“No, honest—”
“Then-let-me-rephrase-that,” he said, articulating each word while he leaned close, face flushed. “Did-you-swing-the-bat-that-broke-Victor-Kincaid’s-jaw?”
Marcy gasped. “Gabe, no . . .”
“It was an accident,” she whimpered, squirming away from his touch.
Patrick folded thick arms across his chest, lip curling in a dubious smile as hard as his tone. “Yes, I’m quite sure it was, just like the tar on Sister Mary Veronica’s chair, the goldfish in the water fountain, and my personal favorite, a snake in the confessional.”
“But he spit at me,” she pleaded, “and I was just trying to scare him, I promise.”
He loomed over her—judge, jury, and executioner of Marcy’s one hope and dream—chest heaving with vindication. “Well, good job, Gabriella Dawn Smith,” he said with a touch of drama, “you not only scared Victor Kincaid, his family, your classmates, and Sister Veronica, you scared the tar out of me. Obviously I’m an inept foster parent raising a hooligan better suited to a detention facility than a family. Consequently, I hope to put the fear of God into you with a detention that will convince you I mean business.” Casting a steely look in Marcy’s direction, Patrick fished his handkerchief from his pocket to swab at the sudden gleam of sweat on his face. “Marceline, you will confiscate Gabe’s stash of Dubble Bubble immediately.”
Gabe’s eyes spanned wide. “B-but f-for how long?” she rasped, her little lip quivering along with Marcy’s.
“Three months, young lady—no Dubble Bubble. And your stash?” He hiked a brow, his gaze as cold as the pit at the bottom of Marcy’s stomach. “To be distributed—when he can chew—to Victor Kincaid.”
“Noooooooo . . .” Gabe’s shrieks split the air as she bolted for the door.
But Patrick was ready for her, halting her dead in her tracks with a cinch of her overalls. “Oh no you don’t,” he said, dragging her to the table. “You will sit right here in this kitchen until your Dubble Bubble is safely hidden.”
She tried to dart away, and Patrick looped strong arms to her waist, chest heaving as he lugged her back to the table. Flopping like that goldfish in the school fountain, she flailed and kicked until the toes of her Keds made contact with Patrick’s shin.
A garbled groan escaped her husband’s throat before he doubled over, allowing Gabe to shoot from his grasp. The little girl spun on her heels. “I hate you!” she screamed, her face near purple as Patrick’s.
Marcy caught her breath, too stricken to move, vaguely aware of Steven and Sean’s presence behind her. The younger cousins stood wide-eyed at the screen door until Emma ushered them away while Charity and Lizzie just stared, zombies rooted to the floor.
In a split-second reaction, Patrick lunged, and Gabe grunted at the door when he hooked her waist again, his breathing heavy from exertion. “Not as much as you will, young lady, when you can’t have Dubble Bubble for a solid year. You’re going to bed right now.”
“Nooooooo!” Gabe bucked like a wildcat thrashing in his arms.
“Patrick, please,” Marcy pleaded, heart racing as she hovered near with a wring of her hands. “Can’t you just send her to her room after dinner for a few days? Along with no Dubble Bubble for three months? A year’s so long, and you know how she loves it . . .”
Face somber, Steven pressed a palm to the swinging door to open it for his father while Sean stepped quietly aside, lips grim and gaze glued to the floor.
“Oh, she’ll go to her room after dinner, all right, Marceline,” Patrick huffed, his breathing ragged and rough. “For a solid two weeks.”
The little girl twisted and dug her teeth into Patrick’s hand, and with a loud howl, he let her slip from his arms.
She attempted to escape through the door, but Steven restrained her in a death-grip hold.
Jaw slack, Patrick held out his hand, panting hard as he stared at blood pooling beneath the skin of a perfectly shaped bite. There was blood in his eyes as well when his gaze slowly rose. He took a step forward, his voice no more than a choked breath. “You will pay for this, Gabriella Dawn, you mark my words. I will—” He stopped. The air seized in Marcy’s throat when he winced, hand clutching his chest.
“Patrick?” She touched his arm, hysteria rising in her voice. “Patrick, what’s wrong?” Please, God, no, not again . . .
He staggered back, his breathing shallow and rough.
“Pop!” In one violent surge of Marcy’s pulse, Steven was at his father’s side. Face ashen, he braced him while everyone else stood frozen in shock. “Sean, give me a hand . . .”
