A Love Surrendered

by Julie Lessman

  Dimples emerged on Glory’s blotchy face. “And the Queen of Sheba too?”

  “Sure, and even Mr. Grump, if he’s not too cranky.”

  Glory giggled. “Just like Aunt Eleanor—a nasty grouch.”

  Mr. Grump’s namesake bellowed from the hallway. “Gloria Celeste—one . . . two . . .”

  “Uh-oh, you better scoot or Aunt Eleanor will make Mr. Grump look like Mr. Sunshine.” Setting her back on her feet, Annie propelled her sister from the room with a pop on the bottom.

  “Love you, Annie.” Glory streaked out the door in a whoosh of blonde curls.

  “Love you too, sweetie,” Annie said, following behind to close her bedroom door. With a heavy sigh, she returned to her bed and retrieved Steven’s now-crumpled coat, tentatively slipping it back on her shoulders. Wrapping it around her body, she modeled it before the mirror, wishing it were his arms instead. She closed her eyes to envision his kiss, and his scent merged with her memories, prompting a delicious heat to shimmer her skin.

  A lady nobody wants and never been kissed.

  Johnny’s definition of an old maid flashed through her mind, and she let the coat tumble off her shoulders. The bad news was Steven O’Connor didn’t want her. The good news? Her stomach quivered at the memory of his kiss, quirking her lips. At least I’m not an old maid.

  3

  Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy! So . . . did Eliot give you a present?” With a wiggle of perfectly penciled brows, Steven’s older sister Charity threaded a needle in their mother’s kitchen, a shaft of sunlight glinting off golden waves of her shoulder-length bob. The ping of horseshoes drifted in through the open window where the men of the family congregated in the backyard, along with the shouts and laughter of cousins playing Red Rover.

  Steven paused, one hand flat to the swinging door while the other loosened his tie. His four sisters and sister-in-law congregated in a sewing fest around a large oak table scuffed with many a memory—his mother’s effort to supplement income during hard economic times. Six potpies cooled on the stove for his special dinner, a simple and inexpensive way to feed the hordes of cousins and brothers-in-law for his twenty-fifth birthday. Pushing a silver-blonde strand from her face, Marcy O’Connor hoisted several 9" × 12" pans of devil’s food cake—his favorite—onto the counter, and the smell instantly made his mouth water.

  “Wow, smells great.” He strolled over to plant a kiss on his mother’s cheek before heading to the icebox for a glass of milk, tweaking Charity’s hair on the way. It was days like this, coming home to a favorite meal and the warmth of family, that he was grateful he hadn’t moved into a flat with Joe like they’d planned after college. Not that he didn’t itch to be on his own, especially now that he and Joe could afford it. But with his older brother Sean getting married last year and moving out, Steven felt an obligation to stay and contribute rent. His parents needed the income, and after the role he’d played in his father’s near heart attack at the onset of the depression, the truth was that Steven needed the redemption just as much.

  Clunking the milk bottle on the counter, he reached for a glass from the cabinet and shot a smirk over his shoulder. “Did Eliot send me a present? Sure, a fruit basket from Chicago, signed ‘Fondly, Eliot Ness.’” He crossed two fingers. “We’re like this, you know.”

  “Oh, how I wish you were,” Charity said with a sigh. “That is one gorgeous lawman, and I for one would love to shake his hand. Besides,” she said with a crook of a smile, “if Mr. Ness can keep Al Capone in line, just imagine what he could do for Henry.”

  Marcy O’Connor chuckled while placing dishtowels over the cakes. “Charity Dennehy, don’t you dare compare my grandson to that mobster.”

  “Why not?” Charity squinted at the hem of a skirt. “The boy shoots his mouth off as much as Capone shoots his gun.”

  “Actually, sis,” Steven said with a patient smile, “Capone always had thugs at his beck and call, ready to do his dirty work at the snap of a finger.” He winked and butted against the counter with glass in hand. “You know, kind of like you with Mitch?”

  Charity’s smirk went flat. “Humph . . . in my dreams.”

  “Or Mitch’s nightmares.” Steven’s oldest sister, Faith, chuckled, sending a sympathetic smile in her brother’s direction. She tucked an auburn curl over her ear. “Sorry you had to work, Steven. On a Saturday and your birthday no less. Another special assignment?”

