Father Mac leaned in. “You didn’t what, Sean?”
He saw it in his mind’s eye, then, and bile instantly rose in his throat, forcing his eyes to open in shock. “Protect her,” he said, his voice half dead. “I couldn’t protect her.”
“Who?” Father Mac asked.
His breathing accelerated as he stared straight ahead. “Charity,” he whispered, seeing his beautiful six-year-old sister in the lap of Uncle Paul. “I didn’t protect her . . . from him.” And suddenly he was all of nine years old again, the summer his sister, Hope, died of polio while Faith, her twin, lay sick in a hospital far away. “You’re in charge of your sister,” his father had said before his parents left, “to make sure you both do everything that Uncle Paul says.”
And he had. Obedient to a fault.
Sean closed his eyes in a futile attempt to block out the memory of Charity’s cries every time Uncle Paul had shut him out with a door in his face. “Your sister needs to be disciplined,” his uncle would say, and each and every time, fear and nausea had roiled in Sean’s gut, telling him something wasn’t right. But he was a good boy, who always did what he was told, and so he let it go. Against his will. And Charity paid the price.
“Protect her from whom?” Father Mac asked quietly.
“From the devil,” Sean said, his voice edged with hate. “Uncle Paul.” His chest wavered as he drew in a heaving gulp of air. He opened his eyes to a sheen of tears. “He molested her, Mac, and even at the age of nine, I sensed something wasn’t right the summer my parents left us in his care. I should have done something, anything, but I didn’t.”
“You were a boy, Sean, and your parents had no idea . . . how could you?”
He put his head in his hands, the anguish of guilt eating him raw. “I don’t know, Mac, but I had an uncomfortable feeling inside and I just let it go. I didn’t even tell my parents when they came home because they had so much on their minds, you know? With Faith in the hospital and losing Hope? So I did what I did best, what a good boy always does—I kept the peace and I kept quiet.” A knot of guilt heaved in his throat as his voice trailed into a harsh whisper. “Shoving it so far down that I didn’t even remember it until now.”
A weary sigh escaped Father Mac’s lips as he sat back in the chair, one palm splayed on the table while the other kneaded the bridge of his nose. “And you’ve been trying to make up for it ever since . . . safeguarding your sisters, coming to their defense, vindicating Clare . . . and protecting Emma . . .”
Sean looked up, the truth of Father Mac’s statement sagging his jaw. “I have, haven’t I? Assuaging the guilt of a little boy who only wanted to be good.”
“No, Sean . . . a man desperate to right the wrongs that a little boy couldn’t.”
Releasing a shaky sigh, Sean nodded his head, his heart sick over the injustice to his sister. “I need to talk to Charity, Mac . . . to ask her to forgive me, and I will.” He looked up, his vision a blur for the moisture in his eyes. “But in the meantime, how do I forgive myself?”
A faint smile lined the priest’s lips. “We take it to the cross, Sean, where the shed blood of Jesus Christ will make it whiter than snow.”
Sean peered up, his lukewarm faith making it difficult to believe. “Really? Just like that, and I’m off scot-free? I mess up and he pays the price while I do nothing?”
Father Mac’s smile eased into a half grin. “Well, you have to lay it down, of course . . . and repent.”
“What if I can’t?” Sean asked, squinting up. “Lay it down, I mean? Because I am more than ready to repent—for pity’s sake, I’ve been repenting most of my life. But to let the guilt go?” He plowed a hand through disheveled hair. “Not sure I’m strong enough to do that. For all of my physical strength from workouts at the gym and sports, this rage has taught me that inside, I’m a very weak man.”
A chuckle parted from Father Mac’s lips. “Then, this is your lucky day, my friend, because when St. Paul asked God to take away a thorn in his flesh, God said, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.’”
Sean’s smile was melancholy. “That’s exactly what Emma said to me once.”
Father Mac shifted forward in the chair, hands clasped on his knees. “A very wise woman, your Emma.”
The smile faded on Sean’s face. “She’s not my Emma,” he whispered.
Sobriety settled on Father Mac’s features. “No, Sean, she’s not. You can’t have her, but you can have God’s forgiveness, his peace, and his blessing for the path ahead, the path that he has specifically ordained for you. And therein . . . joy, from a God who loves you more than any human being ever could.”
