Faith released a quiet sigh, eyes tender. “I know, Annie, I remember loving Collin so much I wanted to give myself to him, body and soul. One night he stirred me up more than usual, and I argued with God in my head that we’d be married in mere days, so what could it hurt? But the truth is, real love denies self to give those we love God’s best. So I said no to Collin and yes to God, and I truly believe that’s why our marriage is so wonderful today. Because the Bible is clear—God honors those who honor him.”
“But what if . . . ,” Annie swallowed hard, “I say no, but Steven persists?”
Faith stared at her for several seconds before she answered, her gaze soft. “Then you tell him it’s over, just like you warned him in the beginning.”
“But . . . what if he leaves forever?” She blinked, heart stalled in her chest.
“He won’t,” Faith whispered, rising to the whistle of the teakettle, “but if he does, then he’s not the right man for you, and God has spared you further heartbreak.”
Annie stared hard at the floor, her breathing uneven before she lifted her eyes to Faith’s. “All right,” she whispered, “but I’ll need lots of prayer.” She hesitated. “And, Faith?”
“Yes?” Faith turned at the counter, where she was pouring their hot water for tea.
“Steven needs prayer too,” Annie said quietly. “Not just about us, mind you.” She drew in a shallow breath, eyes locked with Faith’s. “His faith in God—I don’t think it’s very strong.”
Faith’s chest wavered with a heavy exhale as she carried steaming cups of tea to the table. “Yes, Annie, I know. Oh, Steven believes in God and he goes to mass every Sunday, but I’m afraid he’s a lot like my brother Sean used to be.”
“How’s that?” Annie said, taking a cookie when Faith offered the plate.
Setting the plate on the table, Faith sat to steep her tea. “Good men who believe in God, certainly, and that he sent his Son to save them, but no real passion for it. A sort of long-distance relationship comprised of church once a week and grace at dinner. But . . . ,” she reached for a cookie, “the good news is, all that can change if a man really loves a woman, which is what happened with Sean. Emma’s faith ignited his, and to be honest, Annie, that’s what I’ve been praying for with you and Steven. You have the kind of faith to set Steven’s on fire, but it’s going to require adherence to God’s precepts to do it, which is another reason you have to be strong.”
A wispy sigh parted from Annie’s lips. “I know. I’ve tried a number of times to talk about my faith with Steven, but he always changes the subject.” She glanced up, trepidation in her eyes. “So I know it will be my actions that speak rather than my words.”
Faith smiled. “Ah yes, the immortal words of St. Francis of Assisi—‘preach the gospel at all times and when necessary, use words.’ ” Her eyes twinkled as she took a sip of her tea.
Annie tilted her head. “I never heard that before, but it’s so true.”
“Yes, it is.” Faith set her cup down to take Annie’s hand, chin firm. “Which means when it comes to Steven, you’ll have my daily vigil of prayers, beginning right now.”
Annie nodded, her heart lighter at the thought . . . but not completely. “Faith?”
“Mmm?”
“Can we pray about something else too? About Maggie?”
“Absolutely,” Faith said with a squeeze of her hands. “What about Maggie?”
Annie hesitated, the words difficult to say. “I . . . haven’t told her yet.”
It was Faith’s turn to pause. “That you’ve been seeing Steven?”
She gave a wooden nod. “I wrote her I was dating, but was afraid to tell her who.”
A reedy breath seeped through Faith’s lips. “I see. Because you feel guilty . . . or because you’re afraid she’ll be angry?”
“A little of both, I suppose.” Annie pulled her hands from Faith’s to buff her arms, goose bumps popping from a sudden chill. “I never thought for a moment anything would ever happen between Steven and me, but now that it has, I worry Maggie’ll be hurt.”
“But that was three years ago, Annie, and your sister’s in love with somebody else now, engaged to be married. If she does harbor any hurt, I’m sure she’ll get over it quickly, especially if we pray about it.” Faith’s smile was gentle. “But you do need to tell her soon, okay?”
Annie nodded.
Faith extended her hands. “But right now, we have bigger fish to fry, young lady.”
