“The name’s Patrick, not ‘sir,’ Luther, so don’t you be giving me airs,” he said with an easy grin. He glanced down at the bowl of soup that was almost empty, then back up at the hollow cheeks of a man who probably owned nothing in life but the clothes on his back. “Another bowl of soup?” he asked, heart tugging at the man’s skeletal frame.
The sun peeked through vacant eyes clouded by poverty. “Yes, sir, Patrick, that would be mighty nice.”
Patrick grinned and nodded toward a long opening that separated the kitchen from the dining hall where Marcy and Julie served soup and bread to a rag-tag parade of poor souls. “How about if I have that pretty blonde over there dish it up for you?” he said with a wink.
Sunlight sparkled in the old man’s eyes, and for a brief moment, Patrick could almost see him as he might have been as a young man. Luther’s grin reached epic proportions that exposed black teeth at the back of his mouth. “I do believe that would make it a might tastier, if you know what I mean.”
Patrick chuckled, gaze flitting to Marcy and back. “Yes, sir, I most certainly do.”
Luther paused, shaggy head cocked. “She your gal, Patrick?”
My gal. His heart twisted at the futility of such a longing as his gaze tracked to where Marcy glowed while she smiled and served a young mother with two small children. He shook his head, his good humor flagging somewhat. “Naw, Luther, that lady is way too good for the likes of me.”
One silver brow jutted up. “Look here, mister, I may be half blind, deaf as a post, and pockets as empty as those dishes on that there tray, but there’s one thing an old coot like me learns on the streets might quick and that’s how to judge the character of a man.” Rheumy blue eyes flitted to Marcy and back before they squinted up at Patrick with a mock scowl. “Yes, sir, one glance, one word, one nod of the noggin—that’s all it takes, and from where I’m sittin’, son, you’re the type of man I’d be right proud to have as a friend.”
Son. Friend. Patrick swallowed hard to fight the sudden sting of tears, shocked at the emotion that swelled in his throat. Oh, to hear those very words from the lips of a father he could never please. But, no, they’d been uttered by a stranger instead, one some people might even discount as a human being. Wiping a palm against clean trousers, Patrick extended his free hand, his smile tight lest it quiver and convey how needy he was for the acceptance of a father. “Patrick Brendan O’Connor, sir, and it’s my extreme pleasure to call you a friend as well, Luther—”
“Tuttle, Luther P. Tuttle, young man,” he said with a surprisingly firm grip for a man so frail and thin. “I’ve been coming to this here soup kitchen for a while now, and I don’t mind tellin’ you, son, you’re a rare sight, indeed.”
Blood broiled Patrick’s face. “I’ll just get that soup for you,” he said quickly, the old man’s words shaming him to the core. A rare sight, indeed. And he wouldn’t be here at all except for what his father called the hooligan behavior of a smart-mouthed punk. He winked at several little girls who gaped as he passed, then unloaded his tray of dirty dishes onto the soapstone counter by the kitchen sink. Snatching a clean bowl from the end of the serving counter where the ladies worked, Patrick placed it on his empty tray and patiently waited for Marcy to finish conversing with a dirty-faced little boy. “Ahem,” he said when she was done, nudging her with the tray.
Sky-blue eyes widened as she glanced over her shoulder, and he couldn’t help but smile when those perfect pink lips parted in surprise. Handing her the bowl, he nodded to where Luther was flashing his toothless grin. “Mr. Luther P. Tuttle humbly requests a second bowl of vegetable beef soup served specifically by you, Miss Murphy.” He leaned close to her ear, voice husky as the scent of lilacs stuttered his pulse. “Don’t look now, Marceline, but I think the gentleman’s smitten.”
Shoulders as stiff as her smile, she plucked the bowl from Patrick’s tray and ladled while she sent Luther a shy nod. “Now, why do I suspect this is your bad influence at play, Mr. O’Connor?” she said under her breath, all the while smiling at Luther.
“Because Luther and I obviously share good taste?” he said, lowering his voice for her ears alone.
Those very ears tinged pink as she handed the soup back. “Here,” she said, clunking a particularly thick end slice of crusty sourdough onto his tray. “You might tell him not to bite off more than he can chew,” she said with a definite smirk that bordered on tease. “And you, Mr. Connor …” One beautiful blonde brow jagged high. “Would do well to follow suit.” She abruptly turned and continued to serve, and he grinned outright when Luther gave him a thumbs up.
