A Heart Revealed

  She blushed and quickly retrieved his bowl and fork, eyes averted as she cleaned up from their dinner. “I’d rather you solve the mystery of increasing our sales, Mr. O’Connor. I assure you that’s a far more profitable use of your time.”

  “But not as much fun.” He rose to stretch, hands clasped to his neck and muscles taut as he pivoted elbows side to side. “But I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Malloy. If you make us a pot of fresh coffee, I just may be persuaded to let you pry. You know, pick my brain? To strengthen your bottom line with ideas like redemption coupons and early-bird specials?” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and grinned, gaze lidded and hands braced low on his hips. “Interested?”

  More color washed into her cheeks despite a twinkle in her eyes. “In picking your brain?” She turned and sauntered to the door, shooting him a playful smirk over her shoulder. “Goodness, yes.” She winked, the action so out of character that it heated the back of his neck. “One can only imagine the secrets I’ll find.”

  6

  Face pinched in a scowl, Luke followed his brothers-in-law into Father Mac’s kitchen, annoyed that even their Saturday morning basketball game hadn’t improved his bad mood. His lips thinned. Correction: not “bad” mood . . . “vile” mood. The one Katie had detonated three days ago when she’d tossed a grenade into his life.

  “We could have won if you’d carried your weight, McGee,” Collin groused. “What’s your problem anyway—you looked like a girl on the court today. For once I was on my game, but you—you played like you’re half asleep.”

  Brady cuffed an arm to Luke’s shoulder. “Yeah, bud, you got us worried—you’re starting to look like Collin.”

  “Thanks, Brady,” Collin said with a smirk. He plopped into a chair at the kitchen table with a mock scowl. “Nice to know I can always count on the defense of my partner and best friend.”

  “Anytime,” Brady said with a grin before he zeroed in on Luke. His smile dimmed. “What gives, Luke? When Collin’s game is better than yours, bud, something’s not right.”

  Luke glanced up, a frown tainting his face. “What do you mean, ‘what gives’? I’m off my game for once, so get off my back.” His voice came out harsher than intended and the room fell silent as Father Mac delivered glasses of iced tea to the table. An uncomfortable heat inched up the back of Luke’s neck and he huffed out a sigh, mauling his face with his hand. “Look, I’m sorry, Brady, it has nothing to do with you.” He slumped in his chair. “Sweet saints, is it really that obvious?”

  “Only to someone who’s married,” Mitch said with a wry smile.

  Concern sharpened Brady’s features. “What’s going on, Luke?”

  Snatching a glass of tea, Luke chugged half and then slammed the glass back down, avoiding Brady’s probing stare. His jaw shifted. “I thought marriage was about communication and compromise.”

  “So did I,” Mitch said, taking a swig of his tea.

  “That usually takes awhile to perfect.” Father Mac placed a piece of pie in front of Luke, then patted his shoulder. “Give it time.”

  “Thanks, Father.” Luke shoved a forkful of pie into his mouth and swallowed it whole, his eyes lost in a hard stare. “That’s exactly what I’m doing—giving it time so I don’t blow. Haven’t talked to her in days.”

  “Not exactly what I meant,” Father Mac said with a hint of humor in his tone. “The Bible warns not to let the sun go down on your wrath.”

  Luke grunted, bolting more pie. “A little late for that. Been on the couch three days.”

  “Well, we’ve all been there, Luke,” Collin said between bites.

  “Many, many times,” Mitch agreed. He pushed his empty plate away.

  “What happened?” Brady asked quietly.

  Luke sighed and poked at his pie, a sour bent to his lips. “Oh, nothing much—just enrolling in law school without telling me.”

  “What?” Brady gaped, his fork halted midair.

  “Yep. And she’s already arranged with Lizzie to watch Kit five days a week.”

  “Lizzie knows?” Brady’s shock was evident in the rasp of his voice.

  “Apparently.” Luke felt his blood begin to boil all over again. He’d been working hard to get his anger under control, but Katie’s little stunt had tripped his temper like no one had in years, and the hurt festered so much he couldn’t seem to get past it. The last time someone had wounded him like this, it was during a gang fight on the streets of New York where blood had been drawn. Back then when someone made him this mad, he’d simply lay ’em out flat with his fists, but this was his wife, a woman he thought he could trust. His jaw hardened to stone. “So not only has she gone behind my back and spent money I don’t have, but she’s imposed on Lizzie two extra days a week and left me high and dry at the BCAS.” He gulped the rest of his tea, then banged the glass back down. “So much for love, honor, and obey.”