“We do, don’t we?” Annie placed her hands into Faith’s with a sheepish smile.
“Yes, ma’am, we do. Because if you’re going to land my brother in the proverbial boat,” Faith hiked a brow, a “Charity” smile sprouting on her lips, “we’ll have to set the hook hard.” She winked. “Right after he swallows the bait whole.”
Marcy glanced at the clock on her nightstand with a nervous eye, wondering what in the world was taking Steven so long to lose at chess with his father. “Sweet saints, Steven,” she muttered under her breath, “just push a pawn or sacrifice a queen or even touch the wrong piece, but for sanity’s sake, let your father win!” Her hands shook as she slapped at a page in the magazine she wasn’t reading, her stomach in knots as she waited for Patrick to come to bed.
Calm down, Marceline, or he’ll sense something is up.
Resting her head on the headboard, she closed her eyes to heed the silent warning, forcing a calm she didn’t feel. She and Patrick communicated about everything—everything except the thing nearest and dearest to Marcy’s heart, adopting Gabe. Since Patrick’s heart incident four months ago, Marcy had laid low, avoiding the subject of Gabe as deftly as her husband. But with another paperwork deadline tomorrow, she no longer had the luxury of waiting. And as much as she despised manipulation, her guilt couldn’t keep pace with her longing to call Gabe one of their own. Tonight she needed to sway Patrick as never before, and if that meant softening him up with good news, good food, and calculated affection . . . well, so be it.
Her gaze strayed to the clock again, tongue gliding across her teeth. Half past eleven. Hopefully he’d be buoyed up by a win and not too tired either to talk or whatever else was needed to ensure the papers were signed. Chest expanding, she exhaled, confident everything was in place for a win, not only for Patrick in chess, but for his very patient wife who was a mere signature away from her dream. Hands trembling, she slipped two papers from the back of the magazine, the final forms that would declare Gabriella Dawn Smith an O’Connor by Christmas . . . and Marcy a mother of a precious street orphan who just needed to be loved.
She went over her plan for surely the hundredth time, quite certain there would never be a better time. This very week, the board of the Boston Herald hired another editor to replace the two they’d lost, which meant Patrick and Mitch would actually be home with their families on Saturdays, and this on top of a rise in circulation! She’d been almost giddy when Patrick walked in the door whistling tonight—whistling, for heaven’s sake, a rarity in itself during a depression that had all but sucked the good humor from her husband. The moment he’d sauntered into the kitchen with that handsome grin, she’d known it was confirmation from God.
Tonight was the night.
She prepared a favorite meal—chicken and dumplings, not too fancy that he’d notice, but definitely high on the list of meals he loved, and then threw caution to the wind with coconut cream pie, a dessert that always put a smile on his face. And praise be to God, Gabe’s report card had actually shown improvement with a hint of praise from Sister Mary Veronica herself! Hope flickered in Marcy’s chest as a tremulous sigh drifted forth. Could it get any better than this?
“Yes, Lord,” she said with another nervous glide over her teeth, “a win at chess would be lovely, and Patrick’s signature on the dotted line even better.”
Slipping the papers in the magazine, she absently toyed with the strap of her satin gown, the one she seldom wore because it was Patrick’s favorite. Since his heart inc
ident months ago, she’d discouraged romantic pursuits, worried sick it would trigger another attack. But it had only triggered his temper instead, resulting in a row that had scared her half to death.
“Blast it, Marcy, I’m a man, not an invalid, and I need to make love to my wife.”
“Patrick, please, you were pale as death just last week, and Dr. Williamson said—”
“The deuce with Williamson,” he’d shouted, grasping her shoulders to give her a sound shake. “I will not allow fear to ruin my life, Marceline, do you hear?”
“No, but you’ll allow your death to ruin mine,” she said, body trembling.
A nerve had pulsed in his cheek as he’d stared long and hard, finally cupping her face in his hands. He’d leaned in to gently brush his lips against hers, his touch tender. “Loving you won’t kill me, Marcy,” he’d whispered with grief in his eyes, “but not loving you will.”
