A Hope Undaunted (42 page)

“So we’re back to that again, are we? For your information, my marriage is better than it’s ever been. Because unlike you, Faith actually understands the situation with Evelyn.”

Brady never blinked. “What she knows of it, I guess.”

“I don’t have to take this.” Collin shoved past Brady and headed toward the door.

“Call her then. Tell her where you’ll be.” Brady’s voice lost some of its fire, sounding more like himself – a friend who was closer than a brother.

Collin’s hand paused on his jacket, which still hung on the hook by the door. He released a weighty breath and lowered his head, the jacket now limp in his hand.

“You can’t, can you?” Sorrow laced Brady’s question, and shame warmed Collin’s cheeks.

He turned to face his partner. “I can, Brady, but I’d rather not. Faith has been . . .” He looked away. “Well, more understanding than I have a right to expect.” The muscles worked in his throat. “I just don’t want to give her any more reasons to worry.”

Brady stared, his eyes a mix of compassion and conviction. “I understand, Collin, but she needs to know the truth. If she learns that you’re over there more than the Friday evenings you’ve told her about, it will wound her.” He shifted and blew out a weary breath, then rotated his neck while he watched Collin through tired eyes. “You want my opinion?”

Collin glanced over, one corner of his mouth edging up. “No, but does it matter?”

Brady smiled and eased onto the corner of Collin’s desk. “Not really.” He drew in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, arms folded across his chest. “I think chess with Tommy once a week is more than enough. I think it’s more than any other woman alive would even allow. And I think any more than that is downright irresponsible. Going over there creates a dependence on you, not only for Tommy, but for Evelyn.”

“Brady, the boy’s dying – ”

Brady’s gaze softened. “I understand that, Collin, but he’s Evelyn’s son, not yours. It’s not your place to be there. It’s your place to be with Faith and the girls.” He reached to lift the phone off the receiver and held it out. “Call her, Collin, please?”

Collin balked. He shifted on his feet and stared at the floor. “I will, Brady, but from the phone booth by Evelyn’s house, not here, all right?” His gaze lifted to Brady’s face. “If I call now, her tone may deter me from going . . . and I . . . well, I promised Tommy I’d be there.”

Brady nodded and replaced the phone, his eyes resigned. “Okay, Collin. But promise me you will call – Faith deserves that much.”

Collin exhaled and opened the door. “I will, I promise. See you tomorrow.” And slipping his jacket on, he headed out the door . . . to Evelyn’s house, to Tommy, and to a promise he fully intended to keep.

Patrick lay in his bed, as wide awake as if strong coffee percolated in his veins. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand and groaned, jaw twitching along with the muscles in his legs. Heaven help him – three o’clock in the morning and sleep was nowhere in sight. He shifted from one side to the other, spooned Marcy and then not. But nothing – not positions of comfort or the sweet warmth of his wife’s body – seemed to calm the restlessness in his bones.

With a sigh of defeat, he rose from the bed and reached for his robe, grateful that Marcy never stirred as he slipped from their room. He tied the sash of his robe and lumbered down the hall to the bathroom, then wondered which of the problems in his life was responsible for his insomnia tonight. The list seemed endless – from Marcy butting heads with him over Gabe to Steven defying him at every turn, or even Mitch’s squabbles with Charity over her desire to return to work. He sighed and filled a glass of water. Of course, Katie’s situation was no prize either with an engagement to Jack, nor was the declining stock market that slowly sucked the life from their savings.

He took a swig of water and hung his head, certain that his concerns over the market bore the bulk of the blame. Marcy had been skittish about his investing to the extent that he had, but in a rare override of her counsel, he had done so nonetheless, certain that wisdom and good fortune would weigh in on his side. And for a while, it appeared that it had – he’d more than doubled their money over the course of a year. His stomach suddenly skittered, as twitchy as his limbs. He set the empty glass down and frowned. The market had continued to climb all summer, but then quickly dwindled in September, fluctuating wildly. And now October shaped up to be bleaker yet. Patrick sighed, not sure what to do about this dip in the market that doomsayers were convinced would end up as a bottomless hole. He shuffled from the bathroom toward his bedroom, then stopped, his shoulders slumped and his spirit too.

He closed his eyes and exhaled a halting breath. “Please, Lord, give me wisdom. Guide me, and show me what to do. Whatever path this economy takes, please, hold us in the palm of your hand. And thank you, God, for your mercy and your love.”

Feeling somewhat better, he started back down the hall and then stopped again, ears pricked at the sound of something below. He moved to the landing and listened, head cocked and hand pressed to the rail. His pulse picked up as he descended the stairs, slowly, quietly, uneasiness as close as a shadow. A muffled noise drifted from the parlor, and his foot froze to the step.
God, help me . . .

With breath suspended in his lungs, he eased toward the parlor door and flipped the switch. Light flooded the room, and he gasped.

Steven jolted up from the couch, blinded by the light while Maggie Kennedy lay beside him. Shock glazed Patrick’s eyes as he took in Maggie’s disheveled clothes. Rage paralyzed the words on his tongue, rendering him speechless.

“Father!” Steven stumbled to his feet, shirt unbuttoned and face blanched white. His eyes met Patrick’s with shame as thick as the shock in Patrick’s throat. “Father, we were just – ”

“Spare me the details, Steven, I’m fully aware of what you were
just
doing . . .” Patrick’s voice returned with a vengeance, eating away at Steven’s excuses like the hard-grain alcohol his son was so partial to.

