Authors: Julie Lessman
“He’s been looking for work, though, hasn’t he?” Lizzie turned a hem, worry in her tone.
“Every morning like clockwork,” Marcy said with a frown. “Scours the Classifieds and then bolts out the door, sometimes without breakfast.” She fingered a jagged hole in the seat of the pants, face screwed in thought. “Now how do you suppose this got here?”
Charity chuckled. “I don’t know, but I wish I’d been there to see it.” She suddenly sat upright, her voice raised in warning as she glared into the backyard. “Henry! It’s called Swing the Statue, for mercy’s sake, not ‘pillage’ it. You best take it easy with those girls, or you’ll be ‘swinging’ your legs in a chair, young man, bored silly.”
“How are Sean’s spirits?” Faith continued, Charity’s threats against Henry as commonplace as air.
“Not great,” Marcy said. “It seems as long as he stays busy, he’s not too bad. But I’ll tell you one thing—he hasn’t been himself. No smiles, very little to say, and definitely none of his usual sparkle.” She puffed out another sigh. “I think he’s depressed.”
“That’s certainly understandable,” Lizzie said. She hesitated, exchanging a quick glance with Faith before focusing on her mother with worried eyes. “Well, do you . . . you know . . . think he’d consider working at the print shop? I know Brady and Collin are swamped because they’ve had to let several pressmen go recently, but I think they’d consider hiring Sean to help out, at least part-time, don’t you think, Faith? After all, he is family.”
“Absolutely,” Faith agreed. “I don’t know about Lizzie, but I wouldn’t mind seeing Collin come home a little earlier each evening. Heaven knows they can certainly use the help.”
A pucker creased the bridge of Marcy’s nose. “I’m not sure that would work. Brady and Collin already suggested it to Patrick last week, but when he broached it with Sean, he adamantly refused. Says he’s a merchant, not a pressman. Insists there’s no way he’ll take salary from his brothers-in-law when he knows they’ve had to buckle the belt themselves.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Faith said with a glint of temper. “That’s what families do—they reach out to each other in their time of need.”
“Reach out, yes, but take?” Charity smirked. “Every man in this family would see that as charity, and we all know it. Face it, when it comes to stubborn male pride, we’re lousy with it.”
“Mama, it’s Henry’s turn in Mother, May I, and he won’t do it.” Hope skidded to a breathless stop. “Can you make him?” She shot a disgusted look at her twin, who was taking aim at a squirrel with a rock in his hand. “Says he won’t do it ’cause he’s a man, not a mother.”
Charity’s smile squirmed as she arched penciled brows at her mother and sisters. “I rest my case.” She patted Hope’s cheek. “Honey, just change it to Father, May I?, okay? And if he doesn’t play nice, tell him he’ll be playing ‘Mother, may I please come out of my room?’”
Hope gave Charity a kiss before tearing down the steps. “Thanks, Mama—love you!”
“Love you too, princess,” Charity called, craning her neck to watch the exchange between the twins. When she saw Henry stomp to one end of the yard for paternal duty, she sighed and turned to give her mother a grin. “Now I know why you had four girls and two boys. Didn’t think it was possible, Mother, but I believe my respect for you has risen even higher.”
Marcy smiled. “Oh, boys aren’t so bad, right, Lizzie? Sean, Steven, and Teddy should be proof of that.” Marcy stuck a needle in her mouth, assessing the trouser tear with a dubious eye.
“Spoken like a true grandmother,” Lizzie said with a proud smile. “Teddy’s a dream. I’d take ten more just like him.”
In spite of the mugginess of the day, a cold chill shivered the butterfly-sleeve of Charity’s pink wraparound blouse. “Ten more of Henry?” Another shudder followed. “Just shoot me now.”
Marcy smiled. “Charity, he’s just going through a stage—”
“Yes, Mother, I know—birth to college.” She blew a limp strand of hair from her eyes as she snapped a piece of thread with her teeth. “I just hope I can tame him before he marries some poor, unsuspecting girl.” She spit out a sliver of navy thread. “And while we’re on the subject of ‘unsuspecting,’ I think I have a solution to our problem with Sean.”
Three sets of eyes locked on Charity’s face. “Oh, no, what are you cooking up now?” Faith said with a chuckle, her amusement somewhat tempered by a wary scrunch of brows.
Charity eyed the seam she’d just sewn, squinting to see if it was straight. “Oh, nothing. Just a surefire way to get our unsuspecting brother back on track until he finds a job.”
Faith leaned in, elbows on the table and lips parted in doubt. “I don’t believe it. How?”
