“Good to know,” he said with a slow smile, before digging into his cobbler.
“Well, bit of the devil or no,” Evan said with a friendly tap of Patrick’s back, “this man has certainly outdone himself in his volunteer work on heaven’s behalf. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you or Sam this summer, Patrick, so please accept my profound gratitude for your time and the sweat of your brow.”
“Hear, hear!” Miss Clara bellowed, pounding a meaty palm on the table.
“I agree.” Julie hiked her chin, the gleam of pride in her eyes unmistakable. “Even Mama and Papa are all but glowing that you and Sam have given so much of your time to a charitable cause.”
With an awkward bent to his smile, Patrick quickly shoveled more cobbler. His face—as red as the cherries on his spoon—caused Marcy to pause mid-chew, surprised at his humility.
“Although …” Julie said with a smirk and a taunt, “the ‘devil’ is plainly afoot when the man helps with the dishes, as the dampness of my shirtwaist will quickly attest.”
Patrick grinned and flapped the front of his equally damp pinstripe shirt. “Might I remind you, Miss O’Rourke, that yours was the first splash.”
A giggle tripped from Julie’s lips, soft blotches pinking her cheeks. “Now there’s a bit of the devil talking, I’d say. Ladies do not instigate water play, Mr. O’Connor.”
“No, but minxes do, Miss O’Rourke,” he said with a challenging gaze, and Marcy’s lips firmed at the flirtation between the two. Gulping the rest of his cobbler, Patrick pushed the empty plate away, mischief lacing his tone. “And be it devil or angel, there’s a heavenly host to affirm that you threw the first splash.”
“I did not—”
“Ahem …” Evan placed his fork on the empty plate and peered up at Julie. Patrick’s devilment was obviously catching, judging from the trace of tease in brown eyes usually prone to be serious and shy. “Actually, Miss O’Rourke,” he said in his usual gentle tone, “I believe I saw the first wave of soap bubbles coming from your direction, if I’m not mistaken.” Marcy blinked, mouth all but gaping like Julie’s at the hint of the devil in the man’s smile, a smile that promptly toasted Julie’s face with a pretty blush. His gaze flicked to Marcy and back. “Of course, in lieu of Father Fitzgibbons, I’m sure our angel of mercy can always absolve this innocent infraction on your part. That is,” he said with an uncharacteristic wink, “if you promise to behave in the future.”
“Thank you, Evan, my man,” Patrick said with a sound slap on his back. “Heaven knows I can use all the support I can get with these two ladies.” He had the audacity to follow Evan’s lead and give Marcy a wink. “Especially our angel of mercy.”
Miss Clara lumbered to her feet, stacking the cut tray of cobbler beneath a tower of others, all slated for tomorrow’s dinner. “You people can splash all the livelong day iffen those dishes are clean and the floor wiped up after,” she said with a low chuckle, cutting a piece of wax paper to cover the top tray. “Now, people, it’s nigh on ten o’clock, and this here woman is tired and heading home, so I suggest you do the same.”
Marcy and Julie rose to clear the dishes, but Miss Clara shooed them away. “You girls, scoot. Mr. Evan and I draw a salary here, not you, so we’ll finish up.” She poked a stubby finger in Patrick’s direction. “And you, Mr. Devil-In-His-Eye, will see these young girls home, safe and proper, you hear?” A pixie grin split her full face. “Although I’m thinkin’ neither ‘safe’ nor ‘proper’ likely pertains to a handsome devil like you.”
Patrick placed a peck to Miss Clara’s glossy cheek, giving the rotund woman a side hug. “Now, I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, Miss Clara.”
“It’s not,” Marcy muttered under her breath, and Julie hushed her with an elbow to her side.
“Thanks for filling in today, everyone.” Evan shuffled his papers and stood to push his chair in. “With several of our regular volunteers out sick, you girls were lifesavers.” He extended a hand to Patrick. “And I know you passed on an overtime shift with Sam tonight to pitch in, so I can’t thank you enough.”
“My pleasure.” Patrick shook Evan’s hand, his humor softening into a sober smile. “It feels good to help out, and I find I like myself more when I do. I admire what you do here, Evan, and I’m proud to be even a small part.”
Marcy blinked. Sincerity? From a rogue?
