A Light in the Window (20 page)

A courtship of sorts?
Marcy blinked, not exactly sure what that meant. She’d dreamt of a romance with Sam since she was a little girl—the boy she’d longed for and the family she craved—but never had she imagined it might come true. She studied him now, her childhood hero all grown up with a rakish air and mischievous smile, and knew that spending time with him over the summer—at the play, at the center—had only deepened her affection and solidified her trust. So, was she? Willing to wait? For a man who wasn’t ready to commit?

Her heart clutched and skidded to a dead stop.
And
for a man who didn’t embrace—or live—the same passion for God as she? They belonged to the same parish, of course, and he attended church with his family every week and had always been the one boy she’d respected and trusted more than any other, but Marcy wanted more than a man with a lukewarm interest in God. More than a man who dallied with women, a reputation she knew to be true, both from Julie’s stories and Sam’s overtures that night in the kitchen. Marcy absently skimmed her teeth. Could such a man change?
Would
such a man change?

For her
?

Easing away from his touch, she scooted back, her eyes sad as they connected with his. “I … don’t know,” she said quietly, not wanting to hurt him, but not wanting to skirt the truth either. “I need a man who shares my passion for God and although you and I share the same faith …” She swallowed her hesitation while those ebony eyes bore into hers. “Your reputation seems to indicate that we … don’t apply that faith in the same manner.”

“Ah … my reputation …” The barest of smiles curved on his lips.

“Yes,” she whispered, her words to Patrick returning to shore up her resolve.
Your reputation with women … your flirtatious ways … your disregard of rules …
Marcy inhaled deeply to sustain her nerve, hoping she wouldn’t trigger Sam’s temper as easily as she had Patrick’s. “Like Patrick, you seem to have a lust for things of a more … carnal nature.”

He smiled, and she felt a reprieve from those piercing eyes when he lowered his head for a moment to emit a soft chuckle. He finally glanced up, constricting her air when he braced massive hands to her arms. “Marceline,” he said with a conviction that surprised her. “Men change … and so do their reputations.” He grazed the silk of her sleeve with his thumb, triggering her pulse, sparking her hope. His lips curved into that perilous smile that completely disarmed her, defusing all denial. “All it takes is the right woman.”

The glide of his hands to her waist derailed her thoughts when he coaxed her body to stand, nearly flush with his. “I have a strong feeling you’re that woman, Marcy, and if so, I will share whatever you want me to share—your faith, your dream, your passion …” Tease laced his tone as he lifted her chin with a finger. “Even your desire for
things of a
less
… carnal nature.”

Relief whooshed like a fountain of hope. “Oh, Sam—truly?”

He gave her nose a playful tap as if she were a little girl and he the doting parent. “Truly.” His smile faded into soft affection, voice laden with a sobriety seldom heard from his lips. “You stir something in me,” he said quietly, stark sincerity in the depths of his eyes. “The desire to be the kind of man who would deserve a woman like you, and I’ve never felt that before.” His gaze seemed to caress her face before finally lingering on her lips, evoking that wayward grin once again. “Of course, you also stir desire of another kind,” he whispered, and
the warmth of his breath in her ear stuttered her pulse. “I want you, Marcy, and I’m asking you again—are you willing to wait, to allow me to court you until we’re both ready to marry?”

She stood paralyzed—afraid to say yes, afraid to say no …

“Say, yes, Marceline ...” Cupping her face, his eyes sheathed close while he nuzzled her lips.

The soft moan that left her throat was pure surrender. “Yes …”

The faraway sounds of children’s laughter suddenly filtered through the fog he’d inflicted and she instantly lurched away, chest heaving. “For the love of decency, Sam, we’re in broad daylight!” she croaked, taking another step back while her gaze darted toward the lake. Her fingers shook as she tucked a stray hair over her ear, eyes flicking to where his sisters and brother raced up the hill. Each carried cattails they waved wildly until white, fuzzy seeds floated up, up, and away.

