“Kiss me, Collin,” she whispered. “It’s only a kiss, after all, nothing more.”
Her eyes seemed to hypnotize, and he let her wait while he struggled with what conscience he had. Before he knew what was happening, the slow smile moved across his lips as if it had a mind of its own. He grabbed her, his breath hot on her face as he spoke.
“That’s right, Charity … only a kiss … nothing more.” He kissed her mouth, long and hard, then allowed his lips to brush across her cheek, caressing the delicate fold of her ear. He heard her soft purr of contentment and then pulled away and studied her. Slowly, he traced his finger along the gentle curve of her chin, down to the open button at the hollow of her throat. She shivered at his touch and closed her eyes. He nudged her away. “You know, Charity, two can play this game, but only one can win.” He stepped back and reached for the door. “Something to think about, isn’t it?” He opened it and went inside, leaving her wiser, he hoped, and certainly warmer than before.
Patrick looked up as Collin entered the kitchen. He and Sean were drinking coffee while Marcy and Faith finished the dishes. “Everything okay?” he asked. “You seem flustered.”
Heat prickled the back of Collin’s neck. He smiled at Patrick. “Yes, sir, I’m fine, and so is Charity. I think we understand each other now.”
Patrick seemed relieved. “Good. Would you like some coffee, Collin? Marcy’s kept some warm for you.”
Collin nodded and gratefully allowed Marcy to fill his cup. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Connor. I think I’m going to miss your meals and your coffee more than anything.”
She gave him a faint smile, then glanced at Patrick, who rose from his chair. “Up for a game of chess, son?” he asked Sean, who nodded and followed his father to the parlor.
Marcy turned to Faith. “Do you mind finishing up? I need to check on Katie. She’s supposed to be straightening her room, but goodness knows what I’ll find up there.”
Faith nodded, and Marcy left them in silence.
Collin slumped at the table, staring at the palm of his hand as he absently rubbed it with his thumb. His stomach was in knots. A hundred thoughts circled in his brain of things he wanted to tell her, but as he sat there, heart racing and hands sweating, he had absolutely no idea what he would say.
She dried the last dish, put it away, and neatly folded the dish towel before turning around, her small frame propped against the counter as if for support. For the moment, those green eyes were calm, resigned, and almost cold. But not quite, he noticed, as she quickly averted her gaze to the floor.
“You can’t hate me, you know—it’s against your religion.”
He was teasing, but she didn’t seem to care. Her head snapped up, and her eyes singed him. His heart started pounding, and his slow smile reengaged. She was like a chameleon—calm and placid one minute, all fire and flash in the next, and it never failed to rouse him.
“Get it over with, Collin. Father said you wanted to speak with me, so do it.”
She was clearly not happy with him, and somehow it turned his smile into a grin, which only managed to aggravate her further. He tried to temper it a bit, but it was so blasted hard with her looking like that. A little girl with pouting green eyes and wild auburn hair tumbling her shoulders. Holy saints above, she was beautiful! Why hadn’t he realized before just how much? Before he had courted Charity and set things in motion that were now too difficult to change? Things could have been so different, he thought, then frowned. No, they would have never been different. Something much bigger than an engagement to Charity stood in the way.
“Will you sit down, please? It’s difficult to have a conversation with someone who looks like they’re ready to bolt from the room.”
Her gaze focused past him as she slipped into the seat farthest away and folded her hands on the table before her.
Collin cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “I owe you an apology, Faith, and more than one, I suppose. I never should have taken advantage of you like I did. I regret it, I really do. Not just because of what it’s done to you, but what it’s done to Charity …” He looked away. “And to me.”
He closed his eyes, leaned back, and massaged his forehead with his fingers. “I saw myself with Charity, Faith, I really did. I thought we’d marry, have lots of kids, and grow old together. But that day in the park, something happened. I don’t know, I felt something—something strong—and it scared me. I hated it because it made me feel vulnerable. I didn’t like that. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, either—about you—and believe me, I tried. I was certain if I could see more of Charity, if I could fill my mind with her love, I’d be fine. Only it didn’t work that way. Then I thought, well, once Charity and I are married, I’ll get over it …”
She watched him now, her face softening with concern.
