A Passion Denied

  Lizzie wandered to the back of the store to set up for story hour, with Millie close on her heels. She sighed as thoughts of Tom Weston dampened her mood. “Every month, like clockwork. Charity calls him Plan C.”

  “Sometimes I think you’re a bit balmy. If Tom Weston looked at me, I’d say, ‘Frank who?’ ” Millie stopped in her tracks, her eyes as wide as her gaping mouth. “What do you mean ‘Plan C’?”

  Lizzie bent over to arrange a number of small, brightly colored chairs into a perfectly formed semicircle. “If Plan A doesn’t work.”

  Millie nodded and plucked several books off a shelf. She held them up. “Which one? Fairy tale or adventure? Oh, I see. Plan A being the kiss? What’s Plan B?”

  Lizzie puckered her brows and studied the books, then snatched the fairy tale. “Kissing him, instead. But I’m hoping and praying there won’t be a need for a Plan B or C.” The bell over the door jangled and she looked up, smiling at several children and mothers who entered the shop. She glanced at her watch. “Goodness, they’re coming in early today. Could be a crowd.”

  Millie rolled her eyes. “Correction. Will be a crowd. Children and men—you have an uncanny knack for drawing them both, including Tom Weston. All, that is, except John Morrison Brady. I’d hold on to Plan C, Lizzie, if I were you. I think you’re going to need it.”

  Lizzie scowled. “Maybe not.”

  Millie chuckled and headed for the front of the store, shooting a wicked grin over her shoulder. “Fairy tales, my friend. You read them so well. And live them even better.”

  3

  Sweet saints in heaven, surely the scores of romantic novels she’d read should have prepared her for this! Lizzie made her way down the stairs with all the confidence of a woman with a wart on her nose. Instead of the happily-ever-after glow of a love-struck heroine, she was stuck with sweaty palms and a tiny belch bubbling in her chest—not attractive features for a woman who hoped to sweep a man off his feet. A man far more adept than she at giving love the brush.

  The belch threatened, and she stifled it with a shaky hand to her mouth. Maybe she couldn’t do this. After all, she was merely Beth O’Connor, the shy and quiet bookworm of the family. Not Charity with her seductive charm or even Faith with her spitfire spunk that seemed to draw Collin like a moth to flame.

  She stopped for a split second at the foot of the stairs and sucked in a deep breath, fully aware of Charity’s hand pressed firmly at the small of her back. No, she could do this! Charity was right. Sweet Beth was gone, and dangerous Lizzie was here to stay, hopefully to threaten John Brady’s emotional health considerably.

  And thanks to Millie and Charity, she did look different, she supposed. And she was starting to feel different too. Apparently years of timid longing had finally erupted into flashing eyes and a backbone of steel. A smile flickered on her lips at the thought of Brady’s face when she had lost her temper at the shop. In all the years she’d known him, she’d barely ever raised her voice above a whisper. She’d been too in awe. But whether Brady knew it or not, he was no longer dealing with that same shy little girl. She was a modern woman now, in love and tired of waiting for him to notice. She hoisted her chin, determined to take on the challenge.

  Lizzie forged through the kitchen door and stopped cold. Warmth braised her cheeks at her family’s response: Mitch gaped. Collin and her brother Sean whistled. Faith and her mother gasped. And Katie’s ecstatic shriek rounded out the reception.

  “Lizzie, you’re gorgeous!” ten-year-old Katie gushed.

  Charity prodded Lizzie from behind. “Thank you, Katie. She does clean up nicely, doesn’t she?”

  Faith bounded up from the table to give Lizzie a squeeze. “Saints alive, Lizzie, look at you!” She pulled away and grinned at Charity. “You did it. Had my doubts that you could make her any prettier than she already is, but obviously I underestimated you. Again!”

  Mitch leaned back against the counter and chuckled, ginger ale in hand. “A fatal error, I’ve learned.”

  Charity arched a brow in his direction. “Took you long enough.”

  He fixed her with a smoldering gaze while slowly sipping his drink, the passion in his eyes clearly undaunted by a year and a half of marriage. His eyes flicked back to Lizzie. “Katie’s right. You do look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. I just hope Brady thinks so.”

