Julie bounced up, slipping Patrick a shy smile. “Sure. Good night, Patrick, Sam.” She hooked an arm to Marcy’s waist and ushered her to the door, shooting a crooked grin over her shoulder. “And come morning, there best be more than a few crumbs of cookies left this time, Patrick O’Connor, you hear?”
He pressed a palm to his heart. “You have my word, Julie O’Rourke, there will be cookies aplenty, even if I have to tie up your brother to do it.”
“It’s good to have you home, Marcy,” Sam called after them, and Patrick couldn’t agree more.
“Thanks, Sam,” she said, her voice fading when she quickly tugged Julie down the hall. “Good night.”
The girls disappeared around the corner, and Patrick dropped back in his chair with a grin that stretched ear to ear. He winked at Sam. “It most certainly is.”
Chapter Four
I will not throw up … I will not throw up ... Marcy pressed a palm to her abdomen as if she could somehow quell her nausea, noting that her knees were knocking along with Julie’s knuckles as her friend rapped on the rectory door. The neighborhood literally shimmered with summer, but Marcy barely noticed, the shrill sound of locusts vibrating the night like her nerves vibrated her body. The scent of honeysuckle and fresh-mown grass drifted in the air along with the melodic laughter of children playing stickball in a neighbor’s yard and hopscotch on the sidewalk. On the church parking lot, a group of men indulged in a new sports rage called basketball where a soccer ball was tossed into half-bushel peach baskets nailed to posts, shouts ringing out when rubber clattered against wood. Young boys hovered to retrieve balls from the closed baskets, little monkeys shimmying up posts much like Marcy’s supper threatened to shimmy up her throat.
Hand to mouth, she stifled a burp, prompting Julie to curl an arm to her waist. “You have nothing to worry about, Marce—I’ve never seen anyone so organized in my life.”
Nothing to worry about? Marcy closed her eyes to swallow the panic in her throat, quite sure her supper was destined for the front of her blue, high-collar blouse. Yes, her notes were all neatly typed with Papa’s trusty Remington in triplicate several times, and audition flyers and scripts were ready to be mimeographed pending Sister Francine’s approval. Julie and she had already begun writing songs for the play, and a tour of the soup kitchen had only stirred their excitement to epic proportions. Her hair was loosely pinned up in the feminine Gibson Girl style for a professional air, and her favorite pale-blue blouse was crisp and comfortable, boosting her confidence because it matched the blue of her eyes. All in all, everything was under control. A reedy breath shuddered from her lips.
Except my feelings for Sam.
After the four of them had talked in the kitchen last Friday night, she and Julie had chatted far into the wee hours of the morning, battling their fascination with two men neither wanted to like. And yet they did, a predicament only exacerbated by Sam and Patrick’s willingness to give of their time. Marcy had been caught off-guard, her barriers compromised by their noble offer, and her heart had roiled in turmoil long after Julie had fallen asleep. And now here she was, stomach aquiver and mouth parched as paste.
“Marcy, Julie—come in, come in!” Father Fitzgibbons’ welcome smile worked like a bromide, and a tenuous breath wavered from her lips when it helped settle her stomach and banish her fear. Ushering them in, he steered them to the parlour where Sister Francine conversed with Evan Farrell, the new director of the St. Mary’s Center of Hope, whom she and Julie had met on the tour. Fresh out of college, Mr. Farrell had won Marcy’s respect immediately with his passion for the poor, devoting his skills and schooling to insure financial solvency for such a charitable cause. He glanced up with a friendly nod and a smile before returning his attention to Sister Francine, who appeared to be engrossed in discussion of the ledger in her lap.
“May I interest you in a lemonade, ladies?” Father Fitz indicated frosty tumblers floating with lemons, and Marcy’s mouth instantly watered.
“Oh, thank you, Father, that would be lovely,” she said, setting Papa’s leather attaché next to the striped love seat where she and Julie sat down. Sipping her lemonade while Julie chatted with Father Fitz, Marcy’s stomach tumbled again, but this time with excitement. Never had she been part of something so important before, so vital to the community, so sanctioned by God, and her anticipation suddenly billowed like the parlour sheers in the warm summer breeze.
