“Absolutely. I can come tonight, right after work.”
“For dinner, then.”
“No, I don’t want to impose.” He shifted in the chair, kneading the deep furrows above the bridge of his nose.
“We insist. Would 6:30 be all right? Or does it need to be later?”
“No, no, 6:30 is fine. I’ll be there.”
“We’ll see you then. Thank you, Mitch.”
He replaced the receiver and slumped back in the chair, staring ahead into nothing. He had never met Patrick O’Connor, but he had no doubt he would have liked him. Faith had been crazy about her father. Always wanted to marry a man just like him, she would say with that gleam in her eye, then tease that she always got what she wanted.
He rubbed his eyes and stood up. He suspected Marcy needed money for the passage. He sighed. Well, this was the sign he was looking for. He’d been praying for God to either take Faith out of his heart or give him the nerve to go after her. If Marcy was going to Boston by herself, Mitch had his answer. There was no way he could let her go alone, and for the first time in over a month, a surge of hope rushed through him.
Michael wasn’t going to like this, but that was too bad. He had three weeks of vacation, and now was as good a time as any. Jamie would just have to fill in. Mitch walked to the door and suddenly realized that within weeks, he would be seeing Faith again. The thought sent his pulse racing. He took a deep breath, then followed it with a quick prayer. Lord, please don’t let her hate me.
He hesitated. No, he was doing this for Marcy, not himself. He swallowed hard. No, he was doing it for himself, and would have done it eventually anyway if she hadn’t made it so easy for him. Either way, the woman he loved was at the end of the line. And quite frankly, one reason was as good as the next.
Coming home again was like working all day in shoes that pinched your feet and a corset that cinched your waist—suddenly you slipped into a chenille robe and goose-down slippers, and it felt good.
Faith hadn’t wasted too much time moping or missing Mitch, although it wouldn’t have been difficult to do. Since she made her peace with God, she found she also made her peace with Mitch, and the anger stepped aside to let the longing have a shot at her. She wasn’t sure what she would have done without Maisie and her job at the Herald; both worked in tandem to keep her from sinking into a depression. The only moments that really took her down were the nights she lay in Mrs. Gerson’s guest room, wondering what woman Mitch was seeing at the moment.
All along she’d known he was a man of the world, which simply meant he had weathered his fair share of heartbreaks, she supposed, and given more than a few of his own. No doubt, he was back at it by now, buying a round of drinks at Brody’s or taking a lady friend to their favorite spot at Duffy’s. Faith tried to think of something else. The thought of another woman sitting in her booth was a little too hard to take, especially now that the anger was nowhere in sight.
She thought about Charity and wondered if she ever felt any remorse over her actions. Faith had no doubt her sister had masterminded the whole seduction. She was a beautiful woman, after all, a point on which Faith needed no reminding. And Mitch was a man. A man who up to a year prior had fed his appetites as regularly as her mother fed Blarney. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, a part of her understood why Mitch had fallen prey.
A soft sigh feathered her lips, and Faith wondered if she would ever marry. It seemed whenever she fell in love, something derailed it, and she contemplated devoting her life to God at the St. Stephen’s Convent. But only for a moment, and then thoughts of Mitch would come racing through her mind, trampling the religious vocation faster than the clip of her heart.
“So, have you even worked today?” Maisie asked, rudely interrupting Faith’s daydream. “I mean, I’ve walked by three different times, and all I’ve seen is you mooning into space. Let me feel those keys—I’ll bet they’re cold!” She poked at Faith’s Underwood.
Faith pretended to scowl. “You can be such a pain, you know that, Maisie? How did we ever become friends?”
Maisie’s brows lifted a full half inch. “Don’t you remember? Miss Hayword figured you needed to learn from the brightest, most attractive typist in the pool!”
Faith smirked and looked at her watch. “Thank goodness it’s five o’clock.” She bent to grab her purse. “Honestly, for some reason, this has been the hardest day to concentrate. I swear, if had to type one more obituary, I would have screamed.”
“So that’s why you kept drifting off into dreamland, eh? I thought it might be because of a certain editor at the Times.”
