A Heart Revealed (14 page)

He waved a hand in the air, not even sparing a glance. “Yeah, sure—Saturday.” The screen door squealed open before he turned halfway, a touch of contrition in his eyes. “Sorry, sis, I forgot to ask if there was anything I could bring, like maybe the ice cream?”

“Nope, just your appetite . . . and your tools.” Her smile was beaming.

He nodded, and the screen slammed behind him.

“Soooo . . . ,” Charity said with a smug lift of her chin. She smiled at her mother and sisters, then cocked a brow in Faith’s direction. “He won’t do it, eh? You think you would have learned by now not to underestimate me.”

“He hasn’t shown up yet, nor agreed to take the job.” Faith bit off the end of the thread from a shirt she’d just sewn and tied it into a knot. “Besides, you did have to pull the ‘ribs’ card, you know. For a moment there, I thought you were dead in the water.”

“I know,” Charity said, her tone humbling considerably. A sigh of relief wavered from her lips. “But the hard part’s done. Now, all we need is for Emma to come through.”

“You think she can do it?” Lizzie asked.

Charity tilted her head, thinking of the soft spot her brother harbored for Emma Malloy. “I think so. I mean the woman is as honest as the day is long, and I know Sean trusts her.” Her lips twisted. “At least more than he trusts me. So if Emma tells him she needs his help, I think he’ll do it. Because let’s face it, he may be a man, stubborn to a fault, but he’s also a sucker for anyone who needs his help. Which, as we all know, makes him the perfect knight in shining armor to rescue our damsel in distress.” Charity eased a strand of thread through the eye of the needle, then grinned. “See? The perfect plan.”

“No plan is perfect without prayer,” Faith said in a wry tone. She tilted her head, giving Charity a mysterious smile. “We are going to pray about this, right?”

“Of course,” Charity said, clearly aghast. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

Faith opened her mouth.

“Don’t answer that,” Charity warned. She slithered the needle into the silk as she prepared to patch a hole, then slid Faith a half-lidded smile. “Give me a little credit, will you? I may be crazy . . . but I’m not stupid.”

Meow.

Emma pooled cool water in her hands to wash the soap from her face, then carefully patted herself dry. She eyed Guinevere who perched on the back of the commode with all the regality of a queen on her throne as she groomed snow-white fur with dainty, ladylike strokes. “I’m moving as quickly as I can, Your Grace,” Emma said with a quirk of a smile, “but one must never rush hygiene, as you surely must know.”

The fluffy Persian stretched and purred when Emma grazed beneath her chin with a finger. Pale eyelids closed in contentment, concealing the fact that “Her Majesty” was missing an eye, a fate befallen her as a stray kitten abused by a cruel boy with a stick. A neighbor had rescued her and Emma had begged to keep her, feeling a kinship with this helpless creature with whom she shared a bond. Whether the loss of sight had sharpened her sense of smell or Guinevere was just a true female who loved the smell of chocolate, Emma wasn’t quite sure. But the fact remained that Emma’s nighttime ritual of bathing and cocoa butter applied to her scars was truly a highlight of Guinevere’s day.

Coaxing the cat into her arms, Emma carried her into the bedroom where Lancelot presided over Emma’s floral bedspread like a regent over a jungle of tropical blooms. Having no interest whatsoever in female primping, he ignored them both, happily snoring away. With the utmost care, she placed Guinevere on the marred Victorian vanity she’d salvaged from the store and then padded to the parlor to turn on her phonograph, the soothing sounds of Duke Ellington trailing her down the hall. With a gentle stroke of Guinevere’s fur, she took her seat before the vanity mirror, thinking for the thousandth time what an oxymoron it was for her to possess anything that bore the name “vanity.” Nonetheless, she couldn’t help but admire the lacy white nightgown she wore, one of the few luxuries she allowed because it helped her to feel so feminine, something she desperately needed in a world void of romantic love. Her lips tipped into a smile. Although never would she have chosen something so daring if Charity hadn’t been along. But she had to admit that the soft swell of her breasts against the scalloped neckline did make her feel pretty, a rare accomplishment indeed. Leaning forward, she pushed chestnut waves behind her ears to examine her face in the glass, noting that the cocoa butter Charity had hounded her to apply had actually paid off, fading her once-blatant scars until they almost appeared not to exist.

But Emma knew better. Eyes in a squint, she saw herself as she’d been years ago—a child of inordinate beauty with the gift of song that had put a gleam of pride in her father’s eyes. A father who’d flaunted that same beauty on nightly treks to the pub, toting his eight-year-old daughter along to sing for his friends. Against her mother’s wishes. That is . . . until the song was silenced . . . and the beauty tainted forever. Emma’s eyes fluttered closed, a familiar stab of pain at the memory of her father’s revulsion, his fury, when his thirteen-year-old prodigy had been defiled by one of the same young men he’d taunted with his daughter’s beauty.

Damaged goods.
Just like the vanity.

And
a father’s love.

“Meow . . .”

She opened her eyes to Guinevere, grateful for the distraction. Shaking off the unwelcome memories, she started to reach for the jar of cocoa butter while humming along with the Duke, when her gaze lighted on the silk scarf from Charity. Unbidden, her fingers glided to where it lay, neatly folded next to the obsidian earrings, and with a deep draw of air, she picked it up. The silk was sensual to the touch, catching her pulse while she slowly grazed it against her cheek, a perfect caress against imperfect skin. Swirls of pale green and the softest of grays blended to create a hue that seemed to illuminate her eyes, pools from a mossy mountain stream as deep as the secrets she could never share. From scars to silk, and suddenly she felt beautiful again like so long ago when men’s fingers, instead of silk, had grazed her skin . . . and hungry kisses replaced the love a father could no longer give.

