The whites of Father’s eyes expanded. “But not Sam’s?”
“Apparently not.”
“I see.” He paused, lips pursed in thought. “This girl in question wouldn’t by chance be Marceline Murphy, would it?”
Patrick’s heart sank at the mere mention of her name. “It would, sir.”
Father Fitz nodded, sloping back in his chair. “And you’re miserable.”
“No, sir,” Patrick said with a sick feeling in his chest, “I’m devastated. Because somewhere deep inside … I actually thought …” He swallowed a knot of emotion. “Hoped, really, that she was the one.”
“The one …” Father Fitz said carefully, “as in marriage?”
Patrick nodded slowly, not the slightest doubt in his mind.
“Then go after her.”
He glanced up, his heart stalling at the meaning of Father Fitz’s words. “I can’t. She’s chosen Sam, not me, and he’s my best friend. And to be honest …” His heavy exhale signaled his resignation. “She’s something special, Father, and I’m not.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. O’Connor,” Father Fitz said, brushing a streak of dirt from his sleeve. “You are what I refer to as a diamond in the rough. A young man lost on his way to respectability.” Father Fitz paused, eyes in a squint. “Does Sam feel about Marcy the way you do?”
The question caught Patrick by surprise, giving him pause. Did he? “I’m not sure.”
“Well, then, let’s put it this way. As far as putting Marcy’s best interests at heart—are his intentions as honorable as yours?”
“Since when, Patrick, are my intentions ever honorable?” Sam’s statement the night they’d left Brannigan’s circled in his brain, twisting Patrick’s gut, clenching his teeth. “I’m not sure,” he whispered.
“Yes, you are, or that tic wouldn’t be pulsing in your cheek.” The priest folded his hands on his chest, eyeing Patrick with a sharp gaze. “Have you considered forging a friendship with the woman and then praying for more?”
Patrick’s jaw dropped as if the man had just suggested entering the seminary. “Pardon me?”
Father Fitz chuckled. “It’s not as far-fetched as you think, my boy. Marcy is a very prayerful woman. What better way to win her heart than through friendship and prayer?”
It was Patrick’s turn to laugh. “Come on, Father, do you really think God would listen to me any more than Marcy did?”
Father Fitz studied him with a faint smile. “Actually, Patrick, He has a propensity for prayers uttered from the heart, especially when one bows his knee at His throne.” He squinted, scratching the edge of his chin. “Tends to be a wee bit partial, He does, to a man after His own heart as I recall. Just look at King David in the Bible—a bit of a rogue such as yourself, lusting after another man’s wife, and yet God called him ‘a man after His own heart.’ Why?” Father Fitz leaned in, his gaze pinning Patrick to the wall. “Because he repented of his sins and moved on to be the man God called him to be—a man who not only lives his life for God, mind you … but with Him.” He slowly leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving Patrick’s face. “Something tells me, my boy, that before a man can truly win the heart of a woman like Marceline Murphy, his own heart must be aligned with God’s. So … if this young woman means to you all you say she does …”
A nerve twittered in Patrick’s temple. “She does.”
“Well, then, I would think you’d want to hedge your bets with a chat or two with the Almighty, wouldn’t you?”
Patrick stared, the possibility of prayer working on his behalf with Marcy as foreign as a woman’s rejection. And yet … the very notion fanned the faintest glimmer of hope in his soul. He peered up, his words as thick as his tongue while his heart thudded slow and hard in his chest. “Do you … think with prayer, Father … I have even the slightest chance to win her heart?”
A sparkle gleamed in the priest’s eyes that matched the peaceful smile on his lips. “Actually, Mr. O’Connor, I’m of the opinion that you don’t have the slightest chance without it.”
Patrick’s heart began to pound, the prospect of winning Marcy’s heart buoying his spirits for the first time in weeks. He hesitated while his pulse slowed to a crawl. “But what if it doesn’t work? What if God says no?”
Father Fitz assessed him through patient eyes, his affection evident in the warmth of his tone. “Then either way, I suspect you’ll encounter a peace unlike any you’ve experienced before because that, my boy, is a by-product of faith … and prayer.”
“Peace?” Patrick shook his head, his smile clearly laced with doubt. “I’m not sure I’d even know what that is.”
