On the drive home, he'd been considerably subdued, but Faith felt as if a great burden had been lifted. "Mitch," she whispered at the door, "it's been a wonderful evening. Thank you so much." She turned the key in the lock and opened the door. "See you Monday, Mr. Dennehy."
He nodded, a half-smile shading his lips as she closed the door. She caught her breath as his hand wedged in to block it. "O'Connor, you owe me an explanation. Not tonight, but soon."
"About what?" she asked.
"This character you're in love with."
"I will, Mitch, soon."
"And one more thing. If we start seeing each other-it better be me."
Marcy sat in the kitchen with Patrick's letter spread on the table before her, reading it for the sixth time. It was too early to be up, what with it being Saturday, but she couldn't sleep, at least not well, a symptom that coincided with the arrival of his letter earlier that week.
He sounded good, even though she could read the loneliness between the lines, and she detected a note of pride in his comments at how the army had shaped him up. He was stronger and leaner than when they had met, he claimed. The thought brought a rush of warmth to her cheeks and a desperate longing to her soul.
His days consisted of nothing but training, a fact most comforting to her. He'd made a number of good friends with whom he spent what free time they were allowed. But he missed her terribly, he wrote, insisting he was only a shell of his former self, going through the motions until he could return to her once again.
Marcy sighed and looked out the window, barely seeing the beauty of Bridget's winter garden, now bathed in the first shimmer of dawn. She managed to maintain a degree of contentment here in Ireland, one that, at times, bordered on happiness as she grew close to both her mother and Mima, whose health actually seemed to be improving. Their Christmas, though hauntingly lonely without Patrick, Sean, and Collin, was pleasant enough, she supposed. The children seemed to understand nothing was the same these days, not even Christmas, and she was grateful they took it all in stride. All but Katie, of course, whose appetite for Christmas was second to none. "Why aren't Daddy and Sean and Collin here, Mama?" she asked, quite put off that Santa had refused her primary request.
"They can't, chicken. They're far away and wouldn't have the time to get here. But, we'll have Christmas together next year, I hope." Marcy had been relieved when Katie suddenly turned her attention to annoying Steven instead.
But the arrival of Patrick's letter only served to unearth the true depth of sadness she felt at his absence, and the malaise it inflicted was heavy, indeed. Marcy wiped the wetness from her eyes as she rested her head on the pages he'd written. A new year had begun, and for the first time in over twenty-two years, it had begun without him. "Oh Lord, I can't bear to think how long it might be before I see him again. Patrick's only been gone not quite three months, and already I miss him so. Please strengthen me, Lord, and strengthen him."
Marcy was weeping quietly when Faith entered the room and knelt beside her to wrap her arms around her mother. At her touch, Marcy looked up, trying to smile as she wiped the tears from her face. "Oh, Faith! It's so early. What are you doing up?"
"I think a better question is why are you crying, Mother?" Faith glanced at the letter on the table, and for a moment, a look of panic flickered in her eyes. "Is something wrong with Father or Sean?"
Marcy laughed and wiped her face with her apron. "No, Faith, there's nothing wrong. This is just the letter your father sent a few days ago. I like reading it, that's all."
Faith lowered herself into the chair and gently touched her mother's arm. "You miss him terribly, don't you?"
Marcy nodded, and fresh tears sprang to her eyes.
"Me too, Mother. But the time is coming, I know it, when we'll all be together again."
Marcy patted her hand. "I know, dear. Just this morning I read in my missal that 'God keeps in perfect peace those whose mind are stayed on him, because they trust in him."' Marcy sighed. "I do trust him, Faith, but sometimes I'm afraid the peace seems anything but perfect."
Faith's smile twisted. "I think the 'perfect' part belongs to him, Mother, not us."
"I suppose." Marcy's tone was reflective as she stared at Patrick's letter. Suddenly, she looked up and grabbed her daughter's hand. "My goodness, I never even asked how last night went! Tell me, did you have fun?"
Before Faith even uttered a word, Marcy saw the glow in her eyes. She laughed and squeezed Faith's hand. "I just knew it! You like him, don't you?"
