A Heart Revealed

by Julie Lessman

  Charity nodded.

  She raced out, and Charity closed the door, fingers trembling from the strain of the evening. With a deep swallow of air, she squared her shoulders and closed her eyes, face lifted to heaven. “Lord, I’m a fool, I know, and I’m so sorry for what I did tonight, and for hurting Mitch. Forgive me for my anger toward Marjorie and please—” the muscles in her throat convulsed—“please bless her and help her to forgive me too. I’m so scared because I’ve . . . I’ve never seen my husband act this way, never been cut off from his love before . . . and I’m frightened. But your Word says you have not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind. So, I’m asking, Lord—please deliver me from this fear and give me a sound mind and the love to face Mitch’s anger. And please, God, heal this rift in our marriage.”

  She took another deep breath, and with a semblance of peace in her soul, she hurried to their bathroom to get ready for bed. Her body was shaking as she washed her face and brushed her teeth. She undressed, then unhooked Mitch’s favorite nightgown from the back of the door and put it on, the satin cool as it shimmered down her body. She stared in a daze at the woman in the mirror—golden hair and swollen eyes, and full breasts mounded in the V of her gown. With a hand pressed tightly to her stomach, she swallowed hard, knowing full well there would be no lovemaking tonight. There had been nights when she was so desperate for his physical love—the assurance that he was still attracted to her, loved her—that his exhaustion had angered her. But for once it didn’t matter. Not tonight . . . maybe not ever again. Nothing mattered if she didn’t have all of Mitch’s love.

  Her heart quaked as the door downstairs opened and closed, and she slipped into the bed to wait, and hope, and pray. Her blood pounded in her ears as his footsteps rose on the staircase, and when he entered their room, her stomach cramped at the fury in his face.

  “Mitch, I’m so sorry—”

  His silence was a blow as he entered the bathroom and shut the door. Water ran as she uttered silent prayers, desperate for resolution. And then a shaft of light lit the room and went dark. She watched his shadow move toward the bed and her heart leapt in her breast. But when he reached for his pillow, her breath caught in her throat. “Mitch, no, please—”

  He moved toward the door in silence, and she wanted to scream to shatter the deafening quiet. No more silence, please, anything but that. She jumped up and ran to the door, her heart breaking. “Mitch, don’t shut me out, please—talk to me!” Her voice broke on a sob.

  He turned then, his face as hard and cold in the moonlight as a marble sculpture. His eyes were slivers of blue ice. “All right, Charity, I’ll talk.” He faced her point-blank, his voice a cold blade with deadly intent. “I want you to leave me alone. I want you to stay far away from me. Until I’m ready to talk. And quite frankly, I’m not sure when that will be. What you did tonight was not just a whim, a pretty tantrum that I’ll forget about tomorrow. It was the destruction of a piece of our marriage, my trust and my love. And I pray to God I can get over it, but I’m not sure about that either. In the meantime, I’ll be sleeping in the study for the foreseeable future.”

  She clutched his arm. “Please, Mitch—don’t leave me. We can work this out.”

  He stared at her face, streaming with tears, and she shivered at the lack of love in his eyes. No warmth, no caring, as if his heart had been sealed off, an invisible barrier shutting her out. “Maybe,” he said, his tone as lifeless as his love. “But not without a lot of pain, little girl . . . and definitely not tonight.” He closed the door and she stared, her heart strangling in her chest.

  With a wild pumping of her pulse, she flung the door wide and chased after him, following him down the stairs as she pleaded her case. “Mitch, please, don’t do this,” she cried.

  But he did. And when he slammed the study door and bolted her out, she felt as if she were suffocating, the air bleeding from her lungs in the rawest of pain. She staggered back to their room, barely able to catch her breath. Cold comprehension stabbed anew, wounding her with painful revelation. She was alone and despised by her husband, a woman whose very existence depended on his love. Like oxygen to her body and hope to her soul. And now it was gone. Pain slashed through her like jagged pieces of glass, and she collapsed on their bed in unfathomable grief. His words droned in her brain, piercing anew and haunting her mind. She had feared his silence, thinking nothing could be worse.

  But she had been wrong.