  Charity sauntered over to Mitch’s side. He hooked her waist and kissed the top of her head. She grinned at Collin. “So, what’s the verdict? You think your partner will notice?”

  Collin shook his head and sank back in his chair. The soft glow from the brass chandelier overhead accentuated the slow grin that traveled his lips. He slashed an X in the middle box of a game of Tic-Tac-Toe he was playing with Katie. “I think the poor guy will never know what hit him, Lizzie. You’re beautiful.”

  Lizzie bit her lip and whirled around to diffuse the nervousness she felt, causing the handkerchief-style hem of her blue silk dress to flare just a touch. Charity had insisted that she wear the matching T-strap heels that Millie had talked her into buying. They lent at least two inches to her already long-legged height, making her feel a bit more “womanly” than she was used to. When she’d said as much to Charity, her sister had winked and told her if she wanted to convince Brady she was a woman, she would have to “think sultry.” Lizzie drew in a deep breath, careful not to press her sweaty palms to the stylish dropped-waist, which had easily glided over her slim hips. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced nervously at her mother, a bit self-conscious about the hint of cleavage afforded by the pretty scoop neck of her dress. “What do you think, Mother?”

  Marcy O’Connor put a hand to her mouth, barely obscuring the smile on her lips. “I’d say you’re definitely grown up, and if Brady doesn’t realize that soon, he’s going to be too late.”

  “It would serve him right,” Charity said, burrowing deeper into Mitch’s hold. “But we’re going to try and spare him that pain, aren’t we, Lizzie?”

  “I just hope I can remember everything you taught me.”

  Mitch pulled back to eye his wife. “And just exactly what are you teaching her?”

  “How to win his heart.” Charity said with a secret smile.

  He hiked a brow. “Like you won mine?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” She broke free and hurried to take the pot of steaming potatoes out of her mother’s hands.

  Mitch stared her down. “Yeah, but I didn’t like it. Scheming is no way to win a man’s heart.”

  “Oh really?” Charity grinned and rubbed her swollen belly.

  “Well, suppose you tell that to your unborn child who wouldn’t be here without it.”

  A hint of a smile played on his mouth. “Even so, you shouldn’t be involved. This is between Lizzie and Brady.”

  Lizzie looked up from the icebox with a pitcher of milk in her hands. “But that’s just it, Mitch. Brady refuses to see me as anything but his little sister. And I love him. What am I supposed to do? Forget him? Even though I know deep down we were meant for each other?”

  Charity turned at the sink and gave Mitch a pointed look. “Sound familiar?”

  “I say forget him, Lizzie. Boys are saps.” Katie began tapping on the piece of paper, intent on beating Collin at a new game of Connect-the-Dots.

  “Hey, who you calling ‘saps’?” Collin shot her a narrow look. “I don’t see any females playing word games with you. Besides, you’re only ten. What do you know?”

  “Eleven in a few weeks. And enough to know I’ll never let some sap boy steal my heart like Lizzie has, even if it is Brady.”

  “You’ll eat those words someday, Katie Rose,” Collin said, tweaking the long, blond pigtail trailing her shoulder.

  Katie scrunched a freckled nose. “Everybody knows you can’t eat words.”

  “Oh yes you can,” Charity said. “Ask Mitch.”

  Faith chuckled. “Oooo, good one!” She grinned at her brother-in-law. “Tasted a little bitter, did they
now, Mr. Dennehy?”

  Mitch grinned as he seared Charity with a heated look. “Not as bitter as those my wife will be tasting after we get home.”

  “Oh, I just love a good fight!” Charity notched her chin, blue eyes twinkling. “Especially the part where we make up.”

  Mitch shook his head and laughed. “God help me, I married a vixen.”

  Sean chuckled as he reached for a glass from the cupboard and poured himself some milk. “Well, I’m no expert, sis, but I agree with Mitch. Why scheme to get Brady’s attention when other guys are lining up for a chance with you? Besides, Brady’s obviously not looking for anything more. As far as I can tell, he seems pretty content the way things are.”

  Charity tossed her head and commenced with mashing the potatoes. She grunted with each thrust in the pot. “Only because he’s too stubborn to know when he’s not happy. If women didn’t use their God-given feminine wiles, most men would spend their lives alone and miserable”—she looked up at her brother and smiled—“like you.”

