“Mmm . . . not as good as Henry.” Charity took Gabe’s glass and peered in with a wrinkle of her nose. Rising, she placed the defiled glass on the table and calmly poured another, handing it to Gabe with a quirk of her lips. “Here you go, honey. In the meantime, tell Henry we do not spit in our drinks. If he does it again, he’ll be ‘spit’-shining dirty dinner dishes for a month instead of the week he now has for drooling in yours.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Gabe stole Marcy’s heart with a pixie grin before flying out the door.
Charity glanced at Marcy with a nod in Gabe’s direction. “You haven’t mentioned adoption lately, Mother—are we any closer with Gabe?” She resumed her sewing with a twist of a smile. “Because frankly, with Henry, I think we could use her in the family.”
Just the mention of adoption caused Marcy’s stomach to churn, and her tongue made a quick pass over her lips. She peered out the screen door at her husband playing horseshoes with his sons and sons-in-law and took a quick sip of her tea, mouth suddenly parched.
Faith touched her arm. “You still haven’t asked him, have you?”
Marcy shook her head, the tea settling in her stomach like sludge.
“Why not?” Lizzie asked, her concern mirroring Faith’s. “We all love Gabe like a sister and we want her in this family as much as you do. Why put it off?”
A chill shivered through Marcy, and she absently buffed her arms. “I suppose I’m afraid,” she whispered. “Afraid he’ll say no.”
“Father loves you and he loves Gabe,” Faith said softly. “He’ll do what’s right—he always does—and it’s right to adopt Gabe.” She squeezed Marcy’s hand. “You need to ask him.”
Marcy drew in a deep breath, taking solace from her daughter’s words. “I know you’re right, and I did try to bring it up last year as you know, but he was more than resistant to the idea, so I’ve been biding my time.” She forced a smile. “But as we all know, Gabe’s not the easiest of children to raise, as your father has pointed out on many an occasion, so I keep waiting for the right time to broach it again.” Her lip cocked in a rare show of sarcasm. “Like when the child has actually behaved for a full twenty-four-hour period, which, unfortunately, is about as rare as Henry.”
Charity sighed and commiserated with a smile. “We definitely have our work cut out for us with those two, don’t we, Mother? And I’m twenty years younger than you—I don’t know how you do it. Although heaven knows, you don’t look it. I laughed when Bruce McKenzie mistook me for you last week. Sweet saints, I hope and pray I look like you when I’m your age.”
“Goodness, Charity, Bruce McKenzie is blind as a bat and everyone knows it.” Marcy offered a dry smile, heart going out to the widower neighbor who always darted over to talk whenever Marcy wandered out front. “The poor man is just lonely.”
“Lonely, yes, but also taken with you, Mother,” Faith said, admiration brimming in her tone. “Which just proves Charity’s point. Why, in Sean and Emma’s wedding pictures, you could pass for our sister instead of our mother. Personally, I think the man is a little smitten.”
“Who’s smitten?” The screen door squealed open, ushering in the love of Marcy’s life. Patrick winked at his daughters. “Besides me, that is. And more importantly,” he said with a mock scowl, “will I get dinner before him?”
Marcy glanced up, a smile creasing her lips at the sight of her husband. Editor for the Boston Herald, Patrick’s usually meticulous shirt was now void of a tie and open at the collar, revealing a peek of dark and silver hair on a chest just starting to tan. Sleeves rolled halfway up indicated muscled arms that could have easily belonged to a man younger than fifty-four, evidence of an exercise program ordered by his doctor after a heart-attack scare almost three years ago. Despite wisps of silver at his temples and threaded through curly dark hair, Patrick O’Connor still fluttered her pulse. Possibly more so now, with their children grown and almost gone. After thirty-six years of marriage, Marcy hadn’t believed she could love Patrick any more than she did, but every day their bond grew deeper and stronger, a gift from God that never failed to bring awe to her soul. Or a swirl to her stomach, apparently, given the warmth braising her cheeks now that her “change of life” had changed his—a man able to make love to his wife without the worry of more children. Her chest expanded with a sigh that withered on her lips. Except, that is, for one freckled sprite of an orphan who had yet to steal his heart.
