A Light in the Window

by Julie Lessman

  A deafening silence prevailed, filled only with the violent drum of his throbbing pulse. His ragged breaths boiled into the air like acrid smoke of a hellish inferno, incinerating any hope that Marcy would ever receive the truth from his lips.

  “If you’ve ever heeded a warning before, Patrick, heed this: your history for toying with women’s affections will not only backfire, but it’s an affront to God that may well cost you the woman you love.”

  His eyelids sank closed at the memory of Father Fitz’s words, as if they bore the same weight that crushed his very heart. Nodding slowly, he stooped to retrieve his battered flat cap from the snow, eyes downcast as a knot of pain jerked in his throat. “My apologies, Marcy, to both you and Sam.” He swallowed hard. “And please know … I … I wish you well.” He slapped the cap against his thigh several times, then paused while it dangled limply at his side. “And you have my word,” he whispered with a finality that shivered his heart, “I’ll leave you alone.”

  Not a word was spoken as he turned to go, trudging through the snow with shoulders slumped as if they carried a treacherous burden. “I’ll leave you alone,” he’d promised, the weight of that reluctant vow echoing in his brain. His heart wrenched in his chest as his sigh clouded the air. Like Sam when he betrays you, Marceline …

  Over and over again.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Marcy’s heart was pounding faster than the cards were flying around the O’Rourke’s kitchen table, one eye on her hand and the other on the six spoons in the center. Two queens, two queens, two queens … three! Her adrenaline ramped up as more cards flashed by, just waiting … waiting … for that fourth queen to appear. A muted boom from the grandfather clock in Mrs. O’Rourke’s parlour heralded the hour of eleven while the family indulged in a fast-paced game of spoons before ending the evening with dessert. Mind focused on the win, Marcy thought it was the perfect activity to celebrate—and de-stress—from a week of performances in which there was only one left to go.

  In the seat beside her, Sam snatched cards faster than she could discard them while Max hunkered down in his lap, content to watch his big brother play with the family. Her heart lurched when everyone lunged for the prized utensils, and she quickly followed suit, accidentally gouging Sam’s hand when she stole the spoon from his grip.

  “Ow!” He jerked away to gape at the scratch bleeding on top of his knuckles, his jaw sagging into a grin of disbelief. “Marceline Murphy, you are a diabolical she-cat, you know that? I just may need stitches …”

  Mr. O’Rourke leaned back in his chair with a spoon in one hand while he tweaked his wife’s neck with the other, a roguish glint in his dark eyes. “There’s a lot to be said for a woman with spunk, my boy.”

  Julie laughed, waving her spoon in her brother’s face. “Don’t worry, Sam—Marce can always stitch it for you after all the practice she’s had with costumes.”

  “Besides,” his mother said, raising up to peer across the table at his wound with a twitch of a smile, “it’s nice to know you’ve finally found a woman who can draw a little blood if need be.”

  “Thanks for the support, Mother,” Sam said with a wry smile, sucking on his knuckle. His lips took a slant while he peered at Marcy out of the corner of his eye. “If I don’t bleed to death first.”

  The twins giggled shyly while little Erin, perched on her mother’s lap, seemed genuinely concerned. “Do you want me to kiss it for you, Sammy?” she asked with a blink of wide eyes.

  Sam winked at his little sister before regarding Marcy with a cheeky smile. “No, Sweet Pea, but thanks anyway. Marcy did the damage, so I think Marcy needs to be the one to kiss it, don’t you?”

  Marcy laughed and took his hand to examine it. “Here—let me see it, you big baby.” She squinted at his knuckles, feeling a bit guilty about the bleeding abrasion, but having way too much fun with the tease. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

  “It’s not so much the wound on my knuckles that’s bleeding,” he said with mock drama, hand over his chest, “but the one in my heart.”

  Laughter filtered around the table as Marcy rolled her eyes.

  “Well, the woman just put you out of your misery, son,” Mr. O’Rourke said, shuffling the cards, “because now you have SPOON and you’re out. So everyone else has SPOO except for Marceline, I believe.” He winked at Marcy. “Is that correct, young lady?”

  Marcy nodded, nibbling at the edge of her smile. “Yes, sir, I have SP.” She snuck a peek in Sam’s direction.

  “Only because you cheat,” he muttered, grabbing her hand under the table to give it a squeeze.

  “I seem to remember some cheating of your own, Samuel O’Rourke,” she whispered back, “during a certain game of keep away, as I recall.”

