A Passion Denied

by Julie Lessman

  They reached the threshold of Bookends. Lizzie pushed the door open with a grunt. The bell rang overhead, and Millie looked up from the register. “About time. I’m starving.”

  Lizzie smirked. “Don’t pull that on me, Millie Doza. Your lunch is long gone, and I bet there are crumbs on the counter to prove it.”

  Millie winked and waved her new Photoplay magazine in the air. She hurried toward the back of the store. “I didn’t say for food, did I? This is the brand-new issue, and I’m dying to devour it.”

  Mary shook her head and circled the register. She squeezed Lizzie’s shoulder. “As far as Brady is concerned, Lizzie, I think that’s a good thing.”

  Lizzie bundled a stack of loose books in her arms. “What’s a good thing?”

  “You know, like you were saying. That you’ve resolved yourself to think of Brady as a brother.” She snatched a pile of receipts from a sharp spike on the counter and began to tally them in a ledger. “Although the man’s so ridiculously appealing, I can see how difficult that is. He could be a real sheik if he had a mind to. But, that’s part of his charm, I suppose. He has absolutely no idea the effect he has on women.”

  Lizzie sighed and returned the books to their proper places. “Please, I’ve spent too many lost years dwelling on Brady’s appeal. I just want to get on with my life.”

  “Speaking of which . . .” Mary said with a raised brow. “What’s been going on with Michael?”

  “Nothing more than I told you last time. Michael and I are friends. He shows up every Sunday for Mass, eats lunch with us and sometimes dinner. For pity’s sake, his brother has turned him away, so somebody has to befriend him.”

  “Why should it be you?”

  Lizzie propped her hands on her hips and stared Mary down. “Because I feel sorry for him. I don’t think the man has ever been around a family before. You should see him at our house— he’s like a little boy at Christmas. He plays games with Steven and Katie, talks to Mother about anything and everything, and plays chess with Father. And quite frankly, he makes me laugh, which is something I can certainly use lately, given what Brady’s put me through.”

  Mary took a deep breath and continued logging receipts. She avoided Lizzie’s gaze. “As long as he doesn’t ‘make’ you do anything else,” she muttered.

  “Mary Carpenter!” Lizzie’s cheeks flamed hot. “For pity’s sake, he’s Brady’s brother. And the man is only in town for a short time. What do you have against him, anyway? You haven’t even met him.”

  Mary glanced up, her look as searing as Lizzie’s. “Brady doesn’t think he’s good for you. That’s enough for me. And it should be for you too.”

  Lizzie folded her arms. “First Brady, and now you. I’ll have you know that Michael Brady is a decent, God-fearing friend who has done nothing but shown me the utmost courtesy and respect.”

  Mary scrutinized Lizzie through narrow eyes. “And he’s never tried to kiss you, not even once?”

  Lizzie notched her chin. “Maybe once, in the beginning at Brady’s flat, but never again. He knows there’s no way I’d consider him romantically, and I told him so.”

  “So he comes over for nothing but pure friendship?”

  Lizzie pursed her lips. “Yes, Mary, he does. He’s lonely, for pity’s sake. The man knows absolutely no one in Boston but his brother, who won’t even give him the time of day. Besides, he only plans to be in town for a few more weeks, so why are we even having this discussion?”

  Mary pushed the receipts back in the register. She stared at Lizzie for several seconds before releasing a weary breath. She shoved the register closed. “I’m sorry, Lizzie, I just care about you. My past hasn’t given me much reason to trust many people, but I do trust you and Brady. I love you both.”

  All the frustration seeped out of Lizzie as she walked to where Mary stood with a pitiful expression on her face. She gave her a hug. “Mary, I love you too. And I appreciate your concern, but believe me, when it comes to falling in love, I’m more than a little gun-shy when it comes to both Bradys. Friendship is undoubtedly the safest course.”

  Mary gave her a sideways glance. “Undoubtedly. So when’s he leaving?”

  “I don’t know, but soon.”

  “Humph . . . not soon enough. At least to suit Brady.” Mary snatched an armload of invoices from under the counter and headed for the back.

