“It was only one kiss, Emma,” Charity said quietly. “A simple mistake that doesn’t have to happen again.” She pushed Emma’s hair back with gentle hands. “You’re good friends, you and Sean—there’s no sin in loving him, you know.”
Emma closed her eyes, the memory of Sean’s kiss searing her conscience. “No, not in loving him,” she whispered, her throat shifting with grief, “. . . just in wanting him.” She put a shaky hand to her eyes as another heave rose in her throat. “I . . . don’t think I can do this . . . face the temptation day after day . . .”
With a heavy sigh, Charity hooked an arm to Emma’s waist and tugged her back to the bed, resting her head against hers as the two sat, shoulder to shoulder. “Well, my faith has come a long way from our days in Dublin, Mrs. Malloy, so I say we just put your friendship with Sean in God’s capable hands, and let him worry about it.”
Emma slid her a sideways glance. “You mean like you did with Mitch before you got married?”
Charity wrinkled her nose. “Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. That was pretty difficult, as I recall.” She chewed on her lip, then sighed and patted Emma’s leg. “No matter, you’re much stronger than I could ever hope to be, so I’m sure you can do this—with God’s help, of course.”
“You are, are you?” Emma said with a tug of a smile, her gloom dissipating somewhat.
“Absolutely,” Charity said with a straight face, right before she gave Emma a mischievous wink. “At least until Rory kicks the bucket.”
“Charity!” Emma’s shock echoed in the room, earning a broad grin from her friend.
“Come on, Emma, with Rory’s drinking, womanizing, and propensity for brawls, the man can’t be long for this world. Who knows? Maybe he’s already gone on to his great reward.”
Guilt pricked over Emma’s lack of shock at Charity’s remark. She sighed, shoulders slumping against her friend’s. “Not unless they post letters from wherever that is.”
Charity squinted, head cocked. “What do you mean?” All at once she sat straight up, eyes gaping along with her mouth. “You mean those letters I saw on the bed, they’re from Rory?”
Emma nodded, the gravity of her situation prompting more tears.
Charity fished two clean handkerchiefs from her pocket and handed one to Emma. “Here—Mitch hoards them, so you may as well keep it. I’ve cleaned out half his stash already, but the way I see it, if the man is going to make me cry, at least he can provide the handkerchiefs.” She blew her nose and sniffed, blue eyes narrowing to slits. “So that no-good louse has been writing you letters? For how long?”
“Almost two months now,” Emma said, dabbing her eyes.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
Emma squeezed her friend’s hand with a gentle slope of brows. “I didn’t want to upset you since I had no intention of responding.” She looked away, avoiding Charity’s eyes. “But that was before . . .” Her throat shifted. “Before I became a liability to your brother.”
“So help me, Emma Malloy, if I hear you tear yourself down one more time . . .” A loud exhale puffed from Charity’s lips as she shifted on the bed, staring Emma down. The heated glint in her eye issued fair warning. “So what does the browbeater want now? Your paycheck? Your peace of mind? Or just another pretty face to slap when he’s down in the bottle?”
Emma looked away, fighting the sting of tears.
“Emma?” Charity’s voice jumped an octave.
Taking in shaky air, Emma’s chest expanded as if drawing in strength to face Charity head-on. “He wants . . . ,” she swallowed hard, unable to stem the moisture in her eyes, “. . . me.”
“No!” Charity bounded to her feet, her shriek bouncing off the walls like a battle cry. “He can’t have you . . . you don’t belong to him anymore!”
Emma looked away, the sound of Charity’s shallow breathing filling the silence of the room. Her shoulders bent as she bowed her head, weighted by the whisper that wavered from her lips. “I gave him my vow, Charity . . . and he needs me.”
“No!”
Tears welled as she stared up at her friend. “He was injured, at the factory where he worked, and now he’s all alone—”
“Good!” Charity said with a fold of her arms.
Emma rose, her heart heavy. “He says the accident and other things have changed him, opened his eyes to God and the truth . . .” Her tongue stalled at words she was reluctant to say. “He . . . wants me to forgive him . . . ,” emotion clogged in her throat, “. . . and to come home.”
