“Oh, Patrick . . .” Tears stung Marcy’s eyes.
He looked up and sighed. Drawing her close with a tug of her hand, he kneaded her shoulder and released another weighty breath, his whisper tinged with regret. “Aw, darlin’, I’m not wanting to make you cry, really I’m not, but after that rift we had over Sam years ago, you and I pledged to be totally honest with each other.” He kissed the top of her head. “Did we not?”
She nodded, more moisture lining her eyes as guilt nicked at her heart.
He patted her arm. “So, I need to be honest and let you know my true feelings. But . . . that said, let’s just take it one day at a time and see where God leads us with Gabe, all right? Who knows—maybe one of these days she’ll surprise us all by becoming the perfect foster daughter.”
Marcy nodded again, the breath she’d been holding slowly seeping from her lips. No, my love—the perfect “daughter.”
She snuggled in close, her grip tightening along with her resolve. And oh yes . . . one of these days . . .
“Now,” he said, slipping his hand to her waist. He pressed a second kiss to her head. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”
“Nothing,” she whispered, anxious to deflect his attention from a subject that would have to wait for the right time. She reached up to deposit a kiss on the edge of his bristled jaw. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
His low chuckle tickled her ear as he slowly rolled her back on the bed, hovering with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “Good,” he whispered, easing in to trail his mouth along the curve of her neck. “Neither do I.”
7
I guarantee you, young woman, Filene’s wouldn’t treat a valuable customer this way.”
Mustering all her strength and patience after a particularly trying day, Emma slowly counted to five before addressing Mrs. Arthur Bennett III with a kind smile. “I assure you, Mrs. Bennett,” she said, shooting a comforting glance at Livvie, the ashen-faced salesgirl to whom Mrs. Bennett had given a rather pointed piece of her mind, “if we could take this cookware back, we certainly would, as we pride ourselves on customer service here at Dennehy’s—”
“Customer service, my foot,” the woman said, her voice rising in volume. “Why this young snip of a clerk—” Mrs. Bennett glared at the girl’s name tag with a huff, “this Livvie Allman, here—as much as called me a liar!”
Livvie’s eyes expanded. Her startled gaze skittered to Emma’s and back. “Ma’am, I meant no offense, just that this cookware was not purchased at Dennehy’s.”
“You see?” Mrs. Bennett’s silver brows arched in threat. “I distinctly remember purchasing this pot at this very counter, not two months ago, and it’s an absolute travesty what it does to my whipped potatoes.”
God, help me . . . With a silent sigh, Emma calmly reached for the pot in question and turned it over. “You see, Mrs. Bennett,” she said with a trace of her finger across the insignia on the back, “this is a Revere Copper and Brass product, most likely sold by Filene’s. As of the first of January, Dennehy’s only handles West Bend cookware.”
The woman snatched the pot from Emma’s hand, her face as flushed as its copper bottom. “Yes, I see—you’re calling me a liar too! You sell me an inferior product and now you won’t do anything about it. Well, this will certainly be the last time I shop here.”
Emma countered the quiver in her stomach with a firm lift of her chin. “I sincerely apologize, Mrs. Bennett, for this unfortunate situation—”
“I’ll show you unfortunate,” Mrs. Bennett snapped, wagging the cookware at Emma as if it were a call to battle. “Once I tell my friends how shabbily I’ve been treated, over an inferior product no less, you will rue the day you ever butted heads with Mrs. Arthur Bennett III.”
“You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Bennett,” Sean said.
Emma turned as he strode forward, his manner as easy and relaxed as if he and Mrs. B. were the best of friends. It was a contest whose mouth gaped wider—hers or Mrs. Bennett’s.
Disarming the irate woman with a kind smile that soothed the ridges in her brow, Sean nodded toward the pot clutched in her hands. “May I?”
As if mesmerized, Mrs. Bennett relinquished it to Sean’s possession, never blinking as he circled a palm to the inside surface. “See this chrome plating?”
Mrs. B. nodded, her eyes fixed on Sean rather than the pot.
