A Heart Revealed

by Julie Lessman

  When the grandfather clock in the parlor chimed six, Emma rose with a stretch. “Well, I have plenty of paperwork waiting at home, so I better scoot. See you on Monday, I hope?”

  “I’ll be there.” Alli sat straight up in the bed, a hand to Emma’s arm. “Wait—I know how you won the bouquet by accident, but you forgot to tell me who caught the garter?”

  Emma blinked, the thought of Sean’s rage coming to mind. Her smile faltered. “Uh, Sean did—also by accident. You see, Luke rather tricked him by calling his name and tossing the garter before Sean realized what it was. But Sean insists he’ll never marry.” Emma quickly sniffed Katie’s bouquet to ward off a shiver, closing her eyes at the memory of Sean’s violent assault. A lump bobbed in her throat. And perhaps for the better.

  “Emma?” Alli hesitated for a moment and then tilted her head. “Do you . . . do you ever get sad?” Her throat shifted as if she were embarrassed to even pose such a question. “You know . . . regret that your marriage wasn’t like what Katie and Luke will have?”

  Emma blinked as heat swarmed her cheeks. Regret. Yes, something she lived with every day of her life. But not over the loss of her marriage.

  She looked away and caught her reflection in Alli’s dressing-table mirror, wincing as always at the woman whose beauty had been stolen by grease as blistering as the man who’d thrown it. Red welts on the left side of her heart-shaped face had long since faded, but they’d left pale scars that slightly disfigured one side of her lip and had stolen most of her left brow. Insistent that her friend’s scars were no longer noticeable, Charity often teased that Emma was a “trendsetter” with one bare brow in an era when eyebrows were now shaved and drawn on. In typical Charity mode, she had gently but firmly revamped Emma’s entire look—with a Joan Crawford haircut, ivory makeup that hid what was left of her scars, and eyelids and penciled brows dressed with petroleum jelly for that stylish, shiny look.

  Rory had thought her beautiful once, as did the men who often sought her attention before Rory had spoiled that beauty, and yet for all the bold stares and brazen compliments, Emma had never once believed it. Despite men fawning over her from an early age on, her father had made sure that such compliments never changed the low opinion she had of herself, insisting that “any whore can turn a man’s head.”

  Emotion shifted in Emma’s throat as she stared at her image in the mirror, noting the pain in green-gray eyes that Rory had once claimed a man could get lost in. Eyes that had once held so much promise, now filled with tragedy due to a man’s admiring gaze. Charity insisted she was “beautiful,” but mirrors didn’t lie. Rory had called her “a monster” in one of his drunken fits, and no matter how her scars had faded over the years or how Charity tried to encourage her, Emma could only see that he was right. She absently fingered the gold band on her left hand, grateful for the haven it offered from further rejection. It protected her from the humiliation of ever having to catch a man’s eye.

  The thought flushed her cheeks with painful color. As if she could! What man would ever find me beautiful now? The only beauty she possessed was her love for God, and Emma knew that the human eye was often blind to such beauty. She inhaled deeply, infusing her lungs with the peace of acceptance. Fortunately for her, it was more than enough.

  She cleared her throat and looked up, contemplating Alli’s question. Do I ever get sad? She was suddenly aware that her hands were clammy as she smoothed the skirt of her dress. “No, Alli, not anymore. Oh, I did in the beginning, of course, because I couldn’t understand how something that felt so right could turn out so wrong. But when God brought Charity and me from Dublin to Boston eleven years ago, well, I suddenly understood. I could have never had this in Ireland—dear friends who accept me for who I am, a wonderful store to manage, and a family like the O’Connors who love and support me. And most importantly, a faith in God that fulfills me more than any man ever could.” Serenity settled on her like a sigh. “Regret? No, Alli. I am a woman blessed by God, and contentment is my constant companion.” She leaned to give Alli a hug. “See you on Monday.”

  “Emma . . .” With a gentle stay of her hand, Alli’s palm touched hers. “My heart rejoices to hear that, truly, but I hope you understand that I love you, and because of that, I can’t help but feel regret. Because if ever a woman was, Emma Malloy, you were meant to be loved.”

