A Passion Redeemed

  Her tone was flat as she continued. "You know, for better or worse, till death do us part? Though he scars her, beats her, carouses with women, and drinks what little profit she manages to bring in, Emma refuses to break her wedding vows and leave. She takes 'till death do us part' very seriously. And I worry every night that it will ... while God looks on."

  Mitch exhaled slowly, quietly, the silence between them as telling as the bitterness in her tone. He turned onto Ambrose Lane, not sure how to respond. The car slowed in front of her house. He turned the engine off. "Charity," he began.

  She swiveled in the seat. "No, Mitch, I don't want to hear it."

  He studied the curve of her face, shadowed by the streetlight, and noticed the firm press of her lips. "Don't want to hear what?"

  "Your defense of God. That's what you were about to utter, weren't you? That's what Faith would say, and Emma-"

  "But not you."

  "No. Why should I? God has never done anything for me. He's only taken-first the life of my favorite sister, then my father's love, and now the beauty and joy of my best friend. And the ultimate irony is that by my very disdain for him, he's robbed me of any chance I might have at winning your love."

  Mitch remained silent. The pain in her voice eclipsed all questions whirling in his brain.

  "Well, I'm right, aren't I? You deny your feelings for me because I'm not a woman of faith. Don't you?"

  He released a weighty breath and sank against the seat, his eyes closed. She was right, of course. He did have feelings for her, urges almost too strong to resist. But he would have to. He didn't trust her. How could you trust someone who lived to please themselves rather than God?

  "Yes. I want a woman of faith. A woman I can trust."

  "See? See what your God has done for me?"

  He opened his eyes and leaned forward, his gaze intent. "My God has done amazing things for you, Charity, only you're too stubborn and blinded by bitterness to see it. He's blessed you with great beauty, intelligence, wit ... and a family who loves you more than you can comprehend."

  A sheen of tears glimmered in her eyes. He cupped her chin firmly in his hand. "Let it go, Charity. Unload all that painful bitterness and hurt from your past. It's time to experience the joy and peace of God."

  She pulled away, forcing tears to spill. "I can't. You don't understand. You haven't been rejected by a parent you adored."

  He smiled the faintest of smiles. "You're wrong."

  Charity paused, her eyes fixed on his. "Who?"

  He exhaled and sifted his fingers through his hair. "My mother. Unfortunately, I was never quite as important as the legions of men in her life."

  Charity gasped. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean she cheated on my father and she rejected me, over and over again."

  "No! How could she do that?"

  "She was a woman without faith, Charity, without morals, without conviction. She only believed in herself and the pleasure she sought."

  Charity collapsed against the seat, hand clutched to her chest. "Oh, Mitch, how horrible. What did your father do?"

  Mitch closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "He died. Because of a broken heart, I say, but the doctors said his health was compromised by a love affair with the bottle."

  "How old were you?"

  "Nine, going on ancient. I had to grow up pretty fast. I sold papers in front of the Irish Times. It was all that kept us going. That and an occasional handout from one of the long line of suitors that made their way to my mother's bed."

  Charity scooted closer to rest her hand on his arm. "Mitch, I'm so sorry. I had no idea. Have you ... have you forgiven her?"

  He opened one eye to squint down at her. "Working on it."

  She smiled and snuggled close until he finally curled an arm around her shoulder. "Do you ever see her? Ever try and talk it out?"

  "No, a few years back she remarried and moved to England, so I don't get much opportunity. We exchange letters at all the appropriate holidays, of course, but there's not much depth to it. One day I hope to remedy that."

  Charity sighed. "I'm glad. That's a horrible burden to bear."

  "You should know."

  She pulled away and sat up. Her eyes searched his for several seconds. "How are you even able to entertain the notion of forgiving after such pain? I can't imagine ... can't fathom how it's even possible ..."

  He wrapped his fingers around her small hand, holding it tightly. "It's something your sister taught me, something I've struggled to apply."

  "What?"

  "First you acknowledge your anger and bitterness as sin and tell God you're sorry. Then you pray for the person who caused it."

  "I can't do that."