“I was pretty slow on the uptake, I guess. It wasn’t until the night on the swing that I realized I was falling in love with you.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath as her eyes began to well, and he reached across the table to take her hand in his. “I love you, Faith. Marry me.”
She jerked her hand from his. “I can’t marry you, Collin.”
He leaned forward. “I know you love me. Can you deny it?”
She didn’t speak, and he jumped up, rounded the table, and gripped her arms to lift her to her feet. When she wouldn’t look at him, he grabbed her chin and forced her. “Look at me! Can you deny you love me?”
She stared at him through a mist of tears. “Let me go, you’re hurting my arm.”
“Tell me you don’t love me.”
“I don’t love you.”
“You’re lying, Faith. I would have thought better of you than that.”
“Well, don’t!” she screamed. “I’m not better than that. You’ve said your apologies, Collin, now let me go.”
She tried to turn away. He jerked her back. “I know you love me. Don’t you think I can feel it every time I touch you?” He pulled her to him, and she cried out before his lips silenced her with a savage kiss. She struggled to pull free, but he only held her tighter. The blood pounded in his brain. His mouth was everywhere—her throat, her earlobes, her lips—and he could feel the heat coming in waves as she melted against him. She was quivering when he finally let her go.
“You love me, Faith,” he said quietly. “You know that, and I know that. Your heart belongs to me, and nothing can ever change that fact—not Charity, not you, and not your God.”
A sob escaped her lips, and she collapsed into the chair, all fight gone. “I know,” she whispered, “I know. Oh, Collin, if only you could tell me what I need to hear.”
He was tempted to lie, to tell her anything to keep her. He had done it once—managed to convince her family he was something he wasn’t; he could do it again. But somehow he knew, no matter how convincing the lie, she would know. Somehow that God of hers would trip him up, and then he would lose her forever. It was only seconds before he answered, but it seemed a lifetime. “I can’t now,” he said, his mouth dry, “but I don’t know it couldn’t happen. Maybe you’ll save my soul, who knows?” His attempt to be light fell flat, and inwardly he cursed at how hollow it must have sounded.
“What does it matter anyway? I won’t stand in your way if you want to believe in your God. Please, Faith, just say yes!”
He was speaking too fast, as if he were desperate. He was. The only woman he had ever really wanted would not have him, and it was about to crush him. Never in his life had he ever begged a woman for anything. A sick feeling suddenly cleaved to his throat.
She started to cry, and he knew before she spoke what her answer would be. His hands dropped to his sides. Slowly, he walked to the sink to pour himself a glass of water. He emptied it and set the glass on the counter before turning to face her. When he did, he felt a spasm quiver in his jaw. His eyes itched hot as they pierced through her. “That’s it, then? God wins and I lose? Well, I’m glad we settled that. It’s been eat
ing at me for a long time.”
“Collin, please …”
“Please what? Go away so you don’t have to face the fact you’re in love with me?” He moved to his chair and slammed it against the table.
“It wouldn’t work. It has to be right—”
“No! I don’t want to hear it! I’m sick to death of hearing it, and I don’t have to listen. We’re oil and water, Faith. I’m in the real world, and you’re out there somewhere in a world I don’t understand.” For a split second he stared past her before his eyes shifted back, finally resigned. “It’s good for me to go away. You don’t have to worry anymore, Faith. I don’t need a ton of bricks to fall on me to know it’s time to move on.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose marriage needs more than passion anyway, doesn’t it? It helps if you’re on the same wavelength, at least, like Charity and me. We seem to understand each other, and then there’s passion too.” His voice sounded so strange to his own ears, a low monotone, emotionless, almost stream of consciousness.
