A Light in the Window

by Julie Lessman

  A comfortable fit. Patrick swallowed hard, his response stuck in his throat at the image that conjured—Sam kissing Marcy, their bodies so close, the very thought seared the walls of his mind.

  His silence must have given her pause because he sensed her tentative glance, and when she spoke, her tone was gentle with a hint of concern. “So, for me, it’s the best of both worlds, you see. Not only am I able to grow close with a boy for whom I’ve had a school-girl crush since I was eight and spend time with his family I adore …” Her hand lighted on his arm with a feather touch, halting both him and the breath in his lungs. “But I have the added blessing of forging a dear friendship with his best friend as well.”

  A friendship. The words inflicted a blow to his hope as effectively as Marcy's hand had to his cheek the night she’d whacked him for kissing her on her porch. Forcing a casual air, he flashed a bright smile, determined to pursue the friendship Father Fitz suggested. “Then, a winning scenario all around, I’d say.”

  She grinned, her relief evident in the sparkle of her eyes. “Agreed.” She peeked up with a curious smile. “So, Patrick … how is your college fund coming and just exactly what field of study do you hope to pursue?”

  You.

  He returned her grin. “Well, by Christmas, I should have the funds needed for the spring semester at Boston College, where I hope to study journalism and English literature.”

  Her eyebrows rose considerably, as if she were surprised a rogue would entertain any field of study other than women. “Very impressive,” she said with a wide span of eyes.

  He laughed, the wonder in her tone coaxing another flash of teeth. “Yes, hard as it is to believe, Marceline, rogues can actually read and write too.”

  She had the grace to blush. “Touché. I seem to be prone to all kinds of misconceptions where you’re concerned, so please forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive,” he said, burying his hands in his pockets. “Till now, my reputation for roguery far exceeded my aptitude for the written word, but that’s about to change, come January.”

  “Really?” Her voice held an interest and respect he hadn’t heard before, at least not when it came to him. Hands clasped like a little girl, she looked up with such a glow of enthusiasm, it plucked at his heart. “What do you hope to do with your life?”

  Marry you, Marceline … on my way to editorship of The Boston Herald. He cleared his throat, tamping down desires that may never be met. “I hope to write for the Herald someday. You may not know this, but I was editor of the St. Mary’s Gazette two years running, as well as founder and first-year president of the Lantern Club.”

  She came to a dead stop, the whites of her eyes expanding along with the gape of her mouth. “You? You’re responsible for the Lantern Club?” she whispered, almost in awe. “But how? Why?”

  He chuckled. “Well, contrary to my dismal conduct record at St. Mary’s, my grades in literature and English composition were actually pretty good, which is one of the reasons Father Fitz took me under his wing in the first place.” He slid her a sideways grin. “I was in his office for detention so much, we discovered a mutual love of books and verse. Turns out we shared the same favorites—Mark Twain and Stephen Crane. So when I read that both Twain and Crane were part of a writers group that formed several years ago in New York, I was fascinated.”

  “I can certainly see why,” she said, her nod of approval a balm to his pride.

  He continued, a warm glow from her interest slowly spreading through his chest. “Yes, well it seems this group of esteemed writers actually shared their work during literary banquets held every Saturday evening. One of the members would read a piece they’d written, which the others would then critique. Only negative criticism was allowed, mind you, and the highest regard a reading could be given was complete silence.” He shrugged his shoulders, hands in his pockets. “So I suggested to Father Fitz that St. Mary’s do the same, and he agreed.”

  She slowed in front of her house, turning toward him with a hand on the gate. “Goodness,” she said with a chuckle, “you couldn’t have shocked me more than if you told me you were going to be a priest.”

  A slow grin curled his lips as he ducked his head to scratch the back of his neck. “Well, I can assure you most wholeheartedly, Miss Murphy, that that will never happen.”

  She laughed and opened the gate. “Thank you for walking me home.” She paused to study him with a tilt of her head, her smile ebbing considerably. “I misjudged you terribly,” she whispered, a hint of sadness in her eyes, “Can you ever forgive me?”