“You’re pinching me,” Gabe said, fidgeting when Charity clamped her arm like a vice.
“Hush, young lady, or I’ll show you what a pinch is all about,” Charity whispered.
Gabe’s eyes widened, and her voice held a tremor. “Is he gonna die?”
“No, honey.” Charity scooped her close, her soothing tone belying the strain in her face.
“Lizzie,” Marcy shouted, “get his nitroglycerin pills! I have extras in the foyer bathroom. In the medicine chest—now, please!”
Lizzie shot from the room while Steven latched a firm hand to his father’s waist. “Where to, Pop?” he said, the strong calm of his voice a stark contrast to the panic in his brother’s face.
“To the parlor on the couch!” Marcy rushed to hold the door while Sean and Steven all but lifted Patrick from the room.
“No . . .” Patrick’s voice was as limp as his body. “To . . . my bed.”
“You’re too weak to climb the stairs!” she shouted. “Take him to the parlor.”
Seizing to a stop, Patrick raised sunken eyes, a hint of Irish burning hot in their depths. “As long . . . as I have a . . . breath, Marceline, I will . . . run my own life—is that clear?”
Marcy smothered a sob and nodded before taking an almost-empty medicine vial from Lizzie’s palm. Hands shaking, she placed one of the pills under Patrick’s tongue before she allowed Steven and Sean to assist him from the room and up the stairs. Her voice was hoarse when she glanced over her shoulder, tears streaming her face. “Charity, put Gabe to bed, please, while I tend to your father, and Lizzie, if you and Emma would be kind enough to put the food away, I’d be most grateful.” A short, pitiful heave broke from her throat. “And pray,” she whispered, her voice cracking along with her heart. “Please . . .” She turned away.
“Wait!” With a wrenching sob, Gabe rushed forward, eyes squeezed shut and skinny arms clutching Marcy’s waist. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. O’Connor, will you forgive me? Please? And can you tell him I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean—” A violent heave swallowed her words.
Marcy bent to embrace her, vision blurred and heart swelling with love for this child she loved like her own. “Oh, darling, of course I forgive you! And Mr. O’Connor will too, you’ll see.” She pried Gabe’s arms away to cup her sodden face. “Now, you pray for that ol’ grump of a man upstairs,” she said. “All right?”
Gabe sniffed and nodded.
“Good girl,” Marcy whispered with a kiss to her hair. “And I’ll just bet if you’re real good, Charity’ll tell you a time or two when her father lost his temper with her, okay?” She glanced at her daughters. “Thank you, both,” she said softly before hurrying to head up the stairs.
His eyes were closed when she entered their room, his once-strong body splayed on top of the covers in bare feet and rumpled clothes, quiet and still. Steven and Sean stood at either side, worry etched deep in their brows. Oh, Lord, put angels around him, Marcy silently prayed, because we all love him so. She moved to where Sean stood and slipped an arm to his waist. “You need to take Emma home,” she whispered. “Steven will be here if I need him.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She pulled away to clutch his hand, her heart wrenching at the fear in his eyes. “Go,” she whispered. “He just needs to rest and let the nitroglycerin take effect. This has happened before, Sean, after he was in the ho
spital, remember? Dr. Williamson said it might from time to time, although your father’s been incident-free since then.” Her heart skipped a beat when her gaze drifted to her husband, who lay deathly still, his breathing slow but steady. Drawing in a deep breath, she steeled her tone to convince herself as well as her son. “Please, take Emma home. She seems tired tonight, Sean, and Steven can handle anything I need.”
“He’s not leaving till I finish annihilating him in chess,” Steven said, a hint of jest in his tone, and Marcy knew he was aware how badly Sean wanted to stay. “Come on, you can check on him before I send you home with your tail between your legs.”
Sean glanced up, a shadow of a smile despite the pallor of his skin. “You’re on. I have enough angst in my gut right now to bury you in your pride, tail and all.” He squeezed Patrick’s hand with a sudden sheen of tears. “Get some rest, Pop, and I’ll take care of this upstart for you.”
Patrick’s eyelids edged up, heavy, as if roused from a deep sleep. A ghost of a smile flickered the corners of his mouth. “Well, then . . . I best get well . . . because that I’d like to see.”
A grin split Sean’s face despite the glaze of moisture in his eyes. “Yes, sir.” He hooked Marcy in a hug before following Steven out. He turned, hand on the knob. “Want it closed?”
