A Passion Most Pure (33 page)

Mima had taken to the children instantly, and they to her. Especially Katie, who was mesmerized by this tiny woman who seemed more like an oversized doll than a great-grandmother. She would lie beside Mima for hours, brushing her hair or pretending to read a book, plying her with questions that never failed to make Mima smile. It almost seemed that the gloom of death so prevalent upon their arrival had somehow dissipated, replaced instead by the warm sound of laughter spilling into the room along with the sunshine. Could it be, Marcy wondered, that Mima looked better? Her previously sallow complexion was now more aglow, her former listlessness now sparked with new energy.

The evenings were filled with the delights of Bridget's cooking and Mima's spellbinding stories and childhood games, which Marcy now passed on to her own children. Even Blarney, after confinement on the ship, seemed happy with his new lot in life as the shadow of Marcy's mother, who shamelessly plied him with bits of soda bread dredged in bacon drippings.

Of course, the highlight was a letter from Collin. After months of training on the front lines, he'd earned a short leave to one of the small towns in southern France, where he managed to run into Sean. Both were doing well, according to Collin, who carefully chose to avoid any specific talk of war. Instead, he rambled on about Sean or the beauty of the French countryside, teasing that apparently Sean was better at soldiering than at chess, for he seemed none the worse for the wear. He talked of friends he'd made, and one in particular, he wanted Faith to know, was a devout Christian who carried his Bible with him into the trenches. Collin liked manning his post with Brady, he said, because he was sure it gave him a bit of insurance.

His letter was addressed to them all, and after a few paragraphs of general conversation, he included separate sections devoted to each, ending with several pages for Charity. After reading most of the letter aloud to the family, Charity excused herself and hurried to her room, where she pored over her pages until she had them memorized.

Even though it was early November, Ireland's mild temperatures lured the children outdoors for games of Red Rover and Snatch the Bacon while Marcy worked and chatted with Bridget in the garden. Beth, who was working her way through her grandmother's book collection, was delighted to discover a bookworm named Patricia who lived several houses down. They would debate plots of their favorite novels for hours, either lazing under the massive oak in Bridget's front yard or gliding on rope swings down at Patricia's house.

Even Charity had ventured out to explore the shops Patrick had told her about. It was no surprise to any of them-least of all Bridget, who forged a particularly close bond with Charity in one short week-that she came bounding home with news of her employment. She was to begin work on Monday, the same day as Faith, at a darling boutique that would also allow discounted purchases for herself and her family. Marcy had never seen Charity so excited, except, of course, where Collin was concerned, and her heart was grateful that things seemed to be working out so well.

Thank you, Lord, for your hand in our lives, she thought, and wished Patrick could be here to see it. But God's hand was, she had no doubt, upon her husband's life as well, and she longed for the day they would finally share all the wonderful things God had done. But for now, there was certainly no question about it. For each of them, it had been a most remarkable week.

"Why do I have to take her? Why can't Brune?"

Michael Reardon had never seen Mitch Dennehy quite this agitated. He wondered if he was once again disengaging himself from some lovesick girl who actually believed she could encroach upon his bachelorhood. Michael stared at his best department editor and smiled patiently. "Come on, Mitch, simmer down. It's not a big deal. Just give her what nobody else wants to do, and you'll be thanking me in the morning."

Mitch leaned his hands on Michael's desk and glared at his editor through blue eyes that seemed a bit bloodshot-or maybe he was just seeing red-and Michael could tell he wasn't buying it.

"The devil I will! Let Brune thank you in the morning. I don't have time to break in some kid still wet behind the ears. How do you know she can even write?"

Michael breathed in deeply and then sighed, too tired to take anyone on this morning, much less incur the wrath of his most bullheaded employee. There was clearly nothing to do but pull rank. He stood up from his desk, which was piled high with stacks of press sheets, ringed coffee cups, and dirty ashtrays, and glared right back into the face of the Time's second most stubborn journalist. "You don't have a choice, Mitch. She's yours, not Brune's, and I'll be dashed if I'm going to stand here and argue with you about it. I've read a few things she's written, and they're not bad-"

"Not bad? Well, now that's just great! A glowing endorsement if I ever heard one."

"She's got a strong feel for special interest, Mitch. That's your department, and I want you to use her-case closed." Michael sat down and shuffled through the papers on his desk, hoping it was a clear dismissal to the man who stood glowering before him. He didn't hold out much hope.

"Okay, Michael, you win. I'll take her, but I'll warn you right now I'm not about to pussyfoot around some little princess who thinks she can waltz into our newsroom just because she happens to be a daughter of a friend of yours. I'm gonna work her hard, so hard she'll be crying to her daddy about how awful it is. And you, my friend, won't be able to yank her by the hair fast enough to fling her in the direction of Brune, guaranteed!"

Michael waited until Mitch stormed away before opening his drawer to reach for the aspirin. It wasn't particularly unusual for Mitch to give him a headache, but this one had the feel of a real doozy. He was glad he had a weekend to recover before the real migraine hit on Monday. Michael grabbed a cup of cold coffee, slammed the aspirin in his mouth, and took a swig. He hoped Patrick O'Connor's daughter was one-tenth the journalist her father was, or he would have to buy stock in aspirin. As it was, with Mitch around, he bought 'em by the gross just to get through a day. Maybe, he thought, the headache will be so bad I'll have to stay home. He smiled. Mitch Dennehy was one lucky character. Because if he wasn't the best journalist on the Times, he would have been history-and Michael Reardon headache-free-a very long time ago.

