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A Heart Revealed

By Julie Lessman

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A HEART REVEALED
Prologue

Dublin, Ireland, 1916
She heard it before she felt it. Harsh air sucking through clenched teeth, the grunt of an arm raised, the soft swish of a hand slicing the air.
“I want the truth—”
And then she felt it. The crack of his knuckles when her jaw met the back of his hand, the thud of her head against the wall, the putrid rise of nausea as it climbed in her throat.
“Did you sleep with him?”
“No, I swear—”
“Liar!”
Cruel hands rattled her shoulders while the vile stench of whiskey smothered her air. The taste of blood and vomit soured her tongue, forcing the words to heave from her throat. “It was an innocent comment, I swear, from a friend and nothing more …”
He wrenched her arm and her scream pierced the night before he jerked her close, his foul breath hot against her skin. “You think I’m stupid, do ya? I see the way he looks at you, the way they all look at you …”
“It doesn’t matter, Rory—you’re the one I love—only you!” The air seized in her lungs as she waited for her words to take effect. Blood pulsing in her brain, she licked her lips and forced her gaze to his, watching as his rage slowed and simmered into lust. Her body quivered as she pressed in close, tracing his mouth with a shaky finger. The violent throb of her pulse betrayed the casual huskiness of her whisper. “You … I only want you … forever and ever.”
He stared, the crazed look in his eye finally fading into the smoldering obsession she had mistaken for love. Jerking her close, he devoured her with his mouth, his lips hard and cruel as they plumbed the depths of his desire. He shoved her to the wall, pinning her there with a possessive gaze while his hands took the liberties allowed to a husband. “Mine … you’re all mine, Emma, and no other man can ever have you—do you hear?”
His breathing quickened as taut arms swallowed her up. “Don’t you know how much I love you?” he whispered, his voice pleading as the dark bristle of his late-day beard ground against her cheek. He jerked away to cup her face in his hands, all of his fury suddenly chased away by the lovesick look in his eyes. A gentle smile lifted the corners of his mouth, transforming his handsome face into the lost, little boy she’d fallen in love with. “Emma, my beautiful, beautiful Emma, I’m sorry for hitting you, love, and I swear from now on, I’ll give you all the love you deserve.”
His kiss was gentler this time, and her eyes fluttered closed. Mrs. Rory Malloy—the envy of every girl on O’Connell Street. Her sweat-soaked blouse shivered against her skin. Every lass’s dream … and one woman’s nightmare. Rory’s whispers of love tickled her ear, but all she could hear was her father’s curse, ricocheting off the battered walls of her mind.
I pray to God you get what you deserve …
With a gentle stroke of her cheek, Rory carried her into their bedroom. He closed the door with the tip of his shoe, severing the light as surely as he’d severed the hope from her soul.
Not to worry, Da … I did.



And thus the secrets of his heart are revealed;
and so, falling down on his face, he will worship God
and report that God is truly among you.
—1 Corinthians 14:25

A HEART REVEALED

Chapter One

Boston, Massachusetts July 4, 1931
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride … and the saints be praised! Blessed relief curved Emma Malloy’s mouth into a gentle smile. She inhaled a deep breath of rose-scented air while Charity O’Connor tucked an arm to her waist, palm resting against the pink chiffon of Emma’s bridesmaid dress. With a contented sigh that merged with Emma’s own, the two best friends studied Charity’s youngest sister Katie, laughing as her new husband slipped the garter from her leg.
“Brides and babies have to be some of God’s most beautiful creatures.” Charity’s tone was wistful. She rested her head against Emma’s, the two of them lost in a sea of noisy guests celebrating Katie and Luke’s wedding in a cozy back room of Kearney’s Café.
Ivy garland from the O’Connor garden looped its way along a lace-covered table where a crystal vase of yellow roses presided over cake and punch. Long rectangular tables were cloaked in a wide array of tablecloths on loan from the other three O’Connor sisters, all sporting crystal bud vases abloom with roses in varying shades as different as the sisters themselves. Dusty pink for 27-year-old Lizzie—the color of the shy blush that often tinged her cheeks—blended nicely with the vibrant scarlet blooms that her older sister Charity seemed to prefer. Creamy white tea roses called to mind the innocence and sincerity of Charity’s eldest sister Faith, while Katie’s bridal bouquet of lemon-yellow roses bespoke the joy and promise of a new beginning.
Emma couldn’t help but smile at the thought of four sisters who “cloaked” each other as well—and her—with a mantle of love and support as beautifully woven as any lace tablecloth. From Katie’s independent zest for life and Lizzie’s soft-spoken gentleness, to Faith’s solid faith and Charity’s quirky humor, Emma felt more like a sister than a friend in this family that she now claimed as her own. A sigh feathered her lips as she leaned in, tilting her own chin-length brunette curls against Charity’s golden Marcel waves. “Mmm … brides and babies, yes,” she repeated reverently, the softest hint of brogue in her tone. “And sure, when it comes to brides, our Katie is one of the most beautiful.”
Indeed, rising from the chair to stand next to her new husband, Katie glowed like the crystal chandelier overhead, her cheeks as soft and dewy as the delicate bouquet in her hand.
“Oh-oh—look! She’s getting ready to throw the bouquet.” Charity tugged Emma closer while a surge of young women pressed forward with outstretched arms. Turning her back to the crowd, Katie launched the bouquet over her shoulder in a wide sweep.
Plunk. Emma stared at her feet in shock, where Katie’s bouquet nestled neatly between her satin Mary Jane pumps. Pandemonium erupted with little-girl shrieks and flying limbs. Emma blinked, too stunned to move.
