With a firm squeeze of her arms, Father Mac ushered her to the sofa and seated her there, squatting in front of her with her hands tightly in his. “Emma,” he whispered, “the kind of love you were looking for in your parents, in Rory, in your precious babies, can only be found in Christ, and you know that now. But what you don’t know is that in God’s infinite love for you, he not only wants to heal your wounds and set you free, but restore what the locusts have eaten . . . ,” he paused, his next words measured and slow, “with the love of a good man, Emma . . . a man who will love you on earth while God loves you in heaven.”
Her eyes flared wide. “Oh, Father, no, I can’t . . .”
His voice was gentle. “You can, Emma, because you’re free. And Sean loves you.”
She shook her head. “But I’m not worthy.”
The edge of Father Mac’s lips crooked up. “Not many of us are . . . and yet, God loves us still.”
“But Sean is . . . ,” wetness blurred in her eyes, “the most wonderful man I’ve ever known. He deserves the best there is.”
Father Mac feathered a stray curl from her eyes. “And so he has it—in you.”
“I wish I could believe that, Father, but I will never be good enough.”
He tucked a finger to her chin with a slant of his lips. “Why don’t you let the man decide for himself?”
Her breathing thickened, his words too good to be true. “But you heard me—I lied to him, to Charity, to everyone . . . and my life has been steeped in sin.”
“You’re in luck, then,” he said with a jag of a smile. “I believe I’m just the man you need.” He cradled her face. “Are you truly sorry, Emma, for everything you just confessed in this room?”
Emma pressed her hand over his with a tearful heave. “Oh, Father, with all of my heart!”
He raised his hand in the sign of the cross. “Then I absolve you, Emma, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
Barely believing it to be true, Emma breathed in the cleanest air she’d ever drawn, and with a heart weighted more with gratitude than guilt and shame, she closed her eyes, her voice quivering with intent. “O my God, I am heartily sorry . . .” Every syllable of her Act of Contrition carried all the awe and reverence of a soul set free from the darkest dungeon into the glorious light. With each word spoken, she tasted the sweetness of a forgiving God, and her heart felt lighter, freer than she’d ever felt before.
Head bowed, she reveled in the warmth of Father Mac’s hand on her hair as he issued penance and then blessed her, and when he finished, her eyelids lifted, unleashing more tears.
“How can I ever thank you, Father, for all you have done?”
He chuckled and attempted to rise from his squatting position with a grunt. “Well, for starters, you can help me up, young lady, as my knees are not what they used to be.”
She laughed and gripped his arms, tugging him to his feet.
“Secondly,” he said, “you can embrace the truth and refuse to believe the lies of the devil—lies that you can’t be forgiven or that you’re unworthy to reap the blessings of God. Outright lies, each and every one. And finally,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “you can do me a favor and pay some attention to a very good friend of mine who, I don’t mind saying, has been a bit of a grump lately.” He winked. “I suspect he could use some cheering up.”
She gave him a shaky smile. “I . . . will try, Father, I promise, but I think it may take me some time, you know, before I can face him again?”
He nodded. “Sure, sure, take all the time you need. I believe Charity invited him for dessert, if I’m not mistaken, so I’m sure he’ll just wait in the next room.”
Blood drained from her face as she put a hand to her throat. “No . . . he’s here? But I’m not ready . . .”
“Not ready for dessert? Nonsense.” Charity breezed through the door with a tray in her hand.
Emma’s throat went dry as nausea rolled in her stomach. Rory had divulged Emma’s awful secret to Steven, which meant that now Charity knew too. Emma stared at the floor, unable to look her friend in the eye. “I . . . I don’t feel well, Charity, I think I need to go to my room.”
“Emma . . .”
Father Mac’s voice was gentle, but Emma ignored the plea in his tone with a stiff nod. “Thank you, Father, for all of your time. Good night.” She moved toward the door, but not before Charity halted her with a hand to her arm.
“Emma,” she said quietly, “stay—please. We need to talk.”
