She felt tears stinging her eyes and began to weep. He stared at her for several seconds, then slowly stood and led her to the sofa. He sat her down and bundled her in his arms, shooshing her with a soft, rocking motion. "He will, Charity, he will. Our God is faithful. I don't know why it's taking so long, but he's going to set you free. I just know it."
She pulled back, her vision blurred. "When, Brady? Tomorrow? Next month? Next year? I can't keep on like this, missing him, aching for him. I want to be done with it."
His heart wrenched with pain, both for her and for himself. He took her face in his hands and leaned to gently kiss her forehead and then closed his eyes, the touch of her skin soft and warm. "God's timing is not always ours, but it's perfect, Charity. He will get you through this." His lips moved to her cheek, the scent of lilacs triggering his pulse. He opened his eyes to see her watching him, her full lips parted in surprise.
No, my son ...
He jerked away, his breathing suddenly accelerated.
Pray...
His eyes strayed to the fullness of her lips, and heat engulfed him, choking his air. Suddenly he was aware of every curve of her body as she sat beside him. He jolted back. She grabbed his hand, her eyes confused. "No, Brady, please. Just hold me?"
He swallowed hard and pulled her close, the press of her body inflaming his senses.
Pray.
No, God, please, I want her ...
She lifted her face. "Brady?"
He stared, all reason fleeing his mind. She needed his comfort, not his passion. In his spirit, he knew she wasn't ready, but his need blinded him to hers. In slow motion, he bent toward her, grazing her mouth with his own. The touch of her lips unleashed a roll of heat that jarred his senses. He groaned and drew her close, tasting her lips like a man starved for sustenance only she could supply.
He jerked away and stood, panic pounding in his chest. "Charity, forgive me ... I'm so sorry ..."
She blinked. "There's nothing to forgive, Brady. It was just a kiss."
Heat rushed into his cheeks. He plunged his hands in his pockets and stared at his bare feet. "I did more than just kiss you. I lusted after you with a passion I didn't know I had. It scares me."
She looked away. "Goodness, you're the only man I've ever spent time with who didn't try to kiss me. I always thought you weren't interested."
He exhaled softly. "A testament to the power of prayer."
She laughed, and the sound warmed his heart. A grin pulled at her lips. "Well, I guess I should go ..."
He tugged her up and to the door, opening it wide, then pushed her against the jamb. He stepped back to lean on the other side and folded his arms. "Not until we pray. But this apartment is off-limits."
She peeked inside. "Maybe we could just sit at the table, on opposite sides? I hate to pray in the hall."
He sighed. He took her hand and gently pushed her down in a chair. He rounded the table and sat across from her, leaving the door wide open.
She grinned. "If you and I were to ever get involved, you'd be a real stickler about this, wouldn't you?"
He stretched back in the chair and eyed her, his arms cocked behind his head. "You bet. If we got involved."
She arched a brow. "If?"
"You're not ready, Charity. I can sense it in my spirit." He shifted in the chair, painful memories from his past shuddering through him. He looked away. "And I'm not sure I'm ready either. I have things ... things from my past." He looked up, his face tight with resolve. "You deserve more."
She leaned forward to take his hand. Her expression was intense. "There couldn't be more than you. You're the best there is ... a good man and an amazing friend." She leaned back and took a deep breath. "I think I could fall in love with you, John Brady ... if I could purge Mitch from my heart."
He shook his head. "Maybe, but I don't think I'm ready for that, and I know you're not. There's something deep in my spirit, Charity, a check ... a still, small voice saying 'not yet."'
"God?"
He sighed. "I'm guessing. It's seldom wrong. As much as part of me wants to forge ahead, I don't think we're ready."
She smiled and reached to squeeze his hand. "That's okay. I love our friendship, just the way it is. I'd be lost without it. Can we pray?"