In a blur, Charity snatched the flowers from the jaws of death and thrust them in her hands. “It’s yours, Mrs. Malloy, married or not. And may it bring you the happiness you so richly deserve.”
Heat gorged Emma’s cheeks. The happiness she so richly deserves? She swallowed hard, the action almost painful for the guilt clogging her throat. Oh, Charity, that’s blasphemy …
“Hey, no fair—she’s already married,” ten-year-old Gabriella objected. The O’Connor’s tomboy foster child crossed her arms in indignation, the spray of freckles on her heart-shaped face all bunched in a frown. Eyes the same deep mahogany of her hair narrowed considerably, ready to take Emma on.
Charity tweaked a dark banana curl on her foster-sister’s shoulder. “The flowers will be dead tomorrow, Gabe. Let the woman have some happiness, will you?”
“But … but I can’t …” Emma managed with a hard swallow.
“They’re flowers, Emma, not a death sentence, so enjoy them.” Charity cocked a brow. “Did you even have a bouquet when you took your vows?”
Emma shook her head, avoiding Charity’s eyes.
“Well then, consider it the bouquet you never had at your own wedding, all right?”
“But … but … they should go to somebody who’s not …” Emma thrust the bouquet back at Charity, her voice a strained whisper. “married.”
“There’s nobody more ‘not married’ than you, Mrs. Malloy, cheating sot of a husband notwithstanding.” Charity cupped an arm around her friend’s shoulder. “Enjoy the flowers, will you, Emma? They may well be the only decent thing you’ll ever see out of a marriage.”
Cheeks burning, Emma hid her discomfort with her nose buried in the bouquet, the scent of the flowers far sweeter than the memory of her past. At thirty-one years of age, she was quite certain that Charity was right. Over eleven years ago, a handsome Irishman named Rory Malloy had dashed her hopes of happiness with a pan of hot grease that scarred her face during a drunken fit. Suddenly, she was no longer the comely Irish lass who had turned his head, but an albatross as disfigured and scarred as their love had proven to be. She closed her eyes, lost in the satiny spray of roses in her hand. Grazing the ribboned stem of the bouquet with her thumb, she felt the prick of a forgotten thorn and sighed, reminded of just how painful marriage could be.
From the moment Rory had put the ring on her finger, it seemed her happily ever after had quickly dissolved into a murky nightmare of physical and emotional abuse, finally ending when he moved in with another woman. The pain of her sham marriage had convinced Emma once and for all that for some women—at least women like her—marriage was not a good thing. She sighed as Luke dipped his bride back to smother her throat with kisses. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Katie happier or more beautiful. The perfect bride, I’d say.”
A throaty chuckle quivered the chiffon bodice of Charity’s bridesmaid gown. She pulled back to give Emma a mischievous smile. “You mean the perfect distraction when Luke discovers “our Katie” is anything but the ‘perfect’ wife.”
Emma’s fingers playfully nipped at Charity’s waist. “Stop that, Mrs. Dennehy. Katie and Luke were made for each other, and everyone knows it.”
Charity sighed and studied the happy couple. “I know. I guess it’s the “iron sharpening iron” Scripture in play. True, Luke agreed Katie can continue to work with him at the Boston Children’s Aid Society three days a week while Lizzie takes care of Kit. But … everybody knows he’s bent on having a family, so I suspect Katie’s tenure at the BCAS will be short lived. Five to ten says sparks will fly when he tries to lower the boom after the honeymoon.”
“Lower the boom?” Emma repeated with a lift of her brows. Her eyes flicked to Luke as he tugged his 15-month-old daughter “Kitty Kat” out of the arms of Katie’s sister, Lizzie, with a tickle of Kitty’s ribs. Husky baby giggles echoed in the room as he planted a kiss on her tummy.
“Yeah, you know, like Mitch did with me ten years ago? We get married, he buys the store for you and me to manage and then, boom! I get pregnant with the twins, and my working days are over. And in the blink of an eye, you’re saddled with a store to manage all by yourself while I’m locked in an ivory tower like Rapunzel with a shoulder-length bob.” Charity shot an affectionate scowl at her husband who was deep in a conversation with her brothers, Sean and Steven, then returned her knowing gaze to the newlyweds. “Trust me, Mrs. Malloy, as much as those two like to have their own way, this will be a marriage where sparks will fly.”
Emma bumped Charity’s shoulder with a teasing grin. “Yes, Rapunzel, but apparently it’s worked for you and Mitch. Besides, I thought ‘sparks’ were a good thing.”
Charity’s grin bordered on wicked. “Oh, they are, my friend—that is, if you learn how to channel the heat. And trust me, with those two, there will be plenty of heat. Let’s face it—you don’t just marry an Irishman, you marry a stubborn streak and an Irish temper.”
“Not all Irishmen are like that,” Emma defended, brow puckering at the mere mention of “temper.” Despite the heat of the room, a chill iced her spine at the memory of Rory’s ‘Irish temper’ before she’d left him in Dublin over ten years ago. Deliver me from men with tempers …
Charity’s eyes narrowed. “Name one.”
With a heft of her chin, Emma rose to the challenge. “Well, your brother, Sean, for one. He doesn’t have a lick of a temper and he’s the sweetest, most easy-going man I’ve ever met.”
Charity’s gaze honed in on her unmarried brother across the room who stood, arms folded and hip cocked to the wall, chatting with his brothers-in-law.
Emma’s gaze followed and then paused. Odd … Sean’s trademark smile was absent and his manner, uncharacteristically stiff, a stark contrast to the others, who were laughing over something Mitch was saying. Emma frowned.
