A Heart Revealed

  With a faint groan, Emma sank back in her chair and put a hand to her eyes. “I just can’t believe it—and after all Sean has done for that awful man, devoting his life to that store. I just wish there was something we could do.”

  “Well . . . actually . . . there is.”

  Emma glanced up. “What?”

  Shifting in the chair, Charity leaned forward, the intensity in her manner as compelling as the excitement in her eyes. “How long have Mitch and I been after you to work decent hours?”

  “I do work decent hours,” Emma said with a ghost of a smile. “Given the work to be done.”

  “Always fighting us tooth and nail about adding more staff—”

  “Charity, you know my budget can’t afford it—”

  “No,” Charity said with a twinkle in her eye, pausing for effect. “But ours can.”

  Emma sat straight up, her heart beginning to race as Charity’s words sank in. Her lips parted with shallow breaths. “What are you saying?”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Charity’s full lips. “You need more help at the store, and Sean needs a job. You figure it out.”

  Emma’s heart stalled in her chest. Sean . . . here? At the store? The memory of his rage at the wedding caused her smile to falter, and she swallowed hard. Sean had always been one of the people she’d enjoyed being around the most, but that had all changed when he’d thrown that first punch. She had never seen him like that before—crazed, out of control, violent. So much like Rory. The very thought caused her stomach to lurch, and she drew in a calming breath, forcing a bright smile. “Goodness, are you serious?”

  “Absolutely. That is . . . if you’re okay with the idea. Keep in mind that it would only be temporary until Sean finds another job and you would still be the manager in charge, of course. But he could do whatever you need him to—help Horace on the dock, make deliveries, or even fill in as a salesclerk.” She bit her lip with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Not to mention the dreaded inventory every month. Why, he can share Horace’s office on the dock—”

  “No!” Emma cried, the blood draining from her face. “I would never put Sean on the dock, not unless it was an emergency. For pity’s sake, Charity, he was the manager of one of the top retail stores in Boston for over ten years now—we can’t do that to him.”

  Charity chuckled and squeezed Emma’s hand. “Calm down, Emma, whatever you say is fine. I just didn’t want you to feel threatened, you know? Worried that Sean might be moving in on your territory . . . as manager, that is.”

  A shaky sigh wavered from Emma’s mouth as she thought of the indignity to Sean’s pride. From management to the docks, for goodness’ sake! Her chin lifted as she shifted into managerial mode, working hard to dispel the uneasiness she felt inside. “I won’t settle for him being here as anything less than assistant manager, and we’ll create an office for him up here.” An edge of her lip sloped up. “I’ll just move my bed out of the storeroom and sleep at home. After all, I was planning on making it an office for Alli anyway, since it’s so large and has a window. But she didn’t want it—actually prefers to sit with Bert, if you can believe that.”

  Charity’s leg ceased kicking as she stared at Emma. “Good heavens, she’s a bigger saint than you. I hope she’s rubbing off on Bert and not the other way around.”

  “She is, actually,” Emma said with a smile. “Heard the two of them giggling and plotting like schoolgirls over Horace’s nephew who’s working on the dock this summer.”

  “Ah . . . women after my own heart!” Charity said with a grin. The stockinged leg resumed its bouncing as she honed in once again. “So, you’re really okay with this? Because Mitch and I think it’s the perfect way to kill two birds with one stone. Sean needs to stay busy in retail, and you’re dying for help—talk about a match made in heaven!”

  Not if it’s like Rory and me. Warmth crept into her cheeks as she dispelled the thought. She focused her attention on studying her friend. “Do you think he’ll do it?”

  “Not if he thinks it’s charity . . .” The blue eyes narrowed to the level of conspiracy.

  Emma smiled. “No, only ‘Charity’ of another kind . . . a far more devious one.”

  Charity hiked her chin. “It’s for his own good, Emma, and you know it. The man’s confidence has been crushed and his pride is in flames. Heaven knows he doesn’t really need the money right now, not with him living at home and hoarding his salary all these years rather than spending it on a woman. So we have no choice but to appeal to his chivalrous nature rather than his wallet, even though we’ll supplement your budget for his salary.” Charity pursed her lips, preening with pleasure. “And that’s where you come in.”

