Authors: Julie Lessman
Emma peered at Bert. “So, why do you think it’s James carrying the torch?”
“M-miss E-emma!” Alli actually stuttered Emma’s name, a sure sign she was mortified. “I assure you, nobody is ‘carrying a torch’ for me!”
Sean gave Alli a wink. “Sure they are, Miss Moser, starting with me.”
Alli slunk low in her chair, her pale face whooshing past pink, straight to scarlet.
Bert peered up to answer Emma’s question, the staccato tapping of her fingers halted on the keys. “Because his mother used to work at the Boston Flower Exchange and grows roses in her kitchen window.”
“How do you know that?” Sean asked in disbelief. “I can’t get two words out of James.”
Bert lifted her chin, attempting a hard stance, but the quirk of her lips indicated her true affection for Sean O’Connor. “Well, it looks like your boyish charm has its limits, then, doesn’t it? Besides, we had coffee one night after Miss Emma hired him on.”
Sean gaped, a grin tugging at his lips. “You? Had coffee with James? Why?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Because he lost his leg in the war, and I felt sorry for him, okay?” She put a hand to her eyes. “If you must know, I had a brother who lost both legs in the war.”
All the color leeched from Sean’s face, making the spray of freckles across his nose all the more prominent. “Oh, Bert, I’m so sorry—are you serious?”
She went back to her typing, fingers flying and a satisfied smile lining her lips. “Nope, but it sure wiped that smart-aleck smirk off your face in a hurry.”
“Why, you little . . .”
He dove for her neck, and she batted him away with a low, husky laugh that echoed in perfect harmony with Alli’s giggles, both of which brought a grin to Emma’s face. She shook her head, glowing with affection for this work family God had given her . . .
especially
Sean O’Connor. Somehow the man had single-handedly infused more life and excitement into Dennehy’s than she’d seen in ten years. She sighed.
Thank you, Charity.
“Well, it sounds like it may be James, then, doesn’t it?” Emma handed her purse to Sean, then plucked her coat off the rack to slip it on with his help. “Do you like him, Alli?”
With a shy nod, Alli toyed with the tip of her brown bob, the soft glow in her eyes making her seem almost beautiful. “But I can’t imagine why he’d ever be interested in me.”
“Okay, Alli, knock it off,” Sean said with a hike of his brow. “You’re as cute as a bug’s ear and everybody knows it.” His smile tipped. “Why, I have to wrestle myself most nights just to keep from taking you home in my pocket.”
“Sean!”
The blush was back full force, and Sean laughed. “Sorry, but it’s true. You’re just flat-out adorable. That heart-stopping smile of yours, your gentle nature, your pure heart—all of it. James is a very smart man.” He reached for his coat. “Has he made a move yet?”
Alli blinked. “A move?”
“You know, flirted,” Sean said. “Compliments, small talk, presents—a
move
.”
Emma snatched her purse. “And how, exactly, would
you
know about moves?”
“Hearsay,” he said with a grin, then honed in on Alli. “So, has he?”
Alli gave it some thought. “He did buy me a Coca-Cola from the vending machine several times, and then joined me that one warm day last week when I ate my lunch in the park.”
“Sounds like a move to me,” Sean said with a grin. “What do you think, Mrs. Malloy?”
“Mmm . . . could be,” Emma said with a secret smile.
Alli chewed on the nail of her thumb. “But how will I know if he makes a move?” She glanced up, a bit of the imp slipping into her smile. “And if he doesn’t, how do I get him to?”
“Humph . . . sounds like a job for Mrs. Dennehy,” Bert said with a wry smile.
“Now, there’s a thought . . . ,” Emma said, finger to chin.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Sean cupped Emma’s elbow on the way to the door. “You two are not going to sic my sister on this sweet, innocent girl. Come on, Mrs. Malloy, I’m anxious to try this restaurant you’re always bragging about. I’m starved.”
Emma halted at the door. “Bert, if the Brooks Brothers rep calls, will you tell him I’ll call him back? And Alli, would you mind pulling the numbers from the Brooks Brothers promotion last month?” She slipped the strap to her clutch over her shoulder. “Either of you want anything? A coffee, bagel . . . Mario’s homemade cannoli?”
A slow smile eased across Bert’s scarlet lips. “Yeah, Mario . . . on a bun.”
“I thought you weren’t interested in men,” Sean said with a crooked grin.
“I can look, you know—I’m not dead, after all.” She reached for a stack of Emma’s handwritten letters piled in her in-basket. “But just for the record . . . I’m
not
the one he ogles.”
