“What do you mean you don’t know? Is he nice to you or not?” Charity demanded.
Katie snatched a sewing pattern and began to fan her face. “Most of the time.”
“And the rest of the time?” Charity asked, “badgering” also high on her list of talents.
“He’s nice all of the time, all right?”
“So you do like him. Oh, Katie, that’s so exciting!” Lizzie said with a glow in her cheeks.
“No, Lizzie, I don’t, I promise.” Katie grabbed a scrap of material and began to swab the sweat from her neck. “He’s turned into a nice man, and that’s all I can say.”
“A nice and attractive man . . . ,” Charity said with a dance of her brows.
“Yes.”
“But you don’t like him,” Faith said.
Katie shot Faith a definitive glance. “No.”
Charity cocked her head, eyes squinted in thought. “Are you attracted to him at least?”
“Oh, for pity’s sakes, Charity, is that all you have on your mind? Yes, I’ll admit the little brat has grown into a very handsome man, who even manages to be civil most of the time. But I can tell you right now that I have my sights set on Jack, not a street rat named Cluny McGee.”
“Luke McGee,” Emma said quietly, watching the whole scene through gentle eyes.
Katie sighed and slumped in her seat. “Yes, Luke McGee. And I didn’t mean to call him a street rat because he’s actually turned out to be . . . ,” she swallowed hard, “a pretty decent guy.” She glanced around the table with pleading eyes. “Look, I like working at the BCAS, I do, and all of the people there – including Luke – are really great. But it’s still work and a punishment that’s cut me off from Jack, so if it’s all the same to you, can we please change the subject?”
Faith squeezed Katie’s arm. “Sure, Katie.” Her gaze lighted on Lizzie. “So . . . what do you think of our husbands hiring a poor widow? A pretty sweet thing to do, wouldn’t you say?”
Lizzie blinked, eyes wide. “You think it’s ‘sweet’?”
“Of course I do, don’t you?” Faith cocked her head and reached for the Betsy Ross costume she’d been working on. “Well, I have to admit, ‘sweet’ is not the first word that came to mind.”
“Why? They could have hired any of the several men who applied, but they chose to help a poor old widow instead.” Faith stuck a needle in her mouth and adjusted the hem on the costume.
“‘Old’?” Lizzie croaked, her fingers numb against the silky white material for the Statue of Liberty. “He told you she was old?”
Faith glanced up, confusion wedging her brow. “He said she was an old family friend.”
Lizzie gulped and Charity honed in, her interest in the Uncle Sam costume in her lap suddenly gone awry. “You mean she’s not? Old, I mean?”
All eyes focused on Lizzie, whose face now felt like Katie’s had looked earlier. She swallowed her discomfort, aware that this time, her warmth had nothing to do with pregnancy.
“Lizzie?” Faith lowered the Betsy Ross hoop skirt in her lap. “She’s not old?”
A chestnut strand of hair bobbed against Lizzie’s damp brow as she shook her head.
“Have you seen her?” Faith asked.
Lizzie nodded, and the stray strand quivered in response.
An edge crept into Faith’s tone as she leaned forward, her green eyes narrowing a touch. “Really. Then how old
is
she, exactly?”
True to her form, Lizzie hesitated with a pregnant pause. “Collin’s age or younger,” she finally said with a shift in her throat, her gaze stuck on the needle in her hand.
No one said a word as Faith quietly laid her costume aside and inched to the edge of her seat, her manner calm enough, but her voice slow and menacing. “Well,
then
. . . is she pretty?”
Lizzie looked up, gnawing at her lip. She nodded again.
Charity slammed her hand on the table. “Sweet saints, what is wrong with those two, hiring a beautiful woman to work in the office with a bunch of men – are they crazy?”
“I didn’t say she was beautiful,” Lizzie began.
“Young and beautiful, young and pretty – same difference to me.” Charity huffed. “Either way, Brady and Collin should know better. Widow or not, she needs to go.”
Faith took a deep breath and eased back onto the bench. She pulled her sewing into her lap. “No, Charity, we’re being silly here. The woman needs a job, and Brady and Collin were kind enough to give her one. And I’m sure part of the reason Collin agreed is because he wanted to help out an old family friend. Besides, she’s qualified – he told me she’s worked in several print shops including his father’s, so the woman has experience.”
Lizzie touched Faith’s arm, her eyes contrite. “More than you know,” she whispered.
The color faded from Faith’s cheeks. Her gaze fused to Lizzie’s. “What do you mean?”
