A Passion Denied (30 page)

“Sit, Marcy,” she said quietly, as she returned the teapot to the stove. “The tea will warm you.”

Marcy buffed her arms and sat down. “Warm” was something she hadn’t felt in quite a while now, despite the sweltering summer days. Not since Patrick had left her bed almost five weeks ago, depriving her of a love that had been as constant and second nature as the beat of her pulse. His departure— emotionally, if not physically—had left her plunging into a dark hole, beginning with heartbreak and grief, and bottoming out with anger and bitterness. She could feel a thick callous taking form on her heart, and it scared her. Love was a fragile gift, too easily hardened.
And too easy to slip away . . .

She took a sip of her tea and focused on Christa, who waited patiently, a painted china cup held to her lips. Her snow-white head bent as she blew on the hot liquid. Steam misted vacant eyes that were half closed. Marcy suspected she was praying, and the thought warmed her more than the cup in her own hands. Mrs. Gerson had been a godsend for Faith during those troubled years that Faith had struggled with Charity, and Marcy marveled now at the wonder of God’s provision in their lives. Reading the Bible to the blind woman down the street had changed her daughter’s life forever, infusing her with a passion for God’s Word like Marcy had never seen. That passion had carried her daughter through some of the worst times of her life. And Marcy as well. She swallowed another taste of tea and set the cup down.

She hadn’t realized she’d expelled a heavy sigh until a wrinkled hand lighted upon hers. At Christa’s touch, wetness sprang to her eyes, and she fought it back with a lift of her chin.

“No, I will not cry,” she said in a harsh tone. “Patrick O’Connor has already wrung enough tears from my eyes.”

“Like this dreary rain outside, Marcy, your tears will cease. Now suppose you tell me what happened,” the old woman whispered.

Marcy nodded and started at the beginning, spanning from her relationship with Sam O’Rourke before she’d met Patrick, to the night her husband had left. It felt so good to unleash all the hurt and loneliness that night had wrought, but as she disclosed the coldness of her husband’s behavior over the last weeks, her voice took on a steely quality. “I’ve tried, Christa, to reach him in every way I know how. I’ve begged his forgiveness over and over again, but it’s as if his heart has turned to stone.”

Christa nodded. “In a way it has. Bitterness will calcify a heart faster than anything.”

Marcy hesitated “Yes, I know. I’m experiencing it firsthand. And I can’t help but worry . . . that our love will never be the same.”

The old woman leaned forward. “Bitterness is a natural reaction, Marcy, given Patrick’s rejection. But for your sake and his, you must fight it. Your marriage depends upon it.”

Marcy shot to her feet. Her voice was shrill. “Why me? Why not Patrick? He’s the one who’s bitter, Christa, the one who started this. I have begged for his forgiveness more times than I can count, and yet I’ve done nothing wrong! It’s him. He’s the one who needs to deal with his bitterness—he’s the one who’s wrong!”

“Yes, Marcy, he is. Patrick has allowed his own hurt to blind him to the truth, which is shocking, because we both know he’s not that kind of man. Which merely underscores the true depth of his hurt. A hurt now steeped in sin.”

Marcy sank back into her chair, her anger abated by sorrow. For the moment. She drew in a cleansing breath and exhaled. “So, what do I do?”

“Well, you have no power to change him or the bitterness that’s taken root in his heart. But you do have power to change yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

Mrs. Gerson took another sip of tea and smiled. “The same bitterness closing off Patrick’s heart wants to close yours, but you will not let it. You will fight it for the sake of your marriage because Patrick is too hurt to do so. Because you see, Marcy, the kind of love you and Patrick have is deep and abiding. A set of scales, if you will, with Patrick on one side and you on the other.” She held out her hands evenly, palms up. “A choice, really. Do I love him enough to forgive? Or do I love myself more, wanting to hurt him like he’s hurt me?” She tipped her hands off-kilter, one up, one down, and then smiled. “The kind of love you and Patrick share always tips the scales in the other’s favor. Patrick can’t do that right now, Marcy, but you can.”

