"Why don't you two start here and pack up as much as you can? I'll head upstairs and finish the bedrooms," Marcy said.
"We'll make short work of it, Mrs. O'Connor," Mitch assured her, and Marcy gave him a tired smile before leaving the kitchen.
Mitch rose to his feet with a sour feeling in his stomach.
Faith looked up. "Is that all right with you?"
"I'm not fragile, Faith," he said with a hard stare. "I won't break if we're alone in the same room together."
She bit her lip. "I know. I just meant-"
"I know what you meant," he said curtly. He moved to the counter to commence packing.
They worked quietly side by side, wrapping dishes in newspaper before packing them away into boxes and crates throughout the room. There was a mundane ease to the task, which helped for the moment to quell the uneasiness he felt. Eventually, they began to talk about things that didn't hurt as much-her job at the Herald, Mrs. Gerson, Maisie and some person named Danny whom Maisie was seeing.
It didn't take long for the laughter to surface, and Mitch sensed his anger fading, a development that only caused him alarm. He needed the anger to stay strong. If he lost it, there was no telling what he would do. And he couldn't afford to relent, not on this. When the sound of her laughter would soften his heart, he would remember Collin. Then the edge would return, keeping his feelings safely pinned beneath the heat of his anger. He could do this, he thought. He would get through this day and on that ship with his anger intact, where he could put a little distance between them-distance to think, distance to pray, and distance to get on with his life if he had to.
Marcy silently made her way from bedroom to bedroom, packing away the few things still left after days of dismantling each of her family's rooms. She moved slowly, her face void of any expression as she methodically went about the business of storing their lives into crate after crate. All of the rooms were mostly barren by now, except for Sean and Steven's, where Mitch had stayed, and her own, of course, where she and Faith had slept, when sleep came. More often than not, it evaded them altogether.
Marcy stood in the hall and stared at the only room left to pack. For a moment, she couldn't move, or wouldn't, so unwilling was she to face her final moments in the room she had shared with Patrick. The door was closed, and a part of her wanted it to remain that way. Opening it would only subject her to further pain, and yet, she knew that this would be her moment of closure, her final good-bye to the man whose love was still more real than his death.
Straightening her shoulders, she walked to the door and pushed it open. She caught her breath, totally unprepared for the grief that gripped her heart. She stood there, hand propped against the side of the door as her legs weakened and tears sprang to her eyes. The sunlight filled the room with its glorious light-the same light where she had awakened for over twenty-one years next to the man who had been the light of her life. The room had been stripped except for the bed and a few items on the bureau, but Marcy looked at the bare walls and stark furnishings and saw only the years of joy she had known.
She moved to the bureau and raised her hand to trace the outline of the pitcher and glass sitting next to her perfume and toiletries. Her thoughts wandered to the night Patrick had come home from Brannigan's, liquor on his breath and perfume on his clothes. She smiled, recalling how he'd tiptoed into the room and gargled with her perfumed water before sneaking into bed. She had been so wounded, and he had been so tender ...
Her eyes squeezed shut, sending hot tears streaming down her face. No, she thought to herself, I won't think about that now. She turned to strip the bed and stopped, taking his pillow in hand as she stood transfixed. Slowly, painfully, she wrapped her arms around it and closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of him with his musk soap and hint of pipe tobacco, and her heart ached for his touch. She looked at the bed where he had held her and loved her and given her his children. She collapsed on it, and a choked cry escaped her lips. Clutching his pillow in her arms, she rolled into a fetal position and wept, her anguish rebounding once again.
"Oh, God," she cried through broken sobs, "I can't live without him! Everywhere I go, I see his face and hear his voice. Why did you allow this? Why? Why did you take him?"
"Marcy ..." She heard the voice of God more clearly and audibly than she had ever heard it before. She listened intently, a strange warmth flooding her soul.
"Marcy," it said again, and her heart froze. "He kept me alive for this moment."
