A Passion Denied

by Julie Lessman

  It was her turn to jolt. “Sam . . . O’Rourke?”

  “Of course, Sam O’Rourke. What other Sam do we know? He wants to take us to dinner Friday night. Are we free?”

  She tried to think, but her mind wouldn’t focus. Sam O’Rourke? Here? Now?

  “Marcy?”

  “I’m thinking, Patrick, I’m thinking.” She pressed a hand to her temple. Tuesday was bridge, Wednesday she’d promised to help Faith sew a dress, Thursday was Katie’s play practice, and Friday was . . . She stopped. Oh, Lord, no . . . they were free! “If you don’t want to go, just say so, but I would think you’d be as anxious to see him as me. After all, it’s been over twenty years.”

  “Almost twenty-five, to be exact. Why don’t you meet him, and I’ll just stay home?”

  He drew her around to face him. “Marcy, it’s time to forgive and forget. What Sam did, losing our money in that scam investment, well, it all happened a long time ago. And don’t forget he lost money too. For pity’s sake, he was my closest friend, more like a brother, really, and the best man at our wedding. Can’t we spend one evening with him, for old time’s sake?”

  Dread soured her tongue. “If that’s what you want.”

  “I do. Now, I’ll call him tomorrow and handle the details. I want you to go out and buy something new, something pretty that won’t make this such a chore, all right?”

  She nodded.

  He kissed her on the nose and rotated her back into a spooning position. He tucked his arms firmly around her waist and sighed against her neck. “I love you, Marcy. Sweet dreams, darlin’.”

  She stared in the dark, seeing nothing but Sam O’Rourke’s smile on the walls of her mind.

  Dreams? Undoubtedly.

  Sweet? Dear Lord, she hoped not.

  “Come on, Lizzie,” he whispered. “Don’t you like me?”

  Lizzie tried to scoot to her side of the swing, but Tom lured her back with another heated kiss, no doubt intended to numb her conscience. She shivered. It was working.

  “You know how I feel about you. I’ve been after you for years. Now you’re my girl, and I just want to love you.” He scooped her close and kissed her deeply while his hands roamed from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. A delicious heat pulsed inside of her, dulling her will to stop. His hands swept to the curve of her hips and he moaned, whispering against her cheek with labored breaths. “I love you, Lizzie.” He kissed her again while his palms skimmed up the sides of her waist, triggering an alarm inside her brain.

  Her mouth wrenched from his. “Tom, no!”

  He pressed his mouth to her ear, tickling her earlobe. “Come on, Lizzie, you know I’m crazy about you, and I can tell you like it.”

  “But it’s not right.”

  “It is if I love you.”

  She pushed him away. “No, Tom, it’s not.”

  He exhaled and sat back on the swing. “Look, Lizzie, I’m a man in college now. Do you know what that’s like? It’s a new world out there. There are modern women everywhere, throwing themselves at guys like me. But I don’t want them—I want you.”

  She shivered, caught off-guard at the jealousy that stabbed within. “You have me, Tom.”

  “I know, Lizzie, but I want all of you.”

  Shock heated her cheeks. “You can’t mean—”

  He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Not right away, doll, but when you’re ready. Until then, I want to hold you, touch you . . .” He pressed a kiss to the lobe of her ear. “You know, Lizzie, I’ve had chances to go to petting parties—”

  “No!” She pulled away as tears stung her eyes.

  He gripped her arms. “But I wouldn’t . . . because of you. You’re my girl, the only one that I want to do that with.”

  He smiled and stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Just think about it, okay?” He stood and lifted her to her feet, then walked her to the door. He bent to kiss her gently on the mouth. “Good night, Lizzie. I’ll be dreaming of you. Think about me too, okay?” He chucked her on the chin and bounded down the steps. His whistling faded down the street.

  She leaned against the door and closed her eyes, guilty over the heat that still pulsed from his touch. Think about him? Shame shivered through her. As if she had a choice.