  Lizzie’s tone was teasing as she called after her. “I already have a guardian angel, Mary Carpenter, so you can rest easy.”

  Mary turned at the door. “Rest easy? Sure, Lizzie, don’t worry about me.” Her lips tilted in an obvious tease. “It’s the angel I’m worried about.”

  Patrick squeezed Marcy’s hand and rose to his feet. He scanned the crowded dinner table with a swell of pride. Their spacious dining room, more than enough to seat eight comfortably, was now jammed elbow to elbow with all twelve of his precious family. Charity, her first venture out in over a month and a half, looked tired but happy as she sat at the far end, a sleepy Hope in her lap. Mitch, radiating a fatherly pride that rivaled the glow of the candles, was seated at the head, where a chunky Henry dozed in the crook of his father’s arm. Patrick clinked a spoon against his cider goblet and raised it in the air. He cleared his throat.

  “I’d like to propose a toast to the two newest members of our family and the two people who gave them to us.”

  “I thought you were supposed to toast with wine,” Katie said.

  Patrick leveled his youngest daughter with a look that suggested silence. “In deference to the eighteenth amendment, Katie Rose, and as the head of this household, we can toast with whatever I deem fit. Just like I can administer discipline whenever I deem fit.”

  Katie’s lips flattened. She hoisted her milk. “You were saying?”

  “To Hope and Henry—may this family give them as much joy as it’s given me.” He arched a brow in Katie’s direction. “Most of the time.”

  “Here, here,” Mitch boomed, jarring Henry’s slumber. “And to a dozen more.”

  Charity choked on her cider. “Oh no, I’m not drinking to that.”

  “I will,” Collin said with a chuckle, “at least on this side of the table.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Faith said, holding her goblet away so Collin couldn’t clink.

  He grinned. “I am—four more for the Dennehys, and six more for us.”

  “Goodness, we’ll have to buy a bigger house,” Marcy said with a laugh.

  Patrick downed his cider. “You could be right, Marcy. It won’t be long before Lizzie and Sean get married and then—”

  “Oh no, not Sean—”Charity laughed. She handed Hope off to Lizzie, then stretched back in her chair with a grin. “Everybody knows he’s married to the store. All you’ll get out of him is inventory.”

  Sean flicked a pea in her direction. “Look, if you could find some poor dope to marry you—”

  “Hey, wait a minute—I am not ‘poor.’ ” Mitch said.

  “Well, don’t count on me for babies,” Katie piped in. “I have no intention of ever getting married.”

  “A wise plan,” Steven muttered. “It’ll save on heartbreak when nobody asks.” He glanced up at Patrick. “Father, may I be excused? I told Robert I’d come over after dinner.”

  “What? And miss the lesson I’ve prepared on changing diapers?” Charity gave him a look of horror.

  Steven stood with a sheepish grin. “Better teach her, sis,” he said with a nod toward Katie. “Spinsters have more time for that type of thing.”

  Katie lunged for his throat.

  “Katie Rose—freeze! Steven—sit down! Everyone else— quiet! I’ve got something more to say.” Patrick grabbed his glass of water and chugged, hoping to cool the heat crawling up the back of his neck. He put the glass down and shifted on his feet, passing a hand over his eyes while he stalled.

  Marcy’s touch was light on his arm. “Patrick, is everything all right?”

  He nodded and cleared his throat, then g
rabbed her hand for support. “This . . . well, this is difficult for me because as you all know, I am a man of considerable pride.” His lips skewed. “Not all of it good, I’m afraid.” He took another quick sip of water and continued, his voice gruff. “I owe an apology to each of you . . . for how I treated your mother.”

  Marcy squeezed his hand. “Patrick, this isn’t necess—”

  He nodded furiously to dispel the moisture in his eyes. “Yes, Marcy, it is. I put you and this family through a lot of grief and worry before the babies were born, and I have to make it right.” He stroked her cheek, stunned anew at how God could have blessed him with such a woman. “I love you, Marcy, with every fiber of my being. But because of stubborn pride, I disrespected you before your children, when God has called me to cherish you with all of my heart. Forgive me, Marcy. It will never happen again.”