The room grew hazy white around the edges as she looked up. She screamed, and her eyes blurred with wetness as she stared. Frantically, she blinked the tears away, and when she looked again, he was still there, standing in the doorway. She screamed again and he laughed. Then she did, and within two great strides, her husband was holding her in his arms, hoisting her from the bed.
"Oh, Patrick!" She wept as she seized him, unwilling to let go, even to look into his face. She could feel his lips in her hair, on her neck, and she cried harder until he picked her up and placed her back on the bed. He crawled in beside her and clutched her tightly.
"How?" she cried, her fingers digging into his back. She felt the movement of his laughter against her cheek as she pressed hard against his chest. "They said you were dead!"
He pulled back to take her face in his hands.
"Not dead," he said with a faint smile. "Wounded. Enough to be unconscious awhile."
"A coma?" she asked, her hand tenderly exploring his face.
Patrick nodded and rubbed the back of his head. "A piece of shrapnel put a pretty good dent in my skull, but I made it."
"But they said you were buried in France-with military honors. How could they make such a mistake?"
His smile faded. "They buried my friend, Thomas LaRue. They thought it was me."
"Was he the friend you tried to save, or did he save you?"
"How did you know that?"
Marcy gently touched the back of his head and shivered. She stroked his cheek again to make sure he was real. "The soldiers who notified us ... they said you died trying to save a friend. They said you were a hero."
Patrick's eyes were somber. "Some hero. I got myself wounded and LaRue killed trying to get him back to the barracks. He was sick, and I was afraid he would die."
Marcy reached to brush her lips against his, and he kissed her back, jerking her to him with a force that sent a wave of heat pulsing through her.
She pulled away, breathless. "But, Patrick, how could they make such an awful mistake?"
"LaRue said he was dying, but I refused to believe it. He wanted me to make sure his wife got the cross he wore, but it was tangled with his dog tags. I argued with him, but he insisted. To appease him, I put it around my neck, fully intending to return it once I got him to the billet. But we never made it. I felt something hit my head, and I could tell I was blanking out. I grabbed his chain from my neck and put it on his arm before passing out. Only, it wasn't his chain; it was mine. LaRue died, and they thought it was me."
Marcy stared, her eyes and mouth gaping as tears puddled her cheek. She put her hand to her lips. "Oh, Patrick, I wanted to die, I missed you so much."
He buried his face in her hair, and his voice brimmed with emotion as he held her close. "I know, Marcy, I'm so sorry. I notified your mother before I was to ship out, and that's when I discovered you'd gone to Boston. I came directly here."
"They know you're alive?" she cried, and he nodded. "Thank God!" she whispered and then suddenly sat upright on the bed. "Why didn't they send me a telegram? Why didn't you?"
He gazed up at her, his lips suddenly solemn. "I'm sorry, Marcy, but a cold telegram would have arrived only days prior, and I ... I wanted to see-no, I had to see-your face ... when you found out. I had to."
Her lips parted in shock. She slapped him on the chest. "Patrick O'Connor," she screamed, "how dare you put me through such torture!"
He grinned and traced his finger on her arm. "Forgive me, Marcy. But like I
said-God kept me alive for this moment-the moment I could touch you again, love you again ..."
She caught her breath. He smiled, his eyes never leaving hers as he leaned to kiss her. The minute their lips touched, he pulled her to him, his hands hot as they caressed her body.
"Oh, Patrick, there's no way I can tell you how much I missed you," she whispered.
All at once, he pulled away. Standing up, he quietly walked to the door while Marcy sat up in surprise. She watched as he closed it, her heart beating wildly. He was thinner, but muscular, she thought, and a lump bobbed in her throat when she heard the lock click. Turning around, he slowly walked to the bed with a grin on his face. "Try," he whispered.
Her cheeks burned as heat jolted through her. Easing back on the bed, she tossed a strand of hair over her shoulder and returned his grin with a saucy one of her own. "Thought you'd never ask, soldier."
His laugh was decadent as he sank beside her, pulling her to him with an urgency that made her dizzy. "Oh, Patrick, I love you so much," she breathed. Her pulse pounded as his lips traveled her neck and shoulders. Her hands couldn't get enough of touching him, and he responded by kissing her hard on the mouth, passion raging through them like wildfire.
