A Heart Revealed

  Swish . . . swish . . . The music stopped while the turntable continued to spin, a melancholy reminder that she was no longer in the arms of a fairy-tale prince but alone in her cozy bedroom with a cat in her arms. Holding Guinevere aloft, she deposited a gentle kiss to her pet’s nose and then tucked her into bed next to Lancelot.

  “Don’t worry, girl, I’ll slather up with cocoa butter and follow you soon.”

  She ruffled Lancelot’s marmalade coat before heading to the parlor to turn off the phonograph, double-check the door, and turn out the lights. Returning to the vanity, she carefully folded the scarf and set it aside before smoothing a dab of the creamy, yellow butter onto her face until her skin glowed, breathing in the rich, heavenly scent of chocolate. A smile tugged at her lips. No wonder Guinevere snuggled close throughout the night. Dousing the small Tiffany lamp on her vanity, Emma quietly moved to the window to open the sheers, allowing both a ribbon of moonlight and a sweet, honeysuckle breeze to stream into the room. Locusts trilled and Lancelot snored, creating a peaceful symphony that lulled her to the bed where she slipped beneath the cool sheets and whispered her prayers.

  Guinevere immediately curled into a ball on her pillow while Lancelot shored up the other side, the rhythm of their breathing warming her inside and out. Inhaling, Emma breathed in the sweet smell of cocoa butter along with the scent of a fragrant summer night, and her chest expanded with thanksgiving for the blessing of her home. True, as a woman, she would never again know the comforts of a man, but somewhere along the way, solitude had become her friend, as snug and sweet as the two precious kitties now cuddling against her sides. Burrowing in, Guinevere draped a protective paw across Emma’s neck while Lancelot butted close, emitting nasal noises that made Emma smile. Closing her eyes, all loneliness slowly faded away as she succumbed to the magic of slumber, allowing contentment to seep into her bones. A contentment that, despite her solitary lifestyle, convinced her she would never be alone.

  Because as a woman, yes, her marriage may be empty . . . but her heart and bed were full.

  Please, Mrs. Clary, answer the door . . .

  Standing on the kitchen stoop of St. Stephen’s rectory, Sean reached to straighten his tie out of sheer habit, then stopped, blood warming his cheeks at the reality that there was no tie to adjust. His hand suddenly went clammy against the frayed open collar of his most presentable work shirt. In the catch of his breath, sweat beaded the back of his neck as the realization struck all over again: he was unemployed.

  The thought never failed to jolt him, not once in the two weeks since Rose Kelly had ruined his life, and each and every time it only served to deepen this vile depression that had him by the throat. He hadn’t felt this way in a long, long time—like someone had died or as if every step he took was weighted with grief, a cloying quicksand intent on sucking him in. For thirty-four years, other than during the war, the incident at Kearney’s, and that one awful night of his father’s near heart attack, all he’d known was a sense of peace and contentment with his life, a man who needed nothing more than the love of family, the fellowship of friends, and the satisfaction of a job well done. A nerve pulsed in his jaw. Yeah, a job well “done,” he thought with a stab of bitterness. As in over . . . finished . . . kaput.

  Just like my confidence.

  He shook off the malaise and jabbed a firm finger to the button-size doorbell, hoping and praying that Father Mac would be out on afternoon hospital visits and Mrs. Clary would answer the door. It’d be so much easier asking the rectory housekeeper for odd jobs around the church and rectory, or even Father McCovey, rather than Father Mac. No, to Sean the parish associate pastor had become too good of a friend rather than a priest, an able teammate with Mitch and him in Saturday morning basketball against Collin, Brady, and Luke. Sure, he knew about Sean’s layoff from Kelly’s, but asking a friend for work was something else altogether. Originally a close friend of Brady’s, Father Matthew McHugh had quickly become a friend to Sean as well, insisting he call him “Father Mac” or even “Mac” throughout the course of the summer. To ask Mac for work, well, it would be too difficult, too awkward . . . Sean sucked in a fortifying breath and punched the doorbell again. Too humiliating.

