“I can’t believe I opened my mouth.”
“Oh, but you didn’t have to. Do you think I didn’t notice you sulking all the way to the library? I know we’ve only been friends for three weeks, but I feel like I’ve known you forever. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Faith forced a weak smile. How could she be angry with Maisie? She was the best friend she’d ever had too. Faith sunk into the chair and stared glumly ahead, hands limp on the table. She shot a furtive glance at the few other people in the room before fixing her gaze on Maisie. “I’ve never told this to another living soul, except my dear neighbor who is more like a grandmother to me.”
Maisie nodded.
Faith took a deep breath and proceeded to unravel the whole sad tale—from the schoolgirl crush to the pivotal kiss in the park. Her friend sat wide-eyed as Faith spilled her heart. When finished, she felt lighter, as if sharing the burden made it more bearable.
Maisie shook her head in amazement. “And to think I thought you were this brainy bookworm with little or no experience with men.”
“But I am, that’s just it. At the end of this week, I’ll be nineteen, and that was my first kiss ever.” Faith’s shoulders sagged. “That is, if you don’t count Peter McKenna in the third grade.”
Maisie rolled her eyes. “Oh, but what a kiss! I’d pay a week’s salary for a kiss like that.”
Faith made a wry face. “Well, I wouldn’t. It’s my sister he wants.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Anyway,” Faith said, quickly dismissing the notion, “one thing I am sure of is Collin McGuire is trouble for both me and my sister. My head—and my heart—tell me loud and clear to stay away from the likes of him.”
Maisie suddenly jolted upright in the chair. In a scrunch of freckles, she peered at Faith. “Hey, Charity was awfully anxious to spend the evening in the library. You don’t suppose …” She bounced up and started for the door.
“Suppose what? Wait! Where do you think you’re going?”
Maisie wheeled around, grinning like a pixie. “I need a book from the language department.”
“Oh no you don’t!” Faith said as she ran after her.
“Oh yes I do. I need something on the language of love.” She drawled out the word so ridiculously that Faith couldn’t help a little giggle as she ran to keep up with her.
“Maisie, you’re crazy!”
“Hush! The esteemed department of language lies just beyond those doors. Do you want to stay here while I explore?”
“No, I’ll come. If he’s here, I’d like to embarrass him—both of them.” Somehow the thought of Collin and Charity together didn’t have quite the sting to it with Maisie by her side. They tiptoed into the cavernous language department, which was dimly lit and mostly deserted this time of night. An elderly gentleman sat reading in a far corner while two students appeared to be studying—each other more than the books strewn on the table before them.
Maisie motioned her head toward the bookshelves in the loft area overhead. Faith nodded. The two crept up the staircase like burglars on the prowl. Faith shadowed her friend while she peeked around each and every bookcase. All at once, Maisie lunged back, colliding into her. With a look of smug victory, she put her finger to her lips and pointed. Faith took a deep breath. It jammed in her throat when Maisie yanked her into the aisle where Collin McGuire hovered over her sister. His hands were pressed against the wall on either side as if caging her in, but Charity seemed anything but trapped. She smiled up at him beneath thick lashes. Faith heard Collin laugh, and her body went cold as she shrank out of sight.
“Look, Faith, I found her!” Maisie announced, causing Charity to gasp and Collin to swear. He spun around.
“Mmm … nice research,” Maisie said. She stretched her hand toward Collin, who stood speechless. “You must be Collin McGuire. I’m Maisie. It’s nice to meet you,” she said.
Maisie reached back and jerked Faith into open view. She wanted to die. There she stood, face-to-face with the man who had occupied most of her thoughts—and prayers—for the last seven days. Faith was as crimson as Charity, who stood in shock, her back hard against the wall.
Collin appeared immobilized for the briefest amount of time before he visibly relaxed. A shadow of a smile formed on his lips. “Hello, Little Bit,” he said softly.
“You know my sister?” Charity asked, a slight razor edge to her voice.
Collin never took his eyes from Faith’s. “We’ve met. Let’s see, I believe it was in the—”
“High school,” Faith interrupted. “It was in high school.”
His smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.
He’s enjoying this! Instinctively, her lips clamped tight. He laughed out loud. “And just what is so incredibly funny?” Faith demanded.
He laughed again. “You. You’re the same funny little girl you were then.”
Faith was appalled, Charity seemed relieved, and Maisie appeared to enjoy every mortifying moment. Collin turned back to Charity. “Enjoyed the book. Let me know when the next one comes in.” He reached to pull her close and kissed her soundly.
Faith looked away with heat scorching her cheeks. Collin turned and edged by, resting a hand on her shoulder in a fraternal fashion. He leaned close to her ear. “What about you, Faith? Read any good books lately?”
He’s a devil, she thought, her heart thundering in her chest.
With effortless charm, Collin turned to Maisie. He nodded his head toward her. “Nice to meet you too—Maisie, is it? Have a good evening, ladies.”
And with that he was gone, leaving, as always, bewildered women in his wake.
5
Patrick tried to remember the last time he’d crossed the threshold of Brannigan’s Pub—certainly not within the last twenty years. There’d been no need. From the moment he had laid eyes on Marcy, she had been all the intoxication he needed. But tonight … well, tonight he needed more, and with lips leveled in a hard line, he once again returned to the dark and smoky confines of the pub that had once been a second home. He looked around. Almost nothing had changed, except for the faces and style of clothing the patrons wore. They still crowded around the same rickety piano and leaned against the same endless cherrywood bar, which looked as if it were polished to a gleam twice a day. The smoky haze was the same, the smells were the same, and the lure and promise of trading in one’s problems for a night of revelry was as strong as ever.
Patrick only recognized a few faces, such as Lucas Brannigan, the proud owner of this, the most successful pub in the Southie neighborhood. And, of course, there was Tommy Thomkins, minstrel to those who found themselves alone and miserable, catering to anyone who would drink up his melodies along with bottomless mugs of beer.
Patrick found a vacant barstool and wearily sat down, wedged between a bloke passed out on the bar and a young couple so entwined they only required a single stool. The sleeping man beside him was snoring loudly, cheek pressed hard on the cherrywood bar. Drool funneled from his mouth into a pool of saliva. Patrick forced himself to stare straight ahead at the endless rows of bottles overhead, each reflected in the smoky mirror behind, each a tonic of choice for various problems of the afflicted. The couple to his right disengaged momentarily to sate their thirst, and Patrick caught the nauseating scent of perfume mingled with sweat and stale beer. The whiff of it reminded him just how much Marcy had changed his life for the better.
The thought of her now brought a strange mix of sadness and longing, and more than a bit of anger. They’d had their arguments over the years, but she had never done this before, never questioned his authority or spoken to him with anything other than the utmost respect. And certainly, she had never turned him out of her bed before. Patrick nodded to the bartender who pushed a foaming mug toward him, the frothy rise of beer tumbling over the edge before slithering into a puddle on the bar.
He brought the mug to his lips, and the biting brew tasted strong and good going
down. So much so, he was shocked when he emptied it. He would have only one more, he vowed to himself. This wasn’t the end of his life, after all, only an argument, a minor interruption in a twenty-one-year love affair that was the impetus of everything good in his life. She would know by his absence just how much she had hurt him, and she would be sorry and ready to welcome him back. Patrick signaled for another, then sipped it slower this time as he mulled over his thoughts. He downed the dregs of the mug and blinked in surprise when the bartender magically produced another, its glorious overflow enticing him to succumb.
His sweaty palms hovered around the glass. He was wrestling with pushing it away when he felt the presence of someone standing close, lodged between the hopelessly entangled couple and himself. He blinked up at a pretty woman in her midthirties, and his fingers recoiled as if he’d touched a hot stove. Her dark hair billowed loosely about her shoulders while her green eyes assessed him with open curiosity.
