“Oh, Emma . . .” He hadn’t meant to speak it out loud, but his grief couldn’t contain the words, and at the sound of his whisper, her eyelids fluttered.
———
Another dream? Her drowsy eyelids lumbered up and she stared, vision and thoughts woozy from the Luminal Mrs. Peep had given her to help her sleep. A valiant—but futile—effort at keeping the nightmares at bay. But this dream seemed so real and so welcome—Sean at the door, sober, vigilant, an angel of mercy with grief welling in his eyes. She blinked, still unsure if he was real or just part of the hallucinatory dreams in which she’d been floating in and out of all night.
“Emma . . .” The apparition spoke again, broken and hoarse, and a violent longing stabbed within. Her eyes immediately filled with tears at the fierce protectiveness emanating from the sheen of sorrow in his own, his lips pale and pinched. In two powerful strides, he was beside her, squatting by her bed with a stiff smile while his fingers gently grazed the unbruised side of her face. “How do you feel?” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.
She stared at him through haunted eyes, suddenly scared, timid, void of the peace that had always prevailed. Peace that had always comforted her in the past, steadied her, healed her . . . until now.
All shattered by a slap of a hand.
She swallowed hard and silently grimaced at the soreness the action produced, then attempted a smile that felt no better. But at the moment, pain didn’t matter, only smiles. Because he must never know, never suspect the horror that had claimed her once again. The corners of her mouth trembled into a pitiful excuse for a grin. “How do I feel? Like I just went ten rounds with Mrs. Bennett and lost.”
He smiled, tempering the pain she saw in his face. “She’s not a tenth as tough as you are, Mrs. Malloy . . .” Brushing a strand of hair from her eyes, he rose to his feet. “Nor as kind.”
With a soft grunt, she scooted up to sit against the headboard, too foggy to remember the silk nightgown she wore. Sean cleared his throat, then awkwardly averted his gaze. She peered down and gasped, jerking the covers up to cover the swell of her breasts against the lace of her gown. Heat singed her face that rivaled the crimson tide crawling up the back of his neck. “Forgive me, Sean, I . . . I’m still half asleep.”
He thrust his hands in his pockets. “Nothing to forgive, Emma.” Tender eyes locked with hers. “You’re a beautiful woman, Mrs. Malloy,” he whispered, and then exhaling loudly, he glanced over his shoulder to the closet. “Is there a robe or something I can get you?”
She nodded quickly, a healthy dose of heat warming her cheeks. “On a hook behind the closet door, thank you.”
Fetching a silk robe that matched her gown, he handed it to her along with her slippers, then turned around while she put them both on. He slacked a hip, thumbs latched to his trouser pockets and arms loose at his sides. “So . . . you hungry? I brought soup.”
Her stomach instantly rumbled, reminding her she’d had no appetite since Johnny had—
She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. “Oh, that sounds good. What kind?”
“Your favorite—Woolworth’s chicken noodle.” She heard a smile in his voice. He shifted a hip, hesitation thick in his words. “Uh, you’re not too sick to eat, are you? Because if you have a fever, you probably shouldn’t. You know, feed a cold, starve a fever? What is it you have, exactly, do you know?”
Silence hung in the air while she fumbled with the tie of her robe, reluctant to answer.
“Emma?”
“Uh, not sure, just achy all over and the remains of a headache, but no fever.”
He paused. “And the bruises?”
She worried her lip, straining to come up with an excuse. When she didn’t answer right away, he did a slow about-face, eyes hard and a nerve twitching along the steel line of his jaw. The whites of her eyes expanded and she stood to her feet, fingers pinched at the top of her wraparound robe. “I . . . tripped on the steps.” Her lips wavered into a smile that bore no joy. “I can be pretty clumsy, as you know.”
“Don’t lie to me, Emma,” he said, his whisper harsh. “Where is he, the man who did this to you? I want his name and address—now.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes. She shook her head, spilling them down her face. No, Mrs. Peep, why? Her voice broke on a heave. “She sh-shouldn’t have told y-you, she promised.”