  Brady rolled his neck to clear the kinks while he stared at the dripolator. He glanced at the clock and winced. Five thirty a.m. Well, it wasn’t the earliest time he’d come into the shop, but it had all the markings of one of the most difficult, given his workload. He glanced at the new stack of orders Collin put on his back table last night, higher than the old stack that never seemed to dwindle. He reached for the old work orders and began to sort, releasing a weary sigh. He needed to get a jump-start on the day, something he couldn’t do until strong, hot coffee flowed in his veins. He peered up at the brand-new Silex coffee machine, willing it to hurry. It steamed and spit in response, sputtering dark liquid into the pot at a snail’s pace.

  He scanned the first order and groaned. A sixteen-page addendum to the St. Stephen’s bulletin, extolling the virtues of their financial campaign. It alone would eat up a good chunk of his morning, precious time he didn’t have. He and Collin needed to talk. The prospect of hiring additional help was something they could no longer ignore. That is, if he wanted a life. His lips twisted into a near smile. Not that his was worth having, right at the moment.

  The heady aroma of coffee teased his senses as he fanned through the rest of the orders, contemplating a plan for getting them done. Not an impossible task, he supposed, if he spent his time wisely and worked straight through. He suddenly thought of Mary, so hungry for God she now came five days a week. She seemed determined to spend her lunch hour with God’s Word—and him. He sighed. Maybe he should cut back to the original three days. It might be the best thing to do. Wiser, more productive.

  And certainly safer.

  The coffeepot gurgled with a final groan, hissing to indicate its cycle was through. Brady rose and poured himself a cup while thoughts of Mary furrowed his brow. He sat back down and reached for the pile of papers. She was finally able to relax with him and had developed a trust he suspected was rare for her. She seemed to admire him, open up to him, cling to his every word. All at once, his gaze fell to the work orders in a cold stare. Dear God, no. Could she be falling for him?

  Lizzie had, despite his doing everything in his power to prevent it. Although Mary was close to Lizzie in age, she was not as wide-eyed and naïve, he was sure, regardless of the sweetness of her face. His jaw tightened. He knew all too well that tragic eyes often came from ruin of innocence.

  He dropped his head in his hands and began to pray for wisdom.

  “Brady?”

  He spun around, his heart jolting in his chest. “Beth! What are you doing here?”

  She moved into the back room like a ghost with sunken eyes and pale cheeks. The shingle haircut she was so proud of, usually carefully waved and hugging her face, now wisped below her ears in soft, unruly curls—clear evidence of a restless night’s sleep. She avoided his eyes as she sank into the chair across the table.

  “Beth? What’s wrong?”

  She looked up then, and his heart squeezed in his chest. Those near-violet eyes, so soulful, so sweet, now stared back like a little girl lost, heavy with tears. He fought the urge to pull her into his arms and leaned over the table instead. “Talk to me, please.”

  She shook her head and wetness spilled loose, glistening her cheeks. She fanned a hand to shield her eyes, as if she couldn’t bear his gaze. “You w-were right, Brady. I should h-have listened.”

  The blood stilled in his veins. “About what?”

  She sniffed and swiped her face with the corner of her sweater, prompting him to pull a clean handkerchief from the pocket of his work apron.

  “Here, use this.”

  She took it and started to cry. “Oh, Brady, I’m so ashamed. You . . . tried to w-warn me, but I didn’t believe y-you.”

  His jaw felt like roc
k. “What happened, Beth?”

  “N-nothing, y-yet, but I . . . I’m scared.” She laid her head down and sobbed, the sound of her weeping lacerating his heart. He leapt up and rounded the table, then pulled her up from her chair and into his arms. He held her tightly, stroking her head with his hand. “It’s okay, nothing’s going to happen. That’s why you’re here—to pray about it and make sure.”

  She clung with all her might while she shook in his arms, and he laid his head against hers, breathing in her scent. Lilacs and soap drifted to his nostrils, and a rush of love welled as he closed his eyes. This was his Beth, sweet and clean, innocent to the core. Oh, God, please keep her that way.

  He lifted his head, aware her weeping had stilled as she sagged against him. Her tentative arms encircling his waist now slid higher to a more intimate embrace. He caught his breath and took a step back, fisting her wrists with a gentle hold. “Sit down, Beth, please.”

  He quickly released her and returned to his seat. “What happened? Why are you scared?”

  She slumped in the chair and blew her nose. “Because it’s hard to stop. And Tom has no intention of stopping.”

