“You’re welcome, Mitch,” Marcy said. “Just take care of our girl on her birthday.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Red blotches bled up his neck as he quickly retrieved Charity’s wrap. He placed it around her shoulders while sisters hugged all around. He opened the door. “Ready?”
She glanced up at his rugged and angular jaw, shadowed with heavy evening bristle as always, and her heart broke all over again at the coolness in those piercing blue eyes.
Was she ready? For more hurt and rejection? No, but apparently she had little choice in the matter. Other than to forgive . . . to love . . . and to pray.
“Yes, I’m ready,” she whispered. And through the grace of God . . . she was.
“Honestly, Sean, this wasn’t necessary. I could have just as easily gone home with Charity and Mitch.” Pulse erratic, Emma kept her eyes focused on the walkway while Sean ushered her to his father’s Model T, the protective touch of his palm against her back making her feel anything but safe. She stumbled slightly on a catcher’s mitt strewn across the dark sidewalk, and his sturdy arm immediately hooked her to his side, causing her heart to climb into her throat.
“You okay?” He scooped the wayward mitt up and tucked it under his free arm while the other remained snugly latched to Emma’s waist. “Wait till I get my hands on Henry,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’ll tell you what, Charity’s got her comeuppance with that boy.”
A weak chuckle left Emma’s lips, the sound strained and nervous as she attempted to slip from his embrace. “She always tells me Henry is her penance for all the times she tormented Faith.”
A low laugh feathered the side of her head as he tightened his hold. The clean scent of soap, shaving cream, and Snickers coaxed an extra beat out of her heart while his husky whisper baited her. “Hold on there now, Emma, I’m not going to bite, you know. I just want to see you safely to the car. As I recall, this sidewalk’s sent you flying before.”
The heat coursing into her cheeks defied the cool of the night. She quickly ducked into Patrick’s car as soon as Sean opened the passenger door, hands shaking as she tucked them into the pockets of her coat. Before the door closed, she caught a glimpse of his easy smile in the glow of the lamplight overhead, and her heart took a tumble. She closed her eyes. God, please . . . give me the grace that I need.
“So . . . you sure played a pretty mean game of Rummy tonight, Mrs. Malloy.” Sean scooted in on his side and slammed the door, tossing the stray baseball mitt onto the seat before jiggling his key in the ignition. The car roared to life, and he flipped on the headlights, casting a quick glance in the rearview mirror before shifting into gear. Shooting Emma a quick grin, he slowly maneuvered the vehicle down the dark street.
She could tell he was trying to put her at ease, but the kindness of his intent only endeared him all the more. She drew in a cold breath of air and slid him a shy smile. “Charity and I used to play Rummy a lot during our lunch breaks at Shaw’s in Dublin. We both got to be pretty good, but I guarantee that your sister would have walked away with the win had she played tonight. She’s a lot like Luke at Pinochle, you know—almost unbeatable.”
Sean’s chuckle seemed to warm the car despite the chill of the air. “Yeah, Luke’s pretty unbeatable at most games, I’d say.” He cut her another grin. “Except the game of marriage.”
Emma tilted her head, studying him with a faint smile while her brows dipped in surprise. “You see marriage as a game?”
He downshifted at an intersection, looking both ways before continuing on, then sent her a sideways look. “Yeah, don’t you?”
She laughed, the motion easing some of the tightness in her chest. “No, of course not. What makes you think it’s a game to be won or lost?”
“Well, take Katie and Luke, for instance,” he began, right arm relaxed on the back of the seat while he steered with the other. “Luke’s brand new to the game, so he’s like a bull in a china shop when it comes to dealing with Katie’s independent nature. He approaches his role of husband a lot like he approaches a basketball game—he’s fast on his feet, drives hard, and likes to control the ball. Problem is, Katie’s the same way, so they end up with a lot of fouls and more than a little temper.”
“What about Charity and Mitch?” she asked, fascinated by his thinking on the subject.