Charity shook Emma’s shoulders, her gaze gouging as deep as the grip of her fingers. “You can’t do this, Emma. You can’t leave those who love you for someone who doesn’t. A monster who abused you, might have killed you had you stayed.”
“It’s the right thing to do,” Emma whispered. “Especially now.” Her chin quivered despite the rise of her shoulders. “I will not add adultery to my sins by breaking a vow to God.”
“Your sins? Listen to yourself! The only sin you’re guilty of is marrying Rory Malloy, and I refuse to let you throw all your happiness away because of some misguided vow.”
Emma dabbed at her eyes. Misguided, yes, but a vow, nonetheless.
Charity’s mournful sigh broke the tension between them. She pulled Emma into a tight hug, head tucked close while a tear dampened Emma’s neck. All anger and challenge faded from her voice, leaving only the wounded little girl that Emma was privileged to love. “Don’t do this, Emma, please, I beg you. I love you and I need you . . . and so does Sean. Don’t do this to us.”
“Charity, I—”
“No, listen to me.” Charity gently kneaded Emma’s shoulders, tears of hope brimming in her eyes. “We can put you on different shifts if we have to, Sean and you—”
“Charity, no—”
“I’ll talk to him, warn him that anything more than friendship will drive you away—”
“It’s not Sean I’m worried about, Charity, it’s me.” Emma tried to smile through the blur of tears. “I’m not strong enough . . .”
“You are!” Charity rattled Emma’s shoulder, a lioness with a cub once again. “If you’re strong enough to bear the drunken beatings of a monster for six years, then by the grace of God, you’re strong enough to love my brother as a friend and only a friend, do you hear?”
Emma blinked, a tiny smile wobbling on her lips. “No wonder Mitch won’t talk to you. Do you manhandle him too?”
A twinkle lit Charity’s eye, defying the press of her jaw. “This isn’t funny, Emma,” she whispered. Her gaze sobered considerably. “You can do this.”
Could she? Emma closed her eyes, considering the possibility for the very first time. Maybe . . . if Sean married Rose . . . and he and she became only friends once again.
“Well? I’m right, aren’t I?”
Emma looked up, squinting at Charity as she pondered the question. “Maybe.”
“No ‘maybe’ about it. Anybody who can put up with me, Mitch Dennehy, and Rory Malloy can certainly put up with a little attraction to my brother.” Charity pressed a kiss to Emma’s forehead. “Now promise you’ll stay right here with those of us who love you, and I promise to wage prayer on your behalf like the heavens have never seen. Deal?”
Emma sighed, patting the hands still gripped to her shoulders. “I promise to try . . .”
Charity exhaled loudly as she pulled away, her face easing into a relaxed smile once again. “Good.” She linked arms with Emma on the way to the door. One perfectly manicured brow angled high as her lips cocked to the right. “Now if we can just get Mitch Dennehy to promise the same thing . . . ,” she gave Emma a wink, “I’ll be one happy woman.”
“You do have a way about you, Luke McGee, I’ll give you that.” Katie’s contented sigh drifted in the air as she snuggled close, pressing a kiss to her husband’s bare chest. The clean scent of soap from his shower filled her senses as they lay in the dark, their bedroom lit only by the silver glow of moonlight as it skimmed acr
oss Luke’s muscled body.
“You give me more than that, Katie Rose,” he whispered, his husky chuckle rumbling warm against her ear as his hand glided the curve of her satin nightgown. “Now, admit it, being pregnant eliminates all the worry of getting pregnant, doesn’t it?”
Katie shifted up on her elbow. “Oh, now there’s logic for you.”
He laughed and tugged her back into his arms. “Come on, Katie, now that you don’t have to worry about getting pregnant, you’re more relaxed when we make love, more content”—she could almost hear the grin in his voice—“more lovesick than ever before.”
She tried to pop him, and he wrestled her to the bed, straddling her with a glint of trouble in his eyes. She fought her laughter with a thrust of her chin. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, McGee. If you ask me, you’re the one who’s lovesick—over becoming a father again.”
