A Love Surrendered (38 page)

“Then why hasn’t he called?” she’d asked, brows sloped in concern.

“Because men have more pride than common sense, sweetie.” Charity patted her arm, sympathy edging her tone. “Don’t they teach you anything at Radcliffe?”

Faith laughed, looping an arm to Annie’s waist while Katie chuckled and Lizzie offered a shy grin. “Charity’s right, you know. Steven needs to stew a little before he comes to his senses.”

“Could be awhile,” Katie said with dry smile. “On those
rare occasions when Steven pestered me instead of the other way around, it’d take him forever to apologize, even when Mother threatened to pitch his Mysto Magic set.” Her lips sloped to the side. “And don’t forget the head-butting he did with Father during college.”

“He’ll be back,” Faith had said, tone adamant.

“Maybe not,” Annie whispered, lying in the gloom of her room. She closed her eyes while the clock ticked away the minutes of another restless night. She thought of Maggie and more tears slithered her cheeks, grateful she’d put off telling her about Steven. Now her sister need never know the man who had broken her heart . . . had also broken Annie’s.

“Annie—are you crying?”

Shoving tears from her eyes, Annie sat up in bed, squinting in the dark to see Glory at the door. “Just a little,” she whispered. She sniffed to clear the nasal tone from her throat and glanced at the clock, which registered after midnight. “Honey, why are you still up?”

Her little sister padded in with her doll dragging behind and crawled up on the bed, slipping under the covers. “I woke up,” she whispered, a tremor in her tone. “I had a dream.”

“A nightmare?” Annie asked, her worries about Steven suddenly forgotten as she cuddled Glory close, stroking rumpled blonde curls.

The little girl nodded. “I dreamt about Steven.”

Annie blinked.
Yep, that’d be a nightmare, all right, one I have every night.

A frail sigh shuddered through her little sister’s body. “I miss him, Annie.”

Annie sucked in a deep breath. “Me too, sweetie.”

“Doesn’t he like us anymore?”

Annie swallowed hard. “Sure he does, honey, but sometimes people have to leave for a little while before we get to see them again.”
If we see them again.

“Like Maggie?” Glory asked, her childlike question plucking at Annie’s heart.

Annie’s smile was melancholy. “Yes, honey, a lot like Maggie, as a matter of fact.”

“Does that mean that we won’t see Steven till Thanksgiving or Christmas, like Maggie?” Glory lay back on the pillow, shimmying beneath the covers to fold tiny hands on her chest.

Annie paused, remembering Maggie’s visit at Easter when she mentioned she wouldn’t be back until Christmas. “Maybe . . . but it will be fun to see our big sister again, won’t it?” she asked, anxious to divert Glory’s attention from Steven. “Maybe she’ll stay longer than a month this time, and we can do all the fun things we always do.”

Glory hopped up with a squeal. “You mean like shopping at Filene’s and muffins at Jordan Marsh?”

Annie tapped her nose. “And slumber parties with fancy negligees, playing dress-up and beauty parlor.”

Glory launched into Annie’s arms, knocking her back on the bed. “Oh boy, I love Maggie being a movie star,” Glory said in a rush, “even though we don’t get to see her too much.”

“Me too.” Annie tucked Glory close, lips tipping into a smile at Glory’s pride in her older sister. Maggie’d landed a few bit parts and was engaged to a director, but the status of movie star had yet to materialize. “How ’bout we snuggle in and dream of Maggie coming home to play?”

“I say YES,” Glory shouted and tunneled under the covers to nestle in, the warmth of her little body a sweet comfort. Breathing in the fresh scent of talcum powder from her sister’s bath, Annie closed her eyes, ready to drift off to sleep.

“Annie?”

She jolted, Glory’s voice pulling her back from near slumber. “Mmm?”

“Can we say a prayer for Steven? So he remembers we love him and comes back soon?”

Moisture welled beneath Annie’s closed lids. “Yes, sweetheart, we can, and I think that’s a wonderful idea. Do you want to pray or should I?”

“You,” Glory said with a big yawn.

“Okay.” Annie drew in a deep breath, her thoughts returning to their usual focus of late. “Dear Lord, Glory and I miss Steven a lot and we were wondering if you would let him know he misses us too. I don’t know if he’s the right man, Lord, but if he is, will you please bring him back to me?”

“To us,” Glory insisted, her voice drowsy with sleep.”

