A Passion Most Pure (8 page)

Faith sniffed. "I believe that. But what do I do with these feelings for now? I can't seem to fight them."

Mrs. Gerson chuckled. "Oh, you'll fight them, all right. In a manner that will infuriate the devil more than you can know. You will, my dear, pray for this young man. Each time the feelings come, chase them away by praying that God will bring this Collin McGuire to his knees before the throne of God. Oh, the devil will hate that! With each prayer spoken, you'll find the heartache slowly receding. Trust me on this, my dear; when you pray for those who hurt you, remarkable things happen."

"Mrs. Gerson?" Faith's tone was troubled. "I desperately want to have strength ... should he ever confront me again."

"Not to worry," Mrs. Gerson said as she rose to her feet. She toddled toward the kitchen with a mischievous smile on her lips. "That prayer belongs to me, my dear. And we both know how much I enjoy giving the devil his due."

Collin might have heard the church bells pealing if his brain wasn't pounding in his head. As it was, the blinding glare of the sun peeking over the horizon was the only reminder he'd stayed too long at Brannigan's Pub. His hands were sluggish and clumsy as he fumbled with the key in the door, and he was making far too much noise for someone who hoped to maintain a degree of stealth.

Before he could turn the knob, the door swung open. In an instant, he knew his hopes for avoiding confrontation with his mother were not based in reality. He blinked and tried to smile despite the throbbing in his head, but she only stared at him coldly. Her eyes were puffy and ringed with dark shadows, suggesting a fitful night's sleep. Or none at all.

"Mother, you're up. I hope I didn't wake you."

"Of course I'm up. It's morning, Collin. You promised me you would be home early. You promised. But obviously you've the same talent for breaking promises as your father."

Her words were a punch to the gut. He bit hard on his tongue, fearful he would say something he would regret. She was his mother, after all. He owed her that. He pushed past her to his room.

She followed, jerking his arm to spin him around. "You're worthless, just like your father, you know that, Collin? I should have never married him. I could have avoided all of this. Instead, I'm living in a rundown flat in a wretched part of town." She flung his arm away and stepped back, the rage in her eyes tempered by a gloss of tears. She shivered. "With nothing to my name but the shame of a son with the morals of a cat."

He stared, his anger suddenly melting into empathy. She was alone. Her bitterness cut her off from anyone who might attempt to love her. His father had tried and failed. She had been the world to him, the love of his life. But it hadn't been enough. He'd given his love, and she took until she owned him. Collin reached for the door, his fingers taut on the knob to keep from slamming it closed.

"Good night, Mother. I'm sorry for disturbing you." With deadly calm, he quietly clicked the door in her face. He flipped the lock. She was all he had. And so when he rose from his much-needed sleep, he would make peace, exchanging civilities and common courtesies as most families did. Until the next time.

Faith couldn't resist a tiny smile. She watched Maisie harpoon the last piece of sponge cake on her plate. Finally, she'd been able to get her best friend over for dinner so her family could meet her-and love her just like Faith did. Maisie seemed delighted to meet them as well. After chuckling at one of Sean's corny jokes, she ducked to whisper something in Katie's ear.

Faith fought the urge to emit a deep sigh. Her gaze flitted from face-to-face, each rosy and smiling in the glow of flickering candlelight. Family. Good-natured teasing, the synchronized voices of children and adults laughing and sharing. She knew Maisie had never experienced anything like it before. Unless you counted Thanksgiving at Aunt Edna's, which, according to Maisie, consisted of Maisie and her parents sitting around a sparsely set table with her poor, near-deaf aunt. The meal would usually progress in silence, occasionally punctuated by inane topics such as Aunt Edna's arthritis or the neighbor's fondness for gin. As an only child of immigrant parents, Maisie Tanner was obviously mesmerized by this nerve center of perpetual motion known as the O'Connor family.

Washing her dessert down with a gulp of milk, Faith turned to her mother. "I know it's my turn to clear the table, but Maisie needs to do some research at the library for a night class she's taking. Would you mind if I went with her? I've arranged to read to Mrs. Gerson tomorrow night instead."

