“Rose—no, tell him the truth, please!”
“Are you calling my daughter a liar on top of everything else?”
“No, sir, I swear, but things are not as they seem. Rose, please—”
She seemed to sway on her feet as she closed her eyes with a shift in her throat. “I can’t marry Chester,” she whispered.
Sean’s body went numb.
“What?” Her father rattled her small frame until the silk tie bobbed on her chest. “What do you mean you can’t marry Chester?”
“I mean,” she whispered, lips parted to draw in a shaky breath, “that I refuse. I don’t love Chester. I’m in love with . . .”
The air seized in Sean’s lungs.
Rose jerked free of her father’s hold. Pained eyes flicked toward Sean for a brief moment before returning to her father’s scarlet face with a rigid rise of her shoulders. Her arm rose like a guillotine before her quivering finger condemned him to death. “. . . him.”
Sean stared, unable to blink, the whites of his eyes as dry as the tongue pasted to the roof of his mouth.
Mr. Kelly gasped, followed by a series of wheezes that suggested he was choking.
“You need water.” Sean was midstride when his employer’s glare singed him to the spot.
“No, Mr. O’Connor,” Mr. Kelly rasped, the twitch of his bulbous nose a deadly sign. “I need vindication.” He turned to his daughter, foul temper oozing from every pore. “You . . . ,” he said with an ominous stab of a meaty finger, “I will deal with at home.”
“But, Father—”
His grip drew a faint cry from her lips, leaving no room for rebuttal. “Leave now or I will truly embarrass you in front of the man that you ‘love.’”
Sean winced.
Casting a watery look at Sean, Rose fled, weeping. The door slammed behind her.
“Mr. Kelly, I’m sorry about this, but I can explain—”
“Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover what you will be, Mr. O’Connor, when I’m done with you. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He stepped forward, beady eyes as hard as the knot in Sean’s chest. “I trusted you with my store, my money, my livelihood. And how do you repay me? By seducing my daughter—”
“No! That’s not true—” Sean clenched his fists at his sides, fighting to contain his anger.
“And a woman engaged to another man, for pity’s sake—”
“Let me explain—”
One bushy gray brow lifted in scorn. “Explain? Yes, I’m sure that would be rich, your tale as to how my daughter suddenly found herself in your lap.” He crossed burly arms and blistered Sean with a glare. “But spare me the details, please. The only explanation I want is why you would stab me in the back after I’ve supported you all these years?”
“Mr. Kelly, my loyalty to you has been unquestioned.”
“Yes, until now.” He gave a sharp nod at the ledger on Sean’s desk. “Tell me, Mr. O’Connor, have we made our numbers this month?”
Icy prickles nicked at his skin. He looked away. “No.”
“I see. Or in the last six months?”
He closed his eyes while the truth bled the air from his lungs. “No.”
“And you speak to me of loyalty?”
Sean’s head jerked up, eyes burning his sockets. “For the love of God, there’s a depression—”
“Yes . . . there is. A terrible time that can squeeze the loyalty out of any man.” He drew in a deep breath and leveled a hard gaze. A nerve flickered in the heavy flesh of his cheek. “Are you skimming the coffers?”
“What?” Blood leeched from Sean’s face.
“You know—stealing. Cooking the books. Robbing me blind. You get my drift.”
Fury swelled in his chest till he thought he would choke. “How dare you accuse me of that!” he said, fists clenched at his sides. “I have done nothing but give you my all these last seventeen years, earning you a profit by the sweat of my brow.”
“Your all? You mean like you were trying to give my daughter just now, stealing her heart like you’ve stolen my money?” A sneer lifted the corner of his employer’s mouth. “Lester’s had his suspicions of you for a long time, and now I see it’s all true. A profit, indeed—no doubt by marrying Rose to secure your job at this store. And her money.”
Shock paralyzed him for several seconds before white-hot anger seared through him like a high-voltage wire. “No, Mr. Kelly,” he said, his breathing lethal with rage. He slammed the chair into the desk with such violence, his cold cup of coffee teetered on his desk, sloshing liquid all over the books. A spasm leapt in his neck as he seized the ledger and hurled it across the room. “That would be your nephew, and I’m not Lester.”