Annie’s lips tilted. “To us,” she corrected, kissing her sister’s head. “And if it’s all the same to you, Lord . . . ,” she closed her eyes, sleep mere seconds away, “the sooner the better.”

The mantel clock chimed nine, and Patrick paused in his game of chess—if that’s what you’d call it given Steven’s comatose state—to peer at Gabe reading funny papers on the couch.

“Time for bed, sweetheart.” Marcy set her knitting aside and rose from her chair, shooting her foster daughter a peaceful smile.

Sprawled on her tummy in a most unladylike pose, Gabe flapped skinny legs in the air while a wad of Dubble Bubble rolled in her mouth, rivaling a bad case of the mumps. Her legs ceased flailing while freckles scrunched in a scowl. Brown eyes suddenly connected with his, and in a bob of her throat, the scowl melted into a shaky smile that forced Patrick to bite back a grin.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, lumbering up from the couch with a heavy sigh. She started to toss the newspaper on the floor and stopped, eyes meeting Patrick’s once again. Lips flat, she carefully refolded and placed it on the table before heading over to give him a kiss, her manner as stiff as her smile. “Good night, Mr. O’Connor,” she said, obviously not comfortable yet with Marcy’s request to show appreciation to her new father-to-be.

Steven broke from his stupor long enough to slip Gabe one of the first smiles Patrick’d seen on his face in a month. “Hey, squirt, you can practice calling him ‘Pop’ now, you know.”

Gabe’s eyes flicked to Patrick’s with a glimmer of something soft he’d never seen, and the sensation tightened his throat. “Okay. G’night . . . Pop,” she whispered. She turned away, and then with a sudden brim of tears, she wheeled around to fling scrawny arms around his neck.

For a sliver of a second, he was paralyzed to the chair, and then in a sharp catch of his breath, he swallowed her up in his arms with such ferocity, moisture welled in his eyes. “Good night, Gabriella Dawn,” he whispered.

She clung to him for several seconds before awkwardly pulling away, gaze on the floor and hands creeping into her pockets. “Thanks again, Mr. O’Connor . . . ,” she paused while a giant knot shifted in her throat, “I mean . . . ‘Pop’ . . . for giving me a chance to be part of your family.”

Emotion nearly sealed his throat. Tucking a finger to her chin, he captured her gaze. “You’ve always been a part of this family, Gabe. Now you’ll just have the name to go along with it.” He tickled her jaw in a tease. “It’s a good name, darlin’—don’t abuse it, you hear?”

She grinned. “No, sir.” With a peck on his cheek, she ran to give Marcy a hug at the door.

A sob broke from Marcy’s lips along with a giggle, and in that single, solitary moment when her watery gaze met his, Patrick felt as if he might break down and cry himself. A rush of joy rose up that nearly stole his breath and flooded his eyes, so overcome with gratitude was he for this woman and the God who’d given her. “I love you, Marceline,” he whispered, and more tears sprang to her eyes as she nodded, apparently too overcome to speak.

Gabe glanced up at Marcy before shooting a crooked grin over her shoulder. “You were right, Mrs. O’Connor—oops, I mean, Mother,” she said with an imp of a wink, “he’s a
lot
nicer when he wins.”

His lips zagged in a droll smile. “You should see when I have a daughter who behaves.”

“Come on, darling,” Marcy said with a soggy grin, “I’ll
teach you all you need to know to stay on his good side.” She blew him a kiss. “Good night, Steven. Patrick, don’t be long.”

“I wouldn’t worry, Mother,” Steven said, “he’s about to bury me here, so he’ll be up soon. G’night, squirt. Don’t forget I’m taking you to Robinson’s tomorrow night if you’re good.”

“Whoopie!” Gabe did a little hop in the air. “Annie and Glory too?”

“Nope.”

At Steven’s clipped tone, Marcy shot Patrick a pleading look before heading upstairs.

He sighed, ready to end the game but hesitant to humiliate someone already so low. Clearing his throat, he focused on the board. “So, how long is this going to continue?”

“Not much longer,” Steven said, “given your affinity for a clean and quick kill.”

Patrick glanced up, his tone as dry as Steven’s. “Not the game, son, we both know where that’s headed. I mean this funk you’re in that makes Mitch look like the Good Humor man.”

A scowl creased Steven’s face as he made a move that had Patrick questioning his intelligence along with his mood. “I’m fine, Pop, just under the gun at work, that’s all.”

