A Light in the Window

by Julie Lessman

  “Guard your heart well, Marceline, for a man who will respond to the light in the window, for therein lies a gift of God like no other, except that of His Son.”

  Her heart thudded to a jolting stop … and then in one violent intake of air, she suddenly knew—this was a man she could love deeply all the days of her life.

  With a silent heave of her chest, she looked up, Father’s face foggy from her tears while her quivering fingers trembled to her mouth. A sense of awe filled her soul over the dawning of hope so bright, she wondered how she missed it. This is the man I’ve chosen for you, Marceline ... She blinked several times to clear the moisture from her eyes, lips parting in a sense of wonder. Oh, Lord do I have feelings for Patrick O’Connor? Her jaw sagged when the truth struck hard, neatly buried beneath a mountain of fear. “Yes, Father … I … believe that I do.”

  He hesitated, the barest twinge of concern in his gaze. “But do you … love him, lass?”

  She closed her eyes to conjure Patrick’s face, and her breath caught at the image of twinkling gray eyes and a perilous smile she’d never allowed herself to enjoy. A languorous warmth slowly swirled in her belly, steaming her cheeks and snapping her eyelids open. She quickly averted her gaze while she chewed at her lip. “I … don’t think so, Father, but I …” She swallowed hard. “I believe maybe I could.”

  The planes of his face relaxed into a crooked smile that looked so much like a little boy, a giggle bubbled up in her throat.

  He grinned. “Aye, and a fine Christmas it will be for a former rogue who deserves a bit of cheer, I’d say.”

  A former rogue, yes … The giggle broke free as she folded her hands to her lips. Then all at once, her laughter died as another “rogue” came to mind. Her eyes weighted closed while her heart instantly squeezed in her chest.

  “What is it?” Father Fitz whispered.

  She glanced up, grief wet in her yes. “Oh, Father, I worry about Sam—the hurt this will cause and the hurt he’ll cause himself if he doesn’t change.”

  Sobriety settled on Father Fitz’s features as he nodded, his manner as somber as hers. “Aye, Samuel O’Rourke, the one rogue who failed to heed the light in the window.” He expelled a heavy sigh that brought a slump to his shoulders. And then, in a jut of his chin, the heaviness seemed to flee, replaced by a glint of determination in steel-blue eyes when he flashed her a grin. “Well, not to worry. With Mr. O’Connor out of the way, I can now focus on Mr. O’Rourke while I turn the other rogue over to you.”

  Her smile wavered. “Do you really believe this is what God has in mind?”

  His low laughter buoyed her spirits. “Aye, but the real question is, Marceline—do you?”

  This is the man I’ve chosen for you, Marceline, the thought came again, and immediately tears welled in her eyes.

  “Now, now, young lady,” Father Fitz said with a chuckle, rising to his feet, “don’t you think you’ve shed enough tears for one evening?”

  A giggle rose on the heels of those very tears as she wobbled up, her head as dizzy as her heart. “Yes, sir.” She patted the moisture from her face and then blew her nose, cheeks warm as she gave him a shy smile. “I need to go, Father—Evan is waiting to walk me home, but I’ll launder this and get it back to you, I promise.”

  He patted her arm. “Keep it, as a memento of the night God answered your prayers—and mine.” He looped an arm to her waist and walked her to the front door, unhooking her coat from the rack before he helped her to slip it on.

  Donning her fur hat, she then looped her scarf around her neck and buttoned her coat, finally digging in for her gloves. Her fingers met the crinkle of paper in her pocket. “Oh! I almost forgot—Mr. Mulholland made a last-minute donation.”

  She handed him the check, and he eyed the amount with a lift of brows. “Ah, so you’ve won the heart of Mr. Mulholland, have you, as well as our rogue?” He tucked the check in his pocket with a mischievous wink. “Good job.”

  Her giggle was soft. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered, voice suddenly hoarse with emotion. She blinked to stem the threat of more tears as she tugged on her gloves. “For everything.”