So she’d given in, finally letting go of her fear. She learned to trust God to keep her husband safe—now she’d trust him again to change Patrick’s mind. Inhaling deeply, she adjusted her lace nightgown, praying it would coax him in more ways than one. The scent of his favorite perfume rose from the cleft of her breasts, reminding her how uncomfortable she was playing the vamp. But Gabe was too important and Marcy too desperate. Age and heart aside, Patrick O’Connor was still an amorous man and never more so than when she took the lead.
She heard his whistle long before he entered the room, and her stomach looped, pulse skittering as she quickly turned on her side, idly flipping pages of the magazine that harbored her plan.
“You know, darlin’, it’s downright criminal to humiliate one’s own flesh and blood so thoroughly,” he said as he strolled into the room, the flash of white teeth a stark contrast to the dark shadow of his bristled jaw, “but I suspect it’s even worse to feel good about it.” He glanced up, fingers paused on the third button of his shirt as his gaze traveled her body. With a wayward smile that suggested trouble, he ambled over to sit on the bed, leaning in to skim his lips against hers. The silver at his temples gleamed like the tease in his eyes. “So you decided to wait up and read, did you?” His thumb played with the strap of her gown while his lips played with the lobe of her ear. “Tell me, Marceline, can you read my mind right now?”
Her chuckle wavered when he eased her back on the pillow with a kiss. “I believe I could be blindfolded and still read your mind, Patrick O’Connor,” she said, studying the man who held her heart in the palm of his hand. She threaded her fingers through the salt-and-pepper curls at the back of his head and delivered an off-center smile. “It’s not difficult, you know.”
He pressed a quick kiss to her nose and pushed up with a grunt. “Not when you’re wearing a gown like that, darlin’,” he said with a grin. “Let me get dressed for bed, and you and I can ‘read’ together.” He stripped off his shirt and tossed it on the hamper on his way to the closet, snatching his pajamas off the back of the door. “I was certainly relieved to see Gabe’s grades on the upswing,” he said casually, removing his trousers to hang them over the press. “Sweet heavens, we might actually be making some progress with the girl.”
Marcy’s heart leapt. “Oh, we are, Patrick, I just know it!” She slipped under the covers, anxious to push the discussion in the right direction. “She’s been good as gold lately.”
“And just as expensive,” Patrick reminded with a slant of a smile. “I’m still paying for Victor Kincaid’s jaw, if you recall.”
“But at least she didn’t break any teeth—”
“Hold that thought, Marceline, while I go brush my own,” he called on his way to the bathroom, and Marcy sucked in more air that did little to quell the jitters in her stomach.
Nerves twitching, she heard the water running in the bathroom while she stared at the door, finally opting for some last-minute prayer. “Please, Lord,” she whispered, thinking of the little girl down the hall, “soften his heart to say ye—” The prayer died in her throat when Patrick appeared in the door with neckties in hand and a tic in his jaw.
“I believe we were discussing expense,” he said, striding forward to toss three of his best neckties onto the bed. Marcy’s heart sank along with the ties. Each was knotted several times, apparently makeshift headbands for Indians at war, with war paint that looked suspiciously like lipstick and feathers stabbed through. “I found these stuffed behind the hamper.”
“Patrick, she’s just a child . . . ,” she said weakly.
He snatched the Indian gear back up and shook it in her face. “No, Marcy, she’s not just a child, she’s a wild Indian. Three of my most expensive ties—ruined just like my good mood. I swear the child is in league with the devil, out to destroy my sanity.” Hurling the ties toward the hamper, he jerked the covers aside and plopped down, jostling the bed along with her nerves.
“Patrick, she just needs to be loved.”
“She needs more than love, she needs a muzzle and a chain, and if she were mine—”
His words stilled when she touched her hand to his mouth. “That’s just it, my love,” she whispered, her eyes pleading with his. “She can be. And, Patrick, she should be . . .”
His lips parted in shock. “Marcy, no—”
“Patrick, she needs us, and we need her—”
He jerked his pillow and punched it several times, then repositioned it with a hard clamp of his jaw. “She has us, darlin’—for pity’s sake, we’ve opened our home to her.”
