Mitch studied her blanched face and was tempted to rile her, just to rouse a little fire in those green eyes. How she could go from this nervous, scared little thing to a spitfire in record time was beyond him. All he knew was when she did, he was so bloomin’ attracted to her he couldn’t think straight. He should have known this would happen. She was just the type that always managed to trap him. Thank goodness it was never for long.
He rose and ambled to the door to shut it, and the click of the lock drained all color from her cheeks. He restrained a grin as he returned to his chair to settle in. “O’Connor, I have to give it to you—you surprised me. Your writing is fresh and honest, and I like how you’ve managed to fit in.” He hesitated, squinting at her. “Jack’s not giving you problems, is he?”
She was just a desk away, and he could tell she was jumpy as she picked at her nails and straddled the edge of her seat. She usually managed to avoid being anywhere near him, except during the Monday meetings, which didn’t matter because the room was filled with people. But now, here she was, barely inches away and so close he could almost feel her breath on his face. He leaned forward, and she shivered. “Is he giving you problems, O’Connor, ’cause if he is …”
She glanced up with wide eyes. “No! I mean, of course not. Jack’s fine. At first, yes, he did scare me a bit, but now that I’ve gotten to know him, well, I think he’s just fine.”
Mitch sank back in the chair. “You and Jamie seem pretty close,” he said, eyeing her carefully.
A weak laugh tripped from her lips. “Yes, we are. Jamie’s great.”
His jaw stiffened, and he forced a smile. “Good, good.”
She straightened in the chair, raising her chin. “Was … there anything else you wanted to talk about, sir?”
She always called him “sir,” had from the first day he laid eyes on her, and it never bothered him before. Suddenly it made him feel old, and he didn’t like that one bit. Blooming saints, he was only thirty-four. And younger women were his specialty, weren’t they? His mood darkened as reality cast a shadow on his conscience. Yes, but not this young, he realized. She was only twenty—and two months, to be exact—yet somehow it hurt too much to do the math in his head. He took a deep breath and pushed his chair back from the desk.
“No, O’Connor,” he said, his smile gone sour. “That’s all. Just wanted you to know you’re doing a great job. Keep it up.” He shuffled papers on his desk, avoiding her eyes.
She rose. “Are you all right, Mr. Dennehy?” she asked, searching his face.
His jaw locked tight, and he heaved a fist on the desk. She jumped, as if the explosive sound had goosed her in the air. “No, I’m not all right, O’Connor, ya got that? ‘Mr. Dennehy’ sounds like I’m your father. I’m not, by a long shot. So to you and everyone who works for me, I’m Mitch, not Mr. Dennehy!”
Her eyes widened with shock as she stood inert for several seconds. She blinked, and her body visibly relaxed as a faint smile squirmed at the edge of her lips. With a gleam in her eye, she slapped her palms on his desk and leaned in. “Understood, Mr. Dennehy. And to you and everyone who works with me, I’m Faith, not ‘O’Connor.’”
His eyelids flickered in surprise. A little-boy grin tugged at his lips. He stood up. “You hungry?”
She tottered back, a pink haze on her cheeks. “Hungry?” she stammered. “For what?”
“For food. What did you think I meant?” His eyes locked on hers as he put on his jacket.
The haze whooshed to scarlet. He laughed out loud and rounded the desk to stand in front of her. She looked scared to death. It made him want to protect her and take advantage of her, all at the same time.
She stumbled against the chair. “I don’t know … I really should be getting home … but I suppose I could … I mean, if you’re hungry and all …”
The smile on his face creased into a grin. He took a step closer. “As a matter of fact, I’m ravenous.” Before the shock could register on her face, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, feeling a charge between them before she slammed her hand to his chest. She pressed one palm to her flushed cheek while holding him at bay with the other. “Mr. Dennehy … Mitch … what are you doing?”
“Whetting my appetite.”
Her chest heaved as she jabbed him away with her fist. “Well, stop it, now!”