Face aflame, Emma looked away. “We will, Charity, I promise. Just not tonight, please?” She paused, swallowing hard. “I . . . I’m just not ready. But I need you to promise . . .”
“Anything,” Charity whispered.
Emma drew in a deep breath. “That you won’t use the key to come talk to me tonight.”
Seconds passed before Charity answered with a sigh. “I promise.”
Exhaling slowly, Emma nodded. “Thank you. Good night, Charity, Father.” And before either could bid her good night, she flew up the steps to the safety of her room, not sure she would ever be ready to face the people she loved. And with the turn of the bolt, she locked everyone out, hopefully to embrace a sanctuary where shame wouldn’t find her.
“So . . . how’d it go?” Mitch glanced up at Charity as she entered the kitchen, his spoon poised over half-eaten cobbler that wasn’t long for this world. A cleft appeared at the bridge of his nose when Father Mac followed, an untouched dessert tray in hand and a crease in his brow.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” Charity said, “considering Emma bolted the moment I entered the room.” Her lips slanted into a droll smile. “Which, oddly enough, is the same effect I seem to have on my son.”
Sean stood to his feet. “Where is she?”
Charity studied her brother’s ashen face, the pallor of which highlighted a crop of dark freckles she never even realized he had. “In hiding,” she said quietly, “safely locked in her room.” She took the tray from Father Mac and laid it on the table, then placed his coffee and dessert in front of him. Releasing a weary sigh, she squeezed Sean’s elbow and dropped into a chair. “Everything was fine, apparently, until I showed up with dessert, and then Emma shot up the stairs faster than a squirrel up a tree at first sight of Henry.” She sagged against the table, elbow flat and head propped to her fist. Her eyes suddenly trained on the near-empty pan of cobbler in the center of the table and she sat straight up, yanking it forward with a drop of her jaw. Her gaze snapped to her husband. “Sweet saints, how many pieces did you have?”
Mitch stopped mid-chew, swallowing hard. “Three,” he said defensively. “So what?”
“So, this is not your personal pan of cobbler, Mitch Dennehy, and you know it.”
He gave her a half-lidded smile while rolling the spoon in his mouth, obviously intent on licking it clean. “So I have a voracious appetite, little girl—big surprise.”
Heat dusted her cheeks, and she quickly turned away, sobering considerably as her thoughts refocused on Emma. She reached for her cup of coffee and eyed Father Mac over the rim. “So, Father,” she whispered, “is it true . . . about her marriage to Rory?”
“What about her marriage to Rory?” Sean folded his arms with a scowl that suggested he’d taken lessons from Henry. “And why would she be in hiding for pity’s sake?”
Charity put her coffee down and glanced up at her brother, eyes soft with concern. “Because she’s ashamed,” she said quietly, “ashamed to face the people she loves.”
“Why?” Sean asked sharply. “So she let that lowlife dupe her twice—so what? That’s nothing more than a testament to her compassion and mercy.”
“I’m afraid there’s a little more to it than that,” Charity said, her solemn gaze flicking to Father Mac before returning to her brother. “I think you better sit down.”
He stared at her for several seconds, jaw tight and lips even worse, then slowly lowered into his chair.
His eyes shifted to Father Mac. “What’s going on?”
With a pensive pause, Father Mac laid his fork on his plate and pushed it away. Leaning forward, he leveled thick arms on the table with a loose clasp of hands. “We didn’t want to say anything until Emma confirmed it, but it seems that . . .” He hesitated to draw in a deep breath, their gazes locked. “That Emma is a single woman. She is not now . . . nor ever has been . . . legally married to Rory Malloy.”
No one breathed. The kitchen was deathly still except for the steady drip-drip of the sink from a new leak Mitch had attempted to fix. Charity watched as emotions rolled across her brother’s features like cloud pictures in the sky—shock, hope, joy, pain, and finally anger—slowly dissolving from one image to the next until they billowed into thunderclouds, dark and threatening.
“Why?” he whispered, his voice tinged with a raw hurt she’d never heard. “Why would she lie? When she knows how much I love her, want her—why would she do that?”
