“Is she now?” Collin stared for several seconds, then lifted his chin. “Ya think you can handle that? I mean you didn’t do too well with the boyfriend last night.”
Brady’s eyes met his. “Yeah, I think I can. Have to. Don’t have a choice.”
“Or you do, but you won’t take it.” Collin released a weighty breath. “Okay, ol’ buddy, but I gotta tell you it makes me nervous. Not about Lizzie ‘cause she seems to be moving forward in a relationship with Tom. I’m worried about you, my friend.”
Brady nodded and reached for a clean rag. “Don’t be. As long as I’m praying about it, I’m going to be fine. Hey, do I have ink on my face?”
Collin grinned and headed for the front room. “Yes, you do. Always.”
Lizzie kept her head down, walking fast to the corner of Stuart and Tremont. She stopped at the street sign and looked up, wishing her hands didn’t sweat when she was nervous. She wiped them on her green plaid skirt and sucked in a breath thick with sea air, gasoline, and the noontime staple of fish and chips. She adjusted her navy sweater over her white shirtwaist and straightened her shoulders, notebook pressed hard to her chest. She continued down Tremont through the maze of people and fixed her eyes on a small blue and white sign swaying in the breeze. McGuire and Brady Printing Company. Her lips flattened. The bane of her existence.
She stopped a store away to peek into the glass, checking her appearance for the umpteenth time. She exhaled a noisy breath. How silly! What did it matter anyway? One man thought she was beautiful, and the other didn’t care. But then friends didn’t focus on things like that, she supposed. A lesson she would have to learn. She caught a glimpse of Brady’s broad back as she entered the shop. He hefted a box, and his work shirt strained over a span of hard muscles. She sighed. A hard lesson to learn. But then he would be a good teacher, no doubt.
He turned at the sound of the bell and smiled, sending her pulse into overtime. “Hi, Brady. Can’t be working too hard. No ink on your face.”
He grinned and waved her into the back room. “It’s amazing what a little soap and water can do. How’s school?”
He was carrying on as if they’d never stopped, wiping off her chair, pulling it out, reaching for his well-worn Bible off the crowded shelf. She settled into the chair he offered and folded her hands on top of her notebook. “Good. Only one more month till it’s over, then Mr. Harvey said I could work full-time. He needs the help.”
He nodded and headed to the sink to make a fresh pot of coffee. “That’s wonderful, Beth. You drinking coffee yet? Or do you want me to make you some tea?”
She watched as he cocked a hip against the counter, filling the coffee machine with cold water. She suddenly thought of the night on the porch when that same hip had been pressed against hers. Heat whooshed into her cheeks.
He turned around and arched a brow. “You okay?”
She yanked her sweater off. “Yes, just a bit warm, I think. There’s no doubt that spring is definitely here. Coffee will be fine, thank you.”
“Yeah, it gets hot in here with all the machines.” He opened the back door to allow cool air in through the screen, then ambled back to plop into his favorite cane-back chair. “We said Psalms, right?” He didn’t look up as he flipped through his Bible.
“Yes, my favorite.” She bit her lip. “Brady?”
“Mmmm?”
“Thank you.”
He looked up. “For what?”
“For being my friend.”
He smiled and leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her face. “It’s my pleasure.” He hesitated while his jaw ground the slightest bit. “How’s Tom working out?”
The heat in her cheeks returned, much to her annoyance. She hefted her chin. “Good. He seems to care for me, although I don’t really know why.”
“Don’t put yourself down, Beth. You’re a beautiful woman. Is he . . . being respectful?”
She blinked. He’d called her a woman! She quickly opened her notebook and picked up her pen. “Yes, he is. At least, so far.”
“Good. Let’s get started.” He rested his arms on the table and began to read, the sound of his low voice like balm to her soul.
“‘Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful. But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night.’”
He leaned back in his chair and released a heavy breath, his face calm. “That’s a good place to start. Delighting in the law of the Lord, day and night. Not an easy thing to do, mind you, but a good place to start. And apparently important enough for God to put it in the first paragraph of the very first psalm. I think—”
The sound of bells clanging over the front door broke their concentration, causing both to look up. Brady rose from his chair and moved toward the front room. “Can I help you?”