He heard her move toward him. “You know, Collin, someday we’ll be friends—good friends.”
His eyes flew open, and he didn’t blink once. “I don’t want to be your friend, Faith. I want to be your husband and your lover.”
A dark blush invaded her cheeks. She lifted her chin. “I want that too, Collin, more than anything in the world.”
He heaved the chair against the table again, and the sound was as explosive as the fire in his gut. “That’s a lie! But, it doesn’t matter now, because I finally get it. I don’t understand it, mind you, but it’s finally sinking into this thick head of mine that we don’t belong together. Not that what we have between us isn’t strong and real. No, this thing is so real it makes us crazy every time we’re near each other. It’s what most people dream about, and we have it! But you—you’d rather turn your back on something so real for something that’s only real in your own mind.”
“It’s not just real in my mind. God is real, whether you believe it or not.”
“Yeah? Well, you can’t prove it by me.”
“Collin, please … don’t do this! You can’t possibly know how sorry I am.”
“Yes I can, Faith.” He started to leave.
“Collin …”
He stopped, hand splayed against the door.
“I am sorry, so sorry. And for what it’s worth, I’ll never stop praying for you.”
He turned, all anger siphoning out. “Yeah, you do that.” He took a deep breath and forced a faint smile. “Well, then, I guess that’s that. Chapter closed. Man goes to war, ex-fiancée waits for him, and sister moves on with her life. Here’s to a happy ending.”
Tears streaked her cheeks. “I hope so, Collin,” she whispered. “I’m staking everything on it. Somewhere in Mrs. Gerson’s Bible it says, ‘All things work together for good to those who love God.’ I’d like to think that’s assurance of a happy ending.”
As he stared at her now, he almost envied what she had. Almost. He hung his head, then glanced up, his lips curved in a tired smile. “Well, one thing’s for sure—I’m glad I’m leaving on good terms. If I’m going to be target practice for some Germans, I’d much rather have you praying for me than against me.”
“Count on it,” she said, wiping the wetness from her face. “And, Collin, I wish the best for you. I really do.”
He studied her, completely certain she meant it. “Thanks, Little Bit.” Without another word, he turned and left, causing the door to creak to an eerie stillness.
15
For Marcy and everyone in the O’Connor household, June 15 was a day of mourning. Collin McGuire was shipping out, and with him went the hopes and prayers of the family who claimed him as their own. The last month had been difficult for everyone concerned. Like clockwork, Charity would lunge into a crying jag following each of Collin’s visits while Marcy tried to comfort her until it passed. Faith, although not as depressed as prior to her talk with Collin, wandered about in a mild malaise, which wasn’t suspect at all as it merely matched the mood of the rest of the family.
Marcy knew Patrick felt as if he were sending a son off to war. And, indeed, the fear remained that soon they might be doing that as well. Just twenty-four hours prior, President Wilson had declared in his Flag Day Address that the initial American Expeditionary Force, of which Collin was a part, would soon be followed by more soldiers as quickly as possible. Marcy was sick with worry about Collin and fraught with dread for her own son. Her only consolation at this difficult time was that at least her husband would be spared from the greedy arm of the Selective Service. Never had she appreciated Patrick passing the draft age of thirty more than she did now. An appreciation that, she soon discovered, was destined to be short-lived despite her prayers. Shortly after the first troops arrived in France on June 26, General Pershing called for a U.S. army of three million men. Marcy could see in her husband’s face what he refused to mention. The night he finally uttered it followed on the heels of the worst day of her life.
Her grandmother was dying and Sean had been drafted. Marcy had never known such fear and pain. Although she had never been a woman who stormed and raged, that seemed to be changing as she progressed in years. Suddenly she felt no compunction whatsoever at giving full vent to her anger. She lay on their bed, indifferent to the shards of broken glass strewn across her bedroom floor from the hand mirror she hurled at the wall. Her mother’s letter was soggy and smeared from Marcy’s hours of weeping. Mima’s heart had weakened, Bridget had written, after becoming severely taxed by a serious bout with the flu. The doctor suggested that funeral arrangements be made as quickly as possible. As if that dagger had not been enough to gouge a gaping wound, a draft notice for Sean had arrived the very same day, inflicting the final death blow to Marcy’s sanity and peace. She shivered uncontrollably despite the summer day, her pillow cold and sodden with tears as she awaited the sound of her husband’s footfall.