Marcy swallowed hard. “How?” It was a whisper, a faint surrender.

“Fourfold, my dear. First, you repent for any bitterness you’ve held up until now. Second, you learn from the Master. Once, when Jesus was asleep in a boat with his apostles, a storm threatened. The Bible says that Jesus rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was a great calm. You will do the same. When bitterness comes, you will rebuke it in Jesus’ name, and he will send the calm. Third, you will put feet to your faith, because action speaks louder than words. And love, my dear, speaks louder than anything. That means you will demonstrate your love for Patrick—a love note, a favorite dessert, a kind tone—regardless of how he treats you. And finally, my dear, you will pray. Pray for God to soften his heart, to wrest him free from the grip of sin, and to bless him. And this, Mrs. O’Connor, is the most powerful step of all. Because if you are faithful to the first three, your prayers will unleash the power of heaven.”

Marcy’s spirit quickened.

Mrs. Gerson rose to retrieve the tea, then turned at the stove with a sparkle in her eye. She stared straight at Marcy as if she could really see. “And do you know why?”

Marcy held her breath and shook her head.

A soft chuckle rumbled from the old woman’s lips as she hefted the teapot with an elfin grin. She toddled to the table, and Marcy could have sworn she saw her wink. “Because, my dear, like natural laws of gravity, there are also spiritual laws. Such as ‘the fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much’ or ‘if I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.’ ” She settled into her chair with a peaceful smile and leaned forward. “Which simply means, my dear Marcy, if you do your part—” she nodded heavenward “—as sure as the sun rises . . . he will do his.”

Mitch shoveled the last piece of cherry pie into his mouth and pushed the plate away.

Charity studied him from across the dinner table, chin propped in her hand and mouth slack. “Sweet saints, are you finally done? That was your
third
piece of pie! If I ate like you, I’d be big as a house.”

He unbuttoned his vest, eyeing her with a faint smile. “Two. And if you ate like me, little girl, we wouldn’t be married.”

Collin chuckled and took a sip of his coffee. “Good job sidestepping the ‘big as a house’ remark.”

Faith slapped him with a napkin. “Collin, you know she’s sensitive about that.”

He hauled her onto his lap and snatched the offensive napkin from her hand. “She’s the one who said it first, and if you plan to go after me, Little Bit, I suggest you use something more deadly than a napkin.” His lips dove for her neck.

Charity clinked a spoon against the side of her water glass and gave Collin a less-than-patient smile. “Save it, McGuire. Now, if you can keep your hands off my sister long enough to discuss pressing family matters, I’ll be a happy woman.”

Mitch chuckled. “Instead of a jealous one,” he mumbled under his breath.

She singed him with a lidded gaze. “I heard that. Keep in mind that hell hath no fury like a woman almost eight months pregnant.” She glanced around the table. “Anybody need anything before we get started? Sean? Katie? Steven?”

“Do I have to stay? I’m only fourteen—what can I possibly add to this discussion?” Steven’s lanky legs hovered over the edge of the chair, poised for escape.

“No, I suppose you and Katie can go into the parlor if you like—”

Steven fired out of the room before the last word could roll off Charity’s tongue. Her lips twisted. “
Et tu
, Katie?”

“Not on your life. I’m staying. Sean and Steven are never home. It’s Lizzie and I who really know what’s going on in that house.”

“Katie’s right. She should stay,” Lizzie said. She scooted Katie’s chair close so she could braid her hair.

Charity folded her hands. “Okay, we need to discuss what’s been going on in that house over the last several weeks.”

Sean leveled beefy arms on the table. “Yeah, I’d like to know myself. I’m not around a lot these days, I know, but I don’t have to be to see that Mother’s not been herself.”

“That’s the understatement of the year,” Faith muttered. She leaned back against Collin’s chest. “I haven’t seen her this depressed since you and Father went to war.”

“Me, either,” Lizzie said.

