A Heart Revealed

by Julie Lessman

  Katie sank back in her chair, her voice stricken. “Oh, I just knew it,” she whispered.

  “Me too,” Faith admitted quietly, her face pale with concern.

  “Oh, no,” Marcy whispered. “He’s not been himself, but I just assumed he missed Dennehy’s.” She looked up, pain etched in her brow. “How are they? You know, emotionally?”

  Charity hunched her shoulders. “Well, Sean’s sick about it, of course, but he’s Sean, the one with the perpetual smile and driving need to lift everyone else up—he fakes it. And Emma?” She blew out a weary breath. “She’s dying inside because she’s afraid—afraid to work with Sean, afraid to see him out of a job, afraid that his love for her will cut him off from everything she wants him to have. Trust me, it’s just like her to be thinking that if she left Boston with Rory, Sean could not only come back to Dennehy’s, but he would be free to fall in love with Rose.”

  “What a heartbreak,” Lizzie said with tears in her eyes.

  “Yeah, well, if I’m going to betray their confidence, then I suppose the least we can do is pray about it, right?”

  “Charity?”

  She turned, surprised to see Steven in a suit and tie, arm propped to the kitchen door. “What are you doing here? I thought you were on special assignment this weekend.”

  He nodded, eyes flicking to his mother and sisters before focusing on Charity once again. “I am, but I needed to talk to you.” He shifted uncomfortably in the door. “Got a minute?”

  She blinked, the mended blouse poised in her hand. “Sure.” Setting her sewing down, she glanced at her sisters and mother. “I’ll be right back, and then we can pray.”

  Steven held the door while she strode through, and she nodded toward the parlor. “Father’s taking a nap in the den, so will the parlor do?”

  “Yeah.”

  Adjusting her skirt, she sat on the edge of the sofa, hands to her knees. “Okay, Steven, what’s Henry done this time? And don’t look so dire—he’s only ten, so it can’t be that bad.”

  He straddled the arm of the loveseat, the serious look in his eyes warranting far more than a prank by Henry. Palms to the sofa, she suddenly jerked upright, spine stiff. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not Henry, Charity,” he said with a shift in his throat. “It’s Emma.”

  “Emma?” Her voice was a chilling echo. She shot to her feet, throat constricting. “What about Emma? Is she okay?”

  He drew in a deep breath and released it, his gaze never leaving her face as he held up a hand. “Calm down, Emma’s fine. I just thought you needed to know that I arrested Rory today . . . at a speakeasy on the north side.”

  She sat down once again, eyes drifting closed. Dear God, please . . . not again.

  “I didn’t know it was him,” he continued quietly, “I thought he was just some blowhard who’d had too much to drink. He took a swing at Joe, and I cuffed him. Threw him in a private cell to sleep it off.” He rubbed his head, palm spanning from one temple to the other. “That’s when he started spouting off that he had money and we better treat him with respect. Said his wife inherited a fortune from an aunt that would keep him in clover for a long time to come.”

  Steven looked up then, his face laden with sorrow. “Claimed she had some fancy job running a big store, but that he planned to take her to Killarney to move into a mansion . . .” Steven paused, the words obviously as difficult for him to say as they were for Charity to hear. “Then he laughed . . . and said something I thought was pretty odd.”

  The blood in her body stilled to a crawl. “What?” she whispered.

  He hesitated, eyelids heavy with reluctance. “He said, ‘And this time I’ll make it legal.’”

  Cold seeped through her like ice water slithering in her veins. “He’s lying,” she rasped, the words near choking in her throat.

  “Maybe,” Steven said, “but if they were married, why would he say that?”

  “Because Emma wouldn’t lie!” Charity jolted up again and began to pace, arms clutched to her waist.

  Steven exhaled. “Okay, maybe he is lying, but that doesn’t change the fact he’s drinking again . . . and broke the law.” He peered up. “And maybe not just in Boston.”

  She turned, her body stiff as ice. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s wanted in Dublin, for questioning in the death of a three-year-old boy.”

  She slowly lowered herself to the sofa, too dizzy to stand. “Oh Lord, have mercy.”