He smiled and leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table. "Try and leave without it." He bent his head and closed his eyes. "Lord, we're in a pickle here. This is the most amazing woman I have ever met, and it would be easy to fall in love with her. But I've learned the hard way that unless you're behind it, we can get burned. And I don't want that for either of us. So give us wisdom and restraint. Show us your will in this situation and show us soon. Forgive me for not heeding your still, small voice. Never have I understood the Scripture The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak' quite like I have today. Strengthen me, Lord, so it doesn't happen again. And get this woman past the heartbreak of Mitch Dennehy. Give her peace instead of pain, joy instead of mourning. And bless our friendship to the depths of our souls. Amen."
She opened her eyes and smiled. "And that, my friend, is why I came here today."
He scratched his head and grinned. "Yeah, I know. Sorry for the detour."
She rose. Wetness shimmered in her eyes. "Thank you, John Brady. And God bless you."
He stood and walked her to the door. "Yeah, I'm counting on it."
He watched as she waved and skittered down the steps, then closed the door behind her. He put a hand to his eyes and sagged into the nearest chair. He thought of the kiss he had given her, and sweat beaded on the back of his neck. No! He wasn't going there. Not again. He slumped over the table and buried his head in his arms. He couldn't do this. He couldn't love her.
Ever.
"Please, no more attraction. I want to be her friend. Only her friend."
Hot tears scalded his eyes as he silently wept. "I beg you, God, heal her, please." The memory of his own sordid past prickled his spine and shivered his soul. A wrenching sob broke free from his lips. "And heal me."
"Father, I keep telling you, I'm not interested."
Patrick folded his arms in a manner that indicated it was settled. "Darlin', I refuse to go on seeing you torn up with grief every time you have a dream about Mitch Dennehy or a painful anniversary pops up on the calendar. What you need is a strapping young man to take your mind off of him. And since you refuse to do anything about it, then I will."
Charity moaned. "But I'm not interested. You're only wasting your time and theirs. Like the copywriter you brought home last week? Harold?" She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Father, he may have been twenty-four, but he looked all of sixteen."
"Nonsense, you've just always had an eye for older men. First Collin, then Mitch. And Dillon is older. He's twenty-eight and hails from the New York Daily News. For pity's sake, he's a cum laude graduate of the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism. And I haven't even told you the best part." He grinned, rolling back on his heels. "He's Collin's second cousin on his mother's side."
She groaned again and put a hand to her head. "He's related to McGuire? No possible good can come of that."
Patrick pulled her into a tight hug. "Ah, come on now, darlin', humor your old father, will you? Collin says he's a decent bloke even if he doesn't know him all that well. And after the interview I had with him today for the assistant editor position, I have a feeling you're going to like him."
She crossed her arms and gave him a pout. "I can't believe you put these poor men through the paces. This is the seventh one in six months, you know. When are you going to learn to let nature take its course?"
He grinned and gave her a peck on her cheek. "I am letting nature take its course-I'm just helping it along a bit. I can't have a daughter of mine turning into an old maid, now can I?"
"Who are you calling an old maid? I just turned twenty-one last month. That hardly qualifies as a spinster. I think you just want some other man to support me."
"Twenty-one, pushing t
wenty-two, young lady, and yes, that thought has crossed my mind." He tugged on a stray lock of her hair with a chuckle and headed toward the steps, a newspaper tucked under his arm. "Dillon will be here at six. You've got exactly an hour and fifteen minutes. I suggest you see if your mother needs any help and then hustle upstairs to make yourself pretty."
She slapped her hands on her hips, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Make myself pretty? Now on top of being old, I suppose I'm also unattractive?"
He turned on the landing. "Not at all, darlin', but I have noticed a scarcity of rouge on your cheeks these days." He scowled, waving his hand behind his head. "And since you've been home, you've been shoving your pretty hair up in that clump at the back of your neck. Why don't you wear it down like you used to before you lost your interest in men?" He grinned and blew her a kiss, then disappeared around the corner.
She shook her head and pushed her way into the kitchen. Marcy was at the sink peeling potatoes while Emma shelled peas. Katie was reading a book to Miss Buford.