“Well, go on now, you young’uns, git.” Miss Clara prodded them out the back door. “G’night, all.”
Patrick donned his sack coat and cap, then helped Julie on with her bolero jacket before ushering the girls out. The lock clicked behind them, and Marcy instantly clutched her arms to her thin shirtwaist. Feeling a nip in the air, she was sorry she hadn’t brought a jacket of her own given the unseasonably cool evenings of late.
“Cold?” Patrick shuffled his jacket off broad shoulders while they traveled the alley between the center and auditorium on their way to the street in front of the church.
“No, really—” she began, but he draped his coat over her shoulders anyway, cloaking her in the warmth from his body. “Thank you,” she whispered, wishing he would just stop attempting to be so nice. She remained silent while he and Julie chatted and laughed about the colorful characters that frequented the soup kitchen, including Luther who’d taken a shine to Patrick. The woodsy smell of pine from his shaving cream mingled with the spiciness of Bay Rum to envelop her in his scent, annoying her when it caused her stomach to loop.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight, angel of mercy,” he said casually, the huskiness of his voice merging with his scent to warm her more than the infernal coat.
“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” she said with a stiff smile she hoped came off as a tease rather than the truth. “I am neither an angel nor inclined to mercy where you’re concerned, Patrick O’Connor.”
“Marcy!” Julie’s tone held a playful scold.
A scold that found its mark—Marcy felt awful for the grudge she obviously still harbored toward Patrick despite her boatload of prayers. Lord, forgive me … She tempered her tone with humility, pushing aside her distrust of the man. “My apologies, Patrick, truly—that was uncalled for.” The words no more left her tongue when his stolen kiss suddenly popped in her mind for the umpteenth time. Her jaw instantly tensed. “Even for a rogue.”
“Goodness, Marcy,” Julie said with smile agape, “poor Patrick will think you don’t like him!”
Poor Patrick, indeed! Poor reputation, poor morals, poor manners on a girl’s front porch …
Patrick’s low chuckle only raised Marcy’s temperature. “That’s okay, Julie. Our Marceline is rather like a wild Irish rose—skin as soft and dewy as its silky petals, but enough sharp thorns to keep predators away.” He scooped up a spiky sweet gum ball and bobbled it back and forth before he lobbed it a quarter block away. “But everyone knows the sweetest-smelling roses have the worst thorns, so I consider it a small price to pay for true joy and beauty.” He slid Marcy a secret smile. “As long as one keeps his hands to himself, that is, far from the prickles.”
“I thought you worked the same shifts as Sam,” Marcy said quickly, desperate to derail a conversation that might hint at the advances Patrick had made. She picked up her pace in an effort to hurry the last few blocks to Julie’s house, grateful she was spending the night and Patrick needn’t walk her home alone.
“I usually do, especially the overtime shifts like tonight.” He buried his hands in gray trousers, his gait as relaxed as Julie’s while the two lagged behind. “But I’ve already clocked three double shifts this week, so I figured I needed the rest.”
“Not much rest building tables and benches in the hot sun,” Julie said with a note of respect, “nor on your feet all night serving food, clearing tables, and doing dishes.”
“Or staving off water nymphs?” He gave Julie a wink that lured a giggle from her lips.
Marcy kept up her staunch march, blowing a stray hair from her
face with no little exasperation. For the love of decency, Julie, open your eyes. The man is an insatiable flirt.
“Seriously, I admire your work ethic,” Julie continued, her obvious admiration irking more than Marcy wanted to admit. “Sam says you almost have enough saved for college.”
College? Marcy chanced a peek at his chiseled profile, almost wishing he had an unsightly wart. She fought the tickle of a grin. What, now they have higher learning for rogues?
“I do, as a matter of fact,” Patrick said, and it was hard to miss the note of pride in his tone. “I’ve worked odd hours at the Herald through high school and full time since graduation, so I’ve been able to save some.”
Marcy’s prior humility died in a silent grunt. Whatever you don’t spend at Brannigan’s, I guess.
