A Heart Revealed

by Julie Lessman

  Patrick chuckled. “Well, judging from Marcy, you have another twenty years before the notorious change of life—a remarkably accurate term, I might add. Plenty of time to fill that house up with babies like Charity always wanted, if the good Lord is so inclined.”

  Mitch fanned fingers through his hair, his discomfort evident in the press of his jaw. “Yeah, well, I’ve shown up for my part in giving Charity the family she wants, but the good Lord seems to be lagging behind.” He scowled at the door. “Not unlike Hennessey and his niece.”

  Glancing at his watch, Patrick rose from his chair. “Well, he said they would be here at one-thirty and it’s three-thirty now, but he did mention that they might be running late. Something about a luncheon Marjorie needed to attend.”

  Mitch exhaled a gust of frustration. “And why aren’t we doing this on Monday, again?”

  “Marjorie was busy—she’s the chairperson for a number of committees, not the least of which is the Fogg Art Museum, for which you will be spearheading this auction.”

  Mitch couldn’t contain his groan. “When is the blasted event anyway? I’d like to know how long I’ll be shackled to this ball and chain.”

  “The day after Christmas—it’s a joyful holiday event they hope will complete the renovations for Harvard’s most prestigious museum.” Patrick calmly adjusted the sleeves of his suit coat with a tug of his fingers, but the flat press of his lips indicated he agreed with his son-in-law. “It’s Hennessey’s alma mater, naturally, and Marjorie went to Radcliffe.”

  “Yeah, well, bully for Marjorie and Merry Christmas to us.”

  “Don’t move—I’ll make fresh coffee.” Patrick rose and headed to his door.

  “You’re not leaving, I hope?” Arthur Hennessey met Patrick with a smile and a handshake. Neatly combed dark hair, white at the temples and only lightly salted with gray, made him appear far younger than his sixty-five years. “Please forgive our tardiness, Patrick, but Marjorie had some errands to run. Hello, Mitch, good to see you again.”

  Mitch reached for his pad and pen before rising in a slow turn, hands and teeth a matched set—both tightly clenched. His smile was strained. “Good to see you again too, sir.” Finally.

  He pocketed the pen and moved toward the door to extend a hand. Arthur pumped it with enthusiasm and then steered in a Jean Harlow look-alike, complete with platinum blond hair and sultry mouth. Upon entry, the scent of gardenias filled the room. Cool green eyes assessed Mitch from head to foot in a sweep of sooty lashes before dismissing him with a bored shift of her gaze. She directed a smile in Patrick’s direction and held out a hand heavy with diamonds. “Hello, Patrick, it’s lovely to see you again. I missed you and Marcy at the spring benefit.”

  Patrick shook her hand with a warm smile. “Marjorie, always a pleasure. And my apologies—Marcy came down with the flu the day before, but she’s looking forward to the auction in December.” He released her hand and directed her attention to Mitch. “And you remember my assistant editor, Mitch Dennehy, I trust—your cochair for this year’s auction?”

  Arthur Hennessey’s niece swept him with another cool gaze, finally lingering on his face with a faint smile and a handshake. “Thank you for volunteering, Mitch. Arthur assures me that you are more than capable of ramrodding this important event so dear to my heart.”

  Volunteering? His eyes flicked to Patrick’s in a barely concealed glare before returning to Marjorie, the smile stiff on his face as he took her hand. “Yes, well, it’s Patrick who deserves the thanks, Mrs. Hennessey—he’s fully aware of my fondness for charitable causes.”

  Patrick cleared his throat. “Shall we convene in the boardroom? I think we may be more comfortable there. Coffee anyone? I’ll make a fresh pot while Mitch sees you to the room.”

  “Perfect,” Arthur said. “And coffee sounds wonderful. Black for me, please, and cream for Marjorie.” He cupped a hand to Marjorie’s elbow and ushered her out the door while Mitch followed. Suddenly he turned, his brow buckled in thought. “Oh, blast, Patrick—I left the circulation figures I wanted to discuss upstairs in my office.”

  Patrick turned. “Are they on your desk, Arthur? I’ll be happy to get them for you.”

  “No, you’d never find them. Why don’t we head up that way and they can get started?”