Lizzie scraped her teeth against her lip before continuing, her voice low. “I mean he was supposed to tell you, Faith – Collin promised he would tell you . . .”
“Tell me what?”
Lizzie drew in a fortifying breath. “That, yes, Evelyn does have experience at Collin’s father’s shop because she worked there the summer before his father died.” Lizzie paused to catch her breath. “Collin’s junior year in high school . . . when Collin was . . . involved with her.”
“Involved with her?” Faith repeated, her voice barely audible.
She blinked, and Lizzie saw comprehension flicker across her sister’s face, her memories of Collin’s sordid past flashing through her mind, no doubt.
Faith closed her eyes. “How do you know?” she whispered.
“Mama, can we have something to drink? We’re thirsty.” Laney shook Faith’s arm, jolting her and everyone at the table.
Emma immediately rose and gripped the pitcher in her hand. “I’ll get it. Laney, go tell the others to stay where they are – we don’t want you kids traipsing water into the kitchen or getting your costumes wet, all right, sweetheart?”
“Okay, Emma.” Laney bounded off to rejoin her cousins in the sprinkler.
With a tender look in Faith’s direction, Emma disappeared into the kitchen.
“How do you know?” Faith asked again, her words barely audible.
“Because Brady and I confronted him the day after he told us he hired her. He admitted to being involved with her back then.”
“So it was Collin’s decision?”
Lizzie sighed. “Yes, but Brady made Collin promise that if this woman gave him any indication whatsoever that she had the slightest interest in Collin, he would let her go.”
Faith stood to her feet. “I see.”
“What are you going to do?” Lizzie whispered.
“Help Emma with the lemonade,” Faith said, her voice painfully quiet.
“Faith, please – you need to talk to Collin,” Marcy said. She rose and put an arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “Tell him how much this upsets you.”
Faith attempted to smile and patted her mother’s hand. “I will, Mother, I promise.”
“Men,” Charity muttered under her breath. “Sometimes they are so blind to the obvious.”
Faith paused, appearing to struggle to maintain a calm demeanor. “Charity, I know you’re all upset for me, but don’t be, please. I am perfectly fine. I trust my husband, and I will talk to him about this, I promise. Now if you will excuse me, I’ll go see what I can do to help Emma.”
Emma heard the screen door squeal open and glanced over her shoulder, a nearly squeezed lemon lodged in her hand. She took one look at Faith standing inside the door with a hand to her eyes and quickly put the lemon down. She took a step forward. “Faith, are you all right?”
A deep breath rose and fell in Faith’s chest as she opened her eyes, valiant in her attempt to conjure a smile. “I’m fine, Emma. Just a little dizzy from the heat.” She walked to the cupboard to pull six tumblers off the shelf. “This heat wave is something else, isn’t it? It’s a brutal day.”
Emma tucked an arm to Faith’s waist, her voice soft and low. “They’re not like us, you know, the men that God brings into our lives – they’re as different as the night is from the day.”
The tenderness of her tone seemed to unravel Faith, causing her to list against the counter with a broken heave.
Emma wrapped her in a gentle hug, her head resting against Faith’s. “They don’t see things the way we do, Faith – the temptations, the dangers. But I truly believe that once you explain to Collin how you feel, he will understand your concerns. I can feel it in the depth of my soul that he only wanted to help this woman.”
A faint shiver traveled Faith’s body, and Emma tried to absorb it by tightening her hold. “You know, Faith, you and Collin or even you and I can talk about this all we want, but in the end, the only thing that will resolve your fears will be the God who delivers us from them all.” She paused to stroke a comforting hand against Faith’s hair. “Would you like to pray about it?”
Faith nodded, pulling away with a tearful heave. She sniffed and wiped the wetness from her eyes with the side of her hand. “Thanks, Emma, I would like that.” She dug a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her nose with a shaky smile. “I’m not used to being on this end of the prayers, I’m afraid. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You can thank me by not letting the devil deceive you into thinking God’s not in control of this situation, because he is. He’ll show you and Collin what to do.” Emma took Faith’s hand in hers and bowed her head, eyes closed. “Heavenly Father, we ask you to be in the midst of this situation between Faith and Collin. Give them both wisdom and clarity of mind to do what you would have them do, and we pray for your outcome. Your Word says you give peace in the midst of a storm. Please, Lord, give Faith peace now in the midst of this short storm in her life, and unleash your blessings on her marriage to this man that she loves with all of her heart. Thank you, Lord, and amen.”
