A Light in the Window (3 page)

Father Fitz glanced at Sam, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Ah, Mr. O’Rourke has found his tongue, I see, which is excellent because you’re going to need it, young man.”

Staring straight ahead, Patrick actually heard Sam gulp. “Sir?”

 
A grin twitched at the corners of the priest’s mouth. “For the play, Mr. O’Rourke, for which you and Mr. O’Connor are not only going to build sets or whatever else Sister Francine may need you to do, but perform as well.” A smile bloomed on his face. “Oh, and I’m quite sure your time spent in the soup kitchen will be most rewarding, although the Southie lasses are sure to miss you, no doubt.”

Sam began to hack, and Patrick commenced to absently pounding him on the back, eyes fused to the priest who’d proven himself a most capable mentor. But this? An infraction that extracted more penance than Patrick was willing to pay? He gouged the back of his neck, the priest’s semblance of a smirk giving rise to Patrick’s temper. “Look, Father, we appreciate your leniency, but can’t you just give us some Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s and be done with it? Both Sam and I work 40-hour shifts every week, sir, and we have no extra time for things like play practice or a soup kitchen.”

Father Fitz arched a definitive brow, his gaze flicking to the confessional and back. “Yes, Mr. O’Connor, I can see that your spare time is put to excellent use.”

Patrick had the grace to blush.

With a cumbersome sigh, Father Fitz tucked the bottle under his arm. “No, gentlemen, I’m afraid Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers have run their course here.” He shook his head with a grimace. “Trust me, I’ve stockpiled them for you both since you crossed the threshold of St. Mary’s, so now it’s time to put your money where your mouth is.” His chin inched up with a steeled sobriety Patrick had seen many a time. “And since time is money, you will pay through the nose with as much community service as I can possibly bleed from the both of you.”

 
“And if we won’t do it?” Sam said, a spark of challenge to his tone.

Father Fitz studied Sam with a firm tilt of his head, the faint shifting of a jaw that Patrick recognized all too well from countless hours of detention with a man few students defied. “You know, it’s a curious thing, Samuel—your mother has been after me to come to dinner for months now, so perhaps I should come next week, imparting some information that just may batten your hatches a wee bit.”

Patrick’s eyes weighted closed.
Great. Another knock-down, drag-out with Pop.

“I think I may just chance it, Father,” Sam said, the dark stubble on his jaw as menacing as the stubborn gleam in his eye. “I can live without my mother’s approval.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. O’Rourke, but the question remains—can you live without money?”

Sam blinked. “Pardon me?”

Humor played at the edge of the priest’s mouth, which was compressed like his jaw in a battle of wills. “Money, Mr. O’Rourke. You know, remuneration for a job well-done that allows you to buy a round a drinks at the corner pub, dazzle a pretty girl with an ice-cream soda, or purchase the proper clothes befitting the neighborhood rakes?”

The blood drained from Patrick’s face as quickly as it did from Sam’s.

“Yes, well, you see, gentlemen,” Father Fitz continued in a tone as matter-of-fact as his smile, “a priest has friends in high places in addition to the Almighty, you know. Such as, shall we say, the
Herald
?”

Patrick’s eyes lumbered closed, the lump in his throat as tight as the noose Father Fitz was cinching around their necks. Both he and Sam needed their jobs at the
Herald
if Patrick was going to go to college and Sam was going to rise to management.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you boys, but Arthur Hennessey and I go way back.” Father Fitz nodded with a faint smile, eyes trailing into what apparently was a fond trip down Memory Lane. “Actually coached him on the parish league, if you can imagine that.” He snapped out of his reverie, his smile brightening considerably. “Of course that was way before he took over as CEO of the
Herald
, you understand. Although I have to admit, nobody tossed a meaner knuckleball.”

Patrick stifled a groan.
Except you, Father Fitz ...

“So … “ Patrick jolted when the priest clapped his hands, his grin almost as loud. “I look forward to seeing you gentlemen at the fundraiser meeting next week, where you’ll learn all about just why absconding with the sacristy wine is not a good idea.”

“This is blackmail, Father,” Sam said with a scowl.

Father Fitz blinked, a wedge popping at the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I suppose it is, Samuel …” He quickly dismissed his concern with a wave of a hand. “Well, no never mind,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, his smile veering into dazzling, “I’m on good terms with the Man upstairs—I’ll just absolve myself.”