  Patrick glanced at Mitch, his voice contrite as he walked with Arthur to the stairwell. “You mind making the coffee, Mitch? We won’t be long.”

  “Not at all,” Mitch said. He led Marjorie into the Herald’s boardroom, which was bathed in sunshine from a wall of windows overlooking the city below. He tossed his pad on the table and moved to open several more sashes, heaving each up with a hard thrust of his arms. A warm breeze fluttered in, bringing with it the smell of the sea mingled with exhaust fumes. He returned to the table and pulled out a leather padded chair. “Please make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Hennessey. It won’t take me a moment to make the coffee.” He started for the door.

  “Marjorie,” she said, stopping him in his tracks.

  Mitch turned. “Excuse me?”

  “Since we’re going to be working so closely together, Mitch, I think it would be more comfortable to be on a first-name basis, don’t you?” Her eyes fused to his as she lowered herself into the chair, slowly crossing long, shapely legs. She reached into her purse and pulled out several sheets of expensive-looking stationery that he swore were scented with perfume. “I look forward to working with you . . . and to the coffee. You’re obviously a man of many talents.”

  Alarm curled in his stomach as he recognized the look in her eyes from years past, before Charity, when he was attracted to women like her. “You haven’t tasted my coffee,” he muttered.

  Great, he thought as he fumbled with the coffeepot in the Herald’s makeshift kitchen, Hennessey’s infamous niece is a beautiful woman with a roving eye. What else could go wrong?

  She was still alone when he returned, her slender back to him as she stood at the window. Manicured hands rested lightly on the marble sill while a single finger idly circled in slow motion. Old habits returned to haunt him, and he found his gaze raking her from head to toe. He frowned and looked away, suddenly missing Charity so much, it was a physical ache. He set the tray of coffees down, then dropped into a chair with a groan of the leather cushion. He plucked a pen from his pocket and tossed it on the table with a soft clunk before distributing the coffees.

  She turned, arms folded. “How old are you?” she asked, her tone matter-of-fact.

  He tried to smile, but it came off more as a scowl. “I wasn’t aware age was a prerequisite, Mrs. Hennessey.”

  Her brows lifted noticeably. “You’re rather forthright, aren’t you?”

  “Only when necessary. Shall we get started?” He placed her coffee in front of her chair.

  Her movements were fluid as she slipped into her seat, hands lighting on the stationery in front of her. “Thirty-five,” she said in a silky whisper.

  Mitch glanced up from his notes. “Pardon me?”

  “I’m thirty-five and divorced. I thought you might be curious.”

  He laid the pen on the table with a smile as strained as the nerves in his neck. With a casual air, he placed his left hand on the pad before him and leaned in, sunlight glinting off the gold of his wedding band. The look he gave her was cool, but polite. “Mrs. Hennessey, forgive me, please, but the only thing I’m curious about is how you and I are going to pull off the best fundraiser Harvard has ever had. In the interest of time, I suggest we get started and you tell me exactly what you expect of me.”

  He saw a blink of surprise in the green eyes before they narrowed. She scribbled something on the sheet in front of her, and then with a regal lift of her chin, she handed it to him, her voice considerably cooler. “I expect weekly meetings here at the Herald, preferably early evening—my days are too full to fit another thing in. Thursdays work best for me as I’m already in the city. Shall we say six o’clock? Call me at this number if an emergency aris
es and you can’t make it. Otherwise, I suggest you be here.”

  Mitch ground his jaw to obliterate a sharp retort on his tongue. Heat fused up his neck and into his cheeks, a nice complement to the tic in his temple. He shoved the paper in his pocket.

  Her full lips eased into a controlling smile. “I believe Patrick has given you the donor list from last year. I need it cross-checked against the invitee list so I know exactly who the heavy hitters are. You’ll be arranging a special reception for them prior. If you’ve any skills as an investigative reporter, use them. I want the invitee list increased by at least 20 percent, and 30 would be lovely. I expect a final list by our meeting next Thursday, understood?”

  Mitch swallowed his pride and nodded, lips pressed so tight, his teeth ached.

  “I’d also like to at least double prize donations from last year,” she continued with a lift of a meticulously thin brow. “Mitzi Wellington is as atrocious at soliciting donations as she is at tennis. Which is why I told Uncle Arthur we needed someone with grit who wouldn’t take no for an answer.” She gave him a pointed look. “Like me.”