  Not that he needed the money. No, that wasn’t the issue. He had no intention of taking one red cent for any odd jobs. If managing his own store had taught him anything, it was to be an astute businessman, steady and sure with his capital. Over the years, while his friends had frittered their paychecks on women and other frivolous things, Sean had quietly squirreled his away, investing in long-term Treasury bonds rather than the stock market like his father and so many others. The result was a tidy savings that few enjoyed in this dismal economy. It was the one saving grace that separated him from the ranks of the almost eight million unemployed, and a sense of gratitude flooded his soul for the first time in weeks. At least I can still help Father with much-needed rent.

  Sturdy footsteps jolted his thoughts and he winced. Uh-oh . . . either Mrs. Clary had put on weight or . . .

  “Sean—come in, come in!” Father Mac stepped back and waved him inside the cozy black-and-white kitchen that was Mrs. Clary’s domain, his thick dark brows ascending in jest. “It’s not Saturday morning already, is it?”

  Forcing a chuckle, Sean stepped in and was instantly assailed by the aroma of apples and cinnamon that watered his mouth. “Nope,” he said with a smile, his glance darting to a fresh-baked apple pie sitting next to a basketball on the counter. “I promise this visit is far friendlier.”

  “Too bad,” Father Mac said, his gaze following Sean’s to the golden, thick-crusted pastry. Strolling over to palm the basketball, he bobbled it while his stocky six-foot frame leaned against the white wooden counter. “Because Brady was supposed to take me on with a game of one-on-one during his lunch hour, but apparently a rush job came in.” His gaze slid sideways to the pie and back. A smile flickered on his lips that matched the gleam in his brown eyes. The clean smell of fresh-mown grass drifted in on a summer breeze, feathering dark hair sifted with gray as Father Mac nodded toward the basketball hoop outside. “Care to work off a piece of pie with a game? Exercise is vital, you know, if I’m going to keep up with you young whelps on Saturday mornings.”

  Sean’s smile was genuine as he ruffled a hand through hair void of Brilliantine, one eye still on the pie. “Sure, why not?” he said, taking in Mac’s brawny arms beneath his rolled sleeves. At fifty-four, Father Mac defied age with enough muscle and stamina to put most men to shame, not to mention his diabolical determination to whip Brady and Luke at their own sport. Must be all that clean living, Sean thought with a hook of the chair as he eased into the heavy oak seat. And his lifeline to God. He stretched out an arm and absently flexed his hand on the table, taking note of his own forearm, heavily corded with veins and muscles. Each and every one had been earned from an endless array of sports despite his ripe age of thirty-four. His smile skewed to the right. Well, I have clean living going for me anyway.

  “So, what brings you to my door on this rather pleasant summer day?” Father Mac asked, fishing a knife and two forks from the drawer. He reached for plates out of the cabinet overhead and proceeded to cut them each a healthy slab of pie. He deposited one in front of Sean, then shoved the other across the table, brows lifted in question. “Milk or iced tea?” he asked, gaze shifting to the empty coffeepot on the counter. “I’m afraid the coffee has expired for the day.”

  “Milk is great,” Sean said with an easy smile that felt almost normal again. He descended on the pie with more of an appetite than he’d had in days. Father Mac set a tall glass of milk before him, which Sean half emptied in two thirsty gulps. He shoveled in another bite, then motioned to the pie with his fork, swallowing before emitting a low groan. “Wow, this is great stuff—my compliments to Mrs. Clary.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her. There’s plenty more when you’re done.”

  Sean wolfed down the final bite and shoved his plate away, shak
ing his head as he eyed Father Mac over the rim of his milk. He upended the glass to finish it, then slapped it on the table. “Man, that hit the spot, thanks. Especially since I didn’t have lunch.”

  Father Mac carved out a piece of pie with his fork and looked up, his smile fading into concern. “No appetite?” he asked quietly.

  The gloom of Sean’s situation returned, roiling the pie in his gut. He sagged back in the chair, painfully aware of the heat crawling up the back of his neck. “Not much,” he said as he slapped calloused hands to his belly and attempted a grin. “Which is fine by me. Since I moved back home last year, I’ve packed on extra pounds that are slowing me down on the court.”

  “Hardly.” Father Mac took a quick swallow of milk. “You’re a machine, my friend, the best athlete in the parish, bar none.”