  Julie handed Sam her spoon and shooed him away from the table. “Here, go dish up dessert—losers have to earn their keep.”

  “I’m going, I’m going,” Sam grumbled good-naturedly.

  “Small pieces for the children, Samuel, if you please,” Mrs. O’Rourke called while Sam rose to cut the pie.

  Quickly dealing the cards around the table, Mr. O’Rourke glanced up when a knock sounded at the back door. He flashed a rakish grin so reminiscent of Sam, that Marcy suddenly realized how like his father he actually was. She turned to see Sam open the door to the pretty sixteen-year-old daughter of the next-door neighbor, whose face lit up with a burnished glow when she smiled up at him.

  “Charlotte!” Mr. O’Rourke called, “I swear you get prettier every time I see you, eh, Sam?” Marcy watched as Sam’s father scanned the girl head to toe with an appreciative air. “You’re definitely no longer that little girl who used to steal my blackberries, I can tell you that.”

  “No question about it,” Sam said, tugging Charlotte into the kitchen with his pirate grin. Marcy paused when he casually slipped his arm to the young girl’s waist in a playful squeeze, lingering several seconds too long to suit Marcy.

  Charlotte blushed at the praise of the O’Rourke men, hugging a large rectangular cake pan to her chest as she grinned at Sam’s father. “Thank you, Mr. O’Rourke—you and your son sure know how to make a girl feel pretty.”

  Marcy whirled around to study her cards, hardly seeing them at all for the thought that popped in her mind. Yes, as a matter of fact, they did know how to make a girl feel pretty—a father/son duo who seemed to enjoy women more than most. And men who were definitely proficient at teasing and flirting with the opposite sex. Maybe too much? Marcy wondered, Sam’s words coming back to haunt.

  “What I’m trying to say, Marcy, is that up to now, it’s been second nature for me to flirt and tease with pretty women …”

  Second nature. And maybe like father, like son? All the times Mr. O’Rourke fawned over his wife and even Marcy on occasion never bothered her before and, in fact, was something she even admired, something she’d wished her father would do. She’d always appreciated the fact that Sam’s father was an affectionate man who enjoyed doting on his wife and children. But something in Mr. O’Rourke’s flirtatious manner with Charlotte rankled for the very first time, an almost rakish air that he had clearly passed on to his son. At the thought, a new appreciation for her father suddenly swelled in Marcy’s heart.

  “I’m sorry to bother you so late,” Charlotte said, “but I saw you were still up, so I decided to return the cake pan I borrowed. Thank you for the use of it, Mrs. O’Rourke—the cake sale at school was an absolute success.” She tapped the pan against her chest. “Especially your family-size red velvet cake recipe.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Charlotte—anytime. You can just put the pan on the counter, and you’re welcome to stay for apple pie if you like.”

  “I’d love to, but I have homework to do, I’m afraid,” Charlotte said, and Marcy peeked over her shoulder in time to see her bat her eyes at Sam. “Algebra, you know, so if I run into trouble, Sam, I just may need your help again.”

  Marcy blinked. Again?

&n
bsp; “You bet,” Sam said, gently tugging the cake pan from the girl’s chest before he ushered her to the door.

  “Good night, everyone,” Charlotte called, and Marcy wondered why the wink Mr. O’Rourke gave Charlotte bothered her so much.

  With little or no effort, Marcy won at spoons, but she didn’t know how since her mind definitely wasn’t in the game anymore. When Mr. O’Rourke declared her the winner, she absently nodded and smiled at the family’s good-natured ribbing, diving into Mrs. O’Rourke’s famous apple pie along with the usual laughter and chatter around the O’Rourke’s kitchen table. Only tonight, the revelry seemed somewhat flat, and for the first time she could ever remember, the warmth and longing she always experienced with this family didn’t seem as strong.

  “Are you … all right, Marcy?” Mrs. O’Rourke rose to collect dirty dishes from the table, a hint of concern in dark eyes that conveyed a mother’s affection. “You seem a bit quiet.”

  Marcy rose to help, along with Julie while Sam and his father finished up a second piece of pie. “Yes, ma’am, I’m fine, just a little tired from the play this week, I suppose.” She set the dishes on the counter and stifled a yawn. “I hate to say it, but I’m actually relieved tomorrow is the last performance so I can finally rest up.”

