Marcy’s heavy sigh could have fluttered the curtains along with the breeze. She kneaded the bridge of her nose, avoiding her mother’s eyes. “Nothing terrible, I suppose,” she said carefully, “it’s just that Patrick O’Connor walked me home tonight, and he …” A muscle dipped in her throat as she paused to swallow. “Well, he … made advances.”
“What?” Bridget Murphy sat straight up, nose pinched in a frown. “That hooligan friend of Julie’s brother? What kind of advances?”
Marcy picked at her nails, gaze fixed on her hands. “He kissed me,” she whispered, feeling the heat of his lips all over again, along with an annoying flutter in her belly.
“Good heavens, you didn’t like it, did you?” Her mother’s tone bordered on alarm.
“Of course not,” Marcy fibbed, desperate to convince herself as well as her mother that the sparks she’d felt were from anger and shock rather than attraction. A shiver whispered through her mind. Passion had no place in her life except passion for God, and she intended to keep it that way. From everything she’d seen and felt in New York, romantic passion only led to trouble for a woman, blinding her eyes and clouding her judgment. No, Marcy wanted none of that. Yes, she wanted to be attracted to the man that she would eventually marry, but an attraction based on friendship and a keen mind, not sweet talk and swoons. She’d learned through the heartaches of her cousin and best friend’s parents that palpitations and promises were no basis for a happy marriage. And if there was one thing Marcy intended to have, it was a happy marriage. Her lips quirked. A near impossibility with a handsome rake like Patrick O’Connor. “He reminds me too much of Nora’s ex-fiancé,” she said with absolute certainty. “You know, too handsome to be trusted, too experienced with women.”
“Good.” Her mother’s jaw shifted in a familiar grinding motion as her eyes narrowed to slits. “I certainly hope you slapped him silly.”
Marcy nodded, chewing the edge of her lip as mischief tugged at her smile. “I think I may have rattled the poor man’s brain.”
“Humph … nothing ‘poor’ about a scoundrel like that except his manners, and you have to have a brain before you can rattle it.” Bridget leaned in, a glint of warning in her eyes. “You stay far away from the likes of him, Marceline, do you hear? And the same goes for Julie’s brother. Cocky lots the both of them, preying on young girl’s affections.”
Julie’s brother. A shaky exhale parted from Marcy’s lips. Affections, yes.
The teapot whistled and her mother jumped up, straining the steaming brew into each cup before she delivered them to the table. The sweet smell of apple swirled in the air along with the steam as she bustled back for spoons, milk and sugar, then returned to her seat, eyeing Marcy while she stirred the cream in her cup. “Where was Julie and why was that scalawag walking you home in the first place?”
Marcy blew on her tea and sweetened it to taste. “Julie and Sam had a family function to attend, so Sister Francine insisted Patrick walk me home.”
“Sweet mother of mercy, does the woman not realize the type of reputation that boy has? Goodness, Loretta McPhee asked for prayer at our sewing circle just last week concerning those Lotharios, the two of them forever sniffing around her daughters.”
Hot liquid pooled in Marcy’s mouth, burning far less than the mention of Sam with another girl. She wrinkled her nose and added more sugar. “I think Sister Francine was so relieved I didn’t have to walk home alone, she overlooked that it was Patrick who offered.”
“Well, just see to it that it doesn’t happen again.”
Marcy bent to sip her cup, her thoughts lost in its golden depths.
“Marceline?”
She glanced up, idly warming her fingers on the sides of her cup. “Yes?”
Her mother squinted to study her face. “You don’t have feelings for this O’Connor boy, do you?”
She absently shook her head, her gaze fading back into her tea where the kiss played out once again, warming her skin like the steam from her cup. Tremors rolled through her stomach as she abruptly pushed the cup away, golden liquid sloshing in her saucer. Not if I can help it. “Of course not,” she whispered.
“Good, because the boy comes from bad blood, make no mistake, so it’s best to stay far away from a man like that.” She wrinkled her nose while she tasted her tea. “After all, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Marcy glanced up. “What do you mean?”
Bridget paused, assessing her daughter over the rim of her cup. She huffed out a weary sigh and slowly placed her cup back in its saucer. “I suppose you’re old enough to know of such things now, especially in light of the O’Connor boy’s advances, but it’s not a pretty story.”