“I love you, Emmy,” Rory had whispered the first time he’d kissed her, setting her skin aflame with the tingle of his touch, the nuzzle of his mouth. His body had molded to hers in a way that assured her he wanted to love her, possess her, make her his own. Even now, her body warmed at the memory of his touch, and for one brief, blinding moment, she was a woman again, alive with passion and desire and the need to give of herself in every possible way.

Heart pounding, she twirled the scarf around her neck and closed her eyes, swaying to the music while its easy rhythm flowed through her veins, melting away the sins of her past. Instead, she saw herself as she might have been if temptation hadn’t led her astray—clean, pure, and free—to be the woman she so longed to be.

The soft wisp of fur tickled her arm and she opened her eyes to Guinevere’s delicate paw, poking for attention. A soft chuckle bubbled in her chest and she bowed at the waist. “Why, yes, Your Majesty, I would be honored to give you this dance.” Swooping the cat up into her arms, she cuddled her close while they twirled to the music, drifting off to places she could only go in her mind.

Swish . . . swish . . .
The music stopped while the turntable continued to spin, a melancholy reminder that she was no longer in the arms of a fairy-tale prince but alone in her cozy bedroom with a cat in her arms. Holding Guinevere aloft, she deposited a gentle kiss to her pet’s nose and then tucked her into bed next to Lancelot.

“Don’t worry, girl, I’ll slather up with cocoa butter and follow you soon.”

She ruffled Lancelot’s marmalade coat before heading to the parlor to turn off the phonograph, double-check the door, and turn out the lights. Returning to the vanity, she carefully folded the scarf and set it aside before smoothing a dab of the creamy, yellow butter onto her face until her skin glowed, breathing in the rich, heavenly scent of chocolate. A smile tugged at her lips. No wonder Guinevere snuggled close throughout the night. Dousing the small Tiffany lamp on her vanity, Emma quietly moved to the window to open the sheers, allowing both a ribbon of moonlight and a sweet, honeysuckle breeze to stream into the room. Locusts trilled and Lancelot snored, creating a peaceful symphony that lulled her to the bed where she slipped beneath the cool sheets and whispered her prayers.

Guinevere immediately curled into a ball on her pillow while Lancelot shored up the other side, the rhythm of their breathing warming her inside and out. Inhaling, Emma breathed in the sweet smell of cocoa butter along with the scent of a fragrant summer night, and her chest expanded with thanksgiving for the blessing of her home. True, as a woman, she would never again know the comforts of a man, but somewhere along the way, solitude had become her friend, as snug and sweet as the two precious kitties now cuddling against her sides. Burrowing in, Guinevere draped a protective paw across Emma’s neck while Lancelot butted close, emitting nasal noises that made Emma smile. Closing her eyes, all loneliness slowly faded away as she succumbed to the magic of slumber, allowing contentment to seep into her bones. A contentment that, despite her solitary lifestyle, convinced her she would never be alone.

Because as a woman, yes, her marriage may be empty . . . but her heart and bed were full.

Please, Mrs. Clary, answer the door 
. . .

Standing on the kitchen stoop of St. Stephen’s rectory, Sean reached to straighten his tie out of sheer habit, then stopped, blood warming his cheeks at the reality that there was no tie to adjust. His hand suddenly went clammy against the frayed open collar of his most presentable work shirt. In the catch of his breath, sweat beaded the back of his neck as the realization struck all over again: he was unemployed.

The thought never failed to jolt him, not once in the two weeks since Rose Kelly had ruined his life, and each and every time it only served to deepen this vile depression that had him by the throat. He hadn’t felt this way in a long, long time—like someone had died or as if every step he took was weighted with grief, a cloying quicksand intent on sucking him in. For thirty-four years, other than during the war, the incident at Kearney’s, and that one awful night of his father’s near heart attack, all he’d known was a sense of peace and contentment with his life, a man who needed nothing more than the love of family, the fellowship of friends, and the satisfaction of a job well done. A nerve pulsed in his jaw. Yeah, a job well “done,” he thought with a stab of bitterness. As in over . . . finished . . . kaput.

Just like my confidence.

He shook off the malaise and jabbed a firm finger to the button-size doorbell, hoping and praying that Father Mac would be out on afternoon hospital visits and Mrs. Clary would answer the door. It’d be so much easier asking the rectory housekeeper for odd jobs around the church and rectory, or even Father McCovey, rather than Father Mac. No, to Sean the parish associate pastor had become too good of a friend rather than a priest, an able teammate with Mitch and him in Saturday morning basketball against Collin, Brady, and Luke. Sure, he knew about Sean’s layoff from Kelly’s, but asking a friend for work was something else altogether. Originally a close friend of Brady’s, Father Matthew McHugh had quickly become a friend to Sean as well, insisting he call him “Father Mac” or even “Mac” throughout the course of the summer. To ask Mac for work, well, it would be too difficult, too awkward . . . Sean sucked in a fortifying breath and punched the doorbell again. Too humiliating.

Not that he needed the money. No, that wasn’t the issue. He had no intention of taking one red cent for any odd jobs. If managing his own store had taught him anything, it was to be an astute businessman, steady and sure with his capital. Over the years, while his friends had frittered their paychecks on women and other frivolous things, Sean had quietly squirreled his away, investing in long-term Treasury bonds rather than the stock market like his father and so many others. The result was a tidy savings that few enjoyed in this dismal economy. It was the one saving grace that separated him from the ranks of the almost eight million unemployed, and a sense of gratitude flooded his soul for the first time in weeks.
At least I can still help Father with much-needed rent.