A hint of fire sparked in her eyes as she opened them. She dropped her arms-and the act. "Why are you laughing?" she snapped.
His smile was patient. "Because you're such a little girl. You've got plenty of time for all of this, Charity. Why don't you just slow down?"
Her back squared, and for the first time, he saw the same Irish temper he'd seen in Faith. He grinned, despite the blistering look on her face.
"You didn't think I was a little girl when you kissed me," she said.
The smile froze on his lips. She thumped back against the booth, her arms rigidly crossed while the golden curls spilled down the front of that amazing blue dress.
His eyes smoldered as the waiter reappeared, setting the cups of coffee down. Mitch shoved a cup toward her, and the dark liquid sloshed into the saucer. "Drink it," he ordered, and she sulked as she grabbed the spoon to stir in the cream.
He brought his own cup to his lips and sipped while he watched her, then set it down again. He sloped forward to glare like a stern parent. "So help me, Charity, you tripped me up once; you can rest assured I'll do my level best to see it won't happen again. You are a handful, little girl, and one of these days it's going to get you into trouble way over your head."
Her eyes narrowed as she drank her coffee. "You know, Mitch, you can treat me like a child if you like, and you can even place yourself in the role of wise adult if it makes you feel any better. But the truth of the matter is, you wanted to kiss me. You know it, and I know it, and we're both well aware no child could have elicited that response."
Her smile was smug as his jaw slacked open. She picked up her cup to sip again, leveling her gaze. He snapped his mouth shut, and a muscle jerked in his cheek. He gulped his coffee and opened his wallet to pay the check, avoiding her eyes.
She took her time finishing, then stepped from behind the booth, never looking back as she calmly made her way toward the door. Mitch threw some money on the table and followed, completely aware of the stares she drew walking through the restaurant, shoulders back and head high. Outside, she waited for him with a frosty look on her face. "Will you give me a lift home?" she asked, her tone chilly.
He nodded and opened the door of the car, and she slipped in without so much as a thank-you. He pinched his lips together, afraid to risk any dialogue. She had a knack for turning things around on him, and he wasn't in the mood to give her the chance.
When he pulled up in front of Bridget's house, he left the engine running while he waited for her to get out, his jaw clamped tight. Despite the cool of the night, he was sweating. Not only because he'd sat in this same spot with Faith more times than he could remember, but because Charity made him downright nervous. In his book, she was only a kid of eighteen. Yet when it came to men, she was truly wise beyond her years, and he had already gone down that road one time too many. "Good night, Charity," he said, hoping the finality of his tone would tell her he wasn't interested.
"Good night, Mitch." She leaned over to kiss his lips. The shock of it caused his heart to stop as she balanced a hand on his leg.
He grabbed her wrist and jerked it back. "So help me, Charity-"
She lunged at him again, causing a surge of heat to roll over him. Blast it all, it wasn't fair, he moaned to himself. He pushed her away, his breathing too fast to suit him.
She fell hard against the seat, hair disheveled and defiance glowing in her eyes. "I know you're attracted to me, Mitch," she said, her voice tinged with anger and hurt.
He tunneled his hand through his hair and took a deep breath. "Whether I am or not is beside the point. You're too young, Charity."
"I'm only two years younger than Faith. Age didn't seem to be an issue with her."
Mitch sighed. "I know you don't want to hear this, but I'm not looking for what you're offering. Before Faith, I would have gladly accommodated you. But not now. Your sister taught me something I never would have believed possible. True passion-the kind that really satisfies-isn't cheap. It doesn't manipulate and coax for a moment's pleasure. Believe it or not, it's tied to real love ... and it always has God's blessing."
Tears welled in her eyes, and he sighed. He lifted her chin with his finger. "The truth is, Charity, yes, I am attracted to you. A man would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to be. But it's not enough. There's more out there than turning a head. And I'm really afraid if you don't find that out now, you're going to be one unhappy lady."
Charity sniffed and swiped a tear from her cheek. Mitch wiped another off with his hand. "Promise me you'll stop this. You're only going to end up getting hurt. Trust me, what you're selling, only the wrong guys will be buying."
