***
Sam hesitated before he silently shut his bedroom door, sorely tempted to fix a hot toddy himself. He had a feeling Marcy’s insomnia was catching tonight, especially with her lying in his sister’s bed a mere room away. Stripping off his shirt, he hung it back in the closet then dropped his trousers and did the same, opting to sleep in nothing but his knee-length underdrawers. There was a definite chill in the air, but you couldn’t prove it by him, not after that kiss. Or kisses, he reminded himself, unable to help feeling a wee bit smug that he’d succeeded with Marcy where Patrick had not. Life-long friends, Patrick and he were closer than brothers, and yet there was a silent rivalry that neither ever acknowledged, although Patrick usually bested him with the ladies. His lips tipped in a faint smile as he slipped into the narrow bed he shared with his five-year-old brother.
Until Marcy.
He cocked his arms behind his neck and grinned at the ceiling, both over the husky, little snorts Max emitted as he snuggled close and the notion that there was finally a woman who’d chosen Sam over Patrick, a rare occurrence, indeed. A veritable blue moon, he thought with a gloat before a niggle of guilt set in, dimming his smile. Patrick was smitten beyond anything Sam had ever seen, and it pained him to be the one to stand in his way and yet, it had been Marcy who had chosen, had it not? Spurning Patrick for the affront of a stolen kiss while all but melting into Sam’s arms? The grin returned, accompanied by a chuckle of wonder and awe.
When Patrick had asked if his intentions with Marcy were honorable, he’d balked, wondering why it even mattered—Marcy was no different than the scores of other women with whom they’d dallied, at least to Sam’s way of thinking. But to Patrick’s? The woman had obviously bewitched him. And yet in the space of several kisses, Sam suddenly knew why. There was a little-girl innocence about her uncommon to the women they squired. A purity and decency that called to the very core of who his mother had raised him to be, a place where faith, family and integrity resided, buried deep by parents who cared. Unlike Patrick, whose home life was not only barren of love and kind words, but of that tenuous thread of faith that still anchored Sam to his roots. Somehow touching Marcy tonight, kissing her, had stirred those very roots, awakening a need for something other than the things he’d sought thus far.
A need for commitment?
Marriage?
He fought the inclination to shiver. The cool of the night settled on his bare chest, chilling him into sobriety. Someday, perhaps, but certainly not for a long, long time. Which definitely posed a problem. Marcy was a woman who deserved more than he’d ever given before—a white picket fence with babies on her lap—and Sam wasn’t willing to go that far just yet. He closed his eyes and exhaled a weary sigh. Which meant he should just leave her be as Patrick had warned. And yet … he could not.
He saw her in his mind’s eye in the shadows of the kitchen, the face of an angel caught by surprise, fragile and quivering in his arms, and the seed of a thought took root. Julie and his mother were always hounding him to seek out “good girls,” the kind of cool, passionless and pious women that always left Sam cold. But a few chaste kisses with Marcy had convinced him that she was anything but, a veritable wellspring of passion just waiting to be tapped. A slow grin made its way across his face. Not only the ideal wife someday, but the ideal way to keep his mother and sister happy until he could say I do. Till then, he’d follow his father’s sage advice to sow wild oats before settling down with one woman.
Exhaling a slow breath, Sam suddenly realized he wanted Marceline Murphy to be that one woman—the one he protected and cared for. His grin faded to soft as he recalled the glow of innocence in her face when he’d kissed her in the kitchen, and for the first time in his life, the need to protect a woman was greater than the need to have her. Somehow, the very idea of staying chaste with Marcy made him feel more like a man than all the sated lust he’d experienced before. While talking with her in the kitchen, certainly his references to family and faith had been calculated based on what Patrick had told him, an effort on his part to soften any resistance to his renegade past. She’d turned Patrick away because of his lack of faith and wild reputation; Sam had no inclination to suffer the same fate. But he’d not expected to want to protect her from his own advances, and yet he did, proving that Marceline Murphy wielded a pull over him unlike any girl he’d ever known.