He strode forward and gripped her arms as gently as possible given the fury sparking in his eyes. “Yes, she should! She loves you, and I love you.” Color shot up his neck. “We all do,” he stuttered, “and you shouldn’t close us out when you need us the most.”
All at once her body began to quiver and she put a shaky hand to her mouth, eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, Sean . . . I’m s-so s-scared . . .”
She couldn’t help it. All resolve to stay strong slithered away and in one painful heave, she collapsed against him, no longer willing to bear this trauma alone. He swept her up and carried her down the hall, his voice crooning gentle comfort as she wept in his arms. Lowering to the couch, he tucked her close, stroking her back as he whispered in her hair. “Shh, Emma . . . it’s all right . . . it’s all right. I’m not going to let him hurt you anymore, I promise.”
“It w-was j-just like it w-was with Rory, and I w-wanted t-to die . . .” Her body shuddered against his chest as she clung to him, the scent of soap and Snickers as soothing as the warm palm that kneaded the nape of her neck.
“Shh . . . shh . . . it’s okay, Emma . . .” He fanned his fingers through her hair, then cupped her face in his palms, his gaze a tender caress. “I’m here now,” he whispered, kissing her forehead, her temple, her cheek . . .
Her pulse quickened while her weeping stilled to soft, little heaves, and as her eyelids drifted closed, her heart stuttered when he brushed them with his lips.
“I’ll keep you safe, I promise,” he whispered, and a silent moan faded in her throat as his mouth trailed to her temple. “I swear no one will ever hurt you again . . .”
Heat throbbed within as she lost herself in the caress of his hand, her mind dazed while his mouth explored. The soft flesh of her ear, the curve of her throat, her body humming with need as never before. She felt his shallow breaths, warm against her skin, and with a low groan, he cradled her neck to capture her mouth with his own. “Oh, Emma,” he whispered, his voice hoarse against her lips, “I want to be there always, to protect you, cherish you . . .” He deepened his kiss, and she tasted the salt of her tears.
All reason fled and she was lost, the air hitching in her throat a mere heartbeat before she returned his passion, her mouth warm beneath his. She knew it had never been like this with anyone—not with Rory or others or even in her wildest dreams. A merging of souls as well as bodies, where hope soared and love swelled in her chest until she thought she would burst.
Sean—her Sean—tasting her like this, loving her like this, felt so right, so natural, the missing piece of her soul. Kisses both tender and hungry, uniting them, changing them, molding friends into lovers for the rest of their lives . . .
“God, forgive me,” she whispered, her body shivering from the caress of his mouth to her throat. Her words vibrated beneath his lips, fragile and tinged with awe. “I never knew . . . never dreamed . . . it could be like this . . .”
He clutched her close, his uneven breathing in rhythm with hers. “Emma, I’m so stupid—I never saw this coming, but may God help me . . . I’m in love with you.”
No! She jolted away, his words searing her conscience with a pain more awful than any Johnny had inflicted. Fear clawed in her throat, forcing her back against the wood arms of the couch. “No, Sean, please—you can’t!”
He stared, his face filled with grief. “It’s too late,” he whispered. “I can’t not love you—not now, not after this.”
“But it’s wrong!” She put a hand to her neck, her chest heaving and her mind convulsing with guilt. God, how could I have done this? Tears stung her eyes as self-loathing rose
in her throat like bile. She was everything Rory had branded her—a liar and a whore, scarred and hideous, not fit for any man’s bed. She looked away, nauseous at the thought that Sean might see her for the vile woman she was. Her voice shuddered with shame. “We can’t do this, Sean, ever—do you hear? I gave my vow to Rory, and you need to marry Rose. You belong with her.”
Tragedy welled in his eyes as he shook his head. “No, Emma, I belong with you . . .”
Her head jerked up, eyes crazed and fear burning inside as if a scarlet letter singed her very soul. She stared, voice bordering on hysteria and hands clenched. “No, don’t say that—”
He reached to feather her knuckles with his thumb. “It’s the truth, Emma, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you feel. I suspect I’ve been in love with you for a long time—I just didn’t know how much.” His voice held the barest trace of a tease, obviously intended to lighten the moment. “A late bloomer, remember?”
