A smile bloomed on her beautiful face. “For what? Loving my best friend, because that’s—”
“No—” He stilled her words with a gentle squeeze of her hand. “For not . . . ,” his voice cracked as his words cleaved to his tongue, “saving you from Uncle Paul.”
She blinked several times while his statement billowed away into the frigid night air, and then its impact struck, prompting a harsh shift of her throat and a swift swell of tears. “You were only a boy,” she whispered, her voice as hoarse as his. “How could you know?”
“I . . . sensed something, Charity, something not right, and yet I did nothing.”
“You were nine, Sean,” she emphasized, cupping his face with her palm. “Too young and noble to think such things could happen. You were the big brother I looked up to, the good boy I admired.” Her lips crooked into a wry smile. “Unlike Faith who was the good girl that got on my nerves.”
“But I should have done something, anything, followed my instincts . . .”
She cocked her head, blue eyes wide with surprise. “But you did, don’t you remember?” Another sheen of tears invaded her eyes. “You offered to go in my place, to be punished instead of me, but Uncle Paul refused.” She clasped his arms, her words clogging his throat with painful emotion. “You were always doing that, Sean—for all us—protecting us, taking up for us, binding our wounds whenever one of us got hurt. Don’t you remember?”
He shook his head, his guilt obliterating all rational view.
“Well, you did,” she said with a quick pat of his cheek. “The consummate big brother, always bleeding for the wounded.” The smile faded on her face as sorrow welled in her eyes. “Which is why you’re so good for Emma. If ever a wounded soul walked the earth, it’s Emma Malloy, and she needs you, Sean—both of us—now, more than ever.”
“I know,” he said quietly, the gloom of Emma’s situation shrouding his soul. A nerve pulsed in his jaw while his fingers twitched for revenge. “I’d give anything to rid the world of vermin like Uncle Paul and Rory Malloy.”
Drawing in a deep breath, she huffed it out again, clouds of vapor as thin and elusive as his quest for justice. “We both know that’s not going to happen. But . . . we can rid ourselves of the pain of their memory, and it was Emma Malloy herself and Mitch, surprisingly enough, who taught me how.”
He looked up, his liberty glimmering in the love he saw in her eyes.
“I’ve already forgiven you long ago, Sean, along with Father and Faith, although none of you bore any responsibility for what happened to me. Ironically, it was the pain of Uncle Paul’s actions that taught me the most important lesson I have ever learned.” Her lip quivered before she hiked her chin in that beautiful obstinance he’d come to know and love. The barest of smiles flickered at the edges of her mouth, reminding him so much of Emma. “And that, my dear brother, is that forgiveness is really just another word for freedom.”
“No one escapes being hurt in this life, Sean, because unfortunately, we live in a fallen world. But please believe me when I say . . . there’s a great gift in pain.”
He blinked, Emma’s words haunting his memory.
“So let it all go, Sean, all the bitterness for Rory and Uncle Paul and yes,” she said with a slight curve of a smile, “even Herman Finkel. Do it—for me, for Emma, and especially for yourself.” She gave him a playful tap on the cheek. “Because we love you, you big lug, you know that?”
He swallowed hard, thinking of Emma once again. “I know,” he whispered.
Latching onto his arm, she prodded him around, bullying him like she did with Henry. “Now, shoo—go home and get some rest because I can’t handle this woman alone, and I need you in top form. She’ll talk to me tonight or else, trust me. I’m as diabolical as Henry when it comes to getting my way.”
He sucked in a crisp, clean draw of air, welcoming the energy it infused into his body before releasing it again in a purge of spirit that was long overdue. “I know,” he said with a tug of his sister’s hair. With a slant of a smile over his shoulder, he ambled away with a heart much lighter knowing Charity was involved. “Thanks, sis, for everything.” His smile broke into a grin. “And all I can say is . . . God help Emma Malloy.”
