She sighed and wished it were easier—what Faith had taught her to do. Taking every thought captive—her wild imagination, the jealousy, the fear—and keeping her thoughts pure. And for the most part she had, reining in her doubts and her temper to stay squeaky clean. But come Thursday, it seemed she was always in need of a wash, and then her clothes and her guilt would be scrubbed within an inch of their lives.
Basket on hip, she moved to her bed to strip off the sheets, reflecting on the Scripture Faith insisted she memorize.
For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds; casting down imaginations . . . and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.
She chewed on her lip. Easier said than done . . . especially for a wife whose “weapons” tended toward “carnal”—that is, except in the bedroom of late, where her husband’s desire seemed as exhausted as his body at the end of a grueling day, compliments of the Herald. Heaving a sigh, she dropped the sheets into her basket and proceeded to flip the mattress, a habit she’d acquired during pregnancy when she’d been afflicted with constant backaches. Apparently it was a surefire way to keep the lumps out for the best support, at least according to her mother. Charity grunted as she heaved the mattress in place. How about a surefire remedy for keeping the lumps out of my marriage? she thought with a wry bent of her lips, wishing application of Faith’s Scripture was as easy and simple as turning a bed.
Especially on Thursday nights.
She remade the bed with fresh sheets and carried the basket to the hamper in her bedroom closet, quoting Faith’s Scripture in her mind.
For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal . . . She tossed three pairs of Mitch’s underwear into the basket.
But mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds . . . Several pajama bottoms and socks followed.
Casting down imaginations . . . She stopped, noting something peeking from behind the hamper, items that Mitch had obviously carelessly flung. So that’s where his pin-striped shirt went, she thought with a shake of her head, retrieving the shirt that she loved along with a pair of wrinkled trousers. She dropped the trousers into the basket and then with a rush of longing, she crushed the shirt to her face and breathed in his scent, craving his touch. She closed her eyes and dwelled on him—her gruff and practical husband, tall and strong and dangerously handsome. A man who exuded a quiet strength and passion in everything he touched—whether in his faith, in his family . . . or in his bed.
Fingering the soft, smooth material in her hand, she wondered how late he would be tonight. It seemed every week “the queen” demanded more and more of his time. She sighed and tossed the shirt into the basket, the fabric fluttering in slow motion as her arm froze in the air. Paralysis claimed her mid-blink, and she stared, all breath lost in her throat. With trembling fingers, she bent to retrieve the shirt and gasped.
A streak of scarlet lipstick edged the collar like a bloody gash, bleeding all rational thoughts from her mind. Her body jerked, and she dropped it again, slumping to her knees with a choked sob. No, God—please!
Vile thoughts pelted her mind—perfumed notes, a woman’s scent on his clothes, late nights at the office, and then at her house. Charity shivered. And scarlet lipstick on his collar.
The color of sin.
No! She put a hand to her eyes, desperate to fight it. Casting down imaginations, casting down imaginations . . . She drew in more air. Mitch loved her, he did, and he was a good man. But all she saw in her mind was Marjorie Hennessey, the darling of Beacon Hill—wealthy, beautiful . . . and notorious for indiscretions. Temptation in the flesh.
Especially for a man whose wife’s jealousy and neediness pushed him away.
Charity shot to her feet, fear warring with fury. Bolting from the room, she rushed downstairs, fingers shaking as she dialed the phone. She waited, ring after ring till finally—
“Hello?”
She collapsed against the wall. “Emma, I need you. Can you come over, please—now?”
“Charity? What’s wrong?”
She started to heave. “I . . . I need to see Mitch, but I c-can’t leave H-henry and H-hope.”
“I’m on my way.”
With a hand to her chest, she clicked the receiver several times and rang for the operator to call for a cab. She sucked in a calming breath, determined to regain control. She could do this, she could! This was her territory, her husband, and her fight, and by God, she’d make sure that Marjorie Hennessey knew that Mitch Dennehy was hands-off.
