He lifted her chin with the tip of his finger, gaze wary. “Brothers have been known to war over women,” he said quietly, hoping beyond hope that it never came to that between Patrick and him. “And keep in mind a woman has never turned him away, so you’re a challenge, my love. Patrick’s a very competitive man, you know, who’s never lost with a woman before, so when he lost the bet over you—”
“The bet?” she whispered, head tilting.
Gulping down his pride, Sam drew in a sharp breath, not sure if what he was about to reveal would hurt his chances with Marcy or help them. “I know it was wrong, Marcy, but Patrick and I were both so taken with you, that he and I tossed a coin to see which of us would woo you first, and Patrick won the toss—”
She took a step back, jaw gaping in disbelief. “I was a bet? A wager?”
Sam clasped her arms, repentance thick in his tone. “In the beginning yes, but I fell in love with you, Marceline, deeper than I ever dreamed possible, and as God is my witness, I want to make you my wife.” He gently buffed her arms, head ducked and gaze tender. “I only tell you now so you know what a blow it was to Patrick’s pride that you turned him away.” He exhaled slowly. “He’s not a man to accept defeat easily, my love, especially with women. But once my ring is on your finger, he’ll relent, you’ll see.” He bent to deposit a gentle kiss to her cheek before pulling back, contrition etched in his face. “So … am I forgiven?”
He didn’t breathe until he saw the faint curve of her lips, although there was a bit of a scold in her tone. “You’re lucky I’m not adverse to the toss of a coin, Samuel O’Rourke, but it’s best you know right now that I am not a proponent of gambling.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, gently tugging her close, “no gambling in the O’Rourke household, you have my word. Only absolute certainties—such as how I plan to make you happy, my love.” He nuzzled her lips with a goodbye kiss before opening the door and stepping outside. “Good night, Marceline. And save Saturday afternoon for me after the play practice, all right? I think it’s time to scout out some rings.”
“Oh, Sam!” Her face was so aglow that for a brief moment, he almost regretted his plan for a long engagement. He strode down her snowy front steps, tugging up his collar to ward off the cold.
Almost.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Marcy blew her whistle, and all heads pivoted her way as she stood up from her seat next to Sister Francine in the first row to address choir and cast. “Bravo, everyone—this has been your best rehearsal yet!” Her smile tipped into a grin. “Which is good, considering our first show is this weekend. Choir angels, be sure to pick up your costumes from Miss O’Rourke before you leave tonight and everyone—don’t forget we have dress rehearsal at six sharp tomorrow night. Come dressed and ready to go, and principals need to arrive a half hour earlier so Miss O’Rourke and I can make up your faces, all right? Good night, everyone, and thank you.”
Shrieks, giggles, and the rumble of feet stomping down the stage steps filled the auditorium with an almost electric excitement. A veritable adrenaline buzz had everyone feverish with anticipation and so keyed up that Marcy hadn’t slept a decent wink for the last two nights. She slipped her script into Papa’s attaché and snapped it shut, turning to Sister Francine with a shaky expulsion of air and an even shakier smile. “Well, Sister, if we aren’t ready by now, we never will be,” she said with a sudden rush of jitters.
Sister Francine’s deep-throated chuckle helped to ease the tightness in Marcy’s chest. “Goodness, Marceline, if ever a cast was ready, it’s this one.” She gave Marcy’s cheek an affectionate pinch, her beaming moon-shaped face eclipsing Marcy’s worries. “You’ve done a masterful job, and I have no doubt that this will be our finest fundraiser yet.”
Marcy’s smile faded, thoughts of the stolen money stealing her joy.
“There, there, child,” Sister Francine whispered, giving Marcy a powerful hug, “it’s in God’s hands now, remember?”
A frail sigh fluttered from Marcy’s lips before she jutted her chin in a show of confidence. “Yes, it is, Sister, and I thank God for that.”
Sister Francine eyed several boys from the choir who were darting between the rows in a game of tag, then adjusted her habit with a firm tug of meaty hands. “Go home and get some sleep, Marceline,” she ordered, “and I’ll lock up after I rein in a few ruffians.”