“Something special,” Patrick had called her, and for the first time Sam understood. He suspected she was a woman who could elevate the lowest of men to the rank of a king, enabling him to scale mountains to become all he could be, something that tempted Sam fiercely. To scale the heights of fidelity like his father finally had with his mother, rising to the peak of happiness with one woman, one wife. Shifting in the narrow bed, he tucked Max to his side with a kiss to his head, enjoying the feeling of holding his little brother close while his lips took a dry slant.
Now … if he just didn’t have an aversion to heights …
Chapter Fourteen
After a final skim of the razor, Patrick wiped the residue of shaving cream from his jaw, not sure he liked the image in the mirror, clean-shaven or no. Working three double shifts this week and several nights at the center were taking their toll, leaving him with shadows of fatigue beneath gray eyes that appeared way too glassy and lifeless. His mouth shifted to the side. At least for a man who was about to spend an evening at Brannigan’s with his best friend and a pretty girl or two.
Unleashing a sigh, he rinsed his razor and put it away before slapping Bay Rum on his face. There was a time when he liked what he saw in the mirror—the chiseled nose, the rock jaw, pale gray eyes that appeared to drive some women wild. He applied Mum deodorant paste under his arms while he assessed his bare chest, arms sculpted with thick muscles still sore from hours of heavy lifting on the dock of the Herald. To most women, his face and form were pleasing, but suddenly those veiled looks from the ladies and obvious flirtations no longer brought him satisfaction. Not when the one woman he wanted saw his good looks as nothing but a curse.
He reached for his clean underwear from the back of the commode and slipped them on. The soft flannel material of the long-legged and long-sleeved union suit soaked up the dampness from his bath while he pondered why Marceline Murphy would take a shine to Sam instead of to him. Certainly his “lust for things of a more carnal nature,” as she had so painfully pointed out, was no different than Sam’s, nor the faith aspect either. As far as Marcy’s distrust of handsome men, although Sam wasn’t what most would call classically good-looking, he had a bold and rugged air that appealed to many, and yet Marcy had said yes to Sam and no to him. Patrick scowled as he buttoned his shirt and put on his trousers. No—morals, faith, and good looks aside—the woman just flat-out didn’t like him, and he’d be dashed if he knew why.
Bam! Bam! “You about done in there?”
Patrick sighed. And she’s not the only one. The edge in his brother’s voice and the fist to the door told him Paul was in one of his moods. He had hoped to be gone by the time his brother got home from his job at the steel mill, but obviously luck wasn’t running his way.
“Give me twenty seconds,” he called, no energy to butt heads with either his brother or father tonight. The scent of coconut oil teased his nostrils as he applied Macassar oil to his damp hair before combing it back in a part on the side, annoyed that the dark curls seemed to have a mind of their own, springing back in a wayward fashion. Rushing lest Paul bludgeon the door again, he quickly fastened his suspenders, then adjusted his tie before slinging his dark wool sack coat over his shoulder.
He opened the door and forced a tight smile. “It’s all yours,” he said casually, attempting to sidle past his younger brother with whom he’d been at odds most of his life. Clearly his father’s favorite, Paul could do no wrong and took every opportunity to make sure Patrick knew it. Of course Patrick was often prone to do the same with Paul’s obvious lack of success with girls, something he knew annoyed his broth
er greatly. Where Patrick had inherited his father’s height and dark curly hair, Paul had inherited their mother’s straight brown hair and slight frame. His face, which usually bore a scowl, might have been handsome if not marred by acne, but between it and his frequent dark moods, he had few friends.
“Smells like a bloomin’ whorehouse in here,” he muttered, shoving Patrick out of the way as he pushed into the bathroom.
“As if you would know,” Patrick mumbled when the door slammed behind him, well aware that Paul was both painfully shy with women and jealous of Patrick’s success with the fairer sex. Taking great care on the stairs, he quietly made his way to the front door, hoping to slip by his parents in the parlour without notice.
“Patrick!”
A silent groan trapped in his throat at the needling sound of his father’s voice. “Have you paid your mother rent for this month?”
