Lizzie jerked, spilling tea all over the table. Faith leapt to her feet to fetch a towel.
“I’m so sorry, Michael! Did I get any on you?” Lizzie stared in horror at the dark splotches staining his slacks.
He stood and brushed his linen trousers. “No problem, but I’ll tell you what. You can make it up by having dinner with me tomorrow night.”
“Oh no, I can’t! We have a family dinner every Sunday.”
“Monday, then?”
Lizzie’s gaze darted to Faith, who arched a brow.
“I don’t think so, Michael, but thank you for asking.”
He reached for the sodden towel and wiped the seat of his chair before pushing it in. He tossed it back on the table. “Because of John?”
She bit her lip. “Yes, I think so.”
He picked up his hat and held it loosely in his hands. His thumb grazed the rim. “He told me you two weren’t dating. That you were just friends.”
“No, no, we’re not dating. Just friends. My best friend, actually.”
“Then why would he mind?”
She was mortified by the heat burning in her cheeks, but she wasn’t going to lie. “He asked me to stay away from you.”
“I see. And did he say why?”
“He claims you wouldn’t be good for me.”
“Because . . .”
She released a sober breath. “He says you have no faith in God.”
He nodded, the barest of smiles curving his lips. “I see.”
He moved to the door and positioned the straw boater on his head. He gave it several firm taps. “Faith, it was a pleasure meeting you. The moment I met Collin, I knew his wife would be something special.” He gave a slight bow and pressed a hand to the screen door. He turned and squinted. “By the way, what time do you leave for church on Sunday mornings?”
She pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Nine forty-five for ten o’clock Mass. Why?”
“See you tomorrow, then.”
Lizzie blinked, her body in shock. “Church? Tomorrow? B-but I didn’t think you went.”
He gave her a faint smile, and his firm gaze was so much like Brady’s that it caused her stomach to flip. He winked. “I do now.”
“Good night, Mr. Dennehy. You heading home soon?”
Mitch glanced at his watch before looking up. “Right behind you, Dorothy. Have a nice evening.”
“You too, sir.”
He expelled a heavy breath and rose to his feet, his lips twisting into a slight scowl. Yeah, a real nice evening—if he didn’t get fired first. He plucked his suit coat from the back of his chair and slung it over his shoulder, then strode to the door with one purpose in mind. To get it over with—as quickly as possible. To get the monkey off his back. He thought of his wife and sighed, fisting the knob with too much pressure as he closed his door. A beautiful monkey, to be sure, but annoying all the same.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. No, that wasn’t fair. He would have done this anyway, on his own. But it would have been on his time frame, not Charity’s. He wanted to see healing in the family as much as anyone. More, probably, given the fact that he had to work with Patrick, day in and day out. He was tired of the lonely bent of his father-in-law’s shoulders, the hollow look in his eyes. But today certainly wouldn’t have been the day he’d picked. Not when several deadlines had been missed and the paper had gone to bed late. Patrick would be in a foul mood for sure. But no more so than his beautiful monkey if he failed to get the deed done. Mitch steeled his jaw and knocked on Patrick’s closed door.
“Come in.”
He poked his head in. “Got a minute?”
Patrick finished scribbling on a paper before looking up. “Since when do you knock? You usually barge in with smoke coming out of your ears.”
“Yeah, well, I thought there’d be enough smoke in the air.” He closed the door and tossed his coat over the back of a chair and sat, elbows flat on the side arms. He jiggled his fingers nervously over the edge.
Patrick continued writing, his head still bowed over the paper. His eyes flicked up, gray and grim beneath stormy brows. “What do you want, Mitch?”
He exhaled. There was no sense in tiptoeing around. His fingers stilled on the chair. “The family knows. Everything. That you and Marcy aren’t talking, that you sleep at the Herald, that things aren’t right between you two.”
Patrick leaned back in his chair. His eyes were as cold as the pewter pen clenched in his hand. “And how, pray tell, did they find out?”
Mitch sucked in a deep breath. “They held a meeting . . . to discuss the tension they’ve been feeling. They suspect you aren’t sleeping in your room.”