Charity plopped in the chair. "Well, I guess I'm the sacrificial lamb again tonight. Mother, can't you stop him from this abuse?"
Marcy smiled over her shoulder. "Me? Stop Patrick O'Connor? Did the Irish air make you daft? This is your stubborn, bullheaded father we're talking about, bent on a suitable match for the daughter he loves. I can do nothing but cook."
Charity plucked a pea from Emma's bowl and squinted, aiming it at the door. "You could poison them just a little bit, you know, so they wouldn't come back."
Her mother arched a brow. "We don't throw peas across the room, young lady, even if they are aimed at your father. Besides, I don't have to poison anybody. When you're done with them, we never see them again."
Emma grinned.
Charity narrowed her eyes. "What are you smirking at, Emma? How would you like to be sold off to the highest bidder?"
"I think it's wonderful you have a father who loves you so much."
Charity rolled her eyes. "Okay, Mother, what can I do to help? Brew the hemlock?"
Marcy glanced at the clock. "Well, Beth promised to be home by five fifteen to set the table, and Emma and I have everything else under control, I think." She smiled and tossed the peeled potatoes in the pot. "Why don't you go upstairs and make yourself pretty. I hear Collin's cousin is quite attractive."
Charity scowled and pushed herself up from the table. "What is it with me making myself pretty? Have I grown a wart overnight or something? Besides, attractive or no, if Collin's cousin treats me like Collin does, I suspect we'll come to blows."
Marcy smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. "Probably, but that's okay, darling. Love conquers all."
Charity groaned and headed for the door, then whirled around with a hopeful look on her face. "Hey, maybe he won't show! You know, like the one a month ago who came on the wrong night?"
Emma giggled. "Oh, this one'll show. He's spent the last few days at a hotel, according to your father. He'll be looking for a home-cooked meal, if not the editor's daughter."
Charity lifted a brow. "Well, I can pray, can't I?"
Emma grinned and flipped a pod of peas into the bowl. "Please do. Might do you good."
Charity sighed and slapped through the kitchen door, plodding through the dining room and up the steps with as little enthusiasm as possible. She trudged into her bedroom and flopped on the bed, staring at the ceiling with a moan.
"Lord, I don't want to be on this merry-go-round. I'd rather spend my time with Brady as a friend, hoping for more, than entertain the notion of falling in love with anyone else. I already did that twice and got nothing but heartbreak." She thought of Mitch, and the old familiar ache returned. She scowled at the ceiling. "Speaking of which, I think it's about time I moved on, don't you? What about Brady? I could sure use a little romance in my life."
She sighed and lumbered up from the bed. She grabbed her robe off the hook and traipsed to the bathroom to get a bath. Going through the motions, she bathed and primped and powdered until she almost felt like her old self again. Getting into the spirit of things, she dabbed lilac water along her neck. She reached for her rouge and patted a bit to her cheeks, rubbing it in to a rosy glow. Applying just a touch to her lips, she puckered in the mirror and smiled. Father was right. She felt almost pretty again.
Humming under her breath, she strolled back to her room and padded to her closet, deciding it was time to wear her most becoming frock. She shimmied into her chemise, then slithered on her silk stockings and clipped them to her garter. She pulled out the ice blue dress she had worn with both Rigan and Mitch. The memories flooded back with a vengeance. She shivered and shoved it to the back of her closet, opting instead for her favorite lemon yellow silk blouse with pale blue hobble skirt. She remembered the way Mitch's eyes had popped when she'd worn it, although he'd worked hard not to show it. She pressed the cool silk to her cheek and closed her eyes, allowing herself to remember him one last time.
"This is it, Lord, I'm ready to move on. Who knows, maybe Brady is the one. I'm praying that you will show me if he is, and soon. But first, please set me free from the pain of losing Mitch, and bless him and Kathleen with a rich, full life. Amen."