“Good evening, Miss Murphy and Miss O’Rourke—I’m excited to hear your plans for our fundraiser.” Sister Francine laid her ledger aside, her moon-shaped face beaming like the sun.
“As am I,” Evan Farrell said, his kind smile making his bookworm face as handsome as Patrick O’Connor’s to Marcy’s way of thinking. He was not as tall or as brawny as the Southie Casanova, but he had a pleasant face with honest blue eyes enhanced by wire-rim glasses and a spray of freckles that gave him a simple air. But thirty minutes spent with Evan at the center, and Marcy knew his intellect was anything but. Valedictorian of his college class, Evan Farrell had bypassed a number of lucrative jobs to serve the poor instead, according to Sister Francine, who spoke as if the man walked on water.
Marcy all but glowed at the prospect of what lay in store for her and the others in this room. The Christmas play was the highlight of St. Mary’s calendar events, a way to reach out to the poor in the community, both financially and spiritually, and a way for her to reconnect with home. To give back to her beloved Southie neighborhood where she hoped to settle down some day and raise a family of her own. Marcy’s throat tightened. Because if the city of New York and the financial Panic of 1893 had taught her anything, it was that when all was said and done, nothing mattered more in life than God and family.
“Shall we begin?” Sister Francine said, the starched flaps of her white cornette headdress dipping when she checked the watch pinned beneath the white bib of her black habit. Marcy’s gaze flicked to the grandfather clock across the room that read 6:59, her heart beating double time. Please, Lord—maybe they won’t show. Calmed by the thought, she hefted Papa’s portfolio into her lap to withdraw her papers. Snapping it closed again, she placed it back on the floor just as the clock chimed seven, relief coursing through her veins. Thank you, God!
Boom, boom, boom. Marcy’s eyelids fluttered closed at the sound of the front-door knocker, her body jolting along with Julie’s. She felt her friend’s gentle squeeze on her arm and opened her eyes to give her a shaky smile. Father Fitz’s thunderous voice filled the foyer, and within three heartbeats, Marcy’s pulse registered double time as Sam O’Rourke strolled into the room.
If one measured by natural beauty, Sam was not a man most would call handsome—nose too long, eyes too dark. And yet … he was. Even as a boy he possessed a dangerous mystery about him, a lazy grin that could capture Marcy in a slow blink of black eyes. He carried a strawboater, as did Patrick, who followed behind in a pin-striped shirt with suspenders and tie. Sam’s white high-collar shirt with a stylish bowtie accentuated the dark shadow of his beard while pushed-up sleeves revealed muscular forearms, one of which was draped with a navy jacket.
“Ah, reinforcements,” Father Fitz said with a cuff of Patrick’s shoulder, directing them to matching gold wing chairs across the way. He offered them drinks, which they gladly accepted before he introduced them to Evan. Personable and polite, they responded to Evan’s questions with grace and Sister Francine’s queries with humor, updating their prior teacher as to their activities since graduation two years ago. Their laughter seemed to fill the room, and although the exchange was brief, it allowed Marcy to study them unaware.
The same charm Julie claimed they exercised with the young women of the Southie neighborhood they now lavished on Sister Francine, the twinkle in her eyes proof that when it came to females, age posed no barrier to their allure. From Patrick’s classic good looks and chiseled features to the rugged recklessness of Sam’s olive skin and aquiline nose, they made an irresistible pair. They were t
ruly a dangerous duo, possessing a presence and aura that went well beyond handsome faces or charismatic personalities, emanating a confidence few men their age could claim. Although both were bright and articulate according to Julie—Patrick excelling in literary studies while Sam was proficient in math—their academic strengths were often offset by a streak of rebellion that wore a path to Father Fitzgibbons’ door.
“Marcy, I trust you’ve gotten reacquainted with these two young men?” Father Fitz said, seating himself on a spare chair absconded from the dining room.
Swallowing hard, Marcy offered a penitent smile. “Yes, Father, and I hope you don’t mind that I invited them tonight, but Sam and Patrick were kind enough to offer their help.”