He shifted to make a turn, his profile crimped in thought. “Well, Mitch is like a long-distance runner, mind focused on the road ahead, easy pace, lots of endurance. While Charity, on the other hand, is a sprinter—nips at his heels, spurts of emotional energy that kicks dust in his face, and sometimes even attempts to steer him off course, all to get his attention, of course. But he’s like a machine, legs pumping steady on one path and one path only—his—either running Charity down in the process or carrying her across the finish line tied to his back.”
She shook her head, dumbfounded at the amount of thought he’d spent on the subject. “The saints be praised, Sean O’Connor—and to think all this time I believed you were this naïve bachelor who never gave marriage a passing thought.” She shifted to face him, head cocked in question. “So tell me, Mr. I-never-saw-a-sport-I-didn’t-like, if you see marriage as a game, then why on earth are you so deathly afraid of it? I would think your competitive nature would be challenged, exhilarated by the prospect of winning at a game that few men have mastered.”
Taking the next corner with relative ease, Sean veered the vehicle several blocks down at a steady pace, finally shifting to maneuver the turn onto Charity and Mitch’s street. He smiled, offering a sideways glimpse shadowed with mischief. “It’s simple, really—I don’t like to play sports—or games—where my opponents have an unfair advantage.”
“You see a wife as an opponent?”
His grin broadened in the glow of the streetlamp as he eased to a stop. He shifted into park, turned off the ignition, and turned to face her. “I see women as the opponent.”
“And what’s the unfair advantage, pray tell?”
Leaning his head back against the window, he draped an arm over the steering wheel and studied her through hooded eyes, his veiled look unable to hide a glimmer of tease. “Why, moods, tears, and manipulation, Mrs. Malloy, all powerfully compounded by the deadly pull of sexual attraction.”
An onslaught of blood assaulted her cheeks, and she looked away. “Oh,” she whispered, palm taut on the handle of the door. She swallowed hard and gripped it tightly, ready to flee.
“Emma.”
Her fingers stilled on the latch when he touched her arm. The sound of her name had parted from his tongue as a mere whisper, yet the depth of its passion buoyed her heart with a joy she had no right to feel. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she stared at the strong hand now caressing her own and her eyes drifted closed, unwilling to face the man to whom it belonged.
“Look at me,” he said quietly, and her breathing shallowed as she slowly raised her eyes to his. The intensity of his gaze caused her stomach to quiver.
“You are like no woman I have ever met, and if God would allow it, I would get down on my knees right now and commit to cherish and love you all the days of my life.”
“Sean—”
“No, please—hear me out. I need to say these things, at least once. Before I go.”
Her breath hitched in her throat. “Before you go?”
He distanced himself, and she felt the loss of his touch. Settling back again, he picked up the baseball mitt to finger the binding, absently staring at the glove as he toyed with its laces.
“I’ve given a lot of prayer and thought to us, Emma, and I think the best course of action would be for me to leave.”
“Leave?” she whispered, the very word cleaving to her tongue.
His eyelids lifted halfway, revealing his sorrow. “Dennehy’s—for good.”
Her heart stuttered in her chest, stealing her air.
“I know this comes as a shock, especially after what I said to you, both in the office last week and that day in
your apartment when I”—his throat shifted—“when we . . . discovered our true feelings for each other.” He gently took her hand in his, and she was too stunned to resist, staring at his thumb as it feathered her fingers. “I thought we could continue on as friends, but every time I look at you, touch you, see your smile, hear your laugh . . . ,” his large hand swallowed hers in a tender hold, squeezing gently before letting go with a deep draw of air, “. . . I only crave you more. To hold you, to love you . . . to make you my wife.”
Paralysis claimed her tongue as tears stung her eyes.
With a heavy exhale, he rested his head on the back of the seat, eyes staring aimlessly out the window. “I thought I was strong enough—to be your friend and only your friend, but my thoughts tell me otherwise.” His eyelids drifted closed as his voice lowered to a bare whisper. “I actually believed that if I laid aside my physical desire, that we would be free from sin. But I can no longer deny that deep in the recesses of my mind, I wrestle with wanting you so badly, that I fear adultery in my heart.” He looked at her then, his eyes naked with regret. “I don’t want to leave you, Emma, but I love you too much to stay.”