“Please.” The tightness in her chest eased when she heard the gentle click of the lock. Kicking her shoes off, she crawled in beside her husband and shimmied over to him, resting her head on his chest while her arm looped his waist. She worked hard to allay his fears and hers with a light tone. “Are you trying to put the fear of God in me, Patrick O’Connor?” she whispered, a hint of his pipe tobacco soothing her senses with its maple and vanilla scent.
She could almost feel his smile. “No, darlin’, just in a wayward child.”
“Well, I’d say you accomplished that and then some. Gabe was downstairs sobbing like a baby.” Marcy paused, the beat of his heart burning in her ears while a piece of paper burned in her pocket. “She wanted me to tell you she was sorry.”
Her cheek rose and fell with the expanse of his chest in a weary sigh. “As am I, darlin’, for losing my temper. I was wrong.” He slowly slipped his arm around her shoulders, giving her a gentle pat. His words carried a touch of levity despite the fatigue in his voice. “About the temper, Marceline, not the discipline. The child needs a firmer hand than we’ve given her.”
No, the child needs your name to know she truly belongs.
“Tonight was a scare for me, Marcy,” he continued, words barely audible, but their message loud and clear, stirring her fears once again.
Oh, Lord, our youth has slipped away . . .
“Heart racing, pressure in my jaw, neck, and shoulders, and throat burning like the devil.” His fingers calmly kneaded her arm, belying the turmoil waged against them tonight. “It was like I couldn’t catch my breath, had no energy, nauseous. When Sister Mary Veronica told me what that girl did . . .” Marcy felt the thick shift of his throat as he swallowed, causing her to do the same. “I . . . felt defeated, betrayed, an old man bested by a child and a failure as a parent.”
His last word spoken ignited a spark of hope, and she lifted her head. “But that’s just it, Patrick, Gabe is not our child and we are not her parents. But if we were—” The dark shadows beneath his eyes halted her midsentence, tears pooling at the prospect of ever losing this man. She cupped his bristled jaw, a tremor invading her words. “Oh, Patrick, I’d be lost without you.”
He drew her back, his hoarse chuckle feathering her hair. “Well, for the moment I’m still alive and kicking, Mrs. O’Connor, so don’t bury me just yet.”
What-ifs pummeled her mind and her eyes squeezed shut while she clutched him with all of her might. “God help me, Patrick, but I love you more than anything in this world.”
“ ‘God help you’ is right, Mrs. O’Connor, because if I had energy for anything other than sleep tonight, I’d be looking for proof.” He shifted, attempting to remove his trousers. “Get my pajamas, will you, darlin’, I’ll be wanting to sleep.”
She jumped up to retrieve his pajamas and helped put them on before tugging the covers back so he could slip under the sheet. He grunted as he tossed the top coverlet away, and that mere effort seemed to totally exhaust him. He dropped back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Thank you, darlin’,” he whispered.
“Can I do anything else, Patrick? Get you a glass of water, bring up the fan, anything?”
An almost imperceptible smile curved the edges of his mouth, although his eyes remained closed. “Stay with me awhile?” he whispered, voice fading to slumber. “I like having you near.”
Her heart leapt in her chest as the pressure of tears stung in her nose. Oh, Patrick . . . Battling her grief, she climbed in beside him, her fear evident in the tight clutch of her hands.
“Marceline,” he said quietly, “I don’t want you to worry. I just forgot.”
She paused, her breathing shallow. “What do you mean you forgot? Forgot what?”
“My pills,” he muttered, his voice groggy. “Forgot to refill the prescription.”
She shot up, eyes wide in the dark. “Your angina medicine? You haven’t been taking it?” Her voice rose to a near shriek. “Sweet mother of Job, for how long?”
His eyelids lifted halfway, a drowsy apology in his gaze. “Two weeks,” he whispered. “Meant to refill, but so busy at work . . .”
Her anger whooshed out as relief took over. Oh, Lord, he’s not getting worse! There was a reason for the attack.
Patrick’s gentle snore broke her reverie, peace settling as lightly as the thin sheet across his body. Lying with him awhile, she finally glanced at the clock on his nightstand, noting an hour had passed since the fateful confrontation with Gabe. She leaned to give him a gentle kiss. “I’ll be back soon, my love,” she whispered. Tiptoeing to the door, she expended all air when it closed behind her. A quick scan of the darkened hall meant Gabe was probably dreaming away and Marcy sighed, relief giving way to a heavy heart. Worry over Patrick’s angina may have lightened, but not over his rift with Gabe.