  His words had gashed into the soft and tender flesh of all that she was, all she had been—a little girl, rejected and abused, fearing the absence of a man’s love. And now it was here—as cold and empty as the look in Mitch’s eyes—she was alone. A chill shivered through her and she keened on the bed with hurt so stabbing, she thought she would die. His love had been shut off, and a gaping hole had opened wide, leaving her empty and exposed to the whisperings of death.

  He will never love you again.

  Your marriage is a lie.

  Your life is over.

  “Nooooooo!” Her hoarse whisper echoed in the room, drowning out the lies. And then in a violent beat of her heart, she jerked her knees to her chest and cocooned into the safety of God, her arms clinging to his love with head bent and heart sheltered. “Oh, God, forgive me and save me . . . from myself and from my sin. I need you—and only you—to be the lover of my soul. Fill my emptiness with your Spirit and love so I may be all you’ve called me to be.”

  And with a final shiver of her body, she let it all go—Mitch’s anger, his silence, and the loss of his love, placing it where she knew it belonged—at the foot of God’s throne. And in that one simple transfer of will, sorrow seeped from her eyes as a wellspring of hope, weighting her pillow, but lifting her soul. Moonlight streamed across her bed like the grace of God, and finally she closed her eyes to take her rest.

  Yes, a woman broken in a bed of sorrow . . . but whole in the hand of God.

  Sean glanced at the clock and frowned. Noon. At this rate, he wouldn’t get to Emma’s till one. He peered at Bert as he slipped his coat on. “Did she say what she thought it was? Fever, cold . . . ?” His smile tipped. “Exhaustion? Heaven knows the woman works herself to death.”

  Bert spun a sheet of paper into the platen of her typewriter. “Nope, just said she felt achy and tired. Says her throat is sore and her head hurts so much, she can barely keep her eyes open.” Worry lines creased the bridge of her nose. “Which is a first, so she must really feel rotten.”

  “I don’t understand—she seemed fine yesterday.” Alli chewed on the tip of her pen, her brow buckled in worry.

  “Yeah . . . she was.” Sean buttoned his coat with a pensive smile. “Spunky, almost. And pushy.” One corner of his mouth inched up. “She made me help her clean out the store closet.”

  Bert shook her head, her smile flat. “The woman is a fanatic about being neat. She’s been harping about that closet as long as I can remember.”

  “It does look nice, though,” Alli said. “Will you just tell her we miss her, Sean?”

  Sean tugged on his gloves. “Sure. After I ply her with chicken soup and my secret remedy, guaranteed to cure all ills.”

  Bert slid him a sideways smile. “Your ‘remedy’ wouldn’t contain anything illegal, now would it, Mr. Straight and Narrow?”

  Sean winked on his way out the door. “Well, you’ll just have to get sick to find out, won’t you, Mrs. Adriani?” He stopped and turned, hands braced in the door. “If any problems pop up, just put ’em on ice till I get back, okay? And, Alli, those inventory figures Emma wanted are finished and ready to type up when you get a chance. Sorry, I left them sitting on my desk.”

  “No problem, Sean. Just take care of Miss Emma. It feels strange here without her.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Sean angled a salute and bounded down the steps, thoughts of Emma in pain doing funny things to his stomach. Someone as special as Emma Malloy shouldn’t be by herself when she was sick, he thought with a pinc
h of his lips, fending for herself when she probably couldn’t even get out of bed. He nodded at several employees on his way out the door, then winced at the sting of icy wind upon exiting the front entrance. Turning up his collar, he forged into the Saturday crowd, eyes focused on the red-and-gold Woolworth’s sign at the end of the block. His stomach rumbled as he quickened his pace. First stop—the best soup in town.

  Maintaining a brisk walk most of the way, he was out of breath by the time he reached Emma’s apartment, loaded down with soup, ginger ale, tea, and other select items he hoped would help. Balancing the carton with his knee, he knocked on the door and waited. When there was no answer, he butted the box to the door to try again, knuckled fist poised in the air.

  “She’s asleep.”

  Sean spun around, almost upending the soup. A tiny old woman in a gray nubby sweater that all but swallowed her up peeked out the door, blue eyes glaring as if she’d just caught him breaking in.

  “I have soup,” he said stupidly, feeling the warmth crawl up the back of his neck. He lifted the cardboard carton loaded with bags. “To help her feel better.”