  Steven upended his milk and set his glass down. “Yeah, a tip on a fisherman that netted a haul of whiskey from Canada. Our patrol boats have been on to him for a while, but we couldn’t catch him with the goods till today.” He folded his arms, lips clamped tight. “But you catch one, and there’s still a thousand more lined up on Rum Row, waiting to take his place. And why not when they can make more money running booze in a day than a year fishing on their boats?”

  “Well, it’ll be a moot point before long anyway,” Steven’s youngest sister, Katie, said, threading the needle in her hand with the same focus and precision she devoted to attending law school during the week. “Prohibition will be history soon. It’s only a matter of time before the eighteenth amendment is repealed.”

  Steven peered up, his sister’s words triggering a hot spot. He jabbed a thumb against his chest. “Yeah, well, until then, it’s still the law, sis, and my job to enforce it.” He worked hard to soften the edge of his tone, but his words were tinged with a temper he seldom displayed. “And the mom-and-pops and regular joes who smuggle moonshine, bathtub gin, and home brew across state lines?” He huffed. “I say string ’em all up—bootleggers, rumrunners, speakeasies, and more.”

  The echo of his anger was deafening in the silence of the room where his sisters and mother stared with concern in their eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose with a noisy sigh. “Sorry to snap at you, Katie, but it’s not just blatant disregard for the law that makes me so crazy,” he said quietly, “it’s what happens when the law is repealed. Suddenly it’s carte blanche for some men to drink themselves into oblivion again, ruining their family’s lives.”

  His gaze flicked to the faint scars on his sister-in-law Emma’s face from a former drunken husband, a chilling reminder of what alcohol could do to a man. Like Joe’s dad staggering in from the tavern when Steven would spend the night, slamming Joe’s mom so hard, Steven would shiver in Joe’s room along with the pictures on the wall. Not to mention his own guilt during college when alcohol not only took a friend’s life but weakened Steven’s resistance to Maggie, fueling his father’s ire.

  He plowed a blunt hand through dark hair as wilted as his mood. “I know I can’t stop the inevitable any more than the repeal of Prohibition can, but when you have 100,000 speakeasies in New York alone, twice the legal bars before Prohibition, and so-called reputable doctors writing as many scrips for medicinal whiskey as medicine, it just makes you wonder if there are any decent people out there with respect for the law.”

  Marcy rose to tuck an arm to his waist. “You know there are, Steven,” she said quietly, “including each of us here. It’s your birthday—try to forget the job and have some fun.”

  “Mother’s right.” A slow grin curled on Faith’s lips. “The love of my life has been a tad cocky since winning at horseshoes today, so maybe you can vent and have fun at the same time.”

  Steven’s face eased into a welcomed grin. “Collin? Cocky? Well, we can’t have that, can we?” He shot his pregnant sister Lizzie a crooked smile. “What, is Brady and everybody else playing with their hands tied behind their backs?”

  Lizzie’s near-violet eyes sparkled as she stitched a shirt, a neat little mound protruding beneath her lavender maternity shift. “Nope, but Brady swears Collin has some strange magnetic quality since horseshoes seems to be the only game he can win.”

  “Luke thinks so too,” Katie said, lips in a swerve. “He goes nuts when Collin beats him.”

  “Magnetic quality, huh?” Snapping a piece of thread with her teeth, Charity slid Faith a
look of envy. “I’m sure Faith can attest to that. Lately she and Collin seem joined at the hip.”

  A pretty blush colored Faith’s cheeks as she returned to her seat, green eyes twinkling. “What can I say? Collin’s always more affectionate when he’s hankering for a boy.”

  Charity’s lips crooked up. “Oh, honey, I can cure him of that. One week with Henry is all it would take.” She shook her head. “Fathering three girls has deluded the man’s mind.”

  Marcy chuckled. “Goodness, Charity, having daughters is no guarantee of easy, compliant children. You and Katie are certainly proof of that.”

  “Mother!” Katie stared, mouth parted in an incredulous smile.

  “Face it, Katie Rose, Mother’s right and you know it.” Charity exhaled loudly. “You and I were the terrors while the rest of them were all little angels.” A faint shiver traveled her body. “Only heaven knows the payback coming our way. Why, you and I could both have another Henry or worse yet . . .” Her blue eyes twinkled. “A bullhead like his father.”