———
“That’s the plan,” Charity called, hand to her mouth. She watched and waited until her brother rounded the corner despite the fact that she was chilled to the bone. Turning, she finally headed for home, shoulders slumped and heart heavy at the cost love had extracted from her brother. He was such a good man . . . and Emma was such a good woman . . . and they loved each other. Couldn’t God see that? She sighed. In the past, this would have been one of those times when she would have railed at the heavens, shaking her fist in the air at his obvious disregard for two people who loved him.
And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.
“Yes, God, I know,” she whispered, thinking of her brother’s weary form as it faded into the shadows. “I’ve certainly experienced it firsthand more times than I can count since I’ve given my heart to you, so I know you have good things in store for both of them.” She bundled her coat with a shiver. “I just wish it was with each other and not—” Head down, she made her way down her brick walkway, plans forming with every step she took. A familiar resolve hardened in her bones as she opened the front door. “Not him, Lord, please,” she whispered. “Alone for the rest of her life, maybe, but not a life with him . . . please.”
“Where’d you go?” Mitch asked when she returned. He peered over the Boston Herald sprawled open before him. “Henry’s in a sulk because I made him help Hope with the dishes.”
She stared at her husband—wire rims perched on his nose and concern etched in his handsome face—and gratitude welled as tears pricked at her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked abruptly, the paper now relegated to his lap.
Fighting the trembling of her lip, Charity moved to where he sat every night, his cordovan easy chair shaped and molded to his large frame as comfortably as the two of them in ten years of marriage. She sat on the wide arm and leaned against him, craving the security of his hold as he tugged her close.
“What’s wrong, little girl?” he repeated softly, pressing a kiss to her temple.
She closed her eyes, allowing his warmth and the familiar scent of Bay Rum to soothe and settle her nerves. “It’s Emma,” she whispered with a faint shiver. “Rory’s back.”
“What?” He shifted, his sharp tone matching the furrows in his brow. “Here? In Boston?”
“Apparently,” she said with a wavering sigh. “Came to the store today, or so Sean said.”
“But why?”
“Sean wouldn’t say, but I think I know. Emma’s been receiving letters from him for the last few months or so.” Her tongue swiped her teeth in nervous habit. “He wants her back.”
Stormy blue eyes pierced through her, accompanied by a grunt. “Well, he can’t have her, and that’s that.” One blond brow shot up. “She’s not actually considering it, is she?”
Her gaze trailed into a hard stare, well aware that allegiance was one of Emma’s most honorable traits . . . and deadliest. At least when it came to Rory Malloy. “I think she is, Mitch, or at least that’s what she indicated when I confronted her about the letters. But I’d hoped I’d talked her out of it.” Charity’s jaw tightened. “Until this.”
“But why would she even entertain such a cockeyed notion? The woman’s more intelligent than most people I know, but this is just plain stupid.”
Charity exhaled her frustration. “I know, but when it comes to Rory, Emma’s thinking has always been a little skewed, and I don’t know why. It’s like he has a hold on her. I swear, Mitch, it’s downright demonic.”
“He’s demonic,” Mitch said with a grind of his jaw. “When are you going to talk to her?”
“Now.” Charity lumbered up, lips awry. “Despite the
fact she so rudely locked her door.”
His mouth tipped. “Can’t be too smart if she thinks she can keep you out. Need help?”
She squeezed his hand. “Yes—say one that she listens to reason.”
“How can she not?” His lips swerved. “Coming from one who so seldom resorts to it?”
“You’re lucky you’re so cute, you know that?” She bent to give him a quick kiss. “Or I would have dumped you and your biting wit a long time ago.”
He gave her a droll smile. “Yeah, lucky me.”
“Wish me luck,” she said with a square of her shoulders, then drew in a deep breath as she took the stairs two at a time. Entering her bedroom, she made her way to the bureau where she unearthed the spare key from beneath a mountain of negligees, knowing full well Henry would have never looked for it there. She tiptoed toward Emma’s room and pressed her ear to the door. Her stomach clenched at the sound of muffled weeping, and with a clamp of her jaw, she inserted the key in the lock and opened the door.
“Charity, what on earth . . . ?” Emma sat up on her bed, face swollen and dress rumpled.