Marcy grinned at the shriek of Sister Francine’s whistle, which promptly sent the intended “ruffians” fleeing in all directions as if pursued by the Angel of Death. Shaking her head, she glanced up at the near-empty stage where Julie was distributing the last of the costumes to several giddy angels who appeared as if they might take flight at any moment. “Jewels—you almost ready to go? Sister said she’d lock up.”
“Sure,” Julie called, patting an angel’s head before shuffling her music into a neat pile. She closed the fall board of the piano and hurried down the steps to hook an arm through Marcy’s. “Come on—Evan asked to walk me home, so we have to pick him up at the center.”
Marcy balked. “Oh no, he might want to take you to Robinson’s, so I’ll just walk home alone.”
“You will not,” Julie said with a jut of her jaw. “Sam asked me to make sure Evan or Patrick or somebody walks you home since he had to work tonight, so no argument.”
“It’s not that far, really.” Marcy released a weary sigh while Julie prodded her down the hall and out the door to the courtyard.
“Both Sam and Daddy gave me express orders to have an escort whenever we walk home at night, which only makes sense, and you know it. Goodness, since that young woman was attacked on the North End last month, we can’t be too safe.”
Marcy rolled her eyes while Julie dragged her toward the center where lights glowed through the back windows. “That was outside of a brothel in the North End, for pity’s sake, not a Southie residential neighborhood.” She sighed again when Julie tugged her through the door where Evan had blueprints sprawled all over Miss Clara’s kitchen table while Patrick looked on. Tillie gnawed on a cookie nearby, swinging her legs in a chair while she waited for Patrick to walk her home.
Evan glanced up, his gaze immediately lighting on Julie. “You two are done early,” he said with a pleased smile.
“Sister Francine offered to lock up for us, so we took her up on it.” Julie closed the door with a shiver, cheeks rosy from the cold. She sauntered over to tug on Tillie’s braid before peeking over Evan’s shoulder. “What’s this?” she asked while Marcy hovered at the door, anxious to get home. When Tillie waved, Marcy sent her a wink as Julie squinted at the plans.
Leaning back in his chair, Evan exhaled, pointing at the blueprint he and Patrick had been studying. “We’ve been batting ideas around for future expansion of the center. I’d discussed the possibility of an overnight shelter with Father Fitz, and he asked me to draw up some plans, so I did.” He scratched the back of his head with a pencil. “But it’ll be years before it sees the light of day, I’m afraid.”
“It will, though,” Patrick said, arms folded while he lounged back in his chair, “if I know you, Evan, and probably sooner than you think.” His casual gaze connected with Marcy’s for the briefest of moments, making her feel anything but casual as she quickly plucked off her gloves.
“Absolutely,” she agreed, her cheeks as pink as Julie’s, no doubt, but not from the cold. She hadn’t seen Patrick since he’d comforted her the night the money was stolen, over two weeks ago. The night he told me he was in love with me, she reminded herself, quickly averting her gaze to Evan. “Goodness, Evan, you’ve already made such strides in the short time you’ve been here.”
“Thanks, Marcy.” Evan rose and rolled the blueprints, gaze flicking to Patrick. “And your input has been invaluable, Patrick—thank you. You have so much experience with construction, its seems, so I really appreciate all your time and advice.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Patrick shuffled to his feet and pushed in his chair. “
Well, I best get Tillie home.”
“We’re heading to Robinson’s, so why don’t you join us?” Evan asked, and Marcy inwardly moaned, time at Robinson’s with Julie, Evan and Patrick the last thing she needed. “After all, I owe you one for all the help you’ve been.”
Tillie bounded into the air, cookie crumbs spilling down the front of her patched corduroy jumper. “Yay, Robinson’s!” she shouted in glee, peeking up at Patrick with hope in her eyes. “You promised you’d take me soon, Patrick, remember?”
Patrick tweaked her pigtail with a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, Till, can’t tonight, but soon, I promise.” He slid his coat off the chair and slipped it on, buttoning it with a smile that seemed suddenly stiff, at least to Marcy. “Thanks for the invite, Evan, but I’m meeting friends after I walk Tillie home, so I should head out.”