Like my heart …

Sam chuckled and stooped to pick up the blanket. “Forgive my forward behavior, Miss Murphy, but I couldn’t risk leaving without the answer I wanted.” His grin gentled into a tender smile as he stroked the curve of her jaw. “I think I could be on my way to falling in love with you, Marcy, so if you know what’s good for you, I suggest you do the same.”

Marcy blinked while Sam shook out the quilt, carefully folding it as he gave her a wink. Tossing the blanket on top of the basket, he turned and laughed when Max plowed into his legs with a loud squeal. Sam swooped his brother high in the air, and Marcy was pretty sure her heart did the same.

If she knew what was good for her?

She gulped. Oh, she knew, all right—in her mind. But in her body? Her tongue glossed her teeth, not once, but twice, because deep down she suspected. When it came to Sam O’Rourke?

Her heart had long since made up its mind.

“Break it up, you two—
now!
” Father Fitz’s voice bellowed across the weedy lot, not boding well for Patrick when the priest stormed to where Dagen Fischer lay sprawled on his back with Patrick on top, pummeling away.

“Mr. O’Connor!” the priest shouted. “Unhand him this instant!”

Giving the smart-mouth quarterback a final clip, Patrick rolled off, breathing hard as he lumbered up. “I suggest you keep your trap shut in the future, Fischer, or I’ll lay you out cold.”

“What the devil is your problem, O’Connor—you crazy?” Dagen Fischer scrambled to his feet, chest heaving as he brushed mud and rocks from his grass-stained trousers. Swiping his face with the sleeve of his dirty jersey, he shot a scowl at Father Fitz. “That’s a clear-cut penalty, Father. You saw it—he tackled me after the ball left my hand.”

“Game over,” Father Fitz snapped, mopping his own sweaty brow with a handkerchief from the pocket of his rolled-sleeve cassock.

Groans rose in the air from the group of men who convened regularly for after-supper games with Father Fitz’s football on the church lot.

“Why don’t you just throw
him
out of the game, Father?” Dagen shouted, glaring at Patrick. “He’s the troublemaker, not us.”

Fischer mouthed a curse his way, and Patrick lunged again, jerking to a stop when Tommy Bandle locked his arms from behind. He tried to break free, Fischer’s earlier insults festering like a splinter under his skin, but Tommy’s whispered warning stayed his temper. “Leave him be, Patrick.”

Eyes narrowed to slits, Father Fitz waggled his fingers at Cecil McClaren who now held the ball. “Turn it over, Cecil—now, and the lot of you—go home!”

“But we just started,” Dagen protested.

“I said, game over, Mr. Fischer!” Football safely tucked under his arm, Father Fitz singed the men with a glare until each trudged away, mumbling while shooting scathing looks in Patrick’s direction.

Temper seething, Patrick turned to go.

“Not you, Mr. O’Connor,” Father Fitz said, tone steely. “In my study—
now!
”

 
“Curse Fischer’s hide,” Patrick muttered, slogging behind the priest while he led Patrick into the rectory.

“Sit,” Father Fitz ordered. He slammed the door after Patrick plodded into his office, remnants of dusk seeping through imposing shuttered windows to scatter narrow slats of daylight across a fringed Oriental rug. Two walls of oak shelving lined with a vibrant assortment of books
bespoke a love for literature that had provided a reluctant bond between Patrick and the priest, a bond that made confrontation like this all the more difficult. And yet tonight, Patrick barely cared for all the angst churning in his gut.

Rounding a desk strewn with papers, a half-empty cup of coffee, and a pipe, the priest settled back in his worn leather chair. El
bows propped on the armrest, he steepled hands against a mouth pressed as tight as Patrick’s fingers to the arms of his chair. “So, Mr. O’Connor, in the vernacular of Southie hooligans—w
hat the devil is your problem?”