“Oh, I’ll go along with that, but remember he’s Irish, Emma, so what Sean doesn’t have in temper, he makes up for in stubbornness.” She leaned close, as if Sean were close enough to hear. “And although no one ever sees it, trust me—there’s a temper lurking inside of that easy-going brother of mine. I only saw it once, mind you, when he was thirteen, but suffice it to say that it was that very ‘temper’ that effectively bashed in Herman Finkel’s head.”
“What?” Emma turned, her eyes wide. “What on earth happened?”
Charity pursed her lips as she studied her brother. “Well, Sean was walking me home from school one day when we passed the park where Herman was heckling Becky Landers.” Charity rolled her eyes. “God give me the grace to understand why little boys feel the need to torment the little girls they like …” Pausing, she shot a narrow gaze at her husband. “Big boys, too, come to think of it.” She shook her head as if to dispel the thought. “Well, anyway, I had this sneaky feeling that Sean had a secret crush on Becky because as we all know, men are so obvious, when all of a sudden Herman tosses a snow ball her way. Saints preserve us, Sean leveled the poor kid like a runaway train, knocking him flat. I’m telling you, Emma, before Sean was through, poor Herman had a split lip, black eyes and a chipped tooth.”
“No!” Emma’s jaw dropped.
“Yes,” Charity said, conspiracy thick in her tone. “Our gentle, non-confrontational Sean O’Connor, the man who wouldn’t hurt a fly—suddenly pummeling poor Herman like Jack Dempsey on a bad day. That night, Mr. Finkel threatened Father with the police.” A secret smile formed on Charity’s lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Father so angry. Not sure what he said or did to Sean other than confiscate profits from his paper route for a solid year, but whatever it was, I never saw Sean lose his temper again.” A twinkle lit in Charity’s eyes as she gave Emma a smug look. “But as we all know, ‘still waters run deep.’ So for all his squalling about being a confirmed bachelor until the day he dies, Herman Finkel is living proof that my brother is lying through his teeth when he says he has no interest in women.”
Emma bit back a grin. “Poor Sean—desperate to remain a bachelor and he has you as a sister—the Queen of Romance.”
Charity slid Emma a narrow gaze. “It’s for his own good, Emma, and you know it. Look at the man—he’s at his own sister’s wedding, for pity’s sake, and he looks like his tie is too tight. Somebody has to put him out of his misery, because I won’t rest until I see both of my brothers happily wed.”
“He does look pretty miserable,” Emma said with a chew of her lip.
“Of course he’s miserable—he hates weddings even more than being home sick with the flu. Which validates his stubbornness and neatly lumps him right in with every other Irish man.”
Emma shook her head. “I don’t know—I’ve known Sean for over ten years now, and I’ve never seen it. He’s the peacemaker, the buffer, the Rock of Gibraltar everyone relies on. Seems like he always accommodates others just to keep everyone happy.”
A low chuckle escaped Charity’s lips. “Oh, he’s a rock all right, right along with rest of them, starting with Father and Mitch and right on down to Katie’s new husband. Trust me, Mt. Rushmore has nothing on these guys, which,” Charity said with a nod in Katie and Luke’s direction, “brings me right back to the inevitable sparks between Katie and Luke. I mean, really, how appropriate is it for them to get married on the Fourth of July?”
“Mmm,” Emma said, studying the happy couple with a tilt of her head. “Practically perfect except for missing the fireworks display at Revere Beach. I know how much Katie loves fireworks, so it’s a shame she’ll miss them this year.”
Folding her arms, Charity nudged her elbow against Emma’s while mischief glinted in her blue eyes. “Well, judging from the way Luke ‘s been looking at her all day, I’d say Katie will have all the fireworks she can handle.”
“Sean!” The room stilled at the booming sound of the groom’s voice, edged with laughter. All eyes turned to the men by the wall, including Emma’s, who followed the lightening thrust of Luke McGee’s hand while her smile remained buried in Katie’s bouquet.
Lost in conversation, Sean glanced up in surprise. Ever the athlete, he instinctively reached to catch whatever Luke was tossing his way. Whistles and cheers rose as he blinked at the pretty, lacy garter clutched in his upraised fist. Split-second realization forced color into his cheeks. And then, with a skewed smile and an innocent slant of heavy blond brows, the garter slipped through his fingers to the floor. “Whoops ….”
Charity’s husband Mitch retrieved the unwanted garter with a deft swipe of his hand and bobbled it with a grin. He shoved it into Sean’s breast pocket next to the white silk handkerchief and rose boutonnière. “Sorry, old boy, but this one belongs to you, and everybody here knows it. And I don’t mind saying, we all think it’s long, long overdue.”
Sean plucked the garter from his pocket and slipped it on his arm, all embarrassment apparently forgotten as he grinned at his brothers-in-law. “I do believe I detect a bit of jealousy from the ranks of the married. Well, unlike you poor slobs, it will take more than trickery from Luke McGee and a bit of lace to get me to the altar.”
“Yeah, like four sisters and a mother on a round-the-clock novena.” Mitch said with a chuckle, slapping him on the back. “Face it, Sean—your bachelor days are numbered.”
Shouts and laughter erupted as Luke ushered Katie toward the door with a suitcase in his hand. Katie’s sister, Lizzie, followed behind, eyes moist as she snuggled a sleepy Kit.
“Now you give me a call when you get to New York, you hear?” Mrs. O’Connor squeezed Katie in a tearful hug. “So I know you’re okay?”
Patrick O’Connor shook Luke’s hand and shot his wife an off-center smile. “For pity’s sake, Marcy, Katie Rose is a married woman now, not a youngster underfoot who has to check in. Leave the newlyweds be.” He swooped Katie up in a ferocious hug and winked at his new son-in-law. “Besides, she’s Luke’s problem now, not ours.”
