Staring at the bright lights of Brannigan’s down on the next block, he heard its music drifting on the cool night air, inviting him to forget his troubles for yet another evening.
“Don’t bother coming home if you knock some hussy up, you hear?”
Patrick’s facial muscles calcified. “Don’t worry, Pop, I’m not my old man,” he hissed, “I’ve got dreams to go somewhere and be somebody, and I guarantee you, it won’t be with a ‘hussy.’”
Thoughts of Marceline Murphy sifted through his mind like a shaker of salt on the fresh wound his father just inflicted, burning his temper as much as his soul. Since the night he’d made advances, she’d been civil but cool, and although he didn’t blame her, her obvious disapproval continued to fester like an open sore. Squaring his shoulders, he reached for the tarnished brass knob of Brannigan’s front door, the peeling green paint reminding him he needed to strip himself of aspirations for Miss Murphy as well, which he fully intended to do. And once purged, he would find himself a woman just like her in every way—gentle and pure, beautiful and bright, and completely and utterly besotted.
With him.
His smile thinned as he entered the noisy bar, knowing full well he would never find her in the smoky confines of Brannigan’s Pub.
If she even existed at all.
Chapter Fifteen
“Bravo!” Standing before the children’s choir, Marcy clapped wildly, face aglow at how wonderfully they’d performed. Twenty children, ages seven to twelve, stood proudly on risers hand-crafted by Evan, Patrick, and Sam, each and every face radiating the same exhilaration Marcy felt in her own. Only a month and a half into practice, and already everything was falling into place. A sigh floated from her lips. Thank you, Lord!
“You were all wonderful,” she said, “and as a reward, please quietly line up by the door. Sister Francine and Father Fitz will take you to the center for refreshme—”
Her announcement brought cheers and giggles that drowned out the rest of her sentence, and Marcy grinned, unable to keep a smile from her face. The shriek of Sister Francine’s whistle instantly restored calm as she prodded the troops next door to the center with a stern look, her steely gaze in stark contrast to the warm twinkle in Father Fitz’s eyes as he greeted each child at the door. She shook her head and turned to address Julie. “Goodness, Jewels, you’ve done wonders with them in mere weeks.”
Julie beamed, the smile on her face as bright as the shafts of sunlight that bathed the gymnasium with the cozy warmth of a sunny Saturday afternoon. She stood up from her wooden piano bench with a groan, stretching her arms high overhead. “They’re a talented lot, they are, our St. Mary’s youngsters, so I surely can’t take all the credit.” Flexing her fingers, she offered Marcy a teasing grin. “And then, of course, there’s no denying the power of Sister Francine’s whistle.”
Marcy laughed and reached for the script she’d laid on the back of the piano. “Worth its weight in gold, it is, along with Sister Francine herself.” She perused her script, then glanced at the watch pinned to her blue, mutton-sleeved blouse. “We have just enough time to run through the second act with the cast.” Her gaze traveled the noisy auditorium where the play principals sat laughing and chatting, awaiting their turn. Marcy squinted. “Mmm … everybody seems to be here but Tillie and Holly,” she said, brows in a bunch. “I wonder where they could be?”
Julie stood and straightened her music, a lopsided smile on her face. “My guess would be outside with Patrick and Sam. Tillie’s practically Patrick’s shadow these days and now that she’s befriended Holly, so is she.” She walked to the edge of the stage to peek out the windows overlooking the side yard where Patrick and Sam were painting scenery while Tillie and Holly “helped.” Her smile dimmed considerably as she turned back to Marcy. “But to be honest, I think Patrick needs Tillie right now as much as she needs him. I can’t imagine losing one’s father so suddenly like that from a heart attack, and from what Sam told me, just hours after he and Patrick had a horrific fight.” Julie released a fragile sigh. “It’s so hard to believe—here one week, gone the next. Sam said Patrick was devastated even though he and his father were not very close.”
A shiver rattled Marcy’s shoulders, the thought of losing her own father shaking her to the core. “My heart goes out to him for sure,” she said quietly, “especially since Sam mentioned Patrick refuses to talk about it, which is not good. It’s only been two weeks and yet the man acts as if nothing happened. But, God bless him, I suppose everyone grieves in their own way.” She huffed out a heavy breath and gave Julie’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Well, I best drag Tillie and Holly back in,” she said with wink. “I’m questioning how wise it is to let two innocent little girls spend time with boys who can hardly be considered a good influence.”