“Revere Copper and Brass product is a quality company, to be sure, but this particular product was not one of their best efforts. You see, Mrs. Malloy here . . .” Sean inclined his head toward Emma, giving her an encouraging smile, “received complaints just like yours when we carried this product, because apparently the chrome flakes off into the food—”
“Oh my goodness, exactly!” Mrs. Bennett said. “Ruined my potatoes with silver flecks.”
Sean nodded in sympathy, and Emma tried to hide the smile that pulled at her lips. He handed the pot back. “The Revere salesman asked us to reconsider, but when Mrs. Malloy tested the pot herself, the same thing happened. It seems that when potatoes are cooked in saltwater in a chrome-plated pot, it causes a chemical reaction that peels the chrome right off.”
“My word,” Mrs. Bennett said, mouth slack and a bejeweled hand to her pearl-clad neck.
“So you see, Mrs. Bennett, in the best interest of our customers, Mrs. Malloy wisely made the decision to discontinue this cookware immediately at the first of the year, well ahead of Revere themselves pulling the product.” Sean gave the fry pan a conciliatory pat, his demeanor one of complete empathy. “Regretfully, the store where you bought this did not.”
The woman’s sagging mouth snapped shut, and Emma took a step forward. “Mrs. Bennett, we are truly sorry and wish there was something more we could do—”
“Actually . . . ,” Sean began, his gaze locking with Emma’s, “there may be, Mrs. Malloy. You were kind enough to approve the Customer Alliance Affiliation program last week, and I was thinking that perhaps Mrs. Bennett might serve as our first member. What do you think?”
Emma blinked, her lips curving at the little-boy twinkle in his eyes that belied the efficiency of his query. “Why, what an excellent idea, Mr. O’Connor!”
“And what, pray tell, is the Customer Alliance Affiliation?” Mrs. Bennett asked.
A knot of nerves untangled in Emma’s stomach as she swept her hand in Sean’s direction, bestowing a grateful smile on her assistant manager. “Mr. O’Connor will be happy to explain, Mrs. Bennett, but I think you’ll like what you hear. The Customer Alliance Affiliation or CAA is only one of many exciting programs that Mr. O’Connor has proposed to serve our customers better.” She stepped aside with a tilt of her head. “Mr. O’Connor?”
Sean handed the pot back to Mrs. Bennett. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Bennett, although we can’t reimburse you for this cookware, we can make sure your visit to Dennehy’s today ends on a positive note. You see, we’re implementing the CAA program to reward loyal customers with favored status. As a result, we’d like to issue you a special Dennehy’s shopper’s plate—the very first one, mind you—that will entitle you to special benefits such as early-bird specials, two-for-one sales, and a point system where you’ll receive awards for every $50 you spend in the store.”
“Oh my,” Mrs. Bennett whispered, apparently rendered near speechless.
“Not to mention,” Emma added with a proud lift of her chin, “that your shopper’s plate will also afford you the opportunity to purchase on credit rather than with check or cash.”
The woman’s jaw dropped.
“And,” Sean added, relaxed efficiency at its best, “your name will be announced in a future circular as our very first ‘VIP’ —very important patron.”
A gasp sputtered from Mrs. Bennett’s mouth as she put a hand to her chest. “I am . . . honored, to be sure! When do I receive my card?”
“Within weeks,” he said. “And we can complete the paperwork now if you have time.”
“Absolutely! Lead away, you
ng man.”
Relieving her of the errant pot, he tucked it under one arm and extended the other to usher her to the stairs where she turned to shoot Emma a narrow gaze edged with a smile. “I suspect this young man may be the best bargain in this store, Mrs. Malloy.”
“That’s kind of you to say, Mrs. Bennett,” Sean said with a genuine smile. “But I suspect your shopper’s plate will change that opinion in a hurry.”
“Balderdash, young man. I’m a crusty old woman who knows a skilled merchant when I meet one.” She turned to give Emma a final searing look. “And you, Mrs. Malloy, best take heed—this is one man to be paid what he’s worth.”