  Emma blinked, well acquainted with Charity’s talent for intrigue. “Me? How?”

  Settling back, Charity cocked her elbow on the arm of the chair and propped a finger to her chin, eyes narrowed in thought as she mulled over the situation. “Well, you’re no good at faking this sort of thing, so it’s a godsend that you really are desperate for help. I suppose this is a clear case of ‘all things working out for good for those that love God,’ as you and Faith are so fond of quoting. Because somehow, we have to convince Sean that he—no matter how long he chooses to stay—is an answer to our prayers.”

  Emma swallowed her hesitation, determined that Charity would not sense her fear. She leaned forward, a palm to her chest. “Oh, but he is!” she breathed with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “I can’t imagine the joy of having someone with Sean’s experience, no matter how long he stays. Why, I’m months behind on inventory alone because none of us can get to it.”

  “Good—that’s the passion I’m looking for next Saturday night when you come to dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Emma whispered, suddenly losing her nerve.

  “Yep, six o’clock sharp.” Charity stood and tugged on her gloves, giving Emma the once-over. “Mmm . . . you look pretty tired now, but it’d certainly help if you went to bed late next Friday night and got up early Saturday morning. And wear that faded blue dress that washes you out.”

  “The one you told me to burn? Whatever for?”

  “Because we need you to look the part, and that blue dress is perfect.” Her lips slanted into a dry smile as she leaned to give Emma a hug. “I should have known you’d keep that old rag—you hate throwing anything away. And this is one time you can forgo the makeup. Although I suppose a dab of gray eye shadow would be nice—under your eyes, not on your lids, understood? I want you at your neediest best, Mrs. Malloy, or my brother will balk like a mule.”

  Emma shook her head, a soft chuckle parting from her lips. “I’d forgotten just how devious you can be when you really want something. Heaven help Mitch Dennehy . . . and, apparently, his brother-in-law.”

  Charity strolled over to the buffet to rifle through one of her bags. “Not devious,” she said with a tinge of hurt in her tone, “I prefer to think of it as resourceful.” She dug around until she found what she was looking for, then flourished a mottled green and gray silk scarf in the air with a decidedly devious smile. “Now this, Mrs. Malloy, is not only ‘devious,’ but downright dangerous as well. Because you see, not only have I found you a scarf that will make those remarkable eyes of yours an even deadlier weapon than they already are—” she positioned a striking teardrop earring against the sheen of the silk scarf, the twinkle in her blue eyes unmistakable—“but obsidian jewelry the exact shade of your eyes, which I have always said are rare gems all their own.”

  She hurried over to drape the scarf around Emma’s neck while holding the jewelry to her friend’s ear. A hushed sigh floated from Charity’s lips. “I’ll tell you what, Emma, your eyes alone could slay a thousand men with a single blink. You look stunning!”

  Fingering the delicate silk of the scarf, Emma felt almost pretty. “Charity, why did you do this? You shouldn’t be spending your money that way.”

  “Oh, fiddle-faddle. The scarf and earrings were made for you
, and you and I both know it. Consider it an early Christmas gift if you will, but don’t deny me the pleasure of bringing out the beauty of my dearest friend.”

  Throat tight with emotion, Emma squeezed Charity in a hug while tears pricked at her eyes. “They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my friend, and you are living proof. Thank you for always making me feel beautiful, Charity, despite the contrary . . . and for your remarkably bottomless heart.”

  Charity pulled back to caress Emma’s face with her hand, her eyes intent. “That’s because you are beautiful, Emma, you’re just the only one who can’t see it.” Her fingers gently traced the faint scar by Emma’s lip. “Because of these—wounds that no longer scar your beautiful face but still scar your soul. Would that I could take them from you, Emma,” she whispered, a sheen of moisture in her eyes. “I would wear them as a badge of honor.”

