Chairs squeaked and clothing rustled as whispers rose and hummed into chatter.
Crack! Sister Francine’s pointer lashed the podium with cool intent, stilling the room into submission as she lanced a group of particularly noisy boys with a deadly glare. “Might I remind you there are a limited number of positions available in all areas, so it would behoove those who truly wish to participate to be on their best behavior.” She pivoted to the side, waving Marcy forward with an impatient twitch of fingers.
With a quick glide of her teeth, Marcy hurried to the front of the stage to join Sister Francine, the leg o' mutton sleeves of her lavender blouse swooshing against her bodice while her heeled shoes clicked across the planked wooden floor. She was quite certain her corset had shrunk several sizes for she could barely draw a breath as she stood with a stiff smile, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield.
Sister continued, tone taut. “Miss Murphy is our chairman this year, and I expect you to give her your fullest cooperation.” For apparent emphasis, she slapped the podium with her stick once again, causing Marcy to jump and the audience to titter. “Anyone who gives this young woman any problems whatsoever will answer directly to me, is that clear?” Sister nodded at Marcy and stepped away, hands clasped while her pointer rested on her formidable stomach.
Marcy cleared her throat. “I’d like to thank each and every one of you for taking the time to be here tonight. If you filled out a form, you should have a number that will be called when it’s your turn to audition. Those applying for volunteer positions will be asked to meet with Father Fitzgibbons in the rectory for a brief interview, and those wishing to audition for a part in the play or choir will remain in the auditorium. As you can see from the overview sheet you received at the door, we have roles for seven adults and eight children in the actual play itself, but we’ll need at least twenty people for the adult choir and twenty for the children’s choir, so please specify your preferences on the sheet.”
Marcy pointed to the right of the stage. “When your number is called, you will bring your completed sheet to Sister Francine and myself in the first row, then enter the stage from the steps on the left. Please advise Miss O’Rourke at the piano if you wish to audition for the choir, the play, or both, and she will provide you with the music and/or a script. You will have approximately twenty seconds to sing or read, and when the whistle sounds, we ask that you exit the stage on the right and quietly return to your seat.” She smiled at the crowd with a lift of brows. “Any questions?” A hand waved in the air from the second row, and Marcy nodded. “Yes?”
“When will we find out if we made it?” a young girl asked.
Marcy’s smile was warm. “Callbacks will be announced at the end of this evening, and those selected will return for a second audition next week. Final cast, choir, and crew will be chosen then and given a rehearsal packet with everything they need to know. Anything else?” She glanced to and fro throughout the auditorium, ignoring Sam and Patrick who grinned at her from where they stood in the back, slanted to the wall with arms folded. “Then, let’s begin.”
Two hours later, Marcy had a headache from off-key singing, slaughtered diction, and Sister’s Francine’s whistle, giving her pause as to her sanity in agreeing to the job as fundraiser chair. Kneading her temple, she glanced up to see a young boy who had auditioned for the cast pushing a small girl in a wheelchair to the front of the stage.
With a scrub of shaggy brown hair, he approached with a solemn smile and a nod of respect. “Sister, Miss Murphy, my name is Nate Phillips, and this here is my sister Holly.” He took another step forward, cap in hand and voice fading to a whisper. “She’s only seven, but Ma asked me to bring her ‘cause, well you see, Holly doesn’t get to do too much on account of she’s crippled, you know, so Ma thought …” His Adam’s apple wobbled several times. “Well, she hoped you’d consider letting Holly audition because of her name and all, seeing it has to do with Christmas and that’s her birthday too.” He leaned in, a glimmer of moisture in his eyes as he twisted his hat with his fingers, voice lowering all the more. “You don’t have to pick her, understand, just let her read and sing ‘cause she’s real good at both, you know, and Ma just thought that alone would be enough to make her happy.”
Marcy blinked, the boy’s face watering into a blur. She swallowed hard to fight a heave, but it was no use, it broke from her lips in a shuddering rasp.
Sister Francine patted her arm and spoke to the boy with a firm lift of her chin. “If your sister took the time to come and audition tonight, young man, then audition she will.” She glanced up at Julie. “Miss O’Rourke, will you please hand this young man both a script and music for his sister, please.”