Patrick paused, door ajar and head bowed as he sucked in a deep swallow of air. “Not yet, but I will,” he called, knuckles pinched white on the knob. “Tomorrow.”
“No—now! Before you drink it all away.”
Heat stung the back of his neck while he ground his jaw, biting back the sharp retort that sprang to his tongue. His father and he shared a mutual lack of trust that ran as deep as their mutual lack of respect. Slamming the door closed, he strode into the worn parlour where Joseph O’Connor sat like a king in his battered leather wingback chair. Feet propped up on a matching ottoman, he peered over the top of the Boston Herald splayed in his lap, his trademark scowl typically reserved for his eldest son.
Patrick’s eyes flitted to where his mother sat, posture bent as she knit yet another afghan in a house that needed all the warmth it could get. Eyes downcast, she dare not lift her gaze to speak in her son’s defense lest she anger the man who ruled with an iron fist.
Avoiding his father’s critical glare, Patrick fished his wallet from his pocket and hurled several bills onto the coffee table before rounding on his heel to bolt for the door, desperate for escape. The last thing he wanted was another row with his father, something that was becoming increasingly easy to do. He couldn’t afford to live on his own just yet, not with college to save for, and his father knew it, baiting him, barbing him, every chance he got. But, not tonight.
“Don’t you dare turn your back on me, you ungrateful punk!”
Patrick halted, eyes weighting closed with a heavy exhale before he slowly turned at the parlour door, hands shoved in his pocket.
His father hurled the paper aside with that lethal glint in his eye that told Patrick he was looking for a fight. He lumbered to his feet, face pinched above a perfectly tied Windsor knot and buttoned vest. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing all night,” he said in a caustic tone that set Patrick on edge. “Drinking, carousing with the worst kind of women, and God knows what else. If you can spend that kind of money on whores every night of the week, maybe I need to be charging more rent.”
Patrick’s jaw hardened along with the clench of his fists in his pockets, a nerve flickering in his cheek as he struggled to control his temper. His father had been itching to raise his rent for a while now, and Patrick knew it, but he’d be dashed if he’d give him the chance. “I’m saving for college, Pop, you know that. And I’m not spending money every night of the week or on ‘whores.’” He ground the word out, his anger seeping through. “I volunteer at the center several nights and work overtime most of the rest.”
His father grunted. “You think you’re fooling anybody working at that soup kitchen, boy?” He strolled forward to thump several taut fingers on Patrick’s chest, raising Patrick’s blood pressure. “You got your eye on a girl there, is that it? Because I can tell you right now that no decent girl would look twice at a scoundrel like you.” His lips twisted into a sneer, a look Patrick had long become familiar with, at least since high school when he’d finally given up trying to win his father’s approval and respect.
No amount of good grades or obedience seemed to satisfy Joseph O’Connor, not since that fateful day when Patrick had been sent home sick from school mid-day at the age of ten. He’d stumbled in on the upstanding Joseph O’Connor in bed with the next-door neighbor’s flirtatious daughter while Mom was visiting Aunt Rose in New York. Rumors of the daughter’s pregnancy had flown through the parish as quickly as the neighbors had flown from the neighborhood, scarring Patrick’s reputation for years to come. From that moment on, it seemed his father had taken his anger and guilt out on his eldest son until Patrick finally rebelled in high school, battling his father at every turn, their relationship little more than a bomb ticking away. Pop had long since cleaned his life and reputation up, but Patrick’s reckless ways apparently rubbed salt in the man’s wounds, which suited Patrick just fine. Until lately. Now all Patrick wanted was to save money for college, get his degree, then kiss the devil goodbye.
“Don’t bother coming home if you knock some hussy up, you hear?” Pop shoved him with the ball of his hand, and his mother’s gasp echoed in the room, a frail indication of shock that never seemed to make its way into protest or support on Patrick’s behalf.
Patrick staggered back, tendons tight with restraint as his arm wrenched up in a knee-jerk reaction, grinding to a stop before he could ram a fist in his father’s gut. No, I won’t give you the satisfaction, old man. Air sucked through his clenched teeth as he knotted his hands at his sides, satisfied that the dangerous flush on Pop’s face had whooshed into a deathly pale.