  Without thinking, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. "Yes, you can. That's something else your sister taught me. If you can't pray for the person who hurt you, start where you can: pray to be able to pray. It's the one place everyone can start, no matter the hurt. And it works. I've tried it."

  She stared at him, her lips parted in surprise as he kissed her hand again. Their eyes met and held. "I suppose ... I could start there. But I can't imagine God would listen to me."

  He smiled. "He'll listen. You're the apple of his eye."

  "What?"

  "The apple of his eye. That's what the Bible says we are to him. The gleam in his eye. His pride, his joy. That's you ... and that's me."

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. She shuddered.

  He pulled her close. "Cold?"

  "No," she whispered. "Just a bit shaken. My father used to call me that. The apple of his eye. Before Hope died and Faith got sick."

  "And so you are. He's never stopped loving you, Charity, and neither has Faith."

  She shivered again. He wound both arms tightly around her small frame, resting his face against the top of her head. "What do you say we get this taken care of, once and for all?"

  She pulled away to look up at him, eyes wide. "Now?"

  He grinned. "Of course, now."

  She blinked. "How?"

  "You open your mouth and talk."

  "To you?"

  "No, to him, you goose."

  Her mouth snapped shut. He watched her lower lip protrude the slightest bit.

  "Charity?"

  "What?"

  "You can't go on like this forever, hurting inside, hating. You have a choice to make: turmoil or peace, life or death, blessing or curse. What's it going to be?"

  She stared at him, lips pressed tight and eyes narrowed in thought. A soft huff of air finally escaped her lips, signaling surrender. She nodded and flopped against his chest again while her fingers gripped the lapel of his coat.

  Minutes passed before he heard her voice, halting and quiet. "God, I'm angry at you, angry that you let Hope die, angry that Faith was crippled. That you took Father's attention away from me, his love. I'm not sure I can forgive you for that ... all the hurt, the pain. But I want to be free from it. Help me, please. Bring me to the point where I'm able to forgive-first you, and then Father ..." She released a heavy sigh. "And then Faith. Amen."

  He gave her a squeeze. "Good girl. Feel better?"

  She nodded. "I do. But I'm not sure if it's the prayer that's done it or being in your arms."

  He pushed her hair away from her face and kissed her forehead. "We best get inside before the ladies think we're lost."

  A shadow of a smile played on her lips. "I am lost. Deep in my thoughts."

  "And what might those be?"

  Her smile teased. "Dear God, that my forehead were my lips."

  He grinned. His gaze settled on her mouth, and a rush of heat chased the smile from his face. His heart began to pound. Friends. Only friends.

  "Does it matter, Mitch? Does it change anything at all that I've taken steps toward God?"

  He swallowed, forcing his gaze from her lips to her eyes. "I don't know, Charity."

  "Oh, I hope so," she breathed. She lifted her face to brush her lips to his cheek, then
pulled away to slowly scoot to her side of the seat, poised to open the door.

  His hand clamped her arm. "No."

  She turned. Shock flickered across her features. "No? It doesn't make a difference?"

  His throat worked as his eyes settled on her mouth once again. "No, don't go. Stay. Please." He hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her across the seat, his breathing quickening. His pulse took off as he lowered his mouth to hers and caressed her lips gently, softly, feeling her astonishment in the kiss, her mouth open in surprise. She moaned softly and clutched his chest with her fingers. He deepened the kiss, groaning at the sheer joy of tasting her.

  Lord, help me, please, the want is so strong ...

  With every force of his will, he pushed her away and snapped the car door open. He jumped out and gulped in a deep breath, grateful for the cool night air filling his lungs and brain with reason. She waited patiently while he leaned against the car, his fingers dragging through the cropped curls on his head. No woman had ever affected him this way. Was it just her or was he sorely in need of a wife? Exhaling, he slammed the car door shut and made his way to her side of the car. He yanked the door open and extended a hand. She slid to the edge of the seat and peeked up at him with wide eyes and the barest of smiles.

  "You can wipe that smug smile off your face, Charity. We both know the disastrous effect you have on me. Let's just get inside and steer clear of temptation. And any mention of this."