“It’s a mantle of hope, my boy, no matter the circumstances. A cloak of rest that settles the soul. Unshakable calm in the midst of a storm.” He slanted in, hazel eyes almost gleaming with a passion Patrick had only seen one other time—in the gaze of one Marceline Murphy. “It’s something that can only deepen with a true faith in God, Patrick, and you mark my words—a true faith in God will not only save your soul, but your very life from destruction, unleashing untold blessings in His name. Pursue Him, my boy, and then pursue your young woman, but do it in prayer and obedience to God. Because His blessings don’t depend on the whim of a toss or the roll of a dice, but flourish in the fertile soil of faith and obedience.”
“Faith and obedience,” Patrick whispered, the words a mystery he did not understand. He thought of his father’s fraudulent faith and wanted nothing to do with it, and yet … something honest and real rang true in the words of both Father Fitz and Marcy. Glancing up, he squinted at the priest who was not only a mentor and friend, but one of the few men he actually respected. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he said quietly, and his unsteady words brought a dazzling smile to Father Fitz’s face.
“Ah, but that’s where the experience of a doddering, old priest comes in quite handy, Mr. O’Connor, because I happen to be privy to the very first step.” Reclining in his leather chair, he girded his hands behind his neck and grinned, giving Patrick a wink. “Brace yourself, my boy, for one of the keys to true happiness—it’s called ‘prayer.’”
Chapter Eighteen
Wrinkling her nose at the musty smell of the downstairs church storeroom, Marcy peered into the dark closet, holding her carbide gas lantern high enough to scour the third shelf for the Advent wreath Sister Francine asked her to fetch. Spider webs and mouse droppings did not lend a cozy feeling as she slapped at the back of the lace fluted collar of her fitted cream blouse, feeling a tickle she hoped was her imagination. Setting the lantern down on the floor, she buffed her full mutton sleeves and continued to browse until she spied the wreath on the third shelf.
Something warm feathered her neck and she jumped, whirling around with a squeak. Heart in her throat, she whacked a shaky hand to a rock-hard chest, the sight of Sam O’Rourke looming in the shadows doing nothing for her composure. “Sam O’Rourke, you scared me half to—”
His lips effectively silenced her until the thought that someone might catch them suddenly jolted, and Marcy quickly pushed him away. “I-am-going-to-box-your ears,” she said in a fractured whisper as breathless as she, failing in her attempt to dislodge his hands from her waist.
His low chuckle tickled her neck as his lips fondled the soft flesh of her ear. “I’d rather you focus on my mouth than my ears, Marceline,” he said in a husky tone, then promptly muzzled her with another kiss.
“Do you need help finding it, Miss Murphy?” Sister Francine’s distant shout filtered down the stairs into the dimly lit hall.
“No!” All blood drained from her face as she swatted at Sam’s hands on the way to the door. “I’ll be right there,” she called, grateful when Sister nodded and disappeared. Marcy spun around, two palms flat to Sam’s chest. “Sam O’Rourke, so help me—”
He squelched all protest with another kiss, hands sliding the length of her waist to slope the curve of her hip. “I am trying to help y
ou, Marcy,” he whispered with a chuckle, “but you’re not making this easy.”
Breathless, she shoved him away, chest heaving as she plunked her hands on her hips. “For the love of decency, what is wrong with you? You’ve been a perfect gentleman until now, but so help me if you pull another stunt like this, you’ll crawl out of this closet with a black eye, is that clear?”
His teeth flashed white in the shadowed light, sparkling as much as the gleam in his eyes. “My apologies, Miss Murphy, but I’m not responsible for my actions when I have you alone in the dark.”
She batted him away, snatching the lantern up and holding it out. Using it as a barrier, she pointed to a shelf where a pinecone Advent wreath sat in a shallow box. “Make yourself useful, you scamp, and hand me that box, then tell me—please—that no one saw you come downstairs.”
“I assure you, no one knows I’m here except for Julie, who told me where you were.” He kissed her on the nose and reached for the wreath. “I slipped down the stairs while Sister Francine was ranting at several young ruffians from the choir.”
“B-but, what are you doing here? I thought you had to work t-tonight,” she stammered, well aware that a dark closet was no place to be alone with Sam O’Rourke.
“I do, but I needed the sustenance of your lips, Marceline, to help me get through the long night.” He turned around, box in hand, and she immediately bolted from the storage room while he followed, closing the door behind him.