Faith delivered a withering look as she put the cover on her typewriter. “You know, I didn’t realize how good I had it back in Ireland with no one to drive me crazy.”
Maisie feigned surprise. “Oh, don’t you remember? You had Mitch!” She exposed a toothy grin, and Faith finally laughed. There was nothing else to do. Maisie could bottom-line it better than anyone she knew and pull a smile out of you as she did it.
“Okay, okay, I miss him—horribly! Ohhhh! Where is the anger when you need it?” she cried as she draped the back of her wrist dramatically against her forehead.
“At least you’re finally admitting it. Honestly, Faith, how could you expect me to believe you hated him after all the lovesick letters you wrote? I mean, really, credit me with some intelligence, will you?”
Faith’s smile softened. “I know. I was pretty angry when I arrived in Boston, and yes, I will confess I now see things differently. But only because Mrs. Gerson helped me see the error of my ways.”
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m not sure. What if he’s in love with someone else by now?”
Maisie rolled her eyes and groaned. “If even a tenth of what you wrote in your letters is true, the man is so crazy in love, he should be committed. You need to write him.”
“I want to, but …”
“But what?” Maisie asked. She folded her arms.
Faith slumped back in her chair, lost in a bleak stare. Her throat bobbed with emotion. “There’s a part of me that’s scared.”
“About what?” Maisie sat down in the empty desk next to her, her brows knitted in a frown.
Faith released a heavy breath and glanced up. “I miss Mitch and I still care about him, I do, but I think I’m scared to trust him again.”
Maisie put a hand on Faith’s arm. “That’s understandable, Faith—he hurt you. But you also left without giving him a chance to explain, a chance to make it right. If Mitch Dennehy is even half the man you said he is, you owe him that chance … and yourself.”
Faith bit her lip, and Maisie’s cheeks huffed with an impatient sigh. “Honestly, Faith, if I didn’t love you so much, I’d boot you from here to Ireland just to shake you up. Goodness, how did you ever manage without me? You love the man; he loves you. He made a mistake—give him a chance to make it right. How hard is that to understand?”
Faith mulled over Maisie’s words, then broke into a grin. “Okay, I will! Oh, by the way, you’re supposed to come to dinner tonight. Mrs. Gerson asked me to invite you.”
Maisie arched a brow. “Oh, really? And when exactly were you planning on telling me? After dessert?”
Faith laughed and gave her a hug. “I’m sorry, my mind has been somewhere else, I suppose. I’m moving back into our house tomorrow, so I’ve been preoccupied with that.”
“And Mitch.”
A foolish grin tickled Faith’s lips. “And Mitch,” she repeated.
“Oh. Didn’t notice,” Maisie said with a yawn.
Faith gave her a wry smile. “That’s why Mrs. Gerson is making such a fuss about dinner tonight. It’s my farewell. So, can you come?”
“Are you kidding? Pass up one of Mrs. Gerson’s home-cooked meals? I think not,” Maisie said with a note of indignation. She leaned forward to flick Faith on the head, and the two giggled all the way to the door.
When they arrived a
t Mrs. Gerson’s, the house was dark. Maisie’s brows rumpled in a frown. “I thought you said she was fixing dinner? Are you sure it’s tonight?”
“I’m sure,” Faith said quietly. Her fingers felt thick as she fumbled with the spare key to unlock the door.
“Mrs. Gerson?”
The dining room was empty, eclipsed in shadows from a single light in the foyer. Its table was void of any signs of a dinner, and Faith stopped to listen. Shards of fear prickled her skin.
“I don’t understand …” Maisie began.
Faith waved her quiet. “Mrs. Gerson?” She waited for an answer, her heart thumping in her chest. Her mouth opened to cry out again when she heard the response, frail and broken, from the gloom of the parlor.
“In here, Faith.”
The room was as black as pitch, and Faith blinked to adjust her eyes, moving toward a form sitting on the edge of the sofa, stiff and straight in the shadows. “Mrs. Gerson, are you all right?” she asked, her voice cloaked in fear.