  “Break it off, then. He’s no good for you.”

  “It’s not that easy, Brady.”

  “No, but you can do it.”

  “No, that’s just it—I can’t! Tom makes me feel things I’ve waited a lifetime to feel. Alive and in love and desired.”

  “Desire isn’t love, Beth, I’ve taught you that.”

  She pressed forward. “Yes, Brady, you did—with words. But when Tom kisses me, touches me, tells me he wants me . . . it feels like love.”

  Brady reached to gently touch her arm. “And what’s it feel like in the morning, Beth?”

  She shivered and looked away.

  He exhaled and leaned back in his chair. “I can tell you what it feels like. Like sin. I’ve been there more times than I can count. A sick feeling, bitter regret, guilt so heavy your shoulders ache. And death—dark, cold, hopeless death. The ‘wages of sin is death,’ little buddy, and trust me, nobody gets away with it.”

  She nodded and wiped her eyes with his handkerchief. “I know. I can see that now.” She looked up with sorrowful eyes. “He doesn’t really love me, does he?”

  “I believe he cares for you, but that’s not love. Real love gives, not takes.”

  Her voice was quiet. “Tom would say, if real love gives, then I should give what he wants.”

  A faint smile touched his lips. “And you would say no, real love gives what God wants.”

  She hung her head. “It does, doesn’t it?”

  “You ready to pray about this?”

  “To pray, yes. To quit seeing Tom? I’m not so sure, at least not yet. But I’m willing to pray. For God’s strength . . . and that he’ll show me what to do.”

  “That’s a good place to start.”

  She sighed. “Yes, but either way, I doubt Tom will like the outcome.”

  He reached for her hand and smiled. “There’s no doubt at all. He won’t.”

  If ever there were a night for Patrick to sleep on the couch, this would be it. With barely contained fury, Marcy waited for Sam to return from the washroom. She folded her arms and tucked them close to her body, vowing to lock her husband out of their bedroom for the first time in over twenty-six years.

  She exhaled and began tapping her fingers on the table, then glanced at the front for some sign of Patrick. Her hand fidgeted with the base of the water glass before she finally reached for her purse. Her fingers were itchy to keep busy, so she applied a coat of lipstick and powdered her nose. Seconds ticked by as she fumed, reflecting back on the evening—the evening Patrick had insisted they attend. Against her wishes.

  “For old time’s sake,” he had said. But “old times” weren’t all that he supposed them to be, and now here she was, face-to-face with her past. While that stubborn Irishman was, once again, putting the Herald before her.

  Her insides had been a jumble as she dressed, angst bubbling in her stomach like vinegar in a fry pan. She slipped into the new butter-yellow frock Patrick had helped her pick out. “It brings out the blue of your eyes, Marcy, and the glints of gold in your hair,” he said, ignoring the cost. He flashed his heart-melting grin before finalizing the decision with a kiss. “I want to show you off, darlin’,” he had whispered.

  But he hadn’t realized to whom.

  When he had called to say he’d be late, some of her anxiety had edged into anger. “I’ll meet you at the restaurant,” he promised, and she had begged him to hurry.

  “I will, Marcy, as quickly as I can. Just one crisis to avert, and I’ll be on my way.”

  She had hung up the phone in the hall with a lump in her throat, desperate to avert a crisis of her own. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Sky-blue eyes stared back, etched with concern. Anxiety had paled her cheeks, so she’d blotted her lipstick and rubbed in a bit of the color. She scrutinized her hair and wrinkled her nose. She was so tired of chignons, despite the pretty mother-of-pearl comb she wore, and had been sorely tempted to get it bobbed for ease of care. But Patrick had pleaded, and she had succumbed. She sighed and leaned close to the mirror to study her face with a critical eye, grateful for the creamy skin inherited from her mother. Even with her fair share of laugh lines and faint wrinkles, it glowed as softly as Charity’s in the right light. Some said she looked closer to thirty-five than forty-three. Her lips tipped into a faint smile. Mmmm . . . maybe in a dark room.