“What happened?” Marcy whispered, her breathing suspended.
“Well, it seems Patrick’s father—a church board member, mind you—had an affair with the sixteen-year-old daughter of the next-door neighbor.”
Marcy sucked in a harsh breath.
Bridget clucked her tongue. “Yes, I can assure you it was shock to everyone. The poor family up and moved so quickly that everyone just knew the girl was pregnant.”
“No …” Marcy clutched a hand to her throat.
Bridget nodded. “The man has since repented and mended his ways, of course, but he’s never been the same, I can tell you that.” She gave a short grunt. “And spawning a rake for a son certainly didn’t help.” She took a drink of her tea, lips pursed in a scowl. “The sins of the father, you know.”
Yes, Marcy knew. And he did that which was evil in the sight of the Lord, as his fathers had done …
“Mark my words—it’s in the boy’s blood. A young woman would do well to study the father if she wants a glimpse of the son …”
Thoughts of Sam popped in her mind, and her heart sped up. Although not overly devout, Mr. O’Rourke was a God-fearing man who attended church with his family. Without question, he loved his wife and children, ensuring a close-knit bond among parents and siblings to provide the kind of family Marcy desperately craved.
She shook off her reverie to give her mother a sad smile. “I knew something terrible had happened to the O’Connors, but I never really knew what.” Marcy tucked her arms to her waist, warding off a shiver. “It certainly explains a lot.”
“Yes, regrettably it does, so it’s best to keep that scoundrel at arm’s length.” Bridget paused, teacup hovering at her lips. “And the scoundrel’s friends as well, Marceline.”
Eyes averted, Marcy quickly sipped her tea while heat scalded her cheeks.
The chair squeaked against the wood floor when her mother shifted to lean in, eyes shrewd. “Did you hear what I said, daughter? That includes Julie’s brother.”
Marcy’s eyelids weighted closed as the tea clotted in her throat. She gulped it down hard, the sharp bob of her throat prompting a catch in her mother’s breath.
“Oh, Marceline, no—not Sam O’Rourke!” Upending her tea, her mother clunked her cup back in her saucer. “The saints preserve us.”
Marcy peeked up, her voice frail. “I’ve always had a fondness for Sam, Mother, you know that.”
Bridget slammed a palm to the table, her jaw grating as she peered at her daughter. “But that was five years ago! I hoped that time and distance would diminish that schoolgirl crush.”
Marcy’s hands quivered as she sipped, her mother’s disappointment no more than her own. “Trust me, Mother, I have no intention of acting on it.”
Her mother grunted in unladylike fashion. “It’s not you I worry about trusting. Sam may not be as tempting as Patrick O’Connor, but those two are cut from the same cloth, make no mistake.” She rose to pour herself more tea. “So much for sleeping tonight after that bit of news—it’ll take the whole bloomin’ pot.” She plopped back into her chair and drowned her tea with more milk. “I’ve a mind to forbid you to stay the night at Julie’s anymore.”
Marcy’s cup clattered against her china saucer. “No, please! I love Julie and
I love her family, and that would be so unfair.”
“No, young lady, ‘unfair’ would be if I lost my daughter to the likes of Sam O’Rourke.”
“You have nothing to worry about, truly.” Marcy reached to stroke her mother’s arm, ducking her head to capture her gaze. “I intend to fall in love with a man who shares my faith as deeply as I do, so trust me, please? Besides,” she said with a hint of a smile, “Sam is somewhat of a flirt, yes, but he’s not as worrisome as Patrick, for heaven’s sake. He’s not near as handsome nor cocky and he comes from a stable home.”
“Humph. He may not be as devilishly handsome as the O’Connor boy, but the two share the same shadow, you mark my words. And I love Julie and her family, you know that, but I would be lying through my teeth if I didn’t tell you that you having feelings for Sam O’Rourke puts the fear of God in me.”
Marcy chuckled. “And me as well, I assure you. But, who knows,” she said with a wiggle of brows, suddenly giddy at the thought. “Maybe I could put the fear of God in him as well.”
