“Mrs. Clary? Good morning, it’s Brady. Is Father Mac in?”
He waited, and the stillness overflowed with the pounding of his pulse. A voice finally answered, and emotion flooded his eyes, choking the words on his lips. He paused to draw in a ragged breath and cleared his throat.
“Father Mac? It’s John. Can we talk?”
Collin unlocked the door to his apartment and trudged inside, not even bothering to turn on the light. It was well past midnight, and his bones ached, not to mention his heart. He had spent the day with Brady, packing up his apartment before he left Boston forever. For Collin, this day ranked up there with the worst of his life: the day his father died, the day he went to war, the day he learned Faith was going to marry another man. He slung his coat on the hook by the door and paused, feeling as depleted as when he’d wakened from one of those mind-numbing drunks Brady had always nursed him through. He closed his eyes and swallowed the grief in his throat. Why, God?
He had lost a friend today. A brother, a partner, a man he would respect until the day he died, and the despair was more than he could handle. A silent heave shook him, and he put his head in his hands, desperate to fight the emotion lodged in his throat. Why, John?
But he knew why. What man could stay knowing he repulsed the woman he loved? Lizzie was young and naïve and ill-prepared to deal with a man chained to a past like Brady’s. Forgiveness would come, Collin knew, but it would be slow. Too slow, and too late for John Morrison Brady.
A light flicked on at the end of the hall and Collin saw Faith standing, silhouetted in their bedroom door. She hurried to him then, bare feet padding on the wooden floor and nightgown flaring in the breeze. The moment she touched him, the dam of emotion broke and he wept in her arms. They stood huddled in the hall, the silence filled with his agony as he clung to her small frame.
She stroked his wet cheek. “Come to bed, Collin,” she whispered. “You need your sleep, and we need to pray.”
He nodded and allowed her to lead him down the hall, her hand in his. He sat down on the bed and kicked off his shoes. His eyes trailed into a hard stare.
The touch of her hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present. “Did you get everything packed?”
He sat, dirty socks balled in his hands. “Yeah, took us until after six to box everything up. The man had enough books to open his own library.” He tossed the socks at the hamper. “He’s giving them all away. A box to Esther, one to Cluny, one for us . . . and two for Lizzie. When she’s ready.”
“She’ll appreciate that.”
“Yeah.” Collin said, his tone bitter. He stood and stripped off his shirt, then stepped out of his trousers. He hurled both in the direction of the socks.
“Was Cluny there?” Faith asked, obviously hoping to steer his thoughts away from the sister he blamed for Brady’s departure.
Collin kneaded the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Yeah. Cried like a baby when Brady finally sent him home.”
“He’ll be devastated without him,” she whispered.
“Won’t we all,” he muttered. He pulled a clean pair of pajama bottoms out of his drawer and headed for the bathroom. “I need to shower. I smell like Clancy’s on a bad day.”
A bad day. The worst in two long weeks of bad days. He closed the door behind him and turned on the shower, rotating the lever all the way to scalding. He brushed his teeth unaware, his mind too absorbed in the events of the last sixteen hours— the day his life would change forever. He swished water in his mouth and took a drink, spitting it out like he wished he could do to the sick taste in his throat. He discarded his underwear and stepped into the shower. The billows of steam flushed tears from his eyes.
They had prayed tonight. For the last time. And after a day of moving and an evening of reminiscing, John Morrison Brady had once again proven himself to be the man of honor that Collin knew him to be. John had wanted to pray for Lizzie and Michael, but Collin had balked. “I can’t,” he had said.
But he did, because John had taught him how. How to forgive and how to let go, lessons John had learned well, in far harder ways than Collin had ever known. He was a man of principle with an unprincipled past, bent on a path in which God would use both for his glory.
He would be a priest. The revelation stung all over again, as biting and searing as the hot water that pelted his body. A mentor to many instead of just a few, and a mighty force in the hand of God.
“Father Mac has connections,” he’d said, “even for a late bloomer like me.” There had been a smile on his face at the time, but Collin hadn’t missed the grief in his eyes. Or maybe it had been a reflection of his own. The weeks had passed in a blur, moments filled with the necessities of leaving. He’d trained a new man on his press and spent precious time with Cluny. Shot hoops with Matt and made amends with Michael. Apologized to Lizzie and said his goodbyes to the O’Connors. But at the end of the day, most evenings had been devoted to the gym, a place where two men could talk and sweat and vent their frustrations. And be friends . . . for the very last time.
