A Passion Denied (26 page)

She nodded and seized up in pain, her breathing jagged.

Dear God, please protect her.

He rushed to the door and opened it wide. “Runt, stay!” he commanded. And with a prayer on his lips and his wife in his arms, he fled from their home, slamming the door behind.

“Top of the morning to ya, Mr. Dennehy.”

Mitch mustered a tired smile, which collided with a yawn as he shuffled through the front door of the
Boston Herald
. “Good morning, Angus . . . although I’ve had better.”

The night watchman bobbed his bald head and sat up straight in his chair at the front desk. He grinned, revealing a near toothless smile. “Yes, sir, you look a might worn right now, but no more so than Mr. Patrick. He’s been working every night, all night, for almost a month now. I swear, I never seen two people work to the bone for this newspaper like you and the boss.”

Mitch glanced at his watch and frowned. “Patrick’s here? At five in the morning? And what do you mean he’s been here every night for almost a month?”

“Yes, sir, he has. Moseys out ’bout six most nights, then comes traipsin’ back ’bout midnight or so and works all night.” Angus’s eyes narrowed a bit as he leaned forward, lowering his voice as if someone might hear. “If truth be told, I suspect it ain’t all work, though, ’cause once he was snoozin’ up a storm on that there couch of his.”

Mitch frowned. “Thanks, Angus. If you feel like fresh coffee, I’ll have some brewed in about twenty minutes. Just come on up.”

“Thank ya kindly, sir, but I’ll be going straight home to bed, come six o’clock. Best not be tippin’ any if I plan to sleep, know what I mean?”

“Afraid I do. Hope you get more sleep than I did last night.” He strode to the stairs and took them two at a time, despite the weariness of his sleepless night. First, Charity with her false alarm, keeping them at the hospital half the night, and now Patrick with this strange behavior. It was unnerving and hardly conducive to sleep. He hurried toward Patrick’s office with an uneasy feeling, nodding at the few night-shift workers in the newsroom. Patrick’s door was closed, so Mitch knocked. No answer. He opened it and walked in, easing it shut.

Patrick looked like a man who had had an equally restless night. His long body bridged the length of a short leather couch that God had never intended for sleeping. One leg tented beneath a thin blanket while the other draped over the side of the tufted seat, revealing a long, tapered span of black sock. His parted lips emitted a series of nasal grunts as he snored, while one arm was tucked deep beneath his unruly head as a makeshift pillow.

Mitch blinked. The uneasy feeling in his gut started to rise to his chest.
Why would Patrick be sleeping at the
Herald
? And more
importantly, why would Marcy let him?

He backed toward the door, not sure he wanted to know why his father-in-law was not sleeping at home.

Patrick grunted and rolled on his side. One shirted arm dangled over the edge. Mitch held his breath and turned toward the door.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

An inward groan rolled in his chest as his hand adhered to the knob.

“Mitch?”

He sighed and turned. Patrick sat up, and the blanket slid to the floor, unveiling a rumpled shirt and trousers that looked even worse. Kind of like he had slept in them.

Mitch’s lips quirked. “Couldn’t sleep, that’s all. Charity had false labor, so we spent half the night at the hospital.”

“What? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. Doctor says it’s nothing to worry about. Happens all the time.”

Patrick scratched the back of his head and squinted. “Come to think of it, I do remember Marcy going through that with Sean, but we didn’t know what it was at the time. Just scared the daylights out of us.”

Mitch slacked a hip and smiled. “Yeah, it pretty much does.”

Patrick gave him a lidded stare. “I suppose you’re wanting to know why I am in so early?”

“I am, but it’s your business, Patrick, not mine.”

“You’re right. It is my business, and that’s what I admire about you. Tight-lipped, like a man should be.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But, regrettably, your wife isn’t. I’d like your word that there will be no mention of this—not to Charity or Collin, or anyone. Is that clear?”

Mitch studied the man he’d come to respect more than anyone he knew. The man he loved as a father and a friend. He saw something in his eyes he’d never seen before—loneliness, bitterness, hurt—and his gut constricted. “I don’t know what’s happened, Patrick, but are you sure . . . sure you’re doing the right thing staying here?”

Patrick stood and attempted to slap the wrinkles from his trousers. He straightened his shoulders and shook at the cuff of his sleeve. “Doesn’t matter. At the moment, I have no interest in doing the right thing.”

“I see. And Marcy? She’s okay with this?”

Patrick bent to retrieve the cover from the floor. He rose to his full height and turned away, his back rigid like a man bent on a course no matter the cost. “At the moment, that doesn’t matter either, I’m afraid.” He finally looked up, and Mitch winced at the pain he saw. “Not a word, Mitch, do you hear? I need time to heal.”

Mitch nodded and opened the door. He paused. “Don’t take too long, Patrick. Your time for healing may be Marcy’s demise. And yours.”

He closed the door behind and put a hand to his eyes. Total exhaustion sapped all strength. He exhaled heavily and moved toward his office like the zombie he was. He shut the door and sank into his chair with a low groan and a soft swoosh of the leather seat. His head sagged back and he closed his eyes.

Not to think, not to plan, and not to sleep.

To pray. The only thing he could do.

“Tom Weston, are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope. It’s a surprise.” He adjusted the blindfold over her eyes, his warm words breezing against her ear. He tightened his hold around her waist and led her down Donovan Street, his deep chuckle in perfect harmony with the symphony of summer. The sounds of locusts and bullfrogs buzzed in her brain, laced with children’s shrieking and dogs yipping. Wonderful smells teased her senses—honeysuckle, fresh-mown grass, and the faint scent of Bay Rum from Tom’s fresh-shaven cheek. Lizzie sighed and leaned into his embrace, tingling with the thrill of romance.