  “Maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Father Mac suggested slowly, “one made quickly before she had the opportunity to discuss it with you.”

  A grunt escaped Sean’s mouth before he ducked his head, quickly scooping in more pie.

  Luke honed in, noting Sean’s face was as red as the cherries he shoveled in his mouth. His eyes narrowed. “What was that for?” he whispered. “What do you know?”

  The clump of pie seemed lodged in Sean’s throat as he blinked, obviously uncomfortable with the line of questioning. Hesitating, he finally swallowed hard. “Uh . . . nothing much.” He looked around the table, then glanced at Luke before exhaling loudly. “Okay, all right. Apparently Steven saw a letter addressed to Katie from Portia Law School this summer.”

  The blood leeched from Luke’s face. “Before we were married?”

  Sympathy radiated from Sean’s eyes. “I think so.”

  “Maybe it was just a letter from the college to renew her interest,” Brady said.

  Sean paused. “Not according to Gabe.”

  Luke stared, his anger mounting by the moment. “Oh, yeah? And what did Gabe say?”

  “That she saw the letter on Katie’s dresser early this summer, welcoming her to Portia Law School this fall. Katie made her promise not to tell you because it was a surprise.”

  A harsh laugh erupted from Luke’s throat. “Oh, it was a surprise, all right. Enough to bring the honeymoon to an abrupt halt and put the marriage on hold.”

  “Luke, talk to her, clear the air,” Brady said. “This is no way to start a marriage.”

  “Yeah? Well, tell that to Katie.”

  “No, Luke, you tell that to Katie.” Father Mac’s voice held a quiet authority that helped to diffuse the angst in Luke’s chest.

  He sucked in a shaky breath and blew out a blast of air. “I know I need to, Father, but it’s hard. I’m so angry because I feel betrayed, duped. I haven’t lost my temper in a long, long time, but I . . . well, I lost it with Katie.” He looked up, shame evident in his tone. “That scares me.”

  “Marriage can be a very scary thing,” Father Mac said with a curve of his lips.

  Sean hiked his shoe on the rung of the chair, lips cocked in a grim slant. “Which would make you and me the smart ones here, Matt.”

  Father Mac silenced Sean with a tight smile. “Just ask Mitch, Collin, and Brady. But it’s even scarier if you don’t start out with open lines of communication. Lay the groundwork by telling Katie how she made you feel when she left you out of this decision. Tell her what you expect as far as communication in a marriage.”

  Luke pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, well, I would think it’s understood that lies and deception are not acceptable behavior.”

  “Uh . . . not always.” Mitch plowed thick fingers through damp, unruly hair.

  “Luke, she didn’t lie . . . exactly,” Brady said quietly.

  Luke singed him with a glare. “She didn’t tell the truth! And that’s easy for you to say—Lizzie is a normal wife who wants to stay home and raise your babies, not some modern woman who plots and deceives t
o get her own way.”

  Mitch cleared his throat. “As a man who knows a little something about a woman who plots and deceives, I suspect you’ve gotten Katie’s attention by now. So don’t waste any more time. Forgive her and then sit her down and spell it out like Father says. Make no bones about it that stunts like this only undermine your love and trust for her. That seems to work with Charity.” One side of his mouth crooked up. “Most of the time.”

  “Spoken like a man with true experience,” Father Mac said with a lift of his glass.

  Luke huffed out a sigh. “Tell me this gets easier—please.”

  “It sure did for me,” Collin said with pride in his eyes. “Faith tells me everything.”

  “Lizzie too,” Brady said. His lips flattened into a thin line. “Or at least I thought she did.”

  Sean poked Mitch, an evil grin curling his lips. “What about Charity, Mitch? She tell you everything?”

  Mitch gave him a narrow look. “Your time is coming, O’Connor, mark my words.” His gaze shifted to Luke. “As far as Charity goes, what can I say—she’s a late bloomer. But we have pretty solid communication now, although I’m guessing it took longer than with Faith and Lizzie. You might keep that in mind when it comes to Katie. After all, everybody knows her personality is more in league with Charity’s than Faith or Lizzie’s.”