Mischief glimmered in Julie’s dark eyes as she bumped Marcy’s hip with her own, giving her a tiny pinch. “Probably not, but then neither is it wise for innocent big girls to spend time with boys who can hardly be considered a good influence either, now is it, Marce?”
Heat crept up the back of Marcy’s neck. “W-whatever are you t-talking about?” she whispered, gaze darting to the side door and back.
Julie folded her arms and arched a brow, a smile squirming as she tapped her toe on the wooden stage. “Just exactly when were you planning to tell me—at the wedding?”
Wildfire flamed in Marcy’s cheeks.
Julie’s throaty giggle caressed Marcy’s neck as her friend squeezed her in a tight embrace. “Oh, Marce, I couldn’t be happier that you agreed to go out with Sam—it’s an absolute answer to my prayers.”
“He told you?” Marcy whispered, eyes wide as she held Julie at arm’s length.
“Of course he did!” Julie assessed her with a mock scowl. “What I want to know is why my best friend didn’t?”
Marcy sat down on the bench and pulled Julie along, her voice lowering to a whisper. “I’m sorry, Jewels, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I was going to keep the date or not.”
“Why not?” Julie asked, tone laced with worry. “I have to tell you, I’ve not seen Sam this excited in a long time. He never tells me anything about his dealings with women, but he hunted me down the moment you left after spending the night, just to ply me with questions.”
“Questions?” Marcy blinked. “What kind of questions?”
“What your favorite food is, dessert, flower, color,” she emphasized each point with a back and forth bob of her head, “not to mention your favorite things to do, your favorite books, poets, you name it.”
“He did?” Marcy swallowed the shock in her throat. “But why?”
“Because he’s smitten, you goose, and I just knew he would be.” Julie gave her another fierce hug. “He told me he’s taking you on a picnic and wants everything to be perfect. Oh, Marce, promise you’ll give him a chance, please?”
Marcy’s eyelids fluttered closed over Julie’s shoulder. What was she going to do now? She hadn’t told Julie on purpose because she wasn’t sure she would go and, in fact, after praying about, had decided to cancel. But now? How could she?
“Julie, I don’t know …” she whispered, unwilling to face the joy in her best friend’s eyes. “Sam asked me when I spent the night, yes, but he also …” A lump bobbed in her throat. “Well, he … he kissed me—”
A tiny squeal erupted from Julie’s throat as she shook Marcy’s arms. “You didn’t tell me that—why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Because I was embarrassed and more than a little scared.” She locked eyes with her best friend. “Kissing Sam completely disarmed me, made me forget how I feel about men like him, womanizers who can’t be trusted.” She gulped. “And to be honest, Jewels, his kisses made me feel like I couldn’t be trusted either.”
Julie tipped her head, offering Marcy a smile that was soft with affection. “But this is my brother, Marce, he knows what kind of girl you are and I think he’ll respect that and keep his distance.” A gleam li
t her ebony gaze. “And if he doesn’t, he’ll answer to me because I’ll scratch his eyes out.”
A faint smile shadowed Marcy’s lips. “You will, will you? And what about me? What if I don’t keep my distance?”
“Oh, you will, I have no doubt. I know you too well, Marceline, and my brother has met his match in you, make no mistake. And maybe—just maybe—that match will last a lifetime, and my best friend will become my sister!”
Hope fluttered in Marcy’s heart like a feather, slowly drifting until it lighted as soft as a kiss. Was it possible? Could Sam be the man for me?
“Miss Murphy?”
Marcy’s head jerked up, heat staining her cheeks as if the young girl before her was privy to her thoughts. “Yes, Adelaide?”
The female lead offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but my mother asked me to be home to babysit by four o’clock, so I was wondering if we’d be done by then?”
Taking a quick peek at the watch pinned to her blouse, Marcy flashed a reassuring smile. “Most definitely, Adelaide, and we’ll start right now. If you wouldn’t mind herding the others up to the stage, I’d be most grateful.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Adelaide said, hurrying over to rally the group of principals for the practice.