With a lift of her chin, Charity folded the school jumper she’d just mended and placed it on the growing stack in another basket. “It just so happens that Emma needs help at the store—”
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Lizzie said with a hopeful glow.
“What?” Faith’s jaw dropped a full inch. “Are you crazy?” She shooed at a fly. “I can tell you right now he won’t do it.”
Charity stared her down, suddenly remembering all the times she and Faith butted heads growing up, sometimes resulting in a hair-pulling fight. The memory tugged a smile to her lips, filling her with gratitude for the closeness she now shared with her sisters. Her smile eased into a grin. “Oh, yes he will, you mark my words. And of course I’m crazy, as if that’s any surprise.” She winked. “Crazy enough to know it will work.”
“But how?” Marcy asked, her tone as skeptical as Faith’s. “Your father already offered to give his cousin Thomas a call. You know, the one who owns the freighter company? But Sean flat-out refused, just like he did with Collin and Brady’s offer to work at the shop.”
“Yeah, how?” Faith repeated, an edge of respect in her tone. “Knowing you, sis, this ought to be good . . . and probably just devious enough to work.”
“Well, surprisingly, it’s not all that devious,” Charity said with a hint of regret. She leaned to pluck a purple silk blouse from Marcy’s basket, then settled back in her chair. “But I do believe it’ll work. That is, if I can get Sean over to dinner on Saturday night. And trust me, when he sees Emma all ragged and worn from too much work for one person to do—”
“Emma?” Faith’s mouth could have trapped flies. “Don’t tell me you railroaded Emma?”
“Not railroaded exactly,” Charity said slowly. “Think of it more like I engineered a plan and Emma’s all aboard. Frankly, the woman’s working herself to death at the store, and neither Mitch nor I can get her to cut back on her hours or hire more help. But,” Charity said with a smug hike of a brow, “she
wants
to help Sean, so she’s willing to hire him. And actually, she says with his retail experience, it’s an answer to prayer. So you see, it’s completely perfect—the dear friend I love gets the help that she needs, and my sweet, stubborn brother gets a job.”
“But he’s bound to suspect something,” Lizzie said, violet eyes wide with concern. She chewed on the edge of her lip as she finished the hem. “He never goes to your house for dinner.”
“I know, but I’ve got a plan—or as Emma calls it, a ‘plot’—guaranteed to put Sean O’Connor’s back to the wall, ensuring our success.”
“
Our
success?” The corner of Faith’s mouth tipped up. “So now we’re accomplices?”
“You’re not gonna force her to cry on demand, are you?” Lizzie asked, regard for Emma obviously foremost in her mind. “You know, like you did with me in our plot against Brady? Crackers in her eyes to make her cry and weaken his defenses?”
“Crackers?” Marcy gaped. “Charity, whose daughter are you? I swear you inherited your grandmother’s creative flair for conspiracy as well as her beauty, God rest her soul.” She sighed, a trace of tears in her eyes. “You’re so very like her, you know.”
“I know,” she whispered, squeezing her mother’s hand. “And therein is one of my greatest joys.” She swiped at her eye and turned to grin at Lizzie. “And no, Lizzie, no saltines are involved, I promise. Only used them twice, you know—once with you to turn Brady’s head and once with Mitch to turn his.” Her nose wrinkled. “Or maybe it was twice with Mitch . . .” She waved her hand. “Oh, well, it’s not important. All that matters is that it worked.”
“Oh dear,” Marcy said, her tongue making another quick swipe. “This isn’t going to cost anyone anything, is it? Like someone’s job or Emma’s authority at the store or . . .” The faintest of smiles shadowed her lips. “Your brother’s ire?”
Charity shook her head, her confidence unshaken. “Nope, only his pride. Not all of it, mind you, because heaven knows I can’t perform miracles . . . but enough.”
“So, Miss Mata Hari, Queen of Intrigue . . . how exactly are you planning to bait the trap? Barbecue ribs, perchance? Because Lizzie is right—Sean will sniff a mercy dinner a mile away.”
“Just don’t you worry, because I know—”
“Hey, Lizzie . . .” Sean pushed through the screen door, the sleeves of his old work shirt rolled up and splotched with telltale paint.
“—that as far as marriage is concerned,” Charity continued seamlessly, as smooth as the silk blouse in her hand, “Katie will get the lay of the land soon enough, you’ll see. I just wish poor, little Kit wasn’t still under the weather, so Katie and she could be here. I, for one, would like a newlywed update.”
