A Passion Most Pure (48 page)

Charity caught her breath. "There's no telling what Collin will want to do, Mother," she whispered. "I don't even know if he still cares for me."

Marcy's smile was faint. "He'd be a fool not to," she said, and Charity remembered Mitch had said the very same thing.

Marcy finished her coffee and stood up. She leaned on the chair and gave them a weary look. "It's time I go to my room and spend time with Faith's Bible. Perhaps that's why the Lord allowed her to leave it. It always was such a source of comfort to her, and I've found it's done the same for me. Besides, it wouldn't do to neglect the best friend I have right now, would it?" She sighed. "I opened it this morning to John 14:18, and do you know what it said?"

Charity and Bridget shook their heads.

"It said, 'I will not leave you desolate."' Marcy straight ened her shoulders and pushed the hair from her face. "I'm going to hold him to that," she said.

"I don't care what O'Reilly says, the Fraser story stays on page one." Mitch scowled at Aiden McCrae and snatched the phone from its cradle. "Dennehy, here."

"Mitch? It's Charity. I'm so sorry to disturb you, but we need your help."

He paused. "What kind of help?"

"My mother would like to talk to you. You see, my f-father was ... well, he was ... killed." Her voice broke.

Mitch stiffened. He dismissed Aiden with an abrupt wave and dropped back in the chair. He shielded his eyes with his hand. "Charity ... I'm so sorry."

"I know, Mitch. Mother asked me to call. She said that you once offered help if she ever needed it. It seems she wants to go back to Boston to ... take care of things."

"Absolutely. I can come tonight, right after work."

"For dinner, then."

"No, I don't want to impose." He shifted in the chair, kneading the deep furrows above the bridge of his nose.

"We insist. Would 6:30 be all right? Or does it need to be later?"

"No, no, 6:30 is fine. I'll be there."

"We'll see you then. Thank you, Mitch."

He replaced the receiver and slumped back in the chair, staring ahead into nothing. He had never met Patrick O'Connor, but he had no doubt he would have liked him. Faith had been crazy about her father. Always wanted to marry a man just like him, she would say with that gleam in her eye, then tease that she always got what she wanted.

He rubbed his eyes and stood up. He suspected Marcy needed money for the passage. He sighed. Well, this was the sign he was looking for. He'd been praying for God to either take Faith out of his heart or give him the nerve to go after her. If Marcy was going to Boston by herself, Mitch had his answer. There was no way he could let her go alone, and for the first time in over a month, a surge of hope rushed through him.

Michael wasn't going to like this, but that was too bad. He had three weeks of vacation, and now was as good a time as any. Jamie would just have to fill in. Mitch walked to the door and suddenly realized that within weeks, he would be seeing Faith again. The thought sent his pulse racing. He took a deep breath, then followed it with a quick prayer. Lord, please don't let her hate me.

He hesitated. No, he was doing this for Marcy, not himself. He swallowed hard. No, he was doing it for himself, and would have done it eventually anyway if she hadn't made it so easy for him. Either way, the woman he loved was at the end of the line. And quite frankly, one reason was as good as the next.

Coming home again was like working all day in shoes that pinched your feet and a corset that cinched your waist-suddenly you slipped into a chenille robe and goosedown slippers, and it felt good.

Faith hadn't wasted too much time moping or missing Mitch, although it wouldn't have been difficult to do. Since she made her peace with God, she found she also made her peace with Mitch, and the anger stepped aside to let the longing have a shot at her. She wasn't sure what she would have done without Maisie and her job at the Herald; both worked in tandem to keep her from sinking into a depression. The only moments that really took her down were the nights she lay in Mrs. Gerson's guest room, wondering what woman Mitch was seeing at the moment.

All along she'd known he was a man of the world, which simply meant he had weathered his fair share of heartbreaks, she supposed, and given more than a few of his own. No doubt, he was back at it by now, buying a round of drinks at Brody's or taking a lady friend to their favorite spot at Duffy's. Faith tried to think of something else. The thought of another woman sitting in her booth was a little too hard to take, especially now that the anger was nowhere in sight.

She thought about Charity and wondered if she ever felt any remorse over her actions. Faith had no doubt her sister had masterminded the whole seduction. She was a beautiful woman, after all, a point on which Faith needed no reminding. And Mitch was a man. A man who up to a year prior had fed his appetites as regularly as her mother fed Blarney. As much as she didn't want to admit it, a part of her understood why Mitch had fallen prey.