Sean’s eyelids drifted closed, Emma’s words whispering soft in his mind. “He is the lover of my soul, and to him, I will always be beautiful.”
The lover of my soul. God, not Emma.
He drew in a cleansing breath and for the first time in his life, he surrendered all to a God, who up till now, he’d only given lip service at mass and mealtime grace. Surrender all—the sin, the guilt, the rage—and the love of his life. He released a sigh that expelled all the ugliness he’d carried inside for most of his life. “Thanks, Mac, I needed to hear that.”
“Ready to take it to the cross?”
Sean nodded and bowed his head, heart fervent as Father Mac led him to total surrender, repentance, and the clean heart for which he’d waited a lifetime.
When they finished, Sean rose to his feet, a different man than when he sat down. He extended his hand. “Thanks, Mac, for saving my life.”
Father Mac stood, respect and affection warm in his eyes. He shook Sean’s hand, then slapped him on the back. “I didn’t save your life, Sean, the Savior did. I just reminded you.”
Sean nodded. He paused, glancing up beneath leaden lids. “Pray for me, will you, Mac? I’m going to need all the strength I can get.”
Father Mac smiled. “You have it, my friend. Keep in mind that the Bible says God will strengthen you to break a bow of steel.”
Sean’s lips pulled into a faint smile. “Steel, huh? Well, that could definitely come in handy.” He pushed his chair in and carried his glass to the sink, painfully aware he was about to embark on a new life. A life without Dennehy’s . . . without Emma . . . and without the only true love he had ever really known. He bent over the sink, the reality stabbing so hard, that he gripped the counter. God, help me to do what I have to do. Sucking in a harsh breath, he finally turned to face Mac, desperate to reclaim that casual humor that always carried him through. He eased his hands in his pockets and attempted a pitiful smile. “Destined to a life of pain as a bachelor after all,” he said, exhaling slowly as he arched a brow. “Oh, well . . . so much for happiness.”
No one—not those abundantly blessed or those who are not—can ever truly be happy apart from him. The memory of Emma’s words imparted a sudden sense of peace like nothing Sean had ever felt or seen—except in her. A faint smile edged his lips at the irony that the woman who’d uttered that thought would be the very one who would teach him its lesson.
Father Mac rose, anchoring Sean’s shoulder with a steady hand. “You gonna be all right?”
Sean exhaled, giving his friend a firm handshake. “Yeah, Mac, I think so.” He walked to the door and opened it to the chill of the night. Cool air blew in, infusing him with a tranquility he didn’t quite understand, and he turned, eyes moist with surprise and more than a little hope.
“Yeah, I’m going to be okay,” he whispered, feeling the presence of God like he had never felt it before. He smiled. “And probably for the first time in my life.”
17
“. . . happy birthday, dear Charity, happy birthday to you!”
Squeezing her eyes shut, Charity made a wish and blew out the thirty-two candles on her cake with all the bluster of a nor’easter, determined that not a flame would be left burning. She opened her eyes to see smoke curling in the air, and a smug smile eased across her lips. T
ake that, Mitch Dennehy, she thought with a lift of her chin.
“Hey!” Gabe said with a swipe of her face. “Blow it out, not spray it out.”
Collin chuckled and tickled Gabe’s neck, causing the ten-year-old to scrunch her shoulders with a giggle. “Come on, Gabe, plain old wind wouldn’t have done it on that cake, and you know it. It had so many candles blazing I thought I was going to have heatstroke.”
“Yeah, you’re right—look at me!” She held out a skinny arm marred with scrapes and smudges from arm wrestling with Henry in the dirt. “Pert near fried the hair clean off!”
Charity peered, first at Collin and then at Gabe, her smile as thin as her gaze. “You two are a regular Laurel and Hardy, you know that?” She aimed a smirk in Collin’s direction. “But don’t give up your day job, Ollie. And you,” she said with a tweak of Gabe’s hair, “aren’t you supposed to be in charge of cupcakes in the kitchen? So scoot, and remember it’s chocolate, so Henry’s limit is two. If he gives you any trouble, you have my permission to use force.”