Casting a glance at the clock on the wall, Marcy silently beseeched the Lord on Gabe’s behalf before imparting a patient smile. “Patrick O’Connor, you know we never eat before five. I have cakes to ice and a salad to finish, so I suggest you focus on horseshoes rather than dinner.”
His low chuckle caught her by surprise when he slipped sturdy arms to her waist and nuzzled her neck. “If you don’t mind, darlin’, I’d rather focus on something else,” he whispered.
“Patrick, stop . . . ,” she said softly, face on fire. She squirmed from his hold while her daughters chatted away, apparently oblivious to their overaffectionate father.
“What?” he asked, gray eyes wide in mock innocence. He snatched several oatmeal cookies before giving her a shuttered smile. “I was talking about the cookies, Marceline, what did you think I meant?”
More heat flooded as she slapped him away. “Oh, go toss horseshoes. We’ll be eating at five and not a moment before.” She glanced at his cookies. “That is, if you’re still hungry.”
He strolled to the door. “I wouldn’t worry about that, darlin’,” he said with a wink. “I’m the only one who’s beat Collin at horseshoes so far, and winning always whets my appetite.”
The screen door rattled closed and Faith rose from the table, chuckling as she washed her hands. “Collin losing doesn’t bode well for me,” she said, reaching for a knife from the drawer, “but it sure has put Father in a good mood. Maybe tonight’s the night to broach the subject of adoption. He and Gabe are getting along better these days, aren’t they?”
“Not that I can see,” Charity said, staring out the window. “Father just yelled at Gabe for putting a mud pie down Henry’s back.” She heaved a weighty sigh. “Fair payback, I suppose, for the time he put worms down his sister’s, but I’ll have a terror of a time cleaning that shirt.”
“Oh dear, no . . .” Marcy plopped in her chair and patted her damp brow with her apron. “For the life of me, I don’t know why Gabe persists in bullying little boys and aggravating your father. When she’s alone with me, she’s a perfect angel and nearly as sweet as the other girls, but with him or Henry or the boys at school?” A shiver coursed the back of her neck. “She’s like a different child.”
She sighed, a tender smile chasing the heaviness from her soul. “Do you know what she did just last week?” Marcy blinked to ward off a prick of tears. “When Luke first brought her to stay, she begged to visit her little friends at the Boston Society for the Care of Girls, so now it’s a monthly routine. Well, last week, she insisted on making cookies all by herself, frosting each one with the girls’ initials.” Moisture welled, despite Marcy’s best efforts. “Whenever we visit, she’s like a champion for those poor little things for goodness’ sake—encouraging them, loving on them, defending them from other girls who bully. I tell you, the child virtually glows, and of course they all but worship her.”
Katie handed her a Kleenex from her purse, and Marcy gave her a wobbly smile. “All except your father, of course, who says she acts more like a street hellion than part of this family.” She blew her nose. “But losing her parents like she did, I suppose some of her behavior is understandable. Even so, I’d give anything to know why she acts the way that she does.”
Katie leaned forward, the sheen in her eyes matching that of her mother’s. “Because that’s how she feels inside,” she whispered.
Marcy glanced up, lips parted in surprise. “What? How do you know?”
Sucking in a deep breath, Katie scanned the faces around the table. Her gaze returned to h
er mother and she paused. “Because Luke told me what happened before her parents died.”
The air seized in Marcy’s lungs. “Good heavens, Katie,” she whispered, “what could possibly be worse than the death of one’s parents?”
Katie clutched her mother’s hands and leaned close, her eyes awash with tears. “Abandonment,” she said quietly, the very word sodden with grief. “Luke made me promise not to say, Mother, but it’s breaking my heart because you need to know.” She engaged the familiar jut of her jaw. “No, you have a right to know the heartbreak that little girl carries.”
“Oh, please, no . . .” Marcy’s eyes fluttered closed, no power over the wetness welling beneath her lids. Deep down inside she’d known God had called her to rescue that child, to nurture her, to bring the balm of love to an orphan’s heart and the wounds that she bore through the loss of family. To restore what the locust had eaten with hope and healing, laughter and joy. And love. Marcy pressed a quivering palm to her lips to silence a heave. Oh, Lord, so very much love!