She nodded at his beer. “Drink up—my treat. And tell me now, sweetness, where in the world have you been keeping yourself!” It was a statement of pleasant surprise rather than a question, and Patrick could do nothing but stare, completely caught off-guard by the woman before him. Her smile broke into a delighted grin at the effect she seemed to be having, and she sidled closer until barely inches away, her gaze level with his. “What, cat got your tongue? The name’s Lucy, and it appears you could do with some company. We have a table over there—why don’t you join us?”
She waited while he grappled with his response, then noticed the ring on his left hand. If she was disappointed, she never let it show as she rested her hand on top of his.
“Look, it’s only a beer with some friends. We’ll send you back to your darlin’ wife with your virtue intact, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
Patrick knew in his gut he should turn and go. Something within him desperately wanted to walk away and return home to Marcy, work things out and hold her in his arms once again. But as the beer took effect, the allure of home seemed impaired, temporarily overshadowed by the irrefutable charm of this place and the woman before him.
Lucy seemed to be holding her breath as she awaited his answer. When a smile pulled at his lips, she exhaled slowly, carefully. Her eyes were gleaming. “I hope that’s a yes!”
“It is, at that. One beer with you and your friends. Then I’ll be on my way.”
It was only an innocent drink with friends, he reasoned, nothing more and nothing less. Within the hour, he would be back home with Marcy where he belonged, where he would be right now if she hadn’t turned on him so. She had provoked him to this end, he decided, and she would soon realize just how much she’d hurt him.
“Everyone, this is—” Lucy turned to Patrick, an unabashed grin on her face. “Saints alive, I completely forgot to get your name.”
“It’s Patrick … Patrick O’Connor. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
“Oh no, Patrick, you have it all wrong. The pleasure is all Lucy’s!”
The group broke into uproarious laughter as Lucy punched the arm of the sloshed man who’d spoken. Someone ordered a round of beer. They raised a toast to Patrick, and then one to Lucy, and then to no one in particular. Their laughter was contagious and their beer ever flowing, and before long, Patrick found himself wondering why he’d stopped coming here. Through the fog in his mind, he felt someone tugging his sleeve. He looked up and saw Lucy in a blur, smiling like a trio of angels.
“Let’s dance,” she said.
And so he did, unsteady on his feet as they slowly moved to the melancholy sound of Tommy Thomkin’s soulful ballad. She burrowed in his arms, startling him when the scent of her perfume aroused his senses. She lifted her gaze to his mouth, her lips parted slightly. Closing her eyes, she waited for the kiss she seemed to expect. Painful seconds passed as a war waged within him, and Patrick could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Suddenly, his arms went slack at her waist. He faltered back.
Lucy opened her eyes to see his retreat, and before he could turn her away, she kissed him. Abruptly, he shoved her away, a mixture of arousal and shame in his gut. He stood there, weaving, sweat trickling inside his collar.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, beneath the numbness the beer created and the passion Lucy ignited, an appalling guilt began to gnaw. He thought of Marcy, alone and asleep in his bed, their children slumbering in the rooms down the hall, and a sense of shame began to counter the intoxication of Lucy’s seduction.
What had possessed him to do this? He hadn’t touched another woman for over twenty-one years, hadn’t sought it out or even wanted to. But tonight he’d fallen. The virtues he espoused to his own children now returned, a bitter derision of his own failure. Dear God, forgive me, I’ve been a fool. But, surely a fool who could put an end to his folly. Patrick stared at Lucy, his eyes too clouded to see her face. He hesitated before touching her arm. “Lucy, I’m sorry, but I should go. Lucy … I love my wife.”
Lucy’s lips quivered into a weak smile. She put her hands on Patrick’s face. “That’s as plain as the nose on your face, Patrick O’Connor.” Stepping on tiptoe, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Go on with you, now.”
Patrick nodded, lowering his gaze from her eyes. His body went to stone at the sound of a voice from behind.
“Well, good evening, Mr. O’Connor! Hello, Lucy.”
Patrick’s stomach rolled. Slowly he turned to look into the smiling face of Collin McGuire.
“You two make a lovely couple,” Collin remarked.
