A Heart Revealed (3 page)

Especially my own.

“Well, the wedding was a hit, Marcy. You and Katie did a wonderful job, and on a shoestring budget, no less.” Emma bent to slip off her heels and massage her feet.

Despite a room in shambles from wilted flowers, spilled punch, and crumbs on the floor, a sense of satisfaction could be seen in each of the faces around the table. The silence in Kearney’s back room was a welcome relief from noisy well-wishers and shrieking cousins who’d spent the last two hours running wild. Now that guests had departed and all children had been shipped off to neighbors for safekeeping, nothing was left but cleanup.

Marcy O’Connor tucked a stray curl behind her ear, her honey-colored bob laced with almost invisible strands of silver, and Emma couldn’t help but think she seemed more of an older sister than the mother of her three daughters in the room. Her tone was tired but content. “Thanks, Emma. And a hit, indeed. Especially with Patrick, who’s lost more than one night’s sleep worrying about the cost of this wedding. I swear the man used to enjoy the sleep of the dead, but not anymore. At least not since this awful depression started two years ago. I’m just grateful Katie and Luke suggested a cake and punch reception here rather than a dinner at a hotel or an expensive hall. And with Luke getting this room free and Collin and Brady printing the invitations and programs as a gift, not to mention you girls providing flowers and cakes, Patrick O’Connor may actually sleep tonight.”

Lizzie grinned. “He should. Four daughters married and no more weddings to pay for—maybe he’ll sleep for days.”

“Oh, that sounds so good, doesn’t it?” Charity said with a scrunch of her nose, head propped in her hand.

Faith chuckled. “No more daughters, true, but that doesn’t necessarily mean no more weddings to pay for, does it, Mother?”

Marcy chewed on her lip and chanced a peek across the room. Patrick and the other men appeared to be glued to the radio he’d insisted on bringing so he wouldn’t miss the Yankees game during cleanup. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “No . . . not necessarily.”

Charity leaned in, arms on the table and lips parted in a faint smile. She squinted. “You
have
discussed adopting Gabe with Father, haven’t you, Mother?”

A faint hint of color washed into Marcy’s cheeks as her gaze darted to her husband and back. “Hush, Charity, will you? I’ll tell your father when the time is right.” Her lips crooked to the right. “And trust me, after paying for his fourth daughter’s wedding—cake reception or no—would
not
be the right time for Patrick O’Connor. I’ll just give the poor man a month or so to get over the shock of this expense, and then I’ll ease him into it slowly.” She sighed and rose to her feet. “Well, we best get busy. Mr. Kearney needs this room for a recital tonight. Did everybody bring a change of clothes, I hope? He said we could use the storage area in back as a dressing room.”

Emma jumped up and pushed in her chair. “Not me, Marcy, but that’s okay. I rather enjoy wearing this lovely dress you made.” She picked her bride’s bouquet up from the table and gave it a gentle sniff. “Would you like me to unplug the radio and ramrod the men?”

A tired grin plucked at Marcy’s lips. “Yes, Emma, please. And don’t you dare do too much, you hear? We’ll be out to help in a bit.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Emma headed toward the men while Marcy and her daughters shuffled off to the storage room with high heels in hand and laughter on their lips.

“Yeah, well, he may be the ‘Sultan of Swat,’ but it will be a cold day in the devil’s kitchen before I forgive that man for leaving Boston.” Patrick O’Connor puffed on his pipe with a vengeance, smoke curling up past his handsome face, which was screwed up in a frown. He leaned over the radio, the gray in his temples glinting as he squinted to listen to the play-by-play.

Steven looped an arm around his father’s shoulder. “Come on, Pop, Babe Ruth transformed the dead-ball era into the Golden Age of Baseball, and you know it. And a record of sixty home runs? Face it, the guy doesn’t need to be forgiven, he needs to be canonized.”

“Canonized?” Faith’s husband, Collin, scowled. “After he deserted the Red Sox for the Yankees?”

“I’m with Steven,” Sean said. “And don’t forget he saved baseball’s rump when fans stayed away in droves after the White Sox threw the Series in 1919. Face it, Pop—baseball needed a hero, and the Babe is it.”