A man on a bicycle whizzed by, and Patrick instinctively pulled Marcy close, out of its path, sending a jolt through her body. He released her just as quickly, as if no more than an afterthought, then faced Julie once again as he continued on. “I hope to begin next semester at Boston College, taking it one year at a time, of course. But I think I can do it working part-time at the Herald.” As if privy to Marcy’s negative thoughts, he turned to deliver a lazy grin. “So, you see, Miss Murphy, Brannigan’s doesn’t get all of my money.”
“Oh, we’re here,” she breathed, hurrying up Julie’s sidewalk so Patrick wouldn’t see the hot blush of shame she felt in her cheeks. Nerves twitching, she waited for Julie on the front porch while she and Patrick took their time strolling the walk.
“Thank you for walking us home,” Julie said with a smile that glowed as bright as the harvest moon overhead. She tilted her head with a shy tease, an impish grin on her lips. “I don’t care what Sam says about you, you’re a very nice person.”
The husky rumble of his laughter warmed Marcy’s skin, reminding her she still wore his coat. “Well, you should know better than anybody you can’t believe everything your brother says.”
“Yes, thank you very much, Patrick, for both the escort and the coat.” Marcy slipped it off her shoulders, immediately missing its warmth. She handed it back, and caught her breath when a spark ignited at the touch of their fingers.
His lips curved despite the intensity of a serious gaze. “Sorry. It’s wool,” he whispered, as if that could explain the erratic pounding of her heart. “Static electricity, you know.”
She stepped back and nodded, anxious to be inside and as far away from Patrick O’Connor—and the sparks he ignited—as humanly possible. “Yes, well, thank you again,” she said in a strained voice.
He offered a short bow of his head. His eyes flitted from Marcy to Julie and back, gaze lingering enough to make her uncomfortable. “Good night, ladies.”
“Good night,” Julie called as he strolled toward the street. She angled a brow at Marcy while turning the knob of the front door. “Whatever has gotten into you?” she whispered, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder as if to make sure Patrick was gone. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you seemed a bit rude to the poor man.”
Julie held the door open while Marcy barged through, jaw stiff at Julie’s obvious blindness to a rake like Patrick O’Connor. Oh, Julie, if you only knew! She whirled around mid-foyer, her anger resurfacing over her unwanted attraction to a man she didn’t trust. She crossed her arms in challenge. “I just don’t know what you see in him. The man’s little more than a cad cloaked in nice manners.”
Julie paused, hand on the lock. “For mercy’s sake, Marcy—what has Patrick ever done to you?”
Marcy’s lips gummed tight. Trust me, you don’t want to know.
Hanging her jacket on the coat rack, Julie turned to counter her best friend, hands plunked to her hips. “I happen to think he’s a very nice boy, one of the few who actually has ambition to go places.”
Marcy jutted her chin. “Maybe so, but when it comes to women, I doubt the places he wants to go are very commendable. Merciful Providence, Julie, he’s not exactly a man of faith, except in himself.”
“Come on, that’s not fair.” Julie made her way to the kitchen. “Patrick really seems to be trying.”
“That may be, but you and I both know he’s the very reason Sam has gotten so far off track in the first place, changing your brother into a womanizer just like him. Why, Sam is from a decent family, for pity’s sake, raised to know better, always looking out for girls instead of taking advantage of them, but hobnobbing with Patrick has certainly changed all that.”
“Really, Marcy, you can’t blame everything on Patrick—”
Marcy arched a brow. “Do you deny he’s been a bad influence on your brother?”
“No ….” Julie tugged at her lip. “But I truly think he’s changing—”
“Oh, Jewels, you just have your head in the clouds when it comes to that man.” Marcy followed her down the hall, grateful the rest of the family had obviously gone to bed. She flopped in a chair and snatched a cookie from a plate on the table, lips in a scowl.
Julie’s soft giggle helped to soothe Marcy’s sour mood. “I don’t think so,” her best friend said in a sing-song tone, tossing a sly grin over her shoulder on her way to the ice box. “At least … not anymore.”
Marcy sat straight up, a molasses cookie lodged in her teeth. She quickly chewed and gulped. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Julie sashayed from the icebox to the counter, milk bottle in hand. She took her time pouring two glasses.
“Julie Mariah O’Rourke! If you don’t tell me right now what that means—”
More giggles floated in the air as Julie scurried to the table, delivering two tumblers of milk. Plopping in a chair, she reached for a cookie and leaned in, nibbling while her eyes danced with mischief. “Well … it means that I think I may have found someone who can race my pulse as much as Patrick O’Connor.”