Sean had met him at the door, and without a word handed him the notice he received in the mail. It was the ashen look on his son’s face and not the notice itself that alerted Patrick that their worst fears had come true. He crushed his son in his arms before Sean could see the tears in his own eyes. His voice was thick when he finally spoke. “When?” he asked.
“August,” Sean replied.
“Does your mother know?” Patrick’s eyes searched the house for his wife.
Sean nodded. “She’s been upstairs all afternoon, crying her eyes out. She was the one who opened it … right after she opened Grandmother’s letter that Mima is dying.”
Patrick’s heart squeezed in pain for his wife. Lord, help me to help her, please.
And so he found her, lying prostrate on their bed, her form lifeless and still except for an occasional whimper, painful residue left from hours of weeping. The room seemed dark, even though the late-afternoon sun streamed in, and Patrick felt sick as he crossed the room to lie beside her. The minute he did, she clutched him tightly, her sobs beginning in force. He held her close, and her head quivered as he stroked her hair. He stared blankly at the ceiling.
“Why, Patrick? First Collin, now Mima and Sean … Why would God do this to us?” She could barely voice the words for the tears.
His own vision blurred with emotion. “I don’t know, Marcy. All I know is we have to trust him. We have nothing else …” He held her tighter, his voice steeled with purpose. “We don’t need anything else.”
She didn’t answer.
“He didn’t promise we would be free from trial, Marcy. He told us we would have tribulation, but to be of good cheer for he has overcome it. We have tribulation, my love, but he will see us through. We must trust him.”
His words seemed to calm her, and he felt her relax in his arms. Reaching up, she put her hands on either side of his face, her eyes red and swollen as she stared at him. “Patrick, I don’t know what I would do without you. You’re my strength.”
He felt his jaw twitch. “No, Marcy, I’m not your strength—he is.”
She shot up and clenched his arm. “No! You are—you know that! You’re everything to me, Patrick. I would die without you …”
“No, you won’t!” The look on her face chilled him. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, to imply she would ever have to, but it had rolled off his tongue before he could stop it, and the damage was there on her face.
Her knuckles strained white as she grabbed his shirt. “What are you saying, Patrick? Tell me this sick feeling inside my stomach is wrong. Tell me I have nothing to worry about, that you’ll be by my side every day of this despicable war. Tell me, Patrick!” Her voice reached a level of hysteria as she searched his eyes for assurance he couldn’t give.
He pressed her to him, holding her so tightly she couldn’t move. “I can’t tell you that, Marcy. I wish I could, but I can’t, darlin’. I didn’t want to worry you. But Marcy, the chance remains I may have to go.”
She jerked away, her eyes crazed. “No! You’re too old! Tell me, Patrick, you’re too old!”
“Marcy, they’re desperate for soldiers, so desperate they’ve extended the draft to forty-five. Marcy, if they call me, I have to go.”
She screamed as she lunged, her fists striking his chest with a fury he’d seldom seen in this woman he loved. He grabbed her hands and pinned her flat on the bed, his breathing labored from the effort. She was like a mad woman, thrashing beneath his grip, and he found himself crying out to God to impart peace to her soul. Seconds lapsed into minutes before stillness came. When it did, she was limp in his arms, emotionally ravaged by the fear that possessed her. She was spent, and so was he. All that was left was a numbness buzzing in his brain as they lay side by side in a room filled with darkness, despite the sunlight of a summer day. They lay like that for hours, it seemed, while Faith, Sean, and Charity tended to the others downstairs.
A Passion Most Pure Page 23