His grin softened in the moonlight, melting into the same look of love she always saw in his eyes. “I am sure of myself, Katie,” he whispered, stroking her cheek as he studied her face. “Sure that my life has never been more complete.” He bent to kiss her softly on the mouth before easing down to bury his lips in the crook of her neck. “I’m crazy about you, Sass, pregnant or not, and if we never had another child, I’d still consider myself a lucky man.” Rolling on his back, he brought her along and tucked her close. He paused, his words weighted and slow. “You seem . . . happier these days,” he said quietly, fingers grazing her arm. “About the pregnancy, I mean . . .”
She drew in a deep breath and exhaled, molding herself to the sculpted curve of his chest. “I am. Once God got it through my head that this was the way it was going to be, I actually let it all go—my hurt, my anger, my will.” Her lips tilted into an off-kilter smile. “For a while there, I felt a lot like Kit when I pry candy out of her hands before dinner—kicking and screaming because I want what I want. But the thing is, I love her so much I only want what’s best for her.” Katie sighed at the touch of Luke’s gentle hand on her hair. “Just like God does for me.”
His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek. “I love you, Katie Rose.”
“I love you too, Luke, and I can honestly say that nothing gives me more joy right now than carrying your baby.”
He kissed her head, and then reached for the covers, tugging them up to her chin. “Me too, Sass.” Releasing a tired sigh, he bundled her close. “Good night, Katie, sleep well.”
“You too, Luke.” She burrowed into his hold and closed her eyes, enjoying this precious time when she could sink into his arms and sleep. She’d never been this tired before, drained at the end of every day. But then she supposed that was to be expected. She was grateful that the constant bubbling in her stomach didn’t produce the morning sickness that her sisters had warned her about. Katie pressed a hand to her abdomen, even now feeling the rumbling that seemed to occur every day, not unlike mild cramps she’d experienced in the past. She was three months late today, and she was looking forward to her appointment with the doctor next week. It wouldn’t be long now before she was showing, her mother had said, and her sisters had already washed and ironed every maternity item they owned, packed away into boxes now stored in Kit’s closet.
With a garbled snort, Luke rolled on his side, bringing a smile to her lips when he butted hard against her as he snored in his sleep. That was one of the side effects of carrying Luke McGee’s child, she supposed—the man always touching her and hovering over her as if she were some priceless treasure he longed to protect. She grinned in the dark. And he calls me lovesick!
Katie tried to get comfortable, but knew it was no use. With a silent groan, she slipped from their bed and padded to the bathroom, her lips twisting at yet another one of the side effects of carrying Luke’s baby—an overactive bladder. Flipping on the bathroom light, she quietly closed the door, glancing in the full-length mirror behind as she turned toward the commode.
Air seized in her throat.
Blood on my nightgown?
Her knees buckled, and she braced herself against the sink, her breathing ragged as she stared in the mirror. With shaky fingers, she clutched the back of the gown, and her stomach cramped at the scarlet stains that she saw.
God, please, no . . .
Sinking to the floor, a low groan wrenched from her lips. Crimson blots blurred while sobs rose in her throat. “My baby . . . ,” she whispered. “Please not my baby . . .”
Thoughts swam in her brain of things that might not be—a sleeping infant tucked warm and safe in its bed or the sweet sound of baby chuckles as Luke swooped his son or daughter over his head. No scent of baby powder or freshly laundered rompers and dresses stowed away in drawers, nor ribbons or booties or a lacy christening gown to be worn. Katie closed her eyes while her heart plunged in her chest. Nothing but cool, calculated ambition that didn’t require the warmth of a mother’s arms. Keening against the wall, Katie grieved for the baby who’d become more precious than the dream that had once fueled her hope, causing her spirit to bleed along with her body. All at once, she thought of Luke, and grief stabbed anew, choking until she couldn’t breathe. Oh, Luke, I’m so sorry . . .
With a frail heave, she reached for the toilet paper and wept for a long while, legs to her chest as she slumped against the wall. She jerked at a knock on the door.
“Katie?”
“W-what?”
“Are you okay?”
“N-no . . .”
“Can I come in?”
“N-no . . .”
“Please?”
She wadded more tissue paper and blew her nose. “I’m all right, Luke, go back to bed.”
“You’re not all right—you’re sobbing in the bathroom, for pity’s sake. Open the door.”
“You have work tomorrow—go back to bed, please.”
“I’m coming in, Katie.”
