A Light in the Window (2 page)

All thoughts of Sam O’Rourke, Patrick O’Connor, and the poor economy slipped from Marcy’s mind as she leaned in like Julie, arms on the table and eyes agleam with the thrill of spearheading the parish fundraiser. “I did, as a matter of fact, just this afternoon after I registered for school and guess what? I got the job!”

Julie hopped up with a squeal and embraced her. “Oh, Marce, that’s wonderful! I know the pay isn’t much for all the hours, but at least it’s something, and with you having been head of the drama club at your old school, you’re a perfect fit.”

“I think so too,” Marcy said with a shy smile. She tilted her head. “Of course, I told her I couldn’t do it without help, and naturally I’ll need someone musical who can play the piano and assist …” Her teeth tugged at the edge of her smile. “Know anybody like that?”

Julie shrieked and hugged her again. “Oh, I was soooo hoping you’d ask, and we are going to have soooo much fun!”

“I know!” Marcy squeezed her hand, her own body buzzing with anticipation. “And all while raising money for a worthy cause
and
helping the parish.”

“Absolutely. So … when do we start?” Julie asked, as giddy as Marcy.

“Well, we have a planning meeting with Sister Francine, Father Fitzgibbons, and the director of the soup kitchen Tuesday evening at seven. Can you make it?”

Julie’s lips bent in a wry smile. “Wait, let me check my calendar first—I may have a prior commitment.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course I can make it. It’s summer, what else do I have to do?”

Marcy grinned and waggled her copy of
Jane Eyre
. “Oh, I don’t know—reread and discuss our favorite books
and
spend lots of time with me?”

“Sounds like heaven,” Julie said, carrying their dirty plates and utensils to the sink. She shot her an imp of a smile. “Now throw in an outing or two with Patrick O’Connor, and I do believe I see the pearly gates twinkling up ahead.”

A chuckle rolled from Marcy’s lips as she deposited the dirty glasses on the counter with an affectionate smile. “You always were blind as a bat, as I recall,” she said, giving her friend a squeeze. “Because I hate to tell you, Julie O’Rourke, but that ‘gate’ isn’t ‘up,’ it’s down, and those pearls you see twinkling in the distance?” Marcy tickled her waist and gave her a wink. “It’s fire.”

“I knew there was a reason you’re my best friend ...” Sitting on the floor of the confessional, Sam O’Rourke took a swig of a bottle before handing the unconsecrated sacristy wine back to Patrick O’Connor with a flash of white teeth. “Other than being as good-looking as me.” He swiped his mouth with his rolled sleeve and slanted a boot to the wall, his vested shirt open at the collar. “Knowing where Father Fitz keeps the key is a definite plus.”

Patrick upended the bottle with a wry smile. “Well, it’s not a cold beer at Brannigan’s by a long shot, but it’ll do in a pinch till we get paid.” He hiked a foot to the wall like Sam, his six-foot-two frame cramped on the padded bench where Father Fitzgibbons absolved the faithful. The maple and vanilla scent of Black Cavendish pipe tobacco and Wrigley’s spearmint gum merged with the smell of stolen port, and suddenly guilt soured Patrick’s stomach as much as the wine. Closing his eyes, he took another swig, but it was no use—his friendship with Father Fitz was spoiling the taste. Heaving a penitent sigh, he handed the half-empty bottle back to Sam. “Here, one more drink, then let’s get out of here and go to Brannigan’s. Maybe Lucas’ll run us a tab.”

“And waste perfectly good wine?” Sam squinted at Patrick like he’d lost his senses rather than his desire to drink. “When I shadow the threshold of Brannigan’s tonight, I want to be primed and ready to go, my friend.” He took another long swallow, bottle straight up, assessing Patrick through curious eyes beneath the brim of his flat cap. “Unless you’d rather pay a visit to the McPhee sisters.” His sly grin appeared distorted, as much from the light streaming through the overhead grid as his wayward intentions. “Hear tell Alice is smitten.”

Patrick paused to study his best friend, reflecting on the McPhee sisters and their apparent fascination with Sam and him. A fascination shared by most of the female population of the Southie neighborhood, it would seem, and the thought lured a smile to Patrick’s lips. No question they were a worrisome pair to many a mother. At six foot two, Patrick was taller than his best friend’s six foot one, but both sported muscular builds hard-sculpted from hauling steel bins of chemicals, cumbersome rolls of newsprint, or heavy machinery on the dock of
The Boston Herald
. Because of their height and dark hair, some mistook them for brothers. Patrick’s thick curls were a brown-black while Sam’s were a gleaming ebony that matched his eyes, his slight hook nose and heavy stubble lending a blackguard’s air. On their own, they certainly dallied with a female’s peace of mind, but as a team? They appeared to be diabolical. Patrick’s lips quirked. A perfect contrast for an angel from heaven. His mind flitted back to the blonde beauty he’d seen at St. Mary’s, and the McPhee sisters quickly lost all allure. He squinted at Sam and shook his head, a pucker at the bridge of his nose. “Nope, not interested.”

