A Passion Denied

by Julie Lessman

  “Burn your tongue?” Mary smiled at him as she blew on her coffee.

  “What?”

  “You were scowling. I figure it was either that large gulp of hot coffee you took or the problem Lizzie’s having with Tom.”

  Brady smiled and took a more manageable sip, studying her over the rim of his cup. “Sorry. Wasn’t listening.”

  Lizzie arched a brow. “Brady! You’re supposed to be my spiritual mentor, and you’re not even listening to what I’m saying?”

  He gave Lizzie a lidded stare. “I listen, Beth, to anything significant.”

  “You mean to tell me, John Brady, that you don’t consider Lizzie’s love life significant?” Mary quirked her lips. “And satisfy my curiosity, if you will. Why do you still call her Beth when everyone else calls her Lizzie?”

  “Because he’s a mule, Mary, who refuses to change. Don’t even try. It’s impossible.”

  Brady crossed his arms on top of his Bible. “Are you two troublemakers about done? Maybe we should just forego Psalms to study a chapter on respect for authority.”

  “But aren’t you even curious?” Mary asked.

  “Nope.” Brady took another sip of coffee and flipped the pages to Psalm 10.

  “Well, okay, but as Lizzie’s friend and a man, I think you’d be the perfect person to advise her as to what to do when a man gets fresh.”

  The coffee pooled in his mouth. He quickly swallowed and locked his gaze on Lizzie, his tone suddenly curt. “He’s pressuring you, Beth?”

  Her lips parted and she looked away. A soft hint of rose tinted her cheeks. “Not exactly. I mean, yes, I guess maybe a little, but we’ve been seeing each other for several months now and I . . . well, I just figured that . . . well, that . . .”

  “What?” Dread slithered in his gut.

  She bit her lip and avoided his eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s just that I’m starting to like it, Brady. A lot.”

  “Tom?”

  She finally looked up, and he read the embarrassment in her eyes. “Yes, Tom, of course. And . . . kissing him.”

  He winced, as if he’d been stung.

  Mary laid a hand on Lizzie’s arm, then leaned forward, the blue of her eyes intense. “What’s she supposed to do, Brady? What’s any good girl to do when she should say no but wants to say yes?”

  He took a deep breath to ease the fury in his gut, then forced it out slowly, quietly. Two sets of eyes fixed on him, full of expectancy and more than a little hope. He tightened his jaw. “Well, the Bible says to flee fornication—”

  Lizzie put both hands to her red cheeks. “Sweet mother of Job, Brady, you know I’m not talking about that—”

  “I know you’re not, Beth, but hear me out. It’s natural to have attraction to the opposite sex. God made us that way. But listen to the wording here—flee. Not turn. Not walk away. Not don’t do it, but ‘flee.’ That means run . . . without looking back, lest you change your mind. Flee like your life depends on it. Because it does.”

  Lizzie huffed out a sigh. “Now you’re just being melodramatic. How can your life depend on a kiss?”

  He lunged across the table and grabbed her hand, pinning his firmly on top. His tone was deadly calm. “Stop it, Beth. Don’t diminish the Word of God. Our spiritual life—and death—hang in the balance depending on how we heed it. Kisses are not the problem. It’s the desire they ignite that can weaken our will to please God. Guard your affections and stay strong. Because when it comes to kisses, men are weak . . . and quite skilled at disarming women.”

  She pulled her hand away to hug her arms close to her body. “Nobody’s going to disarm me, Brady. You know me better than that.”

  “I do know you, Beth, and that’s why I’m cautioning you. For as long as I can remember, you’ve had your nose buried in a book, enamored with romance. More than any little girl I’ve ever met, you’ve been spellbound by happily ever after. I just worry that when all those fairy-tale notions of romance meet a smooth-talking guy, it could be a deadly combination. Trust me, Beth, men can read a woman like you.”

  She slowly rose to her feet, visibly shaken. “A woman like me? And that’s what you think? That I care more about romance than doing the right thing? You think a few kisses will turn my conscience off, is that it? That I’ll just lie down and let them have their way?”