Marcy smiled. "No, of course not, Faith. Beth can clear the table for you tonight, and you can take her turn next week. Is that all right with you, Beth?"

Elizabeth nodded, giggling at Steven as he sculpted uneaten mashed potatoes on his plate.

"Mother. . ." Charity's voice sounded tentative. "I have a paper to write also. May I go?"

Faith felt her breath hitch in her lungs. Her gaze darted to her mother's face, then to her sister's. The hopeful look on Charity's face was more than convincing.

Her mother seemed hesitant, no doubt contemplating the month of confinement she'd given Charity three weeks earlier. "Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt ..." she began, glancing up at Patrick. The smile died on her lips.

A muscle jerked in her father's jaw. "I think it would, Marcy. The answer is no."

"But Patrick, it's just the library ..."

Something cold slithered in Faith's stomach when his lips flattened into a tight line. Faith peeked at Maisie out of the corner of her eye, then shifted to stare at her plate, awaiting her father's reply. There was none.

An awkward laugh gurgled from her mother's throat. "Patrick, she's been cooped up for three weeks now and only has a few days left on her punishment. I know we haven't discussed it, but I'm sure it will be fine to let her go."

He remained silent. Faith sensed the drama in the room, keenly aware that Charity also observed the silent debate between her parents.

Like a spring-propelled toy, Charity shot from her seat. "Oh, Mother, thank you so much! I've been going stircrazy, and I really need to get out. I love you!" Before her mother could speak, Charity hugged her, then smiled at her father. "Thank you, Father." She blew a kiss in his direction, causing his lips to compress even more. "Faith, can you wait until I finish the dishes?"

Faith's eyes widened. "No, that will take-"

"No need, Charity." Her mother's voice was strained. "I'll do your dishes this evening."

Charity appeared skittish with excitement. "Mother, you're wonderful! May I be excused?"

Marcy nodded, and Charity flew from the room.

Maisie cleared her throat. "Dinner was wonderful, Mrs. O'Connor. Thank you so much. I'll help clear the table." She rose, stacking Katie's plate on top of hers, followed by utensils.

"No, you two get going; you've got a lot of research ahead of you." Patrick avoided his wife's eyes. "We enjoyed having you for dinner, Maisie. Please come again." He pushed his chair from the table and stood, his smile cool. "Marcy, may I see you in the kitchen?"

The unease in the room was as thick as the mashedpotato sculpture on Steven's plate. Faith stood and clamped a hand on Maisie's arm, dragging her from the room while she waved her good-byes. In the hall, Maisie cocked a questioning brow, but Faith simply put a finger to her lips while she ushered her friend to the parlor to wait on Charity. Faith's stomach felt as jumpy as water drops on a heated cast-iron skillet. She released a quiet sigh. Turmoil or no, Charity or no, family was family. And she wouldn't trade hers for the world.

Her heart raced like a frightened bird's as she ran to the phone and cranked its handle. She gave the operator Mary Flannery's phone number and waited for her friend to answer.

"Hello?"

"Mary? It's me, Charity. I have another favor to ask.

Would you mind running next door and giving Collin a message for me?"

Mary giggled. "You know I never mind having an excuse to talk to that man, Charity."

"Great! Would you tell him the book he's requested is in?"

A sigh drifted over the line, edged with tease. "That man sure reads a lot of books."

It was Charity's turn to giggle. "Yes, he's very well-read. Thanks, Mary. I owe you."

Charity returned the receiver to its cradle and leaned against the wall, eyes closed and hands pressed to her chest. She could hardly believe in less than an hour she would be with him again. A shiver of delight tickled her spine. She reminisced about the day on the porch and the kiss that possessed her thoughts the last three weeks. Goose bumps popped at the memory.

Inhaling a deep breath, she composed herself and opened her eyes. I must contain myself. Collin was five years older than she was, not one of the simpering schoolboys always vying for her attention. He could have any woman he wantedshe had to make sure it was her. He must see her as mature and desirable. Taking another deep breath, Charity ducked out of the kitchen and vaulted up the stairs two at a time.