  He opened the door. “No, Marceline, thank you—for the most memorable Christmas I have ever had. Godspeed, young lady.”

  She nodded and stepped through the door, then whirled around, pulse erratic. “Father—wait. Does Patrick know about the money, that you know it was his?”

  His nose puckered. “Actually, no—that was on my to-do list for next week, when I planned to give him the second best Christmas gift he’ll receive this year. But seeing you’ll be talking to him before I, no doubt …” He cocked a bushy brow in question, and she blushed her consent. “Then I’ll leave that honor to you.”

  She grinned. “Thank you.” Her smile dimmed as she peered up at the priest, a sudden ache in her chest. “But what about his college fund, all that money he saved …” She gulped, wishing there was a way the center could keep the money and Patrick could too. “Are you planning to return it?”

  The grin reappeared on Father Fitz’s face as a twinkle lit his eye. “Not to worry, Marceline, I believe I’ve gone it one better.” He waggled his brows. “The editor of The Boston Herald happens to be a dear friend of mine, you know.”

  Face in a bunch, she tilted her head. “I’m not sure I follow …”

  He laughed and opened the door, a glint of mischief in tired blue eyes. “Ah, yes. Well, you see, my friend from the Herald happens to be thicker than mortar between bricks with the chancellor of Boston University, don’t you know. You might even say they’re ....” He winked. “Cousins.”

  Her mouth fell open before a slow grin curled her lips.

  “Which brings me to the second best Christmas gift Mr. O’Connor will receive this year, Marceline, but I claim the right to tell him, eh?” Father Fitz leaned close, his voice a loud whisper. “A merit scholarship, my dear, whenever the boy chooses to go.”

  She couldn’t help it—more tears swam in her eyes.

  He chuckled. “Merry Christmas, Marceline—may it give you the desire of your heart,” he whispered, the sheen in his eyes matching that in her own. “And only the first of many.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “I can walk the rest of the way from here, Evan, but I can’t thank you enough for seeing me home.” Marcy gave him a warm smile, grateful for Evan’s friendship and the joy he brought to Julie.

  “My pleasure, Marcy, but …” His brow creased. “I’d like to see you all the way to your door, if you don’t mind, not just to the corner of your street.”

  “I know,” she said carefully, unwilling to divulge her sudden compulsion to walk to Patrick’s house—to see him, to thank him, to tell him she was so very sorry. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. And to discover if what Father Fitz believed was actually true. Her smile was shakier this time, the calm of her voice a stark contrast to the jitters doing cartwheels in her stomach. “But I only live six houses down, and I’ve already held you up long enough. Besides, I could use a quiet stroll by myself for half a block or so, in the cool air.” She tilted her head, a gentle plea in her tone. “You know, just to ponder a few things?”

  He stalled for a moment, gaze flicking down the street as if to make sure all was well before he honed in on her face once again. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked, clearly hesitant about her request.

  She nodded, her smile coming far more easily than she ever dreamed possible given the ache in her heart over Sam. “Absolutely. In fact, Father Fitz gave me a perspective I’ve never considered before, and I’m …” She angled her head in thought, feeling the same sense of awe as in the rectory. “Well, you might say I’m at peace.”

  His sigh of relief rolled into the brisk air, floating up to become one with a starless sky. “I’m glad, and Julie will be too.” Empathy laced his tone. “Although for Sam, I suspect it may take some time.”

  She shook her head, eyes in a squint. “I don’t think s
o, truly … at least I hope not. Sam and I weren’t really right for each other, but I kept hoping and praying we were.” She expelled a heavy sigh, the weight of it drifting away like a cloud of surrender in the frigid night air. Her lips tipped in a sad smile. “I suspect I may have been in love with Sam’s family as much as with him, which skewed my thinking somewhat.” She looked up then, her manner decisive. “But … God has a better plan for both of our lives, it seems, just not together.”

  The ridges in Evan’s brow disappeared with a ready smile. “I agree, but please know, I’ll be praying for you both, especially Sam. Good night, Marcy.”