  He shot to his feet. “Don’t talk like that!”

  “Why? You have. You and your holier-than-thou lecturing. Too bad it slipped your mind the night on the porch.” She seized her notebook from the table with trembling hands and slammed the chair in. She got as far as the door that divided the two rooms.

  Brady grabbed her arm and pushed her to the wall in the front room, well out of Mary’s view. His breathing was ragged and his voice low as he gripped her shoulders. “I did exactly what I needed to do, Beth, I fled. So don’t go flinging stones.”

  “No, instead I should let you fling them, is that it? Well, congratulations, Brady. You followed the Word of God—you fled my sinful advances. Only from my vantage point, it looked a lot more like a coward running away.”

  His hands flinched from her shoulders. He took a step back while his anger fused into white-hot calm. “You’re changing, Beth, and I don’t like what I see.”

  “Really? Well, Tom does, which is a good thing since he’s the one I’m looking to please. Excuse me, I’m late.” She pushed past him.

  He clenched her arm. “What about God, Beth, you looking to please him?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I said I was, so why don’t you just take care of that for the both of us?” Tears filled her eyes as she jerked free and ran out the door, slamming it hard.

  Brady stared out the window while every muscle in his body twitched with anger. He took a deep breath and released it before returning to the back room.

  Mary’s eyes circled in shock. “Brady, I . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  He sagged into the chair and attempted a smile, which failed miserably. “No, Mary, it’s not your fault, it’s mine. God knows I didn’t handle it in the best way. Even so, I’m glad you brought it up, because it shows me how I need to pray for her.”

  “You’re going to pray for her? Even after all she said to you?”

  “I love Beth as a sister, so yes, I’ll never stop praying for her. But even if I didn’t love her, I’d pray for her, even when she wounds me to the core. God commands it.”

  Mary shook her head. “I don’t know, Brady, it seems impossible. I’m not sure I could.”

  “If I can, you can. It just takes practice . . . and a lot of prayer.”

  She squinted to study him. “You seem to love God an awful lot.”

  He sighed and reached for his coffee. “Yeah, well, he who’s forgiven much, loves much.”

  “You? What do you need to be forgiven for? All I see is a man with a clean heart.”

  His eyes met hers. “We all have our demons, Mary, especially me. Which is why I love God so much. I need him—desperately. We all do.”

  A hoarse laugh erupted from her throat. “I’m not sure God can forgive everything.”

  “He can and he will. You can count on it. The Bible is riddled with sinners he’s forgiven—cheats, murderers, prostitutes, you name it.”

  She smiled. “Forgiven much, love much . . . that’s from the Bible?”

  He nodded, taking a slow sip of coffee. “A woman who the Bible calls a sinner—probably a prostitute—repented by washing Jesus’ feet with her tears and drying them with her hair. Jesus forgave her, telling those around him that her sins, which were many, were forgiven because she loved him enough to repent. And he who’s forgiven much, loves the forgiver much.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “How I wish I could believe in forgiveness.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  She focused on her hands clenched in her lap. “I just think there are some things that even God can’t forgive.”

  Brady rose to his feet
and moved to her side of the table, suddenly feeling an unlikely kinship with this gentle woman. He sat on the chair beside her and gently lifted her hand from her lap, cradling it in his. “God can forgive anything, Mary—that’s how great his love is. His forgiveness is endless and overflowing. All we have to do is ask.”

  She looked up, her blue eyes misty with tears. “Oh, Brady, if only I could believe that—really and truly believe that—then I would confess everything.”

  He smiled and carefully wiped a tear from her cheek. “Then that’s where we’ll begin, Mary. We’ll pray . . . for a tiny seed of faith.”

  8

  Lizzie finished applying just a touch of eyeliner and smudged it exactly like Charity had taught her to do. She stepped back to study the effect in her dressing-table mirror and chewed on her lip. “Not too much,” Charity had said with a smile. “You don’t want to look like Millie, after all, only like a woman with haunting eyes.” Lizzie’s lips skewed into a half smile. “Haunted eyes” was more like it, she thought with a sinking feeling—compliments of John Brady and not Helena Rubinstein.