He turned the water off and reached for a towel, hoping Faith had fallen asleep. She would want to talk . . . and pray. And he wasn’t ready. He exhaled a weary breath. Please, God, maybe tomorrow.
He turned out the light and opened the door, grateful for the darkness of the room. He moved to the bed and slipped under the covers, aware she was still awake. She nestled close to his side, and he braced himself for the questions. How was Brady? How was he? Did they blame Lizzie?
Her arm encircled him in a protective hold, and he felt her breath, warm against his chest. “You need your sleep,” she whispered. “We can pray tomorrow. I love you, Collin.”
Tears stung and he clasped her tightly, wetness spilling from his eyes as he absorbed her warmth, her love, her understanding. “I love you, Faith . . . with everything in me,” he whispered, his words rough with emotion.
She snuggled closer, and he shut his eyes. Relaxation stole over him with the heat of her body and the scent of her hair, and he knew before long he would drift into a healing slumber. Not because he was physically spent. Not because he was emotionally drained. But because he knew—as sure as the steady beat of her pulse against his own—his wife’s prayers would not wait until morning.
19
“Lizzie, look! Michael sent flowers.” Katie’s face was as flushed as her pink satin dress as she ran into the Bride’s Room of St. Stephen’s Church.
Lizzie turned at the mirror, effectively wrinkling the silk tulle veil flowing from her lace cloche headpiece. She smiled at Katie who held up a bouquet of red and white roses. “Now, why would he do that?” Lizzie asked. “With bouquets everywhere, and flowers all over the altar?”
Charity arched a brow and swatted at the veil. “Because it’s romantic, you goose.” She stuck a pin between her teeth. “Now turn around. I can’t pin this cap if you keep moving.”
Faith eyed the lush bouquet, then glanced at Lizzie’s modest nosegay of white and lavender daisies resting on the vanity. “I don’t know, Lizzie, you may want to consider carrying Michael’s instead—it’s gorgeous.”
“But, why red and white?” Katie demanded. “Isn’t he supposed to send all red for love?”
Lizzie took the bouquet from her sister, trying hard not to move as she read the card. Can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you. All my love, Michael. She smiled and sniffed the roses. “Well, red stands for love, and white stands for purity.”
Katie slacked a hip. “Why? Because you’re pure and he’s in love?”
“I’m in love too, Katie Rose,” Lizzie scolded playfully, tugging a curly strand of Katie’s hair.
Charity groaned. “Lizzie, if you move one more time, so help me, I’m going to poke you with this pin.”
“Well, you don’t act like it,” Katie complained, ignoring Charity. “At least not like you did with Brady.”
Lizzie sighed and handed the flowers back to Katie, not anxious to discuss Mic
hael’s brother. She’d spent the last six months trying to forget that John Brady even existed, and this was the day she would finally turn that corner. “Katie, would you see if you can find some water to put these in? And then would you go get Mother?”
Katie shoved the tissue-wrapped bouquet under her arm with little or no regard for romantic sentiments. “Okay, but I’ll sure be glad when this whole wedding thing is over. This stupid dress itches.”
“Lizzie, I’m so sorry—your father had trouble with his tie.” Marcy rushed in, looking more like an older sister than a mother. She had finally shingled her hair, much to the angst of her husband, and her lemon organdy dress complemented her blue eyes perfectly. Flaxen waves shimmered with glimmers of silver, framing a delicate face that now sported a dewy glow of excitement. She stopped halfway, her eyes flaring wide. “Oh, Lizzie, you look absolutely stunning!”
Lizzie turned to look in the mirror and caught her breath, really seeing herself for the very first time. The lacy cap covered all of her hair in the style of the day, with only glimpses of chestnut curls peeking out at the side. A pouf of tulle mounded at the back of her neck before it cascaded over her shoulders and pooled at her feet. With a feeling of awe, she touched the tiny seed pearls trimming her scooped-necked dress, a perfect complement to a single strand of pearls Michael had given her. Her white satin shift shimmered with a hint of lavender, accentuating the violet shade of her almond-shaped eyes, which now misted at the realization she was finally a bride. And then, for no particular reason, she thought of Brady, and suddenly her image swam in the mirror.
