A Light in the Window (27 page)

Marcy blinked, Mima’s question railroading her confidence. Hands shaking, she took another quick glug of tea as she considered the unwelcome query. Sam professed faith, but Marcy seldom saw it in action other than at the center, especially in the carnal sense of late. It was becoming clearer all the time that his once honorable and protective behavior the first three months seemed to be giving way to more and more passion. Although her own faith had been strong enough to keep him in line the last few weeks, he was clearly veering from chaste kisses to more ardent ones. He was a man with a voracious appetite for pleasure, Marcy was beginning to realize, be it from a bottle or from the lips of a woman.

She shivered, fingers absently fondling the silver heart and chain at the base of her throat. He said he’d committed his heart to her, but doubts suddenly niggled … doubts she’d refused to see before now, conveniently buried deep in her desire to be a part of his life and his family. But Mima’s query found its mark, probing into fears and doubts hidden well beneath the surface that now festered in the light of her reluctant reflection—and Mima’s. Did he still spend his time at Brannigan’s when he wasn’t with her? Dancing and flirting with other women? She’d never really asked, side-stepping the issue for fear of the truth, but surely now that he’d committed to her ... Eyes flickering closed for the briefest of moments, she vowed to find out for sure. To ask the difficult questions she’d put off for far too long … She sucked in a deep breath to steady her nerves before she opened her eyes to face Mima again. “I have faith, Mima,” she said quietly, “that God will answer my prayers for a man who embraces Him as fervently as I. That may not be Sam just yet …” A lump bobbed in her throat. “But I have faith it may be him in the future.”

Mima nodded before her frail hand settled on Marcy’s arm. “You know, Marceline, our faith in God is very much like that light in the window that your Christmas play depicts. We are God’s abode, and His light shines through the windows of our lives into a dark and desperate world. Many may pass, enjoying the beauty of the light from afar, but few will be drawn to knock at the door, willing to embrace the Light of the World.” Her hand rose to gently cup Marcy’s cheek, a tenderness in her eyes that always warmed Marcy’s soul. “Guard your heart well,” she said softly, “for a man who will respond to the light in the window, for therein lies a gift of God like no other, except that of His Son.”

Moisture stung, and Marcy silently nodded, unable to speak lest she unleash the tears from her eyes. Her heart ached at the thought that when her prayers were all said and done, Sam might not be the one.

Without a word, Mima rose and enveloped her in a warm embrace while her mother did the same, standing beside her with a gentle knead of her back. “We trust you, Marceline,” her mother said, her voice caressing along with her hand, “to make the right decision. But more importantly, daughter, we trust God.”

“But how will I know?” Marcy’s voice was a broken whisper. “That I’ll make the right decision?”

Mima bent close, her words warm and husky in Marcy’s ear. “Not to worry, darlin’—the decision may be yours, but the strength and wisdom will be all His. Because never forget …” Mima tipped her face up, shoring Marcy with a deep faith carefully honed by time. “God honors those who honor Him, and He always answers their prayers.”

Her heart quickened at Mima’s word while thoughts of her struggles with Sam pummeled her mind.
Those who honor Him
... She closed her eyes, and peace descended while her lips moved in silent prayer.
Oh, Lord, please—let that be me!

Patrick scanned the nearly empty dining room of the St. Mary’s Center of Hope, never more grateful his volunteer shift was almost over. Outside the storefront windows, snowflakes drifted, blanketing the street with a peaceful mantle of beauty that hid the pock marks and smells of a cobblestone street littered with garbage, oil, and manure. He nodded at several rag-tag diners just leaving, his smile as deceptive as the snow, concealing a malaise that settled like the ice crystals outside—bitter and cold.

His eyes flitted to the clock over the now-deserted serving line, where Miss Clara was stacking fresh plates for tomorrow’s lunch.
Almost seven—closing time, thank God.
He bobbled the dishrag, wishing he could wipe his melancholy away as easily as the debris and dirty dishes from the tables. His gaze shifted to where Marcy coddled and cooed with a baby at the kitchen table while its mother and two small siblings finished up their free meal in the dining room, and his lips tipped in a faint smile. The woman was downright obsessed with babies and family, yet another reason for Patrick’s glum mood.
I doubt a man could find a better mother for his children.
His thoughts ached with a familiar longing before the smile died on his lips. But they would be Sam’s children—not his.

Dishrag in hand, he bent over a dirty table with a heavy exhale, scouring food encrusted on the wood. For the first time in his life, he had no interest in women, not if it couldn’t be Marcy, and the very notion rankled. Although they’d talked here and there, he hadn’t really spent time with Emily in over a month—not since the night of the promenade—and his visits to Brannigan’s had become almost as scarce. An occasional drink with Sam or a forced dance with a woman left him with no taste for more of the same. Not since Sam indicated he and Marcy had progressed from an “unofficial courtship” to an “almost official proposal.” Far from “official” for Sam, Patrick knew, but iron-clad to Marcy, no doubt, a silent promise of engagement that would wait until he officially put a ring on her hand.