“Father!” Mock indignation laced Katie’s tone as she gave her father a playful smack.
“It’s all under control, Mr. O’Connor,” Luke said with an easy grin. He pressed a firm hand against the small of Katie’s back, totally ignoring the sudden lift of her brow. “And we will call tonight, Mrs. O’Connor, rest assured. Thank you all for everything.”
“Do we get calls too?” Charity asked with a dance of her brows.
Katie laughed and deposited a gentle kiss on Kit’s cheek, now sound asleep against Lizzie’s shoulder. “Nope, only Lizzie so we can check in on Kit.” She dispensed hugs to all three of her sisters. “You and Faith will have to wait till I get back because we’ll be very busy. Luke has a full agenda planned, lots of things he wants me to see and do in his old hometown.”
“Uh-huh … I’m quite sure he does …” Charity said with a tease in her tone.
“Charity!” Emma’s cheeks tinged pink, along with Faith, Lizzie and Katie’s, who sneaked a quick glance at Luke while he conversed with her parents.
Faith tweaked the back of Charity’s neck. “Ignore her, Katie, we all know she’s got a one-track mind. Just make sure Luke takes you to the Empire State Building, you hear? It opened three months ago, and it’s supposed to be fabulous.”
“Oh, yes,” Emma breathed, “You’ll have to tell us all about it. It’s the tallest building in the world and even has an observatory on the 86th floor with incredible views of the city.” She sighed and gave Katie a tight hug. “Why, that high up, your head’s sure to be in the clouds.”
A grin tugged at Katie’s lips. “It already is, Emma.” Her eyes grew misty as she touched a gentle hand to Emma’s cheek and then to her sisters’. “I love you all so much, and I can’t thank you enough for your prayers and support. What does one do without sisters, I wonder?”
Emma smiled and squeezed Katie’s hand. “One prays for friends who are just as dear.”
“Taxi’s waiting, you two,” Steven said with a grin, bobbling his father’s car keys in hand.
“Ready, Katie?” Luke cupped a secure hand to Katie’s waist.
“Hey, McGee …” Sean and his brothers-in-law forged forward to give Katie a hug before slapping Luke on the back. Sean flicked the garter on his arm with a chuckle. “Trust me—you’ll pay for this dearly in our next game on the court.”
Luke delivered a cocky smile on the way to the door. “Lookin’ forward to it, Sean. Now that we’re related, I won’t have to take it so easy on you.”
Emma smiled when Charity and her entire family shadowed Katie and Luke out the door. A gentle sigh floated from her lips. Family. I wonder if they know how truly blessed they are …
“Sweet tea in Georgia, a solid week without Mr. Priss in the office—imagine that!” Bobbie Sue Dulay, one of Luke’s employees from the BCAS sauntered over to Emma with a purse under her arm. “Talk about a week off with pay.”
Emma grinned up at the older blond-haired woman who far exceeded Emma in girth, height and humor. “Yes, Katie tells me he can be pretty particular about things in the office.”
“Humph. That’s the toad callin’ the frog homely for sure. If I didn’t know better, I suspec’ those two of being twins separated at birth.” Bobbie Sue shook her head as she watched the newlyweds duck out the door. “Yep, a marriage made in heaven for shore, if you’re in mind for a little spice in your life.”
A marriage made in heaven. Against her will, the smile stiffened on Emma’s face. She worked hard to appear attentive while Bobbie Sue prattled on, but somehow her thoughts wandered to Rory. Heaven had had nothing to do with what she and Rory had shared, and for the first time in long while, a hint of melancholy stole into her mood. Luke and Katie had it all—a marriage made in heaven, a family to love and the blessings of God—and at the thought, a rare malaise settled on Emma Malloy. Like Katie and Luke, Emma had spoken vows too, and given an oath. She swallowed hard as she absently nodded at something Bobbie Sue said. Yet, love like that would never be hers, she realized, and although she had accepted that long, long ago, that didn’t stop the sting of tears that suddenly pricked in her eyes.
“Are you okay?” A crease popped in Bobbie Sue’s brow as she bent to study Emma’s face, freckles all bunched in a frown. “Why, honey, you’re bubbling like you’re fixing to cry.”
Emma blinked, then drew in a deep breath and forced a smile. “Come on, Bobbie Sue, let’s get some wedding cake, shall we? And don’t mind me,” she said with a quick swipe at her eyes. She linked arms with the woman, then squared her shoulders as they strolled to the other side of the room. “I’m notorious for crying over weddings.” Her smile was unnaturally bright as she ignored the stab in her heart.
Especially my own.
***
“Well, the wedding was a hit, Mrs. O’Connor. You and Katie did a wonderful job, and on a shoestring budget, no less.” Emma bent to slip off her heels and massage her feet.
Despite a room in shambles from wilted flowers, spilled punch, and crumbs on the floor, a sense of satisfaction could be seen in each of the faces around the table. The silence in Kearny’s backroom was a welcome relief from noisy well-wishers and shrieking cousins who’d spent the last two hours running wild. Now that guests had departed and all children had been shipped off to neighbors for safekeeping, nothing was left but cleanup.
Marcy O’Connor tucked a stray curl behind her ear, her honey-colored bob laced with almost invisible strands of silver, and Emma couldn’t help but think she seemed more of an older sister than the mother of her three daughters in the room. Her tone was tired but content. “Thanks, Emma. And a hit, indeed. Especially with Patrick who’s lost more than one night’s sleep worrying about the cost of this wedding. I swear the man used to enjoy the sleep of the dead, but not anymore. At least not since this awful depression started two years ago. I’m just grateful Katie and Luke suggested a cake and punch reception here rather than a dinner at a hotel or an expensive hall. And with Luke getting this room free and Collin and Brady printing the invitations and programs as a gift, not to mention you girls providing flowers and cakes, Patrick O’Connor may actually sleep tonight.”