Sam angled a brow. “Not interested in free wine
or
pretty Alice McPhee?” He shook his head and took another draw. “You sick, O’Connor?” An unruly grin slid across Sam’s face. “Or just contemplating a brief respite of fidelity in the name of love before you break Emily Fischer’s heart a third time?”

Patrick winced, Sam’s barb niggling his conscience more than he liked. Emily was the girl he cared for more than anyone else, but it was a caring that fell far short of honor when tempted by the numerous Southie lasses always vying for his attention. Pushing the sliver of guilt aside, he chuckled, eyeing Sam through lidded eyes as he rested his head against the wall. “If I am sick, I’ve died and gone to heaven, then, ‘cause I saw my first angel today.”

“Did you, now?” Sam leaned back, a gleam in his eye as he hooked an arm behind his head. “Who and where?”

Patrick exhaled slowly, pulse picking up. “No idea who she is, but I saw her walking into the convent with Sister Francine today when I was playing basketball with Father Fitz and the guys …” He shot Sam a silly grin, but didn’t care. “And all I can say is—I’m in love.”

Sam’s laughter ricocheted in the tiny quarters, and Patrick jostled him with his toe. “Hey, keep it down, O’Rourke, will ya?” His whisper was harsh. “You want Father Fitz to know we’re here?”

“Sorry, Patrick, but I have a hard time seeing you take after a girl who spends time in a convent.” He shook his head and took another drink. “Holy blazes, you barely know how to pray.”

“Trust me, Sam, for this one? I’m willing to learn.”

Setting the bottle down, Sam angled to the wall, cushioning both hands behind his neck. “So, what’s she look like, this celestial creature?”

A slow smile eased across Patrick’s face at the memory of a woman he had every intention of getting to know—
well
. He had never believed in love at first sight before, but he had a gut feeling this girl could shackle him to sobriety and spoken vows faster than he could say, “I do.” A tenuous exhale drifted from his lips. “I swear, Sam, this girl had hair the lightest shade of blonde you have ever seen on a woman’s head, and it spilled and shimmered down her back in soft, loose curls like spun gold.”

“Spilled and shimmered? Spun gold?” A grin split Sam’s swarthy face. “Blue blazes, O’Connor, you must be in love.” He glugged more wine. “Or sicker than I’ve ever seen.”

Patrick folded his arms with a contented sigh, enjoying the vision that burned in his brain. “I’m sick all right—of any other girls after seeing this one. I don’t know, Sam, she just seemed different somehow—almost ethereal—kind of a sweetness and calm that went bone-deep, you know? And the eyes?” He gave a low whistle. “So blue, they could have been snatched from the sky after a hard rain.”

“Okay, now I know you’re sick. The last time I heard verse like that was in Sister Francine’s literature class, which come to think of it,” Sam said with a scratch of his jaw, “you carried me through with your confounded A’s.”

 
Patrick ignored him, seeing only heaven in his mind while his body grew warmer by the moment. “And so help me, the fullest, pinkest lips you have ever seen—” He glanced over with an unprincipled grin. “Or kissed—in the Southie neighborhood and probably all of Boston. She’s a little bit of a thing, maybe five foot two or three, but trust me—every single inch is sheer perfection.”

Creases buckled Sam’s brow. “So, you didn’t try to find out who she was? Where she’s from?”

Patrick’s lips went flat. “Are you crazy? Of course I did, but Sister Francine wouldn’t give me the time of day, and Father Fitz just said he thought she was a new senior, moved here from out of town.”

“Tarnation, O’Connor, sure hope you see her again.” He winked. “Or I do.”

Patrick scowled. “This one is mine, Sam, so keep your distance.”

Sam grinned. “If you can find her …”

“Oh, I’ll find her all right, you can bet on that.” Patrick stood with a groan and a stretch, then reknotted the tie he’d loosened after work. He tucked his white shirt into his gray trousers and snapped his suspenders in place, then lifted his flat cap before wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “Blast it, O’Rourke, it’s hotter than the devil’s kitchen in here,” he groused, whether from the wine, the cramped space, or pure guilt over drinking stolen sacristy wine in Father Fitz’s domain. His scowl softened as he tugged his cap back on.
Or maybe haunting blue eyes?
He stepped over Sam, rolling his sleeves to reveal biceps still sore from a hard day at work. “Let’s go to Brannigan’s and get some decent brew.” Unlatching the door as quietly as possible, he winced when it eased open with a truly annoying squeal.