Ignoring Bert’s remark, Emma dragged Sean through the door. “We’ll be back by one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, she’s not the one he ogles?” Sean asked, wrestling into his coat as they descended the stairs. “Does this Mario character ogle you or something?”
She gave him a sideways glance, surprised at the edge in his tone as they dodged clusters of customers on their way to the front doors. “For your information, Sean O’Connor, Mario Gattucio is a sweet, older gentleman still grieving his dead wife, of whom,” she said with emphasis, “I apparently remind him. He’s as harmless as dear Mr. Wilkins, I assure you.”
Sean held the glass door open, one brow jagged high. “Yeah? Well, for your information, Mr. Wilkins doesn’t ogle—he’s pushing sixty and near blind.”
Shaking her head with a smile, she slipped past him onto the busy sidewalk, wrapping her unbuttoned coat tightly around her. Palm pressed firmly to the small of her back, Sean steered her through the lunch-hour traffic where three-piece suits, pink-cheeked women in woolen coats, and various uniforms bustled about, intent upon food, fortune, or the next delivery to be made. The shrill sound of traffic-cop whistles and the blare of horns could be heard while the aroma of fried fish and vendor hot dogs competed with the briny smell of the sea and bus fumes.
Emma started to speak when something caught her eye over Sean’s shoulder. With a hand to his arm, she halted him while people streamed past. “Casey? Casey!”
A distinctive purple cloche turned, revealing wide eyes in a porcelain face. “Emma?”
Tugging Sean along, Emma wove her way to where her young neighbor stood pressed against a store window, hand to her chest.
Emma squeezed the girl in a tight hug. “Goodness, I’ve missed you—haven’t seen you all week!” She pulled away, and the smile faded at the sight of a nasty bump above Casey’s brow. “Good heavens, what happened?”
The color waned in Casey’s face, making the purplish bruise more apparent. “I slipped in the bathroom and hit the tub.” Her smile seemed forced. “Mama always said I was a klutz.”
With gentle fingers, Emma touched a hand to Casey’s brow. “When did this happen?”
“A few days ago. You know what a slob I can be, Emma, so when I washed some clothes in the bathroom, I got water all over and—
boom!
Found myself on the floor, cheek to the tub.”
“Honey, why didn’t you knock on my door?” Emma said, stroking Casey’s hair.
“I get tired of bothering you for every little thing. Besides, it’s not a big deal, really.”
Releasing a heavy sigh, Emma braced Casey’s shoulders. “Next time something like this happens, I will be irate if you don’t come and get me, understood?”
Casey nodded.
“Good girl.” Emma hooked an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze, peering up at Sean with a proud smile. “Sean, this is my neighbor and dear friend, Casey Herringshaw. Casey, this is Sean O’Connor, my assistant manager.”
A genuine smile bloomed on Casey’s face. “So you’re the infamous Sean O’Connor!”
Sean shook her hand with a grin, one brow cocked as he shot Emma a sideways glance. “Infamous? What horror stories are you spinning about me, Mrs. Malloy?”
“Oh, nothing more than your dangerous notoriety with women at the store—Mrs. Bennett, Michelle Tuller . . .” Her lips curved into a smile. “
Rose . . .
”
“I know everybody thinks this woman is a saint, but don’t believe everything she says.” Sean tugged on one of Emma’s curls. “Any notoriety I have is because she tends to be bossy.”
“I am not!” Emma swatted at him.
“I ask you, Casey—did she or did she not just use a threatening tone with you?”
Casey giggled and nodded.
“I rest my case.” He glanced at his watch. “Bossy. Which means she’ll make me bolt down my food if we don’t get a move on.”
Emma gave Casey a final hug and pulled away, one finger raised in warning. “I want you to come to dinner tonight, no argument, understood? Seven o’clock. We need to catch up.”
“See?” Sean rolled his eyes. “Bossy,” he mouthed to Casey, making her laugh.
“I will, I promise. Nice to meet you, Sean.”
“Seems like a nice kid,” Sean said after Casey departed, hand loosely latched to the nape of Emma’s neck as he guided her through the crowd.
“She is, but I can’t help but worry. I talked her mother into letting her stay in Boston, but sometimes I wonder if that was a mistake. She’s so young and vulnerable.”
“We’re all young and vulnerable at first, Emma, and then life forces us to grow up.”
“I suppose . . .”