  He found himself staring, certain he’d never met a more beautiful woman—inside and out. “I told you before, Marceline, there’s nothing to forgive,” he said quietly. “You weren’t far off in your judgments, I’m ashamed to say, nor with your slap.” His smile was sheepish as he rubbed the side of his face, his beard rough against his palm. “In fact, I suspect you may have knocked some sense into me that night on your porch because ever since, I …” He dropped his gaze to the street, unwilling for her to see the longing in his eyes. “Find myself wanting to be a better man.”

  When she didn’t respond, he glanced up, shocked to see tears glimmering. She gave him a tremulous smile while she quickly swiped at her eyes. “That is possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” She drew in a deep breath and slowly released it, expelling shaky air. “Thank you.”

  “No,” he whispered, “it’s I who needs to thank you.”

  She shook her head. “But I didn’t do anything,” she insisted, nibbling the edge of her lip with a guilty smile. “Except slap you silly.”

  A grin creased his lips. “That you did, but then I deserved it for losing my Irish temper, which,” he said with a note of levity, “it appears has met its match.”

  She chuckled and extended her palm. “How about I forgive you and you forgive me, and then God can forgive us both? Deal?”

  He studied her with a squint, ignoring her hand. “You know, I see lots of people who profess God, but not many who live it, at least not like you.” He hesitated, trying to understand the quiet depth of faith she seemed to possess. “God is pretty important to you, isn’t he?” he said softly, hardly believing he was pursuing a conversation about God with a woman.

  Her hand slowly sank to the side of her skirt where her fingers fiddled with the edge of her pocket, gaze drifting to the ground. “Like the air that I breathe,” she whispered, so low he almost missed it. When she finally looked up, more tears glistened along with a fierce passion that seemed out of character for the calm and gentle woman he was privileged to know. “No,” she said carefully, chin elevated and eyes bright, “He is the air that I breathe. The reason I live each day with hope despite trial or tribulation. The strength in my bones when I’m too weak to go on. The very presence in my heart that brings peace and joy to my soul.” A soft smile lighted on her lips as her gaze locked with his. “And,” she said quietly, the barest trace of sympathy edging her smile, “something I suspect you might relate to as well—the only One Who has ever truly taken my loneliness away.”

  He blinked, blood heating his cheeks at the notion that she could read his mind, see into his soul the ugly truth he worked so hard to hide. He was alone. No matter the women that jockeyed for his attention or the mother or brother that occupied his home or even the best friend who knew him better than anyone else or a kind parish priest. The simple truth was, he was a lonely human being. A man searching for love through the affections of pretty women … or peace at the bottom of a bottle or mug. A chill shivered his soul. And somehow the woman before him knew it, as surely as he knew it himself.

  He coughed to deflect his embarrassment, stepping back to plunge his hands in his pockets once again. “Well, I guess I better let you go—”

  He stilled at the touch of her hand, the terrifying gentleness in her eyes. “He’s a force to be reckoned with, Patrick, and you will be too … with Him by your side.” And lifting on tiptoe, she pre
ssed the softest of kisses to his cheek, paralyzing him to the spot. “Good night, dear friend,” she whispered.

  He followed her to the door with his eyes, unable to move or breath or blink until he heard the click of the lock, and then he sucked in air like sustenance, never surer that she was meant to be his. Bowing his head, he beseeched the Almighty right then and there for the very woman who was leading him home—to God, to the family he’d longed for, and to a life he never dared to imagine.

  A force to be reckoned with. He shook his head. Him? Exhaling slowly, he made his way down the cobblestone street. “No, Marceline,” he whispered, the faintest of smiles tipping the edges of his mouth. “That would be you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Goodness, what a day,” Marcy said with a groan in the spacious kitchen of St. Mary’s Center, sliding into a chair at the scarred wooden table now littered with dirty dessert plates. She offered a tired smile to Julie, Evan, and Patrick, each equally exhausted, no doubt, after one of the busiest Saturdays ever. “How many meals did we serve today, do we know?”

  Evan took the last bite of his pie—the sweet reward Miss Clara promised after their full day of service, both chocolate cream and cherry—then pushed his empty dish away. “Haven’t tallied it yet, Marcy, but it’s a definite record, judging from the lines that wrapped around the building for both lunch and supper.” He sank back in his chair, body sagging along with his smile. “Which, I’m not sure is a good thing or a bad thing.”