“Were they, now?” Father Fitz said with an arch of a brow, his pointed look burnishing Patrick’s neck while Sam merely grinned. “Noble and selfless service is a rare commodity indeed, gentlemen, so you are to be commended.” He gave Marcy a nod. “You have the floor, Miss Murphy, and our most ardent attention as well, so by all means—proceed.”
“Thank you, Father, and everyone,” she said with a shy sweep of the room, stuttering when Sam delivered a wink. “I c-can’t t-tell you how excited and honored Julie and I are to be working on this very important project with you, and without further ado, we’ll get right to it.”
Julie rose to hand out copies of the agenda and Marcy nodded her thanks, her hands sweaty as she shuffled her own papers into a neat, little pile, tongue glazing her teeth. With a clear of her throat, she delivered a stiff smile. “Item one on our agenda tonight is to establish a monetary goal for our fundraiser. To do that, Mr. Farrell—”
“Call me Evan, please,” Evan interrupted, his encouraging smile as calming as Father Fitz’s had been upon arrival.
Drawing in a quiet breath, Marcy offered a grateful smile. “Certainly, Evan. As I was saying, Evan has been kind enough to provide me with final figures for last year’s fundraiser as well as a projection of his needs for the upcoming year, which has helped us to establish this year’s goal of ...” Marcy paused, surveying the room with sober eyes. “Eight hundred dollars. Now I know that may seem like a high figure, but Julie and I feel we can accomplish this in a number of new and creative ways over and above the cost of a ticket.
“One …” She ticked the point off with a finger. “By selling punch and cookies donated by the parish before and after the production and during intermission. Two, by circulating flyers at each parish in Boston rather than just in the Southie neighborhood. Three, by utilizing as many parish children as possible, which Julie and I hope to accomplish with a number of choir scenes. Four, by increasing the number of shows from the usual three over one weekend to nightly for a solid week. Five, by selling raffle tickets for prizes donated by our local merchants during the months up to the event, which will not only help advertise it, but build anticipation. And finally …” Marcy said with a conspiratorial lift of her brows, a smile twitching on her lips, “six—printing programs that not only list the names of those who performed in or helped with the play, but any local merchants who donate raffle prizes.” Her smile broke free. “Donors will be listed as ‘Friends of St. Mary’s,’ of course, with a special note of thanks to those who made a fixed-minimum contribution or more to the center.”
Sister Francine unleashed a hearty chuckle. “Bravo, Miss Murphy,” she said with a rousing clap of her hands. “Excellent ideas, just excellent!”
Marcy blushed. “Thank you, Sister. Julie and I have been working on this since you and I spoke last week.”
“Well, it certainly shows, young lady. By all means, continue.”
Adrenaline surging, Marcy dove in to the rest of the plan, so excited she almost forgot Sam and Patrick were still in the room. She explained Julie’s role as musical director to write, teach, and play the music as well as her own duties as overall administrator, drama director, and designing and sewing costumes for the main cast. In record time, she covered audition and rehearsal schedules for cast, choirs, and volunteers who’d handle everything from stage assistance, tearing tickets and ushering, to concessions, set design, and scenery production. At mention of set and scenery, she sent a shy smile in Sam and Patrick’s direction for their willingness to help in those areas in particular.
Edging towards her conclusion, she paused to inhale deeply, her tone almost breathy as she divulged her final point with a skip of her pulse. “But,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “in the end, a Christmas-play fundraiser is only as good as the play itself, which is why I am so excited about the theatrical presentation I am proposing this year, pending committee approval, of course.”