  “Bite your tongue,” Katie said. “I already have Luke McGee, remember? Surely butting heads with that man is payback enough.”

  Steven shook his head, a tease edging his lips. “I don’t think so, Katie Rose. With all the grief you gave me growing up, and Mom and Pop too, I’d say your payback is just beginning.”

  “Ha!” Katie spiked a brow. “Don’t think you’ll get off scot-free, Agent O’Connor. I remember a few years of payback yourself before you put on that badge.” Her tone took a turn toward smug. “I’m guessing there could be a Henry or two in your future as well.”

  Refilling his glass, Steven plucked oatmeal cookies from the cookie jar, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “Not real likely, sis,” he said with a wink, “given it takes two to tango.”

  “Oh, that reminds me!” Charity sat straight up with a gleam of hope in her eyes. “Emma and I just hired a new salesgirl at the store that I think would be just perf—”

  “Oh no you don’t . . . ,” Steven said with a hand in the air, cheeks bulging with cookie. He swallowed hard and swiped crumbs from his lips. “Since Emma coerced Sean to give up the title, I’m the confirmed bachelor in this family, so save your matchmaking for somebody else.”

  “Coerced?” His sister-in-law looked up. A soft strand of chestnut bangs swooped over her face, unable to hide the sparkle in her gray eyes. “I’m afraid there’s not much coercion when it comes to love, Steven O’Connor, as I suspect you’ll soon find out.”

  “Ignore him, Emma.” Charity rose and patted Steven’s cheek. “He’ll get his comeuppance just like Sean got his when he married you.”

  Emma’s smile tipped up. “One always appreciates the support of their best friend.”

  Charity blinked. “Oh, you know what I mean, silly, in a good way.” She turned back to pinch Steven’s cheek. “Steven needs to learn marriage is bliss when a man has someone to look after him like you do for Sean.” She dusted more crumbs off his shirt.

  Steven grinned, cookies in hand. “I have Mother for that, not to mention a bossy sister.”

  “Leave Faith out of this and give me that.” Charity snatched a cookie back with a lift of her chin. “One’s enough—you’ll spoil your dinner.”

  “Wanna bet?” Steven filched two more before making a beeline for the door.

  “Henry! Drop the mud pie or I’ll sic your mother on you.” A gruff male voice floated in from the backyard as Charity’s husband, Mitch, corrected their son, edging Steven’s smile into a grin. Pushing the screen door wide, he bit into his cookie with a nod at the backyard. “If I were you, I’d save my energy for more important things, sis.” He gave his sister a wink before heading out. “’Cause something tells me you’re gonna need it.”

  ———

  “Steven may be right, darling.” Marcy laughed, squeezing Charity’s shoulder on her way to make icing for the cake. “Best to focus on the things over which you have control.”

  “Oh, pooh,” Charity said, “why on earth are Irish men so bloomin’ stubborn?” She plopped back in her chair, her brother’s bachelorhood obviously spoiling her good mood.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Faith said, voice laced with tease. “Self-preservation?”

  Charity grunted. “I’d say it’s the other way around.” She picked up her sewing, gouging the needle into a pair of men’s slacks with a little too much force. “Is it so wrong to want to see my brother happy? He’s twenty-five, for pity’s sake.”

  “No, darling, it’s not,” Marcy said over her shoulder, pulling butter from the icebox. “But take a deep breath. Your brother has plenty of time to settle down.” She noted Lizzie’s damp face and retrieved the cold tea as well. “Lizzie, how ’bout a cool drink?”

  “Oh, that sounds heavenly, Mother, thank you.” Lizzie fanned herself with a magazine, the blush of pregnancy heating her cheeks. “Remind me not to be pregnant in the summer.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s so bad, Lizzie,” Faith said with a secret smile.

  Marcy turned at the counter, pitcher in hand. “My memory isn’t all it should be, Faith, I know, but I don’t recall you being pregnant through a summer, were you?”

  “Nope.” She focused on a stitch, avoiding everyone’s eyes, her smile still in place.

  Ever the analytical law student, Katie leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Then how exactly would you know if you’ve never been through it?” she asked. One blonde brow jagged high while the seeds of a smile sprouted on her face. “Unless, of course,” she said with all the drama of a skilled prosecutor, “there’s something you haven’t told us?”

