A Light in the Window

by Julie Lessman

  “Marry?” Sam’s voice almost cracked as it rose several octaves. “Bloomin’ saints, O’Connor, who’s talking about marriage? I’m talking about the needs of a red-blooded American male here, not ‘till death do us part.” He stared at Patrick’s profile. “What the devil’s gotten into you, anyway?”

  Patrick delivered a sideways glance at his best friend, his gaze pensive. “You ever worry we won’t be able to find a decent girl to marry? You know, given our tainted reputations?”

  Sam halted on the sidewalk. “Tainted reputations?” he said, tone incredulous. “Blue blistering blazes, we’re two of the most sought-after males in all of South Boston, hard workers both, slated to do well. You as a writer and then maybe editor at the Herald someday, and me as prosperous businessman.” He grunted and scooped up another pebble, lashing it down the cobblestone street. “Trust me, my friend, when the time comes, we’ll have our pick of decent girls and our ‘tainted’ reputations, as you call them, will have naught to say about it.”

  A low chuckle parted from Patrick’s lips. “Trust you?” He slid his friend a crooked smile. “If all the Southie lasses and their mothers don’t, why should I?”

  “Ah, but you’re the pretty-boy Lothario they really don’t trust. Me? I’m just your average side-partner along for the ride.” Sam’s teeth flashed in the glow of a flickering streetlamp. “But what a ride it’s been, old boy, at least until tonight.” He hooked an arm over Patrick’s shoulder. “Which leads me to my original question—what the blazes has gotten into you? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been paying too much heed to Father Fitz.”

  No, not Father Fitz … Patrick sighed, his smile fading along with his good mood. Waiting for a horse-drawn carriage to pass, he sprinted across the street along with Sam, sidestepping a pile of manure before resuming his slow pace on the other side. “I don’t know, sometimes I wonder if we’re being selfish, you know? Caring more about our own pleasure than the reputation of the women we meet.”

  “What?” Sam stopped again, jaw dangling.

  Patrick shot him a wry smile. “Don’t look so shocked, O’Rourke, you’re the one who threatens me within an inch of my life if I so much as glance your sister’s way. You go to great lengths to protect Julie from bums like us and yet neither of us bat an eye over taking advantage of other girls.”

  Sam shook his head, hands loose on his hips. “It’s different with girls like Julie, and you know it. She’s a good girl who wouldn’t darken the door of a pub on a bet, but there are plenty of girls who do, and trust me—they’re there for the same reasons we are. Good grief, we’re men with needs and desires—it’s natural to crave the affections of women. Besides,” he said with an off-center grin. “Judging from our success, I’d say they like it as much as we do.”

  “Not all of ‘em,” Patrick muttered. He jumped to swipe a hickory nut from an overhead limb and hurled the nut with so much force, it sounded like a gunshot against the wood gutter of a storefront.

  “Well, that’s true—we’ve certainly dabbled with our share of prudes …” He paused, coming to a complete standstill as he gripped Patrick’s arm. “Wait a minute …” he said with a faint smile that slowly inched its way into a grin. “This is about Marcy, isn’t it?”

  Patrick shook Sam off and kept walking, forcing his friend to follow with a low chuckle. “Well, what do you know?” There was a touch of awe in Sam’s voice. “The angel reforms the devil. I thought you said nothing happened when you walked her home.”

  “I lied,” Patrick said, lips flat. “Something happened all right. She dislocated my jaw.”

  Sam laughed outright. “No kidding?” He slapped Patrick on the back. “That could be the best news I’ve heard all night, old buddy. So, what happened?”

  Patrick huffed out a sigh, hands back in his pockets. “I tried to charm her, but it didn’t work—she turned me down flat. Claims she wants a man with a deeper faith.”

  Sam chuckled. “That would be three quarters of the sots at the soup kitchen.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly a choir boy, O’Rourke,” Patrick said with a tight edge to his tone. He sucked in a heavy dose of air, his spirits dampened considerably by the memory of Marcy’s rejection and his subsequent anger. “I lost my temper,” he said quietly, “and was stupid enough to force myself on her and she …” A muscle jerked in his throat. “Well, she hates me now.” He glanced over, giving Sam a listless smile. “Which means I struck out, O’Rourke, and you’re up to bat. There’s just one thing I ask.”

