Brady's heart stopped.
"That's where the rest of 'almost fine' comes in."
He pulled away and took a deep breath. "Mitch?"
She nodded and plunked back down on his shoulder. "I can't get him out of my head, Brady, much less my heart. I pray and I plead and seem to make strides, and then, boom! I turn a corner or blink an eye and I see his face ... his smile ... his unbelievably annoying stubbornness." She glanced up. "What am I gonna do?"
He swallowed hard, wondering the very same thing. "You just need time, time to heal and move on. You will, you know, with God's help and your family's."
She crooked a brow. "And yours?"
He smiled. "That goes without saying. But it's going to entail a strict regimen of Bible study and prayer. None of this fly in, fly out on a whim, asking me questions and looking for prayer when you need it the most. You up to that?"
She flung her arms around his neck. "0 Brady, try me!"
Lord, help me. He peeled her arms off his neck. "Good, then we start Monday. You can either come to the shop early or with Beth after school. Your choice."
She scrunched her nose in thought. "I think I'll come early. That way I'll have you all to myself and Beth doesn't have to know, okay?"
Lord, help me. He stood and rolled his neck. "Ready to go in? I think there was pie left."
Her mouth gaped open. "You can't possibly be hungry!"
He grinned and latched a gentle hand behind her neck and firmly steered her to the door. Charity O'Connor, you have no idea.
Marcy eyed her husband stretched out on their bed, eyes closed and arms propped behind his head. "Patrick, you're not going to sleep without me, are you? I still have a hundred strokes to do."
A semblance of a smile shadowed his lips. "No, Marcy, take your time. I'll be right here when you're done."
She turned in shock, brush in hand. "Take my time? You want me to take my time? Are you talking in your sleep?"
A low chuckle rumbled from the bed. One eyelid lifted, along with the curve of his lips. "No, darlin', I'm just lying here, enjoying the memory of the evening."
She sighed, laid the brush on her wardrobe, and blew out the lamp. She padded over to the bed and crept in beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist.
"So, what happened to the hundred strokes?"
"I'd rather be next to you." She snuggled close. "It's good having Charity home, isn't it?"
His arm scooped her to him, tucking her head against his chest. "More than I can say. I've missed that girl."
"Me too. I want her right here, where we can love on her and protect her. She's been through a lot in the last year."
"Some of it her own doing, I'm afraid, but I sense a change. I think she's growing up."
Marcy shivered. "Has she said anything to you ... about..."
"No."
"Me, either. I'm worried, Patrick. Worried about the longterm effect ..."
He shifted to face her. "You mean pregnancy?"
She nodded. "And her feelings about men, her trust. She has a lot of wounds to heal."
Patrick sighed and closed his eyes. "We all do, Marcy. When one of us is wounded, we all hurt. But God has seen us through more than one crisis, as you've reminded me many a time."
"He has at that." She touched a hand to his cheek, skimming across the serious set of his jaw. "I've gone and robbed you of your good mood, now haven't I?"
"No. Nothing can daunt the joy of having my girl home." He leaned to brush his mouth to hers. "And you by my side."
She responded with a force that opened his eyes. He chuckled and tugged her closer. "You can, however, make it up if you like."
She clutched him fiercely, squeezing her eyes tight. "Oh, Patrick, why is it that when trouble comes, I need you close to me more than ever?"
He stroked her hair and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Because we're one, my love. Man and wife reveling in that wonderful and warm, incredibly safe place that God has given us. Where we can be one with him and one with each other, shutting out all the hurt and the pain."
Tears stung her eyes. "I love you, Patrick. So much."
His lips caressed hers for several seconds before his mouth strayed to the curve of her jaw, nibbling her ear. His low laugh ter vibrated against her cheek. "I believe I'd like to see some proof."
She giggled and ran a hand down the length of his thigh. "Gladly."
"Mother? Father? Are you asleep?"
Marcy's hand froze on Patrick's leg. The heat of his embrace suddenly rushed to her cheeks. She sat up, blinking in the dark. "Charity? Is that you?"