"It was thoughts of you, Marcy, that kept me sane," he whispered in her ear, "and thoughts of this that drove me crazy." He laughed and rolled on his back, his eyes wicked with desire. In one abrupt motion, he pulled her to him and kissed her, enflaming the fire within until it was out of control.
Never in all her twenty-one years had Faith known such gratitude as this, sitting across from her father and mother in a disrupted kitchen, laughing and crying as they sipped endless cups of coffee. Her father looked leaner and harder, perhaps his face more lined from the weathered look of a soldier too long in the trenches, but handsome as ever. He sat lounging in the chair, his arm draped over her mother's shoulder. Marcy's eyes glowed as she snuggled near, leaning against his chest as if she couldn't quite get close enough. Indeed, she couldn't. She had her husband back from the dead, and Faith suspected she wouldn't let him too far out of range anytime soon.
Faith would never forget the moment he entered the kitchen. She and Mitch had been talking about something Maisie had said when the door swung open. She had assumed it was her mother and continued wrapping newspaper around the plate she'd been holding. "Are you done already?" she had asked, her back to the door. And then she heard him laugh.
"More than done," he said.
The plate in her hand crashed to the floor. She whirled around, and her hand flew to her mouth as a faint cry issued forth. In the next moment, she was bolting across the room, flinging herself into his arms. Patrick scooped her up off the floor and gave her a ferocious hug. "Oh, I've missed my girl!" he said with a throaty laugh.
She clutched his neck, sobbing in his arms. "Daddy, oh Daddy. . ."
Patrick smiled and put her back down. "Look at you! You've gone and grown up on me."
"They said you were dead ..."
"And you believed them?" he scoffed. "Where's your faith, young lady?" He stroked the tears from her cheek. "I'll tell you all about it soon enough. But for now, where's your mother?" His eyes scanned the kitchen and rested on Mitch.
Faith blushed. "Oh, Father, this is Mitch. I wrote you about him; he's my ... well, we were ... engaged."
Patrick's eyebrow arched in surprise. "Were?"
Mitch held out his hand to Patrick, a grin on his face. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. O'Connor. Faith has talked so much about you, I feel like we've already met."
"Good to meet you too, Mitch, but I hope you'll excuse me if I cut this short for now." His eyes twinkled. "You see, I have an important message for my wife. Where is she?"
"In her bedroom," Faith said with a giggle. "Uh, excuse me ... your bedroom," she corrected, prompting a wink from her father before he left the kitchen.
The excitement coursed through Faith's body as she thought about what her mother's reaction would be. Within seconds she heard a scream, and then another, and she grinned at Mitch, her hands over her heart. "I tell you Mitch, theirs is the most romantic relationship I've ever seen."
Mitch smiled faintly.
"Ours was too," she whispered, her voice shy. He flinched and turned away to grab another plate. She sighed. So that was how he wanted it, she thought sadly, reaching for a dish to wrap. "What time does your ship pull out again?" she asked, changing the subject.
Mitch looked at his watch briefly, then returned his attention to wrapping one of Marcy's huge salad bowls. "Five," he said, his tone flat.
"What time is it now?"
"Noon." He never missed a beat putting the newspaperwrapped bowl into a crate. He grabbed another.
Faith eyed him, somewhat annoyed. "Is this what the next few hours are going to be like? Because if they are, I'd just as soon you leave now."
He slowly turned, his blue eyes glinting like quartz. "I'll leave when I'm good and ready."
Heat flooded her cheeks. "Michael was right. You are pigheaded."
"Words spoken by the master," he remarked dryly. Stay angry, he told himself. She spun around with her hands clenched on her hips. "I wouldn't marry you if you got down on your knees and begged."
Mitch glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Well, we both know that's not going to happen. If memory serves, I believe I'm the one who called the engagement off."
He watched the fuse lick its way to the dynamite. Her green eyes sparked with anger, and her lips pressed white. She turned and kicked an empty crate.