  "Whatever you say, Mitch." She tilted her head, her lips sporting a shy smile. "But one thing. Are we still friends? Or more?"

  His jaw twitched as he studied her, irritated at the way his pulse raced. "Inside. Now."

  She popped up out of the car and grinned. "We are more, aren't we?"

  He kicked the door closed with the heel of his shoe before literally dragging her toward the front porch. "Maybe."

  She giggled. "You're falling in love with me, aren't you, Mitch Dennehy? And I'm hoping there's not a thing you can do about it."

  He nudged her through the door, following close behind. "Oh, yes there is. I can stay far away until you're on that ship. And I will if given the slightest provocation. Understood?"

  She whirled around to bestow a quick peck on his cheek. "Yes, Mr. Dennehy," she said with a laugh. She unbuttoned her coat and slung it on the coatrack. "Grandmother, we're home."

  He took his coat off and hurled it on top of hers, following her every move as she sashayed into the parlor. She stopped and shot him a teasing look over her shoulder. He shook his head and laughed, wondering what in the world he had just gotten himself into.

  "Goodness, you're back already? I've just begun to show Margaret my latest stitches."

  Mitch eyed the spools of yarn littering the coffee table and gave them a wry smile. "It's nice to be missed."

  Mrs. Lynch glanced from Mitch to Charity, obviously taking in the pink glow in Charity's cheeks. She chuckled, her silver brows arched in a display of innocence. "And it certainly appears you missed us in much the same manner."

  A bit of heat crept up the back of his neck. He grinned to deflect it. "I suggest you be nice, Mrs. Lynch, or we'll be heading home before Bridget can knit and purl."

  "Oh, my, we certainly don't want that. Why, we have a number of techniques yet to discuss, don't we, Bridge?"

  Bridget looked up. "Absolutely. Charity, why don't you and Mitch occupy yourselves while Margaret and I finish up here?"

  "We'll do dishes-" Charity began.

  "Already done. Margaret is faster in the kitchen than the three of us put together. And Mima was so tired, I put her to bed just before you came in. But I would appreciate you taking a quick peek out the window to see if there's any light on at Maggie's. Johnny stopped by earlier to tell me the poor thing's been at the hospital all day with Davy. Seems the little dickens fancied himself a whittler with Johnny's woodcarving knife. Cut the tip of his finger clean off."

  Charity pressed a hand to her mouth. "Oh, poor Davy!"

  "Yes, and poor Maggie too. They'll all be exhausted and starving when they finally get home. I told Johnny to just knock on the door and I'd keep supper warm. But you and Mitch help yourself to the checkers in the desk drawer, or I believe there's an old chess set in the hutch."

  Charity glanced at Mitch. "Feeling brave enough to take me on in a game of chess?"

  He laughed. "Personally, I think you could do with a bit of chastening."

  She hiked a brow. "Oh, you think so? I'll enjoy watching you beg for mercy. My father happens to be one of the best chess players in Boston, a skill he required of each of his children."

  Mitch grinned and rolled up his sleeves. "So, you going to stand there bragging all night? Set up the board."

  Charity laughed on her way to the kitchen to see if Maggie was home. She quickly returned to the parlor to proclaim all was still dark. She dug through Bridget's hutch, then carried a wooden box to a small table by the hearth. Mitch hoisted two of Bridget's needlepoint chairs to either side, then squatted to stoke the fire while Charity set up the board. He stood and turned.

  "All ready, Mr. Dennehy. Prepare to die." Challenge gleamed in her eyes. She sat perched on the edge of her seat, primed for victory with arms crossed and a smug smile on her face.

  "Prepare to die?" He let loose a husky laugh and seated himself across from her, his eyes locked on hers. "This will be your funeral march, Miss O'Connor, not mine. Even with your unfair advantage of being white."

  Charity scrunched her nose and moved her king's pawn two spaces. "Black just seems to suit you so much better, don't you think, Mr. Dennehy?"

  A knock sounded at the door. Bridget popped up. "Stay put, Charity, I'll get it. Excuse me, Margaret, I'll just be a moment to get Johnny his supper."