“I think I heard jabbering down the hall, so I suspect Molly may be up from her nap.” Sean wiped his paintbrush with a wet rag obviously saturated in turpentine, prompting Charity to wrinkle her nose. His smile was lackluster at best. “Didn’t want to peek in case she shouldn’t be up yet, you know?”
“Uncle Sean!” Henry called, relief evident in his voice. “Wanna play catch?”
“Sorry, bud, I’ve got work to do, but maybe later, okay?”
Charity glanced up. “So, Mr. Handyman . . . I understand you fixed Mother’s leak.”
“Dry as dust in the desert,” he quipped, his own tone equally so.
“Really . . . ,” she said, giving him her full attention. She propped her chin in her hand and wiggled her brows. “So . . . what do you think you could do for my kitchen sink?”
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked, slacking a hip as he swiped the sweat on his face.
She tilted her head. “Leaks like a sieve. Mitch has been meaning to look at it, but with the hours he’s pulling at the
Herald
, I’m lucky to get a grunt and a kiss.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, chancing a peek at her twins in the backyard. “But between you and me, I’d just as soon he didn’t get another chance, if you know what I mean. It’s gone downhill since he fixed it the last time, and I’m tired of having water in my best pot.”
A half smile flickered on Sean’s mouth. “Sure, I’ll look at it. Tomorrow okay?”
“Actually,” she said, her smile dimming somewhat, “tomorrow probably won’t work.” Her nose crinkled in thought before she suddenly looked up, eyes as bright as the idea in her head. “Wait—how about Saturday after your game? We’ll be home all evening.”
His blue eyes squinted in thought. “That could work. My game should be over by six.”
“Perfect! And you may as well stay for dinner.”
He hesitated—prey stilled by the scent of the hunter. “I don’t know, sis.” One side of his mouth lifted a fraction of an inch. “I probably won’t smell too good.”
“But you’re coaching, not playing, right? And you gotta eat anyway.” Charity appeared hopeful as she cast her imaginary line.
Nobody breathed as the lure sailed through the air . . .
“Look, sis, I’m not the best company lately—”
“I don’t mind if you eat and run, honest.”
He cocked his head and gritted his teeth with a smile, his decision likely edging toward “no,” given the apology in his eyes.
Uh-oh, fish or cut bait.
Charity smiled and switched strategies. “That’s okay, really—I understand.” With a nonchalant air, she grabbed a spool of purple thread from the sewing box and gave him a wink. “Just more ribs for us.” She held the thread against the silk blouse and looked up. “Hey, do these colors match?”
“Ribs?” Sean said weakly.
Charity fished in the sewing box again, ignoring his gaze as she fiddled with more spools. “Yes, sir . . . Mitch’s apple-wood smoked variety, his secret sauce, candied carrots, my prize popovers, and—” she looked up, her face the picture of innocence—“potato salad.”
“Potato salad?” He paused. His voice was the pained whisper of a man used to simpler fare prepared by a frugal mother victimized by the depression. He swallowed hard, as if drool were clogging his throat. “Mustard or mayonnaise?”
She plopped back into her chair and flashed him a bright smile. “Sorry, didn’t catch that. What was the question again?”
“The potato salad—is it the mustard kind or the mayonnaise?” It came out as a croak.
Charity worked the edge of her lip, trying to remember Sean’s favorite. “Uh . . . mayonnaise, I think.”
The man groaned as if a sharp lure had just pierced the soft flesh of his lip.
Bingo!
She set the hook and reeled him in. “And, of course, my homemade deviled eggs, those barbecue butter beans you’re so fond of, and last but not least . . .”
His mouth hung open like a large-mouth bass.
Victory coursed through her veins with a rush of adrenaline. “Warm peach cobbler in a pool of caramel sauce with cinnamon ice cream on the side—from Robinson’s no less,” she breathed, her tone hushed with respect.
“Oh, man . . .” His voice was a moan of defeat. He blasted out a sigh that could have ruffled the leaves on the lilac bush at the edge of the porch. “What time again?”
“Six,” she said with a flutter of lashes. “You can fix the drain, and then I’ll feed you at six-thirty.”
His lungs expanded and released, as if he’d given up the ghost. “Okay, sis.” Shoulders slumped in surrender, he glanced at his mother. “Do you know where the mower is? I was hoping to mow the lawn, but it’s not in the shed.”
“I’m afraid your father lent it to Mr. Morris last week when his broke.”
Another sigh that seemed to weigh as much as he did expelled from his lips. “Okay, I guess I’ll pay him a visit.” He turned to go, his heart clearly not in hobnobbing with neighbors.
“See you Saturday,” Charity called after him.