A soft sigh feathered her lips, and Faith wondered if she would ever marry. It seemed whenever she fell in love, something derailed it, and she contemplated devoting her life to God at the St. Stephen's Convent. But only for a moment, and then thoughts of Mitch would come racing through her mind, trampling the religious vocation faster than the clip of her heart.

"So, have you even worked today?" Maisie asked, rudely interrupting Faith's daydream. "I mean, I've walked by three different times, and all I've seen is you mooning into space. Let me feel those keys-I'll bet they're cold!" She poked at Faith's Underwood.

Faith pretended to scowl. "You can be such a pain, you know that, Maisie? How did we ever become friends?"

Maisie's brows lifted a full half inch. "Don't you remember? Miss Hayword figured you needed to learn from the brightest, most attractive typist in the pool!"

Faith smirked and looked at her watch. "Thank goodness it's five o'clock." She bent to grab her purse. "Honestly, for some reason, this has been the hardest day to concentrate. I swear, if had to type one more obituary, I would have screamed."

"So that's why you kept drifting off into dreamland, eh? I thought it might be because of a certain editor at the Times."

Faith delivered a withering look as she put the cover on her typewriter. "You know, I didn't realize how good I had it back in Ireland with no one to drive me crazy."

Maisie feigned surprise. "Oh, don't you remember? You had Mitch!" She exposed a toothy grin, and Faith finally laughed. There was nothing else to do. Maisie could bottomline it better than anyone she knew and pull a smile out of you as she did it.

"Okay, okay, I miss him-horribly! Ohhhh! Where is the anger when you need it?" she cried as she draped the back of her wrist dramatically against her forehead.

"At least you're finally admitting it. Honestly, Faith, how could you expect me to believe you hated him after all the lovesick letters you wrote? I mean, really, credit me with some intelligence, will you?"

Faith's smile softened. "I know. I was pretty angry when I arrived in Boston, and yes, I will confess I now see things differently. But only because Mrs. Gerson helped me see the error of my ways."

"So, what are you going to do about it?"

"I'm not sure. What if he's in love with someone else by now?"

Maisie rolled her eyes and groaned. "If even a tenth of what you wrote in your letters is true, the man is so crazy in love, he should be committed. You need to write him."

"I want to, but ..."

"But what?" Maisie asked. She folded her arms.

Faith slumped back in her chair, lost in a bleak stare. Her throat bobbed with emotion. "There's a part of me that's scared."

"About what?" Maisie sat down in the empty desk next to her, her brows knitted in a frown.

Faith released a heavy breath and glanced up. "I miss Mitch and I still care about him, I do, but I think I'm scared to trust him again."

Maisie put a hand on Faith's arm. "That's understandable, Faith-he hurt you. But you also left without giving him a chance to explain, a chance to make it right. If Mitch Dennehy is even half the man you said he is, you owe him that chance ... and yourself."

Faith bit her lip, and Maisie's cheeks huffed with an impatient sigh. "Honestly, Faith, if I didn't love you so much, I'd boot you from here to Ireland just to shake you up. Goodness, how did you ever manage without me? You love the man; he loves you. He made a mistakegive him a chance to make it right. How hard is that to understand?"

Faith mulled over Maisie's words, then broke into a grin. "Okay, I will! Oh, by the way, you're supposed to come to dinner tonight. Mrs. Gerson asked me to invite you."

Maisie arched a brow. "Oh, really? And when exactly were you planning on telling me? After dessert?"

Faith laughed and gave her a hug. "I'm sorry, my mind has been somewhere else, I suppose. I'm moving back into our house tomorrow, so I've been preoccupied with that."

"And Mitch."

A foolish grin tickled Faith's lips. "And Mitch," she repeated.

"Oh. Didn't notice," Maisie said with a yawn.

Faith gave her a wry smile. "That's why Mrs. Gerson is making such a fuss about dinner tonight. It's my farewell. So, can you come?"

"Are you kidding? Pass up one of Mrs. Gerson's homecooked meals? I think not," Maisie said with a note of indignation. She leaned forward to flick Faith on the head, and the two giggled all the way to the door.