Spoon in hand, Luther’s eyes followed Patrick all the way over to his table. “Not real partial to ye, is she, son?” he cackled when Patrick set the steaming bowl of soup before him.
“What do you mean?” Patrick shot a glance Marcy’s way, somewhat encouraged by her obvious tease.
“I mean the woman all but wrinkled her nose, boy, when you butted her with that tray.” He peered up beneath wiry brows, his expression thoughtful. “Appears you have a ways to go to make that little filly your gal.”
“My gal?” Patrick’s smile sloped off-center as he stacked more dirty dishes. “I’ve got news for you, Luther—I’ve got a ways to go before I make that ‘little filly’ my friend.”
Luther swooped into the soup with gusto, eyeing Patrick while he slurped the broth from his spoon. He struggled to bite off a piece of the bread, gumming it a few times before pert near swallowing it whole. “I’d say from the roll of those blue eyes and stiff set of those pretty shoulders, there’s no question that little gal’s got a hankerin’ to give ye a piece of her mind.” A grin split his weathered face, wrinkling it more than his rumpled shirt. He actually winked. “And nothing else, if you know what I mean.” The few teeth he had tore at the bread like a dog tussling a bone. “So, what put the burr in her saddle, son?”
Patrick’s gaze flicked past Luther to the others at his table, satisfied that the noisy kids sitting beside him were too busy squabbling and tossing pieces of crust at each other to pay him much mind. A heavy sigh gusted out as he parked hands low on his hips. “She claims I’m a rogue with one thing on my mind,” he said with a hint of frustration, wondering why on earth he was opening up to some down-and-out cowboy in a Southie soup kitchen. But then, who else was there to talk to? He wasn’t comfortable talking to Sam anymore with his designs on Marcy, nor any of his other friends because his pride was at stake. His brother Paul would only chide him, mocking him unmercifully because he resented Patrick’s easy success with women, and Father Fitz was simply out of the question.
Luther squinted, chomping more bread. “Well, are you?”
“Used to be, I guess,” Patrick said, sending an idle glance Marcy’s way, realizing his thinking had shifted on the subject the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He turned back to Luther, venting with a noisy sigh. “Yeah, I suppose I was, Luther, at least before I saw her. But since?” He shook his head, reaching to wipe the section of table across from Luther with a wet dishrag. “Suddenly I have this crazy desire to be a better person.”
A raspy chuckle rolled from Luther’s lips as he sopped up the remaining soup with what was left of his bread. “Well, then, I’d say you’re in a heap o’ trouble, Patrick Brendan O’Connor, ‘cause that’s what the right gal’ll do for a man—first she lassoes his heart, cleans it up a might, then grows it real big till afore you know it, you’re a-givin’ rather than a-takin’.” He nodded toward Marcy, sourdough rolling around in his cheeks like chaw. “You best not let that one get away, son.”
Patrick’s laugh was harsh. “Yeah, well, it’s a little late for that. The woman despises me and I lost a bet with my best friend who intends to court her now, so the only hope I have is friendship.” He loaded more dirty dishes on his tray from the gaggle of kids who just left and wiped down the table in time for several middle-aged men who sat down. Nodding at the men, Patrick hefted the tray of dishes, giving Luther a thin smile. “Which I
’m hoping will help cool these other feelings I have for the lady.” He gave Luther a salute. “But for now? I’ve got dishes to wash.”
Luther’s laugh crackled. “I wouldn’t count on friendship coolin’ you off any. It can warm a body a whole ‘nuther way than just a-courtin’, if you get my drift.”
Patrick chuckled. “You could be right, Luther, because feelings hot or cold, friendship or dishes—any way I look at it,” he said with a wink, “I’m still in hot water.”
***
“Jewels, quick—over here!” Hiking her navy muslin skirt high above her ankles, Marcy darted away from Sam with a squeal, all but leaping into the air to seize the beanbag Julie shot her way before Patrick could stop her. Wild cheers rose from Mrs. O’Rourke and each of her daughters along with groans from the men and giggles from the girls in a game of keep away in the O’Rourke’s spacious backyard. Sam’s sister Erin and little brother Max whooped and danced in circles while Marcy sprinted across a lawn freshly manicured and mowed by the man who now pursued her. Laughter bubbled up as she glanced behind her, heart slamming against her ribs when Sam lunged for the bag. “Noooo!” She skidded to a sharp stop and ducked away before he could snatch it. “Mrs. O’Rourke!” she screamed and fired the bag to Sam’s mother, not ten feet away.