The young boy, all of twelve, looked as if he might break down and cry himself, jaw aquiver while tears welled in his eyes. “Thank you, Sister,” he whispered, then grabbed Marcy’s hand, shaking it as if he were pumping water for a man dying of thirst. Or maybe a sister … “Bless you, Miss Murphy, and you too, Sister Francine—Holly ain’t never had nothing like this happen to her before, so bless you!” He whirled around and rushed to give Holly a hug, then took the papers that Julie gave him and handed them to her as well. With a squeeze of her shoulders, he stepped aside.
Marcy took a quick swipe at her eyes and leaned forward, awarding Holly the brightest smile she could muster. She noted the faded calico dress the little girl wore that appeared three sizes too big and a pale face that made her appear like a china doll with liquid-brown eyes. “Holly, are you ready to read from the script?”
The little girl nodded, chestnut hair trailing fragile shoulders as she gave Marcy a sweet smile. “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered, her voice so soft and wispy, Marcy worried that no one would be able to hear.
“Start at the beginning, then, sweetheart, reading the script just like you’re that little girl in the play who’s excited about Christmas, all right?”
Holly nodded again and paused … right before she belted out the lines as if they were coming from an entirely different little girl.
“Excellent!” Marcy said with a grin when Holly had finished. “Are you ready to sing, and do you know the Christmas carol, Oh, Holy Night?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Perfect!” Marcy glanced up at the piano. “Julie, let’s try C major, all right?”
Whether it was the fact that it was late and everyone was tired or whether it was the sight of a frail little girl in a wheelchair who longed to be a part of the play, the room stilled to a hush. Marcy’s breath suspended as she waited, the pounding of her own pulse in her ears drowning out Julie’s musical intro. And then, in the sweet and soulful song of a little girl, a steamy and noisy auditorium became the gate of heaven itself as a sound so poignant rose in the room, Marcy had no power over the tears that slipped from her eyes.
For several thudding heartbeats after the last note was sung, the silence was almost painful, an ache in Marcy’s chest over the loss of a voice that had ushered them into the very presence of God. And then, in a blast of applause that swelled to the ceiling, the audience shot to their feet along with Marcy and Sister Francine, dewy-eyed over a delicate little girl who may not be able to walk, but whose voice could soar to the sky.
After a whisper in Sister Francine’s ear and Sister’s subsequent nod, Marcy hurried to give Holly a hug, kneeling to clasp the little girl’s hands in her own. “Holly, that was simply the most beautiful thing we have ever heard,” she said with a sheen in her eyes, “and we want you to know right now, young lady, that not only are we giving you a part in this play, but we want you to sing that very song as well. Would you like that?”
Brown eyes as glossy as Marcy’s blinked back when Holly nodded, her rosebud mouth quivering along with her jaw. “Oh, yes, ma’am,” she whispered, flinging herself into Marcy’s arms with a chuckle that broke into a sob.
Marcy squeezed the little sprite of a thing, eyes closed and heart rejoicing that even now, before this play
came to pass, it was changing lives as Marcy had hoped and prayed. That it wouldn’t just be a mere fundraiser, but a spirit raiser as well, touching people with the grace of God. Jumping to her feet, she hurried to pull two rehearsal packets from Papa’s portfolio and handed them to Holly’s brother, who now stood by her side. “Nate, please give these to your mother so she knows the exact dates Holly and you will need to be here. There’s a full script inside each packet, so you need to practice both of your parts together. You will play the part of Daniel, and Holly will play the part of Sara—” She paused, her eyes softening as they lighted on his sister once again. “No, wait—Holly will play herself.” She glanced up and gave Nate a wink. “Since it is a Christmas play and all.”
He stared, mouth agape before it curved into a silly grin. “Yes, ma’am, and thank you, ma’am!” he gushed, cranking her hand so hard once again, she was sure she’d be sore come morning.
“Why don’t you take Holly home now so you can tell your mother the good news, and no need to come back until the first rehearsal date, all right?”