Her eyelids fluttered closed, the loss of him almost unbearable. And yet, she’d known all along that this had been their destiny. This was the path she had chosen. The vow she had made, to God . . . and to Rory. A reedy sigh left her lips as she looked up, fingers quivering while she brushed a stray tear from her cheek. “Where will you go?”
His chest expanded and released. “I don’t know . . . I don’t really need the money right now, so maybe I’ll just donate my time to the church till I find something I like. I was offered a job awhile back . . . maybe I’ll look into that.”
Her pulse quickened. “Your old store at Kelly’s?” she asked, grateful he could return to a job he loved and the woman who loved him.
“No, I don’t think so.”
She blinked, ridges lining her brow. “But Rose said—”
He glanced up, his gaze suddenly sharp. “Rose and I are over, Emma.”
Shock congealed in her throat. “Over?” she whispered. She felt her ribs constrict. “But why would you do that?” she asked, her voice cracking with strain. “She can offer you everything. Everything you should have—your own store, a woman who loves you, a family . . .”
His voice gentled. “I’m not in love with her.”
“But you can learn!” she shouted, hysteria rising in her tone as tears welled in her eyes.
With a tender gaze, he slowly gathered her into his arms against her will, gentle strength locking her to his chest where his heart beat steady and sure. She closed her eyes at the touch of his hand stroking her hair, and she had no power over the sobs that rose in her throat.
“No, Emma, I can’t . . . because I won’t.”
“But you’re attracted to her, you told me so . . .” Her voice broke on a heave.
He kissed her hair, head resting against hers. “Yes, she stirs my body, but not my soul. When I kiss her, touch her . . . it’s your lips I’m kissing . . . your body I touch. That’s not fair to Rose, Emma, and it’s not fair to me.”
“But you’re a man who deserves to love and be loved . . .”
“And so I will be,” he whispered, grief threading his tone. “Because you and I will always love each other from afar.”
She sagged against him then, fingers clutched white on his coat. “No . . . you’re a man with needs, desires . . .” Her frail moan slowly ebbed away.
Like her dreams for him.
His chuckle held little mirth. “The way I see it, Emma, if Father Mac can do it, I can.”
“But you deserve better,” she whispered, her heart raw.
He pulled away to cup her face in his hands, and in his eyes she saw all the pain and regret she felt in her own. A sad smile shadowed his lips. “No,” he said quietly, caressing her cheek with gentle fingers. “Because if I deserved better, I would have you.” Pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, he gave her arms a quick buff. “Come on, you need to go in.” He opened his door and got out, ducking his head to flash his trademark smile. “The good news is, Mrs. Malloy . . . you get your storeroom back.” He shut his door and rounded the car, offering his hand after opening her side. He braced her shoulder on the walk to the door.
“When will you leave?” she asked, leaning on him more than she should.
“As soon as Mitch can hire someone to replace me.”
“No one can replace you,” she whispered.
He turned her to face him on the portico, the pale lamplight from brass sconces revealing his sorrow. A hint of the twinkle she loved returned to his eyes. “I know that, Emma, and you know that, but let’s not let Mitch in on it, okay? You know how he loves control.”
She attempted a smile that failed miserably.
Sean rubbed her arms, voice soft, jaw firm. “Come on, Mrs. Malloy, I know this seems pretty bleak right now, but underneath all the heartache, I suspect God’s will for both of us contains blessings we’ve only dreamed about.”
Her eyes lifted to his while her lips parted in surprise. “God’s will?” she uttered, a wisp of a smile in her tone. “Just when has God’s will become important to you, Sean O’Connor?”
His mouth quirked as he tapped a finger to her nose. “Since I fell in love with the boss. God knows I need something to hang my heart on since I can’t hang it on her.”
Fingers shaking, she cradled his cheek. “Well then, Mr. O’Connor, if our heartbreak has brought you closer to him, then I consider every tear a priceless treasure.”