Releasing a quiet sigh, Patrick assessed the smattering of tables yet to be cleaned, occupied by only a handful of diners who appeared to be in no hurry to leave, each obviously savoring Miss Clara’s custard pie and hot coffee for as long as they could. His eyes settled on Luther who chatted with a frail woman across his table, and Patrick shook his head with a one-sided smile. Even sweet, disheveled Luther appeared to have a lady love, his eyes sparkling with interest that had little to do with the pie.

Armed with dirty trays, Patrick paused by Luther’s table, offering the lady a smile. “Evening, Luther, Cora.” He nodded at the snow crusting the grease-penciled window. “Need me to top off your cups with hot coffee before you brave the cold?”

“No, thank ye, Patrick.” Luther lumbered to his feet with a toothless grin, buttoning a threadbare coat. “I need to get this lady home afore we get snowed in.” Slipping Cora a wink, he offered an arm patched at the elbows. “Ready, m’lady?”

Cora rose with a smile and the manner of a well-bred woman despite moth holes and grime on her dark woolen coat. With a shy smile, she hooked her arm through Luther’s, her lopsided silver bun belying the youthfulness of blue eyes that had seen better times.

And haven’t we all
. The beautiful sound of Marcy’s laughter from the kitchen wrenched in Patrick’s chest. Gritting a smile, he picked up Cora and Luther’s empty trays, grateful there were only two more weeks till the play and only a month and a half till the new year. A new year when he could move on with his life, pouring his heart into college rather than a woman he could never have.

“No!”

Patrick’s head shot up at Cora’s frantic cry, his trays clattering back to the table when he spied Luther tussling with another man.

“Hey, hold on, there,” Patrick shouted, prying the two men apart. Luther lunged and Patrick pulled him back, locking his arms behind. “Settle down, Luther, this is no place for a street fight.” His gaze narrowed on the other man, a surly diner who’d been at the center earlier in the day, a brooder he just assumed wanted a warm place out of the cold. Patrick had never seen him before, but the stranger’s belligerent manner had prickled the back of his neck. Mouth slashed in a scowl, the man’s greasy black hair obscured dark eyes as brutally cold as the jagged shards of ice that plunged from the gutter outside. “What’s the problem?” Patrick said.

Luther jerked from Patrick’s hold, chest rattling with breathless heaves while he carefully steered Cora behind. “The problem is this no-good bum is trying to force Cora to go with him, and she don’t want to.”

“She’s my gal, not his,” the surly man bit out.

Patrick shot him a warning glare before turning to Cora. “Is that true, Cora?”

She shook her head, eyes on the floor as she picked at a fingernail poking through a hole in her glove. “N-not anymore.”

Patrick ducked to peer into her face, his tone gentle. “Cora, do you want to go with him or with Luther?”

She edged closer to Luther’s side, shaky fingers grasping onto Luther’s arm. “Luther,” she whispered, flinching when the other man spit out a curse.

“Okay, mister,” Patrick said, “you best leave now. This is a church kitchen, not a barroom, so don’t come back unless your attitude improves.”

Obscenities spewed as the man shoved past Luther and Cora, snow swooshing into the dining room when the door flew back and slammed to the wall.

“What’s going on out here?” Marcy cried, alarm tingeing her tone as she handed the baby back to its mother. The woman quickly herded her children out the door.

“A minor spat, that’s all,” Patrick called over his shoulder, locking the door behind the mother with a nod and a click of the bolt. Arm to Luther’s shoulder, he steered Cora and him to the kitchen, pulling two chairs out for them to sit down. “Luther, I’d like you and Cora to stay here for a few minutes, just till I make sure that guy is gone.” He glanced up. “Is that all right with you, Miss Clara?”

“Well, laws, I should say so,” Miss Clara huffed on her way to the stove. She poured two cups of coffee and delivered them to the table. “Marcy and I have desserts to deliver to the rectory for the board meeting tonight, but we’ll be back lickety-split while you sip on this coffee, you hear?”

“Thank you kindly, Miss Clara, Miss Murphy.” Luther glanced up at Patrick with a tight smile. “Appreciate you clearing the area of bad rubbish, Patrick. Cora’s been trying to avoid that scalawag all week now, and I just as soon not meet him in the streets.”

Patrick slapped Luther on the back. “You bet. Sit tight, and I’ll be right back.” Slipping his coat on, he waited while Marcy and Miss Clara bundled up and then followed them out the door, escorting them to the rectory before scouting the area in front and back. He strolled several blocks all the way around to make sure the troublemaker was gone, then returned to the kitchen where Luther and Cora were just finishing their coffee. Ready to be on their way, they thanked him profusely before slipping out the back door.