“Only if you’ll have dinner with me.”
“Yes … I’ll have dinner with you,” she sputtered, “but understand me, please—I am not on the menu!”
She backed away, arching over his desk to put as much distance between them as she possibly could. It took all the restraint he possessed not to bend right over and taste those lips once again. Her eyes widened with innocence, an unsettling reminder she was only twenty to his thirty-four. And although she was making him crazy, he knew enough to know she wasn’t his usual bill of fare. She was right to fend him off. Something told him that this time, the physical attraction would just get in the way. For now, at least through dinner, a little restraint might do him good. He stepped back and offered his arm.
“Deal,” he said with a grin. “Let’s eat, then let’s talk. We can always discuss dessert later.” And with a wink, he ignored the strain on her face as he firmly tugged her to the door.
It was Saturday, the only day of the week she could sleep in. And here she was, completely awake at 6:00 a.m., her mind racing and her heart close behind. Faith stretched beneath the covers before she snuggled up again, reflecting on the events of the evening before.
Never had she imagined the two of them together. Oh, she knew he was everything most women longed for—she wasn’t blind, after all—only naïve, she suspected, for she’d never even entertained the notion. He was her manager, a person she found attractive, certainly, but not a man she could date. She chewed on her lip. For pity’s sake, it couldn’t be wise to date your supervisor, could it? And he was closer to her father’s age than to hers, she reminded herself, facts that remained the only clouds in an otherwise blindingly blue sky.
The moment he kissed her had sent shock waves jolting through her, something she hadn’t felt since Collin. The thought provoked a disturbing mix of feelings. She was scared. Mitch ignited passion she’d hoped to escape, at least for a while. And she was glad. Maybe it meant she’d finally be free, free from Collin. Most disturbing of all was the sadness, the aching hesitancy to allow any man to remove Collin from her heart altogether. And yet, she knew this Mitch Dennehy could do just that, and the realization left her trembling.
She closed her eyes and smiled. He was … so amazing! He’d practically carried her through the newsroom, allowing a brief call to her mother before he whisked her to his favorite pub and ushered her into a cozy booth. He was in charge, just like at the paper, only now he was selecting wines and requesting special dishes as he chatted easily with the waiter. He was a man who knew what he wanted. And for the moment, at least, he wanted her, and the memory caused her pulse to race.
They had talked for hours—over poached chicken and her first sip of wine—and she had been spellbound, more by his charm than the effect of the alcohol. Gone was the gruff Mr. Dennehy who had a habit of barking orders and storming into Michael’s office. In his place was this incredibly handsome man with a teasing smile and penetrating blue eyes. Eyes that looked at her as if she were the next course. Eyes that made her wish she could be.
They talked about everything, from Bridie to Michael to the McGettigan scandal, and then they talked some more. He told her about his dear maiden aunt, now deceased, who had been more of a mother than his own. He had been shocked when she’d left him her entire fortune, which he refused to touch except for various charitable donations and his one extravagant purchase—his beloved Model T. He had learned from an early age to work for his money, not subsist on someone else’s fortune.
He asked her about her family, and she unleashed a wealth of memories that brought warm laughter to his eyes and sometimes tears to her own. She told him
about Maisie and Mrs. Gerson and the faith that meant so much to her. She never dreamed she could talk so freely about God with a man who didn’t seem so inclined, but he listened as if it were the most important thing he’d ever heard. She all but glowed when he told her about his own faith, instilled by his dear Catholic aunt, and she laughed out loud when he grumbled about never missing mass, not because it was a sin, he said, but because his aunt would hunt him down.
Once during dessert, he’d taken her hand to softly kiss it. “That’s just to let you know,” he whispered, “that I find spending time with you far more delectable than any dessert on Duffy’s menu.” Heat surged, causing her to quickly slip her hand from his. She wondered if he knew the effect he had on her, and suspected he did from the dangerous look in his eyes.
“Mitch,” she whispered, “there’s something we need to discuss.”
