“I forgave you a long time ago, Rory, I told you that in the note that I left.”
“Yes, you did, but I needed to tell you—in person—just how much I regret what I did.”
She heard Sean’s blast of frustration, and it re-steeled her guard. Her chin leveled up. “What exactly do you want?” she asked quietly, her nerves raw.
His gaze flicked up to Sean with the same hardness she’d known in the past and then softened when it returned to her once again. “That’s an easy one, Emmy, I want you—”
A curse hissed as Sean lunged up from the sill. “Why, you sorry excuse for a man—”
“Sean!” Emma jolted to her feet, blocking his path with a trembling palm to his chest. Her eyes pleaded as her voice dropped to a whisper. “You promised.”
“I promised I wouldn’t touch the other lowlife, not this one.” His eyes, usually so rational and calm, now burned with the same crazed look she’d seen that day at Kearney’s. He gripped her arms. “You’re not swallowing this, are you, Emma? The man’s a God-forsaken liar!”
“He’s right, of course,” Rory countered, “on two scores, at least—I am a sorry excuse for a man and I was a liar . . .” He stood, his voice grew gruff with emotion. “But one thing has changed, Emmy—I’m no longer forsaken by God.”
She peered over her shoulder, his words stilling the air in her throat.
“Get out—now!” Sean pushed her aside and rounded the desk with blood in his eyes.
“Stop!” Emma threw herself between the two men, hands clutched white on Sean’s arms. “If you can’t contain your anger, then I must ask you to leave.”
He strained forward against her hold, his words clenched and spewing venom. “I’m not leaving you alone with this monster . . .”
Her quiet response might have been a slap, given his flinch. “Then don’t force me to make you,” she whispered. “His ring is on my finger, Sean,” she said quietly, speaking words that stabbed at both of their souls. “And truth be told . . . he has as much right here as you.”
His sharp intake of breath pierced her before he finally backed away, his temple throbbing with cool rage. Without another word he moved to stare out the window, his stance as stiff as the muscles ridging his back.
Emma released a fragile breath and turned, her stomach swooping at the nearness of a man who had once weakened her knees . . . and her nerve. Even after eleven years, the scent of him affected her still, swamping her emotions with memories of both love and hate. The faint whiff of licorice from the Sen-Sen he chewed merged with the clean, carbolic smell of Lifebouy soap, taking her back to both the best and the worst times of her life. She quickly backed away to distance herself behind her desk once again, wondering why she wanted to believe he’d changed after all this time.
Gaze locked with his, she slowly lowered into her seat, her voice calmer than she felt. “What do you mean,” she repeated, “that you’re no longer forsaken by God?”
He returned to his chair with a slow exhale, threading blunt fingers through a riot of black curls she’d always envisioned on a son. His gaze faltered, averting to the front of her desk with a faraway stare and a monotone voice. “I wrote you that I got hurt at the factory, Em, and it ruined me. Couldn’t work for months and my lady friend and I . . . ,” he glanced up, and she could see the shame pooling in his eyes, “well, we fought like the devil, we did. Sure, I always tipped the brew, but never like then with so much idle time on my hands and no money coming in. Never once did I dream things could get any worse, but they did.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he absently twisted the brim of his hat. “We . . . we lost a child, you see . . . a three-year-old son . . .” With an abrupt swipe of his arm, he wiped the moisture from his eyes. “Sure, I could have spit ’im out of my mouth, so much was the little beggar like me—curls as black as night and blue eyes clearer than a Donegal morn.”
He looked up then, a father in pain. “Except Aidan was good, Emmy, the only good thing I’ve ever done, and he loved me, wanted to be just like me, following in my steps every chance he could take.” A harsh laugh erupted from his throat as more tears welled in his eyes. “And he did . . . right down to finishing my bottle the night I’d passed out.” He steadied himself with a harsh intake of air, his gaze seeking Emma’s once again. “I as good as killed ’im, Emmy, the one night his loving da was to watch ’im while his mam was out—poisoned by the same brew that poisoned the love between you and me.”