  “When I realized he was Emma’s husband, I was so angry I threatened to deport him, and he changed his tune real fast. Begged me not to send him back. Said he’d be leaving for Killarney soon enough. And that’s when I got suspicious. So I wired the authorities in Dublin and sure enough, they’re looking for Rory Malloy.” He huffed out a weary sigh. “Papers have been filed for a deportation hearing, but we can’t hold him ’cause he posted bond.”

  Charity glanced up. “Who in their right mind would post bond for Rory Malloy?”

  Steven’s jaw hardened. “The woman he was with, apparently. Trust me, I wish I could lock the bum up and throw away the key.” Glancing at his watch, he stood and retrieved his hat and coat from the rack in the hall while Charity followed him to the door. He turned, his manner somber. “I gotta get back, but I wanted to let you know. Somebody needs to tell Emma.” Steven sighed and idly fingered the brim of his hat before leaning to give her a kiss on the cheek. He squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, sis, but I’m not sorry about Rory.”

  She nodded, her mind numb. He opened the door.

  “Steven!”

  He turned, and she sucked in a fortifying breath, her desperate gaze locking with his. “Do you . . . do you think he’s telling the truth . . . ?” Pain hitched in her throat. “About the marriage . . . ?”

  He studied her for several seconds, and she held her breath, realizing how deeply his opinion mattered. This was the serious and introspective boy who’d once courted rebellion in college and was now a man bent on the law. Honesty and integrity fairly shimmered in his eyes. “I do,” he whispered. His mouth crooked up, the effect less teasing than sad. “And probably for the first time in his life.” He tipped his hat. “Tell Emma we love her, will you? She doesn’t deserve this. And he definitely doesn’t deserve her.”

  She found herself staring long after the click of Steven’s departure. Emotional paralysis glazed both her eyes and her mind while a kaleidoscope of feelings swirled in her brain. Colorful pieces of jagged glass, capable of producing both beauty and blood in a quest for the truth.

  Emma was free. But she chose to live a lie.

  Charity closed her eyes, the revelation evoking great joy and great pain, leaving her bereft of all answers. Answers that now proved as elusive as the woman she thought she knew, the friend she thought she trusted.

  Sean’s image stirred in her mind—so in love and so in grief—and her heart cramped in her chest. Why would Emma do this? To him? To her? A shiver spanned the length of her spine and she opened her eyes, knowing full well she had no answers. She didn’t know why Emma would deny the man that she loved, and she didn’t know why she would deny herself. But there was one thing Charity did know, and it was as certain as the square of her shoulders on the way to the kitchen.

  She sure in thunder was gonna find out.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” Sean asked his brother, cheeks ruddy and a wet snow shovel under his arm. A few snowflakes still drifted in the air, dusting both his shoulders and the front walk he’d just shoveled that morning, blanketing it with a fine mist of snow that glittered in the sun. “I thought you were on special assignment this weekend.”

  Steven tugged on his gloves and shot his brother a somber smile as he met him at the front gate, his breath swirling up into the blindingly blue sky. “I am, but I ducked out to give Charity a message.” He nodded toward the shovel, lips in a slant. “Giving snow jobs now?”

  Stabbing the shovel into a snowd
rift, Sean grinned and slacked a hip, gloved hand draped over the handle. “Sure. Not working Saturdays anymore gives me more time, so I figured I’d hedge my bets on the state of my soul by shoveling the church parking lot.” The tips of his mouth inched higher. “And Father Mac was so thrilled I cleared the basketball court, I think he was sorely tempted to grant me a plenary indulgence.”

  Steven grinned. “Yeah, the way you trounce the clergy in basketball, I suspect you’re gonna need all the help you can get.” He slapped Sean on the back. “See you later.”

  “Hey, wait—must be a pretty important message if you brought it in person.” Sean squinted. “Everything okay?”

  Hand on the gate handle, Steven paused, a look of introspection in his gaze as if deciding how to respond. With a slump of his shoulders, he exhaled loudly. His blue eyes, already several shades deeper than his brother’s, darkened even further. “No, not really, at least not for Emma.”

  Sean’s skin iced as cold as the snow he’d shoveled all morning. “What do you mean?” he said, his voice almost harsh.

  Lips compressed, Steven hesitated for several moments, then peered up at his brother. “Maybe you better talk to Charity, Sean. It’s not my place to say.”

  The shovel slammed to the ground as Sean took a stride forward, his good humor crashing along with it. “You better say, Steven, because Emma is important to me, and I have a right to know.”