He spooned a bite of dessert, then laid his utensil down, taking her hands in his. “Yes?”
She’d found it difficult finding the right words, but he waited patiently, fully attentive as he absently stroked the inside of her palms. The heat of his touch alarmed her, and she jerked her hands free to bury them in her lap. “Mitch, I … I enjoy your company, I do. And I hope we can go on … enjoying each other’s company. But I have, well, convictions.” Her hand flitted to the side of her plate, where her finger slowly traced its edge. She dropped her gaze to her half-eaten pie. “I hope you understand what I’m saying,” she continued, cheeks stinging. “I’d very much like to keep our relationship … well, you know … friendly.”
“Friendly,” he repeated. She nodded. He reached for her hand and stared with lidded eyes while he brushed her fingers with his lips. A hot blush broiled her cheeks. She snatched them away.
“Yes, friendly! Which means, Mr. Dennehy, I refuse to get into this …”
“Into what?” he asked calmly.
Her chin jerked up. “You know exactly what, Mitch Dennehy.”
“No, I don’t,” he said. “By this do you mean a relationship with your supervisor, or dinner with a friend … or enjoying the favors of a man you’re attracted to?”
The heat he ignited converged to her cheeks. “The last one,” she snapped, “although the first is coming in a close second.”
A brittle laugh escaped his lips as he hunkered back in the booth and folded his arms. “Okay, Faith, I do know what you’re talking about. So, what are you telling me? We can see each other, but hands off? I can’t touch you or kiss you? What?”
She hesitated before answering, his sudden mood giving her pause. “Mitch, please understand, my faith means the world to me. I have every intention of saving my … well, my affections … for the man I marry. I want to see you, I do. But I can’t indulge in ‘favors,’ as you put it, because they’re wrong. That means if you and I are going to have a relationship, I need you to know I mean what I say. We can occasionally kiss, Mitch, but when I say no, the kissing is over. And if it isn’t, the relationship is.”
He stared as if she had just flicked food in his face, and she could only imagine the thoughts whirling in his head. Here she was, barely a woman at twenty years of age, dictating what he could and could not do. Without a word, he pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and poured another glass of wine with the other. He downed a third of it before answering. His lips hardened to rock.
“Pretty presumptuous, aren’t ya, Faith? I mean, you’re assuming I want a relationship with you.” He let that sink in, seeming satisfied when she sucked in a breath. He continued, glass twirling in hand as he relaxed against the booth. “But I don’t think it would be too long before you broke your own rules. It only took one kiss to see the attraction between us. You know what I think? I think you’d relent, not me.”
She flinched at the sting of his words. “You couldn’t be more wrong. The man I love made that mistake. Do you really think you could get away with it?”
His smile cracked. “The man … you love? You’re in love with someone else?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice a hiss as she seized her purse in her fist. “I don’t even know why I’m discussing this with you. You obviously don’t take me seriously. I want to go home.” She started to rise, but he reached to pull her back down. His blue eyes congealed to gray.
“You’re not leaving, Faith, we need to talk.” He pinned her arm to the table and leaned forward. “Who the blazes are you in love with?” he demanded, suddenly in one of his stormy moods.
“It’s none of your business,” she whispered, her eyes flitting to the other patrons in the room. “The only reason I mentioned it at all is because I want you to know I mean what I say. The choice is yours, Mitch.” A nerve twittered in her cheek as she elevated her chin in defiance. She was sick of this, first with Collin, now with him. Somewhere there had to be a man who cared enough to respect her wishes. If Mitch Dennehy wasn’t it, then good riddance.
For several seconds, he remained silent, his face livid as he stared her down. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked away. His tone was sharp. “Okay, Faith, you win.” He faced her, his lips pressed into a mulish bent. “I want to see you, it’s as simple as that. But there’s a part of me so mad I want to tell you to take a flying leap. And maybe I will after we see each other a while. But for now, I guess, it’s on your terms.”
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.”
18
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, inde
ed. 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?”
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