With a near-jaunty turn, he made his way to the door, pivoting when he placed his hand on the knob. “You know, I really should be thanking you gentlemen for helping me out. I’m afraid Sister Francine has been on my tail for weeks now, badgering me for able-bodied men to assist her new fundraiser chair.” His lips parted in a gleam of white. “And after a senior year of English Lit with the woman, I’m sure you boys can appreciate the kind of duress I’ve been under.” He hoisted the bottle of wine in the air. “You know, I believe I may owe a debt of thanks to this tasty port … and to you as well.”

He turned to leave, but not before needling them with a knowing smile tempered by a stern gaze. “But a word of caution, gentlemen. When it comes to the drink, make no mistake—there are always debts to be paid. So if I were you, I’d weigh the cost carefully before you imbibe anytime soon.” He tipped the bottle in a salute and opened the door. “Tuesday, seven sharp at the rectory—don’t be late.” He winked. “The top of the evening to you, gentlemen, and I bid you good night.”

Patrick stared open-mouthed as the arched wooden door squealed closed with a thud, the air in his lungs as slack as the line of his jaw. “A good night?” he repeated, staring at Sam with a dazed shake of his head. “Well, it certainly was, but not anymore.”

“Something smells awfully good in here.” Mr. O’Rourke ushered his wife and three daughters through the kitchen door with a sleeping boy in his arms, a warm smile on his face that reminded Marcy so much of Sam, her stomach skipped. Handsome in a charcoal sack suit complete with black-striped bow tie, his black eyes twinkled like Julie’s as he tossed his homburg hat on the counter and snitched a warm oatmeal cookie. He gave Marcy a wink. “It’s awfully good to have you back, Marcy,” he said with a swipe of two more, his sweet tooth obviously explaining a bulkier frame than she remembered. “Especially if it means I’ll have fresh-baked cookies on a more regular basis.”

Julie shot her father a mock scowl, feigning insult as she spooned cookie dough onto a sheet. “Papa, I’ve baked for you a lot without Marcy here, I’ll have you know.”

Shifting Julie’s five-year-old brother Max to his other shoulder, Mr. O’Rourke sidled over to dispense a hug before depositing a kiss on Julie’s head. “Ah, yes, but not as well or as often, eh?”

“Papa!” Julie laughed, pretending to elbow him away.

“Oh, go on with you,” Mrs. O’Rourke said with a playful butt of her hip, bumping her husband out of the way so she could hug Marcy good and proper. The familiar scent of Pears soap and her trademark hint of lavender tickled Marcy’s nose along with the feather from a hat that crowned blue-black hair wisped with silver. “Goodness, Marcy, I almost don’t recognize you, you’ve grown so much in five years.” Her gaze was affectionate as she buffed Marcy’s arms. “How are your parents?”

“They’re well, Mrs. O’Rourke, although Papa’s still looking for work.”

Julie’s father slipped a thick arm around his wife’s shoulder. “It’s pretty dismal out there right now,” he said, his look suddenly sober. “But I know for a fact Gunther Machinery is hiring, so tell your father I’ll be happy to put in a good word.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. O’Rourke,” Marcy said with genuine relief. “I’ll be sure to let him know.”

“Do you remember me?” A miniature version of Julie stepped forward from a trio of female O’Rourkes, two of which were Julie’s twelve-year-old twin sisters who appeared either tired or shy. The fireball looked up at Marcy with dark eyes beneath a pert straw hat that complemented a white sailor dress. “Because I don’t remember you.”

Marcy laughed and bent to give Julie’s seven-year-old sister a hug. “Of course I remember you, Erin, but you were only a toddler when I left, so I don’t expect you to remember me.”

“Julie says you’re the best friend she’s ever had.” Erin tilted a head of black curls, and the navy ribbon on her hat followed suit.

Marcy sent Julie a fond look. “Mine too.”

“She says you’re gonna sleep here tonight,” she said with an innocent blink. “Maybe you can sleep in Sam’s bed because he doesn’t use it a whole lot anymore.”

Marcy’s jaw went slack, the heat in her face giving the oven a run for its money.