“No, I don’t need—”
The door opened, and the sight of Luke—hair tousled, pajama bottoms rumpled, and eyes bleary from sleep—made Katie tear up all over again. In a catch of her breath, he scanned her face and then the bathroom before his gaze froze at the sight of blood on her gown. He knelt by her side. “Katie, what happened?” he whispered, voice taut as he kneaded her arm.
Heaving with sobs, she lunged into his arms with a broken cry. “Oh, Luke, the baby . . . something’s w-wrong . . .”
He slid to the floor and pulled her close, soothing her with gentle strokes to her hair. “Shh . . . it’s okay, Katie, it’s okay. Tell me what happened.”
“I g-got up to g-go to the b-bathroom, and then I s-saw the blood . . .”
“Have you been having any pain . . . with the bleeding . . . or when we made love?”
“N-no.”
“Any cramping, clotting?”
“My stomach’s been churning for months, you know that, but no, no cramping really, except maybe a little tonight, and certainly no bleeding till now.”
His heavy sigh feathered her face. “Katie, this might be a miscarriage, but maybe not.” He pulled back, thumbs caressing her skin as he held her at arm’s length. His eyes locked on hers, gentle with understanding. “You might just be late, you know, given all the stress of law school, and maybe never pregnant at all. And I’m no expert, but it seems that with a miscarriage, there would be a lot of cramping and pain, but you haven’t had any of that, nor any morning sickness either. Which leads me to suspect this may be a delayed period and not a pregnancy gone awry.” He buffed her arms and kissed her cheek. “Think about it, Katie—a false alarm,” he whispered, “a chance to get back on track with your dream.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “But I don’t w-want a dream,” she said with a hitch, “I w-want a b-baby . . .” Her voice trailed off into another painful sob.
He smoothed the hair from her eyes, lips curved in a smile. “Me too, Sass, me too.” He lifted her chin with a finger, his tone husky as he nuzzled her mouth. “But just think how much fun we’ll have making one, huh?”
/> “Luke?”
“Mmm?”
“Do you think it will happen—me having a baby?”
He jumped to his feet, and tugged her up. “You bet, Sass, sooner or later.”
“But when?” she whispered, her mournful sigh rustling the scant hairs on his chest.
His chuckle vibrated against her temple, lifting her spirits. “When God says it’s time.”
She glanced up, grating her lip while a wrinkle puckered her brow. “But how do you know he will?” she asked in a timid voice, sounding a lot like Kit when she was scared.
Luke paused to gently tuck her hair behind her ear. “How do I know?” he asked softly, grazing her chin with his thumb. “Because look at you, Katie Rose, crying on the floor of the bathroom because you’re not pregnant, when months ago you were crying because you thought you were.” He tapped her nose. “It’s not like God to put a deep desire in our hearts unless he’s got plans to fulfill it.”
She sniffed, twining her arms around his waist. “I guess. But how do we know I’ll be any good, Luke . . . you know, at being a mother?”
“I just know,” he whispered, fanning her hair from her face as he kissed her softly on the lips. His smile all but melted her heart as he tucked a finger to her chin. “You’re already a wonderful mother to Kit and I know it will be the same with each of our children. Besides, something tells me that deep down in that legally logical, incredibly practical, do-or-die heart of yours, counselor—” he paused to plant a soft kiss on the very tip of her nose—“is one starry-eyed mother just aching to be born.”
16
One minute life is normal . . . the next minute it’s not. Sean stood stiff at his office window, shirtsleeves rolled and hands in his pockets, sucking a lemon drop that was as sour as his mood. Lost in a cold stare, his eyes trained on the game of tag in the park below where children skittered to and fro, bundled to the throat in colorful jackets and caps. He could feel a cold draft and smell the exhaust fumes from autos and busses despite the sealed window, which was now fogged at the bottom from the heater below. The click-clicking of Bert’s rapid-fire typing drifted in from the outer reception area where Sean could hear Emma discussing a report with Alli. Everything seemed normal—the smell of burnt coffee too long on the burner, Bert’s gravelly gibes followed by Emma and Alli’s occasional laughter, the chug and hum of the radiator as its warmth rustled the hairs on his arms. Yep, just another day . . . as normal and natural as the scent and taste of lemon drops mingled with Snickers.