She strolled in and quietly closed the door, forcing a smile. “Oh, just using one of my many God-given talents, Emma—I’m prying.”
Most people saw Emma Malloy as sweet and compliant, and they’d be right much of the time. But Charity knew better when it came to Rory Malloy, as evident in the slit of Emma’s eyes and the square of her jaw. “I’m asking you politely, Charity—leave me alone.”
“Or what?” Charity folded her arms, incensed that Emma was closing her out.
Dangerously calm, Emma rose to her feet, gray eyes as hard as granite and arms stiff at her sides. “I’ll leave,” she whispered, the threat borne out in the thrust of her chin.
“What? To run back to Rory?”
Her features flinched before she strode to the closet to pull out a valise. Hurling it on the bed, she turned, fists clenched. “Sean promised!” Her lips curled in a sneer Charity had never seen. “But, I just bet you twisted it out of him, didn’t you? In your usual meddling way.”
The barb hurt, but Charity let it pass. “Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. And don’t blame it on Sean—the man never said a word about anything. I just asked questions, and his face gave him dead away.” She hiked her chin, jaw to jaw with the woman more stubborn than most people knew. “If you must, take issue with God for giving me a sixth sense about people I love.”
Emma looked away, a sheen of moisture in her eyes. “Don’t, Charity, please. I will not talk about this right now.”
With a soft exhale, Charity moved forward, tugging her to sit down on the bed. Bracing Emma’s shoulders with one hand, she buffed her friend’s arm with the other, resting her head against hers. “Okay, you win. No talking tonight—just prayer, all right?”
With an abrupt heave, Emma dropped her head in her hand and began to weep.
Hurt stabbed in Charity’s chest as she bundled her in her arms, moisture welling beneath her own lids. “It’s okay,” she soothed. “God has never failed us before, Emma, and he won’t fail us now.”
Emma continued to weep, but with every wrenching heave, faith rose in Charity’s soul, instilling hope where there seemed to be none.
I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.
And in a steady voice that held the firm assurance of a faith tried and true, Charity began to pray. For Emma, for Sean . . . and for the miracle they so desperately needed.
19
So, how are . . . things?” Marcy looked up from her sewing, the same pinch in her face that Charity felt in her gut every time someone asked about Emma. She shivered despite the cozy warmth of her mother’s kitchen where her sisters huddled at the mahogany table while beef stew bubbled on the stove. The aroma of meat and vegetables mingled with the mouthwatering smell of fresh-baked bread and hot apple pie, providing a cozy contrast to enormous snowflakes that fluttered outside of Marcy’s ice-frosted windows. The shrieks and laughter of children building snowmen in the backyard seemed a surreal backdrop to the sober conversation about to ensue.
Charity bit her thread in two . . . just like she wished she could do with Rory. “Not good, Mother. Emma’s making noises like she’s actually considering going back after the first of the year.”
“With him?” Katie asked, brows climbing clear to her bangs.
Charity’s lip twisted. “Yeah, Happy New Year one and all. He’s been ‘courting’ her, you know, pouring on the charm like nobody’s business.”
“She’s been seeing him a lot, then?” Marcy frowned as she threaded a needle.
“Two to three times a week,” Charity said with a scowl. “It’s downright nauseating.”
“They’re not . . . intimate, are they?” Faith asked, worry lacing her tone.
“I don’t think so,” Charity said, “although I wouldn’t put anything past Rory Malloy. Charm is his greatest asset, you know . . . right after manipulation.”
Lizzie bit her lip. “Emma says he’s changed,” she whispered. “Maybe he has.”
Charity blustered out a noisy sigh. “Yeah, maybe. All I know is that he’s put on quite a show for Emma—going to church with her, helping Mrs. Peep with things around the apartments, cleaning Emma’s flat, cooking her dinner . . .” Her mouth kinked to the side. “Sweet saints, if Mitch did that for me, I’d think he was seeing another woman.”
“Not everybody is as suspicious as you,” Faith said with a sliver of a smile.