“Now that I would like to see,” Bridget said with a wry smile. “Only with someone else’s daughter rather than mine, thank you very much. Half the mothers in the Southie neighborhood would owe a debt over that, you can be sure, including Mrs. O’Rourke.”
Draining her tea, Marcy rose to bestow a kiss to her mother’s head, suddenly exhausted as she carried her cup to the sink. “Me too,” she said with a yawn. She washed her cup and dried it, sending a tired smile over her shoulder. “Sam could use a touch of God in his life. Mrs. O’Rourke and her children are very devout, but Sam seems to be a bit of a black sheep, taking after his father at the same age, I think.”
Bridget chuckled. “Wolf in sheep’s clothing, you mean, black or otherwise.” She joined Marcy at the sink, rinsing her cup as well.
Marcy laughed. “Honestly, Mother, Sam’s not all that bad. Did you know he and Patrick volunteered on their own to help at the center and with the play?”
“Now why does that worry me?” Bridget’s lips took a wry twist.
“Because you’re a mother?” Marcy asked, hooking her mother’s waist to press a kiss to her cheek.
“A mother with a nose for trouble when it comes to her beautiful daughter,” she emphasized with a lift of her brows. She dried her cup and put it away, slipping Marcy a narrow gaze out of the corner of her eye. “And from where I’m sitting, neither of those boys smell all that good and a wee bit like a skunk.” Pulling the kettle from the boil, she turned to follow her daughter to the door. “And that’s a stink you’ll be wanting to avoid, Marceline.”
A weak laugh bubbled from Marcy’s lips, as tired and slap-happy as she. “Well, seeing I’m neither too fond of either skunks or rogues, I think it’s safe to say I plan to steer clear of both.”
Bridget doused the light and gave her daughter a warning squeeze. “Well, just see that you do, darlin’ girl,” she said with a crook of her mouth, “just see that you do.”
Chapter Ten
“Come again?” Sam stared at Patrick with eyes as wide as the gape of his mouth.
Patrick exhaled a weary sigh. It wasn’t even midnight, and Brannigan’s was in rare form, crawling with thirsty men—and in the realm of love—even thirstier women, flirting to their heart’s content. Particularly muggy for late summer, sweat gleamed on smiling faces as men coaxed and ladies teased, dancing, chatting or crooning to the tunes of Tommy Thomkins while he caressed the keys of his battered piano. Patrick wrinkled his nose, the scent of stale whiskey and cheap perfume more potent than normal and surprisingly void of its usual thrill.
“Patrick!” Sam shook Patrick’s arm, bringing him back to the crowded bar where a haze of smoke hung as thick as the fog in his mind. He looped an arm over his best friend’s shoulders and bent to peer in his face, tone urgent. “Are you crazy? Colleen’s uncle is gone for the weekend, and Jenny is spending the night. And you’re going home?”
Crazy? Apparently. Patrick expelled another noisy breath, in total agreement with Sam that he had, indeed, lost his mind. Or my heart. He glanced at the privy door at the back of the bar where Colleen and Jenny had gone to “freshen up” before heading to Colleen’s uncle’s flat, then exhaled again. He was reluctant to admit to his best friend that for some strange reason, intimacies shared with Jenny no longer held any appeal.
Some strange reason? Patrick grunted and tossed the rest of his beer to the back of his throat. Some strange girl, more likely, a holier-than-thou angel who had ruined his taste for other women. Pushing his mug away, he scrubbed his face with his hands, wanting nothing more at the moment than to just go home to bed—alone. He tossed payment for his tab on the bar and lumbered to his feet, slapping Sam on the back with an apology in his eyes. “Sorry, buddy, but I’m spent and so is my money.”
Sam cinched his arm, gaze flicking to where Colleen and Jenny were inching through the sea of patrons, heading their way. He turned back, dark eyes pleading. “Look, Patrick, we don’t get this opportunity all that often, and the girls are more than willing, so what’s your problem? I thought you liked Jenny?”
“I do,” Patrick said. He glanced her way, noting the blatant stares of other men as Jenny passed by. She sent a smile in Patrick’s direction and he returned it, scanning from her shapely shirtwaist to the soft curve of her hips as they swayed beneath a skirt that skimmed her body like every man longed to do. Except for him. His smile went flat. At least lately. He shook his head. “But not tonight, Sam—just not in the mood.”