“Ah, Mr. O’Connor and Mr. O’Rourke …” Father Fitz stood not two feet away, chin high and hands clasped behind his back. He jutted a silver brow in a smiling face reminiscent of a cat stalking a canary. “Eager to be confessing your sins, are you?”

The heat in Patrick’s body converged in his face before the blood iced in his veins. “F-Father Fitz,” he stammered, feeling like that little boy who’d been caught smoking in the choirboy closet at the age of ten. “We needed a quiet place to talk …”

With an imposing height that nearly equaled Patrick’s six-two, the fifty-year-old priest appeared to lift on the balls of his feet, his stocky frame leaning forward with a casual sniff. “Talk, yes,” he said with a careful nod. “About the virtues of sacristy wine, no doubt.”

Heat suffused Patrick’s cheeks as Sam slithered out of the booth empty-handed.

Brows wrinkled, the priest flicked impatient fingers at the confessional. “You might at least clean up after yourself, Mr. O’Rourke,” Father Fitz said. “After all, you’re a proud graduate of St. Mary’s, young man, not a street hooligan littering an alley with empty bottles.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam ducked back in the booth to retrieve the near-empty port, then took his place beside Patrick, bottle limp at his side.

Father Fitz held out his palm with a snap of fingers, and Sam relinquished the wine. The priest righted the bottle with a quick flick of his wrist to squint at the label, giving an appreciative nod. “Ah, yes, port—one of my favorites.” He peered up at Sam, then veered to Patrick with a lidded gaze. “Yours as well, evidently.”

“Father Fitz—”

The priest cut Patrick off with a stiff hand in the air. “Save your breath, Mr. O’Connor, please. There’s not a single word you can say in your defense unless it’s behind the screen of that confessional.”

“Yes, sir.” Patrick dropped his gaze to the marble floor.

Father Fitz snapped his fingers again, and Patrick’s head shot up. “I believe you have something of mine, Mr. O’Connor?” he said with an extension of his palm.

Fire scalded Patrick’s neck as much as the key scalded the hand in his pocket. Clearing his throat, he placed it in the priest’s palm. “Sorry, Father.”

“So am I, Patrick. I thought we’d gotten beyond this.”

“We have, sir,” Patrick said, his voice no more than a rasp. Regret seared in his chest, hotter than that blasted key. Senior year, he and Father Fitz had forged an unlikely friendship when the priest discovered Patrick’s dreams to go to college and write for
The Boston Herald
. Despite Patrick’s propensity for breaking rules and endless detentions reported to Patrick’s father by Father Fitz himself, the priest had reached out in ways his father never would. A man who was not even blood, singling him out for games of basketball, football, and discussions of literature. Taking him under his wing like the son Patrick could never seem to be for a father who harped and hounded. A reedy sigh of remorse shuddered from his lips as he looked up, his gaze connecting with the priest who was more of a father than his own. “And you have my word, Father, this will never happen again.”

The priest’s measured gaze seemed to burn straight into his. “Your word, Mr. O’Connor,” he repeated quietly, lips compressed in a bare hint of a smile. “Tell me, if we traded places right now—would that be enough?”

Shame scorched Patrick’s face as he hung his head, hands slipping into his pockets like dead weights. “No, sir,” he whispered.

A hearty chuckle rose in the darkened church, expanding into laughter that echoed clear up to the vaulted chamber past the gothic arches overhead.

Patrick sucked in a harsh breath and looked up, the lingering scent of incense and lemon oil filtering into his nostrils as shock filtered across his face.
Sweet chorus of angels—he’s laughing?

“Well, you see, Mr. O’Connor, that’s where you’re different from me, and when I’m done with you, young man, it’s my hope you’ll be different as well.” His burly black cassock shifted with a slack of a meaty hip. “Of course I’m in the business of forgiveness, which makes me different as well, so this is your lucky day, gentlemen—I’m ready to absolve you of this regrettable stunt.”

The breath Patrick had been holding seeped from his lungs in an audible sigh. A shaky smile made its way across his face. “Sweet soul-saving mercy, Father—you won’t regret this.”

“No, I don’t believe I will, Mr. O’Connor, although I’m not so sure about you and Mr. O’Rourke. You see, we’re not explicitly talking ‘mercy’ from the throne of God here,” he said with an ominous chuckle. “You know, ‘As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us’? No, rather more of an absolution of a wrong committed where retribution is due.”

Sam cleared his throat, his stance as awkward as Patrick’s. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what exactly does that mean?”