"I'm afraid I do. I never expected this, honestly I didn't."
"Where did you go?"
"He took me to this wonderful little pub called Duffy's, just around the corner from the Times, and we ate and talked, about anything and everything. He's Catholic, of course, and would you believe he actually has a spiritual side? He's so smart and funny and-"
"Handsome?"
Faith rolled her eyes, and Marcy chuckled. "Oh, Mother, you can't believe how much. It's been absolute murder trying to concentrate at work with him around. But, of course, I never let on. And, apparently, he's been feeling pretty much the same way. So here we are."
"And, where is that, exactly?"
"Well, seeing each other, of course." A hint of a frown shadowed Faith's face.
Marcy's brow shot up. "What?"
"Well, the down side, I suppose, is the fact that Mitch is my supervisor and that could certainly be awkward at work. And then, of course, there's the age thing ..."
It was Marcy's turn to frown. "The age thing? Exactly how much 'age thing' is there?"
Faith jumped up to pour herself a cup of coffee. "Would you like a refill?"
"No, thank you, dear. How old is he, Faith?"
Faith stood at the counter, her back to Marcy as she stirred the cream in her coffee. "Thirty-four," she whispered.
"Thirty-four?" Marcy stammered, struggling with this new information.
Faith rushed to the table and knelt beside her mother. "Mother, I know he's older than me-"
"Older? Saints alive, Faith, he's only five years younger than your own father!"
Faith sat down and reached for her mother's hand. "I know, don't you think I haven't thought about that? I never dreamed something like this might happen. But I care about him, I do. Being with him last night was the first time I could finally believe I would be free from Collin. Mitch touches a chord in me, Mother, a chord I thought only Collin could."
Marcy glanced up, uneasiness gnawing her stomach. "With an older man like that, it's not the 'chord' that worries me."
Faith blushed. "I already set the ground rules, Mother, trust me."
Marcy wasn't convinced. "I do, Faith. But a man with as much experience with women as I'm sure he has, it just concerns me, that's all."
"He seems different, Mother, older, wiser than most men I've met. Oh, he was pretty put off when I told him that any kind of ... well, overt affection ... was out of the question."
"You told him that?"
Faith seemed hurt. "Of course I did. You know how I feel about that. And he didn't like it one bit, I can tell you that. But he came around."
"You think he means it?"
Faith looked up, considering the question carefully before answering. "I do. Mrs. Gerson told me she had a feeling something good was going to happen for me in Ireland. I think this might be it."
Marcy hugged her, her eyes misting up once again. "Oh, Faith, wouldn't that be something now? So, when do we get to meet Mr. Wonderful?"
Faith laughed. "Soon enough. But first, I have to get used to it myself. This has taken me by surprise, you know."
"You! I just found out my daughter's interested in a man almost twice her age!"
Faith grinned. "Yes, almost twice as old, but who knows? Maybe he'll make me twice as happy."
"I just wish your father were here," Marcy lamented. "He'd have something to say about it, I'm sure." A shiver skipped down Marcy's spine at what Patrick might have to say about s
uch a development. "Of course, I'm not all that certain you'd want to hear what your father would have to say. I think perhaps in this situation, God knew what he was doing."
Faith nodded, then smiled. "Yes, I think so. Just hope I do."
Marcy nodded. Her thoughts exactly.
"I can't believe we're finally going to meet this man of the world," Charity said. She folded the lace napkins exactly as Bridget had shown her, placing them next to each china plate. "Why isn't Faith helping to set the table, Mother? This is her dinner, after all."
Marcy's mind jumbled with thoughts as she glanced up at her daughter, crystal candlesticks in hand. "Faith has already prepared a large part of the meal, Charity. I told her she could go up and get ready. The poor thing, I've never seen her so nervous. And, it's not like this is their first date. Goodness, they've had lunch together every day this week, and she's been out with him after work a number of times. But I suppose she's concerned about us meeting him and vice versa."
"What do you know about this young man, Marcy?" Bridget asked.