“No! Oh, Rory . . . I’m so sorry . . .”
“As well I knew you’d be,” he said, his voice tender, “because that’s the kind of woman you are—kind, deep, and full of sorrow over the likes of a wretch like me.” He drew in a harsh breath and closed his eyes. “After Aidan . . . I couldn’t live with myself, you know . . .” A choked laugh broke from his throat. “Nor could Aidan’s mam, for that matter. So I did the only thing I could do, the same thing you did when I hurt you—I turned to God.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and he opened his eyes, both joy and fear fusing the words to her tongue.
His gaze slipped to the ring on her hand. “I’ve given up the drink, Emmy, and I want to make amends if you’ll let me. It’s my ring on your finger, Love, and my cruelty on your face—give me a chance to make it right, to give you the marriage God wants us to have.”
Slamming his fist to the wall, Sean jumped up with a curse. “You beat her and cheat on her, then think you can waltz in here and pick up where you left off? After eleven years?”
“No . . . I don’t think that!” Rory said, the tight strain in his voice indicating his struggle to remain calm. “No woman alive would even consider taking me back, and I know that all too well. But from your ardent defense, I suspect you already know—there’s no woman alive like Emma.”
Sean pulled her to her feet and gripped her arms, his tone frantic. “Emma, don’t trust him—he’s a devil, and he ruined your life. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“That’s true,” Rory said, the desperation in his voice battling with Sean’s. “No more than I deserve the forgiveness of God . . . and yet, I have it.”
She stared from the man who’d given her his name to the man who’d given her his heart, and felt the air bleed from her lungs as surely as the hope that now bled from her soul. Fingers numb, she caressed the hand still clutched to her arm while her gaze caressed his face. “Sean, would you mind . . . walking me home now? I need time to think . . . and to pray.”
Without a word, he gently pulled her into his arms and rested his head on hers. She felt the warmth of his hand as he slowly rubbed her back, and when he spoke, his voice held the trace of a threat. “I’m not going to let him do this to you, Emma.”
“I believe the choice is hers.” Rory’s quiet voice rose to the challenge.
“Get out of here!” Sean hissed, his body suddenly stiff.
Emma squeezed his hand and pulled away. “Rory, where are you staying?”
He rose to his feet, hat in hand. “A boardinghouse down by the pier, The Allen House. I dropped my bags off this afternoon when I arrived.”
She nodded and raised her chin, assessing him through cool eyes. “Don’t come to the store again, do you hear? I’ll give it some thought and then contact you so we can talk. Agreed?”
“You can’t be serious . . .” Sean’s voice was an angry rasp.
“Agreed?” she repeated, her tone sharper this time.
Rory gave a short nod, his gaze crystallizing to ice as it shifted to Sean.
“You wanted to see us, Miss Emma?” Horace and James stood at the door, concern ridging their brows.
“Yes, thank you, Horace, James. Sorry to detain you, but would you please escort Mr.—” she paused, swallowing the embarrassment coating her throat—“this . . . gentleman out?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Horace gave Rory a polite nod and extended his hand. “Sir?”
“Thank you,” Rory said. Offering Emma a half bow, his eyes lingered as if he were reluctant to lea
ve. “I appreciate your consideration of my proposal, Mrs. Malloy, and look forward to discussing it further.” With a faint nod, he followed James and Horace out the door.
Emma didn’t breathe until she heard the click of the outer lock, and when she did, she dropped her head in her hand.
“Tell me you’re not considering this.” Sean’s voice was no more than a hiss.
A reedy sigh withered on her lips. “I don’t know what I’m considering,” she whispered.
He braced her arms firmly, his voice a hoarse plea. “Consider the truth, Emma—the man was a drunken monster who cheated on you, beat you, and scarred you for life. Do you really believe someone with that many sins can change overnight?”
She looked up then, heart writhing as tears blurred in her eyes. Her hand trembled when she stroked his face with her fingers, desperate to make him understand just how much God had changed her life for the better.