“You gonna hit me, boy?” he whispered, a cold glaze of triumph in gray eyes that matched the color of sallow skin. “Go ahead, you worthless punk, because there’s nothing I’d like better than to toss your sorry carcass out into the street. Let’s see how many skirts you can lift when you’re taking all your meals in a soup kitchen.”
Sweat beaded Patrick’s brow from the exertion it took not to bludgeon that unholy smirk off his father’s face, his body literally quivering from the effort.
“Shaking in your boots, are you?” Joseph O’Connor laughed, a sickening grate that complemented the crazed gleam in his eyes. “That’s good, because the fires of hell are licking at your boots if you keep on the way you’re going. And no amount of soup dished out by dirty hands is gonna save you.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Or are you counting on some pretty, little angel to save your worthless hide? Trying to cloak your sins by cozying up to a decent woman, maybe that pretty Murphy girl Father Fitzgibbons introduced as the center’s fundraiser chair?”
The blood drained from Patrick’s face at the mention of Marcy’s name, and his father laughed, the sound so sinister, Patrick may as well be wrestling with the devil.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Pop stepped close enough for Patrick to smell the garlic from the shepherd’s pie Mom fixed for dinner. “You got a hankering for a decent woman, do you now, Patrick? Just aching to get your filthy hands on her, eh? Well, I got news for you, boy, decent women like the Murphy girl would rather die than be caught with a fornicator like you.”
“I’m sorry, Patrick … but I’ve no desire to be involved with a man like you …”
Muscles twitching, Patrick spun on his heel to escape before he did something he’d regret, but his father yanked his collar from behind, thrusting him hard against the wooden frame of the parlour door. Needles of pain splintered his skull.
“Joseph!” His mother found her voice for the first time Patrick could remember, the fear in her tone as thick as the bile coating his tongue.
Rage like Patrick had never known exploded in his brain, and he whirled around to shove his father away with such force, the man’s arms flailed in the air before he hit the ground hard, head crashing against the ornate leg of their brass parlour stove. “A fornicator like me?” he said, eyes bulging with fury, “well, that’s like one step better than an adulterer, isn’t it, Pop?”
His mother screamed and flew to his father’s side as Patrick watched, chest heaving while his temper slowly waned into shock
when his father didn’t rise to his feet. “Pop?” Voice strained, he dropped to his knees. “Pop, I’m sorry—please forgive me …”
“G-get out,” his father whispered, chest pumping raspy air while he lay dazed on the floor, blood oozing from a cut to his head. “You’ll p-pay for this with d-double rent, you no-good punk, and you’ll change your vile w-ways or I’ll kick you out for good, do you hear?”
Patrick stared, sleet slithering through his veins. Sweat beaded his father’s brow and his skin took on an ashen hue that would have alarmed Patrick if he hadn’t been so outraged by the old man’s punishment. A nerve jerked in his cheek while he slowly rose to his feet, too angry to respond as he picked his jacket up off the floor. Teeth clenched, he slammed the front door behind him, a nerve throbbing in his temple. Striding down the walk, he hurled the front gate open. It battered against the white picket fence, which declared a normalcy that was nothing more than façade. A meticulously clean cottage with green painted shutters and manicured bushes, where parlour lights streamed from windows dressed in lacy sheers. The outside all trussed up for the neighbors while the inside was barren of love and caring and the so-called faith his father proclaimed.
He trudged down the street, head down and hands shoved in his pockets while his jacket hung limp over his arm, counting the days until he could finally move out and be on his own. But that took more money than he could make working the docks at the Herald, especially now that he had double rent to pay. It would take moving up in the ranks to copywriter, then reporter, copy editor, news editor and someday, Editor-in Chief of one of the most influential newspapers on the Eastern seaboard. To do that, he needed college under his belt, and he was almost there. Just a few more months of saving and he could enroll in the spring, and from there it was just a matter of time. He could put up with almost anything until then—even a hypocrite who chastised his own flesh and blood for sins he’d committed himself.