  The grin came easier this time. “Mind putting that in writing? I’d like to give it to McGee.”

  Mac smiled, chewing while he studied him, then finished his pie with a final slug of milk. “Well, Luke’s a married man now, and a wife and child take priority over workouts with the boys, so he’s got a lot on his mind.” He paused, shoving the empty plate away before folding thick arms on the table to assess through troubled eyes. “I’d say you do too. Care to get anything off your chest?”

  Heat swarmed his cheeks as if he’d just wolfed down a bucket of chili peppers. He shifted in the chair, pretty sure the seat was as hot as any peppers. “No . . . no, Mac, I’m fine, really.” He lowered his voice to the calm and confident level he’d perfected for family tragedies, irate customers, and little boys who had just swung out. “As a matter of fact, I expect to land another job any day now.” He steeled his jaw, completely uncomfortable discussing his failure with the parish priest, good friend or no. “I’m looking for work every day, of course, but I can’t just sit around with extra time on my hands.” He sucked in a jagged breath and released it with a tight smile. “So if you have any odd jobs—here, the church, the school—I’m your man. You know, building cabinets, leaky faucets, whatever. I’m pretty handy and can do whatever you need.”

  Placing his fork on his empty plate, Father Mac leaned back and draped one arm over the back of another chair. “Well, I’d say that’s perfect timing, then. Sister Bernice just badgered me for new choir risers last week. Claims we’ll have a slew of broken arms and legs if the children are forced to stand on the old ones another season. When can you start?”

  Sean slowly expelled the breath he’d been holding. “Today, if you want. I can give you most afternoons till the right job comes along. Mornings, of course, are reserved for pounding the pavement, but just give me a list of your maintenance needs, and it’s as good as done.”

  A hint of a smile returned to Father Mac’s eyes. “With occasional bouts of one-on-one thrown in for good measure, I trust?”

  Sean grinned outright for the first time in weeks. “If you think you can keep up, Father.”

  Father Mac laughed. “I’d be careful, Sean—you’re starting to sound every bit as cocky as Brady. I swear the man’s in league with the devil the minute he steps foot on the court.”

  Sean’s smile swagged to the right. “Hey look, I just lost my job—how about a little mercy? Trust me, there’s not a whole lot I can feel cocky about these days.”

  “If it’s mercy you want, it’s mercy you’ll get—out on the court. After we discuss terms, that is.” Father Mac rose and stacked Sean’s dirty plate and utensil on top of his. He dumped them in the sink and snatched the ball off the counter. “All expenses—lumber, hardware, paint, whatever—reimbursed with receipts. As far as hours, give me a rundown every Friday, and I’ll see you get a check the following week.” He started for the door. “We’ll pay what you made at Kelly’s—”

  “No.”

  Father Mac turned, hand on the knob. “You want more?”

  “No, Mac, I don’t want anything. I’m volunteering my time. You know, so I don’t feel like a bum while looking for a job?” Sean carried the empty glasses to the sink, then followed Father Mac to the door.

  Tucking the ball under his arm, Father Mac held the screen open, his brow buckled. “Sorry, Sean, I can’t agree to those terms—the laborer is worthy of his wages. It’s the law.”

  Sean plucked the ball from Father Mac’s hand with a jag of his brow. He paused to sail a shot into the side of the hoop. “Says who?”

  “The Good Book.”

  Father Mac took swift possession, gaze pinned to the basket. He rose up on the balls of well-worn Keds to sail a long shot that clipped the back of the board. Sean winced at the sound of a neat, clean swish.

  Mac grinned. “Arguing with the Ref, are you?”

  Stifling a groan, Sean slacked a leg, hands perched low on his hips. “Look, Mac, I’m just looking to stay busy and maybe help somebody in the process. I don’t need your money.”

  “Those are the terms, take it or leave it.” Father Mac squinted and took aim, launching the basketball into the basket with an annoying whoosh. He retrieved the ball to score again with a hook shot, obviously indifferent to Sean’s searing gaze. “But keep in mind that you’ll be answering to Sister Bernice if you back out now.” He wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his cassock, then threatened with a pastoral gaze. “And it’d be a real shame if the boys on your team found out that their coach was a welsher.”