She knew she could do it; doubt never even entered her mind. It was time she was concerned about. She needed time with Collin. And her parents had seen to it she had precious little of that. But she did have tonight. That is, if Mary managed to get the message to him. After tonight, she would simply take it a day at a time.

Charity entered her room, grinning. She could do that. One day-or one kiss-at a time.

Marcy knew she was in trouble when Patrick dismissed the children and began to clear the table himself.

"Father, don't you want me to do that?" Beth asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

"No, Beth, you and Steven take Katie in the parlor and read to her. I want to talk to your mother."

Marcy's stomach knotted as she watched her husband silently carry dishes and utensils to the kitchen. Reluctantly she followed, feeling as if she were treading on uncertain ground. Patrick and she seldom argued, and their relationship knew little strain. This was all so new to her-he was not a man of silence. Marcy stood at the door, almost timidly, then entered the kitchen, allowing the door to swing closed behind her. Patrick turned, and her heart thumped. The tenderness that always accompanied his gaze was gone. In its place was a spark of angry fire, the only sign of energy in his weary-looking body.

"Marcy, am I or am I not the head of this household?" His voice was quiet-too quiet. She nodded.

"Well, then tell me," he continued in a monotone voice, "why did you break with Charity's punishment without consulting me?"

"Patrick, I'm sorry, I know we agreed-"

"Yes, we did. And now my daughter has had it reaffirmed to her once again that all she need do is smile a pretty smile and flutter those lashes, and she can get her way."

"Patrick, you're being ridiculous."

"Am I, Marcy? Charity's a very bright girl who knows how to use her wiles to manipulate a situation. She wants control, and we cannot afford to give it to her."

Marcy's jaw tightened. "Don't you think you're carrying it to the extreme? She's a child of sixteen, not a con artist trying to pull the wool over our eyes."

Patrick slowly loosened his tie and rubbed his neck, his eyes locked on hers. "We must present a united front, especially where Charity is concerned. We have never wavered from that in the discipline of the children, and we must not start now. We cannot, and will not, waver with Charity. I won't allow it."

She felt the blood rushing to her cheeks and found she had little control over the hurt and anger that spewed from her lips. "You won't allow it! I've been married to you for over twenty-one years, Patrick O'Connor-don't start dictating to me now how to raise my children." She shivered as she stood there, arms clenched at her waist.

In several abrupt steps forward, he loomed before her, his eyes intense. He didn't touch her but pressed uncomfortably close, hands fisted at his sides. When it comes to the welfare of my children, Mrs. O'Connor, you will, in the future, consult me regarding your decisions. Am I making myself perfectly clear?"

For a moment her breath wedged in her throat before spilling forth in a rush of angry defiance. "And you, Mr. O'Connor, in the future, can find somewhere else to sleep! Am I making myself perfectly clear?" Her tone was shrill.

He flinched as if she'd just spat in his face. For a brief moment, hurt flecked in his eyes before giving way to the coldest of steel. She watched in disbelief as he reached for his coat and jerked the door open wide, the wind banging it against the wall.

"Patrick, wait . . ." she heard herself say, but the door ricocheted and slammed shut on her choked words. Marcy stood dazed, hot tears pooling in her eyes. What just happened? She ran and flung the door open, calling his name, but her words were only met by a bluster of wind. She shivered, the chill of the air as cold as the chill in her heart. Her hands trembled as she slowly closed the door. She moved like a sleepwalker toward the table and sat down. Her heart felt so empty-like her bed would be tonight, she thought. The realization hit her hard, causing a fresh wave of tears.

Her hands were like ice as she leaned on them to pray. "Forgive me, Lord, for losing my temper and hurting my Patrick. Please Lord, soften his heart and help him to forgive me." Wiping the wetness from her cheek, she blew her nose. Dear me, what would I do without the Lord? She blinked, and fresh tears glossed her eyes. And dear Lord, what would I do without Patrick?