She was ready in record time, armed in Mitch’s favorite dress—the blue satin with a neckline that drew his eye—and the perfume that drove him crazy. She surveyed herself in the mirror with a grim smile, confident in the fashionable lay of her finger-waved bob and the deep rose of her lips. The doorbell rang, and she grabbed Mitch’s shirt and her purse and flew down the stairs, never more grateful that her children were in bed.
Emma rushed in as she opened the door, fear etched in her face. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to see Mitch.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she fought them off.
With a slow scan of her attire, Emma paled. “No, Charity, please—you can’t do this . . .”
“She’s after my husband, Emma, I know it.”
Emma grabbed her arm. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you. She’s a woman he chairs a committee with and nothing more.”
“No, it’s more than that, I can feel it. For months I’ve been fighting this uneasy feeling inside, you know that, Emma. And now I know why—she’s making advances to Mitch.”
“You don’t know that—”
“I do know it!” she rasped. She shoved the stained shirt into Emma’s hand, noting the flare of alarm in her friend’s eyes. “There’s perfume on his clothes and lipstick too, her phone number on a scented note, and meetings at her house. How much proof do I need?”
She jerked her coat off the rack by the door, and Emma clutched her shoulders. “Charity—no, I beg you! Confront Mitch when he gets home, if you must, but don’t go down there. You’ll only make a fool of yourself and embarrass him.”
A horn sounded, and Charity snatched the shirt from Emma’s hand. “Hope and Henry are in bed, and I won’t be long.” She kissed Emma’s cheek. “I love you, Emma. Pray for me?”
Emma squeezed her in a tight hug, then pulled away, hands still gripping Charity’s arms. “I will pray for you, but here, please! Charity, don’t go—I’m begging you. This isn’t like you, at least not anymore. That woman will think you’re crazy, and Mitch will be furious.”
Her lips cemented in a hard line. “He’ll get over it, Emma, but hopefully she won’t. Let her think I’m crazy because I am—about my husband—and I refuse to let her get close. I want that woman a little bit scared of just what I might do.” She gave Emma a tight smile. “Insanity can be a wonderful deterrent, you know. Especially to those who step on your toes.”
The horn sounded again, and Charity blew her a kiss, bounding out the door with confidence surging in her veins. Twenty minutes later, the cabbie pulled up to the Herald, and she felt her dinner rise in her chest. God, forgive me . . . what am I doing? She was a thirty-one-year-old mother acting like a brainless sixteen-year-old girl, and for one quaking moment, her feet were glued to the floor of the taxi. And then in a painful beat of her heart, she felt Mitch’s shirt clenched tight in her hand, and her fury rebounded. With resolve in her bones, she paid the driver and hurried into the Herald, greeting the night watchman with her brightest smile.
“Good evening, Angus, how have you been?”
The old man blinked in surprise and then gave her a toothless grin. “Miz Dennehy—what a sight for sore eyes. It’s a pleasure to see you again, ma’am. And I’ve been just fine, thank ye. Would you like me to let your husband know you’re here?”
“No, Angus, it’s a surprise. Is he in his office, do you know?”
“No, ma’am
, he’s in the boardroom with Miz Hennessey. You know where that is?”
She hurried toward the staircase with a wave and a smile. “Yes, Angus, I do, thank you.” She put a finger to her lips. “Remember, it’s a surprise.”
Heart hammering in her chest, she quickly shed her coat and ascended the landing, then pushed through the windowed double doors that led to the newsroom. She smiled at several workers as she honed in on the boardroom at the end of the hall. Much to her relief, activity was subdued this time of night, although a handful of reporters and second-shift copywriters offered curious stares as she peered into Mitch’s empty office.
With a lift of her shoulders, she made her way to the boardroom, then paused to suck in a deep breath before she laid her hand to the knob. She turned it slowly, quietly, inching the door open just enough to peek in. She was met with the staccato punch and click of an adding machine as Mitch pounded numbers in at a dizzying pace, his broad back bent over the task with great focus while Marjorie Hennessey looked on. It was almost hypnotic, the rapid-fire movement of his fingers combined with the powerful jerk of his arm on the lever, his sleeves rolled to reveal tight muscles bent on the task at hand.