Setting her notes aside, Marcy perched on the edge of her seat, hands clasped in her lap and face surely aglow. “It’s called A Light in the Window, and befitting a neighborhood revered as the heart and soul of Irish America, it’s based on the Irish custom of placing a candle in the window on Christmas Eve through Epiphany to welcome the Holy Family. It’s the story of a poor family of eight whose parents sacrifice to give their children a wonderful Christmas, only to share their meager gifts and food with three unlikely strangers at various times, each responding to the candle of welcome in the window. Grumpy at first over the depletion of their Christmas food and gifts, the children are puzzled to find themselves a wee bit more joyful with each gift given away. When a fourth visitor arrives on Epiphany, they are saddened because they have nothing left to give, but lo and behold, it is an angel from the Lord, sent not to take, but to give, bestowing on them the true gift of Christmas ....” Marcy swallowed hard, the power of the story, as always, eliciting a sting of tears in her eyes. Her smile all but trembled as she peeked around the room. “Christ giving His peace and joy to those who give their hearts to Him and to others, shining bright in a dark world like a light ablaze in the window.” Embarrassed by her reaction, she offered a feeble grin. “Of course, just as the candle is meant to draw strangers as if welcoming the Holy Family, I hope to replicate that same welcome to those who attend our play with fir boughs and candles in each of the auditorium windows.”
Suddenly overcome with emotion, Marcy blinked wide to deflect the threat of more tears. “You see, this is a story in which we, too, can shine our own light of Christ’s love through the windows of our eyes … our hearts … our actions …” Her voice tapered off to a reverent hush as her gaze slowly scanned each face in the room. “At a time and place in history when our own community not only desperately needs it, but the very God we serve ordains it.”
The room was silent, and for a split second, she froze, gaze darting from Father Fitz to Sister Francine. And then all at once, Father Fitz rose to his feet in a resounding ovation in which the others quickly followed suit, swelling her heart with joy despite the discomfort of praise. She glanced at Sam, and he winked again, that pirate grin sending her stomach awhirl. And then her gaze flitted to Patrick, and her breath hitched in her lungs. No smile, no praise, no applause. Just staring with mouth agape and a sober look of respect in eyes she could have sworn held a sheen of moisture. Her heart tipped.
“Oh, you were wonderful,” Julie whispered, stealing her attention with a tight hug.
“Congratulations, young lady, that was a stellar presentation if ever there was.” Evan extended his palm in a hearty shake.
Marcy rose to place her hand in his, offering a wobbly grin. “Thank you, Evan. We certainly couldn’t have done it without you or your passion for the center or the information you provided.”
“Young lady …” Sister Francine approached, towering over Marcy with an imposing breadth and height that surely intimidated students large and small. “I don’t mind telling you that the weight of the world has slipped off my shoulders tonight.” She surprised Marcy with a near-crushing embrace before rattling her with a sound pat on the back. “You are an answer to this old woman’s prayers, and the saints be praised that your father brought you home from New York.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Marcy
said, tugging Julie close to share in the accolades. “But I couldn’t have done it without Julie.”
“Obviously a match made in heaven, ladies.” Father Fitz advanced with a broad smile while Sister Francine dispensed an equally devastating hug to Julie. “I think it would behoove us to meet biweekly here at the rectory for status reports and marching orders from these two dynamos, eh?” Hands clasped to his back, he slanted back on his heels. “Does seven on Tuesdays work for you ladies?”
“Oh, yes, Father, absolutely,” Marcy said while Julie echoed her approval.
“Sister Francine, is that suitable for you and Evan as well?”
Both agreed and Father Fitz nodded, his gaze straying to Sam and Patrick who stood patiently in the background, hands in their pockets. “Gentlemen? I trust that meets with your busy schedules?”
“Yes, sir.” Patrick’s response was immediate, his gaze meeting Marcy’s with an intensity that triggered an odd warmth in her chest.
“Thank you, Patrick.” Father Fitz zeroed in on Sam, one silver brow jagged high. “And you, Mr. O’Rourke?”
Sam hesitated, eyes flicking to Marcy and back. “Some Tuesdays, Father, of course, but I can’t guarantee all as there will be evenings Patrick or I work late at the Herald.”
“Ah, dedication, yes—a commendable trait in an employee, Mr. O’Rourke, as is commitment to a cause as noble as ours. And I have no doubt Arthur Hennessey will feel the same way.” He cocked his head, brows lifted in question. “Would you like me to ask him for you? We’re long overdue for lunch and I’ve been thinking of calling, you see, so I’d be happy to assist.”