Marcy touched her arm. “Are you all right?”
Lizzie smiled and squeezed her hand. “Just a little nervous, that’s all.”
“Here, you don’t want to look like a raccoon, do you?” Charity pushed one of Mitch’s clean handkerchiefs into Lizzie’s hand. She pulled three more from her purse and dispensed them to Faith and her mother, then kept one for herself. “Don’t tell Mitch where you got these. I swear he hoards them.”
Faith chuckled and dabbed at her eyes. “Probably because you have a habit of reducing him to tears.”
Charity looked in the mirror and adjusted her elbow-length gloves. “Nothing wrong with a little emotion, Faith. You should know that being married to Collin. It’s the mark of a sensitive man.”
“Sensitive? Are we still talking about Mitch here?”
Charity’s lips squirmed as she shifted the bustline of her dress. “Sister dear, you have no idea.” She eyed the straight lines of her satin gown and groaned. “These shift-style dresses make me look fat.”
“Stop it, Charity. You all look gorgeous, especially Lizzie,” Marcy said with a proud smile. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Oh my, look at the time. We best move into the vestibule. I think I hear Mrs. Curry at the organ.”
“Lizzie?”
All four women looked up with a start. Mary stood in the door, her face as white and fragile as the lace on Lizzie’s dress. Lizzie rushed to her side and took her hand.
“Mary, you look sick. Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “No . . . no, I’m not.”
Lizzie pulled her into the room and sat her down. She glanced up at her mother and sisters. “Go on ahead, and I’ll be right out. Charity, will you grab my bouquet, and Mother, you may want to ask Mrs. Curry to wait on the wedding march.”
Marcy nodded, her face etched with concern. “Don’t be too long, Lizzie.”
“Mary, can I get you anything, a glass of water, aspirin?” Faith asked.
“No—thank you. I’ll be fine. I just need to speak with Lizzie privately.”
“Come on, girls. Lizzie, we’ll be right outside.” Marcy ushered Faith and Charity out, then closed the door.
“What’s wrong? Is it Harold?”
“No, Lizzie, not Harold.”
“Then what?”
Mary looked away, her hands trembling in her lap. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I had a dream last night. A nightmare, really.” She looked up then, her eyes desperate and full of pain. She grabbed Lizzie’s hand. “Don’t marry Michael, Lizzie, I’m begging you!”
“What?” Lizzie pulled away, her heart pounding in her chest. “Mary, why?”
She lowered her head, avoiding Lizzie’s gaze. “I can’t tell you the dream, it was too awful—but it’s a warning, I just know it.”
Lizzie bent to peer in Mary’s face. “Mary, it was only a dream. Everything will be all right, you’ll see. I know you’re not fond of Michael, but he loves me, and in my own way, I love him. Sometimes, I just think it boils down to faith. I’ve prayed for this day since I was a little girl, asked God over and over to bring me the right man to marry. And I trust that he has.” She suddenly rose and smoothed her dress. Her tone was quiet. “At one time I’d hoped it would be Brady.” A faint smile shadowed her lips. “But a girl can’t go up against God and a vocation, now can she?”
A knock sounded at the door. Charity popped her head in. “The natives are getting restless. Are you coming?”
Mary grabbed her hand. “Lizzie, please . . .”
Lizzie pulled her to her feet. Her voice was gentle but firm. “Go . . . and find a seat. Everyone’s waiting, and so is Michael. I’ll see you after.” She kissed her cheek. “I love you, Mary— like a sister.”
“No!” Mary’s cry paralyzed her at the door. Lizzie turned, shocked to see tears streaming her best friend’s face. Mary’s lips parted with a tremble. “If you marry Michael, I will be your sister.”
Lizzie blinked. “What? Mary, what are you trying to say?”
Mary stumbled forward. Her eyes pled for mercy. “Forgive me, Lizzie, please. My name isn’t Mary. It’s Helena Brady.”