Sean shot Emma a wink that caused her to chuckle. Mrs. Bennett’s laughter faded as the unlikely pair disappeared around the corner arm in arm, and Emma couldn’t help but marvel at how Sean O’Connor had changed her life for the better. A man to be paid what he’s worth, indeed. She shook her head, enjoying a secret smile. “Heaven knows I wish I could, Mrs. Bennett,” she whispered with a wistful sigh, “but no one has that kind of money.”
“Da-da?”
Katie sighed. Good question. She tucked a teddy bear in the crib next to the little girl and wondered the very same thing. “No, darlin’, Daddy’s still at work,” she said with a taut smile, suddenly feeling the need to scoop the toddler back up in her arms to nuzzle a kiss against Kit’s silky skin. The clean scent of baby powder and Pears soap soothed Katie’s senses, and for surely the twentieth time that week, Katie’s heart swelled with gratitude for the little bundle in her arms.
It hadn’t taken long for Katie to fall in love with Luke’s adopted daughter, and now, after a little over a month of being married, Katie had difficulty even remembering her life without Kit. As stubborn and independent as Katie herself, Kit reminded her of what she might have been like at the age of fifteen months, and the very thought forged a bond between them that she never expected. Big Sass and Little Sass, Luke would call them, and the fact that she and Kit shared both temperaments and the love of the man they both adored only drew them closer. Katie burrowed her nose into the neck of the curly-haired moppet who called herself “Kit” instead of “Kat” or “Kitty,” and the little dickens’ giggle brought a smile to Katie’s face.
“What do you say we rock awhile to see if Daddy comes home?” she whispered in the crook of Kit’s neck, and the little girl laughed and wiggled away with hope in her eyes.
“Da-da?” she said with a dance of her fat legs, and Katie’s heart squeezed at how much Kit missed her daddy. She ruffled her fingers through Kit’s wild auburn curls. “Join the club, sweetie,” she whispered. “I miss Daddy too.”
The clock in the parlor chimed eight-thirty as Katie sank into the white oak slatted rocking chair handcrafted by Sean. Nestling Kit against her shoulder, she crooned a lullaby against the baby’s soft curls in time with the steady rhythm of the thick rockers that groaned and squeaked against the polished hardwood floor. In almost no time, Kit’s chunky body molded to her own in the blessed state of sleep, and Katie closed her eyes, awed by the sense of closeness she felt with this child not of her own blood. To Luke and her family, she was Kit’s new mama, and yet Katie had worried that working at the BCAS three days a week and eventually law school might rob her of ever really connecting with Luke’s daughter, a worry she now knew to be unfounded. Kit not only filled the hole left by Luke’s absence during the day—and now the nights—but loving her came as naturally as breathing, it seemed. Katie sighed. Maybe motherhood wouldn’t interfere with her dreams of law school after all, she thought with a sense of peace. One eyelid edged up as she stared at the ceiling. “But if it’s all the same to you, Lord, can we wait awhile for the others?”
The chimes heralded the nine o’clock hour, and Katie wished just once Luke would get home before Kit went to bed. Between board meetings with headquarter brass from the New York Children’s Aid Society and Luke’s obvious avoidance of Katie, neither Kit nor she had seen more than a glimpse of him the entire week. And the strain was beginning to show—on a daughter who couldn’t stop chattering about him all day . . . and a wife who couldn’t stop thinking about him all night. Tucking a sheet around Kit and her bear, Katie startled at the sudden click of a lock. Her head shot up when the front door opened and closed.
“Da-da?” Kit sat straight up, wide-eyed, both teddy bear and sleep suddenly forgotten.
Ignoring the surge of her pulse, Katie forgot to breathe as she and Kit waited to greet the man they both loved. She sucked in a deep breath. And the man whose anger toward Katie was still as cold and sharp as the few curt responses he’d sent her way.
“Da-da!” Kit’s chubby legs thumped against Katie’s side as the toddler did a jig in her arms.
Her squeals bounced off the walls of their tiny parlor, and Luke glanced up with a broad smile that eased the fatigue in his handsome face. Jerking the tie loose from his neck, he closed the door and strode forward to whisk Kit into the air, swooping her high amidst shrieks and giggles. “How’s my little peanut?” he said, burying his lips in the crook of her neck until she squealed again. “Are you feeling better?”