Mrs. O’Rourke yelped when her husband ambushed her from behind with thick arms to her waist, spinning her around while trying to wrestle the bag from her hand. Fist in a death grip, she squirmed and squealed to get loose, but to no avail. Her younger daughters instantly rushed in to batter their father with giggles and shrieks while he derailed their mother with a kiss. Watching them, Marcy reveled in the joy of family, her wispy exhale drifting in the air along with the scent of fresh-cut grass, sap from the massive pine overhead, and the barbecued chicken Mr. O’Rourke grilled for dinner.
“Papa, no fair!” Julie yelled, making a mad dash to pry the bag from her mother’s hand before her father could steal it away. “Kisses are off limits!”
“Mmm … too bad,” Sam whispered behind Marcy, and she jolted, pulse jumping along with her body when she glanced over her shoulder to see his mischievous grin. He winked and flashed past to join the noisy fray of O’Rourke’s attempting to steal the bag, and Marcy splayed a hand to her chest to slow the sputter of her heart. She grinned when Sam scooped Max up on his shoulders before hooking Julie at the waist just as she stole the bag. “Hold on, Max!” he shouted, whirling his sister in the air to make her dizzy, no doubt, while he bellowed for his father to grab the prize. Fending his wife off, Mr. O’Rourke swooped in to reclaim the win, but his efforts only unleashed a squall of female O’Rourkes, tackling in a breathless blur of laughter and limbs.
Marcy sighed, fighting the melancholy that always descended whenever she witnessed the love and laughter of a large family like the O’Rourkes. She adored her parents with every breath in her, but she would be lying if she denied that Julie’s family was everything she’d ever longed for—a house full of children, siblings to spar and play with, and parents who were clearly in love and made no bones about it. Her parents had a deep love as well, of that she was certain, but a quieter, more private one, with a reserved and gentle father who was clearly not one for public displays of affection.
Marcy chewed the edge of her lip when Mr. O’Rourke tugged Julie’s mother from the fracas to distract her with another sound kiss, leaving Sam, Max, and Patrick to battle Sam’s sisters in pursuit of the bag. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a family like that,” she whispered, ignoring the twinge of guilt that always accompanied this deep-seated desire. Too ashamed to voice her next thought out loud, she allowed her mind to stray to the dream she’d harbored since she’d been a little girl stuck in the pine at the edge of their yard. And, oh, to be part of the O’Rourkes rather than just an outsider looking in …
“Marcy!” Somehow, Julie managed to abscond with the bag while Patrick chased her down, capturing Marcy’s attention when she hurled it her way. Not missing a beat, Marcy launched a full foot in the air, nabbing the bag in a long stretch that landed her on the ground with a grunt and a jolt. Laughing too hard to catch her breath, she gasped when two powerful arms hooked her from behind, twirling her off the ground like Mr. O’Rourke had done with this wife.
“Don’t fight it, Marcy,” Sam whispered in her ear, grappling to remove the bag from her hand as he spun her around. “I aim to steal it away …”
She gulped. Too late. He’d stolen her breath the moment he’d touched her, the scent of lemons making her dizzier than her body while it whirled through the air. With high-pitched squeals, she attempted to dislodge his hold, chest heaving with laughter when he locked a massive hand over hers, capturing both the bag and her attention with a winded warning. “Let it go, Marceline,” he whispered, “or I’ll be forced to employ my father’s tactics.”
“Not … on … your … life … O’Rourke,” she ground out with a breathless giggle, fighting him with everything she had until his words finally registered. His father’s tactics? She felt something nuzzle her neck, and in a ragged beat of her heart, she was paralyzed in his arms, unprepared for the heat that blasted through her at the warm touch of his lips. As if singed by a coal from his father’s grill, she dropped the bag so fast, her legs wobbled when Sam pirated it away, leaving her breathless and weak with a wayward wink.
“The men reign supreme!” he boasted, tossing the bag to Patrick as he looped an arm to Julie’s waist. He deposited a kiss to her cheek, then spun her around once more. “It was a valiant effort, ladies, but that’ll teach you to challenge the men, eh, Miss O’Rourke?”