“So … will you keep the date, then?” Julie asked, a plea in her eyes that said she worried Marcy would say no.
Marcy sighed, exhaling her resignation. “Yes, I will keep the date, but only if you promise to keep me covered in prayer. Your brother has always had a disastrous effect on me, and well you know it.”
Julie giggled. “Yes, but now you have the same effect on him, so between me, prayer, and your will of iron, this should be a walk in the park.” She winked. “Or maybe I should say ‘picnic.’”
“I don’t care what you say, as long as your prayers go along with it.” Marcy glanced at the group of principals chatting on the stage before giving her friend a fond embrace. “Would you mind running scales with the leads while I go hunt down two little girls who seem to have gone astray?”
“Absolutely.” Julie nodded and turned to the group while Marcy made her way down the steps of the stage to march outside where the boys painted scenery, head high and heart hammering. She halted at the door, and her hand fluttered to her throat at the sweet scene before her. Patrick was helping Tillie paint sloppy red hearts on the unfinished scenery that would become a backdrop of a snow-dusted barn. Marcy’s eyes lighted on Sam’s muscled form, and her heart skipped a beat as he worked with Holly. His black curls, damp and wayward, sported a crown of knotted clover stems, obviously fashioned by the girls and a perfect match to a clover necklace strewn around Patrick’s neck. Assisting Holly in applying a stroke of paint, Sam bent to press a kiss to the little girl’s cheek, and Marcy’s legs nearly buckled. Little girls who have gone astray. She swallowed hard and uttered a silent prayer.
Oh, Lord, please don’t let one be me ...
***
“Can we leave our pictures for everyone to see?” Tillie asked, her hazel eyes almost bigger than her tiny body as she blinked up at him behind thick eyeglasses that always brought a tender smile to Patrick’s face.
“Sorry, darlin’,” he said with a tweak of her pigtail, “but if we let these pictures stay, Miss Murphy would box my ears and maybe yours too.” He made her giggle when he pretended to swipe her face, his thumb peeking through his fist as if he had stolen her nose. He leaned close as if to whisper, but his tease was loud and clear. “Our Miss Murphy is one pretty pooch whose bite is definitely worse than her bark.”
“Ahem.”
Patrick spun around, heat crawling inside his collar at the sight of Marcy in the doorway, arms folded and one beautiful brow spiked.
With an awkward shrug, he gave her a lazy grin, steering Tillie in front while he latched hands to her shoulders. “I did say ‘pretty,’ did I not, Tillie?”
Tillie giggled and peered up at Patrick with an elfin grin. “Are you in trouble, Atrick?” she whispered loudly, teasing him with her pet name.
“Yes,” Marcy said with a twitch of a smile. Her eyes seared Patrick within an inch of his life as she propped the door with her backside, arms and palms flush to the wood. Her gaze dropped to Tillie and softened. “And so are you, Miss Dewey, if two little girls I know don’t hightail it to the stage for practice right this minute.”
“Uh-oh, Holly, we’re in trouble,” Tillie said with a giggle. Heaving a grunt, she attempted to push Holly’s wheelchair up a slight incline.
“Hold on there, darlin’,” Patrick said, whisking Tillie up on his shoulders while he quickly commandeered the wheelchair to steer Holly up the ramp.
Marcy halted him with a hand at the door, gaze flitting to Sam. “Sam, would you mind terribly taking the girls in? I need to speak with Patrick.”
Patrick’s blood slowed to a crawl as he stared, his Adam’s apple dipping several times. “Look here, Marcy, I didn’t mean to imply you’re a dog …”
Sam laughed and butted Patrick aside. “Too late, O’Connor—I see an ear-boxing in your future, my friend, although I might just take one myself if administered by this beauty.” He wheeled Holly through the door, allowing his hand to casually brush against Marcy’s as he passed, fingers twining with hers for the briefest of moments. Patrick quickly turned away, Marcy’s reaction—a pretty blush, lowered lashes, shy smile—grating his nerves. He preferred to focus on painting scenery rather than Sam’s obvious effect on the woman of his dreams. Squatting, he proceeded to stir the paint, anxious to get on with the barn backdrop.
“Patrick?”
“Yes?” He stirred the paint too briskly, causing splotches to fly and splatter his arm. His lips ground tight.