She found no humor in his jest. “Sean, no. You can’t love me that way—it’s wrong.”
“No, Emma,” he whispered, “the only thing wrong is that I can’t show you how much.” He quietly folded her into his arms and eased her head to his chest. The warmth from his body seeped into hers as his hand slowly fondled the back of her neck. “Heaven knows I’ve tried to fall in love with Rose, for you more than for me, but it was never really there, and now I know why. Charity was right—I am dense. I can see now I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, fists clenched on his chest. “Stop saying that, it’s not right.”
“That may be true, Emma, but nothing has ever felt more right in my life.”
She wrenched away, shame suffocating until she thought she couldn’t breathe. “No—I’m . . . ,” she paused, the very words on her tongue proof that Sean deserved better, “another man’s wife.”
His eyes were gentle as he twined his fingers with hers. “That may be, Emma . . . but you belong to me, not him.”
She yanked her hand from his and shot to her feet. Out of desperation, she forced a hard tone. “To me, it’s adultery, Sean, and I won’t do that—not to someone I love and not to God.”
His eyes never strayed from hers as he rose. “I know that,” he said quietly, feathering her arms with his palms, “but it doesn’t change the fact that I love you . . . and you love me.”
“No, I don’t love you! Not like that.” A sob broke from her throat.
Against her resistance, he slowly gathered her into his arms to rest his head against hers. His voice was soft and low and so full of love that it made her tremble. “Yes, you do,” he whispered, “but I love you too much to ever hurt you with that love.” He lifted her chin, his gaze tender. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Emma Malloy, and I want you in every way a man could ever want a woman.” He stroked her jaw with the pad of his thumbs. “But if you don’t want me to act on it, then I give you my word that I won’t.”
Chin quivering, she flung herself in his arms, clutching him so tightly that the buttons of his cotton shirt ached against the bruise in her cheek. She could hear the pounding of his heart and she closed her eyes, her heart spilling over with gratitude for this man whose love made her feel almost whole. Almost worthy.
Almost human.
Pain shifted in her throat. “Oh, Sean, what are we going to do?” she whispered. His scent enveloped her, soothing her senses with the clean smell of soap and Barbasol and a hint of Snickers.
“Well, for starters,” he said with a stroke of her hair, “we’re going to eat soup.”
She glanced up, acutely aware of tiny blond bristles that shadowed his chiseled jaw and lips that had kissed hers, now curved in a smile. “You know what I mean. What are we going to do about us . . . at the store?” Her voice faltered. “I . . . don’t think we can do this . . . day in and day out. One of us will have to leave—”
“No.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for debate. He palmed the side of her face, his touch gentle, but his mouth as rigid as the set of his jaw. “Nothing has changed. We loved each other as friends . . . and now we’re simply friends who love each other. And we’ll go on as before.” His fingers grazed her chin, lifting to emphasize his intent. “Because if I am to be denied loving you as my wife, Emma, then by God, I will love you as a friend. I promise you, we can do this.” A nerve pulsed in his cheek. “We will do this.”
With a stiff smile, he gently buffed her arms and then strode toward the kitchen, his tone taut with authority. “You go change while I warm up the soup, and then pack a bag with whatever you’ll need for a week. We’ll come back for the rest.”
“What?” She wrung the top of her robe together, fingers cinched at her throat. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
He turned, hands loose on his hips and gaze slatted enough to know she had a fight on her hands. “I mean I’m not leaving you here so that lowlife can hurt you again. You’ll stay with us for the foreseeable future, until I feel it’s safe to come back.”
“With you? At your house?” Her voice edged toward shrill.
His lips cemented into a hard line. “There or at Charity’s, take your pick. But either way, Emma, you’re not staying here, and that’s final.”
“But I can’t! Mrs. Peep needs me . . . and my cats.”