“Yes, ma’am!” he shouted, and took Marcy by surprise when he bowled her over with a hug that had her grinning ear to ear. She watched Nate wheel his sister away and sighed, returning to her seat next to Sister Francine.
“I’ll tell you what, young lady,” Sister Francine said with a smile that displayed a rare show of tenderness, “it’s moments like this that weaken my resolve to be an old crab.”
Marcy grinned. “It can be our secret if you like, Sister, although it may serve good purpose in keeping your students a wee bit off balance.”
The old nun laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that Marcy—or Sister’s students, she supposed—seldom heard. “I knew I liked you,” she said with a firm pat of Marcy’s arm, “a woman after my own heart.” Her lips tipped off-center. “Which may well be an insult.”
“Not likely, Sister.” Marcy nodded to a group of boys against the wall who were apparently getting antsy and loud. “I’m going to need all the attributes you can spare, I’m afraid, and then some.” She glanced at her gold pendant watch pinned to her blouse and then the handful of audition numbers yet to call. “We best get a move on, I suppose, if we’re going to finish by nine.”
Rising to her feet, she turned to call the next number, a smile tugging when she noticed Sam stretched out in a chair in the back, arms folded and eyes closed. She began to turn, and her gaze collided with Patrick’s, a connection so strong it was as if he willed it, the gray eyes holding her captive for several powerful thuds of her heart. The faintest of tremors quivered her stomach, and she spun around and dropped in her seat so fast she was dizzy, shock stealing the strength from her limbs. No! She would not respond to a man like Patrick O’Connor. Too attractive to be trusted, too used to getting his own way, especially with women. Thoughts of her cousin flashed in her mind, and Marcy’s eyes fluttered closed for the briefest of moments, anger resurging over the injustice of it all. How men like Patrick O’Connor pushed and prodded and promised the moon to a woman like Nora, putting a ring on her finger that became a noose around her neck. Marcy’s heart listed, breaking all over again. A cousin so dear, ruined forever. And all because of a handsome face.
“Thank you, Mrs. Miller,” Sister Francine said and Marcy jolted up, ashamed she’d missed the woman’s audition.
Slipping a peek at the nun beside her, Marcy offered a hesitant smile. “So, what did you think?”
“A definite callback.” Sister scratched a quick notation on her sheet, then rifled through a basket to select the next number. “Mercy me, this has been a long night, but we’re almost done,” she said with a teasing roll of her eyes, “and then we can send the bad ones packing and be done with the lot of them.” She gave Marcy a wink. “Won’t that be nice?”
The bad ones. Marcy blinked, Sam and Patrick coming to mind. Oh, to send them packing and be done with them both! Exhaling a weary breath, Marcy managed a half smile that veered just shy of droll. “Oh, goodness, me, Sister—you have no idea.”
Chapter Seven
“So … what’s your name?”
Hammer in hand, Patrick paused, one nail lodged in his teeth and another positioned against a kitchen cabinet façade while he, Sam, and a few other men built scenery. The smell of sawdust and popcorn filled the noisy auditorium along with thick, humid air from the sweltering summer night. One of the little girls from the play blinked up at him, obviously more interested in pestering him on her break than playing duck, duck, goose with the rest of the kids in the cast. He studied her out of the corner of his eye, her impossibly thick eyeglasses magnifying her hazel eyes at least double in size. His lips quirked, angling the ten-penny nail straight down. “Atrick,” he mumbled, dropping the “P” in the absence of being able to press his lips together.
The little squirt squinted, nose wrinkling almost clear up to her eyes. “What kind of name is that—Aa-a-a-a-aaa-trick?” she said, grinding it out. “Sounds stupid to me.” She slapped a molasses-colored braid over her shoulder like a challenge.
Patrick pounded one nail into the wood, then spit the second into his free hand, righting it in the air. “P-atrick,” he enunciated, popping extra “puh” into the “P.” He placed and buried the nail with a single deafening whack, eyeing her with a slant of a smile. “And you are?”
“Matilda,” she said with a sharp thrust of her pointed little chin. “But my friends call me Tillie.”
He wiped sweat from his forehead with the side of his upper sleeve. “They do, do they? So, what should I call you?”