A rush of hot blood flooded Patrick’s face as he confronted the man who had been the source of so much grief. He wanted to slap the smirk off his face, to berate him for enticing his daughter and driving a wedge between them. He wanted to hurt him because he stood there judging him for this moment of failure, just as Patrick had always judged him. Patrick felt the sweat crawling down the back of his neck.
Collin offered a smug smile while Lucy blinked, totally bewildered. “Collin, do you know Patrick?”
“Lucy, do you know he’s married?”
Patrick started to lunge, but Lucy held him back.
“Yes, I know he’s married! You think I’m blind, do you?”
“This isn’t as it appears …” Patrick’s breathing was heavy, his face hot. He hated himself for being in a position where he felt the need to explain himself to this rabble. And he hated the superior look on the rabble’s face even more.
“Is that so? Well, you know, that’s often the case, isn’t it, Mr. O’Connor? For instance, it certainly looks for all practical purposes as if you were—shall we say dancing?—with a woman who’s not your wife.”
Patrick winced as if Collin had struck him.
“But we both know despite how it looks to the naked eye”—Collin paused, his eyebrows arched in apparent assessment of the situation—“we can find not only a perfectly innocent explanation, but ourselves in grave danger of misjudgment, wouldn’t you say?”
Patrick’s humiliation was complete. Suddenly he felt very tired, very sober, and completely drained of all energy. Shame weighted him down like a ton of steel. Resigned, he turned to Lucy. “Lucy, I owe you an apology, I owe Collin an apology, and most of all, I owe my wife an apology. I should have never come here tonight. I love her, and I let momentary anger get in the way of that. I was wrong to succumb to your obvious charms. Please forgive me.”
Lucy managed a sad smile. “Oh, go on with ya now, Patrick. It was me who came after you, now didn’t I? I saw the ring on your finger, plain as day. I was just hopin’ it didn’t mean all that much, that’s all. Go on, hurry home to that wife of yours. I swear by St. Patrick himself she’s one of the luckiest women in all of Boston. And don’t you know I’m giving her fair warning. If she ever treats you badly, I promise I won’t be letting go quite so easy.” Lucy grabbed Patrick’s coat from the chair and threw it at him, a feeble attempt at a smile on her face. “Go on, get out of here!”
Patrick caug
ht his coat and nodded before turning once again to Collin. “There’s not much I can say, Collin. You’re right. I have judged you—a most common error, I suspect, among fathers of the sixteen-year-old girls you’ve pursued. I apologize for that. And I apologize you had to see me make the biggest mistake of my life. But I don’t apologize for being Charity’s father. That in itself entitles me to decide whom my daughter may court and whom she may not.”
Patrick put his coat on. “You know, Collin, I was a lot like you when I was your age; had quite a way with the ladies, if you will. I certainly broke more than my fair share of hearts, much as I suspect you do. As Charity’s father, I prefer you break someone else’s heart other than hers. For goodness sakes, she’s sixteen and very vulnerable. I know she looks like a woman, but she’s just a little girl—my little girl.”
Some of the arrogance faded from Collin’s face as he watched Patrick through wary eyes.
Patrick continued. “You’re a man. You need to find the love of a good woman, not a young girl. I found the right woman, and it changed my life forever. Filled me with contentment and happiness I never dreamed possible.”
“Except for tonight.” Collin’s voice was quiet.
Patrick’s countenance fell. “Yes, except for tonight. Tonight something happened that hasn’t happened in over twenty years of marriage. We fought bitterly. Tell me, Collin, do you know what we fought about? Would you like to know what shattered our evening and sent me bolting into the night? Well, I’ll tell you. We fought over Charity. Over whether or not she should have the right to go out tonight. Could we trust her? Was the discipline of confining her to the house for three weeks enough to impact her? These are questions that race around in a parent’s mind, sometimes creating an environment of volatility. And so we fought—over whether or not the punishment we gave for seeing you behind our backs was enough. Enough to let her know we loved her, and as her parents, knew what was best for her. Maybe you can tell me. Was it?”
A Passion Most Pure (The Daughters of Boston Book #1): A Novel Page 7