“Would you … would you mind facing me, please?” she whispered, the soft proximity of her voice over his shoulder sending shivers of warmth to the tips of his fingers.
Expelling a noisy sigh, he rose and turned with a slack of his hip, prepared to fend off her obvious dislike. “Look, Marcy, I didn’t mean to call you a—” The words locked in his throat at her nearness, a mere two feet away while those blue eyes peered up with genuine warmth instead of her usual polite civility. He swallowed hard, bewitched by the humility of her gaze, the gentle smile on those full, pink lips, hair the color of white gold, gleaming in the sun. The scent of lilac water and Pear’s soap captured him, tangling his tongue—and his stomach—into more knots than the clover necklace Tillie had strung around his neck.
“I know that,” she said quietly. The creamy lines of her throat shifted along with his while the corners of that perfect mouth tipped the barest amount. “Although I suspect you’d be more than justified, with all the snapping and growling I’ve done at you lately.”
He was speechless, unable to prevent the sag of his mouth anymore than he could the erratic thud of his heart.
Her smile blossomed like a rose—pink, soft, and slow—and as breathtaking as a garden of exotic blooms. A delicate blush dusted creamy cheeks as dewy as satin, and just as sensual. “I …” Impossibly long eyelashes the color of dark honey flickered several times as if her words would not come without their gentle prompting. She cleared her throat and exhaled a shaky breath, the action quivering the bodice of a crisp blue blouse the exact shade of her eyes. “The truth is, I owe you an apology, Patrick. I’ve … been somewhat distant and cool to you, I know, and I’m sorry.”
He blinked. She’s apologizing? No! How would he remain aloof without the barrier of her silence? Her disdain? All moisture left his mouth, gluing his words to his tongue like a paintbrush left overnight in a bucket.
His silence must have unnerved her because the color in her face heightened and she began to ramble while she picked at her nails, easing his own anxiety in her presence for the very first time. Rather enjoying that he could fluster her as much as she could him, he waited, which given the fact he was dumbstruck, wasn’t difficult in the least.
“You’ve b-been nothing b-but kind to me,” she stu
ttered. When her eyes finally met his, her face fused as scarlet as the paint on the brush in his hand, the memory of his stolen kiss the night on her porch most likely coming to mind. She quickly looked away, gaze drawn to the haphazard hearts he and Tillie had painted. “The only explanation I have is that I have a dear cousin in New York who was engaged to a man who looked a lot like you, you see, and he broke it off after he … he …”
He detected the barest quiver of her chin, and comprehension dawned as clear as the sun-rich summer day. Yes, suddenly he did see … A sheen marred her luminous gaze, and the sight produced a cramp in his chest. “Marcy—”
She raised a palm, as if her own words begged release as much as the tears in her eyes. “No, please—let me finish because I need you to understand the reason for my rude behavior.”
He nodded, allowing the breath in his lungs to slowly seep out.
Squaring her shoulders, she raised both eyes and chin, meeting his gaze dead-on with a look of such vulnerability that he fought the urge to gather her in his arms. “You see, she loved this man with all of her heart and he … r-robbed her of her v-virtue, leaving her with a child he conveniently claimed was not his.” Her hand shook as she swiped at the single tear trailing her face. “I cannot even begin to convey the depth of my cousin’s humiliation and sorrow …” She promptly took the handkerchief he offered and dabbed at her eyes. “Or mine.”
“Marcy, I’m so sorry—”
She halted him with another hand, brows pinched over closed lids while she struggled to say what she obviously needed to say. “No, Patrick, please—hear me out. This is difficult as it is, but I need you to know just why I’ve been so mistrustful of you.” She sucked in a shaky breath and continued. “Not only did Nora’s situation nearly destroy me, but from the moment I came out in society, it seemed I was besieged by handsome rogues who left me with a bad taste in my mouth.” Her fingers quivered as they shielded her eyes. “The final blow came when an older man made advances to me …” She inhaled deeply, chest expanding and contracting while her hand slumped to her side. Her reluctant gaze finally rose to meet his. “He was a very handsome married man, you see …” Muscles shifted in her throat as tears glimmered in her eyes. “And, unfortunately, the father of my best friend.”