Patrick looked at the young man before him and tried very hard to dislike him. He was too good-looking for his own good, too confident and too cocky to suit him. But for all his air of superiority and all the problems he posed to Patrick's peace of mind, Collin was not unlike a similarly cocky Irishman of twenty years past. Before he found the love of a good woman and before he relented to the hand of God in his life. Patrick sighed and put his hand on Collin's shoulder. At his touch, Collin stiffened.
"Nothing?" Patrick's voice was strangely unaffected. "Well, make no mistake about it Collin, I will fight you every step of the way on this, I can promise you that. And I'm very sure you and Charity will do the same. However, my boy, I'm afraid you're forgetting one very important thing." Patrick slapped Collin on the shoulder, then buttoned his coat and headed toward the door.
Curiosity apparently got the best of Collin McGuire as he grabbed Patrick by the arm. "And what might that be, Mr. O'Connor?"
The faint smile on Patrick's lips felt almost peaceful. "Never––and I repeat, never––underestimate the power of a father on his knees." And with that he left, leaving Collin, despite the warmth of the pub, very much out in the cold.
* * *
Patrick entered the dark foyer and glanced at the clock on the parlour mantle. His heart sank––1:07 a.m. The reality of what had taken place tonight settled over him like a shroud, blacker than the gloom of his house as he slowly made his way up the steps. At the top of the stairs, Blarney met him, his tail wagging to let him know someone was glad he was home, even if Marcy wouldn't be. He scratched the dog under the neck for a moment, then peered down the hall at the door of his room. Would Marcy be awake? He hoped not. He desperately needed some hours of sleep before facing her. But face her he would, come morning. The very thought caused his stomach, full of beer and bitter regret, to churn within. As if in a trance, he moved to the bathroom where he quickly washed his face and brushed his teeth before continuing down the hall to their room.
Carefully, Patrick turned the doorknob to his bedroom, cautiously pushing the door ajar. He peered into the dark and strained his eyes until he saw her small form in the bed. She was buried beneath the mound of covers that always occupied her side. Patrick stopped and listened. The faint rhythm of her breathing could be heard, the mountain of covers slowly rising and falling in harmony with the sound. He removed his shoes and trousers, and then his rumpled shirt and tie. He reached for his pajamas from the hook on the wardrobe and put them on. Walking to the nightstand, he poured water from the pitcher into a glass and added a small amount of Marcy's perfumed water. Swishing the concoction in his mouth, he glanced at the bed and swallowed hard. He prayed it would disguise the smell of beer on his breath. Silently, he crossed the room to his side of the bed, gently lifting the covers. Marcy never moved a muscle, except for the imperceptible motion of the covers as they rose and fell. Patrick eased his way into the bed, gradually stretching his legs to the bottom edge. With a silent sigh, he tentatively began to relax, the peace of sleep quickly pulling at the corners of his consciousness.
Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he heard something move. And then, before the escape of sweet sleep could steal him away, she pounced. Her eyes blazed and her fingernails slashed like a cat stabbing its prey. Bolting up in bed, Patrick fended her off, her claws flailing in the dark as she spat whispered screams. He grabbed her wrists and shoved her back on the bed, holding her down as he arched over her, his breathing heavy and erratic.
"Marcy, listen to me, please …"
She sniffed in the air. “Sweet saints, have you been drinking? You reek of smoke and … is that perfume?” He had never seen her eyes so wild. "Let me go, Patrick, let me go!”
Her voice was so shrill, Patrick glanced at the door in alarm. "Marcy, you'll waken the children. Can't we talk, please?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if to make him disappear. "I don't care if I waken the children. Let them see what kind of father they have––a man who stays out all hours of the night doing God knows what! I can't even stand to look at you."
"Marcy, please … I'm sorry. I was wrong, so wrong. Please forgive me. I love you." Patrick's words were coming in short raspy sounds, fraught with repentance.
Marcy's eyelids flew open, the rage unabated. "You love me? You have the nerve to say you love me, and this is how you show it? You go and get drunk and let women fall all over you all night? You know it's funny, Patrick, but that doesn't exactly say ‘love’ to me."
"I am not drunk. I've had a few beers, yes, but I did nothing wrong," Patrick lied, and Marcy seemed to sense it the instant the words were out of his mouth. All at once, as if the wind had been sucked from her, she went limp, a look of pain on her face as tears welled in her eyes.
"You're lying. You … did something tonight, didn't you?" Her voice was barely a whisper. She searched his face as if looking for something, anything to tell her it wasn't true. Patrick lowered his eyes. Marcy wrenched from his grasp, flinching to the other side of the bed. She jumped up, hair tumbling about her nightgown like a banshee. Patrick's heart felt like a boulder in his chest. He got up from the bed and walked toward her, his eyes moist with regret.
Marcy stepped back, her hand in front of her. "No! Don't touch me. I never dreamed you would do … anything …" She seemed at a loss for words, a loss of comprehension.
He stood there, staring with sorrowful eyes. For a moment, she seemed to sway, appearing about to faint. Slowly she moved toward the bed and sat down, as if in a trance, tears streaming freely down her face. Without uttering a word, Patrick quietly sat beside her, attempting to encircle her with his arms. At his touch, she began to pummel him with her fists, a broken wail heaving from her chest. All at once, she collapsed, and her sobs retched against him. With each heave, her frail hand shook, lying limp against his chest. Patrick held her tightly. The sweet scent of lilac soap filled his nostrils, causing his heart to ache for her. He longed to tell her she was everything to him, that no other woman could even come close. That he would be nothing without her by his side, loving him, supporting him. And, yes, despite his many frailties, helping him to be the man God intended him to be. But for the moment, in his abject failure, he remained silent, clutching her until the last whimper subsided.
When they did, he lifted her chin to stare into her swollen eyes. “Marcy, look at me, please. Nothing happened. Yes, it’s true I had a bit too much brew. And yes, I did dance with a woman.” He swallowed hard. “But it meant nothing. Nothing. I turned her away. But I was wrong to go there, wrong to leave you. So wrong. Please forgive me. I was angry. And then the drink, it …it took hold.” He shivered involuntarily, clearing his throat in embarrassment. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Marcy, you have to believe me. Now more than ever, I realize how much you mean to me. How much I need you.” A lump formed in his throat, forcing his voice to crack.
She remained limp in his arms, and so he caressed her face with his lips. He whispered his sorrow, telling her he loved her, cherished her, needed her. His lips brushed against hers, and he could feel the fire of his passion burn deep inside. With renewed intensity, he kissed her again. He felt her relent with a startling hunger of her own. Sweeping her up in his arms, he laid her gently on the bed, his lips never wavering from the sweetness of her mouth. In one beat of his heart, he was overcome with love for her. An intense rush of emotion flooded his soul for this woman who possessed his heart so completely. He stroked her face, her neck, her arms with such impassioned tenderness that a soft moan escaped her lips.
"Marcy, I love you,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, “more than life itself."
She met his mouth violently with her own, and he knew in that one action, she forgave, allowing the intensity of their love to carry them away.
Julie Lessman, A Light in the Window
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