Beth bent forward to peek at a young woman about her own age, timidly clutching her purse in her hands. She resembled a tall Mary Pickford, with soft blond waves covering her head to just below her ears. Her face had a childlike air of innocence as she stared at Brady with wide, blue eyes.
He stepped forward with a smile. “How can I help you, miss?”
Her mouth opened as if to speak, but nothing came out for several seconds. She took a deep breath and a step forward. “I’m . . . actually looking for work and was wondering if you might have anything available.” She finally smiled, and it chased the shyness from her face. “I’m excellent at bookkeeping.”
Brady scratched the back of his head. “Well, I’m sorry, ma’am, but my partner and I do all our own bookkeeping. We’re growing, but we’re still a pretty small shop, so we don’t expect to be hiring anytime soon.”
The smile on her face faded into the lost look she’d worn before. “Certainly, I understand. Thank you.”
She turned to go, and Lizzie jumped up from her chair. “Wait! I know where they are hiring.”
The girl turned, her eyes lighting on Lizzie with a look of surprise. “Why . . . that would be wonderful, miss, thank you.”
Lizzie pushed gently past Brady to extend her hand. “My name is Lizzie O’Connor, and I work at a bookstore called Bookends over on Dormer Street. Are you familiar with it?”
The girl blinked and reached for Lizzie’s hand. She quickly shook it, then pulled hers away, allowing it to flutter to the base of her throat. “No . . . no, I’m not. My name is Mary . . . Carpenter . . . and I’m afraid I just arrived in Boston this afternoon.”
“Well, my manager, Mr. Harvey, is actually looking for someone to help with his bookkeeping. I don’t know what it pays, but—”
“That doesn’t matter right now. I just really need a job.” She sounded breathless.
Lizzie smiled and spun around. “Brady, would you mind terribly if we cut our study short today? I’d like to walk Mary over to Bookends before I head back to school.”
He smiled. “No, I don’t mind. That’s real nice of you. Mary, my name is John Brady, and we were just having Bible study in the back room. If you would ever like to join us, you’re welcome. We meet at noon on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
Mary stared, apparently speechless once again.
Lizzie took her arm and steered her to the door. “Come on, Mary, Brady probably needs to get back to the presses anyway.” She gave him a playful smirk. “There’s way too little ink on his face for a good morning’s work.”
“So help me, Patrick, if you don’t do something about Hennessy, I will.” Mitch stood over Patrick’s desk, palms flattened till his knuckles were white from the strain. There was a dangerous-looking vein throbbing along the line of his temple.
Patrick looked up at his son-in-law and had the sudden urge to take an aspirin. He sank back in his chair and released a weary breath. “So, what’s the problem this time?”
Mitch started pacing the room, all the while dragging his fingers through the short, cropped curl
s on his head. He had been a godsend when Patrick had hired him over a year and a half ago, hands-down the best editor he had ever seen. That is, up until three months ago when he started acting more like a caged animal than an assistant editor. Mitch stopped dead in front of Patrick’s desk and leaned in, his imposing six-foot-four frame looming like a dark shadow. “He’s worthless, Patrick, incapable of handling the most simplistic assignment. He doesn’t belong at a newspaper, and we both know it.”
Patrick opened the third drawer of his desk and reached for a bottle of aspirin. He took two and tossed them to the back of his throat, followed by a quick gulp of cold coffee. “Mitch, we’ve been over this before. He’s Hennessy’s grandson, which makes him untouchable. You just can’t fire the grandson of the owner.”
“Oh yeah? Watch me.”
“Don’t make me pull rank on you, son. Leave Hennessy alone. Assign Logan to keep tabs on him, and you stay out of it. You hear me?”
Mitch looked away, and Patrick could see the cords of strain in his neck as he took several deep breaths. His massive shoulders finally sagged. “All right, Patrick, we’ll do it your way, but I want to go on record right now that he shouldn’t be anywhere within five hundred feet of the Herald.”
Patrick chuckled. “So noted.”
Mitch started to leave, and Patrick leaned forward. “Mitch?”
He stopped at the door, hand on the knob and head cocked to the side. “What?”