Faith squeezed her hand and cocked her head. “Where did you learn to pray like that?”
Emma smiled. “When I moved back with Charity from Dublin, I used to go to Brady’s Bible studies with both her and Lizzie for a while.”
A grin creased Faith’s lips, and a twinkle returned to her eyes. “He’s good, isn’t he?”
Emma’s soft chuckle floated in the air as she nodded. “That he is.”
“Man, it’s hot out there.” Faith’s brother Sean pushed into the kitchen through the dining-room swinging door, his cheeks ruddy from the heat of the day. He wiped his brow with the rolled sleeve of his once crisp white shirt, flicking away a limp strand of light, sandy hair. “Hi, Emma, Faith, what are you doing here?” Inquisitive eyes, the same sky-blue as his mother’s, lit up when he spied the lemon rinds on the counter. “Is that fresh lemonade?” he asked, making a beeline for the pitcher.
Faith pulled a tray from the cupboard. “Fresh squeezed by Emma Malloy herself.”
“Bless you, Emma.” He reached for the tallest glass he could find in his mother’s cabinet. “Want me to chip some ice?”
“Nope, already done. Just need to finish here and then pour some for you and the kids.”
“The kids are here?” Sean strolled over to the kitchen window to squint outside, ducking his six-foot-two frame to allow full view. “What’s going on, a picnic?”
Emma finished pouring six small tumblers of lemonade, and Faith placed them on her tray, hoisted the drinks with two hands, and headed for the door. “No, we’re helping Mother sew costumes for the Fourth of July parade.” She paused, her hip butted against the screen door. “Hey, why aren’t you at the store? I thought you worked on Saturdays.”
Sean’s lips tightened almost imperceptibly, diminishing the wide smile on his handsome face. “I do, but I had to get out of there today.” And then, as quickly as it had faded, the warm smile returned, complemented by a wink. “Just one of the many fringe benefits of being manager of my own store, you know.”
Faith grinned. “Impressive. Well, the kids will be thrilled to see Uncle Sean, I’m sure, but I’d suggest changing out of those good clothes into some of Steven’s or Father’s old ones before you come out – we have a bit of mud going on out here.” Her gaze shifted to Emma with a grateful smile. “Thanks again for the lemonade, Emma,
and
for the prayer.”
“You’re welcome, Faith,” Emma called over her shoulder while she poured a glass for Sean. “It will all work out, you’ll see.”
“What will?” Sean asked as the screen door slammed behind his sister. He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms with a quizzical look, long legs crossed at the ankles.
Emma nibbled on the side of her lip, reluctant to divulge the private matter between Faith and Collin. But then a thought struck. She handed him his glass as she assessed him with curious eyes. From the moment she’d met Sean O’Connor almost nine years ago, she knew him to be a sensitive man. Warm, unassuming, and always a quip on his lips and a twinkle in his eye. The first time he had laid eyes on her, the compassion in his face had touched her, his shock evident when he’d learned the husband she’d fled in Dublin had scarred her features with hot grease. Although Sean had never spoken of the incident since, Emma knew that it had jolted him. A kind and gentle man to all he met, Sean was particularly so with her, and the gift of his friendship was a treasure for which she was truly grateful. She cocked her head with a hint of a smile, watching as he all but drained the glass in his hand.
He was not Collin McGuire with his moody good looks nor Mitch Dennehy with his gruff, handsome appeal, or even John Brady with his quiet depth of passion for God and family. But Emma had sensed from the start that Sean O’Connor held his own charm for women who frequently sought him out, although she knew few ever met with success. Charity had mentioned once that the horror of WWI seemed to change him somehow, almost as if it had soured him on women. Not that he’d dated all that much before he’d been drafted, she said, but once he’d come home again, he seemed to steer clear of any of his sister’s attempts at matchmaking. And Charity couldn’t help but worry, quite certain that some French girl had obviously broken his heart. But Sean would only laugh and sidestep her queries with a grin, apparently determined to ignore her incessant badgering on the subject.
A confirmed bachelor in the truest sense of the word, Charity’s brother seemed more than content with his life, too busy with work, friends, and sports to devote time to a woman. At the age of thirty-three, he was a tall, strapping man, lean and muscled from an endless array of sports. Be it basketball, football, or baseball, the “love of his life” was clearly the game, and Sean O’Connor played it better than most. Whether butting heads on the field or court, or coaching boys on St. Stephen’s team, Sean had learned to master the perfect defense against the game of romance.