Marcy dodged her mother's gaze as she placed the candlesticks dead center. "Well, he's her manager, of course, which is not the best scenario, I suppose, but then who's going to complain? Faith tells me he's quite bright, outgoing, and one of the best editors at the Times. Oh, and apparently he's a good Catholic boy, Mother."
"Mmm." Her mother mulled it over, the wheels obviously gyrating in her brain. "Can't be too young if he's an editor at the Times. How old did you say he was?"
Marcy could feel the heat of her mother's scrutiny. She gnawed at her lip, feigning deafness.
"Marcy?"
"Yes, Mother?"
"How old is the boy?"
Marcy gulped, feeling as if she just swallowed a foot in her throat. She was trapped and knew it. When it came to her family, her mother was notorious for relentless pursuit of the truth.
"Well, he's not a boy, exactly ..."
"Twenty-six ... twenty-eight? Out with it, Marcy!" Both her mother and Charity paused, staring with unrestrained curiosity.
"Thirty-four." There. It was out. Marcy peeked at her mother out of the corner of her eye. She bit her lip again when Bridget's jaw dropped. A fork slipped from Charity's hand and clinked on a plate.
"And you're allowing her to keep company with him?"
Marcy steeled herself. "I'm not any happier about the age discrepancy than you are, but Faith cares about him a great deal, and, quite frankly, I welcome anything or anyone who can get her past the heartbreak of Collin." Marcy shot a quick look at Charity before continuing. "I trust Faith. It's as simple as that. I trust her judgment, and I trust the decision she's made to have a relationship with this man." Marcy's tone implied finality of the discussion.
Bridget's lips gummed into a hard line. "Well, if you don't care about your daughter's reputation ..."
Marcy spun around, her eyes spitting fire. "Don't you dare, Mother! Faith is my daughter, and I don't give a fig what anybody thinks. I trust her."
"I'll bet Patrick would feel differently," Bridget said in a clipped tone.
The blood whooshed from Marcy's face. "Well, Patrick's not here, now is he?"
Bridget backed down, whirling to rearrange utensils on the table. "Fine. She's your daughter, not mine."
"That's right, Mother, she is." Marcy turned to Charity, who quickly dropped her gaze to fidget with a napkin. "Charity, please go upstairs and waken Katie from her nap. She'll be needing a bath. I need to tend to Mima."
Charity opened her mouth to protest. She shot her grandmother a pleading glance. Bridget nodded and Charity sighed. "All right, Mother," she said, giving Bridget a pained look.
Marcy started for the kitchen, then turned at the door, her face like stone. "You will manage to treat Mitch with the courtesy due him as a guest in your home, won't you, Mother? I'm not asking you to like him, just leave him alone. Understood?"
Bridget stiffened, her blue eyes cool as her lip jutted forth. "Tonight, consider me a deaf mute, my dear, instead of your mother."
Marcy fought a smile as she looked at the resolute face of her mother the martyr, as stubborn a mule in all of Ireland. With head held high and face as stoic as she could manage, Marcy forged her way to the kitchen. Once inside, she exhaled, collapsing against the door as a grin infected her lips. She didn't know who was more the mule, she or her mother. And frankly, she hoped to high heaven she wouldn't have to find out.
Brady wanted to kick himself. He let Collin railroad him again. He watched McGuire exercise his charms on a saucy little thing who either didn't care she was about to be taken advantage of or hoped to steal the heart of a handsome doughboy. He swore after the last time he wouldn't be party to another of Collin's you'll-have-a-great-timetrust-me ploys. And yet, here he was, dead tired in a bar at 2:00 a.m., while Collin pulled out the stops to get lucky with yet another pretty face. It made Brady sick, and he was through putting up with it. It was time to go.
Rising to his feet, Brady plucked his jacket off the chair. Collin ceased nuzzling the girl in his lap to look up, the slits of his eyes rounding in surprise. "Hey, of buddy, where ya going?"
Brady finished off the last of his ginger ale, set the glass on the table, and put on his coat. "I'm heading back."
Collin laughed and reached for the starter handle to the motor lorry he and four other soldiers had been lucky enough to finagle for the evening. He waved it in the air. 'Aren't ya forgettin' somethin', of buddy?" Collin's grin was as muddled as his words, and Brady could see his friend was on his way to another monumental hangover.