  “Good night, Evan.” She watched him disappear into the shadows as he returned the way they’d come and wondered if she was doing the right thing. A lone snowflake swirled from the sky to land on her nose and she closed her eyes, face lifted to the heavens. “Lord, from the moment I left Father Fitz, I’ve had this urge to talk to Patrick—tonight—to apologize and to thank him for what he did for me, and that’s what I intend to do. So, if this is silly of me, and I shouldn’t be going over there at this late hour, then please let the house be completely dark.” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “Amen.”

  Forging on, she sucked in a deep swell of frosty air to prepare herself for the task ahead, then made her way to Hastings Street as more and more snowflakes danced from the sky. She peered hard at the street numbers, body braced against the cold. Number 17 Hastings, brick house, green shutters—wasn’t that what he’d told Tillie that night? Pulse hammering, she hurried on, spotting number 13, then 15, then—there! A groan trapped in her throat. Dark shutters, dark house. Her heart sank lower than her frozen toes, and she huffed out a sigh, her breath languishing like a ghost in the winter sky. “All right, Lord,” she said with a slump of her shoulders. “Your timing, Your will.” Tugging her scarf more tightly around her neck, she turned toward home, head bowed while a flurry of white as thick as that in her snow globe meandered down like a mantle of peace.

  The flurries picked up and along with them, her guilt, accumulating in her mind as swiftly as the blanket of snow on the street. Her pace slowed, thoughts of how she’d misjudged Patrick, Sam, and even the O’Rourkes, believing them to be everything she’d ever wanted in a family, but they weren’t. She’d been deceived by her yearning for siblings and a house full of laughter and fun, but the very thing she craved most—a marriage with God at the center—had been absent all along. “Oh, Mother, Papa—I am so sorry …” she whispered, grieved that she had perceived her parent’s marriage to be flawed and lacking when they’d given her something the O’Rourkes never could. The most precious gift of all—a faith so deep and true that one was never alone—even in a family without siblings.

  Her steps slowed as she peered up at the heavens, snow dissolving in the track of her tears. “God, forgive me—I’ve been wrong about so many things. So anxious to please, yet so quick to judge.”

  “Yours is a faith that’s heart shallow,” she’d told Patrick once, berating him for a faulty faith when her own had been steeped in pride, her very words exposing her sin.

  “To me, it’s a matter of faith that is real and alive and deep …”

  And yet it had been the rogue himself who had taught her—a woman in love with God—what real faith was truly all about. Laying down his pride, his heart and in fact, his very life, to serve her … and her God. Her heart squeezed in her chest as tears squeezed in her eyes. “Oh, Patrick, I don’t deserve your love, and yet … I have it.”

  “The simple truth is—the boy’s desperately in love with you, Marceline.”

  Heart pounding, she lifted her face to the sky. “Lord, please—help me to love this man the way he deserves.”

  Unlatching her front gate, she opened it and stepped inside, halting when she spied the candle still glowing in her parlour window. A gentle smile curved on her lips at how Mima insisted it be kept lit each night until Marcy came home, a battle she’d won with Papa, although Marcy knew he really didn’t mind. It was their heritage and tradition, after all, the symbol of Christ in their lives, and suddenly Mima’s words once again drifted in her brain like the ice crystals from the sky.

  “Guard your heart well, Marceline, for a man who will respond to the light in the window …”

  Both Mima’s words and the glow of that precious candle seemed to seep into Marcy’s very soul … along with an unexpected rush of desire for the man who might possibly belong there too.

  Patrick.

  Closing her eyes, she stopped to savor his name on her tongue, shocked at the intimacy she felt, as if her heart knew all along what her mind had refused to see. A shyness came over her at the thought that this man could very possibly be …

  My soul mate. My future. My life.

  The magic of the moment swirled around her, fluttering within her chest like the snowflakes in her hair. A giggle escaped and she slowly whirled around, arms extended and palms up, heart swelling with joy for a God whose blessings fell from heaven as freely as the tiny ice doilies she caught with her tongue. For a single moment, the world was soft, silent, and serene ...