“Ahem.” Emma quietly cleared her throat, and seven sets of male eyes blinked up as if she were the Babe himself. “I have orders to start you gentlemen on cleanup.” A smile played on her lips. “And be warned—I’ve been authorized to unplug the radio,
if
necessary.”

The corners of Sean’s mouth edged up, easing the strain she’d noticed in his face earlier. “Now there’s a fearsome threat—sweet Emma Malloy terrorizing us with a timid smile.”

Color flooded her cheeks as she hiked her chin in true Charity fashion, biting back an answering grin. “I suggest you put the Babe to bed, gentlemen, before the true threat to your happy homes come bounding out of the back room.” She gave them an uncustomary wink and spun on her heel, shooting a smile over her shoulder.

“You’ve been spending too much time with my wife, Emma,” Mitch said in a dry tone. “And just for the record, Sean, there’s nothing timid about Emma when it comes to running the store. In fact, she can be as fearsome a taskmaster as Charity when she wants to be.”

———

Sean loosened his tie, then rolled up the shirtsleeves of his white dress shirt. He gave Emma a cheeky grin, wondering what it was about Emma Malloy that always lifted his spirits. “Oh yeah, I’ll bet—a regular bully. I’m sure she has everybody quaking in their boots.”

Another soft blush stole into Emma’s cheeks as she pivoted to face him, her teasing smile calming his belligerent mood. With a rare hint of the vamp, she tossed lustrous folds of rich, chestnut hair over one shoulder and assessed him through stunning gray eyes as pure and clear as any mountain stream. “One does not have to ‘bully’ subordinates to get what one wants, Mr. O’Connor, as you should well know from managing your own store.” One manicured brow hiked high despite the glimmer of a twinkle in her eye. “Or maybe you don’t.”

Before he could respond, she whirled around and slipped out the door, and for the first time today, he felt a full-fledged grin slide across his lips. He didn’t know how she did it, but the woman had a knack for soothing his soul more than any person alive, and Sean wished he could bottle it.

Subordinates.
His smile suddenly went sour at the thought of Andy, Mort, and Ray. Not only were they the best employees he’d had in eleven years as manager of Kelly’s Hardware, but they were men he respected who had become good friends as well. His lips flattened into a hard line. Men who depended on him to provide jobs to take care of their families in this dire economy. His bad mood returned with a vengeance as he joined his best friend, Pete, to dismantle a trellis archway his mother had asked him to build for pictures.

“Hey, the wedding’s over, O’Connor, wipe that scowl off your face,” Pete said with a squint. “What’s eating you, anyway? I haven’t seen you this out of sorts since Howie Devlin’s older sister cornered you in a booth at Robinson’s.”

With a grunt, Sean ripped off a branch of his mother’s trailing cottage roses twined through the white latticework. In the process, he knocked over a milk bottle of water hidden beneath the white satin draped around the base. Water gushed, and he groaned, squatting to mop it up with the satin.

Pete grabbed the material around the other leg and started helping, peering up beneath bushy brows that framed the concern in his eyes. “What’s going on, buddy? First, you’re at your own sister’s wedding in one of the worst moods I’ve ever seen, then you’re like a bull in a china shop—two things as out of character as the Good Humor man running kids down with his truck. What’s up with you anyway? This isn’t like you.”

Sean vented with a blast of air that started at the base of his lungs and rose like a pot ready to boil over. “Let’s just write it off as a bad day at work, okay? I’ll tell ya what though, Pete, there are days I’d like nothing more than to give Old Man Kelly a piece of my mind.” He wadded the satin and hurled it off to the side. “
And
my fist.” Rising, he reached for another branch, then quickly jerked away. “Blasted rosebush,” he muttered, scowling at the back of his forearm, which now ran red with blood from a lengthy cut.

Pete handed him a piece of the soggy satin. “Here, you’re a train wreck waiting to happen, you know that? Why don’t you go have Kearney patch you up and then maybe you need to visit the speakeasy downstairs—you could use a cold one bad.”

“Oh yeah, wouldn’t that be rich—thrown in the brig by my own brother, the prohibition agent. No, thanks, I’d rather take it out on you on the court, Murph, if it’s all the same to you.”

Pete’s lips slanted. “Get yourself a brew, O’Connor. I’d rather not test our friendship.”