  Charity could hardly contain herself. She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands, tightly clasped to dispel any shaking. She could feel the breath hitching in her chest and forced herself to breathe ... calmly, quietly, working hard to display a composure she didn't feel. Inside she was all awhirl, tipsy with joy over the prospect that Mitch was finally returning her affection. She studied him from across the table, the slight pucker of a frown wedged between his brows as he contemplated his first move. Her heart wanted to burst. He was everything she had ever wanted in a man: smart, tough, no nonsense, yet a heart as soft as fresh-churned butter. She stifled a sigh. And more handsome than the law allowed. How in the world had he managed to steer clear of the altar all these years? She suddenly thought of Faith and felt a rush of heat to her cheeks.

  He moved his pawn and settled back in the chair. The corners of his lips twitched. "I suggest you focus on your game if you hope to win this match, Miss O'Connor."

  Her face burned hot as she fumbled to pick up her pawn.

  "Charity ..." Bridget's voice drifted from the foyer.

  "Yes, Grandmother?" Charity craned her neck to see Bridget standing at the front door.

  Bridget shot a worried glance over her shoulder. "You have a visitor."

  "Good evening, Charity." Rigan stepped around her grandmother into the foyer. "You left your glove in my car the other night, and I thought you might need it."

  Charity's hand froze on her pawn, her fingers white and pinched. Not unlike her face, she was sure. She tried to breathe, but the air only fused to the back of her throat.

  Rigan waggled the glove in the air. "I truly apologize for barging in like this, but the weather has been frightful. I didn't want you to be without it." He nodded curtly toward Mrs. Lynch and then Mitch. "Good evening. Please forgive the disruption."

  Charity dislodged the painful lump in her throat and sucked in a deep breath, dropping her pawn on the board. She dared not glance at Mitch, but stood to face Rigan head-on. Even with her back to him, she felt Mitch's tension as if heat were singeing the hair on her arms.

  "Rigan ... I ... thank you. I've been hunting for that glove for well over a month." Her eyes entreated his cooperation.

 
Rigan smiled. "Perhaps another. But I believe this particular glove was the one you lost last Saturday night when we went to the theater."

  All the blood that had drained from her face returned in a whoosh. She began to cough.

  "Charity, are you all right?" Bridget moved toward her granddaughter, leaving the door in the foyer wide open.

  She gasped for air. "Yes, Grandmother, I'm fine. Just a tickle in my throat." She squared her shoulders and glared at Rigan, her tone clipped and cold. "Since that was our final night out together, I appreciate your courtesy in returning it. Good night, Rigan."

  She took immense satisfaction in the blotch of red that crept into his swarthy cheeks. His eyes flickered with anger while he bowed slightly at the waist. He tossed the glove on a nearby table and nodded before turning to leave. Bridget clicked the door closed behind him, the sound as menacing as the click of a revolver.

  Charity turned. Her stomach plunged. Mitch stood, face immobile except for a muscle throbbing in his temple. His eyes glittered like splintered turquoise, full of cold heat and fury.

  "Mitch, I-"

  "Bridget, forgive me for cutting the evening short, but I've suddenly taken ill." He strode to the foyer and plucked his and Mrs. Lynch's coats off the rack.

  Mrs. Lynch stood by the sofa with worry in her eyes. "Mitch, I know you're upset, but please settle down. Don't let Rigan ruin the evening for you."

  His jaw was hard and cold, as if etched in marble. Without a word, he moved to where she stood, holding her coat while she slipped inside.

  Charity was barely able to breathe. "Mitch, please don't leave. Let me explain-"

  "Bridget, thank you for a wonderful dinner. Ready, Mrs. Lynch?" He commandeered her arm, steering her quickly toward the door.

  She shot a look of apology over her shoulder. "Bridge, thank you so much for having me. I'll return the favor soon."

  The door slammed shut, its finality reverberating in the air like the sealing of a tomb.

  Bridget sat on the sofa, a pale statue with yarn in her lap and needles limp in her hands. Her mouth hung open as she blinked several times. "What in the world just happened?"