  Against her will, hot tears sprang to her eyes, and she swallowed hard, managing a shaky smile. She squeezed Alli’s hand and then released it, exhaling a cleansing breath that, for the moment, banished all regret. “And so I am, my dear friend, so I am. By God and by you.”

  “Steeeeeee-rike!” The umpire indicated an out with a hard punch of his fist.

  Groans filled the muggy night air as soon as Bobby Dalton struck out, awarding the opposing St. Mary’s team their first victory all summer. Across the way, St. Mary’s shouts of joy rose while the ten-year-old’s shoulders slumped. He dropped the bat and trudged to the bench with defeat in his eyes, his confidence appearing to descend as quickly as the fading rays of sunlight edging toward dusk.

  Empathy squeezed in Sean’s chest as he stared at Bobby, the only kid on the team who didn’t have a dad. His mother was supposedly a widow new to the neighborhood, or so Father Mac had said when he’d given Sean the signup roster. Ignoring the cheers and jeers, Sean met him midway and squatted. He patted the boy’s arm in a manner meant to assure him it was okay. “Hey, Bobby, you played a great game, but nobody wins ’em all, buddy. You had a lot of power in that swing, but sometimes we don’t always connect.” Sean’s lip crooked up. “Especially when life—or a pitcher—throws us a curve.” He slapped Bobby’s shoulder, as if man-to-man. “Don’t worry, bud—we’ll get ’em next time.”

  Bobby nodded with a sigh and lumbered toward the bench.

  Sean’s heart buckled. “Bobby . . .”

  The boy turned, a hangdog expression on his face while Sean approached.

  “This is between you and me, bud,” Sean murmured, squatting to slip his Snickers candy bar into the boy’s pocket. “You played a good game.”

  A grin curled on the boy’s lips. “Gee, thanks, Coach.” He turned and jogged to the bench where teammates rallied around with sympathetic slaps on the back.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Sean rose to his feet and exhaled, remembering all the times his father had been there for him, dusting him off when he’d struck out or been clobbered by a ball. He may not have kids of his own—nor did he ever intend to—but there was no denying he enjoyed being part of these boys’ lives here and now, even if it was only as a volunteer coach. Especially someone as needy as Bobby.

  Sean huffed out another weary sigh. And especially tonight, when he needed to get his mind off one of the worst days he’d had in a long, long while. First with Mr. Kelly’s threat of layoffs that morning and then later when he’d lost his temper and bloodied some poor unfortunate slob at Kearney’s Café. A groan trapped in his throat. At his own sister’s wedding no less, and in front of one of the people he respected most in the world—Emma Malloy. The memory soured both his stomach and the smile on his face. Their easy and comfortable friendship had been damaged today, he’d seen it in her eyes, and for some reason he couldn’t ascertain, the realization throbbed inside like an open wound. A wound that had bled when he’d returned to the store and then followed him all the way to the game tonight.

  But as always, boys’ laughter and parents’ cheers had lifted his mood considerably, and once again, he was grateful for his love of sports. It’d been his savior over the years, a normal and acceptable outlet for all the roiling emotions he kept hidden beneath the surface. And tonight’s game, win or lose, had taken his mind off the awful look on Emma’s face. All he needed now was to vent his frustration in a late-night basketball game with Pete and the guys, and he’d be back to normal.

  Almost.

  “Hey, O’Connor, you still want an early warm-up before the Monday night game?” Pete Murphy looked up from his clipbo
ard, brown eyes squinted in question.

  Sean retrieved the discarded bat and ambled over to the bench, giving his assistant coach and best friend a one-sided smile. “It’s St. Joe’s, Murph, what do you think?”

  “Hey, Coach, we’ll cream ’em, just like last time,” one of the boys hollered, and the others hooted in agreement while they poked and wrestled each other on the bench.