  Sean slapped the ball from the priest’s grip and bounded in the air, his jump shot skimming the net with nary a sound. Fetching the ball, he tucked it under his arm and rolled the sleeves of his work shirt, his grin positively predatory. “I thought priests dealt in mercy, not blackmail. No more than a quarter of my former salary or I’m walking.”

  “Half,” Father Mac shot back, dislodging the ball with a hard swipe. With a quick flick of his wrist, the ball glided through the air with angelic precision. “If you don’t want to keep it, you can always donate it to Sister Cecilia. The Holy Childhood Association can use it, you know.” He trailed a finger along the inside of his collar in an apparent attempt to tug it loose, then flashed an impressive gleam of white teeth. “I can hear it now. Pagan babies singing your praises.”

  “You’re on.” Sean snatched the ball and hurtled it toward the basket, his laughter winging along. “Thank God somebody’ll be ‘singing my praises,’” he said, enjoying the rush of adrenaline that pumped through his veins. “The silence has been deafening.”

  He jerked his shirttail out to wipe the sweat off his brow, feeling like a human being for the first time in weeks. “Because like you, Father, in this game we’re about to have?” He grinned, his confidence rebounding once again. “I’ll just take what I can get.”

  “Mama!”

  Charity’s screen door squealed open and slammed with a bang. A streak of a blond moppet flew toward her mother with misty blue eyes and quivering lips. “Henry’s at it again—and this time he threatened to put a can of worms down my back!”

  Emma turned at the sink, heart softening at the look of distress on Hope’s face. Charity stooped to pull her nine-year-old daughter into her arms and planted a kiss on her cheek. “He’s only bluffing, Hope. He wouldn’t dare risk the wrath of his mother with a stunt like that.”

  The little girl shuddered, clinging to her mother’s neck. “He would, Mama—he said so! Said it’d be worth it—anything you or Daddy dished out. Can you make him stop, please?”

  “How ’bout I send your father out there to put the fear of God in him?”

  Hope shook her head from side to side, ringlets bobbing. “No, you! He’s afraid of you.”

  Charity’s lips skewed into a droll smile as she glanced up at Emma. She stood to her feet and patted her daughter’s shoulder. “No, honey, this is a job for Daddy. Animals are involved.”

  Emma giggled, biting her lip to stifle her laughter. “Earthworms . . . animals?” She forced a serious demeanor, but her mouth twitched with tease. “Maybe for a sissy.”

  Charity’s eyes narrowed, scathing
her with a mock glare. “For your information, Emma Malloy, I am simply following the first rule of parenting Mitch and I established when the twins were born—he handles all animal-related incidents.” She shivered and made her way to the door. “Besides,” she said, scrunching her nose over her shoulder, “I can’t abide those slimy, little things.” She stood at the hallway and cupped a hand to her mouth. “Miiiitttttch! Your daughter needs you!” Calmly returning to give Hope a kiss on her nose, Charity shot Emma a smile. “It’s time for him to check the ribs anyway—Sean will be here at six.”

  Emma turned back to peeling the carrots, her nerves suddenly as squirmy as a can of Henry’s worms. Beads of moisture glazed her brow and she absently flapped the front of her blouse in an effort to cool off a sudden flush of nervous heat. She’d seen Charity plan and plot many a harebrained scheme, but never had she actually been a part of one before, and suddenly the prospect made her more than a little queasy. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? You know, plotting this all out? Maybe you should just come out and ask him.”

  The deviled egg in Charity’s mouth wedged still, her lips circling the egg to form a white O of shock. She quickly chewed and gulped it down. “Are you crazy? You know my brother. He may be the easygoing one of the lot, but don’t let that fool you. If we even hinted we wanted to give him a job at the store, the man would disappear faster than Henry at bath time.”

  “I know, but—”

  “So . . . what seems to be the problem here?” Mitch blew in with unruly blond hair that matched the moppet’s. The scowl on his chiseled face softened when he saw Emma. “Hey, Emma, didn’t know you were here yet. Did you sneak around back?”

  Emma nodded, her smile warming at the sight of the only man she’d ever seen keep Charity in line. “Lured by the smell of your world-famous ribs, I assure you. When it comes to smoked ribs, you could teach the rest of the family a thing or two.”