Lizzie grinned. “He should. Four daughters married and no more weddings to pay for—maybe he’ll sleep for days.”
“Oh, that sounds so good, doesn’t it?” Charity said with a scrunch of her nose, head propped in her hand.
Faith chuckled. “No more daughters, true, but that doesn’t necessarily mean no more weddings to pay for, does it, Mother?”
Marcy chewed on her lip and chanced a peek across the room. Patrick and the other men appeared to be glued to the radio he’d insisted on bringing so he wouldn’t miss the Sox and Yankees game during cleanup. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “No … not necessarily.”
Charity leaned in, arms on the table and lips parted in a faint smile. She squinted. “You have discussed adopting Gabe with Father, haven’t you, Mother?”
A faint hint of color washed into Marcy’s cheeks as her gaze darted to her husband and back. “Hush, Charity, will you? I’ll tell your father when the time is right.” Her lips crooked to the right. “And trust me—after paying for his fourth daughter’s wedding, cake reception or no—would not be the right time for Patrick O’Connor.” She scrunched her nose. “I’ll give the poor man a month or so to get over the shock of this expense, and then I’ll ease him into it slowly.” She sighed and rose to her feet. “Well, we best get busy. Mr. Kearney needs this room for a recital tonight. Did everybody bring a change of clothes, I hope? He said we could use the kitchen area off in back as a dressing room.”
Emma jumped up and pushed in her chair. “Not me, Marcy, but that’s okay. I rather enjoy wearing this lovely dress you made. She picked her bride’s bouquet up from the table and gave it a gentle sniff. “Would you like me to unplug the radio and ramrod the men?”
A tired grin plucked at Marcy’s lips. “Yes, Emma, please. And don’t you dare do too much, you hear? We’ll be out to help in a bit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Emma headed towards the men while Marcy and her daughters shuffled off to the storage room with high heels in hand and laughter on their lips.
“Yeah, well he may be the ‘Sultan of Swat,’ but it will be a cold day in the Devil’s kitchen before I forgive that man for leaving Boston.” Patrick O’Connor puffed on his pipe with a vengeance, smoke curling up past his handsome face, which was screwed up in a frown. He leaned over the radio, the gray in his temples glinting as he squinted to listen to the play-by-play.
Steven looped an arm around his father’s shoulder. “Come on, Pop, Babe Ruth transformed the dead-ball era into the Golden Age of Baseball, and you know it. And a record of sixty home runs? Face it, the guy doesn’t need to be forgiven, he needs to be canonized.”
“Canonized?” Faith’s husband Collin scowled. “After he deserted the Red Sox for the Yankees?”
“I’m with Steven,” Sean said. “And don’t forget he saved baseball’s rump when fans stayed away in droves after the White Sox threw the Series in 1919. Face it, Pop—baseball needed a hero, and the Babe is it.”
“Ahem.” Emma quietly cleared her throat, and seven sets of male eyes blinked up as if she were the “Babe” himself. “I have orders to start you gentlemen on cleanup.” A smile played on her lips. “And be warned—I’ve been authorized to unplug the radio, if necessary.”
The corners of Sean’s mouth edged up, easing the strain she’d noticed in his face earlier. “Now there’s a fearsome threat—sweet Emma Malloy terrorizing us with a timid smile.”
Color flooded her cheeks as she hiked her chin in true Charity fashion, biting back an answering grin. “I suggest you put the “Babe” to bed, gentlemen, before the true threat to your happy homes come bounding out of the back room.” She gave them an uncustomary wink and spun on her heel, shooting a smile over her shoulder.
“You’ve been spending too much time with my wife, Emma,” Mitch said in a dry tone, “And just for the record, Sean, there’s nothing timid about Emma when it comes to running the store. In fact, she can be as fearsome a taskmaster as Charity when she wants to be.”

Sean loosened his tie, then rolled up the shirtsleeves of his white dress shirt. He gave Emma a cheeky grin, wondering what it was about Emma Malloy that always lifted his spirits. “Oh yeah, I’ll bet—a regular bully. I’m sure she has everybody quaking in their boots.”
Another soft blush stole into Emma’s cheeks as she pivoted to face him, her teasing smile calming his belligerent mood. With a rare hint of the vamp, she tossed lustrous folds of rich, chestnut hair over one shoulder and assessed him through stunning gray eyes as pure and clear as any mountain stream. “One does not have to ‘bully’ subordinates to get what one wants, Mr. O’Connor, as you should well know from managing your own store.” One manicured brow hiked high despite the glimmer of a twinkle in her eye. “Or maybe you don’t.”
Before he could respond, she whirled around and slipped out the door and for the first time today, he felt a full-fledge grin slide across his lips. He didn’t know how she did it, but the woman had a knack for soothing his soul more than any person alive, and Sean wished he could bottle it.
Subordinates. His smile suddenly went sour at the thought of Andy, Mort and Ray. Not only were they the best employees he’d had in eleven years as manager of Kelly’s Hardware, but they were men he respected who had become good friends as well. His lips flattened into a hard line. Men who depended on him to provide jobs to take care of their families in this dire economy. His bad mood returned with a vengeance as he joined his best friend Pete to dismantle a trellis archway his mother had asked him to build for pictures.
“Hey, the wedding’s over, O’Connor, wipe that scowl off your face,” Pete said with a squint. “What’s eating you, anyway? I haven’t seen you this out of sorts since Howie Devlin’s older sister cornered you in a booth at Robinson’s.”