She drew in a deep breath and slowly released it, tears pricking her eyes. Yes, she still loved Mitch. Probably always would. But along with it, God had deposited something newglimmers of hope and peace and joy. A single tear trailed down her cheek to settle in the crook of her mouth, salty on her tongue. She smiled. The taste of it released a surge of joy like an adrenaline rush. How had she gone a lifetime without knowing God's love? Feeling it to the depth of her soul, like now? With it, everything in life-her family's love, her friendships, her dreams-felt so much deeper, more intensified, as if everything were three-dimensional. She swiped at a tear and chuckled. It was, she supposed. Just like she hoped her marriage would be someday, God willing. A three-dimensional romance: the woman, the man, and the God who brings them together.
She bowed her head. "Lord, thank you for being so patient with me, for loving me despite the sin in my life, and for saving me. Help me to be the woman you want me to be-the daughter, the sister, the friend, and eventually, I hope, the wife. I know there's still a lot of work to be done-my temper, my strong will-but I have faith you can do it. I trust you and I love you with all of my heart. Amen."
She opened her eyes and sighed, feeling much lighter. With a sparkle in her eye, she slipped on the blouse and skirt, pleased with the way it accentuated her figure. Mr. Dillon WhateverHis-Name would have trouble keeping the conversation on journalism tonight, if she had anything to say about it. And if he left her as cold as the last six men that had darkened her door, well then, she would just march right over to Mr. John Morrison Brady's apartment and give him an eyeful, whether he was "ready" for it or not. She chuckled. If he was fighting falling in love with her now, just wait until she put her mind to it! She grinned at the ceiling. "Just give me the word, God, that's all I need."
She unpinned her hair and grabbed the hairbrush, bending over to stroke until her scalp tingled. She flipped her hair back over her head and watched it tumble over her shoulders like pale gold. With a hand to her hip and a lift to her brow, she gave the mirror a come-hither smile.
John Morrison Brady, you don't have a prayer.
Emma knocked and peeked in the door. Her eyes went wide. "Lord have mercy, Charity, you look amazing."
Charity giggled. "Thank you, Emma. I have to admit, it feels good to take an interest again. I think I may be turning a corner."
Emma grinned. "Me too. I just got a look at Mr. Dillon C. Harris of New York. He's almost as pretty as you."
Charity scrunched her nose. "Doesn't matter. I'm thinking of setting my cap for Brady."
Emma laughed. "After all this time? I thought you two were just friends."
Charity spun in the mirror, taking one last look. "We are, but that may be about to change. I'm praying about it." She wriggled into her pumps and gave Emma a
nervous twirl. "So, do I really look okay?"
"Gorgeous, my friend. And I'm sure Mr. Harris of New York will be spellbound. See you downstairs. He's in the parlor with your father."
Charity put a hand to her chest and glanced at the clock. "Already? It's not even six."
Emma giggled. "I think he may be the eager type. Wait till he gets a load of you, my friend. He hasn't experienced 'eager' until tonight." She turned to go, then whirled around. "Oh, almost forgot. Your mother asked me to have you bring her silver candlesticks down when you come. She said you knew where they were."
Charity shook her head and followed Emma out the door. "As much as she uses them, you'd think she'd keep them downstairs. But she has this notion that someone might steal them, so she buries them at the back of her closet."
Emma turned on the stairs. "No!"
Charity grinned. "Yes! My trusting mother."
Emma laughed and continued down. "A healthy distrust, probably developed after the birth of her third daughter."
"Very funny. You're starting to fit right in, which is not necessarily a good thing."
Charity hummed on her way to her parents' room and dug the box of candlesticks out of her mother's closet, lugging them against her chest. She cocked her head to the side so she could see where she was going and took one step at a time, then set the box on the foyer table. She drew in a deep breath, pushed her shoulders back, and strode into the parlor.
A tall, dark-haired man with penetrating gray eyes stood to his feet. A dimple appeared on either side of his smile, reminding her of Collin.
"Charity, you made it down, I see. This is Collin's cousin from New York, Mr. Dillon C. Harris. Dillon, this is my daughter, Charity O'Connor."
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