  “And what’s that?” Sam studied Patrick with a cautious eye.

  Patrick paused, pinning his best friend with a warning stare. “Treat her decently, Sam. She’s one of a kind, and I’ll not have you taking advantage of her.” The edge of his mouth crooked up. “Not that she’ll let you.”

  Sam nodded, gaze dropping to the sidewalk. He hesitated for several moments before peering up, face somber. “I’m sorry, Patrick.”

  Patrick glanced up, smile faint. “No, you’re not, but you will be if you don’t treat her right.”

  A rare sobriety stole across Sam’s features as he walked quietly beside Patrick, hands in his pocket and head down, as if considering whether Marceline Murphy would be worth all he would need to give up.

  “Sam?” Patrick paused, suspicion creeping into his tone.

  Sam looked up, his lips in a thin line.

  “Your intentions are honorable, right?” Patrick searched his friend’s face.

  Sam’s solemn expression lightened with a sparkle in his eyes. “Since when, Patrick, are my intentions ever honorable?”

  Patrick stayed him with an abrupt hand, turning to face him head-on without the slightest bit of humor. “This isn’t a joking matter. Marcy’s something special, and I’ll not have you ruining her, do you hear? If all you’re out for is more of the same, then I’ll ask you to leave her be.”

  Sam shook his head. “You’ve really fallen hard, haven’t you?” He dragged a hand through unruly curls at the back of his head, his chuckle strained. “Well, I can see now that we have a dilemma on our hands, because you may be ready to sell your soul to a woman, but I’m certainly not.” He unleashed a heavy sigh, head cocked as he assessed his friend with a reflective air. “All right, Patrick. I’m intrigued by our Marceline Murphy, so I’ll treat her honorably, I assure you.” Sam latched an arm to Patrick’s shoulder, giving him a wink. “Heaven knows there are more than enough lasses with whom I can be dishonorable, eh?”

  Patrick’s smile was sour. “Unless you commit to her, and then if I see you squiring other women, I’ll break your arm.”

  “Fair enough.” Sam grinned. “Tell me, does Marcy have any idea she’s stumbled upon an unlikely guardian angel who hails from decidedly south of the Pearly Gates?”

  “Not yet,” he said with a dry smile, “but I aim to rectify that soon enough by winning her friendship, hopefully to shift this blasted attraction into something far less annoying.”

  Sam’s laughter echoed down the shadowed street. “Please tell me this celestial duty will not keep us from enjoying the benefits of warmer climes with ladies who leave their halos at home?”

  Steeling his heart against the influence of Marceline Murphy, Patrick cuffed an arm to Sam’s shoulder, merging his laughter with that of his friend. “Perish the thought,” he said with a tinge of his Irish temper, delivering a defiant grin. “I may be besotted, O’Rourke, but I’m not crazy.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Pinch me—I can hardly believe my brother volunteered to build furniture for the soup kitchen.” Peeling potatoes at the kitchen table, Julie stared out the window of St. Mary’s Center of Hope, where Sam worked in a sunny courtyard with Evan and Patrick, building tables and benches for the newly expanded soup kitchen. The smell of sawdust and sweat seeped through a bank of open windows at the back of a black-and-white linoleum room crowded with commercial cast-iron stoves, scarred wooden prep tables, and several large iceboxes.
A wistful sigh floated from Julie’s lips as she gazed with longing at Patrick O’Connor, whose muscled forearms gleamed with sweat while he sanded a table, the sleeves of his sweat-stained work shirt tightly rolled. The thin, damp material strained hard against intimidating biceps with every thrust of the sander while limp dark curls bobbed over his forehead with each grinding motion. She plopped another peeled and quartered potato into a bowl for the vegetable beef soup that would be served for dinner and sighed again. “Because heaven knows where Sam goes, heaven follows.”

  Marcy’s gaze trailed Julie’s, narrowing considerably at the sight of a man too handsome for his own good—and Julie’s. Her thoughts wandered to the night he’d kissed her and heat broiled her cheeks that had little to do with the boiling cauldron of soup. “Heaven, indeed,” Marcy said with a grunt, forcing her gaze from Patrick’s muscled body to Evan’s tall, lanky frame, which although not as sculpted as Patrick’s or even Sam’s, was not altogether unappealing. Marcy’s lips pressed thin. “Hmmm … more likely the netherworld, I’d say.” She tossed more penny carrots into her bowl and nudged Julie’s shoulder with her own. “And I’ll be pinching you for sure, Julie O’Rourke, if you don’t take your eyes off that scalawag right now.” She scrunched her nose. “It’s beyond me what women see in the likes of him when there are decent men like Evan Farrell around.”