  Lizzie took a deep breath and reached for her rose lipstick, outlining her lower lip to exaggerate it a bit. With newly acquired skill, she carefully de-emphasized the width of her mouth to create the perfect “cupid’s bow.” All at once, queasiness rolled in her stomach, and she touched a shaky hand to the slicked-down chestnut waves that framed her face. She was glad she was seeing Tom tonight. The fight with Brady had completely unnerved her, and she was bent on proving him wrong.

  How long will ye love vanity, and seek after falsehood?

  The lipstick in her hand clattered to the glass surface of her vanity table. Conviction prickled her conscience at the memory of a recent Scripture she had studied with Brady. With a hitch of her breath, she blinked at her painted face and suppressed a shiver. But she wasn’t seeking after falsehood, she wasn’t! She was simply searching for love, for a man who would sweep her away.

  But know that the Lord hath set apart him that is godly for himself . . . stand in awe, and sin not.

  Her fingers quivered as she retrieved the lipstick and slipped it into her purse, visibly shaken. “I know I’m set apart for you, Lord, and I will be true to your precepts.” She drew in some air as she thought of Tom’s insistent kisses and released it slowly in one long, shallow breath. “Oh, Lord, please, keep me strong.”

  “Gosh, Lizzie, you look just like Millie. Does Tom like all that stuff?” Katie barged into their room and flopped on her bed, belly down and feet dangling over the headboard.

  Lizzie took another peek in the mirror and worried her lip. “I think so. At least he seems to.”

  “Doesn’t he get red goo all over his mouth?”

  Lizzie spun around. “What?”

  “When he kisses you? Doesn’t he? I would hate that.”

  “Katie Rose, you shouldn’t be talking about such things.”

  “Well, Lizzie Marie, maybe you shouldn’t be doing them.”

  Lizzie quickly shoved the rest of her makeup into her clutch, avoiding her sister’s eyes. “Honestly, Katie, you sound just like Brady. There’s nothing wrong with a simple kiss, you know. And nobody likes a prude.”

  Katie propped her head in her hands and grinned. “Charity might agree, but I bet Faith would give you a run for your money.”

  Lizzie forced a smile and then blew her a kiss. “Good night, Katie Rose. I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.” She rushed out of the room and down the stairs to enter the parlor where her mother and father were reading. She smiled and folded her arms. “Goodness, you two are all alone? Now there’s a rare sight. Where’s Steven?”

  Patrick looked up from his paper. “Sean railroaded him into helping with inventory at the store. Promised him enough to buy the latest Mysto Magic set.” He squinted. “You look very pretty, Lizzie . . . but can you honestly see with all that black stuff on your eyes?”

  She ignored the heat in her face and gave him a patient smile, followed by a kiss on the cheek. “Yes, Father, I can. It’s the style, remember?”

  His lips squirmed to the right. “Mmmm . . . and it’s rather odd having a date on a Monday night, isn’t it? What time is Tom coming?”

  Lizzie glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Any minute now. And believe me, it wasn’t my idea to go out tonight. Between school and work, I’m exhausted. But the new Valentino movie just opened at the Copely, and Tom can’t wait to see it.”

  Marcy pressed her open book against her chest and sighed. “No matter how tired I was, I believe I’d still want to see that man in a movie.”

  Patrick lowered his paper. “A little less drooling, if you will, darlin’. And what’s this Valentino character got that I haven’t?”

  Marcy smiled coyly and turned a page in her book. “A wife who doesn’t have to keep dinner, no doubt.”

  Patrick’s lower lip puckered slightly. “Ah, a barb to the heart from the love of my life.” He glanced at Lizzie, apparently hoping to entreat her sympathy. “I’m late for one meal this week, and it’s an unforgivable crime.”