Charity stood in the doorway of the darkened room, feeling the pull of her parents' love. "Yes. I couldn't sleep. Would it be all right if I snuggled with you for a while? Emma's long gone, I'm afraid, and I ... well, I'm feeling a bit lonely."
"Of course you can. Get over here and hop in." Marcy pushed the covers aside and scooted over to make room.
"I didn't waken you, did I?"
"No, your father and I were just talking."
Relief flooded as she slipped in the bed and turned on her side. Her mother cuddled close, wrapping an arm around her waist. Her father hooked his arm around them both, spooning. "Why so lonely, darlin'? You couldn't be surrounded by more love than you are here."
Charity swallowed hard, fighting a tremor in her voice. "I know, Father. And that's what's getting me through. That and God."
Marcy squeezed her. "You miss Mima and Mother, don't you?"
Wetness stung her eyes. "Terribly."
"And Mitch?" Marcy's tone was hesitant.
Charity shivered. "With all my heart."
"Darlin', I know this is hard to believe," Patrick whispered, "but you will get over him. We'll all see to that."
"I believe that, Father, but right now, it seems so impossible. My heart is sick with grief, and not just over missing Mitch, Mima, and Grandmother. Over the shame I've caused. To myself, to you ... and to God. I know he's forgiven me, but I'm not sure I can forgive myself."
"Have you prayed about it?" Marcy's tone was quiet.
Charity hesitated. Had she? Her lips parted in surprise. "No, I don't think I have."
Marcy stroked her hair. "Well, then, I'd say that's a good place to start, wouldn't you?"
Charity smiled. How in the world had she been blessed with such parents? "Yes."
"Good. Then we'll do that. But first, I want you to know something. Never in one breath of your life have we ever been ashamed of you, Charity O'Connor. Befuddled, perhaps, sometimes angry, and occasionally frustrated, but never-I repeat, never-have you brought shame to your father's heart or mine. You have been a joy to our souls, and I don't think that deep down you ever really knew that. Know it now, daughter, and know it well. God isn't the only one who loves you with a depth beyond your comprehension."
Charity clutched her mother in a joyous sob. She felt Marcy's gentle stroking while her father's strong hand kneaded her back.
"Please forgive me for all the hurt I've caused. I don't deserve you."
"We forgive you, darlin', but it's time you forgive yourself."
Charity sniffed and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her gown. "I know. Will you pray, Father? Pray that I can?"
"No, darlin', that prayer belongs to your mother. She's the woman who taught me, and quite frankly, I never thought I deserved her either. But then none of us really deserve the blessings of God, do we? But he gives them nonetheless ... to those who seek him."
Charity felt joy rise within her spirit. Yes! To those who seek him! She drew in a deep breath and lay back on the pillow, reaching for her mother's hand. She squeezed it and smiled. "To those who seek him. Well, Mother, we better give it a go, because there's no doubt in my mind-that would be me."
Collin put his sack lunch under his arm and butted the door with his knee, turning the key in the lock at the same time. It wheeled open with a high-pitched squeak that harmonized with his off-key whistling. He tossed his lunch on the delive
ry table and glanced toward the back of the shop. "You here?"
Brady rolled into the doorway on a low-wheeled dolly, his face already streaked with ink. "Yeah."
"Good Lord, Brady, it's barely six in the morning. How in the sweet name of heaven did you get ink on your face already? What d'ya do, roll around in that stuff?"
He wheeled back out of sight. "Yeah, Collin, it makes me feel like a man."
Collin chuckled and sauntered into the back room. He snatched the pot off the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee, then turned to lean against the counter while he sipped. "So ... anything else making you feel like a man this morning?"
No answer.
Collin grinned. Nothing tight-lipped about John Brady unless you wanted to talk about Charity. Sweet justice after all those times during the war when Brady had grilled him about Faith. "So ... where do you two stand?" He cleared his throat. "Faith's dying to know."
Brady rolled out to give Collinthe benefit of a scowl. "Friends, Collin, just like before. Nothing more."
Collin took another sip. "Your decision ... or hers?"
Brady leapt to his feet, dusting off his workpants to no avail. He grabbed his coffee and took a swig. "God's. She's not ready." His scowl deepened. "This coffee is awful."