With a grunt, Sean ripped off a branch of his mother’s trailing cottage roses twined through the white latticework. In the process, he knocked over a milk bottle of water hidden beneath the white satin draped around the base. Water gushed, and he groaned, squatting to mop it up with the satin.
Pete grabbed the material around the other leg and started helping, peering up beneath bushy brows that framed the concern in his eyes. “What’s going on, buddy? First, you’re in one of the worst moods I’ve ever seen at your own sister’s wedding, then you’re like a bull in a china shop, two things as out of character as the Good Humor man running kids down with his truck. What’s up with you anyway? This isn’t like you.”
Sean vented with a blast of air that started at the base of his lungs and rose like a pot ready to boil over. “Let’s just write it off as a bad day at work, okay? I’ll tell ya what though, Pete, there are days I’d like nothing more than to give old man Kelly a piece of my mind.” He wadded the satin and hurled it off to the side. “And my fist.” Rising, he reached for another branch, then quickly jerked away. “Blasted rose bush,” he muttered, scowling at the back of his forearm, which now ran red with blood from a lengthy cut.
Pete handed him a piece of the soggy satin. “Here, you’re a train wreck waiting to happen, you know that? Why don’t you go have Kearney patch you up and then maybe you need to visit the speakeasy downstairs—you could use a cold one bad.”
“Oh yeah, wouldn’t that be rich—thrown in the brig by my own brother, the prohibitions agent. No, thanks, I’d rather take it out on you on the court, Murph, if it’s all the same to you.”
Pete’s lips slanted. “Get yourself a brew, O’Connor. I’d rather not test our friendship.”
“Yeah, yeah. How about you disarm the trellis while I get this patched up? And trust me—I may just give some serious thought to that beer.” Heading for the door, Sean cocked his arm to check the bleeding right before he ran headlong into Emma.

Emma jolted, hand to her chest. “Goodness, Sean, what did you do?”
The bucket in her hands wavered, causing soapy water to surge over the side.
He lifted his arm and vented a heavy sigh while several drops of blood splattered on the floor. “Apparently I’m a hazard when it comes to dismantling rose limbs from Mother’s trellis,” he said with a dry grin. “You wouldn’t know where I could get a bandage for this, would you, Emma? I suspect she’d be none too happy if I dripped blood on this white shirt.”
Emma chewed on her lip, masking a smile. “No, but I can certainly check with Mr. Kearney. But first, we need to wash off that nasty wound.” She immediately set the bucket down and squeezed out a clean, soapy rag, clenching her teeth as she gingerly patted the blood away.
Laugh lines fanned at the side of Sean’s face, easing the deep ridge in his brow. Eyes the same clear blue as Charity’s assessed her with a hint of a smile, merging with a spray of freckles and a tan to give him the carefree air of a mischievous Huck Fin. “I think I’ll live, Mrs. Malloy.”
She met the twinkle in his eye with one of her own. “Not if you bleed all over that shirt, Sean O’Connor—your mother will have your head. Hold out your arm.” With short, gentle strokes, she cleaned the deep scratch and patted it dry, wincing at the rugged line that seemed to go on forever. “Goodness, what did you do, roll around in it?”
He flicked the lacey garter that pinched against his rather intimidating bicep. “Nope, didn’t have to. Not with this jinx on my arm. In fact, I think I’m going to get rid of this albatross right now. “He reached up and jerked the garter off, dragging it down the craggy wound as it oozed fresh blood. With a squint of his eyes, he arced the garter into waste basket across the room with a neat, clean swish. “Yes! Two points for me and zero for marriage.” He held out his arm with an easy grin. “Patch me up, Mrs. Malloy—that was a mighty close call.”
Shaking her head, she hurried out the door, shooting him a warning look tempered by a faint smile. “Don’t move! I’ll fetch some bandages from Mr. Kearney.” Moments later, she returned with supplies in hand. “This may sting,” she warned, eyes on the scratch as she re-cleaned the wound and then applied a salve. “You really don’t plan to ever get married?” she asked, unable to resist the question to a man who seemed so suited to a true depth of love, so prone to giving, and so destined for a marriage that would be happy. She wrapped a length of gauze around his arm.
“Nope. Marriage isn’t for everybody, Emma.” His voice softened to just above a whisper. “You should know that.”
She carefully tied the bandage with a knot while the comment heated her cheeks. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, tugging a frail sigh from her lips. She attempted a smile. “But you would be such a natural, Sean. I feel it in my bones.”
He gave her nose a playful tap. “Could be arthritis, you know, ever think of that? Oh sure, I guess I’m a ‘natural’ at some things—a natural clown, a natural athlete, a natural at losing at chess. But marriage?” A faint shiver shook his broad shoulders. “Trust me—the only thing that feels natural about that is staying far away from it.”
“Which at the ripe, old age of thirty-four, I’d say you’ve managed to do very nicely.” She glanced up with a tilt of her head and a curious smile. “No more problems with Miss Rose Kelly, I take it?”
Sean threaded a hand through light, sandy hair, disrupting his neat slicked-back style with a carefree tousled look that partially fell in his eyes. She noted the slight shift of his lips as they quirked to the right. “Ah … the boss’s daughter. Funny you should mention that. Remember that summer she cornered me in the backroom?”
Emma nodded and smiled.
“Well, I told her I was ‘seeing someone,’ just like we discussed, and thank goodness, that seemed to do the trick. She stopped coming into the store all the time and the next thing I hear, she’s engaged to that rich dandy her father wanted her to marry. So things were just great …” He absently rubbed his sore arm, eyes trained on the hardwood floor now littered with cake crumbs, rose petals, and confetti. His eyes flinched, then peered up with concern. “That is … until two weeks ago.”