“We’re almost there,” he whispered, his voice husky with promise. A soft mat of grass met the soles of her new Mary Jane shoes, and the street sounds of autos and children grew fainter. The earthy smell of woods and moss intrigued her, quickening her pulse.

He stopped to warm her lips with a kiss. “We’re here,” he whispered, then removed the scarf from her eyes. “What do you think?”

She blinked at the mirror reflection of O’Reilly Lake, aglow with the colors of dusk. “The park? But I thought we were going to dinner?”

He grinned and foraged beneath a willowy forsythia bush, unearthing a blanket and basket. “We are. A moonlight picnic for two—to celebrate the three best months of my life.” He shook out the blanket and dropped the basket on top, unlatching its carved mahogany lid. The inside was cushioned with a red-and-white check gingham napkin topped by a dainty bouquet of daisies, which he presented to her with a proud gleam in his eye. “To the girl I dream about every night.”

Lizzie laughed and sank to her knees, clutching the flowers to her chest. Her heart swooned. “Oh, Tom, this is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done.”

“Well, it’s only the beginning, Lizzie, of a night to remember.” He positioned a thick candle on a china plate and struck a match. “My mother helped with the basket, of course, but the idea was all mine.” He lit the wick, and his smile was dangerous in the glow of the flame. “Of course, she was under the impression our picnic would be at noon.”

She slid to the side and sat, sniffing the daisies to obscure the uncomfortable heat in her cheeks. The light of day had faded to a purple hue, streaking the sky with various shades of warning that darkness was well on its way. Lizzie adjusted the hem of her skirt to cover as much of her stockinged legs as possible. Here near the lake, the chant of the locusts and bullfrogs drowned out the rest of the world as their incessant song vibrated in her ear. Or maybe it was her pulse. She peeked at Tom over the soft petals of her flowers, thinking they shouldn’t even be here, alone on a picnic in the dark. And yet he had never looked more handsome, shadowed by flame. He unscrewed a jar and poured orange juice into two crystal goblets. He handed one to her and raised a toast. “To the girl I intend to marry.”

Lizzie blinked wide and almost dropped her glass. “Oh, Tom!”

He smiled and clinked his drink to hers. “To us, Lizzie.”

“To us,” she whispered, feeling both excited and unsure all at once. She sipped and almost choked, spraying a mist of juice all over her skirt. “Sweet mother of Job, what in the name of heaven is in this?”

He grinned and unpacked the rest of the basket. “Bathtub gin, our very own fraternity brew. Trust me, it gets better the more you drink.”

Lizzie tossed the swill into the grass. “Tom Weston, how dare you try to get me drunk, not to mention break the law.”

“Come on, Lizzie, I’m not trying to get you drunk, I just wanted to celebrate, that’s all. Give me some credit, will you? I would never take you home drunk. It’s too risky.”

Her eyes narrowed. “This whole evening is starting to appear too risky.”

He moved to her side and pulled her into a hug. “No, doll, I promise. I’m crazy about you and just wanted to tell you in my own way. Are you hungry? My mother made roast beef sandwiches, her special fruit salad, and the best turnovers you’ve ever tasted.” He nuzzled her neck. “Come on, you know I love you, don’t you?”

She closed her eyes to enjoy the warmth of his lips grazing her skin. She sighed and pushed him away. “Sometimes I wonder. You seem to have a one-track mind, Tom Weston, and you already know how I feel about that.”

He bussed her cheek with a quick kiss and commenced divvying out the food. “I know, which is exactly why we are going to eat instead.” He winked. “I have to feed one of my appetites, you know.”

The night took a turn toward the perfect evening. The moon hung heavy over the lake like an overripe orange, trickling its golden stream of light across inky depths. The air was sweet and warm, coating her skin with the moist scent of night. She sat back against the smooth trunk of a towering oak with a contented sigh, her legs stretched out and crossed on the blanket. She was dazed by the beauty of the stars, if not the few sips of juice Tom had finally convinced her to take. The sandwiches had been wonderful, and the company even better. They’d talked forever, laughing at his stories of college life and her adventures with Millie and Mary. He wanted to be a lawyer like his uncle, and Lizzie thrilled at the dreams in his eyes.

Since the morning she’d prayed with Brady, she’d found a new courage to share her faith with Tom, and as if her prayers had been answered, his bold advances had seemed to wane. She was slowly beginning to trust him. Not like Brady, of course—nothing with Tom was ever like Brady—but maybe, down the road a bit, she might even fall in love with him. Thoughts of Brady suddenly dampened her mood, and she shook them off with a deep sigh, choosing to think of Tom’s affection instead.

She closed her eyes and felt warm and safe in his presence. They’d drifted into comfortable silence. He lounged at the far edge of the blanket, his hands clasped behind his head and legs sprawled with one knee tented. She opened her eyes at his gentle rustle of movement, and caught her breath when he moved to sit beside her.

“Lizzie, I have something to ask. But first, you gotta know I’m stuck on you in a big way. College was crawling with dolls, but I don’t want some pushover dame who will give me whatever I want. I want you. You’re younger, but you’re so different. In some ways, you’re way older than the Janes I ran into at school. I don’t know, more innocent, more mature, and yet . . . there’s a fire inside of you that drives me crazy.” He pulled something from the pocket of his trousers and held it up. “I love ya, Lizzie, and I’m asking you—will you wear my pin?”

She sat up with a catch in her throat and put a hand to her chest.
A boy’s pin—one step from engaged!
“Oh, Tom, do you mean it?”