“Erin, hush,” Julie said with a blush that most likely matched Marcy’s. “Marcy will sleep with me because Sam needs his bed when he finally comes home.”

“‘When’ being the key word,” Mrs. O’Rourke said with a weak smile in Marcy’s direction. “I wish Sam wouldn’t keep such late hours—it’s a poor example for the others.” A rueful sigh floated from her lips as she shot her husband a look of resignation. “But I’m afraid his father refuses to lay down the law.”

“Sam’s a grown man now,” Mr. O’Rourke said with a wry twist of his lips as he filched his fourth cookie and homburg from the counter. He gave Marcy a wink that suggested he might have given his parents the same problem. “After boys graduate and begin working fulltime, they tend to burn the midnight oil and then some.”

“But he won’t need his bed if he stays at Patrick’s,” Erin reasoned.

“Sam mentioned staying here tonight, darling, although it’s safe to say they’ll be late.” Mrs. O’Rourke kissed Julie good night and hugged Marcy before prodding Erin toward the door, her husband close on her heels. “Come on, little one, it’s almost eleven, and we need to get you and Max to bed.” Her gaze lighted on Marcy with affection. “Marcy, I can’t tell you how good it is to have you home again, not just for Julie, but for us too. We’ve missed you.”

Tears misted Marcy’s eyes. Being an only child had never been easy for her, but Julie and the O’Rourkes had eased the loneliness considerably. “Me too, Mrs. O’Rourke—more than I can say.”

“Sleep in as late as you want, girls, and we’ll catch up in the morning, either over breakfast or lunch, all right?” Julie’s mother blew them a kiss and traipsed down the hall with her husband and daughters in tow, the creaks and groans of the polished staircase rousing even more wonderful memories in Marcy’s mind.

Melancholy laced Marcy’s tone as she transferred the last few cookies from a cookie sheet to a platter already stacked high. “Goodness, Julie, I just love your family,” she whispered with a sigh of longing.

“Mmm … even Sam?” Julie teased, licking icing from her finger.

Marcy slipped her a patient smile. “I like your brother, Jewels, you know that.” Her lips crooked to the side. “I just like him a whole lot better when he’s not around.”

“I doubt that,” Julie said with a wink. “Hey, I have tons of icing left, so how ‘bout one more batch, but iced sugar this time?”

Marcy’s gaze darted to the clock and back. “I don’t know, what if Sam comes home?” Her tongue swiped her teeth in nervous habit. “I really don’t want to be down here if he does.”

“Come on, you little chicken, you have to see him eventually, and you may as well get it over with, right?” She fetched a clean bowl. “Besides, I already told you, Sam is always out late on the weekend.”

Marcy puffed out a sigh. “Okay, but if he comes waltzing through that door while we’re baking cookies …” She threatened her with a spatula. “You are in big trouble, Miss O’Rourke.”

“I’ll say,” Julie said, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Because you know who will be with him.”

Marcy shook her head and laughed. “You are incorrigible, you know that?”

“Nope, that would be my older brother, so I suggest we get a move on before you find out firsthand.”

Marcy chuckled. Whether it was the lively chatter of her best friend, the O’Rourke’s homey kitchen, or the steamy warmth of a summer night laden with smells of cinnamon and vanilla, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was she hadn’t felt this relaxed and happy since before Papa had taken them away to New York. Overnight she’d been thrust into a stiff and snooty society in which Marcy had no desire to fit in. Debutante balls and society teas were not her idea of home, and she found herself craving the simple and unpretentious life she’d left behind in Boston. A life where family and faith meant more than money and prestige, and where she could be who she was meant to be—Marceline Rose Murphy, a woman who loved family, friends, and faith with a passion.

And Sam O’Rourke?

No!
Marcy jumped up to slide the last of the sugar cookies into the oven with shaky hands, then carried dirty bowls and utensils to the sink, eye on the clock. “Okay, Jewels, all done. Let me help with those dishes so we can get to bed.”

Julie handed her the milk bottle she’d just rinsed. “Here, set this out on the porch, then you can help dry the last of these dishes, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marcy said with a smile over her shoulder as she opened the door, “and then I’m ready for sweet dreams—”

“Oh, me too …” a husky voice said.

Marcy bounced back into the kitchen with a tiny squeak after colliding with an immovable object so tall, her face was flush with his chest.