His employer’s eyes glittered as if he had won. “No, you’re not,” he said, his voice as slick as the sweat on his brow. “You see, he has a job. You have one week’s notice beginning today, and so help me, if you don’t honor it, neither you nor your staff will receive this month’s pay.”
Sean’s rage siphoned out with the slam of the door, leaving only the sound of his own ragged breathing as he stared, unable to move. His eyelids flickered shut, heavy with the realization that his life as he knew it was over. He had been one of the lucky ones—a man who stood in authority while others stood in soup lines. Happy, carefree, unfettered by poverty or the need for a woman. But in the blink of an eye—or the brand of a stolen kiss—everything had changed, leaving him with a future as bleak and cheerless as the front page of the Herald.
As if in a stupor, he moved to his chair and slumped in the seat, his mind weighted with thoughts of impending doom. His body felt limp and lifeless, not unlike his future at the moment, and with an involuntary shudder, he lay his head on the back of the chair. Out of nowhere, the memory of Rose’s kiss assailed his brain, unleashing a roll of heat that stunned him to the core. His harsh gasp hung in the air, prompted by a realization so sinister, it shivered his spine. Not only had he been stripped of his job today, but apparently his immunity to women as well. And with the combination of the two, Sean suddenly knew—as sure as the endless breadlines that trailed past Mr. Kelly’s door—that when it came to bad news, the Herald had nothing on him.
“I just bet you have a bed in that supply room, don’t you, made up all neat and proper?”
Surprise lifted the edges of Emma’s mouth as she blinked up at Charity, who stood at the door, hip slanted.
“Go ahead—I dare you to deny it,” Charity said strolling in with her clutch in one hand and a bulging shopping bag in the other. With a quick scan of Emma’s spacious office, her blue eyes went wide, lids and penciled brows shiny with petroleum jelly in the style of the day. “Oh! You finally redid your office—I love it!” She nudged the rounded toe of her blue Mary Jane heel against a maroon geometric-patterned rug with clean, straight lines—except for one frayed edge—then hiked an appreciative brow. “No fringe—very art deco. And very expensive. So unlike you.”
Emma smiled. “Clearance, Boss, damaged in shipping. Couldn’t sell it to save my soul.”
Charity nodded and eyed the rest of the office that Emma had worked so hard to make cozy. With as many hours as she spent here, Emma had finally relented to Charity’s badgering to decorate her “home away from home.” The result was a wonderful oasis where she’d transformed a cold, sterile section at the back of the second story into a warm and inviting office space that felt almost like home. A tall arched window boasted several lush plants as well as a view of a tiny city park where children now played before dusk chased them home. Pale pink light from the waning summer sun spilled into the room, casting a warm glow over cream-colored walls splashed with color from vibrant framed prints. Sleek, modernistic images of flappers and garden parties stared back, a haunting reminder of an avant-garde era that boasted better times. Charity deposited her shopping bag next to the phonograph machine on a cherrywood buffet against the wall, then leaned to inspect her lipstick in an art deco mirror with fanned edges of match
ing wood.
“Mmm . . . very nice,” she said with a pucker of her lips.
Emma chuckled. “The furniture . . . or your face?”
Charity wheeled on her heels and grinned. “Both,” she said with a smirk. She lifted a record from the phonograph and quirked a brow. “Spending your evenings with Rudy Vallee, are we? Why, Mrs. Malloy, you little vixen, you . . . and all this time I thought you were working.”
A low chuckle parted from Emma’s lips as she propped chin in hand to give Charity a sultry look, tone husky. “What can I say, the man and I work well together.”
“Ha! ‘Work’ being the operative word.” Charity strolled over to trail a hand along the cherrywood finish of Emma’s desk. Her mouth sagged open. “A dining room set?”
Emma shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “A total dining room return—Mrs. Wellington III claims there was a gouge on the table when Horace delivered it.”
“Was there?” Charity asked, plopping into one of the matching cherrywood padded chairs in front of Emma’s “desk.”
“Not anymore,” Emma said with a proud smile. She scooted her antiquated typewriter back several inches to reveal a nasty scratch that was filled in with stain. “Horace says it wasn’t there when he delivered it, but it’s the store’s word against hers, so I decided to make good use of it for both me and my trusty Remington.”