By the time they reached Mario’s glass-front deli two blocks down, Emma was laughing again, her concern over Casey forgotten as Sean entertained her with the details of his encounter with Mrs. Bennett that morning. Grinning, he opened the glass-paned door emblazoned with the colors of the Italian flag to unleash the mouthwatering aroma of Sicilian meatballs simmering in Mario’s special sauce. Her senses were met with pleasure at every turn—smells, sights, sounds that somehow eased the aches in her shoulders and the tightness between her eyes. Red-and-white-checked tables and booths crowded with chattering patrons, and the buzz and hum of the lunch crowd warmed her inside as much as the fire in the cozy brick oven where Mario baked meat pies. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes to savor the smell of garlic, oregano, and spices for which Mario was famous, wondering why she had stayed away so long.
“Ah . . . Emma Malloy—my day is complete!”
Her eyes flipped open to see an apron-clad Mario hurrying around the counter to greet her, pleasure written across his face as if he had just sampled a meatball. He made a scolding sound with his tongue. “Why do you torture me with your absence?”
Sean gripped her arm and bent low to her ear. “Harmless, eh?”
Emma smiled and extended her palm, suddenly viewing the man now kissing her hand through Sean’s skeptical eyes. As a full-blood Sicilian, Mario was certainly a credit to his nationality. Tall of stature with wavy dark hair that gleamed silver at the temples, his olive skin was already shadowed with a swarthy growth of afternoon beard. Eyes as rich and warm as his famous melted dark chocolate cake, he scanned her head to foot, so innocently that she’d never noticed before. But now, for the very first time, she was painfully aware of the approval in his dark eyes, now lidded and warm. He pulled her close in an affectionate embrace as always, and the aroma of oregano caused her stomach to growl. He kissed her on both cheeks and stepped away, hands grasped tightly to hers.
“Em-ma, Em-ma,” he bellowed, as if savoring a decadent piece of tiramisu, “you are cruel to stay away when your smile brings me so much joy.”
She’d been to Mario’s dozens of times over the course of the year, and his overt affection never bothered her before. But now, with Sean by her side, she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks as she stared, eyes wide at the warmth of Mario’s greeting. She swallowed hard to clear the shock from her throat and took a step back.
Heaven, help me . . . could Bert’s teasing be true?
Did Mario actually see her as more than a customer? The notion was so foreign to her senses that she had never even entertained it, but there was no denying it now as the man scooped a brawny arm to her waist and swept her away to a booth by the window. Helping her off with her coat, he seated her with the utmost care and then snapped his fingers in the air. “Guiseppe,
acqua
!”
Mario bowed and took her hand once again. “Whatever you want, Miss Malloy, it will be my pleasure to provide—on the house, of course. Just give Guiseppe your order for both you and your friend.” He winked, sending another flash of heat into her cheeks. “You see? I have not forgotten my promise to buy you lunch.” He kissed her hand once again, the warmth in his eyes contrasting sharply with the coolness in Sean’s. “Although I’d much prefer to buy you dinner . . .” Squeezing her fingers, he left her to Guiseppe, who delivered two glasses of water. He handed them both a menu and then departed to give them a moment to decide.
Sean leaned forward, elbows flat on the table and brows slanted high. “You can’t be serious—
harmless
? That guy was drooling so much, he could be related to Pavlov.”
Emma gulped and picked up her menu, desperate to avoid Sean’s probing eyes. “I honestly don’t know what’s gotten into him. He never acts like thi—” She stopped, her fingers clammy against the cardboard menu while her pulse slowed to a crawl. The air hitched in her throat as she suddenly saw through Sean’s eyes what she’d been too blind to see through her own—this man was attracted to her!
Her
. . . Emma Malloy . . . the “monster” Rory had deemed too scarred to be loved. At the thought, heat scorched her cheeks and the menu slipped from her hands. She covered her eyes, the embarrassment of such a possibility too painful to ponder. “He . . . he just feels sorry for me, I’m certain.”
Nothing more than kindness to a disfigured woman—
“Stop it, Emma—now!” Sean’s voice held an edge she’d seldom heard. He gripped her hand in his. “I don’t want to hear any talk of pity or any of those types of lies you believe in your head.” He shot a hard glance at the counter where Mario was keeping a close eye, then returned his gaze to hers. His tone softened. “Emma, when are you going to see yourself for who you are? Yes, you have scars from your past, but not for a moment do they detract from your beauty.” The press of his fingers, the gentle look in his eyes seemed to bond her to the seat of the booth. “At least not for me,” he said quietly. He nodded toward the counter, lips clamped tight. “And apparently not for Romeo, either.”