For the first time, the facade appeared to be gone as she slumped in the seat, a sigh quivering from her lips. "I don't know how," she whispered. "This ... comes so easily for me."
He nodded. "With your looks, I don't wonder. But you need to straighten up. Get yourself right with God. It'll do wonders in finding the love you're looking for."
Her brow wrinkled. She cocked her head and scrutinized him out of the corner of her eye. "If I did, would I have a chance with you?"
He laughed and shook his head. "We're not talking about me, Charity, we're talking about you. You just need to shape up. And get a little older."
He could see a smile forming on her lips. "I can do that," she whispered. She opened the door and slid out. After shutting the door behind her, she leaned in the window and grinned. "Once I go through that door, it's all over, you know. Sure you don't want to reconsider?"
He cleared his throat to keep from smiling. "Go to bed, little girl, and ask God to help you. I'll be watching."
"I'm counting on it," she said. Flouncing her hair over her shoulder, she disappeared into the house before he could even get out of gear.
Marcy caught herself humming, an unusual thing in itself these days. She seemed to have lost so much of her sparkle over the last year, but lately she had managed to rebound on Saturdays. Whether it was the fact she enjoyed knowing the children could sleep in and awaken to the hot breakfast she prepared, or whether it was the feeling that the war was coming to an end, she wasn't quite sure. But the lift was in her step, nonetheless, and when Saturdays rolled around, she was always grateful for the reprieve.
The end was near, she was certain. The newspapers tiptoed around it, and her neighbors spoke of it in hushed tones, almost afraid to speak too loud lest it not be true. But it was coming. She could feel it in her bones. Change-as sure as the autumn breeze silently whirling into a cool bluster-and Marcy couldn't wait. She was tired of the loneliness and the worry. She was tired of missing Patrick and Sean and Collin. And she was especially tired of her family scattered.
She glanced up at the clock as she kneaded the dough that would soon become popovers for her children's breakfast, and then pushed aside a strand of hair with her arm. Almost nine o'clock! She could hear footsteps above and knew Katie had wakened, no doubt refusing to let her grandmother sleep one moment longer. Marcy thought of how difficult it would be for her mother and Mima when she and her family left, as they all knew they would. They had shared laughter and love, tears and heartbreak for a year now, and Marcy worried how her family's departure might affect them.
The kitchen door flew open, and Katie came bounding in, blond hair streaming behind. She ran to clutch at Marcy's legs, nearly knocking her over. Steven was hot on her heels, a scowl on his face as he screeched to a stop in front of his mother. Marcy stared, her eyebrow arched in question. "Good morning," she said with a wry smile. "I think."
Steven apparently wasn't in agreement as he stood, arms crossed and a sour look on his face. "Mother, she's been at it again."
"What is it this time, Steven?" Marcy asked patiently, prying Katie from her legs.
"Five of my best marbles, including my aggie."
Marcy bent down to look into Katie's eyes, which were focused on the floor. "Katie, please tell me you didn't take Steven's marbles again! Katie?"
Katie
peered up at Marcy. A pixie grin curled on her lips. "Okay, I didn't take 'em."
"She did, Mother, I found them in her dishes-in a bowl of milk! "
"Katie Rose!"
"My bear needs to eat, doesn't he? He needed cereal," she said, pouting.
"Young lady, first you lie and tell me you didn't take them-"
"You told me to, Mama! You said, 'Katie, please tell me you didn't take Steven's marbles.' So I did!"
Marcy groaned and picked Katie up in her arms. "A perfectly good Saturday morning, and you have to ruin it," she muttered, lugging Katie to the door.
"No, Mama, please, no ..." Katie cried, cutting loose with a piercing scream.
Marcy attempted a smile at Steven. "Well, now, that should see to it that everyone's up for breakfast. Steven, bring the marbles to me, and I'll wash them for you, all right? Rest assured, Katie will be punished."