“Do I know you?” Sam asked, and Marcy was sure she’d melt into the floor. And oh, sweet saints, how she wished that she could! Her limbs and lungs had ceased upon impact, rendering her helpless to do anything but stare unblinking into a pin-stripe shirt open enough at the collar to expose a hint of dark hair. She tried to respond, but all words adhered to her tongue, the air rasping from her throat in thick, heavy breaths that refused all utterance. Her muscles were so paralyzed, she was totally incapable of even lifting her head. But she didn’t have to—she knew who it was. If the low, gravelly tone didn’t give him away, the lemon scent of William’s Shaving Soap certainly did, intoxicating her as if she’d had one too many of her grandmother Mima’s whiskey eggnogs. The shock of his presence caused her to sway on her feet, and her breath caught in her throat when his hands burned through her cotton sleeves like the cookie tins through the potholders. “Whoa … are you all right?”

No!
Somehow she managed to lunge back, milk bottle clutched to her chest as if it were a prized possession.

Julie’s laughter floated somewhere behind, foggy and faraway—like Marcy wished she could be. “She’s changed a wee bit, hasn’t she, Sam?” Julie said.

“Mar-cy?” His tongue sounded slow and thick like hers, the intonation of his question heavy with shock.

Her eyelids lifted in a sluggish sweep of lashes as if each were made of lead, her gaze lighting on the face that had haunted her dreams since she’d been a little girl. “Hello, Sam,” she whispered.

Black eyes that had always held a hint of a dare traveled her body so deliberately, her legs nearly buckled as heat pulsed in her cheeks. The burn of his hand returned when he steadied her once again, and his thumb was a torch setting fire as it kneaded her arm. “Well, I’ll be … Marceline Murphy,” he said softly, the very sound of her name on his tongue quivering her stomach. As if it had a mind of its own, his gaze slowly swept down and up once again while a perilous grin teased on his lips. “Blue blistering blazes,” he muttered, “who would have thought
this
was hiding beneath that little bookworm afraid of her own shadow?”

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she, Sam?” Julie’s voice fairly shimmered with pride.

“Oh, yes, ma’am, she most certainly is …” he breathed, grazing her chin with his thumb as if he couldn’t believe it was her. Marcy jolted, and he chuckled. “But still the same shy and tongue-tied little girl, I see.” He turned and draped a loose arm over the friend who stood behind him, then nodded her way. “And you said it wasn’t a good night, O’Connor. You remember Julie’s best friend Marceline Murphy, don’t you?”

Patrick O’Connor remained as mute as she, the lines of his chiseled face sagging in shock as he stared, dark-bristled jaw slack while light gray eyes all but swallowed her whole. He was every bit as handsome as she’d expected, if not more so, and her trust factor for beautiful men like him sank to an all-time low. She’d seen his type in New York and witnessed first-hand the damage they could do, and she would never allow herself to fall in love with a man like that. A man like Nora’s fiancé, who made eyes at Marcy while he made love to her cousin.

The clearest gray eyes she’d ever seen continued to stare, and cold fingers of warning slithered Marcy’s spine. Dark curls framed his Adonis face, easily securing Patrick O’Connor’s reputation as the Southie’s leading Lothario. And, Marcy suspected, a cocky demeanor as well. His hard-chiseled features matched a hard-chiseled body with shoulders as broad as his ego, no doubt, and she couldn’t help but bristle, her guard immediately edging up. She’d encountered his type in New York society more than she liked, and their swagger and conceit grated, convincing her once and for all that he was as dangerous for Julie as Sam was for her.

—

Patrick could do nothing but gape, tongue pasted to the roof of his mouth as surely as his lids were pasted to the sockets of his eyes, denying even a blink. “Marceline Murphy,” he finally rasped, almost to himself, voice tinged with awe. The breath he’d been holding slowly expelled with a duck of his Adam’s apple while he stood rooted to the floor, the angel of his dreams barely two feet away. “It was you …”

Sam squinted at him. “It was
her
?” he said, awareness dawning in a pinch of brows. “
She’s
the one?”

“The one what?” Julie wanted to know, hooking the angel’s arm to steer her to the counter. Handing Marcy a towel, she commenced to washing dishes, eyes wide in question as she peered over her shoulder.