Charity crossed her legs with a lift of her brow, and Emma caught a whiff of Chanel No. 5. “Very ingenious, but what are you doing with a typewriter? I thought that was Bert’s job.”
Emma grinned and laid her pen aside. “God bless her, Bertolina Adriani is crabby enough these days, so I’m just trying to lighten the load.”
“Humph . . . God has already blessed her with a supervisor who does half of her work.” Almond-shaped eyes thinned into a scowl, but Charity’s voice held a hint of humor. “You are such a pushover, Emma Malloy, you know that?”
Emma spiked a brow. “Oh, and you’re not, Mrs. Bleeding Heart? The woman who insists on giving bonuses for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, with her husband none the wiser?”
“Yes, but I’m a pushover nobody knows about, while you”— Charity flailed a hand at her best friend before nodding at Emma’s prized carpet—“are as blatant as this unraveled rug and, I might add,” a slight crimp of her brow offset the tease in her eyes, “probably walked on just as much.”
“You know better than that,” Emma said with a weary smile. “Bert’s been going through a rough time right now with her son, so I’m just helping out. Heaven knows I can’t afford to see her quit.” She leaned back, allowing her hands to rest on the arms of the chair while she eyed the cherrywood clock on the far wall. “Goodness, seven-fifteen? To what do I owe this honor and how on earth did you talk Mitch into leaving him this late at night? Did I miss a blue moon?”
Charity’s lips veered into a wry smile. “I needed a new dress for a function at the Herald, so Mitch volunteered to watch the kids.” She inclined her head toward the shopping bags with a mischievous smile. “Trust me, he’ll be sorry I didn’t stay home.” Crossing her silk-stockinged legs, Charity eased back into the chair to contemplate her friend, arms folded and blue eyes pensive. She nodded toward the stacks of invoices and bills of lading on Emma’s desk. “Speaking of ‘home,’ are you going to see yours anytime soon?”
The question brought a smile to Emma’s lips. Charity, the caretaker. To some, a bulldozer, to others a tad bossy, but to Emma, the epitome of a God-given friend—honest, caring, and true. An enigma, her great-grandmother had once called her—someone who begrudges fiercely and loves fiercely, which Emma knew to be true. Although, she thought with affection, Charity had certainly mellowed with time. Emma studied her friend now, amazed that Charity’s striking beauty never made her feel less. A deep sense of fondness warmed her heart. Perhaps because Charity’s fierce devotion had always made her feel as if she were so much “more.”
Forever fashionable, Charity wore the pale yellow Elsa Schiaparelli dress well, its daring shoulder pads, bias cut, and belted waist showing off her shapely body to best advantage. Her shallow-brimmed blue straw hat matched both the piping on her dress and her eyes perfectly, swooping low on one side where golden curls peeked out. Born the same year as Emma, Charity was as stunning at thirty-one as when Emma had met her at eighteen. They’d bonded instantly, two penniless clerks who shared an innate loneliness at Shaw’s Emporium in Dublin, forging a friendship that saved Emma’s life—literally and figuratively. It was Charity who’d bound her wounds after Rory had scarred her, and Charity who threatened to quit if Mrs. Shaw fired Emma for those same offensive scars. Without question she was a bold and daring friend who’d convinced her to leave Rory, sparing her a life of degradation and abuse, or worse.
Emma’s thoughts traveled a million miles from the pain of Rory to where she was today—the manager of Charity’s prestigious store, surrounded by people she loved—and wetness stung her eyes. Charity was the sister Emma had never had, the friend with whom she shared and prayed for all the secrets of her soul. Guilt instantly pricked, forcing a lump to Emma’s throat. Well, almost all. Swallowing hard, she pushed the thought from her mind to focus on her best friend. When some had only seen a cool veneer on a pretty face, Emma had seen the vivacious little girl that Charity would always be—desperate to be beautiful and longed for and loved. Emotion thickened in Emma’s throat as her lips tilted into a tender smile. The friend of my heart.
“You haven’t answered me,” Charity said with a cock of her head, bringing Emma back to the moment. “When are you heading home? And keep in mind, Emma Malloy, as owner of this store, I can order you to go.”
Emma sighed and gave Charity a tired smile. “Soon. Although I remember many a night you burned the midnight oil at Shaw’s, ignoring my pleas for you to go home.”