There were so many reasons she missed Patrick, she thought as she carried Katie kicking and screaming up the stairs, not the least of which was the deplorable chore of discipline. Katie had always been what Patrick lovingly referred to as a "handful." But the year of his absence had only made it worse, despite Marcy's best efforts at exercising control over their seven-year-old, strong-willed child. No, as far as Marcy was concerned-and Katie, apparently-Patrick could not return soon enough.
Katie was banished to her room for breakfast. The breakfast table would be a little less exciting today, but certainly more peaceful. Not necessarily a bad thing, Marcy decided. She made her rounds to waken the rest of the family, who, despite Katie's best efforts, were still sound asleep.
The doorbell rang as Marcy descended the steps, and she stopped midway. Perhaps it was Patricia looking for Elizabeth, she thought, making her way to the door. She pulled it open and was met by two soldiers who stood stone-faced, hats in hand. Marcy blinked, her hand paralyzed on the doorknob.
"Mrs. Patrick O'Connor?"
Marcy's gaze shifted to the soldier who had spoken, and she nodded slowly.
"May we come in, ma'am?" he asked.
She nodded again, never budging from the door. The soldiers glanced briefly at each other before the spokesman repeated the request.
"Ma'am, may we come inside, please?" he asked again, his voice gentle.
Marcy's hand clutched to her throat as fear fisted in her chest. "No!" she screamed. "What do you want?"
Her cry brought Charity to the landing. "Mother, what is it?" She sped down the steps, tying her robe tightly about her. She grabbed her mother's arm, but Marcy shook it off, glaring at the men.
"What do you want?" she said again.
The spokesman turned to Charity with a pleading look. "Miss, we have news of her husband. May we come in, please?"
"Of course," Charity said, her voice trembling as she pried Marcy's fingers from the door. Charity looped her arm around her mother's waist and led her to the parlor as if she were a child. The men followed silently while Bridget and the children huddled on the steps.
Charity looked up at Bridget. "Grandmother, these gentlemen have news about Father," she said calmly, and they exchanged a look of dread. "Can you take everyone into the kitchen and give them breakfast, please?" She spoke with an air of authority, and Bridget nodded, ushering Beth and Steven into the kitchen.
Marcy lowered to the couch, her eyes glazed as she stared at the floor. Charity took a seat beside her and clutched her arm around her mother's waist.
The soldier wasted no time. "Mrs. O'Connor, I regret to inform you that your husband, Private Patrick O'Connor of the 30th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Division, was killed in the line of duty-"
"Noooooooo!" The sound that issued from her lips was bloodcurdling as Marcy lunged at the soldier, her fists striking him in the chest before his arms immobilized her.
Charity reached for her mother, her eyes brimming with tears. "Mother, please ..."
"He's lying ... it's not true!" Marcy shrieked. "Patrick wouldn't leave me ... and God wouldn't do that!" Her body writhed in pain as she sank to the floor.
The soldier's face was etched in stone as he reached to pick her up. Silently, he placed her on the couch, and the two women collapsed in each other's arms. Sobs wracked their bodies.
The soldier knelt by the sofa, his voice filled with compassion. "Ma'am," he began again, "your husband died saving another soldier. He was a hero, ma'am."
Marcy gripped the sofa, her small frame convulsing.
Charity lifted her chin and blinked back the tears. "When?" she whispered.
"September 30. Your father was killed instantly by an enemy artillery shell."
"Faith's birthday," Charity whispered listlessly. "Where?" she asked, her voice cracking.
"Along the Marne River, ma'am, right outside of Paris."
Through her weeping, Marcy heard Charity choke back a sob. "Where is my father's body?" she whispered.
The soldier stood up, as if at attention.
"Ma'am, Private O'Connor was buried with military honors at the Aisen-Marne Cemetery, not far from Paris."
A violent tremor shuddered through Marcy's body. Holding onto her daughter, she attempted to rise, quivering as she stood. "Sir, we need to be alone now. . ."
The second soldier stepped forward, and for the first time, Marcy noticed the box in his hands, which he now held forward. "Ma'am, these are your husband's personal effects."