  “Well, tomorrow’s Saturday, thank goodness, so I plan to see that you and Julie sleep in as late as possible, all right?” Mrs. O’Rourke rolled her sleeves and poured more dish soap into the dishwater she’d warmed earlier, sympathy in her gaze. “You’ll both need all your energy for the final performance and the cast party after.” She turned at the sink to smile at her husband as he tucked a sleepy Erin to his shoulder. “If you carry Erin up, dear, Julie can get her ready for bed, then I’ll be up shortly after I finish these dishes.”

  “Will do, my love.” He glanced at his twins, both as sleepy-eyed as their little sister, then nodded toward the hall. “Come on, girls, it’s time to call it a night, so let’s head up.” His eyes flicked to Sam, who held a drowsy Max in his arms. “If you’ll take care of Max, Sam, I’ll tend to the twins.”

  “Sure, Pop. Come on, Jewels,” Sam said, shooting Marcy a wink over his shoulder while he carried Max to the stairs. “I won’t be long, Marcy, so don’t head up until I come back, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” She offered a salute before he and the rest of the O’Rourkes disappeared around the corner, leaving her alone with his mother.

  Marcy startled at Mrs. O’Rourke’s gentle touch. “Go to bed,” she said softly, feathering a stray curl away from Marcy’s face. “I can race through these dishes in no time, and you look ready to drop.”

  “Absolutely not—we’ll finish them together.”

  Sam’s mother gave her a tender smile. “You’re an answer to Julie’s and my prayers, Marceline—I hope you know that. I never dreamed my renegade son would ever settle down so quickly with one woman, but you’re obviously the woman he needs.”

  Oh, Mrs. O’Rourke—I care for your son, I do. But suddenly I wonder … is he the man that I need? Not sure what to say, Marcy grabbed the dishrag and wrung it out, hurrying to wipe off the kitchen table. She cleared her throat as she cupped her hand to catch the crumbs at the edge, fingers shaking with the motion. “Mrs. O’Rourke,” she said quietly, voice hoarse and gaze averted, “do you mind if I ask you something?”

  Mrs. O’Rourke glanced over her shoulder, her forearms buried to the elbows in suds. “Yes?”

  Marcy carefully shook out the crumbs in the waste basket, then returned to the sink to rinse out the rag. “Since Sam and I have been courting, I’ve been noticing how much like his father he is, and I was just wondering.” She paused to take a deep breath, finally meeting Mrs. O’Rourke’s gaze as she snagged the dishtowel from the hook off the icebox door. “I know you’re a woman with a deep faith, which you’ve clearly passed on to Julie and your other daughters, but …”

  “Why didn’t it take with Sam?” she asked softly, her dark eyes as piercing as her son’s.

  Marcy nodded with a chew of her lip.

  Mrs. O’Rourke issued a heavy sigh and continued to wash. “Well, it certainly wasn’t from lack of trying on my part, I can tell you that. Unfortunately, Samuel is his father’s son, and I wish I could tell you differently.”

  “Unfortunately?” Marcy whispered, shocked that the woman who appeared to adore her husband would have anything negative to say about him at all.

  Mrs. O’Rourke’s hands stilled in the water while she stared straight ahead, as if lost in her thoughts. “Yes, ‘unfortunately.’ You see, although Sam’s father is a good man and I love him desperately, our faith has never been … how shall I put it?” She glanced over at Marcy, her smile somewhat sad as she continued to wash. “Evenly yoked, I suppose, as the Bible likes to say. Oh, my husband believes in God and goes to church, of course, but I’m afraid he draws the line at the vestibule door, especially when it comes to the role of a man in the church.” She finished up the last of the dessert plates and utensils, then grabbed another dishtowel to help Marcy dry, her tone melancholy. “It’s near broken my heart to see Sam follow in the path of his father as a young man—promiscuous, rebellious, a surface relationship with God.” A frail breath drifted from her lips. “But his father insists that’s how a young man should be before he settles down, and I’m afraid he’s curtailed my influence at every turn.”

  “Did it … bother you that Mr. O’Rourke wasn’t as spiritual as you when you married him?” Marcy whispered as she and Mrs. O’Rourke each dried their last dish.

  Mrs. O’Rourke hung their towels on the icebox handle before turning to Marcy with a half chuckle. “Not really, because I was so much in love that I never gave his wild past a thought or was able to see past that rakish smile.” She shrugged her shoulders, all at once looking far older and more tired than her years. “Besides, as a young woman in love, I’m sure you can understand, I wasn’t exactly thinking about God when Mr. O’Rourke would kiss me.”