She was little more than a zombie slumped in a chair, barely aware of the turmoil going on around her. Somewhere in her mind she knew her mother was crying and her father was pacing and her sisters were hovering about, worried sick. She had never heard Mitch curse before . . . or maybe it had been Collin—but some low-hissed obscenity filtered through the fog nonetheless. And together, along with the sickening drone in her brain, the muffled sounds created a surreal nightmare from which she could not wake up.
Brady had deceived her. Mary had lied. And Michael had deluded her to the point of fraud. She closed her eyes, still reeling from the shock of it all. A family trait, no doubt, compliments of a heritage so steeped in shame, it was a wonder Brady had survived at all.
But he had, and no thanks to Michael, who had misled her and his own flesh and blood in the name of love. Mrs. Michael Brady. Lizzie shivered as if she’d had a near-death experience, then realized she’d had. Her future had teetered on the precipice of hell, mere seconds away from destroying her life. But God had delivered her. From a man who walked with God when people were watching . . . and danced with the devil when they were not.
“Let me in—now! She’s going to be my wife!” Michael screamed and pushed through the door. He rammed so hard, Collin tumbled into a freestanding sanctuary light that sent both crashing to the floor. “Lizzie, let me explain!”
Mitch had him in a choke hold before Collin could right himself and the candle. “Not in this lifetime, you two-faced bucket of scum.”
Michael tried to lunge forward, but Mitch jerked him back, twisting his arm behind his back. Michael groaned. “Lizzie, listen to me, please. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you Mary was my stepsister, but I had my reasons.”
Lizzie slowly rose to her feet and pried the diamond ring from her finger. With trembling hands she moved to slip it into his vest pocket. “Please don’t waste your breath, Michael, I already know your reasons.”
The blood siphoned from his face. He looked at Helena with eyes unnaturally bright. “What did you tell her?”
“Everything,” Lizzie whispered. She moved to where Helena sat hunched in a chair, hand to her eyes and body quivering with silent weeping. Lizzie put a protective arm around her shoulder and looked up, a hint of defiance
in her violet eyes. “Every vile secret you have.”
He wrenched against Mitch’s hold. “You lousy whore—I’m going to break your neck.”
Mitch jerked a rock-solid arm against Michael’s throat, stealing his wind. “Not if I break yours first. Just give me the word, Lizzie, and I’ll take him out. I swear, I never liked the guy.”
“Mitch, no!” Marcy cried.
Collin stepped forward with wild eyes. “Yeah, let me, instead.” He raised his fist and struck like a rattler. “This one’s for Brady, you lowlife.” The punch clipped Michael in the gut, and he doubled over in pain. Marcy and Faith screamed.
“Collin! For the love of God, control yourself!” Father Mac stood in the door, garbed in white vestments trimmed in gold. His voice rang with authority and shock. “Mitch, unhand him this instant. This is not the time for heated emotions. We need restraint and rational thinking.”
Mitch grunted and shoved him away.
Michael staggered, then rebounded and tried to take a potshot at Collin. A ragged breath hissed from Michael’s lips as Mitch choked him again with another muscled arm to his throat. “Tell him that, Father,” Mitch said.
Father Mac strode up to Michael with all the cold deliberation of a gunslinger at high noon. He prodded a menacing finger into the pleated dress shirt of Michael’s double-breasted tuxedo and glared into his scarlet face, unnaturally elevated from the press of Mitch’s arm. He fairly spat his words. “You know, on second thought, Michael, maybe you don’t need to be here right now. I think I may just ask Mitch and Collin to keep you company outside for a while.”
Michael managed to gargle a curse before Mitch cut off his air.
Father Mac arched a brow. “Oh, that will cost you penance, I’m afraid. Say, twenty minutes in the back room with your ex-future brothers-in-law?” Father Mac glanced at Mitch and nodded toward the door. “You can keep him quiet in the usher’s room. We won’t be long.” His lips twitched the slightest bit. “And remember, we’re to turn the other cheek—and I don’t mean his. Keep in mind it’s a sin to bloody a man.” He glanced at Patrick, the two exchanging looks of bridled anger. “Or in cases like this, maybe it’s a sin not to,” he muttered. “I always get the two confused.”
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