Katie’s voice continued, soothing and low. “Luke didn’t know either, Mother, not until last month when he ran into the social worker in charge of Gabe’s case. Somehow Gabe’s files were misfiled or lost, so he never knew Gabe’s parents abandoned her at the age of five.” Releasing Marcy’s hands, Katie eased back in her chair. Her gaze flicked to the screen door and back, as if to make sure Gabe was nowhere in sight, then met those of her mother and sisters. “Luke was afraid it’d be too painful to hear, now that Gabe is one of our own.” She heaved a weighty sigh. “And frankly, he was worried about Father,” Katie said quietly. “Luke knows Gabe’s been a burden to him and he’s afraid if Father knew the emotional trauma of her past . . .” Katie paused, her voice fading to low. “It’ll be reason enough to think she could never change . . .” A muscle hitched in her throat. “And maybe reason to send her away.”
“For the love of decency, how can parents abandon a child?” Marcy felt faint.
Katie pierced her with a pained look in her eyes. “I don’t know, Mother, but they did.” Her tone hardened. “Apparently they were alcoholics and raising their own child was too much trouble. Once, they apparently ditched her at the city dump like so much trash, leaving her to fend for herself, but a neighbor found out and reported them.” Cheeks glazed with tears, Katie continued. “A year after Gabe went to live at the BSCG, they died in a fire, and never once did they try to see her or get her back before that.” Dabbing her face with a tissue, Katie shuddered, her eyes as glazed as Marcy’s mind. “Remember how Gabe never cried the first two years she was here, even when she cut her knee and needed stitches?”
Marcy nodded slowly, fear slithering in her stomach.
“The social worker told Luke that Gabe’s father was a nervous drunk who didn’t like a baby to cry, so he beat Gabe, which is why Luke thinks she’s so hostile to males today.”
Marcy could only stare while tears coursed her cheeks, her skin and her blood ice cold.
“Not only that, but the social worker said Gabe was nothing but skin and bones and bruises when the police found her, which could be why her growth is so stunted today.”
Marcy’s eyes twitched closed and with a broken sob, she put her head in her hands, her body quivering with heaves. Katie squeezed her in a tight hug while Faith and Lizzie hovered, stroking Marcy’s head and shoulders with a daughter’s loving touch. Grief swelled in her chest until it spilled from her eyes. If she’d had any guilt before for using her wiles in coaxing Patrick to consider adoption, it was all gone now, forever obliterated by abuse so heinous, Marcy had no choice but to forge ahead with her plan to adopt Gabe. To make a difference in the girl’s life, to receive her into a family who could heal her wounds like God had called them to do . . .
And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me . . .
“Mother, we need to pray.” Faith glanced at the clock on the wall. “I think I hear the collective growl of stomachs outside,” she whispered, her tone edged with the faintest glimmer of humor in an obvious attempt to help lighten the mood.
Katie squeezed her mother’s hand with a sniff. “While we’re at it, Luke and I could use some prayer too.” She slid them a shaky smile, apparently following Faith’s example to steer the conversation away from the abuse inflicted on Gabe.
“You?” Charity grinned, the shimmer of wetness in her own eyes belying the smile on her face. “Oh no, what have you done to that poor boy now, Katie Rose?”
True to her name, a hint of rose crept into Katie’s cheeks. “Trust me, something the ‘boy’ is not going to like one iota.” She peeked up, brows tented. “Jack offered to tutor me, and I . . . accepted.”
“Jack?” Faith slid back into her seat, eyes wide. “As in your old fiancé Jack? Why on earth would you do that, Katie? Are you crazy?”
Marcy blinked and swiped at her face with the Kleenex. “Oh, Katie, no . . .”
Katie’s chin jutted high, her pride obviously engaged. “Well, I can’t ask Luke because he’s always bogged down at the BCAS, especially now with an upcoming board meeting, so what am I supposed to do? Jack’s a whiz at Harvard Law and I need help. So when I ran into him at the Harvard Library and he offered to tutor me, well, it was like an answer to prayer. I’m miserable at contract law and can’t afford to fail, so what could I say?”
Charity gaped. “Uh, no, maybe? Instead you let your former fiancé—whom your husband despises, I might add—tutor you?” Charity stared at her sister as if she had just spit in her lemonade. “Saints almighty, even I wouldn’t do something that stupid.”
Emma bit her lip and gave her best friend an affectionate pat. “Oh, sure you would.”