"I'll walk," Brady said in disgust and turned away, only to reel around and press his palms flat on the table. He focused on Collin's bloodshot eyes. "Come on, Collin, let's call it a night. The rest of the guys'll come along if you do. What do you say?"
The smile dissolved on Collin's face. "Come on, Brady," he slurred under his breath. "I'm 'bout t' get lucky here. Why don' ya give it a try? She's got a friend who's been eyein' you all night." Collin winked, then buried his lips in the woman's neck.
Brady was tired and didn't care anymore. There was only one way to get to Collin, apparently. "I wonder what Faith would say if she could see you now, of buddy."
Collin's reaction was swift for someone so inebriated. He pulled away from the woman's mouth and spat a curse into Brady's face. Rage opened the slits of his eyes to reveal red-rimmed whites. "Get out of here, Brady, or so help me I'll rip you apart. I told ya once never to mention her name to me again. Go on, get out! You're no friend to me."
Brady reached in his pocket and hurled a few coins on the table, his eyes as black as Collin's. He slammed the chair in, sloshing the beer in Collin's glass. "I am, you idiot, you just don't know it. Just like you don't know what the devil you're doing now. You sit here and treat these women like their only purpose in life is to gratify you. You think you're in control, but I got news for you-they're controlling you."
Collin cursed again and staggered up, toppling the woman to the floor. He blinked as if in a stupor, then extended a limp hand to help her up. She slapped it away in a tirade of high-pitched French, then picked herself up and stormed to the other side of the bar.
Brady braced himself as Collin weaved to face him, his face flushed with fury and his mouth twisted in rage. A vein quivered in his temple as he clawed the side of the chair to steady himself. "Get this, Brady, and get it good. No woman will ever control me," he hissed, enunciating each word with slurred emphasis.
"No, instead you'll let yourself be controlled by something that will destroy you even more thoroughly. Everybody's controlled by something, Collin, don't kid yourself. It may be your base desires instead of a woman, but it will enslave you nonetheless. You know, I would have thought you were smarter than this. Your drive for love is so strong, it's just a real shame your own ignorance will stop you from finding it." Brady chafed the side of his face and sighed. He held his hand out. "Give me the crank, Collin."
Collin's stare
glazed past him. "Everybody's controlled by something," he repeated dully. He closed his eyes and slumped in the chair. All at once, he laid his head on the table and began to sob.
With his heart thudding in his chest, Brady eased into a chair and rested his hand on Collin's shoulder. Something told him this was a graced moment, that God was giving him a window of opportunity to impact his friend with the truth. Lord, help me to reach him, Brady prayed. Taking a deep breath, he pressed on.
"Collin, it doesn't have to be like this. You don't have to let this control you anymore. This is not the way to get the love you want. Faith knew that, and you can too. Trust me, Collin. I wouldn't steer you wrong, and neither would she. Faith loves you, and the only thing standing in the way is this-your rebellion against God and everything he represents. He wants you, Collin. He wants you to pursue him instead of your lust."
Collin might have been asleep, for all Brady knew, now lifeless and still and his head buried in his arms. But as Brady finished speaking, Collin's body stiffened, and when his head lurched up, Brady barely recognized him. His face, blotched and swollen, was pinched in shock as his bloodshot eyes fixed on Brady's. "What did you say?" he whispered.
"No, the last thing-what was the last thing you said?" Collin's eyes were crazed.
Brady thought about it. "I said he wants you, Collin. He wants you to pursue him instead of your lust."
Brady watched as this grown man trembled before him. He had never seen Collin like this. For that matter, he had never seen anyone like this before, and he sensed something spiritual was going on. Collin's fingers shook as he ripped them through his hair. He seemed almost fearful as his eyes locked on Brady's.
"That's just what she said, Brady, word for word, the first time she talked to me about God. How could you know that? How could you?"
Brady exhaled slowly, a shiver traveling his spine. He smiled. "I didn't, Collin, but God did. What I want to know is, what's it going to take to get your attention?"
A Passion Most Pure (Daughters of Boston, Book 1) Page 28