  One silver brow spiked up. “Feel better? Little late for that now,” she muttered, opening the door more than a crack to reveal a rolling pin in her hand. She squinted up at him, making the paper-thin wrinkles that fanned from her eyes all the more pronounced. “Who are you?”

  “Sean O’Connor—Emma’s assistant manager from the store.”

  Her scowl softened into a smile. “So you’re the one she’s always gabbing about.”

  His mouth tipped up. “That depends—is it good or bad?”

  She grinned, evolving from a pint-sized threat into a huggable grandma. “Good. Anybody that can bring a little joy to Emma Malloy is okay by me.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.” He lifted the carton. “Think she’d mind if you let me in, Mrs. . . .”

  “Peep, Elvira Peep, Emma’s landlady and good friend. Most people call me Vi ’cept for Emma and Casey, that is. They call me Mrs. Peep, but that’s only ’cause Emma worries about teaching Casey respect for her elders.” Bustling past, she tucked the rolling pin under her arm and reached into her pocket for a key. She inserted it into the lock, then paused to look up, eyes pensive. “Emma thinks mighty highly of you, Sean O’Connor. Claims you’re friends.”

  “We are, Mrs. Peep—good friends.” He bobbled the carton, his fingers suddenly clammy. “You might say she’s my closest friend and I . . .” Emotion shifted in his throat. “I love her a lot.”

  “Call me Vi. And you can bet those freckles on that handsome face of yours that she feels the same.” The blue eyes narrowed, locked on him with uncomfortable precision. “You know, call me senile, but it seems to me there’s a spark of something more than just friends.”

  He blinked, her statement cutting off his air. “Pardon me?”

  With barely a sound, she turned the key in the lock, then dismissed his surprise with a wave of her hand. “Oh, I don’t mean you, of course,” she said with a shake of her head, “but her. Talks about you a lot, if you ask me. Seems to respect you, admires you.”

  “Well, like I said, Vi, we’re close friends.”

  She exhaled a burdensome sigh. “I know. And more’s the pity.”

  His breathing thinned as he shifted the box in his hands. “Why’s that?” he asked, not all that sure he wanted to know.

  She exhaled, eyelids weighted with regret. “Because she’s in love with you, you know, just doesn’t know it herself.”

  He blinked. She may as well have slammed him across the head with that rolling pin—no difference. His body went numb. He tried to speak, but the words seemed tied to his tongue.

  A sigh drifted from her weathered lips. “And it’s a rotten shame too, because the woman is bound and determined to honor her vows to that pathetic excuse for a man, and him an ocean away, no less. Of course, her faith doesn’t allow divorce, so there you have it. One of the finest people on God’s green earth remains shackled to one of the worst. A travesty if you ask me, especially at a time like this, when she could use the protection of a man she loves.”

  Her words sliced through his shock. “What do you mean, ‘at a time like this’?”

  She peered up, gumming her lips as if deciding how much to divulge. She shook her head. “No, I refuse to keep her secret. She’ll be angry, I know, but then Emma Malloy’s wrath is akin to most people’s good mood.” She sucked in a deep breath and turned to face him dead-on, pain etched into every wrinkle. “She was beat up, Sean, by Casey’s no-good boyfriend.”

  His heart slammed to a stop. Needles of shock prickled his skin as her words stole the air from his throat. Their meaning burned in his mind, and hot blood whooshed into his face on a floodtide of fury. Seldom had he known such rage. Oh, he’d had an inkling of it the day that he’d been fired, and more so at Kearney’s and then during the war, but never like this, blood coursing through his veins like boiling lava, ready to spew. He gripped the box tightly, fingers gouging the sides. His voice was a whisper, but the brutal bite of it made the old woman wince. “When? How?”

  “Last night, when she got home from work. He was waiting and slapped her around real good.” Her tone matched his, sharp and bitter. “Apparently the scum is prone to hitting women, so Emma shipped Casey home to Kansas, and Mr. Scum of the Earth didn’t like that one bit.” Her lips trembled into a smile as tears welled in her eyes. “But you would have been so proud of her, Sean. Despite her past with that bully she married, she had the courage to stand up to that lowlife last week when he forced himself on Casey and spent the night in her apartment.” Mrs. Peep hiked her chin, lips settling into a grim smile. “Got the best of him, she did, stealing his clothes and shoes while I called the police. It was a pretty sight, I can tell you that, watching him slink down the street in nothing more than Casey’s floral robe.”