  “It’s always a good thing to help people in need,” Julie soothed, patting his arm.

  His smile perked up. “I guess it is, isn’t it?” He covered her hand with his own before she could pull away. “I’ll tell you what, Miss O’Rourke, after we tackle these dishes, I believe I’ll be in ‘need’ of a soda at Robinson’s—you care to ‘help’ me out?”

  Julie blinked several times, a blush seeping into her cheeks as red as the cherry juice seeping onto her plate. “Uh … sure, Evan.” She and Marcy exchanged a look before she returned his gaze with a gulp. “I’d like that.”

  Glancing at the clock on the wall, Marcy jumped up, her energy suddenly restored now that Evan had finally asked Julie out. The two of them had been flirting and fawning over each other for a month now, and Marcy couldn’t be happier. “Well, it’s six-thirty on a Saturday night, you two, so you’ll need to get going to beat the crowd.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Julie said, hopping up to collect dirty dishes from around the table. “I’m not leaving until this place is spic-and-span—”

  Marcy blocked her at the sink with a stubborn bent of her jaw. “Oh, yes you are.” She snatched the pile of dishes from her hands and plopped them on the counter with a clunk. “You and Evan were here before anyone else this morning, so you’re officially off the clock—right, Miss Clara?”

  “Oh, laws, yes!” The old woman motioned Julie toward the door before she turned to pour a pot of boiling water into the cold rinse in the sink. “Besides,” she said, dumping the rest into the dishwater. “I’m tired of looking at you two, now git.”

  “B-but there’s too much to do—the dishes, the floor, the dining room tables to be wiped. You n-need help—” Julie stuttered, ignoring Evan as he stood there with her jacket in hand.

  “I beg your pardon,” Patrick said, tone indignant. He rose from his chair to gather the rest of the utensils and dishes. “What am I—a piece of the furniture?”

  Marcy couldn’t help it—her lips crooked in a smile. “Of course not,” she said with an innocent tilt of her head, “Miss Clara already has a dumbwaiter …”

  Julie giggled while she slipped an arm into the jacket that Evan held for her. “Oh, good one, Marce,” she said with a wink in Patrick’s direction.

  “Very funny, Miss Murphy.” Patrick strolled to the sink with a dry smile, depositing the dirty dishes on the counter. He added more soap powder to the dishwater and swished with his fingers till bubbles puffed high. “Just for that, you wash.”

  Miss Clara chuckled and pinched his cheek. “Well, jumpin’ Je-hosaphat, he may be dumb, but he sure is cute.”

  “You ladies are treading on awfully thin ice here.” Patrick dried his hands on a towel before tossing it over his shoulder and rolling the sleeves of his shirt.

  Marcy scooped up a handful of bubbles and blew them in his face with an imp of a smile. “You mean thin ‘bubbles,’ don’t you?”

  “Okay, that’s it.” Patrick snatched the towel from his shoulder and twisted until it was taut, snapping it at Marcy’s skirt. “We are officially at war.”

  “All right, you two,” Miss Clara said, “I’m declaring a truce until those dishes are done, you hear?” She pushed Julie and Evan out the door. “And, you two—skedaddle—before I change my mind.”

  “You heard the boss, Miss O’Rourke,” Evan said with a jaunty salute. Palm to Julie’s back, he guided her through the door with a broad smile. “Good night, all.”

  “Good night,” Marcy called, tying Miss Clara’s oversized apron around her blue muslin skirt. “Oh, and Julie—tomorrow—are we studying at your house or mine?”

  “Yours,” Julie shouted before Evan quickly closed the door.

  Miss Clara bustled over to the pitiful remains of cherry pie with a low rumble of laughter. “S’pose I best get these leftovers wrapped up and over to the rectory or I’ll be saying Hail Marys till the Second Coming.” She shot Marcy and Patrick a narrow gaze while she parceled the rest of the pie onto a plate. “That is, if I can trust you two to keep them bubbles in the sink and not flying through the air.”