  “Oh, Patrick, you know I’ve forgiven you—”

  “I know, darlin’, but I felt a need to ask in the presence of your children.” He lifted his gaze to his family. “My children— for whom I am supposed to set a godly example, but failed miserably.” He stood to his full height and scanned the table, beseeching each with humility in his eyes. “I ask each one of you to forgive me . . . and I thank you for your prayers, because I know you said them—over and over again. Don’t think they don’t have an effect, because they do. They saved me from myself—and your mother from further pain.”

  He pushed in his chair and pulled Marcy to her feet, gathering her close to his side. “Over the years, your mother and I have tried our best to teach you about prayer and forgiveness. But I can tell you right now that I bucked like the devil when God wanted me to teach you about humility. But I don’t have a choice—not when I want peace in my heart and God by my side. Now, if you will all excuse us, I am taking my wife off to the parlor where I will nurse my pride over a game of chess while your mother puts up her feet to relax.”

  He arched a brow in Katie’s direction. “Your night for dishes, I believe?”

  Katie groaned. “But Mama usually helps—”

  “Not tonight,” Patrick said with a tone not to be questioned. “Steven will clear the table, and the rest of us will retire to the parlor where these beautiful babies will be passed around and devoured like a plate of your mother’s fresh-baked sugar cookies. Collin, you up for a thrashing? I feel a surge of pride coming on.”

  “Hey, what happened to humility?” Collin asked.

  Patrick kissed Marcy full on the lips before ushering her to the door. “Haven’t you heard?” He shot a grin over his shoulder. “Doesn’t apply to chess.”

  Michael Brady stooped to snatch an acorn from the ground. He absently bobbled it in his hand as he studied the graceful girl walking beside him. The onset of dusk cast a faint pink glow across Lizzie’s face, reminding him of his stepmother’s prized pillar roses—creamy white and tinged with a kiss of a blush. Silky to the touch. Much like he imagined Lizzie would be.

  His lips leveled flat. Not that he knew firsthand. No, he’d been on his best behavior for over two and a half months now, getting to know her and her family, biding his time. He hadn’t expected it to take this long. Hadn’t intended to be away for this length of time, from Queens and the lucrative printing business his father had built from the ground up. The business that would finally belong to him. That is, if John would sign it away. Michael released a quiet breath. Lizzie was to have been nothing more than leverage with his brother, a means to a signature that would send Michael back where he belonged—to his plush life in Forest Hills. And so he had set out to win, first Lizzie’s trust, then her affection. He exhaled and sailed the nut hard into a passing tree. But instead of winning, he’d lost in a big way—his heart to a girl who was in love with his brother.

  She didn’t seem to notice—neither his pensive mood at the moment nor the fact that he was falling for her. She was too engrossed in telling her story, some humorous account of a kid at the bookshop where she worked, and he found himself smiling in spite of his mood. She had a way with words, her voice carrying softly on the crisp, autumn breeze, a hypnotic lilt to it that always held him captive. She glanced up to deliver the punch line, and he grinned, more from the look of delight on her face than the story itself. Her violet eyes sparkled in the waning light, teasing him with a heady mix of mischief and innocence.

  There was no question about it. Lizzie O’Connor had completely taken him by surprise. She had this ethereal shyness that made her look as if she belonged in an eighteenth-century English garden, despite her stylish bob that now shimmered auburn against the crimson sky. But in weeks of attending church and getting to know her, the shyness had slowly given way to a playful energy, exhaustive in her thirst to explore topics and books and people she loved. He frowned. And one in particular, unfortunately.

  They reached the front gate of her house far too soon, and he checked his watch in disbelief. It seemed only minutes since they’d left, but they’d been gone over an hour. It was a pleasant night, fragrant with the oaky scent of wood burning and damp leaves, and he was reluctant to go in and lose her to the family celebration he had declined to attend. He glanced at the house, awash with the red shadows of dusk and lights twinkling in the windows. His hand lingered on the latch of the gate.

  “Lizzie,” he whispered.