Charity took on a faraway look, a faint smile tugging at her rose-colored lips. “Oh, how I used to love running that store! Which is why I miss my two days a week here so much now that the kids are home for the summer. I guess retail is in our blood, Emma, starting way back in Dublin.” A hint of melancholy laced her tone as she trailed into a stare. “I was happy working at Shaw’s, as I recall, despite all the heartbreak Mitch put me through back then.” A heavy sigh shivered from her lips. “Goodness, that all seems so long ago, doesn’t it?”
“A lifetime, my friend,” Emma said wistfully. She picked up her pen. “And speaking of Mitch, you better get home. He can’t be in a good mood these days with his workload at the Herald. And you’ve said yourself that Henry has a talent for trying one’s patience.”
The edge of Charity’s lips crooked up. “Only mine, it seems. For Mitch he’s a perfect angel, apparently.” She scowled. “Must be my track record with Irish men. All I can say is thank heavens for my sweet twin, Hope Marceline. Can you imagine twins with two of Henry?”
“’Tis the grace of God, for sure, sparing you such a fate,” Emma said with a chuckle. She scrawled her signature to a letter from the stack that Bert had typed today. “Although if anyone could handle it, it would be you.”
“That’s what Mitch always says.” Charity flicked at some lint on her dress and gave her a saucy smile. “Now if I can just learn to handle him.”
Emma grinned. “I thought you had.”
A sigh floated from Charity’s lips. “In my dreams. The man is more bullheaded than me, if that’s even possible.” She eyed Emma as she tugged on her gloves. “I have to go, but before I do, I need to ask you something.”
“What?” Emma signed her name to the next letter and looked up.
Charity swiped her teeth with a glide of her tongue, a nervous habit that told Emma the news wouldn’t be good. She angled to give Charity her full attention.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
The tongue made another pass as Charity sat up straight, fiddling with her gloves. She drew in a deep breath, then dropped her hands in her lap and looked up. “Sean was fired yesterday.”
/>
The pen slipped from Emma’s hand. “What? Why?”
“A misunderstanding involving Rose Kelly, apparently.”
“No . . .” Emma sagged back in her chair with a silent groan. She closed her eyes, remembering their conversation the day of Katie’s wedding. “What happened?” she whispered.
Charity vented a heavy breath, and Emma looked up, the slump of her friend’s shoulders a telling sign. “Well, it seems Mr. Kelly found his daughter conversing with my brother . . .” Charity’s sooty lashes flipped up while her gaze locked with Emma’s. Her lips twisted in a painful smile. “In his lap.”
Heat flooded Emma’s cheeks. “The saints preserve us . . .”
“Yes, well, the saints are going to have to preserve something, because Mother says she’s never seen Sean like this—moody, depressed, quiet.” Charity sighed. “It breaks my heart.”
Emma leaned forward. “I don’t understand—how did it happen? And when? Because I know for a fact Sean had no interest in Rose whatsoever—he told me so at Katie’s wedding.”
“Yesterday. Sean’s not saying a lot, but Mother did manage to pull out that Rose came by to see him, claiming she didn’t love her fiancé. Apparently she kissed him, and when he tried to back away, he stumbled into his chair. The next thing Sean knew, she was in his lap, kissing him senseless.” Charity shuddered. “Dear mother of Job, it sounds like something I would have done.” She glanced up. “Way back when, of course.”
“And Mr. Kelly found them like that? What did he say?”
“Fired Sean on the spot. Even went so far as to accuse him of stealing. Father thinks the whole thing is just a convenient excuse to lighten his payroll, the stingy ol’ miser.”
“Oh, poor Sean.”
“Yes. And the worst part is that Sean has to go back there for two more weeks.”
“What? I thought he was fired?”
“He is, but Mr. Kelly needs Sean to orientate Lester, Mr. Kelly’s shiftless nephew who will take over the store, so he threatened to withhold everyone’s pay if Sean didn’t stay the two weeks. And although Sean would walk out in a heartbeat if it was just his salary at risk, he’d never do that to his employees.” Charity sighed. “Mitch says with the unemployment rate edging 16 percent, it’s going to be pretty rough to find a decent job in any field, much less retail.”