“Nothing like a little excitement to take my mind off things,” Patrick muttered, wiping down the last of the dirty tables before carting the trays to the sink. He glanced up when the back door squealed open to usher in a blonde-haired beauty along with a gust of snow. “Go home, Marcy, I’ll finish up.” Avoiding her gaze, he proceeded to scrape the food from the trays, aware she was watching him intently. Their friendship had suffered since their water fight that night when he’d butted heads with Sam, but it was just as well. It gave him no pleasure to see the lovesick look in her eye whenever Sam was around, so their prior close friendship was no longer an option. At least, not for him, although he suspected Marcy didn’t quite understand.

“I’m supposed to meet Sam in the church vestibule in about fifteen minutes,” she said in a tentative tone, “but I’d like to help till he arrives.”

He exhaled loudly, hanging his head. “I’m almost done, so you may as well go.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Really, Marcy—go.”

“Patrick, I …”

He turned back to his task, refusing to look at her. It was hard enough being near her with no hope of anything other than stilted friendship, but to look at her was sheer torture, knowing she would always belong to Sam. “What?” He scrubbed the dirty trays, his tone gruffer than intended.

“I … miss our friendship.”

His hand stilled in the dirty dishwater while a nerve flickered in his cheek. Steeling his jaw, he continued scrubbing, harder than before. “We can’t be friends right now,” he said quietly. “Someday, maybe … but not right now.”

“Why?” It was a frail whisper, uttered by a frail little girl.

He shook his head, grunting a hollow laugh. “You really don’t understand, do you?”

“I understand that I value your friendship.”

Water sluiced all over when he slapped the rinsed trays on the counter. He jerked a dishtowel from the hook and shot her a hard glance while he dried each of the dishes. “And I value Sam’s, which is why you and I can’t be close. It’s no good for Sam, and it’s no good for me.”

“I just don’t see why we can’t all—”

He hurled a tray on the counter and turned, fury burning in his eyes. “Because I’m in love with you, Marceline,” he snapped, “and I
don’t
want to be around you.”

She stared, mouth ajar and pink blotches bleeding into her cheeks like scarlet ink on porous paper. “I … I’m sorry … I …
 
I didn’t know …”

Head bowed, he kneaded the bridge of his nose with the ball of his hand, blasting out a noisy sigh. “Well, that’s neither here nor there. Sam’s my best friend, and you’re the woman he wants, so end of story.” He reached for the dishrag and wiped the counter down, ignoring her feeble footsteps into the storeroom that doubled as Evan’s office.

Her panicked cry froze the blood in his veins, heart stopping before he bolted across the kitchen into the storeroom. She stood white-faced, body quivering as she stared at the open safe where Miss Clara kept the grocery money. All anger forgotten, he gripped her arms while his gaze locked on her ashen face. “Marcy—what’s wrong?”

Her bloodless lips started to quiver and then her body followed suit, rivulets of tears streaming from her eyes. “I-it’s … i-it’s … g-gone …”

His gaze flicked to the hollow safe and his stomach cramped while he kneaded her arms, fingers caressing in an attempt to stem the flow of her tears. “It’s just grocery money, Marceline, and not much because Miss Clara went shopping earlier this week, remember?”

She looked up, her gaze pitiful as ragged heaves wracked her small frame. “N-no, n-not g-grocery m-money,” she stuttered, throat convulsing while her quivering fingers pushed stray hair from her eyes, “t-the … t-he m-money …”

“What money?” He gave her a little shake when she didn’t answer, as if her mind was in shock. “Answer me, Marceline—
what
money?”

A sob broke from her lips. “The f-fundraiser m-money, from t-ticket and c-catalog sales …”

His skin iced as cold as the frost on the windows. “How much?”

She collapsed against him then, and he swallowed her up in his arms, her body wracking his with painful weeping. “A-all of i-it … over five h-hundred d-dollars …”

He stared before his eyes weighted closed with a silent groan. Stroking her hair, he rested his cheek against her head while his heart wrenched at the familiar scent of lilac water and Pears soap. “You’re sure it was in the safe? You didn’t give it to Father Fitz or Sister Francine or anyone else?”

She shook her head, sobs shuddering his body while her agony shuddered his soul. “I … I … m-meant t-to take it t-to Father F-Fitz tonight when we d-delivered the d-desserts, b-but I forgot …” Her fingernails dug into his chest as she hung on to his shirt, wailing as if someone had died. His heart twisted. Not just “someone,” he realized, but many “someones” whose hope died the moment those funds were stolen from the safe. She trembled in his arms, both her body and her voice. “I … I p-put a d-donation in this m-morning, b-but I locked the s-safe after, I’m almost c-certain …”

Rubbing her back with gentle fingers, he led her to the table to sit, then pulled his chair alongside hers. He took her hands in his. “Marcy, listen to me—this will all work out, I promise. We’ll find that money somehow, along with the person who took it.”