“Oh, rats,” Tillie mumbled, snitching another cookie from a plate on the counter before allowing Patrick to button up her coat. Cookie clenched in her mouth, she waited patiently while he helped her on with her threadbare gloves, finally twirling a scruffy scarf around her neck.
“Another time, then.” Evan shook Patrick’s hand.
The back door flew open, and a blast of cool air swooshed in along with a ruddy-faced Father Fitz, coatless and chest heaving from his obvious jog to the center. “Sweet chorus of angels, but it’s frigid out there,” he said, quickly closing the door before buffing the arms of his cassock. “But at least that blessed heat wave two days ago has melted most of the snow.” His gaze found Marcy, and he flashed a broad grin. “Ah, just the person I was hoping to find,” he quipped, latching her arm to steer her to the table. “Perhaps you better sit down, young lady.”
The blood in Marcy’s cheeks plummeted all the way to her toes as she stared up at Father Fitz, heart racing as if she were the one who’d just sprinted the courtyard. “What is it, Father?” she breathed, hoping it was good news.
“Only the answer to your prayers, Marceline—and mine.” Bending over, he clasped her shoulder with a firm grip, then gave her a wink. “The money’s been found.”
A gasp popped from Marcy’s lips followed by a high-pitched squeal when she launched to her feet, flinging her arms around his neck in a hug. “Oh, Father, I’m going to cry, I just know it!”
“The saints be praised!” Julie said, as giddy as Marcy. “Where, Father?”
“Well, it seems one of our young ladies found it tonight after play practice during an impromptu game of hide and seek. Buried under a mound of leaves, it was, beneath a bush in a dark corner of the courtyard just outside the center.” He patted Marcy’s back before he chucked a finger to her chin, affection in his smile. “Go home, Marceline, and get some sleep—I suspect your worry over this has robbed you of much-needed slumber.”
Marcy suddenly felt as limp as the egg noodles Mother cooked for dinner, her eyes sparkling with a near sheen of tears despite the fatigue of her body. “Your suspicions would be correct,” she said with a sigh of relief so loud, Father Fitz chuckled.
“Do we have any idea how it got there?” Evan asked.
Father Fitz paused, lips pursed in thought. “No earthly idea, I’m afraid, but perhaps whoever took it hid there and then dropped it by accident or out of fear during that awful snow that finally covered it up. Or perhaps guilt got the best of whomever and they simply buried it there, hoping it would be found after the thaw.” He shrugged his shoulders, then dazzled them with a beatific smile as his gaze honed in on Marcy. “My personal favorite, of course, would be that it was an angel of mercy on a mission from God who heard the fervent prayers of what Mr. Farrell has fondly referred to as our own ‘angel of mercy.’”
“Aye, Father Fitz, hear tell those angels of mercy can be a wee bit clannish,” Patrick said with a smile. “Especially those of Irish descent.”
Father Fitz’s laughter boomed in the kitchen as he made his way to the door, tossing an imp of a smile over his shoulder that would have made a leprechaun proud. “I have heard a rumor to that effect. Well, the money is safely tucked away in the rectory, Marceline, so sleep well, eh? Good night, all.”
“Good night, Father,” Marcy called while the others echoed her farewell.
“Oh, Marcy, I am so relieved!” Julie giggled while she hugged her with all of her might. “This calls for a celebration at Robinson’s.”
Marcy chewed on her lip. “Jewels, don’t be mad, please, but all I want to do is fall into bed, so you and Evan go and enjoy yourselves.”
“Oh, boo,” Julie said with a frown. “Well, all right then, but we’ll walk you home first, won’t we, Evan?”
“Absolutely,” Evan said, pushing in his chair. “It’s no problem at all. I just need to close up here, then we can be on our way.”
Marcy arched a brow, one side of her smile sloping up. “It’s in the opposite direction by at least six blocks, Evan Farrell, so I refuse to let you and Julie waste your time, especially in this weather.” She tugged on her gloves with a determined air. “I’ll be fine.”
“Patrick!” Julie spun around, halting Patrick and Tillie on their way to the door, where Marcy suspected he was hoping for a clean getaway. “Sam made me promise I wouldn’t let Marcy walk home alone, so would you mind walking with her?”