A weary exhale parted from Father Mac’s lips. “Horrific tragedy has a way of skewing one’s mind,” he said quietly, “in some more than others.” He leaned back in his chair, idly fingering the scalloped design on the end of his unused fork. “Unfortunately, Emma has endured a great deal of pain in her life, pain that has, at times, distorted the truth for her. Her story is—” Father Mac lowered his gaze, his voice thick with emotion—“heartbreaking at best.”
For several seconds, Sean stared, jaw stiff and mouth hard before he finally slumped back in his chair with a hand to his eyes. His voice was a hollow whisper. “So where does that leave me, Father? In Emma’s mind?”
“Well, I would say that depends on you, Sean,” Father Mac said slowly, “and whether or not you can forgive her.”
It seemed an eternity before Sean looked up, but when he did, there was a glaze of moisture in his eyes. He unleashed a weighty sigh. “I love her, Mac. What choice do I have?”
Father Mac smiled. “None, then, I’d say.” Sobriety returned as he glanced around the table. “I hope and pray that Emma chooses to share her past with each of you so you can understand the trials she’s had to endure. But it’s her decision, and I think it’s only fair to tell you that she’s running scared. The truth is, she’s so paralyzed by guilt and shame that she doesn’t feel ready to face any of you just yet.” He nodded at Sean. “Especially you. She loves you, Sean, but I’ll warn you right now—she’s going to try to run like the devil, from you more than anybody, because she doesn’t feel worthy.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sean said.
“Maybe so, but when it comes to the love she has for you, that’s how she sees herself—a scarred woman, inside and out. Keep in mind that when a woman’s self-image has been destroyed, both by the man she loved and the very sins that have imprisoned her most of her life, she can’t see what you see. It will only be through the mirror of God’s love and that of your own that Emma will finally have a glimpse of the beautiful woman God created her to be.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Charity said, finger pressed to her lip, “and I think I may just have the key.” She squinted, formulating the plan in her mind. “Sean needs to profess his love and forgiveness for her as soon as possible—tonight, before all that shame and guilt has time to fester.”
Sagging further into his chair, Sean kneaded the bridge of his nose, his lips set in a grim line. “And just how I am supposed to do that if she refuses to come out of her room?”
“You’re not listening,” Charity said. She slipped a hand into her pocket and held up a brass key with mischief in her eyes. “I said, ‘I have the key.’” She wriggled her brows. “Because somehow I had a sneaky feeling I’d be needing it tonight.”
A smile flickered at the edges of Father Mac’s mouth. “I believe I distinctly heard you promise you wouldn’t use the key, Mrs. Dennehy.”
Charity’s eyes widened in innocence. “Why, Father McHugh, how can you possibly think I’d break a promise, and in front of a priest, no less?” She promptly deposited the key into Sean’s hand with a jut of her chin. “I promised I wouldn’t use it—not Sean.”
A slow grin traveled Sean’s lips as he gave his sister a kiss on the cheek. “No matter what anybody says, sis, don’t ever change.” He rose and bobbled the key with a grin. “Which room?”
“Last one on the left,” Charity said. “And don’t take no for answer.”
He strode to the door. “Don’t worry,” he said, holding the key aloft. “If the good Lord has opened a door, then I’m sure not gonna let anybody lock it.” He winked. “Wish me luck.”
“You mean blessing, don’t you?” Charity called after him.
———
Sean grinned. Oh, yes. He took the steps two at time, chest heaving like a bellows, but not from the climb. He halted on the landing and closed his eyes, heart pumping faster than the adrenaline surging through his veins. Emma is free! The magnitude of that single thought sent shock waves through his body until he couldn’t breathe. And then gratitude rose up like a rush of joy so sweet that moisture stung in his eyes. Striding down the hall, he stopped before her door, the sound of muffled crying stilling his body to stone. Oh, Emma—let me dry your tears . . .
He knocked, his heart ramming against his ribs. “Emma, it’s Sean—can I come in?”
No answer.
He leaned in, head bowed and palm to the door. “Please don’t shut me out—I need you.”