 
Jaw clamped, Patrick glared at the front of Father Fitz’s polished oak desk, so familiar with the grain of the wood after years of tongue-lashings from the principal of St. Mary’s, that he felt personally connected to every golden whorl. He glanced up, Father Fitz’s calm expression and the scent of pipe tobacco and spearmint gum quelling his temper somewhat. “Fischer is an idiot,” Patrick mumbled.

“That’s a given, but then so are you at times, are you not? Like now, for instance?” A squeal of his chair indicated Father Fitz was getting comfortable as he slanted back, hands braced behind thin brown hair shot with silver at the temples. “So, I repeat—w
hat the devil is your problem?”

Patrick blasted out a sigh. “Fischer called me a—”

“I don’t
care
what Mr. Fischer called you,” Father Fitz interrupted, chin lifted and brows arched. “I care about why a relatively easy-going young man who’s demonstrated a true heart for service over the summer is suddenly chewing heads off left and right and spitting them out.”

A curse hissed from Patrick’s lips. “Blue blazes, Father,” he said with venom in his tone, “you just buried my father three weeks ago—doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Watch your tongue, you street hooligan.” The priest bent forward with a bit of temper of his own. “I’ll not have you swearing in my presence, is that clear?”

Patrick dropped his gaze, eyes singeing the front of Father Fitz’s desk, certain the priest would find scars there in the morning. “Yes, sir,” he ground out, the acid in his tone equally capable of gouging wood.

Father Fitz settled back again, his tone softer. “I’m well aware you lost your father, son, and no one knows better than me how much you must be grieving inside, especially with your guilt over not being able to make amends before he passed.”

A nerve twittered in Patrick’s jaw as he closed his eyes, his heart cramping over the raw reality that his father was dead and gone and Patrick would never have a chance to mend the relationship. He fought the tears that stung. Oh, what he’d give for a second chance …

“Is that what this is all about then?” Father Fitz said quietly. “This feud with Mr. Fischer—the fact that your father is gone?”

Yes. No. I don’t know ...
Patrick steeled his jaw, gaze lost in a hard stare. “Fischer triggered a mood, that’s all,” he whispered, the sharp bite of his tone and the twitch in his cheek clear evidence the “mood” was alive and well.

“No, Mr. O’Connor,” Father Fitz said, slanting in to jolt Patrick with a firm rap on his desk. “This is not just a mood, this is a vendetta of the most blatant degree. Be it that tussle with an indigent at the center last week, almost coming to blows with a parent at the play, or a smart-mouthed teammate you wallop on the field.” Father Fitz eased back in his chair, his gaze burning with an intensity that almost made Patrick flinch. “So, I suggest you come clean or I’ll be forced to pay a visit to my friend at the
Herald
, which might rob you of much-needed pay.”

Another swear word slipped from his lips before he could stop it, and Father Fitz angled a brow. “Sorry,” Patrick said, gouging a hand through disheveled curls. He huffed out a sigh and sagged back in his chair, eyes glazed while he kneaded his temple. “It’s nothing, Father, I’ve just been out of sorts lately, that’s all.”

Concern beetled the priest’s brows. “It’s been a grievous month for you, Patrick, no doubt, but somehow I sense a tension over and above your loss, so what is it, son? Has volunteering at the center and play practice cut into your overtime hours at the
Herald
, slowing your college fund? Is that it?”

Patrick almost smiled, his bad mood thawing over the priest’s obvious concern—the only one who apparently cared about him other than Sam, and right now Patrick wasn’t too sure about him. “No, Father, the fund is on track and I should have enough for the spring semester by Christmas.”

“Well, then, are you butting heads with your mother now?” Father Fitz asked, a trace of worry in his tone.