Patrick’s brow angled dangerously high.
A nerve twitched in Mitch’s cheek. “And I confirmed it.”
“I see.” His tone was flat, like the hard line of his mouth.
Mitch sprang to his feet, palms pressed white on the desk. “Look, Patrick, you put me in an awkward position, and I kept my mouth shut because you asked me to. But your family is bleeding over this, and something’s got to be done. For pity’s sake, your wife is in a depression and your family is frantic with worry. The man I thought I knew would have never allowed that. What’s happened to you?”
Without a word, Patrick rose to his feet and moved to the window, shoulders stooped like a man who’d waged a battle and lost. His voice was so low, Mitch could barely decipher the words. “That man no longer exists.”
“Patrick, you have to talk to me. Let me help you, please.”
The light from the window blazed around him, creating a surreal silhouette as he put his head in his hand. His shoulders began to shake, and with a tightening in his gut, Mitch realized he was weeping.
“Patrick, I respect you more than any man alive. What you and Marcy have, I’ve never seen anything like it. Never seen two people more in love, more in tune with each other. Charity and I and Collin and Faith get on our knees and pray for what you have. As God is my witness, I have never seen a better marriage.”
“It’s a lie.”
“What?”
Patrick turned around, his eyes raw with pain. “The marriage. It began as a lie. She didn’t love me.”
“I don’t believe that. That woman loves you so much that she can’t eat, can’t sleep. She’s a shell of her former self. Is that what you want?”
“No! And, yes, I know she loves me. But tell me something, Mitch. And I defy you to say otherwise. If you discovered Charity was in love with someone else when she became your wife, would it change the man that you are?”
Every nerve in his body stilled. The mere thought clotted the air in his lungs. A once-familiar taste of rage and jealousy tainted his tongue like a canker, reminding him how he’d felt prior to their marriage when Charity had been seeing Rigan or when she’d implied love for Brady. He closed his eyes and thought of Patrick, in love for a lifetime, only to discover a lie that could destroy it all. Mitch’s heart pounded in his chest. Would it change him? He sucked in a harsh breath and sat down. God help him, it would.
Patrick returned to his chair and shielded his eyes with his hands. “You see my dilemma, then. It’s not that I don’t love Marcy. The woman is my life. Or was. Sometimes I miss her so much that it’s a physical ache. But when I found out . . . something inside of me shut down, closed off. I’ve tried everything I know to open up again, but I can’t . . . seem . . . to do it.”
“How did you find out?”
A hoarse, bitter laugh erupted from his throat. “I suppose I can blame my own preoccupation with the Herald, along with an old friend who came to call. The best man from my wedding, actually, and the best friend I ever had. I’d known he courted Marcy before me, but he’d convinced me it was nothing more than friends. He came into town weeks ago, and I missed a dinner the three of us were supposed to have. Marcy hadn’t wanted to go, and now I know why. When I didn’t show, he apparently tried to pick up where they left off.”
�
�Did she—”
“No, Marcy’s too noble of a woman for that. She would never be unfaithful, at least not physically.” He leaned his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes, his struggle evident in the press of his jaw. “But the emotional betrayal . . . well, let’s just say I’ve been wrestling with the devil.”
Mitch sat back too. “Yes, the emotional betrayal. I remember it well. Your daughter turned me inside out seven different ways with her lies and deceit before we were married. But I almost lost her, Patrick, and my life would have never been the same. All because of a near-terminal illness of the soul.” He paused to let that sink in.
Patrick’s eyelids slitted open. The edge of his mouth flickered, giving Mitch hope. “Are ya planning on telling me now . . . or will I be reading it in tomorrow’s paper?”
Mitch smiled. “I think it’s something we’re both pretty familiar with. It’s called pride. And it’s steeped in fear. Your daughter lied to me—over and over—and the thought of taking her back seared my pride something fierce. I loved her more than life itself, but she made me feel like a fool, so I cut her off, hurt her, just like you’re doing to Marcy. Then the fear told me I could never trust her love again. Only it was a lie from the pit. Charity’s love is the most precious gift God has ever given me, aside from his Son, and I trust her with my life.”