Mitch felt his resolve thawing. He fought a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "Your temper is going to get you into trouble one of these days."
Her chin lashed up in defiance. "Well, you won't have to worry about that, now will you? I never would have said yes if I'd known what a bully you were."
"You knew," he said curtly, then turned to face her full on. "And trust me-I never would have asked had I'd known how much grief you'd be."
Blood surged into her cheeks. She slapped at a wild strand of hair in her eyes and then struggled to compose herself. Her eyes iced to cool. "Forgive me for ruining your life," she whispered. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there's packing I can do upstairs." She turned.
He swore out loud and strode toward her, eyes blazing and jaw clenched tight. He reached for her arm and spun her around. "I don't want to fight with you."
"You could have fooled me."
He took a deep breath and loosened his grip. Instantly, his anger faded to hurt. "Go home with me," he whispered, his tone suddenly pleading. "Your mother won't be sailing now; you can use her ticket. Faith, I love you . . ." He released his hold, then slammed his palm against the wall. "I wish I didn't, but I do."
She blinked, her anger melting away. Everything had happened so quickly, it hadn't occurred that her mother would stay ... that they would all stay. Only moments ago, Boston had been dead to her and Ireland the home she longed for. Suddenly, in the time it took for her father to walk through that door, it all changed again, and the shock of it chilled her. Mitch seemed to be watching her closely, his breathing suspended as he awaited her answer.
"Oh. I hadn't realized ... yes, of course Mother will stay . . ." she whispered.
He took her face in his hands. "Come with me," he said, bending to kiss her. Her pulse stirred, and then without warning, she thought of Collin. An awful ache severed her response.
"Come with me," he repeated, and she shivered in his arms when she realized she couldn't. All at once, in the time it took for the breath to rise and fall in her chest, she knew-knew that her life was here, here with her parents, in Boston. To begin again, after a painful delay, the life she had known and loved. And, she thought to herself with trembling, a life with Collin, if he would still have her.
Mitch searched her face, and what he saw must have spelled his doom. He dropped his hands to his sides.
"I can't," she whispered.
"I didn't think s
o." He slowly walked to the table and sagged into the chair, as if in a stupor. "But you know how stubborn we newsmen can be." He attempted a faint smile, then looked up. The smile faded. "It's over, isn't it, Faith?"
Her knees buckled at the weight of his words, and she gripped the wall to steady herself.
"I thought so," he said quietly. "The moment I saw that pretty-boy soldier standing in your kitchen, I had a hunch I was history."
She slacked against the wall, hand over her mouth.
He jumped up and walked to her side and folded her in his arms. His head rested on hers as she wept against his chest. He stroked her hair. "I'm going to be fine, you know. And so are you. We both know God's in control of our lives. This is his doing, not ours. Apparently he has something even better in mind for both of us."
Faith looked up through swollen eyes. "I do love you, Mitch."
"I know you do. What's not to love?" he asked, a shaky smile on his lips. "But, we both know it's Collin who has the corner on your heart."
He grabbed her chin with his hand. "So help me, if that fool doesn't appreciate what he has, I'll take him down, I swear I will. Nothing would give me more pleasure ... except having you. If it doesn't work out, I want you on the first ship to Ireland. Understood?"
She nodded while her eyes pooled with tears once again. He wiped the wetness from her face and shook his head. "As God as my witness, never have I seen more tears in my entire life until I met you and your family. Tell me, please, that the O'Connor men aren't like this." He gave her a hug, then released her again. He picked up a wrapped dish from a crate and waved it in the air. "We've wasted enough time. Start unpacking."
For the first time that day, Faith sensed that the tension between them had finally eased, and the finality of their decision left them with a strange peace.
Eventually, Patrick and Marcy arrived in the kitchen, their faces aglow with the same love and tenderness that had mesmerized Faith her whole life. Mother and daughter took one look at each other, and the tears bubbled in unison. Patrick grinned at Mitch.
A Passion Most Pure (Daughters of Boston, Book 1) Page 41