  “Look, Sean, she’s Charity’s friend—it’s her decision to tell you, not mine.”

  Steven matched him in height and muscle, but that didn’t stop Sean from fisting the front of his brother’s wool coat and yanking him up, his tone as grinding as his jaw. “She’s my friend too, Steven, so you best tell me now—what’s wrong with Emma?”

  Steven shoved him away, the fire in his eyes rivaling his brother’s. “What’s wrong with Emma? What’s wrong with you! You’re acting crazy again, like you did at Kearney’s.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, Sean took a step back, desperate to control the fire in his gut. “Look, I’m sorry . . . but Emma means the world to me, and I have a right to know.”

  Venting with a sigh, Steven adjusted his coat while the taut muscles in his face eased into concern. “Look, Sean, I know you care about Emma—we all do. And I’ll tell you, but only if you give me your word you won’t go off half-cocked.”

  Sean felt his jaw stiffen, but he worked hard to keep his expression cool. “Come on, Steven, since when do I go off half-cocked about anything?”

  Assessing him through wary eyes, Steven offered a smile that went flat. “Since I had to pull you off some poor slob at Kearney’s like a rabid dog.” He sighed and cuffed the back of his neck. “All right. But keep it to yourself, will ya? This is Emma’s business, but I didn’t feel it was my place to tell her, so I asked Charity to.”

  “Tell her what?” Sean asked quietly, keeping his frustration at bay.

  Steven’s sigh billowed in the air. “I arrested Rory Malloy in a raid today in a speakeasy on the north side. He was pretty loaded and took a punch at Joe, so we threw him in the brig. He’ll be released today, but if it were up to me, I’d lock him up forever.”

  A tic twittered in Sean’s jaw. “Emma said he quit drinking.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m afraid you’d get some argument from us on that point.” He hesitated, his eyelids heavy with regret. “That’s not all, though. He was with a dame who was hanging all over him like a cheap suit.” His lips skewed to the right. “And him, her.”

  Sean couldn’t help the curse that hissed through his teeth, shocking Steven as much as it did him. “That no-good snake.” He swore again. “Why does Emma even let him come around?”

  “Well, if Charity has her way, she won’t, not after she finds out for a second time what a bum he is. But he’s a real con man, Sean, so I just hope she doesn’t let him sweet-talk her again.”

  “Don’t worry—she won’t.” He bit the words out, teeth clenched as tight as his fists. “And this time I’m going to make sure.” With a harsh inhale, he snatched the shovel and unleashed a blast of fury that exploded into the air like storm clouds. “Trust me—that slime won’t lie or cheat on her again.”

  Steven clutched his arm. “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing more than have a friendly chat with a wife beater.”

  “Sean, no! Although that wouldn’t have bothered me a couple of months of ago, since Kearney’s, I gotta admit—I’m a little worried what you might do.”

  Sean flung his brother’s hand away. “Malloy’s the one who needs to worry, not you.”

  “I want your word that you won’t hurt him,” Steven said, the authority of a prohibition agent steeling his tone. “Your fists are like weapons, Sean, just like Pop Clancy always said. Scare the slime if you have to, but don’t rough him up. Besides, it may backfire and win Emma’s sympathy.” Steven stepped forward, the chiseled calm in his face making him appear as seasoned at twenty-four as Sean was at thirty-five. “Promise me.”

  Sean paused, his eyes itching hot as he stared at his brother. “I promise not to kill him,” he whispered, the fury in his mind bleeding into his tone. His lips twisted as he strode to the front porch to prop the shovel against the wall. He shot a smile over his shoulder that was anything but. “But when I’m through? You mark my words—the scum will sure wish I had.”

  From its cubbyhole in the bookcase, Emma’s antique clock chimed three times, the tinkling sound almost deafening in the silent apartment where Sean sat in the shadows, lying in wait for a monster who had hurt Emma Malloy for the last time.

  His body felt as stiff as the striped wingback chair in which he’d hunkered down over an hour ago after he’d convinced Mrs. Peep to unlock Emma’s door.

  “He didn’t come home last night,” Mrs. Peep had whispered. “And it’s not the first time.” An abundance of worry lines fanned from eyes that held a glimmer of moisture while two silver brows inched up in concern. “He fooled me at first, but lately he’s been coming home all hours of the night, and I knew something wasn’t right. I’m worried for her, Sean.”