Petrified someone would come down the steps, Marcy hurried down the hall, shooting a strained smile over her shoulder. “Well, those stolen kisses will have to hold you for a good long while, mister, because you are officially on probation for ungentlemanly conduct, is that understood?”
He sauntered behind her with a grin on his face. “Yes, ma’am, but it was definitely worth it.”
She wheeled around at the bottom of the staircase, chin in a jut. “I’ll take that box now, if you please, and you, sir, will stay down here for a good five minutes until I am back up on the stage directing the rehearsal, is that clear?”
“Have I ever told you how cute you are when you’re bossy?” he teased, handing the box over with a quick kiss to her nose.
“I am not bossy,” she said with a mock indignant air, lowering her voice to a whisper, “except with a certain person who has trouble keeping his hands—and his lips—to himself.” She skittered up the steps with a giggle before he could deposit yet another kiss. “Good night, Mr. O’Rourke,” she called at the top of the stairs.
“Till Saturday night, Miss Murphy,” Sam said with a bow. “Seven sharp.”
Shaking her head, Marcy smiled as she slipped through the door, carefully closing it while she made a mental note to avoid being alone with Sam. Face and body flushed, she halted at the back of the bustling auditorium to reposition the box in her hands when a baby’s plaintive cry reached her ears, instantly clutching her heart. Maternal instincts swelled, and she swiftly honed in, marching to a row of chairs where sweet Carrie Pagels was frantically patting her baby sister’s back. Carrie stared at her with wide eyes and red cheeks, clear evidence of her embarrassment over the ruckus her sister was making. “I’m so sorry, Miss Murphy,” she stammered, “but Mama had to see Father Fitz for a few minutes, and Cassandra Rose won’t stop hollering.”
“Here, let me try, sweetheart.” Marcy offered a sympathetic smile, adrenaline coursing her veins at the mere thought of holding a baby. She placed the box on a folding chair and scooped little Cassandra Rose into her arms, body thrumming as if it were Christmas morning. “I’ll just bet you’re hungry or teething or both, aren’t you, little one?” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the little girl’s sodden cheek before she started to pace, bouncing the baby in her arms. Cassandra Rose continued to howl, and Marcy spied a wet washrag peeking out of Carrie’s open satchel nearby. She nodded to it. “Hand me that wet rag, Carrie, do you mind?”
With lightning speed, Carrie handed the rag over, and Marcy quickly cleaned her hand before placing her finger in the baby’s mouth to massage her gums, cooing as she soothed with a tender smile. The little tyke immediately hushed, bright blue eyes swimming with tears as she blinked up at Marcy.
“You did it, Miss Murphy,” Carrie announced with a shout of pride and Marcy laughed and looked up, her gaze snagged by Patrick’s stare from across the gym. He was watching her from the open side door where he was obviously taking a break from building a wooden sleigh. His serious gray eyes seemed to weld her to the spot while a gentle smile shadowed his lips. The intensity of his look caused a strange stir in her belly, and when it merged with the joy of holding a baby in her arms, heat immediately pulsed in her cheeks. Eyes fused to hers, he cocked a hip to the jamb while he slowly took a drink from a water jug, throat glugging as he continued to stare.
The connection was broken when Carrie’s mother hurried up, apologies tumbling from her lips. “Oh, Miss Murphy—Cassandra Rose wasn’t crying, was she?”
Marcy held the baby close, heart melting when the infant’s glossy blue eyes lumbered closed, her rosebud mouth gently sucking on Marcy’s finger. Fighting a sting of disappointment at Mrs. Pagels’ return, Marcy handed the sleeping child over to her mother, her arms keenly feeling the loss. “Just a wee bit, Mrs. Pagels,” she said, gently stroking the baby’s cheek before tweaking Carrie’s neck, “but nothing we couldn’t handle.”
“Marcy?”
She turned to the stage where Julie waved a script in her hand. “We have a slight problem.”
“Coming,” Marcy called over her shoulder. She bent to give Carrie a hug. “Cassandra Rose is lucky to have a big sister like you, Carrie, you know that?”
“Gee, thanks, Miss Murphy!”
Saying her goodbyes, Marcy grabbed the box and hurried toward the stage, giving Patrick a quick nod before she skittered up the steps to where Julie stood with arms crossed. “Hate to break it to you, Marce, but Peter Martin has the flu.”