The old woman’s head slowly moved back and forth. A faint mewing sound came from her lips. And then Faith saw it—a piece of paper floating in her hand. In slow motion, Faith reached to take it. The feel of it was fragile and light to her fingers, but its heaviness crushed her lungs.
“It’s a telegram … from your sister. I had the delivery boy read it to me. Your father …” Mrs. Gerson couldn’t go on.
Everything in the room seized to a stop. “What?” she whispered, and for the first time in her life she saw Mrs. Gerson weep.
“Your father … he … he was killed …” Mrs. Gerson said, breaking on a sob.
The breath left Faith’s lungs. Fear coiled within her and wrenched a moan from her lips. Maisie rushed to her side, but Faith slapped her away, hovering over Mrs. Gerson, her fists clenched at her sides. “It’s not true! God wouldn’t let it happen, Mrs. Gerson—you’ve taught me that. ‘No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper,’ that’s what you said! You quoted it, Mrs. Gerson … from the Bible!”
Weeping, the old woman rose to embrace her, but Faith pushed her aside. She fled to the light of the foyer, the telegram fluttering in her hand. She blinked to focus through the blur of tears and then cried out in anguish. “Maisie!” she screamed. “Read it … I can’t see!”
Maisie took the paper from her hand. Fear bobbed in her throat as she scanned it.
“Read it!” Faith screamed again.
Maisie flinched. “Father killed in action in France. Stop. Mother and Mitch arriving by weekend. Stop. Please tell Faith. Stop. Charity.”
The room started to spin, and there was a drone in her brain, but Faith ignored it. Her legs weakened as she staggered to the sofa where Mrs. Gerson sat hunched and weeping. Her eyes burned, and she squeezed them shut. Hot tears scalded her face. Mrs. Gerson reached to touch her, and this time she didn’t fight.
Never had she come this close to wanting to die. How could she go on in a world without her father? He was the strength of the family, of her life as she knew it, other than God, and Faith could not fathom life without him. They had managed in Ireland only because they had been waiting, waiting for their once-happy lives to begin again. The war was to be only a brief pause in their otherwise blissful existence, not an end to it all. God had promised, hadn’t he?
She thought of her mother, and anguish filled her soul. “Oh, God,” she cried. “You said you would never leave us nor forsake us. Where are you?”
Mrs. Gerson rose and put her hand on her head, and Faith felt her body go limp as the old woman prayed. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she heard Maisie reading, her words a distant murmuring in her brain …
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me …”
A whimpering sob choked from Faith’s throat, and her limbs felt like boulders as she rose from the couch. Mrs. Gerson reached to steady her arm, and Faith grasped the old woman’s hand. “I need to go … go to my room …” she whispered.
Mrs. Gerson nodded, and Faith inched forward, teetering on her feet.
“I’ll walk you up,” Maisie said.
Faith stared as if she didn’t understand her words. “I have to go up,” she repeated in a lifeless tone. Maisie hooked an arm around her waist and led her upstairs.
She had no recollection of Maisie walking her to the room, nor did she remember getting undressed and into bed. The only memory lodged in her brain was the chilling sound of Maisie’s voice as she read the telegram; the shock of it reverberated in her mind as she lay staring at the ceiling. The pain buzzed in her brain and ripped at her heart until she thought she would lose her mind. “Oh, God,” she cried, “I can’t get through this … I can’t! I’ve lost my father …”
I am … a father to the fatherless …
She jerked up in the dark and groped for the light. Mrs. Gerson’s guest-room Bible rested on the nightstand, and she gripped it with the same ferocity as the pain gripping her. She flung it open, her fingers trembling down the page until she found it.
“His name is the Lord—and rejoice before him. A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.”
With a pitiful moan, she fell onto the open book, and her desolate sob pierced the solitude of her room. “Oh, God, no … please no …” she wailed as she thought of her father, so young and so strong. Images of him holding her mother, wrestling with Katie, stroking Beth’s cheek, and playing chess with Sean—all swam before her in a kaleidoscope of tears. She saw his teasing smile as they drove to work and remembered the warmth of his embrace whenever her heart had been broken. All the love he had given, all the joy he brought to the family who all but worshiped him, all gone … gone.