“We need to talk.”
“What about?” Mitch turned and gave him a one-sided smile. “Firing Hennessy?”
Patrick laughed and pointed to the chair. “No, we’re done with Hennessy. Close the door and sit down.”
Mitch shut the door a little too hard and dropped in a chair. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’m worried about you.”
“What? Why?”
Patrick ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “Because you’re not yourself. Something’s wrong when the best editor I’ve ever had starts falling to pieces over some rich-boy pantywaist. What’s going on, Mitch? Are you and Charity okay?”
“Yes, of course we’re okay. Don’t we seem okay?”
“Well, now that you bring it up, no, you don’t. It seems like you’ve turned into a powder keg at work these last few months. And Charity, well, lately I’ve noticed you two sniping at one another now and then.”
Mitch groaned and bent forward, elbows on his knees. He rubbed his face with his hands. “We’re fine, Patrick.”
“No, you’re not. Something’s eating at you, and apparently it’s not only affecting your work, it’s affecting your marriage.” With a heavy sigh, Mitch slumped back in the chair. “This is not an easy subject to discuss.”
“Try me.”
Mitch studied him through lidded eyes, as if wondering if he should even bother. He finally sighed and began rubbing the side of his head. “When Marcy was pregnant, in her later months, did you . . . ever worry that you might . . . you know, hurt her or the baby?”
Patrick shifted in his chair. “Do you mean when we—”
“Yes—that’s what I mean. Did you? I mean, worry?”
“No.”
“Not even the first time?”
Patrick frowned and leaned on a fist, trying to remember. “Not that I recall.”
“Did you . . . refrain in her later months?”
Patrick chuckled. “No, Marcy wouldn’t let me.”
Mitch moved to the edge of the chair and clutched the desk. “She wouldn’t?”
“Nope, at least not when she was pregnant with Faith—I recall that most distinctly. I remember being shocked because she seemed . . . so much more . . . interested.”
Mitch shot to his feet. “Yes! That’s Charity too. She won’t leave me alone, and all I’m trying to do is protect her and the baby.”
Patrick laughed. “From what? You can’t hurt them, trust me.”
“I wish I could, Patrick. But I’ve seen otherwise.”
“What? When?”
Mitch fanned a hand through his hair and began to pace. “My mother, when I was ten. She . . . was seven months pregnant and . . . lost the baby. The brother I never had.”
“Mitch, I’m sorry. But you think she lost it because your father—”
He stopped pacing to give Patrick a cold stare. “Not my father. He died the year before. One of my mother’s many acquaintances.”
“Even so, I can’t believe—”
“He was there all night, Patrick, and I heard them, more than once. He was gone by the time I woke up. Gone by the time she started bleeding.”
“Dear God . . .”
“And now I have a wife who needs my love more than ever, and I cringe at the thought. Every time—every single time—I see my mother writhing in pain, a pale ghost in a pool of blood.”
“Sweet mercy . . . did she—”
“No, she survived, thank God.”
“Mitch, I’m sorry.”
“Me too, Patrick. But now you understand the strain I’ve been under.”
“Does Charity know . . . about what happened to your mother?”
“No, I didn’t want to alarm her in any way.”
Patrick scratched the back of his head. “Well, I suggest you tell her the truth.”
“And scare her?”
“Knowing my daughter the way I do, I doubt it will scare her, but it certainly might relieve her own personal fears. She probably thinks you’re not attracted to her anymore.”
Mitch propped his hands on the back of the chair and laughed. “Yes, she does, as a matter of fact. As if that were even possible.”
“It might work in your favor, you know. She would suddenly understand your hesitation and might be more willing to negotiate.”
Mitch chuckled and shook his head. “Negotiate? With Charity? I thought you said you knew your daughter.”
Patrick eased back in his chair and grinned. “Trust me, I do. I married her mother.”
Lizzie hummed to herself as she flung her sweater on the coatrack in the back room of Bookends. She quickly surveyed her lipstick in the mirror, then poked her head into the tiny office off the hall. Mary sat stiff and straight at a scarred wooden desk piled high with papers and a typewriter. She was chewing on the nail of her thumb. Lizzie flashed an encouraging smile. “All settled in?”