  “Me too, Mrs. Peep,” Sean muttered out loud, the sound earning a bored look from Lancelot as he groomed himself on the couch. Sean’s muscles twitched under his skin as if he’d just downed a pot of Katie’s day-old coffee, a quick scan of Emma’s apartment revealing that Rory was not only a monster, but a slob as well. Newspapers littered the sofa where Lancelot lay, spilling onto the floor in disheveled heaps occasionally punctuated by discarded socks. Several coffee cups crowded the cherrywood coffee table that now sported a layer of dust and additional coffee-cup rings. The once clean scent of lemon oil gave way to the distinct smell of licorice mingling with the odor of stale cigarettes, now a mountain of butts ground into a floral china plate. An empty package of Lucky Strike cigarettes lay crumpled on top of Emma’s Bible, prompting a tic in Sean’s jaw. Yeah, Lucky Strike, for sure.

  My fist, his face.

  “Don’t rough him up,” Steven had warned. And yet Rory had never hesitated with Emma—hitting her, beating her, scarring her for life. The very thought kindled Sean’s fury until it was white-hot, and he flexed his fingers, every nerve as taut as a wire trap begging to spring.

  Like a hunter stalking his prey, Sean’s body stilled at a key in the door, and when Rory lumbered in, he quietly rose to his feet. A hard smile curled on his lips, and his voice was deathly still. Like Rory’s about to be. “Well, would you look at what the cat drug in.”

  Rory’s body jerked at the door, wide eyes narrowing as they leveled on Sean. “How the devil did you get in?”

  A spasm twitched in Sean’s temple as he slowly moved forward, adrenaline fairly quivering in the sinews of his arms. “No, I think the question is, how the devil did you get in, Malloy? Back into Emma’s life to lie and cheat on her again?”

  The blue of Rory’s eyes fused to black as he yanked the door wide. “Get out—now!”

  “You took the words right out of m
y mouth, you bloodsucking leech.” Striking like a rattler, Sean heaved the man up against the door, knotted fists buried into his half-buttoned peacoat like meat hooks, his bristled jaw just inches away. “Get out, now—out of this apartment and out of Emma’s life.”

  A slow smile slid across Rory’s face as his eyes glinted like steel. “Well, well, what do you know—the boy’s in love with my wife.” With surprising strength, he thrust Sean away and laughed, his breath as foul as the intent in his eyes. “You want a piece of my Emmy, do you?” He fumbled with the buttons of his coat, peeling it off and tossing it on the floor, then egged Sean on with a wave of his fingers. “Or maybe you already have . . .”

  Rage exploded in Sean’s brain and he lunged, slamming him to the wall with brute force that put a glaze in Rory’s eyes. “You aren’t worthy of speaking her name, much less calling her your wife.” With iron fists, he jerked him up hard, his voice a dangerous hiss. “I’m warning you now—walk out of her life, or so help me, you won’t be able to.”

  Rory shoved him back, and then readied his stance with a heated look and a cold smile. “I don’t think so, Yank. It’s my ring on her finger, and it’s my bed that she’ll warm.” His grin could have belonged to the devil. “And there’s not a bloomin’ thing you can do about it.”

  “No?” With unnatural speed, Sean drove an iron fist to his jaw, crashing him to the wall with a sickening thud. Blood splattered when his lip split like overripe fruit.

  Swiping the side of his mouth, Rory’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You wanna play rough, do you now?” A feral smile curved on his lips as he reached back in his waistband. He fumbled with something, and then with a faint click, a blade shot forth from the knife in his hand. “I won’t kill ya for Emma’s sake,” he said with the touch of the brogue, and then he grinned. “But you’re gonna bleed, Yank, make no mistake about that.”

  With a wild jab, he sliced the knife through the air and Sean jumped back, body taut and instincts ready. He saw the same crazed look in Rory’s eyes he had seen before, in the eyes of the man who stabbed him during the war. His skin prickled as Rory circled, the blade gleaming in the sunlight that spilled through Emma’s window. Blood pounding in his brain, Sean backed up slowly with a quick scan of the room. His gaze lighted upon Emma’s coffee table.