She felt the bristle of his beard beneath her palm when he pressed his hand over hers. “Priceless treasure,” he said, his voice tinged with awe. “My thoughts exactly.” He squeezed her hand and stepped away, drawing in air as he lifted his chin. “I’ll let Charity and Mitch know, but I was thinking two weeks’ notice might work.” Several creases popped in his brow. “I know it’s probably not enough time to train someone else, but I figure the sooner I leave, the better.”
She nodded, a lump thick in her throat. “Two weeks should be fine, especially since I have no plans to replace you.”
He tucked a finger to her chin. “Hate to tell you this, Mrs. Malloy, but it’s not your call. When Mitch and Charity hear the hours you keep with help, there’ll be no argument, trust me.”
“I do,” she whispered, suddenly realizing she trusted nobody more.
“Likewise,” he said with that same boyish smile that had captured her heart. His fingers traced the curve of her jaw before he opened the door. “G’night, Emma. See you on Monday.”
“Good night, Sean,” she whispered, heart buckling at the sight of the man she loved walking away. Tears blurred her vision as his broad back slowly faded into the night, and with a broken cry, she flew down the brick walkway with her heart in her throat. “Sean!”
He turned at the street, and within mere seconds she launched into his arms, body heaving with the need to let him know just how much she loved him. With tears streaming her face, she kissed him with all the tenderness, all the passion, all the love that was his alone, and for one breathless moment in time, they belonged to each other. “I love you, Sean, and if I never reap another blessing from the hand of God, I will consider my life a joy because of you.”
He clutched her so tightly, they stood as a solitary figure, two hearts beating as one. He gently smoothed the tears from her face. “I will love you forever, Emma,” he whispered. “Through all the family gatherings where we chat and see each other in passing, I want you to always know—my heart belongs to you.” He pressed a final kiss to her brow. “Get some rest. Next week looks to be a backbreaker.”
Squeezing her arm, he rounded the car and opened the door, giving her a wink as he slipped inside. She watched him churn the ignition and shift before pulling away from the curb.
“A backbreaker,” she whispered, her words lost in the rumble of the Model T as it disappeared down the road. “And a heartbre
aker too.” Clutching her coat, she made her way to the door as her weary sigh collided with the frigid air to become vapor, forever fading away.
Just like our friendship.
She stopped on the portico and turned, face elevated to the sky. “Thank you, God, for the touch of Sean’s love in my life, no matter how brief and no matter how painful. And I beg you, please—if not Rose, bring him another woman he can love.”
Turning the crystal knob of the carved oak door that Charity “just had to have,” Emma’s heart swelled with gratitude for the friend lying upstairs who would see her through. Charity O’Connor was one of the most resilient, loving, and misunderstood women she had ever had the privilege to meet, and the strength of their friendship was one of the few comforts that warmed Emma tonight. No stranger to heartbreak from a past that seemed a lifetime ago, Emma knew that with Charity by her side, she had an able ally in the difficult months ahead. With a silent bolt of the lock, Emma closed her eyes, forehead pressed to the cool of the etched glass door. Please, Lord, heal the rift between Charity and Mitch.
Releasing another heavy sigh, she slowly unbuttoned her wrap and slung it on the ornate pewter coatrack already laden with winter gear. Turning, her breath caught in her throat.
No, please, not on her birthday . . . Emma stared, her heart suddenly bleeding more than the sliver of light that bled beneath the study door. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she pressed a quivering hand to her chest, as if she could still the painful pounding within. Oh, Mitch, open your eyes—your pride is robbing you of precious moments of time.
It wasn’t Emma’s habit to interfere in Charity’s marriage, not with unsolicited opinions nor advice, but something deep down rose within, compelling her to knock on the study door. She straightened her shoulders as she awaited Mitch’s response, jaw inching up. What choice did she have? People she loved were at stake.
“What?” His tone, abrupt and cool, prickled with impatience.
Emma peeked in with a timid smile. “I’m not disturbing you, I hope?”