Emma paused, hands immersed in the soapy water as she rinsed out the bloody rag. “What happened two weeks ago?” she asked with a pinch of brows.
“Nothing … yet … other than she’s been coming into the store more times in a week than I’ve seen her in the last year. You know, the same thing as before—smiling, flirting … browsing.” He cuffed the back of his neck, his usual easy smile suddenly flat. “Now I ask you, Emma, why in tarnation does a twenty-two-year-old woman with a rock on her hand the size of the Blarney Stone and a wedding a month away need to browse in a hardware store?”
Emma blinked. “I don’t know, maybe she’s on the hunt for the perfect wedding gift for her fiancé.” She chewed on her lip, her curiosity as piqued as Sean’s.
“Yeah, a length of rope and level so she can keep him in line.”
She cocked her head. “Maybe she knows he needs a particular tool. Is he handy?”
One blond brow jagged high. “Handy? The only thing handy about J. Chester Connealy is his bankroll. The man wouldn’t know a pliers from a wrench, which certainly explains how Rose locked him into this marriage. She can squeeze a man in death hold tighter than any woman I’ve ever seen, and the poor guy probably never saw it coming.”
Emma gave him a patient smile. “I’m sure he’s in love with her, Sean. After all, men are not prone to put a ring on a woman’s finger unless they are.”
“Yeah, well, I wish he’d hurry up and marry her then. Every time she comes in the store, I get this queasy feeling. Like she’s sizing me up more than the inventory.”
“Could be your imagination, you know.” Emma worked her lip to temper her smile, but the tease slipped out in her tone. “Or maybe a bit of panic due to a deathly fear of females.”
He studied her, lips pursed. “Maybe. But either way, Rose Kelly makes me downright nervous. Always has. From the moment her father brought her into the store at the age of fifteen, she’s had this … this way around me. Staring at me, asking me questions, buzzing around, closer than a shadow.” He shivered. “And when she cornered me in the supply room two summers ago and kissed the daylights out of me, well you can certainly understand why I’m just a wee bit skittish when it comes to the boss’s daughter.”
“Yes … yes, I completely understand.” She hesitated. “Well, I guess you could always pray about it, you know.”
A haze of color whooshed into his tan cheeks as he stood up tall, obviously uneasy with the idea of praying anywhere but at the dinner table and mass. He swallowed hard and grabbed the bucket from her hand. “Uh … I’ll get fresh water for you, Emma, but you go right ahead and give it your best shot, okay?”
“Oh, no you don’t,” she said, wrenching the bucket back. She nodded at his sisters and mother as they exited the storage room. “You better finish helping the men or you’ll be taken to task for loafing. I’ll get the fresh water.” Her gazed flitted to the blotches of blood on the floor. “Mmm … and a mop, too, come to think of it.”
He nodded and started toward the men before turning halfway with a jag in his brow. His smile slanted off-kilter. “And about the prayer, Mrs. Malloy, feel free to give it your all. But I’m giving you fair warning—if Rose Kelly gets within a hairbreadth of me before or after she strolls down that aisle, I’ll be looking to level some blame, you hear?”
He strode away and she found herself shaking her head with a smile, not blaming Rose Kelly one little bit—the man had way too much charm for his own good. She hefted the bucket in her hand and shot a glance over her shoulder while he casually strolled across the room. “Oh, I hear you, Sean O’Connor,” she said with heft of the bucket. Her lips quirked. “And let’s hope the Almighty does too.”
***
“We done yet?” Sean wiped the sweat from his brow with the side of his upper sleeve, the throb from his arm a perfect match for the throb in his head—the one connected to Mr. Kelly and the layoffs he’d threatened that morning. He scanned the hall where tables had been stored away and recital chairs now filled a room that sparkled and shined with soap and lemon oil, and would give anything if he could just go home and sleep for days. But that wasn’t an option, not when he had three employees and an employer depending on him to staunch the red ink. No, he needed to study the books until he came up with a way to keep the store in the black. And not just to eke out a profit like he’d managed to do the last few years of these, the worst of economic times, but enough black ink to carry Mr. Kelly’s other store as well. And it’s shiftless manager. Sean’s lips settled into a grim line at the thought of Mr. Kelly’s nephew, Lester, whose work ethic was nonexistent … kind of like Mr. Kelly’s compassion during these lean times. The crease in Sean’s brow deepened as he jerked at his tie, yanking it loose like he wished he could do to Mr. Kelly’s tight-fisted greed.
“Well, you’re done, anyway.” Charity folded her arms, lips pursed as she studied her older brother. “Somebody needs to go home and take a nap, I think. You’re starting to worry me, Sean, with that permanent scowl.” She placed a hand to his forehead, gaze squinted. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”
He swatted her hand away with a roll of his eyes and then forced a tight smile. “I’m fine. Just a little crabby because I have to go back into work, that’s all.”
“A little?” Mitch hefted a trashcan overflowing with rose limbs, wadded decorations and miles of paper streamers. One edge of his mouth crooked up. “You’re starting to make Collin look like a good sport on the court.”
Faith’s husband Collin stretched with a groan, muscled arms high overhead as he shot his brother-in-law a lopsided grin. “Or you every day of your life.”
Chuckling, Charity stood on tiptoe to brush her lips against her husband’s. “Come on, Collin, Mitch is isn’t that bad. Every other day at the most.”
Mitch’s eyelids thinned to a glare. “Hey—shouldn’t you be back in the kitchen washing dishes? You’re mouth is liable to get you into trouble, little girl.”