“Wow, really?” Gabe whooped, disappearing faster than the flames on Charity’s candles.
“If it helps, sis, you don’t look a day over twenty-two,” Sean offered with a grin.
“Mmm . . . doesn’t the Bible say a day is as a thousand years?” Faith asked with an innocent blink of her eyes.
Charity shot her a narrow look. “Et tu, Brute?”
“You know, I think you may be right,” Katie agreed, her flutter of lashes equally angelic. “But there’s no way Charity looks anywhere near over a thousand years.” Her lips squirmed. “Although I do believe there were enough candles blazing to rival the second coming.”
Chuckles rounded the table as Marcy hooked Charity in a hug. “Ignore, them, darling, you’re more lovely at thirty-two than you were at twenty-two, if that’s even possible. Right, Mitch?”
Charity’s smile stiffened as she glanced up at her husband who sat at the other end of the table next to her father with a glass of ginger ale in his hand. The only way he could get any farther away was to sit with the babies in the kitchen. Her mouth crooked up. Where he belongs.
His gaze met hers with a smile as starched as her own. “If we’re talking physical beauty, Marcy, then yes.” He held his ginger ale aloft while his lips veered into a one-sided smile. “If we’re talking inner beauty—common sense, wisdom, maturity—then I plead the fifth.”
“Uh-oh, you been giving your husband grief again?” Collin asked, handing Charity the knife.
Luke tweaked Katie’s bob. “Hope so. Hate to be the only husband on the receiving end.”
“I beg your pardon, McGee, and just where are you planning on sleeping tonight?” Katie asked with a hike of her brow.
He grinned and nuzzled her neck before she had time to wiggle away. “Right next to you, Katie Rose, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.”
Tongue in cheek, Charity sliced into the chocolate cake, head cocked in Mitch’s direction with a smile as sweet as fudge frosting, her dry wit getting the best of her. “Yes, and where will you be sleeping this evening, darling? Rumor has it that the sofa in the study is quite comfortable.”
She regretted it the moment it left her tongue, guilt pricking when Mitch’s jaw began to grind, a perfect complement to the ruddy haze creeping up his neck. Covering with a stiff smile, his eyes all but singed her—and, unfortunately, her temper as well. Fresh hurt stabbed as sharp as the knife in her hand. It’s my birthday, Dennehy—you can’t let your anger go for one night?
“Ah, conjugal bliss,” Patrick intervened, leveling a kiss of his own to Marcy’s cheek. “Nothing quite like it, eh, Marceline . . . unless it’s your chocolate cake.” He nodded toward the two 9 x 13 cake pans sitting in front of Charity. “Faith, I suggest you help your sister cut the cake before conjugal bliss is severely threatened.”
Masking her hurt, Charity flashed a stubborn smile and plopped a pitiful piece on a plate with a splat, icing down. “No need, Father,” she said, her embarrassment over Mitch’s rejection in front of her family taking its toll, “I’m perfectly capable of cutting both my cake—and my husband—down to size.” She speared a fork into the broken piece of cake and handed it to Faith to pass down, then arched a manicured brow, stomach roiling. “This one’s for you, darling.”
“So, what did Mitch give you for your birthday?” Lizzie asked, her face all aglow.
“A hard time, apparently,” Charity said, sucking a glob of stray frosting from her finger, Mitch’s obvious lack of a gift heaping more salt on a wound that was already pretty raw. She drew in a cleansing breath, determined to do this God’s way, not hers, no matter how hateful Mitch treated her. With a silent prayer for forgiveness, she handed off pieces to everyone, then nodded at Emma in an effort to steer the conversation clear of Mitch’s snub of her birthday. “But Emma stitched me the most beautiful friendship sampler you ever saw, and Hope wrote me a poem that made me cry.”
“And what did Henry give you?” Steven wanted to know, a lazy smile spanning his lips.
Charity lifted her chin, two palms crossed to her chest and eyes closed in ecstasy. “Oh, Henry’s gift made me cry too—a beautiful card pledging not to sass for a week.”
“Sounds like that could cause the boy some pain.” Brady smiled as he tackled his cake.”
Luke grinned. “Yeah, pain as in watching Collin with a basketball in his hand.”
Collin chuckled. “Or you vowing to rein Katie in,” he said with a flash of teeth.