The noise and distraction allowed her to study the woman whose lips had obviously strayed to her husband’s neck, and one glance told her all she needed to know. Marjorie Hennessey perched on the table, silky legs crossed and torso bent forward with chin in hand. She leaned close to Mitch, barely a breath away, skirt edging her thigh and blouse gaping to reveal a deep cleft of breasts. Darkly smudged eyes fixed on the ticker-tape tally spitting out of his machine while blood-red nails clicked on the table, almost grazing his arm.
Suddenly the machine stopped, and with a snatch of the tape, Mitch launched to his feet. “Sweet saints, we did it! Do you realize what this means?”
Marjorie slid off the table with a husky laugh and eased her body close to his. “I believe it means you’re amazing, Mr. Dennehy.” She gazed up with seduction in her eyes while one scarlet nail slowly trailed his arm. “What do you say we celebrate?”
Charity heaved the door open. It banged against the wall with a deafening slam. “What do you say we don’t, and you get your hands off my husband?”
The element of surprise had always served her well, but never more so than now. Mitch jerked around, almost stumbling against his chair while Marjorie went stiff as a corpse. He was not a man prone to blushing, but he did so now, profusely, the blood in his cheeks a telling contrast to the lack of it in Marjorie’s, whose face was as pale as death. With shock glazing their eyes, both appeared to be struck dumb until Mitch finally spoke, his voice little more than a croak. “Charity . . . what are you doing here?”
Mitch wasn’t the enemy, but suddenly it didn’t seem to matter. Months of fear, anger, and jealousy had boiled inside until it had nowhere to go but over the top, scalding anyone in its path. Sauntering in with hands on her hips, all rational thought fled as she singed him with a look, her voice as sharp as the click of her heels. “No, Mitch, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here . . . with her.”
In a grind of his jaw, all shock appeared to evaporate as he shoved the chair out of his way and charged toward the door, hurling it closed. He wheeled on her with fire in his eyes and a tic in his cheek, his voice tight with tension. “You will leave this instant, and we will discuss this at home. Is that clear?”
She leaned in, defying him with an angry thrust of her chin. “The only thing clear to me is that woman’s intent and . . . obviously . . . your willingness to comply.”
The grinding accelerated as he gripped an iron fist to her arm. “Don’t you dare accus—”
“Mitch . . . I assume this is your lovely wife?” Marjorie had found her voice, apparently, as well as her composure. She eased back on the table and crossed her legs once again as she studied Charity through cool eyes. “Please accept my apologies for taking so much of your husband’s time, Mrs. Dennehy, but I’m sure you can understand that as cochair for one of the most important charities in all of Boston, Mitch has been invaluable to the Herald.”
Charity jerked her arm free and strode forward, her fingers itching for a handful of hair. “It’s not my husband’s value to the Herald that has me concerned, Mrs. Hennessey.”
“Charity, I want you to leave—now! This is a place of business—”
Her eyes bore into Marjorie. “Monkey business, if my assessment is correct.”
He grabbed her from behind and spun her around, fusing his hands to her shoulders. His voice, dangerously low, held a note of warning she had never heard before. “I’m asking you for the last time—please leave now, and we will discuss this at home.”
“Mrs. Dennehy, I assure you that the relationship between your husband and me is strictly professional, a working relationship and nothing more.”
Charity glanced back to rake the woman with her eyes—from the haughty, scarlet lips and platinum hair, to the revealing satin blouse that glided over slim hips to a shockingly short skirt. Her mouth edged into a thin smile. “That’s quite clear, Mrs. Hennessey,” she said with ice in her tone. She broke from Mitch’s grasp to hurl his soiled shirt on the table. “And obvious to me from the lipstick on my husband’s collar, that you’ve been working particularly hard.”