  Patrick paused, mid-scrape on a dirty plate. “Why, I’m wounded, Miss Clara,” he said, a deep crimp above his nose that was clearly at odds with the twinkle in his eye. “I’ll have you know that every water fight in this kitchen has been waged by a woman.”

  “Mmm-huh.” A dubious smile curled on the old woman’s lips while doubt emanated from every pore of her pleasingly plump face, dark skin dewy with sweat from working in a hot kitchen all day. Eyes shrewd, she pursed her lips in a smirk as she swaddled the pie plate in wax paper. “I wasn’t born in a cave, Mister Patrick, so Miss Murphy best be nigh as dry as week-old corn biscuits when I come back, or there’ll be some paying the piper, understand?”

  “Me?” Patrick slapped a hand to his chest, muscled forearm tan against his wilted white shirt while a dishtowel dangled from his fingers. “What about her?”

  “But I’m the ‘angel of mercy,’ remember?” Marcy said with a playful flutter of lashes and a quick roll of her sleeves. Grinning, she laid a towel on the side of the sink to absorb the rinse water from freshly washed dishes.

  “Angel, my foot.” Patrick slapped the towel over his shoulder before resorting to the adorable little-boy grin that used to grate on Marcy’s nerves, the flash of dimples now making her smile. “You saw her, Miss Clara—the little brat blew bubbles in my face.”

  “And what a handsome face it is,” Miss Clara said, displaying a few dimples of her own. “Now, you two get to work while I deliver this pie, you hear? I need to discuss a few things with Father Fitz, but then I’ll be back to make sure you haven’t drowned each other, so behave!” Flapping a pudgy hand in the air, Miss Clara bounded out the door.

  “‘Behave’?” Marcy said with a nudge of Patrick’s arm, mischief tilting her lips. She bumped him out of the way and plunged her hands into the suds. “Does she even know you, Patrick ‘Rogue’ O’Connor?”

  A grin eased across his lips as he sidled over to butt a hip to the counter. “I’ll have you know I’ve all but abdicated that title.” He took the wet plate she handed him and proceeded to dry.

  “Have you, now?” Marcy cocked her head to study him, grateful she and Patrick had become good friends over the last month. Good enough that they were now able to laugh and talk about everything, from religion to politics to her relationship with Sam. To a point, she thought with a glimmer of guilt, well aware that Sam’s carnal nature was not a subject she care
d to broach with his best friend or his sister, no matter how much it bothered Marcy of late. Yes, Sam had made her feel safe and protected with his gentlemanly behavior over the last so many months, but over the last few weeks? She sensed a dangerous change coming—in chaste kisses that had suddenly become more passionate. Shaking off the unsettling thought, she offered Patrick a teasing smile. “And what exactly is ‘all but’ if I may be so bold to ask?”

  He gave her a wink, the gray eyes sparkling like polished pewter. “‘All but’ means I’m only seeing three women at a time instead of six and one visit to Brannigan’s a week instead of four.”

  She shook her head and laughed, tackling a dirty pot. “Well, that’s certainly an improvement, I suppose.”

  “I thought so,” he quipped, drying the utensils she’d placed on the towel. He took extra time to buff a large serving spoon. “And between Father Fitz’s influence and yours, my reputation is sure to shine more than this spoon.”

  “Indeed.” Her smile softened as she handed him a wet pot, fondness in her gaze. “I’m proud of you, Patrick—not only for the changes you’ve made in your own life, but how those changes have affected Sam as well.” She nibbled the edge of her lip, never believing she’d have Patrick O’Connor to thank for curbing Sam’s wild ways. “Goodness, and his family thinks I’m the good influence.”

  The laughter in his eyes mellowed into gentle affection that spread warmth through Marcy’s chest like Miss Clara’s oven on baking day. “You are,” he said quietly, the intensity of his gaze tripping her pulse before he quickly looked away. He plucked another pot from her hands, focusing on it instead of her face. “You’ve been a good influence on us both, and I’m grateful for that.” He dried the pot and put it away, finally turning to face her with a smile that seemed melancholy. “Sam’s a lucky man.”

  The warmth in her chest crept up to her cheeks. “I’m not so sure he’d agree,” she said with a hint of jest. “Being reined in by a woman he’s not ‘officially’ courting.”