  She sipped the cup of coffee that Mitch had prepared and put it back down with a wrinkle of her perfectly sculptured nose. “Goodness, let’s hope your fundraising skills are better than your coffee.” She sighed and brushed a platinum curl out of her eyes and gave him a look that assured him he was working for her. “Now, we’ll discuss the theme. But first, any questions?”

  He gripped the hot cup of coffee and gulped it, wincing when it seared the back of his throat. Questions? Yeah, he thought with a grind of his jaw. How badly do I want my job?

  Come on, Bobby, bring it on home . . . Sean held his breath until the winning run slid into home plate in a cloud of dust, wrenching the air from his lungs with one ragged exhale of relief. Shrieks of joy split the night, merging with groans and catcalls and a cacophony of tree frogs celebrating the win. Scrambling to his feet, the grinning boy loped to the bench and was immediately swarmed by dirty, sweaty teammates. From team joke to MVP in one season. Sean shook his head with a proud grin. You’re my hero, Bobby.

  “Hey Dalton!” Sean made his way through the horde of jubilant kids to lock an arm around the ten-year-old’s neck, knuckling his head with a Dutch rub that made him laugh. He gave Bobby’s neck an affectionate squeeze, then extended a hand with a mist of pride in his eyes. “Put it there, bud, looks like you’re our new MVP. You worked real hard, Bobby. I couldn’t be prouder if you were my own kid.”

  Bobby grinned, ear to dirty ear. “Thanks, Coach. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Hey, what about me?” Pete asked, tickling the boy’s neck from behind.

  “You too, Coach,” Bobby said with a squeal, twisting away from Pete’s fingers.

  “Okay, guys, listen up.” Sean swiped his forehead with the side of his arm, then latched thumbs in the pockets low on his hips. “You guys played a great game tonight, and Pete and I couldn’t be prouder if you’d won the pennant. You not only deserve this championship win, but . . . ,” he paused, a grin splitting his face at the grimy faces blinking back at him, “you deserve ice cream at Robinson’s as well—our treat.”

  Sean winced at the exuberant shrieks that pierced the air. He grinned at Pete, then glanced at his watch. “Okay, everybody, Robinson’s in fifteen or you buy your own, got it?”

  Pete ground a finger in his ear with a grin, teeth gleaming white against olive skin. “I may not be able to hear for a week,” he said with a chuckle. “I hope the parents don’t expect free ice cream too,” he said, tossing bats, balls, and gloves into the equipment bag. “I still have rent to pay this month.”

  Sean hefted the bag over his shoulder. “Forget it, Murph, my tab. I could have never done this without you, so it’s the least I can do.”

  “Oh, no, buddy boy, we’re in this together. Nobody can accuse Pete Murphy of not pulling his weight, no matter how many times I gotta eat beans in a week.”

  “Man, that can’t be good for the love life,” Sean said with a sideways grin. “Nope, I’m the intelligent one who hoards his money instead of blowing it on women, so I can afford it.”

  “Uh, not for long,” Pete muttered, nodding his head toward the far side of the bleachers.

  A groan trapped in Sean’s throat at Bobby Dalton heading his way with his mother in tow.

  Pete hooked the clipboard under his arm and nudged Sean’s shoulder, his voice low. “Hate to tell ya, but I heard Bobby bragging his mother was gonna invite you to dinner this week.”

  This time the groan slipped past his lips, and heat crawled into his cheeks as he planned a quick escape. “Murph, I’ll meet you at Robinson’s after I drop this stuff at the rectory, okay?” Shooting a glance over his shoulder, Sean hurried toward the side street opposite the bleachers.

  “Sure thing,” Pete called before heading toward Bobby and his mother, obviously in a valiant effort to ward them off. Unfortunately, Bobby sidestepped Pete to jog after Sean.

  “Hey, Coach O’Connor—wait up!”

  Sean froze midstride, eyelids drooping closed as if they were weighted with lead. He released a weary sigh and rotated slowly, his smile as stiff as the brand-new catcher’s mitt peeking out of his bag. “Hey, Bobby, you’re supposed to be heading over to Robinson’s.”