  Tears pooled, and Emma closed her eyes, embracing Charity with such a wellspring of love, she found it difficult to speak. Swallowing hard, she quickly covered with a gruff tease. “Oh, go on with you now, Mrs. Dennehy, your bleeding heart is showing once again. As if you don’t have scars of your own from tragedies you’ve borne. Maybe not on your face, my friend, but in your tender heart for sure, always pouring yourself out for your own, giving them your love, your support . . .” Affection bated her tone. “And in Sean’s case . . . your conspiracy.”

  With a tight squeeze, Charity released her, a smile crowning the firm jut of her jaw. “I beg your pardon—I’m only thinking of everyone’s best interest here, Emma. We both know how stubborn Irish men can be, and my easygoing brother is no exception.” She chewed on the edge of her lip as she squinted in thought. “Except maybe he doesn’t glare quite as much as Mitch, I suppose . . . Anyway, we all need to be on our game come Saturday night if my plan is going to work, and that means you, my friend.”

  “You mean if your ‘plot’ is going to work,” Emma said, tease lacing her tone.

  Charity made her way to the door with a swaggering stride and turned, one penciled brow arched in challenge. “Plan or plot, it’s all the same to me, Emma Malloy. Either way, I need you engaged if this ‘plot’ is going to work. Unless, of course, you’re partial to working long hours, cozying up with your Remington instead of your cats?”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Dennehy,” Emma said with a tired smile and a token pat to her typewriter, “I’ll be there—as pitiful a sight as you’ve ever seen. Although something tells me it won’t be me convincing your brother to work at the store, dark circles notwithstanding.” She propped elbows on her desk and rested her head in her hands, her smile crooking up. “We both know when it comes to getting something you want, you wield a lot more power than I do. Which means, my friend, the other guy usually doesn’t have a prayer.”

  Charity’s smile was dazzling. “I know,” she said, and blew her a kiss. “I’ll remind you before next Saturday, and don’t be late. And go home, Emma, now—it’s too late to be working.” She turned to leave, shooting a final smile over her shoulder. “Oh, and one more thing. Since you mentioned prayer—you might engage in a little of that too.” Her lips tilted into a coy smile. “After all, I’m not a complete heathen, you know. I know where the real power is.”

  Emma shook her head, her smile diminishing as the click of Charity’s heels faded away, past Bert and Alli’s work area into the store beyond. She pressed the cool of the silk scarf to her cheek, praying indeed—prayers of gratitude for the gift of Charity in her life. “Thank you for the love of such a dear friend,” she whispered, quite certain Charity O’Connor Dennehy ranked as one of God’s greatest blessings.

  She laid the scarf on the desk and reached for the stack of letters awaiting her signature and then stopped, closing her eyes with a quiet sigh. Oh, she’d pray about it all right, there was no doubt about that. Because as much as she loved Sean O’Connor and needed him at the store, her comfort level with him had vanished since the day of the wedding, something that saddened her immensely. And yet now she had to work with him, day in and day out. “Still waters run deep,” Charity had said once, and Emma had no doubt it was true. It had been true with Rory and something deep down inside told her it was true with Sean as well.

  Shaking off her gloom, she proceeded to sign the rest of Bert’s letters, hoping and praying it would all work out. She had no qualms about “still waters”—those she could handle. Her lips tightened as she signed the next letter with a flourish, attempting to diminish the anxiety inside. No, Rory had taught her well that it was the “deep” where danger lies, a place where one could easily find herself in over her head.

  4

  So, how did Sean survive his last day?” Charity broached the subject that nobody was eager to discuss. She glanced up from the plaid knickers she was mending, hoping to find some reassurance in her mother’s face.

  Marcy O’Connor paused, needle in hand. The summer heat was stifling, but nobody seemed to notice it or the shrieks of the children as they played a game of Red Rover in the backyard. Her mother’s gaze flitted to the kitchen screen door before settling on her daughter. “Not good, I’m afraid,” she said in a low tone, barely above a whisper. “Although I don’t want to say too much because he could walk out here any moment.”

  “He did seem pretty glum when we arrived. Where is he now?” Faith asked quietly, her somber eyes a mirror reflection of her mother and sisters’ as they convened around the back-porch picnic table for their weekly sewing fest.