  Luke groaned and put a hand to his eyes.

  “You’ll get there, bud,” Brady said. “Just give it time and lots of prayer.” He downed his tea and set the glass on the counter. “Before you know it, you’ll have a marriage like Marcy and Patrick’s, which is what we’re all shooting for.”

  Collin lounged back in his chair and folded his arms. “Shooting for, yes, but let’s face it—nobody has a marriage like Marcy and Patrick’s. I mean, how could we? Theirs has been tested by time, trial, and—” he slid Luke a slow grin—“the tenacity of Katie Rose.”

  A second groan rumbled from Luke’s lips. “Don’t remind me.”

  Sean bolted down his final bite, then jumped up to deposit his dishes in the sink. He snatched the basketball from the counter and flipped it back and forth in his hands, taunting Luke with a lazy grin. “Come on, Luke, cheer up. We’ll give you a chance to redeem your pride on the court. It’ll be good practice for redeeming the pride in your marriage.” He winked. “Not to mention a great opportunity to work off your hostility toward my kid sister.”

  Luke gave him a grudging grin. “It’ll take more than grinding you in the dust to work off my hostility, O’Connor, but it’s a start. And she may be your kid sister, but she’s Marcy’s daughter, so I’m hoping she’ll end up like her mother—the epitome of love, honor, and obey.”

  Sean chuckled and headed for the door. “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one, McGee. You’re likely to turn blue.”

  He laughed. “Okay, I’ll settle for ‘love, honor, and no secrets.’”

  “Or plotting,” Mitch said with a stretch of his arms.

  “Yeah,” Luke agreed, “just open, honest communication like their saint of a mother.”

  Ball tucked under his arm, Sean butted the screen door open with his hip and held it while the others ambled through. “Yep, my father’s one lucky man.”

  Luke plucked the ball from Sean’s grip and strode to the court, his gait cocky and his smile even worse. “Yeah, he is,” he said, arms extended midair. His soles lifted off the pavement as he let the ball fly, allowing it to spin into the net with a satisfying swoosh. His teeth gleamed white against bronze skin. “With a very unlucky son.”

  Marcy chewed the edge of her lip as she cut the coconut cream pie—Patrick’s favorite. Please, God, let tonight be my lucky night, she prayed, the awful scent of coconut wrinkling her nose along with the thought. Sweet heavens, she hated coconut . . . almost as much as she hated keeping secrets from Patrick, but what choice did she have? Sweat beaded her brow—from the heat of the oven, the dog days of summer, and the monumental task of winning her husband’s consent. Her anxiety was as oppressive as the August heat, and Marcy longed for a breeze to flutter the limp kitchen curtains. The sound of male laughter filtered in from the dining room, laced with the joyous giggles of a little girl. Marcy positioned the slice just right on the plate and peeked at the kitchen door that stood between her and her dream—the dream to become the mother of a ten-year-old street orphan. That is, if novenas held any sway.

  “Don’t gargle your milk, young lady!”

  Marcy winced at the edge in Patrick’s tone and knew that tonight wasn’t the opportune time. Not when Sister Mary Veronica had called Patrick at work to complain that Gabe was bullying the boys in her Wednesday evening catechism class. A weary sigh drifted from Marcy’s lips. Apparently Marcy’s discipline didn’t suit the good sister, so she went straight to the top, completely oblivious that she was jeopardizing Marcy’s peace of mind.

  Rolling her tongue to her teeth, Marcy sprinkled extra coconut on Patrick’s pie, taking great care to position a luscious strawberry—partially cut to the stem and fanned just so—on top of the whipped cream. Opportune time, indeed. Unfortunately, with Gabe, there never seemed to be an “opportune” time, which is why Marcy now found herself sick with worry that tonight wasn’t the right time to broach the subject of adoption with her husband. And yet, the new school year loomed mere weeks away, and Marcy would give anything to send Gabe to school as Gabriella Dawn O’Connor instead of Smith. Even if it meant pulling a “Charity” and “plotting” the right time to win him over. She divvied up pieces for Gabe, Steven, and Sean and then swiped a strand of blond hair from her eyes. The folded letter in her pocket all but burned a hole in her pale blue summer dress—also Patrick’s favorite.