A flush crept up the back of his neck as he turned, his manner way too awkward for an overly confident rake such as himself. A knot dipped in his throat when his gaze met Marcy’s. “Not at all,” he said with a smile that seemed a bit forced. “It’s actually not that far out of our way, right Tillie?”
“Right!” Tillie said with a jut of her little chin. “Then I can swing while you hold my hands.”
“Patrick, seriously—you have plans. I can walk by myself, truly.”
“Absolutely not. Sam would never forgive me, nor would I forgive myself.” He opened the door and inclined his head, brows arched as Tillie bolted into the courtyard to make angels in what was left of the snow. “Shall we?”
She huffed out a sigh and followed Tillie out. “Good night, you two,” she called over her shoulder, tossing Evan and Julie a wry smile. “Be sure to celebrate for me.”
Patrick closed the door behind her, his sudden silence as stiff and foreboding as Miss Clara’s rosebushes in the moonless night—dark, ominous, and rigid with ice.
“Patrick—”
“Marcy—”
Both spoke and stopped at the same time, easing the tension somewhat when Marcy offered a nervous giggle. “Thank you for walking me home,” she said quietly, “especially when I know it’s the last thing you want to do.”
He stared straight ahead, jaw firm and hands in his pockets while he watched Tillie roll around in the snow. “That’s not true—I have no problem walking you home.”
“Don’t you?” She peeked up, his shadowed silhouette as obscure as the gloom of night. Her voice held a touch of tease. “I’ve seen hooligans happier to go with Sister Francine than you with me.”
A faint smile flickered at the edge of his lips as he bent to make a snowball, neatly pitching it at Tillie as she lay, swishing arms and legs in the snow. “That’s because those hooligans are not likely to lose their heart to the likes of Sister Francine,” he muttered.
She felt an ache in her chest despite the jest in his tone.
His smile spanned wide when Tillie sat up to spit out the snow he’d showered her with. “Come on, you little angel, before I clip your wings—we need to get you home.”
“Just one more, Patrick, please?” Bouncing to her feet, Tillie promptly flopped back down a few feet away, flapping her limbs for all she was worth.
Marcy released a frail sigh. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “I never meant—”
“I know.” He exhaled a heavy breath, head lifted as if to watch the clouds of warm air that swirled away. “Any more than I meant to care as much as I do. But you and Sam will be happy, and I’ll survive.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, his smile dull. “And someday soon, I hope, I’ll
be happy for you two as well.”
She nodded, forcing a bright smile when Tillie rejoined them. Grasping their hands, the little dickens proceeded to drag on their arms, giggling when Patrick swooped her up on his shoulders instead.
“You were a godsend the night I discovered the money missing,” she said, anxious to steer the subject away from his feelings. Hurrying to keep up with his long strides, she was grateful Tillie was preoccupied with trying to reach snowy limbs overhead. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there, Patrick, and then you were kind enough to find Sam …”
“Yeah, I’m a real regular guy.” His tone was as flat as his smile.
She chewed on her lip, sneaking a glimpse at his angular profile. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He grunted. “Yeah, well, if you ever needed the man, that was the night.”
“No,” she said carefully, head tilted as she studied him. “Not just for finding him …” She hesitated, a glimmer of tease in her words. “But for dressing him down.”
A shower of snow suddenly rained on them both. “Hey, you little minx,” Patrick bellowed, squeezing Tillie’s leg when she managed to snatch at a bough. The little girl’s giggles rose in the air as Patrick continued to tickle, shooting Marcy a confused glance. “What are you talking about?”
A lump bobbed in her throat. “I’m talking about the bruise to his jaw …” A faint smile tipped the edge of her lips while she dusted snow off Tillie’s leg. “The one that knocked some sense into him.”
His brisk pace suddenly slowed. “He actually told you, then?” he asked, his voice laced with shock before it climbed an octave. “The whole truth about other women?”
Her smile faded and she nodded.
He released a low whistle, the sound piercing the air, which Tillie swiftly mimicked. “I gotta admit, I didn’t think he would, but I’m glad.”