Patrick blinked several times and looked away. The corners of his mouth twitched. “You trust her?”
“With my life, yes.” His tone lightened. “When she’s finagling for something she really wants? Not a chance.”
Patrick finally smiled, and Mitch felt the knot ease in his stomach. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “This is no way to live. We both know that. Your pride has cut you off from everything you hold dear—your family, the woman you love, and God. It’s got to stop.”
Patrick nodded, his eyes filling with moisture. He put a hand to his brow. “I know. I just don’t know how.”
“I know, but God does. You have to give it to him, ask his forgiveness, then pray to forgive Marcy. And when you do, Patrick, the Bible will prove itself true. ‘The law of Jehovah is perfect, restoring the soul.’ ”
Patrick stared out the window for a long time before he wiped a sleeve to his eyes. In slow motion, he sat forward to join Mitch with his elbows firmly on the desk. He fisted his hands and lowered his head on top. His voice was rough with emotion. “I will pray, Mitch, because it’s the right thing to do. And I will repent. But my heart—” An almost imperceptible trace of a shiver traveled through him. “It’s raw, you understand, and I . . . I don’t know when . . . how soon I . . . I can love my wife again.”
“I understand. But as you and your family have taught me on more than one occasion, prayer is the first step. Taking the hand of God and gripping it like your very life depends on it. Because it does. And he will lead you home . . . to forgiveness, to healing . . . and then to Marcy.”
For moments, it seemed, Patrick remained silent, head bent over the strained clasp of his hands. The bulk of his body sat in the shadows, cut off from the sunlight that sliced across his desk, highlighting only a faint touch of silver at his temples. Divided—like him—a soul half in the light, half in the shadows, wrestling with the pull of both. He finally released a struggling breath, and his hands, knuckled white, relaxed. Mitch heard a muffled rasp that might have been a chuckle. “My daughter may be stubborn like her father, but at least she had the wisdom to marry well.”
Mitch smiled. “It was God’s wisdom and mercy that brought us back together, Patrick, nothing more. But cheer up, my friend, because you’re a blessed man. He’s about to do the same for you.”
12
Lizzie popped her head around the corner of Mary’s office and smiled. “Hello, stranger. I’ve missed you.”
Mary looked up from her paperwork with blue eyes shadowed with fatigue. A tired smile softened her lips. “I’ve missed you too.”
“Still not feeling well after that bout with the flu?”
“No, I’m better, really. Just not sleeping all that great.” She pushed at the stack of invoices on her desk and wrinkled her nose. “Blame it on the new inventory Mr. Harvey insisted I order. There seems to be more to do than hours in the day.”
Lizzie strolled in and plunked into a chair. She didn’t like the haggard look in her friend’s face. She studied her while grating her lip in nervous habit. “I know. You haven’t made one of our Bible studies in weeks. We miss you.”
“Well, you, anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Brady misses you too.”
“I doubt that, but that’s okay, Lizzie. He’s your friend.”
Lizzie gave her a thin stare. “He’s your friend too, Mary. Did something happen? Between you and Brady? Is that why you’re avoiding him?”
Mary laughed and stood to face the window, but not before Lizzie saw her cheeks blot with color. She gazed out at the brick-wall alley, fixed in a stare, as if it were a vibrant summer garden. “Of course not, I just haven’t had the time.”
“So, ya talking about me?” Millie breezed in as if she owned the place, parking her embroidered silk skirt on the edge of Mary’s desk. She crossed her legs and flung her head back in her best Theda Bara imitation, then puckered scarlet lips, the exact shade of her blouse. “Because if you’re not, we can start now.”
Mary spun around with a crooked smile that seemed edged with relief. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, Millie Doza, no matter how much you want it to.”
“Sure it does.” She flicked a piece of lint off the cuff of her satin sleeve. “You two just don’t know it yet.”
Lizzie glanced at her watch and jumped to her feet. “Oh, sweet mother of Job, I forgot—I’ve got to get home.”