  Milk sputtered from Sean’s mouth in a near choke. “Hey, I’m not miserable, and neither is Brady.”

  “Well, just for the record,” Faith said, hoisting the roast from the oven, “Brady isn’t happy. He needs a woman like Lizzie.”

  Collin reached to snatch a piece of meat. “Who says Brady’s not happy?”

  Faith whirled around, her eyes as wide as the hole Collin had just put in the roast. “Why you did, last night, remember? You wanted to pray for Brady because he wasn’t happy.”

  A pink haze colored the back of Collin’s neck. He gulped the meat down in one large swallow and tried to cover with an innocent grin. “What I meant was, Little Bit, that he’s obviously not as happy as we are.” He leaned in to nuzzle her neck before snatching more roast.

  “Don’t you dare try to bamboozle me, Collin McGuire! You’ve told me more than once that you wished Brady would find a woman he could love because he wasn’t happy. Well, Lizzie’s a woman he could love.”

  Charity bludgeoned the potatoes for good measure. “Well, I love Brady like a brother and you all know that. But if Lizzie’s the one God has for him, then we intend to do everything in our power to make it happen.” She smirked at her husband. “Whether Brady likes it or not.”

  “Well, I can tell you right now, he won’t like it, will he, Mitch?” Collin asked with a wad of roast in his mouth.

  Mitch drained his ginger ale and set the glass down. He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. “Nope. And neither do I. But that won’t stop ’em. You should know that by now.” He glanced at his mother-in-law. “How does Patrick feel about this? Is he comfortable with all the female plotting going on around here?”

  Marcy hefted a tray of biscuits from the oven. Wisps of blond hair, loose from a pretty chignon, feathered the neck of her pink percale housedress. She placed the tray on hot pads and wiped her hands along the contour of her slim, high-belted waist. “I’m afraid Patrick’s been a bit preoccupied with business at the Herald to be fully aware of what these three have been up to. You know how busy he’s been since taking the editor position.” She sent a tired smile in Mitch’s direction. “But I suspect he’d side with you men, being the stubborn Irishman he is.”

  “Speaking of Father, why isn’t he home yet? It’s Saturday, for pity’s sake. I thought he intended to go in for just a few hours.” Faith pulled a carving knife from the drawer and handed it to Collin with a quick kiss. “Here, earn your keep by carving the roast.”

  Marcy glanced at the clock. “He did, but you know how that goes.” She lifted her chin and hardened her tone. “But he did promise to be home by dinner, which I fully intend to put on the table in ten minutes, Patrick or no.”

  Lizzie and her sisters exchanged glances. “We can wait, Mother, really. Brady’s not here yet, either.” Lizzie hesitated. “Are you . . . feeling okay?”

  Marcy sighed. “Yes, I’m just tired. I think I’ll run upstairs for a moment and freshen up, if you girls don’t mind. Hopefully your father will be home by the time I’m done.”

  “You do that, Mother.” Lizzie gave her mother a hug. “We’ll get dinner on the table.”

  “Thanks, Lizzie.”

  Marcy left and Lizzie frowned. “You think everything’s okay? She seemed quiet.”

  Faith sighed. “She did at that, but then she has been cooking all day, which is enough to wear anybody out. And I know she doesn’t like it when Father works on Saturdays.”

  The doorbell rang. Lizzie startled and slapped a hand to her chest. “It’s Brady. I’ll get it.”

  Charity clamped a hand on her sister’s arm. “Oh no you don’t. For the last four years, you’ve run for that door every time Brady’s come to dinner. Not tonight.” She gave Sean a pointed look. “Mind letting him in, Sean? Lizzie’s busy.”

  “Unbelievable,” Mitch said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah, she’s busy all right—spinning a web,” Sean said with a tease in his tone.

  Lizzie blinked. “But I’m not busy.”

  “Oh yes you are. Sean, stall Brady at the door a few moments, will you? Lizzie needs to make a quick phone call to Peter Henly.”

  “Peter Henly? Why on earth am I calling him?”

  Charity parked a hand on her hip. “Because if you hope to have a prayer of turning Brady’s head, you’ll have to incite his interest with a bit of jealousy. And Peter called earlier about a homework assignment, so we may as well take advantage. When Brady walks through that door, I want you talking to Peter in your most hushed but charming tones, understand?”