When they arrived at Mrs. Gerson's, the house was dark. Maisie's brows rumpled in a frown. "I thought you said she was fixing dinner? Are you sure it's tonight?"

"I'm sure," Faith said quietly. Her fingers felt thick as she fumbled with the spare key to unlock the door.

"Mrs. Gerson?"

The dining room was empty, eclipsed in shadows from a single light in the foyer. Its table was void of any signs of a dinner, and Faith stopped to listen. Shards of fear prickled her skin.

"I don't understand ..." Maisie began.

Faith waved her quiet. "Mrs. Gerson?" She waited for an answer, her heart thumping in her chest. Her mouth opened to cry out again when she heard the response, frail and broken, from the gloom of the parlor.

"In here, Faith."

The room was as black as pitch, and Faith blinked to adjust her eyes, moving toward a form sitting on the edge of the sofa, stiff and straight in the shadows. "Mrs. Gerson, are you all right?" she asked, her voice cloaked in fear.

The old woman's head slowly moved back and forth. A faint mewing sound came from her lips. And then Faith saw it-a piece of paper floating in her hand. In slow motion, Faith reached to take it. The feel of it was fragile and light to her fingers, but its heaviness crushed her lungs.

"It's a telegram ... from your sister. I had the delivery boy read it to me. Your father ..." Mrs. Gerson couldn't go on.

Everything in the room seized to a stop. "What?" she whispered, and for the first time in her life she saw Mrs. Gerson weep.

"Your father ... he ... he was killed ..." Mrs. Gerson said, breaking on a sob.

The breath left Faith's lungs. Fear coiled within her and wrenched a moan from her lips. Maisie rushed to her side, but Faith slapped her away, hovering over Mrs. Gerson, her fists clenched at her sides. "It's not true! God wouldn't let it happen, Mrs. Gerson-you've taught me that. No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper,' that's what you said! You quoted it, Mrs. Gerson ... from the Bible!"

Weeping, the old woman rose to embrace her, but Faith pushed her aside. She fled to the light of the foyer, the telegram fluttering in her hand. She blinked to focus through the blur of tears and then cried out in anguish. "Maisie!" she screamed. "Read it ... I can't see!"

Maisie took the paper from her hand. Fear bobbed in her throat as she scanned it.

"Read it!" Faith screamed again.

Maisie flinched. "Father killed in action in France. Stop. Mother and Mitch arriving by weekend. Stop. Please tell Faith. Stop. Charity."

The room started to spin, and there was a drone in her brain, but Faith ignored it. Her legs weakened as she staggered to the sofa where Mrs. Gerson sat hunched and weeping. Her eyes burned, and she squeezed them shut. Hot tears scalded her face. Mrs. Gerson reached to touch her, and this time she didn't fight.

Never had she come this close to wanting to die. How could she go on in a world without her father? He was the strength of the family, of her life as she knew it, other than God, and Faith could not fathom life without him. They had managed in Ireland only because they had been waiting, waiting for their once-happy lives to begin again. The war was to be only a brief pause in their otherwise blissful existence, not an end to it all. God had promised, hadn't he?

She thought of her mother, and anguish filled her soul.

"Oh, God," she cried. "You said you would never leave us nor forsake us. Where are you?"

Mrs. Gerson rose and put her hand on her head, and Faith felt her body go limp as the old woman prayed. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she heard Maisie reading, her words a distant murmuring in her brain ...

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me ... "

A whimpering sob choked from Faith's throat, and her limbs felt like boulders as she rose from the couch. Mrs. Gerson reached to steady her arm, and Faith grasped the old woman's hand. "I need to go ... go to my room .. she whispered.

Mrs. Gerson nodded, and Faith inched forward, teetering on her feet.

"I'll walk you up," Maisie said.

Faith stared as if she didn't understand her words. "I have to go up," she repeated in a lifeless tone. Maisie hooked an arm around her waist and led her upstairs.

She had no recollection of Maisie walking her to the room, nor did she remember getting undressed and into bed. The only memory lodged in her brain was the chilling sound of Maisie's voice as she read the telegram; the shock of it reverberated in her mind as she lay staring at the ceiling. The pain buzzed in her brain and ripped at her heart until she thought she would lose her mind. "Oh, God," she cried, "I can't get through this ... I can't! I've lost my father ..."