Marcy’s jaw dropped, cookie limp in her hand. Her mind scoured the possibilities. The male lead in the play, Peter Martin? Peter’s friends who came to volunteer and flirt with the girls? The new boy from France that all the girls were swooning over who would be in their class? Marcy’s brow crimped in thought, considering the possibilities.
Julie laughed outright, shimmying to the edge of her chair. “Come on, Marce—who do we spend time with three days a week at the soup kitchen?”
Marcy blinked before her eyes went wide. “Saints almighty, you don’t mean Evan Farrell, do you?”
A becoming shade of pink dusted Julie’s cheeks as she giggled. “I do.” She propped her chin in her hand while a dreamy sparkle lit her eyes. “Did you notice him tease me tonight?” A sigh feathered her lips. “I’ve caught him watching me more than once, and one day at the center last week when you had your father’s birthday dinner?” She nervously chewed on her thumbnail. “He helped me wash dishes, then walked me home.”
“You didn’t tell me that!” Marcy stared, jaw distended.
“Because I thought I might be imagining it at first, but he flirted with me tonight—you saw it. Didn’t he?” She slanted in, awaiting Marcy’s answer with a nibble of her lip.
Eyes squinted in thought, Marcy thought about it before finally glancing up, a chuckle bubbling to her lips. “You know, I believe he did. I guess my mind was busy somewhere else.”
“I’ll say—busy picking at Patrick, I’ll wager.”
Marcy’s smile crooked. “Most likely.” She jumped up to give Julie a hug. “Oh, Jewels, I love Evan. I just never thought of him in a romantic light before because he’s a bit older than us, although he certainly is a wonderful man—kind, giving, dedicated.”
“I know.” Julie beamed. She paused, her smile dimming. “Wait—you didn’t have designs on him, did you?”
Marcy shook her head. “Absolutely not. I think he’s a sweet man who’s perfect for you.” She huffed out a sigh of relief. “And good heavens—anyone’s better than Patrick O’Connor.”
Julie dipped her head, studying Marcy through eyes that were no longer
playful. “Patrick’s a good person,” she said quietly, “and I honestly think he’s trying to be better. I even heard Sam grousing at him in the kitchen late one night, complaining that Patrick is spending more time at the center than he is at Brannigan’s.”
Marcy steeled her mind. The last thing she needed was to disarm her distrust of a pretty-boy Don Juan who wreaked havoc with her pulse. “That may be so, but it will take more than a few nights a week at the center for me to trust him.” Marcy vented her frustration with a weary sigh. “Look, I’m sure he’s a very nice person in some ways, but as a man a woman can trust?” She grunted and grabbed another cookie. “I doubt I will ever change my mind about him.” She took a bite and chewed slowly, reflecting on the type of man she hoped to marry someday. A man who could stir her faith more than her pulse and who trusted in God as much as she. As far as she was concerned, that was the only guarantee for a happy marriage and family, and she sure wasn’t about to risk falling prey to the deadly charm of a sweet-talking Casanova. She washed the cookie down with a drink of milk, then gave Julie a patient smile. “I know you like Patrick, and he’s nice enough as a friend I suppose, but the truth is he’s not a man of faith like Evan, so I’d just as soon avoid him altogether.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Julie eased back in her chair, slowly twirling her glass on the table while she assessed Marcy with a sad smile. “You know, he might become a man of faith if he saw an example in us.”
Marcy stopped chewing while the cookie turned to sludge in her mouth. She gulped hard, and it sank to the pit of her stomach as she put a hand to her eyes, conviction watering her gaze.
Julie gently touched her arm. “I’m sorry, Marce,” she said softly, “but this isn’t like you. You’re usually the one whose heart is so soft and tender, the girl who never speaks ill of anyone. And yet with Patrick, you seem to be so hard, so unforgiving. I don’t know what he ever did to you, but I think you need to see him for the person he is, as well as the man he can be. Aren’t you the one always saying that faith is the great equalizer? Helping us to love others no matter who they are or what they’ve done? So they, in turn, can love themselves and ultimately others, just like Christ did for us?”
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