  Marcy’s gaze dropped as heat pulsed in her face.

  Mrs. O’Rourke’s gentle touch drew Marcy’s gaze to tired eyes where sympathy shone. “Marcy, deep down Sam’s a good man like his father—he just needs a good woman to steer him right. And whether or not you are that woman, you need to know—most men are not prone to embrace God like we women, so when it comes to a deep faith, sometimes we just have to settle for a wee bit less than we hoped.”

  Mary’s eyelids drifted closed. Please, God, I don’t want to settle …

  Her eyes opened when Mrs. O’Rourke tucked a finger to her chin with a patient smile. “My husband and I have a wonderful marriage, Marceline, and a beautiful family, so the good news is, despite my settling in this one area, there’s been little to no damage done.”

  No, only to your son …

  She patted Marcy’s hand. “I best head upstairs to make sure all is well, but I’ll send Samuel down to say good night posthaste. Sleep well, my dear.” She pressed a kiss to Marcy’s hair, the familiar smell of lavender not as comforting as it once had been. “You’re good for my son,” she whispered, giving Marcy’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, “so I don’t want you to worry. Sam will make you a fine husband someday, I promise.”

  Marcy nodded. “Thanks, Mrs. O’Rourke. Good night.”

  She watched Sam’s mother make her way down the hall while her words echoed in her brain. “Sam will make you a fine husband someday, I promise.”

  Marcy leaned against the counter with head bowed while a thought entered her mind that pricked as much as the sudden tears in her eyes.

  Yes … but was it a promise she could keep?

  Chapter Thirty

  Marcy nibbled a sugar cookie and smiled, content as she waited for Sam to refill her punch at the final cast party in the St. Mary’s Center of Hope. Enjoying a rare moment alone while Julie and Evan left to congratulate Father Fitz and Sister Francine, she breathed in the fresh smell of pine from the fir boughs decorating the middle of the dining-room tables
, each flickering with a candle in honor of the last production that just ended. In the kitchen Miss Clara and her volunteers were still baking up a storm, the heavenly scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafting through the center. Gone were the wooden tables sanded and varnished to a gleam by Sam and Evan and Patrick over the summer, replaced instead with delicate layers of tissue paper laden with trays of Christmas cookies, some still warm from the oven.

  Expelling a weary but satisfied sigh, Marcy’s gaze wandered a room looped with festive red and green paper chains cut and painted by grade school children from discarded newspapers. Raucous laughter erupted from a table of white-robed boys with halos askew. Each devoured cookies during games of gallows on the tissue with oil crayons provided by Sister Francine. Grateful tears pricked when Marcy spied Tillie and Holly giggling over a game of noughts and crosses with newfound friends, then glimmered with joy at a rosy-cheeked Julie who smiled up at Evan through lovesick eyes. Oh, Lord, just look at what You’ve done—friendships forged and friends in love, all in the process of reaching out to the poor! Julie’s face aglow, Marcy had never seen her best friend happier, and with a sudden cramp in her chest, she wished she could say the same for herself.

  Her eyes lighted on the hearth and mantle scenery Patrick had built, and her heart immediately constricted over the friendship she’d lost. At Miss Clara’s request, he and Evan had delivered it here after the play as a fitting party backdrop to hang stockings filled with candy canes for each of the children. But looking at it now only reminded Marcy of the hateful way she had treated him, something she sorely regretted once her anger had cooled. She was not a woman prone to temper, yet he had evoked an anger in her like no one had since Nora’s shameful fiancé, and Marcy suspected it was because of the threat Patrick posed to her peace of mind.

  Goodness, she’d dreamed of being Julie’s sister and belonging to a close-knit family like the O’Rourkes since she’d been a little girl, and secretly smitten with Sam for almost as long. Patrick’s blatant attempt to steal her affection by casting aspersions as to Sam’s fidelity—and this from the Southie’s king of infidelity, no less—had infuriated her. But now that the strain and stress of the play was over and Sam indicated he and Patrick were at least speaking again, she regretted the rift. She couldn’t count the times she’d longed to apologize over the last week of the play, but he avoided her—producing a dull ache inside akin to a splinter that festered inside her heart, painful to the touch. Another heavy sigh drifted from her lips. It was just as well, she supposed. With the feelings he claimed to have for her—if one could believe a rogue used to sweet-talking his own way—friendship would be difficult, at least until after Sam and she had been married a while.