  She returned to the present to see Sam heading her way and quickly took a drink of water. He strode to the table with a confident air that had been one of his many hallmarks, and she found herself wondering why he never married. Although not as handsome as Patrick, he had a definite charisma that had never left him wanting for a woman on his arm. Even now his easy smile lit his ebony eyes with an almost roguish glint, turning female heads as he crossed the room. He eased into the booth and teased her with a grin, looking so much like the pirate he was—dark hair slicked back and hard-chiseled features.

  He nodded at her uneaten dessert. “You’ve changed. The Marceline Murphy I knew would never leave that on her plate.”

  She laughed, and it dispelled some of the edginess she felt. “I suspect we’ve all changed a good deal. Hopefully, for the better.”

  He leaned back in the booth and studied her through lidded eyes. “You haven’t. Other than your appetite for desserts.” He paused before leaning in to rest his arms on the table. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You still take my breath away, you know.”

  It had been years since she blushed to the roots of her hair, and his low chuckle did nothing to help.

  “Well, I can see I’ve embarrassed you, Mrs. O’Connor, so I do apologize. But as you know, I’ve never been a man to mince words.”

  She fumbled for her napkin and dipped it in her water glass, then closed her eyes and patted her face. She was certain the breath in her lungs had seldom been so shallow.

  He touched a gentle hand to her arm, and she jolted. “Don’t tell me you’re not used to hearing such things, Marcy. Knowing Patrick as I do, I would think you’d hear them warmly and often. I know if you were my wife—”

  “Well, I’m not and well you know it, Samuel O’Rourke.” Her chest heaved with ragged breaths as she pressed the cool cloth to her cheek. Her glance skittered to the door. “Where in the world is Patrick?”

  Sam picked up the check and reached into his suit coat. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? That phone call I took at the front desk was from him. He’s running late and said he’d meet us back at the house.”

  The cool napkin adhered to her skin. “The call you took more than an hour ago? That was Patrick?”

  He placed several crisp bills on the table and gave her an intimate smile. “I know your fondness for dessert, my love. I didn’t want to ruin it for you.” He stood and offered his hand. “Patrick has had you for over twenty-six years, Marcy. I only have tonight.” />
  She shot to her feet and slapped his hand away. “Keep your hands to yourself, Sam O’Rourke, and I am not your ‘love.’ ”

  He blocked her path. “You were once, or have you forgotten?” She butted him out of the way with her purse. “I haven’t forgotten what a wolf you were, and apparently you haven’t changed, either.” She stormed toward the door.

  He cupped her elbow before she exited the front entrance. “Marcy, please . . . forgive me. I was way out of line.” He offered her the thin wrap she’d left in the booth. “Truce?”

  She snatched it from his hands. “I want to go home. Now!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He turned to hail his driver, and within minutes, he was ushering her into the back of his private car, extending his hand to help her in. Ignoring him, she climbed inside, then scooted to the far side of the seat. He eased in beside her and gave the glass partition two hard raps, indicating for the driver to go. He sat back and she wedged her purse neatly between them. With a grin, he casually placed his arm along the back of the seat. She turned and fixed her gaze out the window, all but holding her breath as they jostled along cobblestone streets.

  The tips of his fingers lighted upon her shoulder, almost searing her skin through the chiffon of her sleeve. “Marcy, for the sake of our past, let’s not fight. I’m leaving in the morning and may never see you again. Won’t you give me these few precious moments?”

  She turned sharply and saw the loneliness in his eyes. She expelled a soft breath and gently removed his hand from her arm. “All right, Sam, for the sake of our past and your friendship with my husband—truce.”

  He sloped back in the seat and visibly relaxed. “I came here this weekend for one reason only—to see you and Patrick and set things straight.” He reached inside his suit coat and withdrew a piece of paper. His gaze locked on hers as he tucked it in the pocket of her clutch. “Here’s a check for the money I owe you, every dime.”

  He looked away and threaded a hand through black hair grayed at the temples. “You know, I never intended to say those things to you at the restaurant back there, truly. But when Patrick didn’t join us and I found we were alone . . .” His gaze returned, stifling her air. “I suddenly remembered things I’ve missed. Like that lopsided tilt of your smile when you’re teasing, or that little-girl glow when you laugh.” A grin creased his lips. “The look of panic in your eyes when I would get too close . . .”