Mitch clamped a hard arm to her waist and literally lifted her toward the door.
“Good night, Mrs. Dennehy,” Marjorie said in a superior tone. “Thank you for letting me . . . have . . . your husband on Thursday nights. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it’s been.”
Charity lunged around, wild-eyed in Mitch’s hold. All at once, something snapped inside at the smug look of victory on Marjorie’s face, and fresh rage pumped through her veins like adrenaline. With a hiss of air, she twisted free and flew toward the woman.
“Charity!” Mitch’s voice was no more than a distant roar as her fingers dove into that artificial hair, yanking with all her might like she used to with Faith.
“Mitch, get her off me!” Marjorie was flat on the table with Charity on top, the terror in her voice reverberating through the room.
She heard Mitch’s grunt before he wrenched her free, ignoring her kicking and screaming as he carried her to the door. His arms were like a vise locked to her waist while his voice threatened in her ear, harsh and hot. “You will walk out of this office like a civilized human being if I have to drag you every step of the way. And I suggest you keep your mouth shut, or I will gladly shut it for you.” He seized the knob and opened the door, glaring over his shoulder. “Marjorie, I apologize for my wife and this unfortunate disruption. I will be happy to meet with you tomorrow evening to finish our meeting or any evening of your choosing. Good night.”
He dropped Charity to her feet without the least bit of care, seizing her arm in his as he opened the door and hauled her through.
“Mitch, I—”
His eyes cauterized her, burning the words to her tongue. “Not-a-word,” he said, teeth clenched and his voice brutal in its coldness. “Or so help me . . .”
She swallowed hard and closed her mouth, almost running to keep up with his angry stride. Never in their ten years of marriage had Mitch ever treated her like this. She bit her lip and fought the sting of tears. But then again, she had never acted like this before, at least not since they’d been married, and suddenly she felt ashamed of her behavior.
“Good night, Mr. and Miz Dennehy—you have a good evening, you hear?”
“Good night, Angus,” Charity managed in a frail voice as they hurried out the front door.
She peeked up at her husband who remained silent, his face like rock except for the angry twitter of a nerve in his cheek. He dragged her down the street where his car was parked and opened her door. With a hard palm to her back, he shoved her in and slammed the door, rounding the car to get in on the other side.
“Mitch—”
His eyes burned like coals, singeing her to the seat. “One more word, and I will throw you
out of this car and let you walk. Is that clear?”
She nodded, the hurt thick in her throat. She clutched her arms to her waist and stared out the window, tears trailing her cheeks. She had never seen him like this, so cold, so hard. Something skittered in her stomach, and she realized it was fear.
Dear God, what have I done?
The vehicle growled to life with a grind. He slapped the headlights on, and the car lurched from the curb with his hard swipe of the wheel. His profile, chiseled in stone, was that of a stranger as he gunned the accelerator and sped down the road. Silence had never been so painful.
When they arrived at the house, she followed him in the door, her heart sick in her chest.
“You’re home,” Emma said, hurrying in from the parlor. Her eyes flicked to Mitch and then Charity. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine, Emma.” Mitch’s tone was clipped. “I’ll drive you home.”
“No, that’s not necessary—”
He walked out the door without another word, and Emma grabbed Charity’s hand. “Good heavens, what happened?”
Tears welled once again, and she threw herself into Emma’s arms, heaves shuddering her body. “Oh, Emma, I did the most awful thing, and now Mitch hates me.”
“What did you do?” Emma breathed, her voice laced with fear.
“I-I said awful things to her and to h-him, and then I . . . I knocked her on the t-table and started p-pulling her hair.”
Emma groaned as she hugged Charity tightly. “Oh, no . . .” She pulled away, her eyes gentle with concern. “But he’ll get over it, I’m sure he will. And I’ll try and talk to him—”
“Emma!” Mitch’s tone rang with impatience.
“Oh, Emma, will you please? Mitch loves you like a sister, and he would listen to you.”
Emma squeezed her hand. “Stop worrying and start praying, do you hear?”