  Julie grinned with a tweak of Marcy’s neck. “Yes, Evan’s attractive in his own way, I suppose, but honestly, Marcy, if you can’t see in Patrick what every other woman sees, then I suspect you’re sorely in need of glasses.”

  “I’m sorry, Julie, but there’s more to a man than good looks.” Marcy whacked at a particularly thick carrot, whittling it down to size like she wished she could do with Patrick O’Connor after that stunt he pulled on her front porch. “Give me a man far less handsome who is trustworthy and kind and thinks of others instead of himself, and I’ll consider being smitten.” She hurled the carrots into the bowl with a plunk, lips compressed as a warm shiver prickled her skin. “But not with someone like him.”

  “Goodness, I’ve never seen you so severe with anyone before.” Julie tossed the last of her potatoes into the bowl while she studied Marcy with a curious air. “What on earth has Patrick ever done to you, anyway?”

  You have no idea, Julie, nor will you. I wouldn’t hurt you that way. Marcy set her paring knife down, eyeing the clock to assess when Miss Clara might return from the store. “I just don’t trust a man as good-looking as him, that’s all. My cousin cured me of that—along with the father of my good friend in New York and all the insufferable womanizers who came to call.”

  Julie’s throaty chuckle echoed off stark white walls newly hung with freshly painted, white-wood cabinets and a shiny selection of steel pots and pans. “Yes, but you have to admit that what Patrick doesn’t inspire in trust, he certainly makes up for in beautiful scenery.” She brushed black curls from her forehead with the back of her hand, then followed Marcy to the stove to dump their potatoes and carrots into a simmering pot. “And although I’ll never have the chance to find out, I don’t mind telling you, Marcy, I do enjoy looking.”

  Marcy laughed and shook her head, snatching a dishrag to wipe down the counter. “Julie O’Rourke, you are utterly incorrigible!”

  “Uh … that doesn’t have to be a bad thing, you know.” Patrick grinned at the door, one muscled arm flush with the door frame as twinkling gray eyes peeked through the screen. He flapped the front of his damp shirt, several buttons open to reveal a tan chest with a whisper of dark hair. “Sorry to disturb, ladies, but we’re wondering if you might show mercy to several very hot and thirsty, albeit ‘incorrigible’ men.” His playful gaze flitted from Julie to Marcy, and something warm swirled in her belly when he gave her a wink. “Or at least two ...”

  “Oh, absolutely!” Julie said with a start, cheeks fusing scarlet as she bustled over to the icebox to retrieve the pitcher of cool tea. “Come in—please.”

  Patrick continued fanning his shirt, sweat glazing his skin. “Better not. Miss Clara will have my head if I track sawdust all over her clean floor. Besides, ‘incorrigible’ is one thing,” he said with a crooked grin. “‘Ripe’ is something else altogether.”

  “That’s an understatement if ever there was.” Sam joined him at the door, and Marcy’s pulse skipped a beat, noting that although he was leaner than Patrick, Sam’s body appeared as toned as his friend’s. Beautiful scenery, indeed, Marcy thought, Julie’s earlier statement braising her cheeks.

  “Good gracious me, glad to see you taking care of my boys,” a gravelly voice said behind the two men, and both turned to greet Miss Clara Rumsfeld, Commander in Chief of the St. Mary’s Center of Hope kitchen. Affectionately referred to as Sarge by both Patrick and Sam, the crusty sixty-year-old ran a tight ship with all volunteers, although Marcy couldn’t help but be annoyed by her obvious favoritism for the Southie Lotharios. Large, butterscotch teeth flashed in a round ebony face that gleamed with sweat and good humor, while wisps of black and silver hair fluttered about a disheveled chignon.

  “Here, give me that bag, Miss Clara,” Patrick said with a boyish smile, “you’re too delicate of a woman to be lugging heavy groceries around.”