"You made it." Collin shrugged and took another drink. "I just thought it was me."
Brady strode to the sink to make a new pot. His voice sounded annoyed. "Don't you have business to attend to?"
Collin gave him a sideways glance. "I am. You're my partner and best friend. Your happiness or lack thereof is my business."
Brady muscled him out of the way to fill the pot with water. "Well, my happiness or lack thereof doesn't bother me, so why should it bother you? I can assure you Mrs. Tabor needs her daughter's wedding invitations far more than I need your help."
Collin faced him, his smile fading. "I'm worried about you, Brady. So sue me."
Brady sighed and closed his eyes. The pot hung limp in his hands. He clunked it on the boil plate and turned. "Sorry, Collin, I know you only want what's best for me. I'm just not sure what that is right now."
Collin studied him with concern. The bad coffee started to curdle in his gut. "You're falling for her, aren't you?"
Brady looked up, the answer in his eyes as plain as the ink on his face. He shuffled to the table and slumped in a chair.
Collin followed him. "So? What's the big deal? She could use your love right now. And hard as it might be for me to believe, she could be the woman God has for you."
Brady seemed lost in a stare, his eyes fixed on the floor. He stayed that way, hand limp upon the table.
"Brady?"
He looked up, and Collin's stomach constricted. No, this wasn't right. Brady was always the strong one, the one gripped tightly to the hand of God.
Brady exhaled slowly, his tall frame sinking deeper into the chair. "I'm worried, Collin. Before she left, I was fine. God protected my heart. We were friends. She was going to marry Mitch and live happily ever after and raise a houseful of kids. Suddenly she's back, free as a bird, and God's called me to be her friend." He clenched his hand on the table, flexing several times. "And only a friend ... at least for the moment."
"So, be her friend."
His put his head in his hand. "I don't know if I can."
Collin took a deep breath and stretched out in the chair, scratching his head. "Yeah, I see your dilemma. Charity's a beautiful woman with a powerful pull. Loving her can be like playing with fire. But I can do for you what you did for me many a night. All those times when I was passed out in my bunk, drunk with grief over Faith marrying Mitch ..." Collin looked up, giving him a sheepish grin. "Never did like that guy. Now you know what I mean."
A half smile flickered on Brady's lips. "Yeah, I guess I do."
"You prayed me through. I plan to do the same. Especially if I find you drunk in bed."
Brady smiled. "Thanks, Collin. I'm going to need all the prayers I can get."
Collin stood and moved to sit beside him, clamping a hand to his shoulder. "Well, you have them, my friend. Now, and for the rest of your life." He leaned in and closed his eyes while Brady did the same. And in the sacred confines of a ramshackle back room, they bowed their heads and prayed, invoking God to do what he does best: pull their feet from the fire.
Charity lay there with eyes weighted closed, wondering why she had no desire to get up. She squinted at Emma in the other bed, fast asleep despite shafts of winter sunlight filtering across her face. With a low groan, Charity slumped back on her pillow, suddenly remembering.
December 12. Mitch and Kathleen's six-month wedding anniversary.
A sharp pain sliced through her as intense as the day he had called her a whore. She caught her breath and turned on her side, her eyes welling with tears. No, God, why?
She shoved the covers aside and slipped out of bed, careful not to waken Emma. She needed to see Brady-now. She bit her lip and glanced at the clock. 7:30. They'd leave for church at ten. If she hurried and dressed, she'd have almost two hours for him to talk with her, pray with her. Hold her.
She tiptoed to the closet and pulled out her favorite blue dress, hooking the hanger on the knob. With a soft grunt, she stripped off her nightgown and put on her chemise, then bent to shimmy into her stockings. In a split second, she had the dress lifted over her head. Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the buttons. Holding her breath, she glanced at Emma and smiled. That woman could sleep through a cyclone if it whirled her away, bed and all. Charity slipped her shoes on and made her way to the door. She stopped in the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face, barely running a comb through her hair. She blinked in the mirror, wondering if she should take the time to apply some makeup, then decided against it. This was Brady. He didn't care. And neither did she. She hesitated, then touched a bit of lilac water to her temple and sighed. He was a man, after all.