“Oh, Sean,” she whispered, her own past searing her brain as it had every day since. “The truth is . . . if I didn’t believe that, I would have had no hope at all.”
“Sean!”
He turned to see Charity’s silhouette in her open front door. The backlight of the parlor masked her face in shadows, but he could hear the alarm in her tone all the same. Wrestling on a coat, she shut the glass door behind her before skittering down the brick walkway, puffs of labored breathing drifting skyward with every step she took. She halted several houses away from where he stood, her chest pumping vigorously. He drew in a frigid breath, a headache now throbbing in his brain, and steeled himself for what he knew was about to come.
“What’s wrong with Emma?” she sputtered, her breathing as ragged as his nerves.
“She’s just tired.”
“No, ‘tired’ is several yawns over a cup of chamomile tea and ‘how was your day?’ Not bolting up the stairs with ‘good night, I’m going to bed.’” She squinted at her wristwatch in the dim light of the street lamp. “And at seven o’clock, no less.” Arms folded, she stared him down. “Don’t pull a lip-lock on me, Sean O’Connor, this is me you’re dealing with here.”
He huffed out a sigh that rolled into the cool night air with the same force that his sister was rolling over him, and he silently berated himself for not hightailing it the moment Emma had shut the door. “She’s just upset, okay? And that’s all I can say.” He turned to go.
A hand clamped on his arm with all the force of a six-inch steel band. “Oh no you don’t, you’re not going anywhere until you tell me why my best friend just vaulted up my staircase faster than Henry when I need help with the dishes.” She folded her arms, her tone suddenly softer. “Is it because this was your last day?”
He studied her with weary eyes, wondering if God would consider it a lie if he just said yes. After all, there had been a certain edginess, a malaise in Emma at his farewell party. Kneading the bridge of his nose, he wished he’d never promised his silence because when it came to the truth, Charity could sniff it out like a bloodhound, twitching until she was nose-to-nose.
Like now.
She tapped her foot on the leafy pavement. “Something’s up, Sean, I can feel it in my bones, and so help me I will badger you all the way home if you don’t spill it now.”
His frustration blasted out in a cloud of smoke. “I can’t tell you, Charity, I promised.”
“Oh, fiddle, that’s an easy fix. I’ll just ask the questions, and you give me that stone-faced look of yours that will tell me everything I need to know.”
“But that’s not right.”
“Sure it is,” she said, dismissing his concern with a wave of her hand. “I do it with Mitch all the time.” Head cocked, she chewed on her lip. “Okay, it’s something that happened at work, but it has to be personal because Emma’s steady as a rock in all business matters, right?”
He stared, trying not to blink.
“Okay, good, a personal situation at work that involves a person other than you.”
His jaw dropped. “I never said that.”
“Sure you did, when you did that pinching thing with your nose as a stall tactic.”
He crossed his arms to his chest, emotional battlement to ward off the enemy.
“Now . . . let’s see,” she said, finger to her chin. “Somebody upset Emma pretty badly, which means it has to be someone who doesn’t work at the store.”
“Why?” he asked in exasperation, his patience as thin as his energy.
Charity blinked. “Why? Because the woman who bolted up my steps was as pale as death,” she said, enunciating slowly as if explaining something to Henry. “Which means it has to be someone she feels threatened by, and that rules out everyone at Dennehy’s.”
His lips compressed.
She gave him a quick nod and started to pace, head down and arms folded. “Okay, so it has to be an outsider she’s afraid of and probably a man.” She halted midstride, eyes spanning wide. “Wait, it’s not that bum who beat her up, is it? You know, her neighbor’s boyfriend?”
Swallowing his discomfort, he gave her a blank stare, facial muscles relaxing.
She blew out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. For a second there, I was worried.”
“How the devil do you do that?” he said in a choke, lips parted in shock.
She tapped a finger to her head. “Stone face, remember?” Her mouth flattened. “It’s a gift—honed to perfection by Mitch Dennehy.”