“Samuel O’Rourke, you put me down this instant!” Julie shouted through her laughter, but Sam only whirled her faster, finally leaving her dizzy and staggering while he pounced to do the same with each of her sisters.
“You’re as bad as your father, young man, you know that?” his mother said in a good-natured scold, her face aglow when her husband curved an arm to her waist.
“And that’s a bad thing?” Mr. O’Rourke said, halting her with a lingering kiss.
Yes, Marcy thought, still feeling the burn of Sam’s lips on her neck.
Sam’s mother playfully pushed her husband away, dodging his hands when he attempted to pull her back. “Only when one cheats in keep away by manhandling the opposition.” She hurried to the kitchen door, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “Next time there will be a no-touch rule—no kisses, no twirls, no distractions—just pure, unadulterated skill, understood?”
“You still won’t win,” Sam said, pitching the beanbag to Max in an impromptu game of catch. “Girls aren’t any good at keep away when they play with men, right Max?” He grinned, catching Marcy off-guard when he lobbed the bag her way.
His jaw fell when she deftly caught it one-handed with a jag of her brow. “Wanna bet?” She tossed it high in the air again, neatly catching it with a sassy smirk. “You obviously haven’t been challenged by the right girls, Mr. O’Rourke, or played fair and square. Because when it comes to playing keep away from rogues such as yourself and Mr. O’Connor?” Marcy shot a smug smile while she linked arms with Julie on their way to the kitchen. “Some of us are better than others.”
Chapter Twelve
“Merciful heavens, what a day!” Stifling a yawn, Marcy rolled a kink from her neck as she pitted the last of the cherries for tomorrow’s cobbler just as Miss Clara pulled a piping hot confection from the cast-iron oven. The moment the warm rush of air infused the kitchen with brown sugar and cinnamon, Patrick and Julie ceased their horseplay while washing dishes at the sink. All eyes—and noses—were held captive by the cobbler in Miss Clara’s hand, even Evan’s, who managed to tear himself away from his beloved bottom lines. Closing her eyes, Marcy took an appreciative sniff. “Goodness, Miss Clara, that cobbler makes me wish I was working the soup kitchen tomorrow instead of helping with Mother’s sewing circle.” On cue, Marcy’s stomach emitted a noisy rumble that warmed her face as much as the oven warm
ed the room.
Miss Clara flopped a potholder on the scarred oak table where Marcy and Evan worked before clunking a bubbling pan of cobbler on top with a grunt. “Well, seems to me that anybody who worked as hard as you young people did today has earned a fine piece of this here cobbler, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Evan?”
Leaning back in his chair with a groan, Evan scratched the back of his neck with the blunt side of a well-worn pencil. “And then some.” Despite facial muscles that appeared to sag from fatigue, he offered Marcy a tired smile. “At this rate, that fundraiser can’t come soon enough. Today was our biggest day since I’ve been here—over 650 meals served.” He huffed out a weary sigh, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m just grateful Father Fitz expanded the dining room on last year’s budget because we’re barely eking by at this point for groceries alone.”
“Now, you just hush up ‘bout money tonight, Mr. Evan,” Miss Clara said with a wave of her hand. She deposited a stack of plates and utensils on the table and started dishing cobbler, her brusque tone a poor mask for the concern in her eyes. “We may not be fancy here, but my mama done taught me how to stretch a dollar when it comes to putting food in a belly, so we’ll be fine till this here angel of mercy fills up them coffers.”
“Mmm … angel of mercy,” Patrick said with a grin, pulling out a chair to seat Julie before claiming his own next to Evan. He leaned in, eyeing Marcy with a glint of tease, pinstripe sleeves rolled to display hard-sculpted arms casually folded on the table. “Dare I hope that extends to more than fundraising?”
“You in need of mercy, Mr. Patrick, is that what I’m hearin’?” Miss Clara plopped a hefty piece of cobbler onto a plate and slid it his way, her affection for the rogue evident in the twinkle of umber eyes.
Marcy fought the inclination to roll hers and gave him a patient smile. “I’m not sure ‘angels,’ are prone to extend mercy to one with a bit of the devil, Mr. O’Connor, but you’re in luck—the Lord requires it of human beings.”