Typically calm and defiant in the face of his father, Steven was suddenly reduced to stammering. “M-Maggie was supposed to spend the night at Celia’s, but she got locked out – ”

Patrick took a step forward, the tightness in his chest nearly choking him. He stabbed a rigid finger toward his son, and the heat in his face all but suffocated the air from his lungs. His voice was savage. “I don’t want your excuses, Steven, I want your hide, and I’ll have it, so help me. You take this woman home now, and if I ever so much as see her face around here again, I will throw you both out on your ear. Is that clear? And we will discuss this tomorrow, you can count on that – both your despicable behavior and your future at college. Now, get out!”

Silence prevailed as a hard veneer settled on Steven’s face. He buttoned his shirt and stared, his eyes glinting with the same fury that burned in his father’s. Handing Maggie her shoes, he sat beside her to put on his own, and then turned and helped her up from the couch, her blouse now smoothed and tucked in her skirt. She avoided Patrick’s eyes as Steven looped a protective arm around her shoulders, challenging Patrick with a final thrust of his jaw. “I love her, and where Maggie goes, I go.”

Patrick extended his hand toward the foyer. “There’s the door, Steven, be my guest. But don’t plan on using it after tonight if you defy my wishes.”

A nerve pulsed in Steven’s hard-chiseled cheek as he glared, ushering Maggie to the hall. He plucked their coats off the rack and helped Maggie on with hers, then slipped on his own as he opened the door. He stared back at Patrick from the threshold – a study in sedition with slitted eyes and a sullen stance that fairly shimmered with defiance. His voice was that of a stranger rather than a son’s. “Goodbye, Father. I’d wish you good night, but then I’d be lying. And heaven knows I don’t want to add to my sins.”

He slammed the door hard, his anger shivering the windows while his hate shivered Patrick’s soul. Grief bowed his shoulders as he swayed on his feet, one steadying hand knuckled white to the wall. Tears pricked, and he put a hand to his eyes. Steven’s sins, yes, he thought with a slash of pain that divided his soul. And his. He hung his head.

The sins of the father . . .

“Mother, I’m worried.” Katie looked up from the skillet she was washing and saw her own concern mirrored in her mother’s eyes. She dipped it into the rinse, then shook it out hard, wishing she could do the same with this uneasy feeling at the pit of her stomach. “Father’s mood – it scares me. I’ve never seem him like this before.”

Marcy took the pan from her daughter and began to dry, her shoulders slumped as if weighted with worry as heavy as the cast-iron skillet in her hand. “No, Katie, I can honestly say that I haven’t either, not even during the war.”

“It’s a frightening time, I know, especially for those invested in the market like Father. My finance professor said the market dropped 33 points, which constitutes a selling panic according to him. He claims it’s sent shock waves all over the country, even though President Hoover assures us U.S. business is sound.” She scrubbed a final pot with fierce determination. “But Father is a smart businessman, and he’ll land on his feet.” She rinsed it, then handed it to Marcy before pulling the plug in the sink. Her eyes stared hard as both water and soap swirled away down the drain. She shivered and glanced at her mother. “How much did he lose today?”

Marcy pushed at a limp strand of hair with the back of her hand. “Enough to snap at Gabe when she picked at the roast before dinner, and enough to eat only a quarter of the food on his own plate – one of his favorite meals, no less.” She sighed. “I don’t suppose it helped when he learned I let Gabe play hooky again today – we butted heads over that when he came home.”

Forcing a smile, Katie tossed the dishrag in the sink and laid a gentle hand on her mother’s arm. “Which is why you called Sean, I suppose?”

Marcy hung the wet dishtowel over the rack to dry out, her lips skewed in a near smile. “Unlike Steven, who drives your father to distraction, Sean has always had a calming effect, it seems, especially when Patrick beats him at chess.”

Katie looped an arm around her mother’s waist, hoping to lighten her mood. “I wondered if Sean’s lack of skill at chess had anything to do with it.” She grinned. “Has he ever won?”

Her mother finally smiled. “Once or twice, I suppose, although your father beats everyone regularly except Parker and Luke. Which,” she said with a lift of her brow, “is why Luke is relegated to checkers tonight, unless you think he’d be willing to throw a game?”

Katie chuckled. “Luke McGee? Throw a game? The man is a compulsive winner, prone to maniacal activity and diabolical mood if he even comes close to losing.”

Marcy shot her a secret smile and pushed through the door. “Thus the reason Sean is our sacrificial lamb tonight. Shall we put on our best smiles, Katie Rose, and liven the mood?”

Had it been any other night, the warmth and the glow of her mother’s intimate parlor would have been the perfect place for an evening of family fun and laughter. Gabe, as cute as a pixie in her pigtails and plaid school jumper, sat cross-legged on one side of Marcy’s flame-stitch sofa while Luke lounged on the other, legs crossed on the ottoman before him. He studied the board with intense concentration, arm cocked against the sofa back and hand to his temple. A cozy fire crackled in the fireplace beyond, providing the perfect backdrop for Sean and Patrick’s game by the hearth. Even Marcy’s candles on the mantel seemed to flicker and sway, keeping time with the husky strains of Louis Armstrong from the radio as he sang “When You’re Smiling.”

Katie moseyed over to where her father sat, gaze glued to the board and a pucker in his brow. She stooped to give him a soft peck on his cheek. “Who’s winning?” she asked.

Sean leaned back in his chair with a crooked smile. “Who d’ya think? The man who shows no mercy.”

“You really ought to let him win now and then, Father – it’s good for his self-esteem.”

Patrick grunted and moved his pawn.

She strolled over and ruffled Gabe’s hair, giving Luke the eye. “So, McGee, you almost done? We’ve got studying to do, if you recall.”