“I gotta go—you’re starting to scare me.”
“Wait!” she latched onto his arm again, her manner sobering considerably. “You can’t leave—I need to know. Emma’s like a sister to me.”
“Then you ask her.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried? I could tell something was wrong the minute I heard her tell you goodbye, but she’s even more tight-lipped than you. Said she’s fine, but too tired to talk, then locks me out, just like Henry tried once.”
He sighed. “Then you’re just gonna have to catch her before she leaves for work in the morning, because I gave her my word.” He squeezed her shoulder, suddenly feeling sapped of all energy. “Just pray for her, okay?” he whispered. “Good night, sis.”
“No . . .” His sister’s hoarse whisper halted him dead in his tracks, ten feet away.
He turned.
She looked straight through him, her face cast in stone. “Please . . . tell me it’s not Rory.”
The shiver of her body was apparent, even from a distance. He could only stare, his own grief telling her what she didn’t want to hear. When she didn’t respond, he slowly walked to where she stood and tugged her into his embrace, forgetting his own fatigue to comfort his sister. “Just pray, Charity, okay, and I will too. I can’t say any more, so just see if she’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, nothing,” Charity said with a bite in her tone. “She will talk—and pray—with me tonight.”
He pulled back. “I thought you said she locked you out? Not literally, I guess, huh?”
She gave him a hug. “Yes, literally, as in an annoying click of a bolt. But this situation is far too serious and Emma is far too important to let a puny lock keep me out.” Her chin notched up. “Trust me, you don’t have a son like Henry without a spare key tucked away.”
For the first time all evening, Sean felt a smile pull at his lips. He tweaked her hair. “Tell me, sis, does Mitch have any idea just what he has in you, because you’re pretty special.”
A twinkle lit in her eye. “Thanks, Sean, and yes, I think the man has been educated thoroughly enough, at least for now.” Her smile softened. “Thanks for telling me about Emma.”
He grinned. “I didn’t.”
She patted his cheek. “That’s okay, honey, you keep thinking that. I’m married to you-know-who, remember? I know how important pride is to a man.” Turning to go, she suddenly spun around, eyes narrowed in warning. “But just for future reference? Don’t toy with me, Sean, just spit it right out next time—it will save both of us a lot of precious t
ime. Now go home and get some sleep—you look whipped. And don’t worry—we’re not going to let her do this.”
He nodded, suddenly feeling much lighter at the thought of this woman joining forces with him against Rory Malloy. “Thanks, Charity. You’re a good friend to Emma.”
Her lips quirked. “You may be the only one with that opinion tonight, but such is love.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said with a cuff of his neck. “But she’s worth it.
“That she is,” Charity whispered and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good night, Sean.”
She spun to go and he caught her hand. “Charity, wait.”
With a half turn, she peered up, eyes in a squint. “Yes?”
He stared at the sister who had captured the attention of men all of her life, and felt the muscles thicken in his throat. “Too beautiful for her own good,” he’d once heard Mitch say, and for the first time Sean realized just how true those words had been for this sister, whose natural beauty had wrought so much pain in her life. Unbidden, moisture stung at the memory of a golden-haired, little girl, whose silent pleas screamed from blue eyes swimming with tears over Uncle Paul’s shoulder. Sean’s eyelids weighted closed while a thousand knife points stabbed in his gut. A six-year-old innocent carried upstairs “to be punished” for crimes she’d never committed. Crimes that belonged to her uncle . . . Sean winced as pain slashed within. And the brother who didn’t stop him . . .
“Sean? Are you okay?” Charity lifted on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. “Because Emma is going to be fine—I won’t let anything happen to her, I promise.”
No, you wouldn’t—unlike me . . .
“Sean?”
She waggled the hand still clutched to her own, and he opened his eyes, sorrow a poor salve for the wounds in his soul. “Charity,” he whispered, his voice no more than a rasp, “forgive me, please . . .”
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