  Collin paused with knife in hand. The expression of shock on his face mirrored Mitch’s. “A prayer of turning Brady’s head? You don’t really think God is going to sanction this . . . this female trickery, do you? Are you crazy?”

  Faith looped an arm around Lizzie’s waist and shot her husband a mischievous grin. “Maybe a little crazy, but if it’s meant to be, then Brady will be crazy too—about our very own Lizzie. Care to join us?” She wriggled her brows.

  Collin chuckled and turned to slice the roast clean through. “Nope, you go right ahead, Little Bit, but leave me out of it. The name’s Collin McGuire, not Benedict Arnold.”

  Patrick listened to the table chatter with half an ear, barely tasting the pie he methodically shoveled from plate to mouth. His favorite, he suddenly noticed—coconut cream. The realization unleashed a burst of pleasure to his taste buds and a sudden swell of gratitude for his wife. He glanced at her, but she seemed as preoccupied as he, absently pushing at the uneaten cream filling on her plate as she hunted for pastry, the only part she liked.

  He smiled and touched a hand to her arm. “Thank you, Marcy, for making my favorite. I know how you can’t abide coconut, and it’s a special treat after the week I’ve had.”

  She startled the slightest bit and stared up at him, the blue of her eyes wide with an innocence that never failed to draw him in. Suddenly his focus stilled to only her. Collin’s laughter and Charity’s droll comments and Katie and Steven sparring over whose turn it was to do dishes—all faded away as he searched his wife’s face. Seldom did she seem as tired as she did tonight, rare lines of fatigue more pronounced despite the soft glow of candles flickering across her features. He thought he saw a glaze of wetness in her eyes, and his stomach tightened.

  “You’re welcome, Patrick. I know how hard you’ve been working, so I wanted to make something special.” Her eyes flitted back to her plate. She patted his hand, which was still draped on her arm. “Will you need to do this much longer . . . working on Saturdays?”

  His concern for her evaporated at the mention of work. He sighed and pushed his plate away with a frown. “I don’t see any way around it. At least not for the foreseeable future. I could work seven days a week and not put a dent in it, it seems.”

  “Patrick . . .” Her voice was so low he had to strain to hear it.

  “Yes, darlin’?”

  “I . . . we . . . we need
to—”

  “Father, it’s Steven’s turn for dishes and he won’t do it!” Katie’s high-pitched shriek rattled his senses.

  “Father, no! We traded last week because she had play practice, and now she’s trying to weasel out of her turn.”

  Patrick ignored the viselike grip of tension at the back of his neck and slowly rose to his feet, his conversation with Marcy forgotten. His eyes flicked from the sober face of his fourteen-year-old son to the bulldog stare of his ten-year-old daughter. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to demoralize someone—anyone—in a game of chess. He jagged a brow in Katie’s direction. “Katie Rose, did you trade dishes with Steven last week?”

  Katie blinked, and Patrick could almost hear the wheels turning behind those batting blue eyes. “Yes, Daddy, but—”

  He pushed his chair in with enough force to shimmy the table and quiver the candles. The family’s chatter died to a hush. “No yes-buts, Katie Rose. You’ll do the dishes this week without another word or you’ll be doing them a lot longer than that.”

  “But, Daddy—”

  Patrick shot her a look that sealed her lips. “Two weeks and not another word. Or would you care to make it three?”

  She blinked, the mulish line of her jaw matching his. “Does ‘no’ count?”

  Patrick stared her down, battling the urge to smile. “You’re a handful, Katie Rose, and God knows if I don’t keep you in line at the tender age of ten, some poor man will shoot me later.” His gaze traveled the table. “Anybody up for blatant humiliation? I intend to vent every frustration from work in a ruthless game of chess.”

  Collin chuckled. “Then I’d say Mitch is your man. He’s got the same bleary-eyed look of blood in his eyes as you. Something to do with the Herald, I suppose.” Collin draped an arm around Brady’s shoulder. “And this is Brady’s first dinner here in a while, so common courtesy says he’s off the hook.”

  Patrick squinted at Mitch. “It does make perfect sense, I suppose, although I hate to debase my best editor.”