  “Is she—” the words stuck in his throat, making it difficult to breathe—“badly hurt?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so, more scared than anything, but I gave her some sleeping pills I had because of the nightmares she’s been having lately. All I could see was a nasty bruise on her face and neck, so nothing appears to be broken, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s black and blue under her clothes. I heard her screams and called the police, but he roughed her up plenty before I was able to get my rolling pin.”

  His gaze dropped to the unlikely weapon she held and he tried to smile, but his jaw was as stiff as the piece of wood in her hands. A muscle pulsed in his cheek. “Who is he?” he whispered. “Where can I find him?”

  “Johnny something or other. I wish I could tell you more, Sean, but I don’t even know his last name. And Emma knows where he works, but I doubt she’ll say.” She put a veined hand to his arm, a wisp of fear in her tone. “He threatened to come back and finish her off, and I know she’s scared to death. Frankly, I am too—for her—and if there’s any way you can convince her to stay somewhere else for a while, I’d be happy to take care of her cats.”

  He closed his eyes, willing his temper to calm. The last thing Emma needed was more rage. Not now. Better to save it until he could get his hands on the lowlife who hurt her. And he would, if he had to look under every rock to do it. His eyelids lifted, the heat in his gaze in stark contrast to the coolness of his manner. “Open the door, Mrs. Peep.”

  Nodding, she eased it wide and motioned him in, halting him halfway with a stay of her hand. “I’m glad you’re here, Sean. If you need anything, I’ll be across the hall.”

  He turned. “You’re not coming in?”

  “No,” she said, a sad smile lining her lips. “I have a feeling you’re all she needs.”

  The door shut quietly behind her, and he drew in a deep breath. Emma’s scent filled his senses with grief as he looked around, seeing her beauty and tranquility in everything she touched. A graceful fern, green and lush with care, boasted splashes of color with carved green and yellow lovebirds perched o
n a tall wooden stick. Gleaming wood bookcases, resplendent with leather-bound books, showcased the Kewpie doll he’d won for her the night they’d strolled Revere Beach. He noted an easel with a half-finished painting depicting children at play, then smiled at another on the wall behind it, where two fat bluebirds perched on a sill. One happy and one sad, they reminded him so much of Bert and Alli that his heart squeezed in his chest. Oh, Emma, I didn’t even know you could paint . . . His gaze trailed to a half-crocheted afghan of bright blues, reds, and golds, depicting a passion and vibrancy in the woman he’d only just begun to see. He could smell the clean scent of lemon oil from the cherrywood coffee table where a Bible with jeweled bookmark lay, its ribboned page displayed like an exquisite piece of art. Not unlike the woman whose fingers caressed it. Oh, Emma. Hand to his eyes, he felt a lump shift in his throat.

  So much faith . . . so much love. The kindest person I know.

  Steeling his emotions, he moved toward the kitchen and set the box on the table, feeling oddly at home in this room where everything reminded him of her. Sunny yellow curtains, graceful crystal candlesticks, and the inviting smell of ground coffee beans still potent in the air. Sparkling counters and sink explained the hint of bleach he smelled, and the gleam of the black-and-white tile floor indicated it was spotless and clean.

  Just like Emma.

  He braced himself, the shaft of light at the end of the hall drawing him like a spell he couldn’t break. He should have felt like an intruder, but he didn’t. This was Emma, the woman with whom he shared everything. His lunch, his laughter, his thoughts.

  He paused to press a shaky hand to his eyes. And his heart?

  She’s in love with you, you know.

  The air stilled in his lungs. No . . . I didn’t.

  He moved to stand in her door, and his heart plunged in his chest. He should have been prepared, but somehow he wasn’t, and he knew at once that nothing would calm the fury that now pulsed in his brain. She lay limp on her back with her face to the side, dark lashes sweeping against porcelain skin. Her cheeks were pale ivory except for a swell of purple, temple to jaw, and her full lips were the color of death, bloodless and white. Mottled marks trailed her long, slender neck, sinking well past bruised shoulders into the folds of a satin gown. She shivered in her sleep, and he held his breath as tears stung his eyes.