Charity’s eyes narrowed before her lips curled into a one-sided smile. “Okay, maybe I would, but that doesn’t change the fact that Luke will be furious.”
Faith cast a nervous glance at the clock on the wall. “Which is why we need to pray about this pronto, Katie, along with Gabe’s situation and Mother talking adoption with Father.” She extended her hands, sobriety in her gaze despite the hint of a smile on her lips. “Before the plague of locusts descends from outside, demanding potpie.”
“I agree.” The knots in Marcy’s stomach slowly unraveled as she released all the angst in her chest in one heavy exhale. Joining hands, she sucked in a deep swallow of air and gave each of her girls a most grateful look. “And speaking of pie,” she whispered, elevating her chin to the point of resolve, “I’ll tell you one thing right now. If Gabriella Dawn turns out to be half the daughter as all of you, Patrick O’Connor will be eating pie for a long time to come.” The shaky semblance of a smile surfaced on her lips. “And I’m talking the ‘humble’ variety,” she said with a tilt of her mouth, “not coconut cream.”
Stomach queasy, Annie eased the window sash up and shot a nervous glance at her bed, blankets bunched under her covers in a lifeless lump. Out of sheer habit, she uttered a silent prayer that no one would discover she was gone, then doubted God would listen since she was defying her aunt to sneak out to “the devil’s playground” for the second Friday in a row.
Her breathing suspended as she slipped one foot out the window and then the other, purse looped around her neck and Steven’s coat tied securely to her waist while her high heels peeked from his pockets. The scent of Aunt Eleanor’s climbing roses tickled her nose as she lodged her Keds into the trellis slots, careful to avoid the thorns hidden on the rambler’s sturdy canes beneath glossy green leaves. She chewed at her lip. Heaven knows she didn’t want to go against her aunt’s wishes, but she had to return Steven’s coat, right?
Ouch! She gasped at the prick of a hidden thorn, certain it was punishment for lying to herself as well as to Aunt Eleanor. Because the truth was, she wanted to see Steven O’Connor again, pure and simple, and the guilt over disobeying her aunt was clear indication her motives were neither “pure” nor “simple.” The kiss she now suspected he’d given to scare her away from flirtatio
us ways had only deepened her resolve to catch his eye, invading her thoughts and dreams on a daily basis. Her Keds hit the ground with a soft thud, and immediately she sucked on her bleeding finger, a small price to see Steven O’Connor again.
“Do you think he’ll be there?” Annie had asked days prior when Peggy invited her to join her sister’s group the next weekend at the Pier.
Her friend’s mischievous smile had bolstered her hope. “After the kiss you said he gave you?” She winked. “I’m betting he’ll be looking for more than his coat!”
Heat broiled Annie’s cheeks, but she couldn’t deny, deep down, she hoped Peg was right. The night was warm, but Annie slipped Steven’s jacket over her shoulders nonetheless, tiptoeing around the house before breaking into a breathless run to meet Peggy at the corner.
“That coat swallows you whole,” Peggy called with a chuckle when Annie sprinted up. “Just like Steven will if you did what I told you.” Folding her arms, she assessed Annie in the glow of the streetlamp overhead. “Let’s see—eyeliner, shadow, lipstick.” She lifted Steven’s lapels to open his coat wide. “Mmm . . . very nice, especially that sweater we found at Filene’s guaranteed to bug the eyes out of any man’s head.”
Skitters in her belly, Annie fingered the soft baby-blue pullover Peggy insisted she buy one size too small. Completely self-conscious, she tugged the V neckline up to hide the cleft of her breasts. “Are you sure it’s not—” she drew in a shaky breath, rib cage as tight as her sweater—“you know, suggestive?”
Peggy’s laughter fairly echoed down the busy street where Friday-night traffic milled, even at the late hour of ten o’clock. “Oh, it’s suggestive, all right. It suggests loud and clear you aren’t that small-town little girl Steven O’Connor thinks you are.” She fluffed the bottom of Annie’s strawberry-blonde hair with the palm of her hand. “And even though your aunt won’t let you bob your hair, pin-curling it to get those soft, loose waves to your shoulders looks very Greta Garbo-ish in the movie As You Desire Me. Especially with your part on the side.” She pulled a wave of Annie’s hair over one eye. “There, perfect! Very ‘come hither.’ ”