front of Emma. “Leave her alone, Johnny, please. Emma’s my mother’s friend. She watches out for me.”
“Not anymore, doll, you got me for that now.” He strolled in and jerked Casey to his side, fondling the straps of her silky gown with a lurid smile. “So why don’t you crawl back in your hole, Emma, because Casey and I are real busy.”
Emma’s legs wavered, her bones dissolving into limp muscle as memories of Rory paralyzed her to the floor. The chill of his arrogance, the stench of his liquor, the lust in his eyes—it was all there. Her breath came in ragged heaves as she stared, years flashing by until it was Rory who stood before her instead of Johnny, mocking her, debasing her, sucking the life from her soul. Terror nipped at her, icing her skin with a glaze of fear. Oh, God, where are you?
Within, Beloved. A spasm jerked in her body, and she gasped, stunned at the silent fury seeping into her limbs. Clenching her fingers, she steeled her shoulders and stepped forward, wrenching Casey from his grasp. She shoved her to the door. “Casey, go to Mrs. Peep’s—now!”
“Emma, no, he’ll hurt you—”
“Casey, if you leave, you’ll regret it . . .” Johnny’s threat shivered the air.
“Now!” The force of Emma’s words propelled the girl down the hall like a shot.
“Casey!” Johnny turned, but Emma launched against the door, blocking his way.
Her stomach quivered, but her voice was steady with a cold rage that matched his, word for word. “You will leave this instant,” she whispered, “and you will never come back.”
He rammed her hard against the door, rattling her jaw. “Get this and get this good, you scar-faced witch. I’m not going anywhere, and if you so much as breathe a word to Casey’s mother, I’ll pretty up the other side of your face, make no mistake.”
She didn’t blink despite the sweat beading her brow. “I’ll have you arrested.”
He leaned in, his breath foul. “I don’t think so, darlin’. Unless you want Casey to look like you.” His lip curled, making his handsome face almost ugly. He stroked a finger down the length of her scar. “She’s too pretty for that.” His grin was demonic. “Like you used to be—”
“Get your filthy hands off me.”
He laughed, his finger trailing to the neckline of her blouse. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll have you arrested for assault.” She hurled his hand away. “That is, as soon as the police arrive.” She had no talent for lying, but the words rolled off her tongue with the ease of a politician selling used cars. “I asked Mrs. Peep to call before I came up.”
The scowl died on his face. “You’re lyin’.”
“No, I assure you I’m not. Because unlike you, I’m rather partial to the truth.”
He cursed and shoved her away. “You’ll pay for this.” His gaze darted, an animal caught in the sight of a hunter. Another profanity hissed in the air. “Where’s my clothes?”
It was a moment graced by God, and Emma knew it. A soiled heap of clothes that littered the bathroom floor, along with his shoes. He turned toward the bed, and she fled, scooping them up on her way to the door. She spotted his coat on the rack and snatched it as well. A bubble of laughter tickled her throat until Casey’s door slammed behind her, and then it tumbled from her lips as she scrambled down the steps. Her breathing was labored when she pounded on Mrs. Peep’s door, but never had she felt so alive . . . so free . . . SO vindicated!
“Are you okay?” Casey’s voice was shrill as the door swung open.
Emma rushed in, chest heaving. “Lock it, now. And call the police.”
“Already did,” Mrs. Peep said, eyeing the pile of clothing in Emma’s arms. One silver brow jutted high. “His clothes? You stole his clothes?”
With a quick perusal of Casey’s tiny frame, Emma plunked the pile onto Mrs. Peep’s couch with a grin. “Let’s hope nothing in Casey’s closet fits . . . at least until the police get here.”
Casey put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Emma!” Her lips trembled into a
smile before a sob broke from her throat. With a halting groan, she threw herself into Emma’s embrace and wept, her body heaving in Emma’s arms.
Emma held her close, soothing her with gentle strokes of her hair. “Shhh . . . it’s over now, Casey, it’s over. We won’t let him hurt you anymore.”
“Oh, Emma, can you ever forgive me?” Casey pulled away, her cheeks sodden with tears. “H-he was s-so attentive and loving in the b-beginning, and then he started to p-push.”
Emma cupped her chin. “Of course I forgive you, because I know how that can be, a man who puts stars in your eyes and makes you feel so special and so loved.” She pushed a blond strand away from Casey’s face, her eyes somber. “But you know what this means, Casey.” A fragile sigh drifted from Emma’s lips. “You have to go home.”
Casey stared, a trickle of tears streaming her cheeks as she nodded.
A door slammed upstairs, and a cry of terror whimpered from Casey’s lips as she lunged to clutch Emma with a racking heave.
Heavy footsteps thudded down the steps, and Emma held her breath. They thundered past Mrs. Peep’s apartment and out the front, jiggling Mrs. Peep’s pictures when the door bashed against the wall. Emma’s stomach clenched before she ran to the window, Casey giggling over her shoulder and Mrs. Peep chuckling at her side. But it was a barefoot six-foot-plus man charging down the street that brought a true smile to Emma’s face. Ablaze with lemon-yellow flowers, Casey’s tiny housecoat barely covered his hairy body, although it did show off his legs to nice advantage.
Emma sighed and turned, her smile easing into a grin. “Mmm . . . I’m not sure, but I think that may just be his color.” She cocked an innocent brow. “Don’t you?”
14
Dirty laundry. The perfect activity for a Thursday night when the kids were in bed and she was all alone. Charity scowled as she heaved her wooden laundry basket from the floor of her closet, wondering again why she always saved her least favorite chore for her least favorite day. Her lips kinked. Maybe because she put it off . . . like she did with thoughts of Mitch working with that woman. And then, boom! Suddenly it was Thursday again, and her hampers were full of grimy clothes, and her mind, grimy thoughts.