“Yes, well, that happens when one volunteers for every weekend detail.” Patrick squinted at the board, tempted to throw Steven a bone with a poor move. “Contrary to the poor example I’ve given you at the
Herald
, Steven, there is more fulfillment in life than a job well done.”

Steven eased his pawn forward in an obvious attempt to apply pressure to Patrick’s queen. He exhaled a burdensome sigh and sat back, arms folded. “Yeah, well, that must have been the lesson I missed, Pop, while we were both working Saturdays the last seven months.”

“Touché,” Patrick said, eyes on the board. He contemplated a pity play, using his queen as expected rather than setting Steven up for the fall with his king’s bishop instead.

Steven pinched the bridge of his nose, expending another
weary sigh. “Look, Pop, I’m sorry, but I know where you’re headed and I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Let’s just chalk my work mode and mood off to me being a chip off the old block, all right?”

Patrick peered up, his pity popping faster than one of Gabe’s eight-inch Dubble Bubbles. With a press of his mouth, he moved his king’s bishop four spaces. “Well, I’ll give you that. When Sean was young, I thought I was home free with a compliant boy, grateful he’d gotten Marcy’s genes instead of mine.” He leaned in, elbows on the table. “Then you came along, Steven, and for all your compliance as a youngster, I knew you were my comeuppance.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steven asked, tone gruff as he studied the board. He moved his pawn forward and looked up.

Patrick’s lips leveled. “It means you’re a chip off the old block in more ways than you think, which I admit always worried me a wee bit. I never cottoned to the idea of you following in my footsteps as a young man, but the die was cast, I suppose, given the mistakes I made.”

The blue of Steven’s eyes deepened as he assessed Patrick with a cautious gaze. “Mistakes? I doubt that, Pop, given your life now. Great marriage, a close family, a job you love.” Steven shook his head, tunneling through the neatly trimmed hair at the back of his head. “Nope, you got it all, so whatever mistakes you made, they obviously didn’t hurt.”

For the second time that evening, Patrick’s chest expanded with gratitude as he reflected on Marcy and the change she’d made in his life for the better. He paused to consider his son’s statement, fingers skimming the sides of his queen. “I’m afraid the credit goes to your mother, Steven, a woman who changed the course of my life.” He drew in a deep breath and looked up, fingers resting on the board. “Not unlike your Annie.”

Steven glanced up, a nerve twittering in his cheek. “She’s not ‘my Annie,’ Pop, and I already told you, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Easing back in his chair, Patrick crossed his arms in a mirror pose of his son, noting for the first time how much Steven resembled him as a man. The blue eyes were definitely Marcy’s—a deeper, stormier blue to be sure, serious and intent like his wife’s when something was on her mind. But from there on, he was Patrick to a T at twenty-five—thick dark hair, angular jaw, and a stone-fierce countenance that hinted at a deep-hidden temper few ever saw.

Like now.

Patrick exhaled slowly, aware his son needed to hear what he had to say whether he wanted to or not. “Hard as it is to believe, Steven, I was a lot like you growing up—diligent, hardworking, focused on schoolwork . . . and determined to win my father’s approval. You might say I was almost rigid, so intent was I on everything I set my hand to. Then my best friend, Sam, and I took a turn in high school, and life as we knew it changed, just like it did for you in college. The same passion I poured into everything before, I now channeled into having a good time.” Patrick’s smile thinned. “Exploring the wonders of women and alcohol, just like you.”

Steven shook his head, a faint smile shadowing his lips. “Sean mentioned once you had a jaded past similar to Collin’s, but I have to admit, Pop, I couldn’t see it. You’re such a straight arrow now, it’s hard to believe you were ever like me.”

“Yes, well, now you understand why I rode you so hard in college.” Patrick scratched the back of his head, remembering with painful accuracy the times he and Steven came to blows. “My father did the same, I’m afraid, and it ruined our relationship just like it ruined yours and mine.” Arms crossed, Patrick propped a fist to his mouth while he drifted into a blank stare. “Only I never got the chance to make amends like you, Steven, the chance to restore my father’s trust and approval.” He closed his eyes to ward off the moisture that threatened. “And I regret that, I really do. But I was just a young man when he died, and so I became a tortured soul, riddled with guilt and desperate to prove worth I didn’t feel I had.”