  She looked up with those almond-shaped eyes, and his heart did a flip.

  “Would you mind if we sat on the porch for a while?” He glanced up at the sky where the moon was on the rise, and breathed in the earthy scent of autumn. “There won’t be many nights like this, with a harvest moon and warm temperatures. I’d like to enjoy it.”

  She smiled. “Sure, Michael. I love this time of year.”

  He opened the gate and followed her to the porch, wondering how one girl, barely a woman, could disarm him so. He was twenty-eight, for pity’s sake, and she was more than a month away from eighteen. He was used to women flirting and seducing; he knew how to handle that. But this . . . friendship, with a girl who stirred his blood as much as his mind, totally unnerved him. She was unlike anyone he’d ever met, with a passion for God and family that offered him a taste of something he’d never known before. For the first time, he understood completely why John was in love with her. He released a shallow breath. He could certainly attest to that. She exuded this sweet femininity that made him want to protect her and take care of her. And she had this knack for making him feel different. Utterly male.

  And almost clean.

  She settled on the swing with the carefree air of a little girl, belying the soft curve of her figure beneath the thick cable sweater she wore. He sat beside her, a bit irritated at the pace of his pulse. When it came to women, he was usually in control. This was uncommon country—wanting a woman who didn’t want him—and he wasn’t sure he liked it. But if he could get her to fall in love with him—and out of love with his brother— he was fairly certain he’d be back on solid ground.

  She clasped slender hands to her knees and took a deep breath, face lifted and eyes closed. “Oh, just smell that air, will you? It smells like wood fires and apple cider and Halloween. I do believe fall is my favorite time of year.”

  He leaned close to take in the scent of her hair. “Funny, I smell lilacs and Pears soap. And it smells absolutely wonderful.”

  She opened her eyes and tilted her head. She clasped her hands in her lap. “Michael Brady, I do believe you’re trying to embarrass me.”

  He grinned and reached for her hand, squeezing and then forgetting to let go. He circled her palm with his thumb. “It’s not hard to do, Lizzie. You turn pink faster than any girl I’ve ever seen. But I like it.” His voice trailed off to a whisper. “A lot.”

  She tugged her hand free. “Is it my imagination, or is it getting cool all of a sudden? Maybe we better go in.”

  He stared at her full lips, ripe with the shimmer of dusk, and swallowed hard. “No, not yet, please. I need to tell you something.”

  She look
ed up, and he saw the hesitation in her eyes. Like a doe ready to bolt. He forced himself to go slow and easy, something he wasn’t used to. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake that Weston character had. She was too important, too special. He couldn’t risk scaring her away.

  He sat back on the swing and stared out at the street, giving her the chance to relax and escape the intensity that burned in his eyes. “Lizzie, when I came to Boston, I came for one reason. To get John to sign some very important papers. Papers that would release the inheritance our stepmother left to us. But he wouldn’t do it.”

  “Why?”

  He glanced at her, gauging how much he should divulge. “Because he wants nothing to do with his past, and I can’t say I blame him.”

  A frown creased her brow. She rested a hand on his arm. “Michael, what happened to Brady when he was young? I know it was something awful, but he refuses to talk about it. To anyone.”

  Michael covered her hand with his own. “I can’t tell you that, Lizzie. It would destroy my brother if anyone knew. And I love him too much to do that. But suffice it to say it was enough to change him forever. So much so that I don’t know who he is anymore. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have any love for me. And certainly there was no love lost between him and our stepmother. To be honest with you, I’m not sure he can love at all.”

  She backed away, her body suddenly rigid against the corner of the swing. Her voice was soft and pleading. “Don’t say that, please. Brady has more love inside of him than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  He flinched at the defensive look in her eyes and looked away. “Okay, let me qualify that. I’m not sure he can love . . . a woman.”

  He heard her harsh intake of breath and looked up. Tears pooled in her eyes, and he reached to caress her face with his hand. “Listen to me, Lizzie. I know you’re in love with my brother, but I don’t want to see you hurt. You and I both know that he has no intention of returning that love—at least, not the way you want. He can’t, Lizzie. Don’t you know that?”