  Marcy never glanced up from her book. “It was two, and if it were unforgivable, Patrick O’Connor, you’d be sleeping on the couch tonight.”

  Lizzie grinned. “I’ll be sure and cover you up when I come in, Father.”

  The doorbell rang and Lizzie laughed, hurrying to answer it. “I hope that smile is for me,” Tom said, hands tucked in the pockets of his tan linen knickers. He grinned and folded his arms, then leaned against the frame of the door.

  To Lizzie and every other girl, he was the epitome of a college man with his cream V-necked sweater, red Windsor necktie, and classic spectator shoes. A tweed newsboy cap perched low on his head, hinting at sandy hair cut short on the sides in the fashion of the day. His gaze traveled the length of her, producing an indecent grin. “You look beautiful, doll,” he said, reeling her into his arms out of sight of the open door. His mouth burrowed deep into the crook of her neck, tasting her skin. “Mmmm, you taste good too.”

  A dangerous heat stirred within, and she pushed him away. “Tom, stop! My parents are right in the parlor.”

  He laughed and fanned his hand down the back of her waist with a familiarity that both shocked and excited her. “That’s why I didn’t go for your sweet lips, Lizzie, although God knows I want to. Can’t say hello to the folks with lipstick on my face, now can I?”

  He ushered her into the house with all the practiced authority of a college man, hat in hand. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. O’Connor. Thanks for letting Lizzie go out on a school night. I’ve been jazzed to see the new Valentino movie, and this is the only time I can go.”

  Patrick glanced up from his paper. “Hi, Tom. That’s fine, just have her home early.”

  “Hello, Tom. You look very handsome tonight.” Marcy smiled over her book.

  “Thank you, ma’am. And yes, sir, I will—right after. Have a good evening.”

  He steered Lizzie into the foyer where he snatched her jacket from the coat rack with a flick of his wrist. He slipped it over her shoulders and latched an arm to her waist. His warm breath tickled as he leaned close to her ear. “But I didn’t say after what.”

  Patrick yawned and dropped his trousers. He stepped out of them and unbuttoned his shirt, launching it at the hamper with little success. It skimmed the top and landed on the floor. He picked up the pants and draped them over the wooden valet with little more ceremony than the shirt.

  “Really, Patrick, the hamper’s not there to take potshots at, you know. Would it be so very hard to open the lid and toss the shirt in?”

  He slipped his pajama bottoms on and shot her a boyish grin. “No, darlin’, but not near as much fun.” He skimmed a thick hand across the dark hair on his chest and put his nightshirt on.

  She sighed and continued brushing her hair while she eyed him in the mirror. He scooped up the shirt and deposited it into the hamper. With another yawn, he dropped on his side of the bed, spre
ad-eagle, ignoring the covers beneath.

  Marcy doused the light and hurried to join him. She tunneled beneath the sheets, then yanked to wrest her blanket from beneath Patrick’s bulky frame. “Sweet saints, aren’t you cold?”

  Nothing moved but his lips. “No, darlin’, I’m hot.”

  She cuddled close to his side. “Yes, I know. It’s one of your greatest attributes on the coldest of nights. But if you’ve any mind to spoon tonight, I suggest it will be under the covers.”

  He chuckled and turned on his stomach, hoisting a sturdy leg over her body. “I don’t know, I think this may be the safest way to spoon for a man with sleep on his mind.”

  Her answering yawn rose several octaves, in the cadence of song. “Not if the woman doesn’t fall asleep first. I’m cold, Patrick, warm me up.”

  He clamped an arm to her waist. “Don’t tempt me, Marcy, I’m way too tired.”

  She grinned in the dark. “Good night, Patrick. I love you.”

  “Good night, darlin’. Sleep well.”

  His body transferred warm contentment to her bones, and she breathed in deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of their room. The faint smell of musk soap and pipe tobacco brought a soft tilt to her lips, and she whispered silent gratitude for the man beside her.

  All at once, he jolted awake. “Blast it all, Marcy, I almost forgot. Sam called. He’s in town.”