Suddenly, she thought of Marcy and knew that whatever grief she felt as a daughter, it paled in the face of her mother’s. Theirs was a love Faith had seldom seen in her lifetime, the kind that inspired and instilled hope. Patrick O’Connor had not just been a father and a husband, he had been a life force in the O’Connor family. Some might say, in time, they would get over it, and in an attempt to comfort, say that the best was yet to come. But Faith knew in her heart that the best had come and gone, snuffed out on a field in France, taking with him any hope of regaining the joy they had once known.
She had no idea of the time or how many hours she had lain prostrate on her bed. She hadn’t expected to sleep, but the shock had taken its toll. As the haze of the full moon rose in the sky and filled the darkness of the room with its eerie light, Faith slipped into a restless slumber. But not before whispering a prayer for strength. She had to be strong, strong for her mother—requiring, she knew, a strength far beyond human will. Exhaustion finally loosed the grip of pain from her mind and sent her fading into the night, her lips moving with a promise, silent and salted with tears. He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds. A final breath shuddered through her, stealing her certainty of faith. He was, after all, Jehovah-Rapha—the God who binds wounds no matter how deep the gash or boundless the bleeding.
Mitch stole a glimpse at Marcy out of the corner of his eye and smiled. She perched on the edge of the seat and peered out the taxi window, hands all but welded to the door, poised as if she would spring out the moment it stopped. Mitch shook his head. She was a woman in her forties, and yet she exuded this little-girl quality he’d seen so many times in Faith, and even Charity. Now he knew where they’d gotten it.
He was grateful he had come along. It had been good for her, the trip over. They had spent a great deal of time talking, and crying too, on Marcy’s part, of course. He had been the perfect sounding board, not close enough for her to worry that her sorrow would bring him down, yet far enough away from being a stranger. They even found time to laugh, over stories h
e’d tell of Faith’s unbelievable stubbornness, and she with tales of the same in her husband.
Marcy’s love for Patrick had been fierce, and as he listened to her, he doubted it would ever wane. In his life, he’d seen marriages that had been good, but this—this was the stuff Faith had so often spoken of, an intangible bond of love stronger than anything she had ever seen. She had been bent on having it for herself. It was what drove her, along with her love for God, to run the race set before her, and to wait until she had it, holy and pure in the grasp of her hand.
“Look, Mitch!” Marcy cried as they rounded the corner. “That’s it—our home! Driver, right here is fine.” The taxi came to a halt long after she opened the door.
Mitch laughed and pulled out his wallet. Marcy reeled to face him. “I intend to pay for every cent,” she vowed, “from the ship to the taxi, I will reimburse you, Mitch, rest assured.”
Mitch handed the cabbie his fare and gave Marcy a threatening look. “So help me, Mrs. O’Connor, if you mention paying me back one more time, I’m turning around and going home.”
Marcy vaulted from the cab and smiled. “Oh, I don’t think so. I have a feeling you’ll be quite enamored with Boston. Or at least, a certain Bostonian.”
Mitch grinned. “Now I know where your daughters get it from!” he teased, and he heard her laugh—one of the first since the ship had sailed into the harbor. “Are we going to your home?” he asked, hoisting the luggage in both hands.
“No … no, renters live in it now, I’m afraid …” Her voice withered as she stood before the home where she and Patrick had made their life.
Mitch sensed an instant heaviness in her manner. But then, that was the way it was, she had said—overwhelming grief punctuated by moments of peace that quickly faded whenever she thought of Patrick. And how could she help but think of him now as she looked at the home where he had loved her and fathered her children and promised he would never leave her …
“I just wanted to see it again, that’s all,” she whispered. “We’ll go to Mrs. Gerson’s, my neighbor who lives three houses down.” Marcy swiped at the tears on her face, and a heavy sigh shuddered from her lips. “I’m so very tired of crying,” she said. “How one woman can cry so many tears is beyond me. But then again, how one woman could have been blessed with such a love astounds me even more. And now it’s gone …”
A Passion Most Pure (The Daughters of Boston Book #1): A Novel Page 37