  Sean grinned and slipped several bats and balls into the equipment bag, then walked over to shake the other coach’s hand. When he returned, the wrestling match had moved to the dirt in a free-for-all of grimy legs, arms, and dust. Sean put his fingers to his teeth and let loose with an ear-splitting whistle. All motion froze as sweaty faces caked with dirt stared back, along with a handful of parents who stood chatting by the wooden bleachers. Several toddlers and mothers sitting on blankets glanced up with curiosity as Sean flashed a smile. “Okay, guys, listen up—you played a stellar game out there today, despite the loss, so you should be proud of yourselves. But if we’re going to protect our lead in the parish league, we’ll have to step it up a notch because St. Joe is breathing down our neck.” He cocked a hip, arms loose and thumbs latched in the pockets of dusty gray trousers. “The Monday night game’s at six-thirty, but I want you here no later than five-thirty so we can get in a little extra practice and warm-up, okay?”

  “You got it, Coach. We’ll make ’em wish they’d never been born,” Cliff Mullen said.

  “Yeah, we’ll annihilate them,” Bobby Dalton agreed.

  Sean stifled a smile with a fold of his arms. “Winning isn’t everything, guys, but playing well is. Which means you go to bed early Sunday night and show up here on time on Monday, got it? See you then.” He ruffled the sweaty heads of several of his boys while they shuffled off, muttering their goodbyes.

  Pete tossed the clipboard to Sean with a hike of a thick, black brow. “Winning isn’t everything?” he repeated slowly, sarcasm coating every word. His lips kinked to the right as he hefted the burlap bag of equipment over a brawny shoulder. “Either you’re in dire need of a confessional right now, O’Connor, or you’re not the guy who goes for the throat every time he trounces me in a game of basketball.”

  A slow grin creased Sean’s lips as he swiped a hand through his own disheveled hair. “Winning in sports isn’t everything, Murph, which should be a relief to you since you seldom do.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm and fell into stride beside Pete as the two headed for the street. “Trust me, I know. Seems I can whip almost anybody with a ball in my hand, but give me a chessboard, and suddenly I look like you on the court.” He slapped his friend on the back. “Downright pathetic.”

  “Mr. O’Connor?”

  Sean spun on his heel, clipboard dangling in his hand. A pretty woman stood before him with a tentative smile, slender hands resting on the shoulders of none other than Bobby Dalton.

  “Hi, Coach, this is my mother—she wanted to meet both you and Mr. Murphy.”

  Sean extended a hand with a warm smile. “It’s good to meet you, Mrs. Dalton,” he said, his gaze shifting from her to Bobby and back. “Both Pete and I think Bobby’s a real bright spot on the team. The other guys love him, and he’s got a pretty mean swing with the bat.”

  “Most of the time,” Bobby muttered with a lopsided grin.

  “Yeah, most of the time.” Sean tousled Bobby’s dark hair.

  “It’s good to meet you too, Mr. O’Connor,” Mrs. Dalton said. “Bobby can’t seem to talk about anything else but how much fun he’s having and what a great team you have. He told me you’re—” A faint blush stole into her cheeks as she shot a quick glance at Pete. “Well, both of you, actually—are wonderful coaches.”

  “Number one in the parish league,” Pete said with a proud roll of his heels. He offered his hand, and Mrs. Dalton shook it. “I’m Sean’s assistant, Pete Murphy.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Murphy. I can assure you, Bobby speaks highly of both of you.” Her eyes returned to Sean, appreciation glinting in their depths. “Especially you, Mr. O’ Connor, because of all the extra help you’ve given him with his batting. His father passed away two years ago, you see, but he loved working with Bobby on his swing, so you’ve definitely helped to fill that void.”

  Heat lined the collar of Sean’s rolled-up shirt at the compliment, but he just smiled, fingering the clipboard in his hand. “Well, he’s a natural, Mrs. Dalton, and a great kid. You’ve done a wonderful job.”

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Connor,” she said with a shy smile.

  “Call me Sean, please.”

  She nodded and patted her son on the shoulders, her smile suddenly warmer than the summer night. “Sean,” she said softly, as if tasting the sound of his name on her tongue.

  His stomach tightened at the sudden tilt of her head and the faint blush in her cheeks.

  “Yes, and call me Barbara, please . . . Sean. Well, we’ve kept you far too long, I think. But we’ll see you on Monday at five-thirty sharp. Goodbye.”

  “See ya, Coach,” Bobby said as she steered him away, both mother and son shooting friendly smiles over their shoulders.

  Pete let loose with a low chuckle.