  Bobby screeched to a stop, spindly chest heaving. His mother hustled twenty feet behind, obviously hot on his heels. “We are, Coach, but first my mother wants to ask you something.” He bent over with hands on his legs, huffing like he’d just run the bases.

  “Sure thing, Bobby.” Despite the coolness of the night, Sean could feel the sweat beading at the back of his neck. He shifted the bag on his shoulder and smiled at Mrs. Dalton, who was breathing almost as hard as her son when she finally caught up. Sean sucked in a deep breath, his smile polite. “This boy was a star tonight, Mrs. Dalton—you should be very proud.”

  “Oh, I am, Sean,” she said, looping an arm around Bobby’s shoulders and giving her son a squeeze. She tilted her head shyly. “And I thought we agreed you would call me Barbara.”

  “Uh . . . yes, we did . . . Barbara.” He swallowed hard. “Well, you two better head on over to Robinson’s—I’ll see you there—”

  “Coach, wait—we have something to ask first, don’t we, Mom?”

  Pink tinged Barbara’s cheeks as she took a deep breath. “Why, yes, Bobby, we do. You see, Coach O’Connor . . . Sean . . . we were wondering . . .”

  Sean’s breath petrified in his throat.

  “. . . if perhaps next Saturday . . .”

  His body tensed, all air suspended.

  “. . . you could—”

  An arm hooked to his waist, forcing a gasp from his lips. “The game was wonderful, darling—you and your team certainly deserve the championship.” Rose Kelly lifted on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek and then awarded Bobby with a luminous smile. She extended one hand to the open-mouthed boy while the other fused snugly to Sean’s hip. “Congratulations, young man. I suspect the talent scouts will be looking for you before long.”

  Bobby completely ignored her hand, mouth gaping. Not unlike Sean, who stood rooted to the ground like the hundred-year oak just beyond.

  Barbara prodded her son’s shoulder, color rising. “Bobby! Say thank you to the lady.”

  “Thanks,” Bobby muttered, his gaze dropping to his shoes as he kicked at a clump of dirt.

  “Yes, thank you, Miss . . .” Barbara offered her hand.

  Rose shook it with indisputable warmth. “Kelly, Rose Kelly—Sean’s girlfriend.”

  The oak had nothing on Sean—his body went as stiff as hardwood lumber.

  Barbara’s eyes widened. “Oh, I . . . I didn’t realize . . .”

  Sean started to cough.

  “Goodness, are you all right, Sugar Bear?” Rose commenced slapping him on the back.

  He kept hacking, but shock lodged in his throat as tightly as the sour ball that choked him in the fifth grade when Pete
put candy corn in his nose. Sugar Bear???

  Barbara turned Bobby toward the street. “Well, I guess Bobby and I need to head over to Robinson’s . . . Nice to meet you, Miss Kelly.”

  “But, what about Coach coming for dinner?” Bobby said, a plea in his tone.

  Barbara’s blush deepened. “Well, I . . . that is, we . . . thought maybe you . . .” She gulped, eyes flitting to Rose. “Both of you, of course . . . uh, might come for dinner Saturday night.”

  All the blood in Sean’s body seemed to converge in his face as the coughing spell ramped into humiliation. “Uh, Mrs. Dalton . . . Barbara—”

  Rose latched her arm through Sean’s. “Oh, I really wish we could, Barbara,” Rose said with a pucker in her brow. “But Sean and I have plans on Saturday night.” She glanced up with warm brown eyes that seemed surprisingly sincere. “Right, darling?”

  Thud. Sean’s bag hit the ground. He nodded dumbly, tongue too thick for words to pass.

  Relief washed into Barbara’s face along with another painful blush, giving she and Sean matching sunburns. “Yes, well, another time, then. Come along, Bobby, we don’t want to be late. See you at Robinson’s, Coach O’Connor . . . Rose.”

  Sean blinked, mouth ajar as Barbara made a dash for the street that could rival a sprint for home plate. He wheeled on Rose. “Just what in the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  Hurt crimped her brows. “Why, saving your hide. You didn’t want to go, did you?”

  “No, of course not!” he said, his voice little more than a hiss.

  She eyed him with a tilt of her head. “Oh, I see. And you would have been able to look into those big brown eyes of that adorable little boy and his mother and tell them both no?”

  He swallowed hard, the truth swelling his throat as tightly as the clench of his fists.