The house was quiet as she hurried down the steps, her parents' muted conversation drifting from the kitchen. She started for the front door, then stopped with her hand on the knob. As much as she didn't want to, they needed to know where she was going. She sighed and walked toward the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door.
Her father looked up from the table with the paper propped in his lap. His brows lifted in surprise. "Was there a blue moon last night, darlin'? I haven't seen you up this early in a while."
Marcy turned at the sink. "Are you all right, Charity? You look ... anxious."
Charity rolled her tongue over her teeth and suddenly thought of Bridget. Her mind leap-frogged to Mitch, and the pain was immediate. Her mouth parted to release shallow breaths.
Patrick put the paper down. "Charity, what's wrong?"
She glanced up and lifted her chin. "Nothing. I just need to see Brady, that's all."
"At this hour?" Patrick checked his watch.
She nodded and looked to Marcy, her eyes appealing for help.
Marcy took a step forward. "Are you down again, Charity? Is that it? Thinking about ..."
Charity nodded quickly, blinking her eyes to keep them clear. "I just need to talk to Brady, to pray with him."
Marcy put her hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Of course, darling. You've got plenty of time before we leave. Just be back by ten, okay?"
I will." She whirled around and rushed out the door, barely slowing as she snatched her coat from the rack. Once outside, she sprinted down the sidewalk as if the devil himself were on her heels. Several blocks away, she vaulted the steps of Brady's apartment, her heart hammering in her chest. She leaned against his door and pounded hard. Her breath came in jagged gasps.
The door swung wide and there he stood, clad only in a sleeveless undershirt and a pair of trousers with bare feet. She would have smiled at the shock on his face if not for his hard-muscled chest straining his scoop-neck T-shirt. Her eyes traveled the thick line of his arms, sculpted with muscles and propped loose on his hips.
She swallowed hard and lo
oked away, a warm flush creeping up her face. "Sorry, Brady, I didn't mean to barge in."
He didn't seem the least bit concerned about his attire, but pulled her inside and took off her coat, tossing it on the table. He pushed her into a chair and squatted beside her, searching her face. "What is it, Charity? Is something wrong?"
Her eyes roamed the tiny apartment, desperate to avoid looking at him, then widened in surprise at how neat and clean it was. She had never been inside before. Though sparse with decor, it exuded a definite masculine air with heavy but simple wood pieces arranged in a practical manner. A mahogany desk was laden with books wedged between brass book ends, leaving just enough room for a wood and brass lamp in the shape of a sailing vessel. Her eyes scanned a dark burgundy sofa where his Bible lay open, splayed in a sea of papers. Overhead, framed prints of ships added a decidedly nautical feel. She smiled and looked up, noting for the first time the cinnamon color of his hair and how it curled at the back of his neck. Before she knew it, her eyes lighted on his powerfully built arms as he hunkered beside her. She swallowed.
He followed her gaze and glanced down at his T-shirt, as if suddenly aware of his state of undress. With a haze of color up the back of his neck, he jumped up and strode into another room, returning with a shirt in his hand. He slipped it on, then sat in the chair beside her and leaned forward, forgetting to button it up. "Okay, Charity. Why are you here?"
She drew in a deep breath, suddenly remembering the reason she came. The painful realization sapped her strength once again, and tears sprang to her eyes. "Brady, I've been fine, haven't I? Wonderful even, for the last six months?"
He nodded.
"Yes, I've had my moments when I was blue and thought I'd never get past this, but they've been fewer and fewer." She searched his eyes. "Haven't they?"
He nodded again.
"And then this morning, before I even open my eyes, I feel this gloom, this malaise crawling on me like a hundred thousand spiders." She shivered and pushed the hair from her eyes. "And then it came to me-Mitch's six-month anniversary, and Brady, so help me God, it sucked the air right out of my throat. This awful pain ripped right across my chest till I couldn't breathe." She grabbed ahold of his arms. "Brady, this has got to stop. God has got to do something, anything, to get me over this."
A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 42