She cocked her head, assessing him through slivers of golden brown eyes. “You can call me Tillie, I guess, but only ‘cause you’re cute.”
His lips parted in a grin. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”
The little dickens actually blushed. “No you weren’t neither,” she said with a scowl. “Nobody thinks I’m cute.”
He jagged a brow, tucking a nail in his teeth while he fixed another to the wood. “I do.”
“No you don’t.”
Thwack! He drove the nail home and angled to face her, removing the other one from his mouth. “You calling me a liar, Miss—?”
“Dewey. Matilda Dewey.” She jutted her chin even higher. “And you bet I am, mister, ‘cause ain’t nobody ever called me ‘cute’ afore, so you gotta be lyin’.”
Huffing out a sigh, Patrick scratched the back of his neck with the hammer, then peered up beneath slatted lids, his heart going out to the little dickens who couldn’t be a day over six. “Well, I’m not lying, Miss Dewey, and for your information, I happen to know a thing or two about pretty women.”
She folded her arms. “Ha! That proves it. I ain’t no woman yet neither, and I ain’t pretty, leastways not accordin’ to Omer.”
He slacked a hip, hammer loose at his side while he scanned her head to toe, taking in the frayed grayish pinafore he supposed had been white at one time. Underneath, it masked an even more rag-tag calico dress that hung like a scarecrow, hem resting on top of scuffed shoes. Her sleeves were so long, only the tips of dirty fingernails peeked out. She could have been only six, given her small bone structure and slight frame, but her attitude suggested way older, as did cynical eyes that hinted at too much experience with ridicule. He sighed. “A girl is just a woman not fully blossomed yet, Miss Dewey, and it’s easy to see you’re gonna be a pretty one when you’re finally in full bloom.” Hammer in hand, he motioned toward her head. “For instance, take your hair. Sure, it’s in pigtails now, but it’s the color of summer wheat at the edge of dusk, with just a glow of pink about it. And those eyes?” He shook his head as if he had no earthly idea why she couldn’t see what he saw. “Like polished amber, guaranteed to turn more than one male head down the road.”
Her nose rumpled in a scrunch. “What’s amber?”
“Ever see the eyes of a tiger, darlin’?” he asked, face in a squint.
“Nope.”
“Well, they’r
e the prettiest honey gold you ever did see, downright hypnotize a man if he isn’t careful.”
Her face squished again. “What’s hip-no-tize?”
He shifted his weight to the other leg with an exhale as thick as her glasses. “You always ask this many questions?”
“More,” she said, eyes wise beyond her years and all too sober. “Which is why Omer hauls off and whacks me sometimes.”
The hammer suddenly felt like a 2-ton sledge. “Hits you?” he bit out, jaw clenched. “Who the blazes is this moron, anyway?”
She shrugged her shoulders as if getting whacked were an everyday occurrence, and Patrick’s gut felt like he’d swallowed a handful of those blasted ten-penny nails. “Ma’s friend. He don’t like it when I talk too much, so he whacks me.” She pulled up the sleeve of her arm, displaying a rash of ugly bruises from wrist to elbow and beyond, no doubt. “He done this and lots more I cain’t show ya on account of it ain’t proper, but see this?” Finger sliding her neck, she rubbed a whole patch of gray he’d just assumed was dirt, lips pursed as if it were a badge of honor. “Tried to whack my mama, but I spit on his boots, so he throttled me instead,” she said with no little pride. “Hurt like perdition, but at least Mama got away.”
The hammer clunked to the floor when Patrick squatted to his knees, jaw hard but grip soft as he clutched her skinny arms in threadbare sleeves, the feel akin to twigs wrapped in tissue paper. “Why the blazes does your mama let him come around, Tillie? Why doesn’t she just kick the bum out?”
Her tiny rib cage expanded and contracted, deflating like the pride in her eyes. “For crying out loud in a bucket, mister, don’t ya think she tried? But he keeps coming around, drunk as a skunk and ain’t nobody can make him go away.”
A knot jerked in Patrick’s throat as he rose, eyes as steely and pointed as the nails in his pocket. “Can you give this Omer a message for me, darlin’?”