“I think so . . . me and the mouse.”
“Ooops. Forgot to tell you about that, but you’ll get used to it. Try to think of him as the pet you never had.”
Mary smiled. “You headed back to school so quickly after dropping me off this afternoon that I never really got a chance to thank you for referring me. I’m very grateful, Lizzie. I think I’m going to like it here.”
Lizzie glanced at the clock in the back room, then ambled in to sit down. “You’re welcome. I knew he’d hired you on the spot when we walked through the door. So tell me how your first three hours have been? I’ve got a few moments before I’m officially on.”
“Okay.”
“You said you just got into town. Where from?”
Her smile seemed tentative. “New York.”
“Wow, New York! I’ve heard it’s fabulous. Why’d you leave?”
She glanced away, focusing on a movie poster hanging on the wall—Rudolph Valentino from The Sheik. All at once the soft innocence of her blue eyes seemed shadowed with tragedy. “Let’s just say I was involved with the wrong man.”
“Oh, Mary, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s okay. The love has been gone for a long time now. And he finally gave me a reason to leave.”
“Do you know anyone in Boston? Relatives, friends?”
She smiled. “I know you. But no, no relatives here, or friends, for that matter. But I’m hoping you and I can be close, Lizzie. How old are you, anyway?”
“Almost eighteen. And you?”
“Twenty-one, but some days I feel a lot older.” For a moment she seemed lost in a stare, then blinked
it away and gave Lizzie a wry smile. “Kind of like my life is passing me by, before I’ve had any fun.”
Lizzie chuckled. “You want fun? Have you met Millie yet?”
A twinkle lit Mary’s eyes. “Oh yes. She says you and she are good friends.”
“Since the first grade. She’s a little crazy, but sometimes I think I could do with a bit more of that.” Lizzie tilted her head. “Millie likes to go to the dance pavilion at Revere Beach, if you’d like to join us sometime.”
Mary smiled and reached for her pen. She absently rolled it between her fingers, her gaze following the motion. “I would like that a lot. But if you don’t mind, what I would like even more is to join you and Brady for Bible study.” Her hand stilled on the pen. “Is he your boyfriend?”
Lizzie shook her head and laughed, the sound of it hollow. “No, no, he’s not. Not that I wouldn’t want him to be because . . . well, Brady is really something special. But I’m afraid he’ll never be anyone’s boyfriend. He’s more interested in God than women. Besides, I’m seeing someone else right now.”
“Oh, I just thought . . . well, you two seemed pretty close.”
“Oh, we are. I’ve known him since I was thirteen, when he became my brother-in-law’s business partner. Brady and I, well . . . we love each other a lot . . .” Lizzie swallowed the lump in her throat. “Just not that way.” She jumped up from the chair, suddenly anxious to get to work. “I better go or Mr. Harvey will be looking for me. It’s been nice getting to know you, Mary. And it will be even nicer having you join Brady and me for our Bible study. Which day are you coming?”
Mary blinked. Hesitation softened her tone. “Well, I was hoping to come all three, if that’s all right with you.”
Lizzie swallowed her disappointment and gave her a perky smile. “Great! You know where his shop is, so I guess we’ll see you Wednesday at noon. He’s a great teacher. He has this amazing way of opening your eyes to God. You won’t be sorry.”
Mary’s smile relaxed, and her eyes took on a faraway look. “No, Lizzie . . . I don’t think I will be.”
Mary was a godsend. Brady listened to their chatter as he poured the coffee and silently thanked God for making this so easy. Mary Carpenter had joined them for the last month, providing a much-needed emotional buffer between Beth and him. At least for him, he thought to himself as he set their cups on the table. He sank into his chair and took a sip of his coffee, noting how much more at ease Mary seemed than the first time they’d met. He wasn’t sure why, but something told him she was a very pretty woman with a not-so-pretty past. Occasionally over the last few weeks, the natural innocence of her face seemed to take on a tragic air, as if she carried burdens no one could see. From the moment Brady had laid eyes on her, he sensed in his spirit she was a soul in desperate need of healing. He gulped his hot coffee and scowled. But then, who wasn’t? He certainly qualified.