Clasping her hands behind her back, Charity rolled back on her heels with a gleam in her eyes. “Nope, Lizzie, Mother and Faith have everything under control, I assure you. Besides, I’m waiting for Emma to get back with a clean bucket and rags so I can help her wipe down the walls and chairs.” Her gaze shifted to Sean. “And get the crab to go home.”
Sean ignored her jibe. “I’ll leave when the work’s down and not before.”
“Well, then, you better get busy, O’Connor, because here’s the soap and rags.” Pete strolled up and clunked several buckets onto the floor, then handed out rags all around. “Stole these from sweet Emma Malloy, who got waylaid in the hall. Figured she’d be a while.”
“What do you mean ‘waylaid’?” Sean honed in on Pete with a razor-thin stare.
Pete glanced up, rag in hand. “I don’t know, some guy she knows, I guess … or at least I hope she knows him the way he’s hanging all over her.”
“What?” His body went stiff and his headache kicked up a notch. “Are you sure it wasn’t some drunk who stumbled up from the speakeasy?”
“I don’t know, maybe. Hey, wait … where ya going?”
Sean bolted for the door, not even bothering to answer Pete’s question. He couldn’t if he’d wanted to, not for the thickening of his throat and the blood pounding in his brain. Waylaid … drunk … hanging all over her. Fury pulsed in his veins as he thought of sweet, innocent Emma. So help me, if that bum lays a hand on her …
He turned the corner and saw them, a single shadow at the end of the hall, two people twined as the drunk swallowed her up in his arms. Something he hadn’t tasted in a long time poisoned his tongue like bile, and in several fatal clips of his pulse, he descended on them, ripping the drunk off Emma and slamming him to the wall. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself,” he shouted, his temple suddenly throbbing with rage. “She’s a married woman, you lowlife.”
The guy shoved him back, and Sean’s anger flared like bacon grease on a gas stove, dousing all reason. He fisted the man’s shirt and rammed him again. Emma screamed when the man’s body thudded with a loud crack, buckling against the wood-slatted wall.
“Sean, stop it!” Terror rang in her voice, but he dismissed it, slinging her hand away when she tried to hold him back.
The drunk retaliated with a curse and another angry shove, and like a pin pulled from a grenade, Sean’s temper detonated in an iron-fisted punch that doubled the man to his knees.
“Get up, you coward,” Sean hissed, hands clenched at his sides.
The man peered up, trailing the back of his wrist across the blood on his lip. His eyes burned with anger as he lumbered to his feet. “You’re either unhinged, stupid or both—”
Heat scorched through him and with a harsh grunt, Sean plowed the man’s jaw with his fist. “Nope, just a man who defends women from drunks like you.” The instant his knuckles connected with skin, something snapped in his brain, unleashing a rage so dark and sinister that it seemed to own him. The same rage that had compelled him to give up boxing at Pop Clancy’s gym at the age of sixteen despite Pop’s contention he was a natural in the ring. “Killer instinct,” Pop had called it, and the very words had twisted Sean’s gut, forcing him to walk away forever. It was that rage that had gotten him in trouble as a boy. And during the war, the same rage that had almost ruined him as a man. And now, like hard-grain alcohol in the bloodstream of a drunk, it took control, suffocating everything but the driving need to avenge, the need to defend, the need to kill …
“Sean!”
His brother’s shout couldn’t penetrate his stupor, but the impact of Steven’s hold did as he gripped Sean from behind and jerked him back. “What the devil are you doing?”
He didn’t know. All he knew was for several awful moments, he’d been in a hell worse than anything he’d experienced during the war, a place where demons took control and rational thinking was as cold and comatose as his body felt right now. Chest heaving, the air burned in his lungs as he stared, his vision clearing to see Emma bent over a man with blood on his face.
“Martin, are you all right?” Her voice was broken, scared, a woman who’d witnessed too much brutality in her own life. “Steven, please—can you help me get him up?”
Sean extended a hand and Emma flinched away, her face as pale as the battered man on the floor. “No, please—Steven can do it.” The fear in her eyes sliced through his heart like the rose thorns had slashed through his skin, and when she spoke, her shocked disapproval choked the life from his soul. “You’ve done more than enough.”
“I’m sorry, Emma, but I thought he was bothering you—”
She spun around, heat replacing the coolness in her gaze. “He was hugging me, Sean,” she rasped, the sound as foreign as the judgment in her eyes. “An innocent thank you from a friend for getting him a job with one of my suppliers.”
“Emma, I’m sorry …”
“Don’t tell me, tell him.”
He swallowed hard, the shame in his throat as thick as the disgust in Martin’s eyes. “Martin, I … I’m sorry. I didn’t realize …”
“No, you sure didn’t.”
“Please—I’d like to make it up to you—what can I do?” The anger had fled, leaving him steeped in remorse and grateful there was no one else was in the hall to witness his shame.
Martin acknowledged Steven when he helped him to his feet, then leveled a hard gaze on Sean. “You can get out of here and leave me alone.”
Sean nodded and stepped back to make room for Steven as he assisted Martin to the door. When his brother brushed past, his eyes were troubled and his voice low. “Are you crazy? What were you thinking?” he whispered, and Sean looked away. But not before he saw the damage he’d done in Emma’s eyes. Shock. Disbelief. Apprehension.
Fear.
What had he been thinking? That maybe, after all these years his rage had finally been laid to rest? That his worst memory was dead and gone, nothing more now than his worst nightmare? But he’d been wrong. He stared at the trio as they disappeared down the hall, his body numb and his mind even worse.
His worst nightmare. He sagged against the wall and put a hand to his eyes. And God help him … he was wide awake.

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