“Mrs. Peep loves you and wants you to be safe. She’ll watch your cats, she already told me so.” The blue of his eyes steeled to gray as he peered at her, the flicker of a dormant temper glinting in his eyes. “I won’t stand here and argue with you, Emma. I’m not usually a volatile man, and you know that, but this is too important. Trust me on this—I will take you by force if I have to. So I suggest you pack your bags while I warm up the soup.” He turned away, disappearing down the hall where sunlight streamed into her kitchen.
A heave shuddered from her throat and she put a hand to her eyes, numb over how her life had changed in just a few short hours. Yesterday she had been content to be alone, fear as foreign to her now as Rory’s violent scorn. And yet, with one vile slap, her yesterday had shifted into a present steeped in fear, shame, and guilt, all neatly laced with denial and despair.
“We will do this,” Sean had said.
The memory of his mouth caressing hers burned in her thoughts, unleashing a flood of shame and guilt that caused her to quiver. Her hand trembled to her lips as tears slipped from her eyes.
No, God, we won’t . . .
15
C harity worried her lip as she paced in her elegant Victorian parlor, wringing the damp handkerchief in her hands with every step she took. Autumn sun streamed through her rich, velvet-swagged windows onto a pastel Oriental rug—where Runt snoozed unaware—infusing the room with hazy ribbons of light that provided sharp contrast to her weepy mood. She stopped at the front window for the twentieth time and parted the sheers to peek out, swollen eyes scanning the street for any sign of Emma. All she saw was Mitch’s Ford Model A Roadster parked at the curb, newly washed as always. Its midnight blue paint gleamed in the sun in front of their lush, manicured lawn now dappled with russet and gold leaves from towering oaks overhead. Moisture pricked at her eyes. Her husband’s automobile and his lawn—two things he considered his pride and joy. A sad smile lined her lips as she dabbed at her tears. Like I used to be.
She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door of his study across their spacious foyer, his constant refuge since she’d made a fool of herself at the Herald. Day or night, the door was always closed, as tightly as his heart, while he refused to speak to her, look at her, be with her. He’d barely uttered a single sentence, at least to her, other than a grunt here and there in response to questions he chose to answer. His pretense with the children was flawless, easy banter and laughter while avoiding interaction with her at all cost. And the cost was high—almost forty-eight hours of intermittent weeping over the fact that her marriage appeared to be over.
And now this—dear Emma—the friend she loved li
ke a sister, had been brutalized once again. Charity peered out the window, moist eyes trailing into a vacant stare. Her mind traveled far from the giggles of children as they launched into a colorful mountain of leaves across the street or the pungent smell of wood smoke curling into the air. No, instead she saw memories—the freshly scalded flesh of her dearest friend, oozing blisters the length of her face, once tender tissue, now scarlet and wet. Charity’s eyelids shuddered closed, desperate to shut out the image of battered skin, bruised and broken, forever scarring not only a beautiful face, but a beautiful soul.
The chug of her father’s Model T pulled her back to the present, and her eyelids popped open as it eased against the curb behind Mitch’s roadster. Sean rose from the driver’s side, and Charity bolted across the hall to quickly tap on Mitch’s door before thrusting it open. “They’re here,” she cried, complying with his request to let him know as soon as Sean and Emma arrived. Without awaiting his answer, she rushed to the etched-glass-and-wood front door and flung it wide, grateful that Henry and Hope were at Faith’s on an overnight with their cousins. She darted past the stately white columns of their large brick portico, completely oblivious to the cold bite in the air as she bounded down the brick walkway lined with boxwoods and mums.
Charity rushed to where Sean was helping Emma from the car, and bile rose at the sight of pulpy bruises on her dear friend’s face. “Oh, Emma,” she whispered. Her voice cracked with emotion as she embraced her as gingerly as possible, powerless to staunch the flow of tears to her eyes. She cupped the smooth side of Emma’s face and forced a smile, determined to fight the quiver in her voice. “Let’s get you inside with a cup of hot tea, all right?” She glanced up at Sean, her concern a mirror of his own. “Everything’s taken care of—her bags, her cats?”