Charity shot her a narrow gaze, a healthy touch of tease in her tone. “No, only you and me, apparently, judging from your reaction that time Collin hired Evelyn.” Her mouth swagged into a droll smile. “Who would have thought—you and me, two peas in a pod?”
Faith chuckled as she basted a hem. “Yes, but I don’t recall any hair pulling with me.”
“No there wasn’t,” Charity said with a sigh. She sagged back in her chair, closing her eyes to massage her temple. “But there’s plenty now with Emma—and it’s all mine.”
The teakettle began to squeal, and Katie jumped up. “Has this Rory found a job yet?” she asked, proceeding to pour more water into each of their cups.
“No, although he claims to be looking while he’s living at Emma’s, and Mrs. Peep says he’s gone out every day. But times are hard for the most educated of men, and the only experience Rory has is at the Guinness Brewery in Dublin.” She grunted in the grand fashion of her husband. “Although I suspect he drank more than he brewed.”
“You really hate him, don’t you?” Faith said quietly.
Charity glanced up, shocked at the fury that rose in her throat. “I hate anybody who would lay a cruel hand to someone I love.” She drew in a jagged breath and released it again, hand to her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know that’s wrong, and I try to pray for him, really I do, but if you could have seen what he did to her, over and over . . . Besides,” she said with a sniff, “Emma says he’s been talking a lot about Killarney, where Emma’s family lived, and I can’t help but worry . . .” She swallowed hard, reluctant to even utter the words. “You know, that he’ll take her away.”
“Would that be so bad,” Faith whispered, gaze gentle, “if he made her happy for once?”
“If he made her happy, no,” Charity said in a bitter tone, “but if he abuses her and lives off the sweat of her brow and drinks all of her profits again . . .”
“Emma says he doesn’t drink anymore.” Marcy’s whisper was tentative.
A harsh laugh broke from Charity’s lips. “If you can believe him.”
“But wouldn’t Emma know?” Lizzie asked, eyes wide as she restitched a felt flower to a burgundy cloche. “I mean, she’s seeing him quite a bit, right? For dinner and visiting at her apartment? I would think if Rory were drinking, Emma would know.”
“Yes, one would think that,” Charity said in a huff. “But this is Emma—the woman who turns a blind eye to Rory Malloy. Besides, I’m sure in Emma’s own misguided view, she believ
es she’s doing the right thing for Se—” She stopped, realizing her near slip had earned curious looks from her mother and sisters.
“The right thing for whom?” Katie said, needle halted midair.
Charity quickly held up a blouse, blocking her sister’s view to squint at the alignment of buttons she’d just sewn. “Herself, of course, and Rory.”
The blouse buckled when Katie slapped it down in the middle. “The right thing for whom?” she repeated, eyes narrowing. “You weren’t talking about Emma or Rory, were you? Nor you and Mitch, for that matter, because why would Emma leaving be good for any of you?”
For once Charity was speechless, her heart stilled by the killer instinct in Katie’s eyes.
Katie folded her arms, a prosecutor badgering a witness. “So . . . just whom exactly would Emma be doing the right thing for? And while we’re at it, suppose you explain why Sean has left a job he loves so he can, quote, ‘pursue other interests.’ And at Christmas, no less, when Emma is likely to need him even more?” She pressed both palms on the table and leaned in, gaze locked on her sister’s. “Tell me that, Charity, huh? Especially when he has no other job in sight?”
Charity blinked, taken aback by Katie’s affront. Staring hard, she wondered for the first time if she should reveal Sean and Emma’s secret, even though she’d never promised either of them that she wouldn’t. But like her, they’d just assumed discretion, and yet perhaps her family had a right to know the heartache her brother and best friend had endured. Certainly Sean and Emma needed all the prayers they could get, and none were more diligent at prayer than the women at this table. She slumped back in her chair, eyes scanning the faces of her family. “All right, I’ll tell you, but only if you promise not to let Sean or Emma know.”
Katie’s silent nod matched that of the others.
Charity sighed. “Neither Emma nor Sean meant for this to happen, but it seems they’ve . . . ,” she paused, realizing once again the full extent of the tragedy at hand, “fallen in love.”
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