  “What?” Sean asked, turning away with a thin press of his lips. He slapped the clipboard under his arm and kept walking, irritated at the insinuation in Pete’s tone.

  “What?” Pete mimicked. He laughed outright, matching Sean’s long-legged stride down a sidewalk emblazoned with chalk hopscotch squares. “Are you blind? Anybody can see that the widow’s interested.” He shifted the bag on his shoulder and grinned. “You may ride roughshod over me in sports, O’Connor, but when it comes to steering clear of potential matrimony, you can’t seem to win to save your soul.”

  A rare scowl invaded Sean’s face. He sidestepped a kid on a bike and gave Murph a sideways glance. “What are ya talking about? The woman was interested in meeting the guys who coach her son, nothing more.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll go along with that, but something tells me you have another sticky situation looming on your horizon, my boy. Just like with Howie Devlin’s older sister and then Ricky Klaus’s unmarried aunt and then Fred Langston’s maiden cousin, twice removed—all women who sniffed you out till you ignored them to death—”

  Sean halted and turned. He folded his arms with a tight smile. “So, what’s your point?”

  Pete grinned and dropped the bag to the sidewalk with a grunt. “My point is, you may say you’re a confirmed bachelor, but nothing’s more irresistible to unmarried females than a nice single guy who plays hard to get.”

  A noisy exhale puffed from Sean’s lips and he shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re really something, you know that, Pete? I am not playing hard to get—I am hard to get, period. I’m a nice guy who has no intention whatsoever of getting involved with a woman.” He flicked a clod of dirt off Pete’s shoulder. “Because unlike you and the guys, my friend, I’m strong enough to resist.”

  “Nope. ‘Strong’ is what me, Harv, and Adam are—guys who have no intention of tying the knot while we revel in the wealth of women who cross our paths. That takes true dedication to avoid being snared. You? You’re nothing but a chicken who avoids women like the plague, and all because you’re scared spitless one of ’em’s gonna rein you in.” Pete paused to hike the bag over his shoulder, halting Sean with a cocky grin and a hand to his arm. “Now you tell me—who’s ‘stronger’ and has more guts?” He jiggled his brows. “Not to mention fun?”

  Sean started walking again, and Pete strode alongside. “Face it, Sean, you’re a good-looking guy, but what a waste. If me and the guys had as many gals after us as you do, we’d be in bachelor heaven. But you—you’re so busy avoiding ’em, you miss out on the best part of being single—the affections of women.”

  Sean shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled, stomach rumbling at the smell of grilled burgers at the pub they just passed. “I enjoy my life just fine, Murph.”

  Pete gave him a sideways gl
ance. “Yeah? When’s the last time you really kissed a gal?”

  Heat steamed his cheeks as he picked up the pace. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Plenty. I tell ya, you’re missing out, O’Connor, and I for one think you’re crazy. Why don’t you just be a man about it and get out there and mingle a little?” He eyed him with a taunting grin. “Who knows? It might help avoid another nasty mood like this afternoon. Or are you afraid some sweet little thing is gonna pitch a fast one that’ll leave you tied to home plate?”

  Challenge rose up in Sean as they passed Tucker’s Bakery, as palpable as the smell of fresh bread that watered his mouth. “A woman hasn’t been born who can tie me to home plate, Murph.”

  Pete laughed and slapped him on the back, then shifted the bag to his other shoulder with another grunt. “Oh, she’s been born, my friend, and you can bet on that.” He cocked his head. “If you’re brave enough to get in the game, that is.” He hesitated, his grin raising the bar. “Unless you’re afraid of losing? You know, a knuckle ball that throws you a curve? I’ll bet you wouldn’t even see it coming.”

  A wide grin slid across Sean’s face as he wrested the bag from Pete’s shoulder and tossed it over his own. “Oh, I’d see it coming, all right, and I’ll knock it out of the park, make no mistake. And you and the boys can set your watches by that.”

  Pete laughed. “Maybe.” He slapped Sean on the shoulder as they parted ways at the corner. “If some little gal doesn’t fix your clock first. Either way,” he said with a grin that was more of a dare, “gotta feeling that one of these days soon, you’re gonna run out of time.”