“And I need to be alone,” she said, her voice nasal from weeping. “Please go.”
He vented with a blast of frustration. “No, I won’t go. You’re done spending your time alone, always shouldering burdens too heavy to bear. It’s time to admit you need me as much as I need you.” He rattled the knob, but it was locked as tight as her heart. “Open the door, Emma.”
Silence.
“Fine. Have it your way.” He unlocked the door, causing her to jolt up on the bed when it opened.
“What are you doing?” she cried, hair tousled and clothes rumpled.
He quietly closed it behind him. “Talking to the woman I love.”
She shook her head. “No, don’t say that.”
“Why not?” He moved toward the bed, challenging her with his gaze. “It’s the truth, Emma, no matter how difficult it is for you to hear.”
“I’m not the woman you think I am,” she whispered, inching back against the wall as if somehow she thought she could put distance between them. He took another step forward, determined there would never be distance again.
“Yes, you are,” he said quietly. “Your past is over. It’s your future I care about.”
“Don’t come any closer—please.” She wouldn’t look at him, head bowed and eyes squeezed shut while she clutched her arms to her waist.
“Emma.” He said it softly, fervently, with all the passion he felt in his heart. “Look at me—please.”
She began to tremble, and he moved closer. He knelt one knee on the bed, and her eyes jerked open, spanning wide. “Sean—if you really and truly love me—you’ll leave me be.”
He stared a long time, her words a jagged barb that bled into his voice. “Tell me, Emma,” he whispered, “is loving me such a painful prospect?”
Water welled in her eyes, and she shook her head, dispelling her tears. “No,” she said, her voice a frail rasp, “not me loving you—you loving me.” A heave shuddered in her chest as she looked away. “If you only knew . . . you would understand. I’m not worthy.”
He stood rooted to the floor, comprehending for the first time in his life that God had ordained him for this. Blessed him with the privilege and the calling to love and nurture one of the wounded souls so very close to God’s heart. To restore what the locusts had eaten in a woman’s life who had given her life to God.
And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten . . . and ye shall eat in plenty, and be satisfied and praise the name of the Lord your God, that hath dealt wondrously with you: and my people shal
l never be ashamed.
Wondrously, indeed. A holy reverence lighted on him that he’d never felt in any church, in any prayer uttered over a meal, or in any rote confession of faith. No, it was far deeper—a reverent gratitude for the touch of God in his life and his infinite love and mercy for those he calls by name. Like Emma Malloy, he thought, emotion swelling in his throat. And me . . . the man privileged to love her.
With slow and deliberate motion, Sean reached for her against her will . . . like God so often does with his children who are lost. Holding her in his arms, he rocked her gently while she wept, whispering his love against the tendrils of her hair. “You have it all wrong, Emma,” he said quietly when her tears finally slowed. “I’m the one who’s not worthy.” And cupping her swollen face in his hands, he gently kissed each scar on her face, marks of beauty all for a woman who’d chosen to forgive rather than hate.
His body relaxed when she finally melted in his arms, lids closed and her mouth parted in shallow breaths. He kissed her eyes then, tasting the salt of her tears. “My prayer is that someday these very eyes will see your beauty as I see it, Emma.” His mouth wandered to her ear, warming it with the touch of his lips. “That your ears will hear the truth of your priceless worth.” Slowly trailing the curve of her face, he nuzzled her lips gently, carefully. “And that this mouth will utter thanks to God every day when these very lips become a feast for our love.” He deepened the kiss until their tenuous breaths became as one, then rested his head to hers. “I love you, Emma Malloy,” he whispered, her cheek wet against his lips, “and I need you to be my wife.”
Seconds seemed suspended in time as he awaited her answer, light-years that delayed the next beat of his heart.
“Frey,” she said in a timid voice that tilted the corners of his mouth. “My name is Emma Frey.”
His deep chuckle feathered the silk of her skin before he cradled her face in his hands. “What a beautiful name,” he said, grazing her jaw with the pads of his thumbs. His smile was tender. “Too bad I have to change it.”
A Heart Revealed Page 51