  Marcy whirled to face Faith, almost spilling the glass of tea in her hand. “Sweet chorus of angels,” she said in a rush, “you’re not pregnant, are you?”

  Faith squinted to thread her needle, the tip of her tongue tucked at the edge of her mouth before her gaze finally rose. “Well, let’s put it this way, Mother. That persistent husband of mine, whose athletic abilities have been openly maligned today?” She tilted her head, mischief in her smile. “Has finally hit the ball out of the park.”

  “Oh, Faith!” Marcy set the glass down to give her daughter a squeeze. “I am so thrilled!”

  Charity chuckled. “Uh-oh . . . you just may get a sweet, little Henry of your own, sis, so congratulations.” Her smile slanted. “I think.”

  “How far along are you?” Emma asked, her excitement mirroring Marcy’s.

  “Ten weeks,” Faith said, caressing her stomach. “But I’ve been so queasy in the mornings, I have to force myself to eat, which is the exact opposite of the girls, so I’m hoping I can give Collin his boy at long last.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Lizzie said, her face aglow from more than the heat. “Five years of trying for a boy, and this could be it! I bet you had to peel Collin off the ceiling.”

  Faith’s smile faded with a nibble of her lip. “Well, I haven’t exactly told him yet . . .”

  “Good heavens, Faith,” Marcy said, “the man has lived for this moment. Why not?”

  “Well . . .” Faith hesitated, inhaling sharply through a clenched smile. “Mostly because we’ve had so many false alarms I didn’t want to risk crushing him again.” She blew out a weary breath, smile tentative. “So this time, I decided to make good and sure.”

  “Why don’t you just go to the doctor?” Katie said in a matter-of-fact tone. “There’s a new blood test where they inject your urine into a rabbit, and if it dies, bingo—you’re pregnant.”

  “No!” Marcy whispered, her stomach queasy at the mere thought. “The rabbit dies?”

  “Goodness,” Charity said, “and I thought homework with Henry was a sacrifice.”

  Katie grinned. “Yes, Mother, the rabbit dies, but it’s for a good cause, I promise.”

  “Actually, Katie, as tempting as that may be . . .” Faith paused, casting a nervous look around the table while a touch of guilt threaded her tone. “I actually do have another reason for my silence right now.
Remember how I had to beg Collin to let me teach the catechism class for Sister Bernice? Well, before he finally agreed, I prayed, pleaded, and plotted, using everything I could to get the man to say yes, but nothing worked.”

  Charity sat straight up. “Nothing? Tears, tantrums, a new negligee? Nothing?”

  “Nothing.” Faith’s smile went flat. “Claims his children would suffer if their mother was, and I quote, ‘out flitting one night a week.’ ”

  Charity grunted in the grand fashion of her husband. “His children, my bucket. He’s the one who would suffer because you wouldn’t be under his thumb one measly evening a week.”

  “So I decided to fight fire with fire.” Faith hiked her chin. “I’ve been praying nonstop about it for the last year.” A hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “And it worked.”

  Charity leaned in, her interest obviously piqued. “You mean the mule actually said yes? Spoke it out loud just like that donkey in the Bible?”

  Faith grinned. “Uh-huh.” Her smile wilted. “But now you understand why I want to wait to tell him about the baby, at least until I start teaching, which is in two weeks.” She drew in a full breath, releasing it again in a wavering sigh. “If Collin knew I was pregnant right now, I just know he’d refuse to let me teach, and honestly, you guys, I think I would just die if I couldn’t do this.” She glanced around the table with a nip of her smile. “Do you think I’m awful?”

  Charity frowned. “Yes, I do—awfully brilliant.”

  “Me too,” Katie said with a gleam in her eye.

  Marcy shook her head, a smile in place. “You girls . . .”

  “Anyway,” Faith said, “I just couldn’t not tell you guys, so mum’s the word, okay?”

  Crack! The screen door slammed to the wall, vibrating Marcy’s kitchen. Her foster daughter Gabe skidded to a stop in front of Charity, freckled face flushed and a glass of lemonade in her hands. Small for her age, the O’Connors’ resident tomboy could pass for eight instead of almost eleven, rich brown curls trailing overalls bearing telltale signs of mud pies gone awry. “Hey, Charity, Henry spit in my drink. Will you punish him, please? Mitch says you’re good at that.”