“Not so fast, Lizzie Lou, what’s your hurry? Got a date?” Millie vaulted off the desk to fasten several blood-red nails to her arm.
“No, not a date. Just . . . company.”
Theda Bara’s brow slithered up. “With Mr. Brady again?”
“It’s not a date, all right?” Lizzie removed Millie’s fingers from her arm with the utmost calm, but she was pretty sure the heat in her cheeks gave her away.
“You’re . . . dating Brady?” Mary’s tone was as astonished as her face, which bordered on stunned.
Lizzie glared. “It’s not a date, Millie, how many times do I have to tell you? My family will be there.” She gave Mary a wavering smile. “I’ve been wanting to tell you, but I haven’t had the chance.”
Mary sat down, her cheeks as white as the invoices pressed beneath her palms. “You and Brady . . . you’re . . . seeing each other?”
Lizzie sighed. “No, Mary, not John. We both know how impossible that is. This is his twin brother, from out of town. His name is Michael, and I actually met him by accident—at Brady’s apartment last week.”
Mary stared and Millie snickered.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but there’s really nothing to it.” She ignored Millie and gave Mary a timid smile. “Pretty shocking, though, isn’t it? Brady having a twin?”
Mary nodded and took a deep breath.
“We’re nothing but friends, honestly. I actually almost feel sorry for Michael. I mean, Brady won’t have anything to do with him, which is odd in itself. He says Michael has no faith in God, but he won’t reach out to him or show him God’s love.” Lizzie stood to her feet. “So when Michael said he wanted to go to church with me and my family, what else could I do? Besides, I’m just doing for him what Brady did for me.”
“And Brady’s okay with that?” Mary rose and gathered papers, her eyes trained on the stack in her hands.
“Well, Brady doesn’t know about it exactly, at least not yet. But I plan to tell him on Wednesday.” Her chin notched the slightest degree. “But he has no reason to be upset because nothing’s going on, nor will it. I promised him when I fall in love, it will be with a man who seeks God.”
“You mean . . . like his bro
ther appears to be doing?” Mary’s gaze lifted, piercing hers.
Lizzie straightened her shoulders. “No, Mary, Brady has spoiled me. It will have to be a man who not only seeks God but lives for him too. With all of his heart.” She turned to go. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
“Lizzie . . .”
She turned, startled by the gravity in Mary’s tone.
“I don’t have a good feeling. If Brady wants you to stay away, maybe you should.”
“I’m guarding my heart, Mary, and girding it with prayer. No man will get through unless it’s John Brady himself . . . or the hand of God.”
“Please . . . talk to Brady first. Before it goes any further.”
Lizzie paused. “Mary, trust me. It’s not going anywhere. Just because he looks like Brady doesn’t mean he is Brady. There’s no one like Brady. I know that.”
Mary’s eyes burned with intensity. “Do you, Lizzie?”
She blinked. “Yes, Mary, I do. I’ve been in love with the man since I was thirteen, remember?”
“Yes, I remember. I’m just hoping you do.”
“When am I gonna get muscles like you? We’ve been working out three times a week, and I still look like a girl.” Cluny scowled as he flexed his arm. He slouched in dejection on the wooden bench and scratched his bony chest. It was a sad commentary when compared to the likes of John L. Sullivan, Gentleman Jim Corbett, and Jack Dempsey, all hanging in crooked frames on the dirty plaster wall overhead.
Brady bit back a smile as he studied the boy—scrawny, sweating, and naked from the waist up. His heart went out to the little beggar. Just turned fifteen years old and no height or muscles in sight. Why, at Cluny’s age, he and Michael had been close to six foot tall with hair on their chests and faces. It had to be rough on the little guy.
“It’ll come, bud, give it time. You’re eating plenty, if my grocery bill is any proof, and it’s only a matter of time before you shoot up and fill out.” Brady leaned close and sniffed. “And if it’s any consolation, you smell like a man.”
A grin split Cluny’s freckled face as he lifted his arm to take a whiff. “Thanks, Brady. I do, don’t I? Starting to smell just like you. At least that’s better than stinking like Miss Hercules.”
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