  Gliding tongue to teeth—a nervous trait Charity recognized all too well—Marcy bent to pick through the basket of sewing that afforded a bit of extra income during these trying economic times. “Upstairs, fixing that leaky faucet that Patrick’s been hoping to get to.” She released a heavy sigh as she pulled a pair of torn trousers into her lap. “I swear he’s been like a machine this last week—cleaning, painting, repairing everything in sight.” Her lips slanted. “So much so I’m tempted to break something else just to keep him busy.”

  “He’s been looking for work, though, hasn’t he?” Lizzie turned a hem, worry in her tone.

  “Every morning like clockwork,” Marcy said with a frown. “Scours the Classifieds and then bolts out the door, sometimes without breakfast.” She fingered a jagged hole in the seat of the pants, face screwed in thought. “Now how do you suppose this got here?”

  Charity chuckled. “I don’t know, but I wish I’d been there to see it.” She suddenly sat upright, her voice raised in warning as she glared into the backyard. “Henry! It’s called Swing the Statue, for mercy’s sake, not ‘pillage’ it. You best take it easy with those girls, or you’ll be ‘swinging’ your legs in a chair, young man, bored silly.”

  “How are Sean’s spirits?” Faith continued, Charity’s threats against Henry as commonplace as air.

  “Not great,” Marcy said. “It seems as long as he stays busy, he’s not too bad. But I’ll tell you one thing—he hasn’t been himself. No smiles, very little to say, and definitely none of his usual sparkle.” She puffed out another sigh. “I think he’s depressed.”

  “That’s certainly understandable,” Lizzie said. She hesitated, exchanging a quick glance with Faith before focusing on her mother with worried eyes. “Well, do you . . . you know . . . think he’d consider working at the print shop? I know Brady and Collin are swamped because they’ve had to let several pressmen go recently, but I think they’d consider hiring Sean to help out, at least part-time, don’t you think, Faith? After all, he is family.”

  “Absolutely,” Faith agreed. “I don’t know about Lizzie, but I wouldn’t mind seeing Collin come home a little earlier each evening. Heaven knows they can certainly use the help.”

  A pucker creased the bridge of Marcy’s nose. “I’m not sure that would work. Brady and Collin already suggested it to Patrick last week, but when he broached it with Sean, he adamantly refused. Says he’s a merchant, not a pressman. Insists there’s no way he’ll take salary from his brothers-in-law when he knows the
y’ve had to buckle the belt themselves.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Faith said with a glint of temper. “That’s what families do—they reach out to each other in their time of need.”

  “Reach out, yes, but take?” Charity smirked. “Every man in this family would see that as charity, and we all know it. Face it, when it comes to stubborn male pride, we’re lousy with it.”

  “Mama, it’s Henry’s turn in Mother, May I, and he won’t do it.” Hope skidded to a breathless stop. “Can you make him?” She shot a disgusted look at her twin, who was taking aim at a squirrel with a rock in his hand. “Says he won’t do it ’cause he’s a man, not a mother.”

  Charity’s smile squirmed as she arched penciled brows at her mother and sisters. “I rest my case.” She patted Hope’s cheek. “Honey, just change it to Father, May I?, okay? And if he doesn’t play nice, tell him he’ll be playing ‘Mother, may I please come out of my room?’”

  Hope gave Charity a kiss before tearing down the steps. “Thanks, Mama—love you!”

  “Love you too, princess,” Charity called, craning her neck to watch the exchange between the twins. When she saw Henry stomp to one end of the yard for paternal duty, she sighed and turned to give her mother a grin. “Now I know why you had four girls and two boys. Didn’t think it was possible, Mother, but I believe my respect for you has risen even higher.”

  Marcy smiled. “Oh, boys aren’t so bad, right, Lizzie? Sean, Steven, and Teddy should be proof of that.” Marcy stuck a needle in her mouth, assessing the trouser tear with a dubious eye.

  “Spoken like a true grandmother,” Lizzie said with a proud smile. “Teddy’s a dream. I’d take ten more just like him.”