Charity grunted and settled back in the chair with great effort. She sighed and locked her hands over her sizable stomach. “Well, something is wrong, and we are not leaving this room until we get to the bottom of it.” Her piercing gaze landed on Lizzie. “You said that Mother goes to bed early every night while Father stays up?”

“Every single night. There have been occasions, of course, when Mother would do that every now and then, but not every night. They usually like to go to bed at the same time, it seems. But not anymore. Father stays up reading as far as I can tell. In fact, the other night when I kissed him good night in the parlor, he said he was going to read for a while. But then when I went to their room about thirty minutes later, he was leaving again, fully dressed, with clothes draped over his arm.”

Collin frowned. “Well, he could have been putting them in the bathroom so as not to waken Marcy in the morning. He goes in early, I know. Faith hasn’t ridden to work with him in weeks because of it.”

“He’s not sleeping in the parlor, is he?” Charity leaned forward in shock.

Lizzie shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I would have noticed because I left the house before dawn at least two mornings.”

Charity wrinkled her nose. “Sweet saints, Lizzie, whatever for?”

Lizzie blushed. “Don’t ask, but suffice it to say that Brady was involved.”

“Gosh, Lizzie, we need to put you on the payroll. You get there earlier than I do.” Collin shot her a grin.

Charity dismissed Collin with a lift of her chin. “Well, they must sleep together, at least, even if they aren’t talking all that much.”

“They weren’t on the night of my nightmare.”

All eyes focused on Katie.

Lizzie’s fingers stilled in Katie’s hair. She bent forward to meet her sister’s gaze. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I had a nightmare the night you stayed at Millie’s. I ran into their room, and Mother jumped from the bed like she was having one too. She rushed me out like the house was on fire, but not before I saw that the bed was empty.”

Faith shivered on Collin’s lap. “What time was that?”

Katie scrunched her freckled nose. “Had to be close to three in the morning at least. Mother ended up sleeping with me until dawn.”

“Did you ask her where Father was?” Charity scooted to the edge of the seat in suspense.

“Yeah, but she acted like he was in the bathroom.”

“Maybe he was,” Collin said.

“Naw, the door was wide open and he wasn’t in there.”

Sean frowned. “Didn’t you wonder where he was?”

Katie tilted her head in thought. “Kind of, but Mother was fussing over me so, that I guess I didn’t think too much about it. Not until now.”

Charity pursed her lips and shook her head. “Something’s terribly wrong. I can feel it. If Father’s not sleeping in their room, and he’s not sleeping in the parlor, where in the world is he sleeping?”

“You don’t know for a fact that he’s not sleeping at home.”

The room fell silent as six sets of eyes converged on Mitch.

“What?” he asked. “It’s just an observation.”

Charity crossed her arms on the table and squinted at her husband. “No one even considered the possibility of him sleeping anywhere but home, Mitch. Why would you?”

An uncommon ruddiness crept up the back of his neck. “I just meant that, well, if he’s not in his room and he’s not on the couch, where else might he be?”

Charity rose to her feet, searing him with a cold gaze. “I don’t know—our old room, maybe? Or the hammock on the back porch, or even the basement? Where
else
might he be, Mitch? Since you work for the man, maybe you would know.”

The color fused to his cheeks, a rare sight, indeed. His jaw began to grind, a dead giveaway he was hiding something.

Charity pushed her chair away in an abrupt motion and rounded the table, her eyes never leaving her husband’s flushed face. “You know something, don’t you? You better spill it now or so help me . . .”

He shot to his feet. “Don’t you dare threaten me. Pregnant or not, I won’t stand for it.”

She stood so close that her stomach obscured his hips, deepening his color. She stared up with heat in her eyes and pummeled a swollen finger hard into his chest. “These are my parents we’re talking about, you mule-headed Irishman, and I don’t give a fig about your male ego at the moment. You know something, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes, and you sure in the blazes better come out with it now if you value our happy home.”

He fisted her hand and lowered her finger with calm deliberation, despite a dangerous tic in his cheek. “I know about as much as you do, give or take a few minor details.”