  Marcy fought the urge to roll her eyes as she followed Julie to the door with the third glass of tea, noting how quickly both Patrick and Sam alleviated the ample-sized woman of two sacks of groceries. She shook her head while Julie held the door for everyone to enter. Copious charm with women of all ages, apparently, Marcy thought with a silent grunt, exceeded only by an endless supply of blarney. She wrinkled her nose, more from the easy banter between Miss Clara and her “boys” than from the rank smell of sawdust and sweat. Her smile brightened when Evan appeared with several more bags retrieved from a small wooden wagon parked in the alley beyond.

  “Fiddle-dee-dee, but it’s an oven out there,” Miss Clara announced, fanning herself with a copy of The Boston Herald that she fished from one of the bags. A button nose too small for her face scrunched in distaste when she sniffed the air, scouring all three men from head to toe. “You best march those sweaty bodies right back outside, gentlemen, afore you sour my soup.”

  “Aw, come on, Sarge,” Patrick said with a playful scoop of Miss Clara’s generous waist, “we’re just working ourselves to the bone for a woman we love.”

  Miss Clara shooed him away with a good-natured swat, black eyes glittering as much as the moisture on her brow. “Oh, go on with you, you silver-tongued rascals, the lot of you. And we’ll be needin’ those new tables and benches lickety-split before you’ll be takin’ your leave. Last night the food line shuffled clear out the door, and I aim to pack ‘em in tighter tonight, understood?”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Sam said with a salty salute, luring a smile to the old woman’s lips.

  Miss Clara promptly pinched both Sam’s and Patrick’s cheeks with a toothy grin. “I don’t care how bad you two smell, you are about the prettiest volunteers this old girl has ever seen.” She prodded them to the door. “Now, git, and don’t you two rascals teach my boy Evan any bad habits, ya hear?”

  Patrick paused at the screen door, a crimp of hurt between dark brows. “I’m wounded, Miss Clara, that you would think we would be anything but a good influence.”

  “Ha!” Marcy’s cheeks burned when she realized she’d spoken out loud.

  Evan chuckled, wiping his forehead with his sleeve while he grinned at Marcy. “You’ll be glad to know I’m holding my own, Miss Murphy, but who knows?” He delivered a wink so out of character that Marcy wondered if Patrick and Sam weren’t making greater inroads than Evan suspected. “Perhaps I’ll be a good influence on them.”

  Miss Clara’s chuckle was throaty and rich and brimming with fun as she bustled over to wash her hands at the sink. “Not likely, Mr. Farrell, but we can always hope.”

  Marcy and Julie exchanged glances before both of them broke into giggles. Slipping an apron over her head, Marcy tied it behind her wh
ite shirtwaist and navy skirt, sending Miss Clara a look of supreme doubt. “Yes, we can, Miss Clara,” she said with a sassy grin aimed in the men’s direction. “But if it’s all the same to you, we won’t be holding our breath.”

  ***

  Hazy shafts of sunlight and smells of the city spilled through the open windows of the St. Mary’s Center of Hope, where fresh asphalt and manure from the busy street outside mingled with body odor, musty clothes, and vegetable beef soup. Crammed window to wall with a sea of humanity that was more than a little pungent and considerably hungrier, the dining room buzzed with sounds that made Patrick feel more alive than all the piano music and shots of whiskey Brannigan’s had to offer. From the tinkle of utensils and china to children’s giggles and shrieks laced with adult conversations, few things shocked Patrick more than the fact he actually enjoyed working here, serving others instead of his own lust for pleasure. Whether building furniture all day in the blistering heat or returning after a fresh shower and shave to help Miss Clara with the dinner shift, being here made Patrick feel worthy and whole for the first time in his life.

  He heard the soft cadence of a female giggle rise above the hum of the room and his lips quirked. Of course, the frequent presence of Marceline Murphy certainly didn’t hurt. Patrick paused at a table where an elderly man he’d chatted with before hunched over his near-empty bowl, spooning the remains with great care. Shifting a tray stacked high with dirty dishes, Patrick cuffed the man’s shoulder. “Another lemonade, Luther?”

  The man looked up, gray hair straggling over his threadbare collar while tan, leathery skin wrinkled with a grin that contained very few teeth. “Yes, sir,” he said with a bobble-head nod, the foul odor of his ragged chambray shirt smelling worse than Patrick had after a day building benches and tables in the sun. A shabby cowboy hat lay on the table beside him that appeared more battered than he.