It seemed such an awful contradiction to Patrick-the ethereal beauty of the French countryside defiled by miles of makeshift trenches that snaked along the Marne River, uprooting its simple splendor. And yet Patrick feared the day coming when the contradiction would be greater still. For the moment, the trenches were used to provide soldiers with rigorous training for trench warfare that was sure to come. But he knew the day loomed when the exercises would not simply be for training but for the liberation of Europe, and the bullets and blood spent would be more than real.

He was, of course, grateful the commander of the American Expeditionary Force, General "Black Jack" Pershing, seemed bent on maintaining the integrity of the AEF until he deemed the soldiers fit for combat. After four short weeks, Patrick was already in better shape than he'd been in his life, gladly welcoming all training and conditioning the army chose to expend prior to his marching into battle in the spring.

Patrick was anxious to write Marcy. There'd been precious little time to do so upon his arrival, and he wanted to take full advantage now that his commander had afforded them the opportunity of a twenty-four-hour leave. He was quick to head to the billet, the farmland buildings that housed the soldiers, eager to stretch out in his bunk, even if it was only hay, to compose the letter he knew she would be waiting for.

"Hey, O'Connor, a group of us are heading to the big city for some fun. Why don't you join us?" LaRue, one of his bunk mates, was in great spirits as he poked his head in the barracks.

Patrick grinned. "Not tonight, I'm afraid. I've got to write a long-overdue letter to the love of my life. I don't think she'd take too kindly to my seeing the sights of Paris, at least not the sights you plan on seeing."

LaRue laughed. "Neither would my missus, but she's not around, now is she? Come on, Patrick, you can write that letter anytime."

Patrick hesitated, then thought better of it. He'd heard stories about Paris, and all he wanted right now were moments alone to dream of Marcy and tell her how much he missed her.

"Maybe another time, LaRue. Right now, I'm too lonely for my wife."

LaRue shook his head. "I guarantee you, Patrick, this would be the cure for that, but don't say I didn't tell ya."

Patrick waved him off and closed his eyes to think of Marcy, an aching loneliness suddenly overwhelming him. He thought about the last night they'd spent together, and he felt passion enflame as he lay in the dirty confines of the billet.

"Oh, God, please give me the strength I need for this place, and give Marcy the strength she needs too." He reached for pen and paper and settled in to write his family, assuring them the only malady befallen him was the excruciating pain he experienced at missing them all. And aside from that, all was well on the Marne.

It was certainly a comedy of errors-Charity and Faith scrambling to get ready while their mother looked on, beaming with excitement while she helped Beth and Steven prepare for their first day of school. Faith stood, her stomach rolling as she banged on the door of the water closet currently occupied by Charity. A sour taste rose in her throat. She snatched the towel slung over her shoulder and pressed it to her mouth. After a moment, her throat cleared, and she took a deep breath. "For pity's sake, Charity, I don't feel well, and I'm going to be late. Open the door!"

"It's my first day on the job, and I don't want to rush it." Charity's voice was curt.

Faith's "Irish" flared. "It's mine too, and if you don't hurry, I won't have a first day on the job. Mother!"

Marcy came bounding down the hall, a serene smile on her face. Patting Faith's arm, she tapped on the watercloset door, her knock considerably more gentle than her daughter's had been. With a pleasant voice, almost singsong in tone, she addressed the daughter in possession of the bathroom. "Good morning, Charity, open the door, please. Faith needs to use the privy too. You'll just have to share the bath this morning and work out your morning routine later."

The door swung wide, and Charity stepped out with a smug smile on her face, looking perfectly wonderful. "I'm ready, Mother," she announced, giving Faith a pointed look.

"You look lovely, Charity. Faith, it's all yours," her mother said with a smile.

Faith desperately wished she had some of the calm her mother seemed to exude this morning. She could certainly do with a bit of it, she thought as she looked in the mirror, aghast at the dark circles beneath her eyes. Never-since her affliction with polio as a child-had she been so scared. Not even her first day at the Herald came close to producing the nausea and fear now churning in her stomach. Starting in the typing pool at the Herald with her father close by for moral support was one thing. Taking a position as a junior copywriter on a strange paper in a strange city was completely and totally unnerving. Faith hoped and prayed she could get through the day without throwing up.

The stress she was feeling must have been written on her face as she entered the kitchen, because her mother shushed Charity as she started to comment. Taking her arm, she ushered Faith to a chair. "Here, sit down and eat your breakfast. I'll get you some coffee."

Faith perched on the edge of the seat, face ashen despite a healthy application of rouge.

"A little scared, are you now?" Charity asked with a smile.

Her mother shot Charity a look of warning and set the cup of coffee before Faith. "The first day is always the hardest, but God will see you through. Trust me, you'll be fine. More than fine, you'll be wonderful."

Faith took a deep breath, easing some of the tightness she felt in her chest. She nodded. "I know, Mother. Will you pray for me, please?"

Marcy reached for both daughters' hands and closed her eyes. "Lord, be with my girls today as they begin their new jobs. Don't let them feel alone. Be with them and guide them and give them your favor. Amen." Marcy's eyes popped open, her smile positively radiant. "You have absolutely nothing to worry about. God is going to bless you both. I can feel it!"

Thirty minutes later, Faith would have given anything to "feel it" as she stood on Lower Abbey Street staring up at the Irish Times. Unfortunately, the only thing she could feel was pure indigestion. She swallowed hard and unbuttoned her pleated woolen coat to better adjust her new green hobble skirt. She tried to tug it down; she was selfconscious over the new stylish length that fell to midcalf, exposing flesh-tone silk stockings. Her fingers trembled as she tucked her starched V-necked blouse in a bit tighter before nervously patting her loose chignon. Taking a deep breath, she forged through the front doors, praying the awful taste in her throat was only heartburn and not an indication she was about to be sick.