Marcy's eyes fixed on the box that was all she had left of the man she loved. Taking a step forward, she held her hands out and grasped it in her arms as a low, aching moan left her lips. The room darkened, as if the sun had suddenly left the sky on this bright, October morn, and her vision began to blur, from tears, she thought. But as the room began to spin and the blood left her brain, Marcy felt herself letting go-not the box, which she clenched tightly in her hands-but her consciousness, which demanded escape as she slowly slumped to the floor.
It was as if she were walking in a fog or a dream, so surreal were the next few moments for Charity. She saw the men to the door and returned to where her mother lay limp on the sofa. She heard Katie chattering in the kitchen, but nothing else, and realized her grandmother must have rescued her sister from her punishment. Her mother stirred, and Charity braced herself for the torment that would follow. All at once, her mother's eyes opened, and she groped at her daughter. Her sobs rose again to fill the empty parlor with the sound of her anguish.
Charity laid her head against her mother's and stroked her hair as tears streamed her own face. She didn't want to think about it now. She couldn't. Her father was dead, and she had never let him know how very much she loved him. How much she wanted to please him, to be "his girl." Charity closed her eyes, the pain in her heart choking her with grief. No, she thought to herself. Her mother needed her to be strong, not weak. She touched her mother's face. "You need to eat," she whispered, "and we need to tell the others."
Marcy nodded, and Charity braced her, and the two went arm in arm into the kitchen. Never had there been a blacker day. It passed, and then the night, but never the pain. It seemed to grow with each successive moment, and Charity felt as if they all had died. In the days that followed, when she wasn't weeping in her room, her mother would roam aimlessly through the silent house, listless as she tended duties more from habit than thought. Her grandmother did her best to uplift them all, futile as it was.
It was Charity who took on the task of notifying Sean and Faith, and of course, Collin. Her messages were brief and sparse on detail, so unusual for her, but she couldn't bring herself to say more. She grew increasingly concerned about her mother as she watched her spiral into a black hole of depression. Always an early riser, her mother now took to sleeping much later, forcing her grandmother, at times, to try and rouse her in the early afternoon so she would not be up half the night with her thoughts.
By the end of the first week following the news of Patrick's death, Charity was sick with worry. Her mother wouldn't eat and was wasting away to nothing, her face pale and h
er eyes lifeless. Her grandmother was distraught, as well, and both she and Charity were at a loss as to what to say or do.
As they sat in the kitchen one morning, her mother suddenly appeared at the door, dark circles under her eyes and a vacant stare that had become all too familiar. "Mother, you're up! Can I get you some coffee?" Charity asked. Marcy nodded, and Charity jumped up to pour a cup. She handed it to her.
Marcy closed her eyes and sipped it slowly. When she opened them again, the faraway look was steeled with determination. "Mother, Charity ... I know you've been worried about me, and I'm sorry. I know I haven't been myself, but then I wonder if I will ever be again." She took a deep breath and another sip of coffee. Tears welled in her eyes. "Your father ... Patrick ... was the world to me. I still can't believe he's gone." The wetness began to spill, and she quickly rubbed it away. "But he is," she breathed, "and we all must go on. I've decided to sell the house in Boston." Marcy looked at Bridget. "Mother, if you don't mind, I'd like to stay with you indefinitely, at least till my head is clearer. Then, I can find a house of my own here in Ireland."
Bridget grabbed her hand. "Marcy, stay as long as you like. I love you; you know that."
Marcy nodded. "Charity, I need you to call Mitch. Tell him I need to see him."
Charity opened her mouth, her heart fluttering in surprise. Mitch! In the agony of Patrick's death, he hadn't entered her mind, and the thought shocked her. As she thought of him now, a flood of peace rushed in. "Of course, Mother. I'll call him on Monday, unless you have his home number."
"No, Monday's fine, dear. Mitch was kind enough to offer his help after Faith left, and I never believed I would need it, but I do. I've decided to go to Boston and settle things there. I'll bring Faith home, then maybe we can get some closure, and in time, get on with our lives."
Marcy reached for Charity's hand. "Charity, when the war is over, I don't expect you to stay, you know. I'm sure Collin will want to live in Boston."
A Passion Most Pure (Daughters of Boston, Book 1) Page 35