“Yeah, yeah. How about you disarm the trellis while I get this patched up? And trust me—I may just give some serious thought to that beer.” Heading for the door, Sean cocked his arm to check the bleeding right before he ran headlong into Emma.

———

Emma jolted, hand to her chest. “Goodness, Sean, what did you do?”

The bucket in her hands wavered, causing soapy water to surge over the side.

He lifted his arm and vented a heavy sigh while several drops of blood splattered on the floor. “Apparently I’m a hazard when it comes to dismantling rose limbs from Mother’s trellis,” he said with a dry grin. “You wouldn’t know where I could get a bandage for this, would you, Emma? I suspect she’d be none too happy if I dripped blood on this white shirt.”

Emma chewed on her lip, masking a smile. “No, but I can certainly check with Mr. Kearney. But first, we need to wash off that nasty wound.” She immediately set the bucket down and squeezed out a clean, soapy rag, clenching her teeth as she gingerly patted the blood away.

Laugh lines fanned at the side of Sean’s face, easing the deep ridge in his brow. Eyes the same clear blue as Charity’s assessed her with a hint of a smile, merging with a spray of freckles and a tan to give him the carefree air of a mischievous Huck Finn. “I think I’ll live, Mrs. Malloy.”

She met the twinkle in his eye with one of her own. “Not if you bleed all over that shirt, Sean O’Connor—your mother will have your head. Hold out your arm.” With short, gentle strokes, she cleaned the deep scratch and patted it dry, wincing at the rugged line that seemed to go on forever. “Goodness, what did you do, roll around in it?”

He flicked the lacy garter that pinched against his rather intimidating bicep. “Nope, didn’t have to. Not with this jinx on my arm. In fact, I think I’m going to get rid of this albatross right now.” He reached up and jerked the garter off, dragging it down the craggy wound as it oozed fresh blood. With a squint of his eyes, he arced the garter into the wastebasket across the room with a neat, clean swish. “Yes! Two points for me and zero for marriage.” He held out his arm with an easy grin. “Patch me up, Mrs. Malloy—that was a mighty close call.”

Shaking her head, she hurried out the door, shooting him a warning look tempered by a faint smile. “Don’t move! I’ll fetch some bandages from Mr. Kearney.” Moments later, she returned with supplies in hand. “This may sting,” she warned, eyes on the scratch as she re-cleaned the wound and then applied a salve. “You really don’t plan to ever get married?” she asked, unable to resist posing the question to a man who seemed so suited to a true depth of love, so prone to giving, and so destined for a marriage that would be happy. She wrapped a length of gauze around his arm.

“Nope. Marriage isn’t for everybody, Emma.” His voice softened to just above a whisper. “You should know that.”

She carefully tied the bandage with a knot while the comment heated her cheeks. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, tugging a frail sigh from her lips. She attempted a smile. “But you would be such a natural, Sean. I feel it in my bones.”

He gave her nose a playful tap. “Could be arthritis, you know, ever think of that? Oh sure, I guess I’m a ‘natural’ at some things—a natural clown, a natural athlete, a natural at losing at chess. But marriage?” A faint shiver shook his broad shoulders. “Trust me—the only thing that feels natural about that is staying far away from it.”

“Which at the ripe, old age of thirty-four, I’d say you’ve managed to do very nicely.” She glanced up with a tilt of her head and a curious smile. “No more problems with Miss Rose Kelly, I take it?”

Sean threaded a hand through light, sandy hair, disrupting his neat slicked-back style with a carefree, tousled look that partially fell in his eyes. She noted the slight shift of his lips as they quirked to the right. “Ah . . . the boss’s daughter. Funny you should mention that. Remember that summer she cornered me in the back room?”

Emma nodded and smiled.

“Well, I told her I was ‘seeing someone,’ just like we discussed, and thank goodness, that seemed to do the trick. She stopped coming into the store all the time, and the next thing I hear, she’s engaged to that rich dandy her father wanted her to marry. So things
were
just great . . .” He absently rubbed his sore arm, eyes trained on the hardwood floor now littered with cake crumbs, rose petals, and confetti. His eyes flinched, then peered up with concern. “That is . . . until two weeks ago.”