“But not our hearts, Patrick. She needs to be family.”
“She is family! We’ve given the girl a home, an education, and a family that genuinely loves her. What else could she possibly need?”
Wetness stung Marcy’s eyes. “A name,” she whispered. “A name that tells the world she’s neither an outcast nor an orphan taken in out of pity. A family she can call her own, with a mother and a father, siblings who may not be blood but are joined all the same . . . by a name.”
Patrick was shaking his head before she even finished. “Adoption?” He issued a harsh grunt that indicated his opinion of the idea. “Sweet saints, Marcy, we’re way too old for that.”
She clutched him tightly, and a tear slithered into the crease of his neck. “No, Patrick, we’re not. We’re young and vital and just what Gabe needs. She adores you and you her . . .”
“I love the girl, Marcy, I do . . . but adoption?” He pulled away to gouge shaky fingers through unruly hair. “For the love of sanity, woman, she’s a terror at ten. Can you imagine what the teenage years might bring? I’m not sure either of us can survive.”
Marcy kissed his cheek, the scruff of his beard rough against her lips. “We’ll survive, my love, and our hearts will grow in the process. And then, every day thereafter—you mark my words—we will get down on our knees and thank God we opened our hearts to one of our own.”
He sat up, his jaw tight with tension and his eyes piercing hers with a sobriety that gave her pause. His voice was gruff. “I really don’t have much say in this, do I, Marceline?”
She blinked, thinking how important this was to her. And then in the depth of his gray eyes, she saw the intensity of his love shadowed by the barest hint of resignation, reminding her once again just how important he was to her. She leaned to press her lips to his, her words warm and soft against his mouth. “Oh, you have say, Patrick,” she said quietly, “because my love for you guides every decision I make. And you have my word—if you say no, it will not happen.”
With a firm hand, he lifted her chin, allowing his thumb to graze the curve of her mouth. “You’re wrong, Marceline, I have no say whatsoever. Because if I say no, I break your heart . . . and mine in the process. I’m not ready for this, Marcy, not by a long shot . . .” He flopped back on the pillow with a heavy sigh. “But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to consider it.”
“Oh, Patrick!” Tears stung her eyes, and she flung herself into his arms. She besieged him with kisses that prompted a low moan from his throat. She p
ulled away to swipe a tear from her eye. “I swear, Patrick, I never believed it possible, but I love you more every day.”
His husky laughter rumbled in the dark. “Only because I get older every day, too tired to do naught but give you your way.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’ll look into it next week.”
No! In a violent beat of her heart, she retrieved the papers from the magazine on the nightstand along with a pen, breathless when she handed them over. “No need, darling—the papers are filled out and awaiting your signature.” Her tongue skated her teeth. “Due tomorrow.”
He sat up in apparent shock, eyeing the papers with a slack of his jaw. His lips compressed in a hard line that mottled his chin, and instantly, she knew she was in trouble. Her euphoria popped like one of Gabe’s four-inch Dubble Bubbles, stifling her air with a sticky goo. Sweat glazed her body at his tone, deadly low. “If I say no, it won’t happen, eh?”
Her stomach cramped. “Patrick, I—”
He stood, eyes smoldering as he snatched his pillow from the bed. “Spare me, Marceline,” he said, his tone clipped and cold. “There’s nothing you can say or do to convince me you haven’t played me for the fool—not fix a fancy dinner, make my favorite dessert, or cozy up to me in bed.” He cocked his head, lips curled in a harsh smile. “And if I have my guesses right, I suspect the game I won so handily tonight was your doing also.”
Guilt heated her face. “Patrick, please . . .” She rose to follow.
He thrust a hand out, as if to ward her off, the hard muscles of his arm as defined as the anger in his face. “No! Not this time, Marcy—not tears nor pie nor easy wins can save you tonight. Not when you try to manipulate me and then enlist my own son in the effort. After all these years, I thought we’d forged a relationship on trust and communication, not cold, calculated scheming to force my hand regarding decisions you’ve already made on your own.” He wedged the pillow under his arm. “I now see where Charity gets her manipulative skills.”