“Oh, fiddle.” Marcy frowned as she set the box aside. “Is Clyde Donaldson here, then, his understudy?”
“Nope. Sister Francine told me Clyde’s out of town for his grandfather’s funeral.”
“Oh, drat,” Marcy muttered, scanning the auditorium for a temporary replacement. She sighed, wishing she hadn’t cut the adult choir practice short to focus on the second act. Consequently, male attendance was sparse, with only the children’s choir present for costume measurements, mothers and toddlers chatting in the back of the auditorium, and the principals sitting on the edge of the stage, waiting to begin. Marcy’s eyes honed in on Patrick, still propped in the door while he upended the jug. He swiped his face with the rolled-up sleeve of an open-necked work shirt and set the jug down before turning to go.
Marcy darted to the front of the stage. “Patrick!”
He glanced over his shoulder, and her teeth tugged at her sheepish smile while she shot him a pleading gaze. “I need you …”
A boyish grin stole across his lips as he sauntered back in, hands in his pockets and mischief in his tone. “I knew it was only a matter of time, Marceline,” he teased. Approaching the stage, he latched his thumbs in his trouser pockets while one thick brow angled high, gray eyes twinkling with humor. “At your service, Miss Murphy—how may I assist?”
Flustered, Marcy wrung the script in her hands with a nervous glaze of her teeth. “P-Peter M-martin has the flu and Clyde’s grandfather died,” she blurted.
Tone somber, the edges of his mouth flickered as if fighting a smile. “My condolences.”
Brows inching into a plea, she implored him with a pitiful look. “I need you to stand in, to play the father’s role, just for tonight. Could you—would you?”
His eyes softened. “For you? Anything.”
Relief whooshed from her lungs as she waved him up the stairs and handed him a script. “Oh, bless you!” she said, hooking his arm to drag him to an easy chair. “This is a scene on Christmas Eve where this poor family has almost no gifts and v
ery little food, but their home is full of love.” She pointed to his lines in the script. “You play the father, obviously—Jeremiah Brennan—and the scene begins with you reading the paper. A blizzard has the family housebound and the children are getting antsy, so you ask your wife—” She nodded to Adelaide, who sat wide-eyed in a rocker, face as pale as the snow-white knitting bunched in her lap, “to dance while your son plays the fiddle. It’s a very tender scene that ends with a gentle kiss just before a stranger knocks on the door.” She glanced up and smiled. “See? Not too difficult.”
“What if I don’t dance?” he asked, the sobriety of his tone giving her pause. He chuckled and gave her a wink. “Now, really, Marceline, would a true rogue not know how to dance?”
A smile twitched on her lips. “Then you must be quite good,” she said with a spry tilt of her head.
He leaned close, his whisper brimming with fun. “Aye, and quite adept with a kiss.”
Heat swarmed her cheeks as she wheeled around and clapped her hands. “Everyone, Patrick has graciously agreed to fill in for Peter tonight, so let’s help him along, all right? Please take your places.” She scurried over to position Holly’s wheelchair at just the right angle by the painted wooden hearth that Patrick had made. Planting a kiss on the little girl’s cheek, she tweaked Tillie’s pigtail on her way down the stairs to sit in the first row with Julie.
“Lucky Adelaide,” Julie whispered. “Sure wish she were out of town so I could fill in for her.” Her smile turned impish as she nudged Marcy’s arm with an elbow. “Just once I’d like to find out what it would be like to be kissed by Patrick O’Connor ...”
“It’s a kiss on the cheek, Julie,” Marcy reminded patiently, anxious to downplay the flutters in her chest over memories of his stolen kiss.
“I don’t care if it’s a kiss on my elbow,” she said with a low chuckle, “I have a feeling danger lurks in the touch of that man’s lips.”
You have no idea, Jewels, and thank God! Marcy fanned herself with her script, suddenly warm at the memory of Patrick’s kiss on her front porch. Danger, indeed, she thought with a sigh. But then, no more so than with his best friend, Marcy supposed, given Sam’s brazen kisses downstairs. Squaring her shoulders, she blew the whistle around her neck to command the cast’s attention, mentally vowing to “command” Sam’s attention too, at least on the subject of moral restraint. And soon.