“Better!” Kit gurgled with glee, planting a slobbery kiss on his tan cheek.
“I’d say she’s 99 percent, with just a tinge of a runny nose.” Katie’s smile was timid.
“Good.” He tossed Kit over his shoulder and headed down the hall without giving Katie a second glance. “Come on, Peanut, I’ll read you a story before I put you to bed.”
“Are you hungry, Luke?” Katie called, praying he was finally ready to sit and talk.
The click of the door was his only answer, and Katie’s temper heated her cheeks. With a tight press of lips, she plopped on her parents’ old and faded flame-stitch sofa and folded her arms, her mood as belligerent as the groan of its springs. Usually she enjoyed sitting in their snug second-story flat with its arched window open to the stately oaks lining Commonwealth Avenue. Occasionally a breeze fluttered past the delicate sheers, rustling the lush fronds of Katie’s Boston fern while infusing the room with the salty scent of the Charles River Basin.
But tonight she took no comfort in a cozy love nest that had become a silent war zone. She snatched her Harper’s Bazaar from the coffee table and swiped at its pages with mounting fury, seeing nothing but a mule of a husband who’d given her the silent treatment all week. The man had barely spoken to her since their fight over law school, except for a grunt before he left in the morning and even less when he lumbered in each night to sleep on the couch. Katie’s eyes narrowed as she eyed the pillow and a sheet neatly folded on the far side of the sofa, further indication that Luke McGee still harbored a grudge.
Her patience was as thin as the flimsy pages of her Harper’s Bazaar, which she now flipped so hard that one tore in half. Drawing in a cumbersome breath, she dropped the magazine to her lap and closed her eyes, willing her own grudges to calm. After all, she loved the pigheaded lout even if he was being completely unreasonable. And she had sprung an awful shock on him, she supposed, but was that any reason to become a deaf-mute to his wife? Katie sighed. She’d been wrong in not telling him—she knew that now, but she really had had no choice. Luke never would have agreed had he known, perhaps even rethinking his engagement to Katie, and she couldn’t risk that. So she’d laid low as the compliant fiancée until the band was on her finger, opting to deal with Luke’s stubborn streak head-on . . . after they were married.
Her lips squirmed to the right. A tactical error, evidently, given her husband’s reception, which closely resembled that of a rock wall. Katie had felt her own walls going up over Luke’s refusal to even discuss it, but she’d worked hard to do the right thing—to say no to her anger and yes to God. To forgive Luke and give him time to forgive her. She drew in a fortifying breath and tossed the magazine aside, refolding her arms as her gaze burned into the door at the end of the hall. Well, the rock wall had had seven days to be chipped away, and Katie was running out of the strength�
��and patience—to chisel. The time for silence was over—they needed to talk.
Now.
Kit’s door opened, and Katie’s stomach rolled when Luke carefully closed it to just a crack, disappearing into their own room. She counted to ten a number of times, attempting to calm her temper as well as give Luke a few moments to do the same. But when he exited their room a few moments later in a change of clothes and a small duffle in his hands, she felt the blood siphon from her face.
Her rib cage contracted, cutting off her air. “You’re leaving again?” she asked, her voice strained despite her best efforts to remain calm. She glanced at the Victorian table clock that had been a wedding gift from Emma and swallowed hard. Nine-thirty and he’s leaving again? “You just got home, Luke—where are you going?”
He glanced up with sullen eyes, his shadowed jaw sculpted in stone. “Clancy’s,” he said in a clipped tone, then turned away to rifle through the duffle while her mouth sagged in shock.
“The gym? At this hour?” She stood to her feet, vaguely aware of a wobble in her legs.
Snapping the duffle closed, he looked up, his temple flickering as he pierced her with a shuttered gaze. “Yeah. Don’t wait up.”
He turned to go, and her heart caught in her throat. It took every shred of her will to keep her voice humble. “Luke, wait, please—can’t we talk before you go?”
A muscle tightened in his broad back while he stood at the door, head bowed and hand on the knob. “No. I’m not ready yet—I still have frustrations to vent.” He opened it to leave, and her humility died an ugly death.
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