A caustic laugh broke from Patrick’s lips. “No, my mother pretends I don’t exist as always, which is an improvement over my father, I assure you. But I accepted both Mom and Pop’s disdain for me long ago, so I’ve learned to let it roll off my back.” He exhaled again, his eyes veering into a faraway stare. “She’s talking about moving to New York to live with my Aunt Rose and taking Paul with her, but not me, which suits me just fine.” His laugh was harsh. “As long as I have enough money to fend for myself.”

The priest laced fingers on his chest. “I’ve known you since you and Sam were rolling around in the dirt as youngsters. Despite too-many-to-count detentions in this very office, too many tiffs with your father, and little or no emotional support from your mother or brother, you’ve always managed to stay above the fray. Suddenly in the last month, I have never seen you angrier, moodier, or more prone to throw a punch.” He hunkered down in the chair like a bear in a cave for the winter, lips pursed. “Yes, this could all be related to your father’s passing and your mother and brother’s disregard, but my gut tells me it’s more than that. So I suggest you spill it, Mr. O’Connor, because neither of us are leaving this office until you tell me what’s put this thorn in your side.”

What? Or who?
Patrick scowled, totally frustrated with his best friend over something that wasn’t even his fault. Sam and he had always been a team, never been at odds before.
Until now
. Patrick ground his jaw.
Until Marcy …

Father Fitz eyed him with a probing gaze, exercising a lengthy pause before his mouth clamped in a flat line. “This wouldn’t involve a girl, would it?” he prodded, eyes narrowing considerably.

Patrick grunted and crossed his arms, the side of his fist pressed to his mouth as he debated whether his pride would allow him to divulge Marcy’s outright rejection while she swooned at Sam’s feet. The last few weeks, the blasted woman had a glow about her whenever Sam was around that made Patrick downright nauseous, the two exchanging tender looks, smiles, and secrets until he thought he might retch. Yes, he’d agreed to step aside and let Sam have a shot, and yes, he’d resigned himself to mere friendship with Marcy, but he hadn’t expected
this
—a gnawing jealousy that was eating him raw.

“Patrick,” Father Fitz said softly, “I hate to see you do this to yourself—you have too much going for you. You’re smart, talented, industrious, and if you continue the path I’ve seen this summer, you also have a bright future.” He squealed back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck while a hint of humor crept into his tone. “Not to mention the enviable ability to turn the head of any lass in the Southie neighborhood.”

Patrick grunted again. “Not all of ‘em, Father.”

“Ah, so it’s a matter of the heart, is it?” Father Fitz chuckled and crossed his arms. “Well, rumor has it you can charm any lass you like, Mr. O’Connor, and judging from that fracas tonight in the dirt, that obviously goes double for Mr. Fischer’s sister, whose heart, I’m told, you’ve recently broken a second time.”

Shame scalded Patrick’s face at the mention of Dagen’s sister, who Patrick had wooed relentlessly, allowing her to believe they were courting while he dallied with others behind her back. He looked away, reluctant to face Father Fitz’s incriminating stare. “That wasn’t my intent, Father, I swear …” He lowered his gaze, and a muscle dipped in his throat while more heat crawled up the back of his neck. “At least the second time,” he said weakly. “I’m fond of Emily, but after I started pursuing her again, well, something happened …”

“Like another pretty face, I suppose.” A heavy exhale parted from Father Fitz’s lips. “If you’ve ever heeded a warning before, Patrick, heed this: your history for toying with women’s affections will not only backfire, son, but it’s an affront to God that may well cost you the woman you love.”

Elbows on his knees, Patrick put his head in his hands. “A lesson learned all too late,” he whispered, the thought of Marcy with Sam an ache like nothing he’d ever known. “I’ve already lost her.”

“Balderdash,” Father Fitz said with a grunt. “You can’t lose the woman God has for you unless you flout His will.”

Patrick winced.

“Then rectify it!” Father Fitz snapped, angling forward with hands gripped to the arms of his chair. “Repent before God and be judicious and respectful in your dealings with young women from this moment on.”

“I have,” he whispered, eyes trailing into a cold stare, “but it’s too late.”