Katie spun around. “You said that?”
Tucking an arm to her waist, Luke attempted to disarm her with a kiss. “Come on, Katie, that’s just Collin shooting his mouth off.”
Collin bolted down the last of his cake and cut another piece. “After you shot yours off, you mean.” He dropped a hefty piece on his plate. “I’d get the couch made up, Luke my boy, if I were you—I think you’re going to need it. More cake, anybody?”
“More over here, unless the birthday girl wants it first,” Sean said, deferring to Charity.
“Nope, I’m done. How about you, Emma?”
Emma shook her head. “Couldn’t eat another bite, but I concur with your husband, Mrs. O’Connor, the cake is wonderful.”
“Why, thank you, Emma,” Marcy said, hopping up to pour more coffee. “I take that as the ultimate compliment since Sean says you’re one of the best cooks around.”
A blush tinted Emma’s face as she rose with her dirty plate. “Yes, well your son is Irish, Mrs. O’Connor, so he’s not above spinning tales, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, so Irish men are not to be believed, is that what you’re saying, Mrs. Malloy?” Sean sent her a smile that launched another tinge of rose to her cheeks.
“I think Emma is just stating the obvious,” Charity said with an angled smile, “so if I were you, I wouldn’t ask for a show of hands.”
Faith popped up. “All right, enough of this chitchat—it’s time to get serious. Who’s up for a game of Blitz or Rummy? Charity’s choice.”
“Oh, I wish I could,” Charity said with a yawn, “but I didn’t sleep well last night, so I’m afraid I’m going to call it a night.”
“But it’s your birthday,” Faith said with a scrunch of brows. “It won’t be any fun without the birthday girl.”
“Sure it will,” Steven said with a wink.
Charity rubbed her temple with a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry, but I actually don’t feel all that well, either—must be a headache coming on.” She reached for the cake pans to carry them to the kitchen. “Mother, dinner was wonderful—thank you for having everyone over.”
Marcy huffed and snatched the cake pans from Charity’s hands. “You are not helping to clear the table or do dishes on your birthday, for heaven’s sake. And I’d hardly call chili dinner, Charity, but you’re very welcome. I just wish it could be more.”
“Chili’s one of my favorites, and you know it. Especially with corn bread and honey butter. Besides,
you keeping Henry and Hope overnight is a godsend in itself because I’m exhausted.” She bent to give her mother a kiss. “Love you.”
“Love you too, dear, and we’re thrilled to have the cousins tonight, aren’t we, Patrick?”
“‘Thrilled’ might be a tad over the top, darlin’, but yes, we’re more than happy to host a pajama party for the children. Especially since Steven promised to join them in the fort he plans to build on the sunporch. We are thrilled, however, to give our children and their spouses a night alone.” Patrick stood and gave Mitch a pat on the back. “May they utilize it wisely.”
Charity’s smile faded as she assessed color rising up her husband’s throat once again. A night alone. Her heart twisted. “Alone” being the operative word.
“I’m sorry I won’t be able to help with the dishes, Mrs. O’Connor,” Emma said as she rose to her feet, “or play cards with the rest of you.”
“Oh no you don’t,” Charity said, “you’re staying. Sean’ll bring you home, won’t you, Sean?” She bit back a smile at the sight of Sean and Emma, a matched set with pink hazing their cheeks.
“Uh, sure, I’ll be happy to drive her home,” Sean said, recovering quickly.
“No, really—I don’t want to be a bother.” Emma appeared flustered.
“You could never be a bother, Emma,” Sean whispered. “I insist.”
“Then it’s settled.” Charity glanced up at Mitch, fully aware of the firm set of his jaw. “You don’t mind taking me home, do you, Mitch? You can always come back if you like.”
His eyes bore into hers as he pushed his chair in. “No, little girl, I’m pretty tired myself.” He headed toward the kitchen to say good night to the kids, and Charity silently followed, her mood in stark contrast to the busy chatter of sisters clearing the table and cousins painting pictures with chocolate frosting. When they returned to the foyer, Mitch shook hands with Patrick and gave Marcy a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for taking the kids tonight. I can’t remember the last time I slept in on a Saturday morning.”
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