  She should have eased him into it, she knew, laid the groundwork better than she had. But something always managed to stand in the way. Whether it was Gabe in a fight with the neighborhood boys, Patrick’s longer hours at the Herald for reduced pay, or his incessant worry over finances during a dismal economy, the moment had never been right. And now, with the new school year less than a month away, Marcy was running out of time. If Gabriella Dawn Smith was going to have a “fresh start” with a new name, she needed to be registered by the end of the month. Which meant that the petition for adoption in Marcy’s pocket needed her husband’s signature . . . tonight.

  The rich rumble of Sean’s baritone laughter reached her ears, and she smiled, grateful he was home for dinner rather than working late at the store. Their eldest son always had such a positive effect on Patrick, and right now, Marcy needed all the help she could get. Thank you, God, that Sean is awful at chess, she thought with a wry smile—a definite plus in upping Patrick’s mood with a win. Drawing in a deep swell of air, she toted the tray to the door and butted her hip against the worn wood. A prayer and a smile hovered on her lips—in that order.

  “Sweet saints, Steven, a ninety-six-year-old great-grandmother with a still in her basement?” Patrick’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he took a sip of his coffee.

  Lounging back in his chair, Steven ruffled a hand through dark chestnut hair as Marcy distributed dessert. “Yep. Claimed it was for medicinal purposes. And would you believe she even packaged it in medicine bottles?” He glanced up. “Thanks, Mother.”

  Sean chuckled and dove into the pie Marcy placed in front of him, giving her a grateful smile. “The tonic of choice for what ails, eh?”

  “Apparently.” Steven poured cream in his coffee with a wry smile. “Seems the neighbors call her Dr. Maude, but I’ll tell you what—the good doctor’s out of practice now.”

  “You didn’t arrest her, did you?” Marcy froze, coffee pot poised over her empty cup.

  “No, ma’am,” he said with a sheepish grin as he stabbed at his pie. “The little dickens reminded me so much of Great-grandmother that I’m afraid I went soft. She’s a little bit of a thing that you want to swallow up in a hug because she’s so blasted cute, so Joe and I just dismantled the still and gave her a warning.” He downed the rest
of his coffee and then held his cup while Marcy replenished it, giving her a swerve of a smile. “Before she served us cookies and tea.”

  Patrick laughed. “Marcy, the pie is wonderful,” he said, effectively wolfing it down. He winked and sipped his coffee. “Pot roast and coconut cream pie. What’s on your mind, darlin’?”

  A rush of warmth invaded her cheeks as she choked down a bite of her pie.

  “Why’s your face so red?” Gabe wanted to know, freckles in a scrunch.

  The heat in Marcy’s face climbed clear up to her feathered bangs. She snatched her napkin from the table to fan herself, giving Gabe a pointed look. “It was 95 degrees today, if you must know, not to mention I’ve been cooking over a hot stove all afternoon.”

  “You know, Marcy, an occasional sandwich on unusually hot days would not be a crime. I don’t need a big meal every night of the week.” Patrick patted his vest. “Although Steven will certainly need the sustenance if he plans to beat me at chess.”

  “No!” A second blast of heat braised Marcy’s cheeks at her family’s startled looks. She quickly rose to collect the empty plates from the table, avoiding Patrick’s eyes. “I mean, I . . . uh, just assumed you’d play Sean tonight since he’s so seldom home these days.”

  “Oh sure, throw me to the wolves, why don’t you?” Sean rose to his feet and slapped his brother on the back with a smirk. “No, I think Steven should be the victim tonight. After all, if he can disarm a ninety-six-year-old bootlegger, he can certainly handle Father, right?”

  “Oh, I can handle him all right,” Steven said with a cocky grin. He pushed his chair in and swaggered into the parlor behind Patrick, shooting his mother a wink over his shoulder. “The question is, will Mother be able to ‘handle’ Father when I obliterate him?”

  Marcy groaned inwardly, latching onto Gabe’s arm when she tried to slip away. “Oh, no you don’t, young lady. You and I need to do dishes pronto so I can finish my sewing. Plus you have catechism homework.”