  And then … a faint crunch of snow broke her reverie and with a harsh catch of her breath, she stilled on the flagstone walk. A familiar shadow rose from her parent’s Adirondack chair, a mere silhouette against the light in the window. Oh, Sam, no … I’m not ready to discuss this tonight …

  Lips pressed tight, she hurried up the walk and then … froze … colder and stiffer than the icicles hanging from the roof of her porch.

  “I was worried,” he whispered, voice hoarse with regret as he descended the steps painfully slow, the muted scrunch of snow beneath his feet as deafening as the pulse pounding in her ears. “I … wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  She stared as he stopped two feet away, shoulders hunched into his coat and stance awkward as if he feared his presence might offend. “Are you … all right?”

  Her breath was jagged and her body numb, but not from the cold. “P-Patrick,” she whispered, “w-what are you doing here?”

  “Evan told me what happened,” he said quietly. “Said he was going to tell you tonight.” He buried his hands in the pockets of his woolen coat, clearly ill at ease. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for both you and Sam.”

  His words rekindled her grief—over Sam, over her misjudgment of the man who stood before her, and over the hurt she would cause to a family she dearly loved. “No, please—I’m the one who’s sorry, for turning on you like I did, for not trusting you.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, hip slack, head bowed. “Don’t—you had no reason to.”

  “No, I suppose I didn’t …,” she whispered, her gaze tracing the chiseled line of his jaw through the haze of the falling snow. Gray eyes that were now almost black probed hers, bleeding with an intensity that told her he cared. She braced herself with a deep draw of stinging air, lacy fluffs of snow kissing her cheeks. “Until now.”

  He nodded, his gaze on the blanket of powder at her feet. “I love Sam, Marcy, you know that. He’s as much a brother as a friend.” His eyes lifted to meet hers, so potent she felt the tendons weaken at the back of her knees. “But I couldn’t stand by and watch him hurt you like that. You deserve …” A knot dipped in his throat. “So much more.” A heavy exhale threaded past his lips to whiten the air. “So a part of me mourns your loss and Sam’s—but a part of me is relieved.” He shifted and inclined his head toward her house. “It’s cold, and you need to go in. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  With a stiff smile, he attempted to pass, but she stopped him with a gentle hand, flustered by the strange tingle it sparked in her palm. “Patrick, wait,” she whispered, quickly hugging her arms to her waist while she stared at her feet. “I … don’t know how … I can ever thank you for what you did.”

  “It was nothing, Marcy.”

  “No!” Her whisper was harsh as her head shot up, eyes burning with a fierce gratitude. “It was everything.
” She gripped his arm again, but this time she refused to let go, her gaze locked with his. “And it’s changed everything.”

  He stared, mouth ajar. “I … don’t understand.”

  Water welled in her eyes. “The money, Patrick,” she said fervently, “your college fund that you sacrificed for me. Why did you do it?”

  She heard the catch of his breath as his body stilled to stone, shallow air rasping across parted lips. “Who told you?” The words were barely audible, halting and slow while he averted his gaze with head down, cheeks ruddier than before.

  “The police found most of the stolen money on a transient, and Father Fitz figured out the rest.” She paused, unable to hide the hint of humor lacing her tone. “But I’m afraid your partner in crime sang like a bird.”

  He nodded, a faint smile shadowing his lips.

  “Why did you do it?” she whispered.

  His gaze slowly lifted to hers. “You know why,” he said softly, but if she didn’t, the love in his eyes would have given him dead away.

  A shaky smile curved on her face. “Yes—finally, Patrick O’Connor—I know why.” She lifted on tiptoe to press her lips to his cheek, and in one jolting breath, he slowly turned into her kiss, his mouth not a half inch away. Her heart thundered in her chest as neither of them moved, nothing separating them but ragged air that boiled into the sky like barely contained steam.