“Not-in-the-mood?” Sam enunciated slowly, thick brows bunched in disbelief. He placed a palm to Patrick’s forehead, his shock evident in the rasp of his voice. “The chance of a lifetime and you’re not in the mood? That settles it, O’Connor—you’re sick, and I’m taking over even if I have to drag you all the way.”
Patrick laughed. “You would have to, Sam, because I’m exhausted. I worked three double shifts this week, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember,” Sam said with grunt, “but that’s never stopped you before.”
“Ready?” Colleen appeared at Sam’s side and ruffled his dark curls, her brown eyes sparkling with tease. She tossed a loose strand of auburn hair over her shoulder with a pretty arch of brows, gaze flitting from Sam to Patrick.
Sam hooked Colleen close, making her giggle when he nibbled her ear. “I certainly am, but I’m afraid Patrick here is ‘not in the mood.’”
Patrick groaned. “Come on, Sam, I told you I’m just exhausted.”
“Not in the mood?” Jenny said with an innocent blink of blue eyes that was purely for show. She sidled up to Patrick and slipped her arms to his waist, lifting on tiptoe to graze his stubbled jaw with her lips. “Why, I take that as a personal challenge, Mr. O’Connor,” she whispered, the warm mold of her body racing his pulse. Hooking a hand to his neck, she pulled him down to weld her mouth with his, and Patrick groaned and finished the job with a kiss so deep, heat seared him head to toe. Blood pumping, he devoured her neck, sweeping away honey-hued curls to suckle her ear.
And then in one jagged breath, pale gold tendrils on an alabaster neck came to mind, and Patrick’s heart thudded to a cold stop. His lips stilled on Jenny’s ear, all desire suddenly as lukewarm as the dregs of beer at the bottom of his glass. Eyelids sinking closed, he stifled a groan before pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek. He pulled away, regret softening his gaze as he tenderly buffed her arms. “Jenny, as tempting as that kiss was, I have another double shift tomorrow and really need to head home.” He lifted her chin with his thumb. “Give me a rain check?”
“Come on, Patrick,” Sam said, “don’t leave the woman high and dry. One or two hours, and then you can head home for that sleep you so desperately need.”
“Sorry, Sam, but I guarantee after that last kiss, not only wouldn’t I be leaving in one or two hours, but I wouldn’t get any sleep.” He gave Jenny a wink, then cuffed Sam’s neck on his way to the door. “Good night, all,” he called over his shoulder. �
�Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Fielding flirtations from various ladies on his way to the door, Patrick stepped outside and inhaled a deep draw of crisp air, glad to be free of the noise and smoke and temptation for which he suddenly had no stomach. Hands in his pockets, he vented his frustration with a noisy blast of air, head bowed as he absently made his way down the street.
“O’Connor!”
Patrick turned, a silent groan lodged in his throat when he saw Sam loping toward him, shadowed jaw as ominous as the dark glare of black eyes. He exhaled loudly, waiting for Sam to catch up while Brannigan’s music filtered down the near-empty street.
“What the devil is your problem tonight?” Sam snapped, chest huffing as he came to a stop, hands on his knees to catch his breath. “You not only ruined Jenny’s evening, you ruined mine.”
Slacking a hip, Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Come on, Sam, you’re a big boy. You don’t need me along to have a good time.”
“No, but we’re a team—it’s not the same without you.”
One side of Patrick’s smile crooked up. “Since when do you need me along to woo a woman, O’Rourke?” He slipped his hands in his pockets and started walking again, pinging a rock into a lamppost with his toe.
Sam fell in to step beside him with a scowl. “Since Colleen doesn’t cotton to Jenny being alone in the next room, listening to everything going on.” He kicked a stone of his own, sailing it half a block down the street until it ricocheted off a fire hydrant. “Thanks a lot for ruining a sure thing.”
“Just as well,” Patrick said with a squint at the sky, his thoughts melancholy as he studied the full moon. “Colleen and Jenny aren’t exactly the type of women we hope to marry someday.”
A Light in the Window Page 9