The soft murmur of her sons and a single light in the parlor indicated Charity and Lizzie had most likely gone home, and Marcy braced the railing, head bowed. With a quivering release of air, she fingered the paper in her pocket, its feel cool to the touch. Like Patrick’s affections for Gabe. The very thought slumped her shoulders, and she put a hand to her eyes. Without Patrick’s signature, Gabe would not be enrolled as an O’Connor, and Marcy fought the sobs rising in her throat until one finally slipped through. Only . . . it didn’t belong to her, she realized, and goose bumps prickled her flesh. Her gaze darted down the hall to Gabe’s closed door, and the breath seized in her lungs as she strained hard to listen.
A whimper. A muffled sob. A heart breaking as thoroughly as hers. With a ragged gasp of air, Marcy flew down the hall and opened Gabe’s door, stomach cramping at the tiny lump that quivered in the bed. “Oh, Gabe,” she whispered, rushing to bundle the little girl in her arms. “Honey, everything’s going to be okay . . .”
“N-no, it’s n-not,” she sobbed, her blotchy face slick with mucous and tears, painful confirmation she’d been weeping a long time. “H-he h-hates m-me.”
Marcy’s throat ached. “No, darling, he doesn’t, I promise. He loves you. We all do!”
She shook her head violently, her frail chest quivering with every heave. “You d-do, but not h-him. H-he d-doesn’t w-want m-me . . .”
Pain lanced Marcy’s heart. “Of course he does,” she soothed, resting her head against Gabe’s, rubbing her back, kissing her hair. “He was just angry, darling, over what you did to the Kincaid boy.” She pulled away to gently tuck a strand of hair over Gabe’s delicate ear. “Why did you do that, Gabe?” she whispered, locking eyes with this daughter she so longed to claim.
Gabe sniffed and swiped at her eyes. “Because he spit at me and called me a street rat.” Her whisper was harsh as she lis
ted into a lifeless stare. “Said I’d always be a street rat nobody really wants. An orphan with no family of my own, no matter who I live with.”
“That’s not true,” Marcy cried, gripping Gabe’s shoulders. “You’re part of our family, Gabe, and I couldn’t love you more if you were my own flesh and blood.”
The staunch little chin quivered as water brimmed in her eyes. “I love you too, Mrs. O’Connor,” she whispered. The scent of Dubble Bubble rose in Marcy’s nostrils as Gabe’s tiny hand patted her cheek, eyes as lost and sad as if she still wandered the streets. “But I’m not family, ma’am. I ain’t nothing more than a lucky foster kid you just happened to take in, and the truth is, sometimes it hurts so much that I . . . ,” a nerve flickered in her cheek, “do things I shouldn’t.” Her skinny chest expanded as she lifted her chin, resolve burning deep in those waterlogged eyes. “But you have my word I’ll try. Try real hard to be the foster kid you want me to be.” Without warning, she lunged into Marcy’s arms. “Because I love you, Mrs. O’Connor,” she cried, “and if I ever had a mom, I’d want her to be just like you.”
Oh, Gabe . . . Marcy’s heart melted as she squeezed the little girl hard, her throat so thick with emotion, she could barely respond. “And I love you, darling,” she whispered, planting a kiss on Gabe’s little, matted head. “As a daughter I’d be so proud to have.” She tugged a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe the tears from Gabe’s face and then held it to her nose so she could blow. Tucking her into bed once again, she prayed with her, then pushed the curls from her brow to bestow a final kiss before leaving the room. “Sleep well, darling,” she said softly, quietly closing the door. With a silent heave, she put her hands to her face, a horrendous pain wrenching inside. Oh, Lord, it isn’t fair! The child needs a family of her own—our family!
Her hands shook as she entered the bathroom and turned on the light, mind racing for a solution. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew the folded adoption application and smoothed it out on the vanity, the contents of her dream blurring before her eyes. This was the paper that could begin the entire process, only the first of many to make Gabe one of their own, to give her a family she truly belonged to. She closed her eyes, and the memory of Gabe’s broken sobs shredded her heart once again, convincing her she had no choice. She needed to begin the process . . . one in which Patrick would have the final say, most assuredly, via his signature on the final document. But . . . not if she didn’t set the wheels in motion first.