Bridget chuckled and began to chat until Charity appeared in the doorway, arms firmly around Mima's waist.
Mitch stood up. He observed Charity, patient and tender as she held the frail woman upright with each fragile step she took. Mima wore a thick chenille robe that swam to her feet. Her hair, pulled back in a knot, emphasized the gaunt curve of her cheeks. The same blue eyes as Bridget and Charity assessed him with a glimmer. "Hello, Mitch," she whispered, allowing her great-granddaughter to settle her into a chair at the head of the table.
"Mima, it's good to see you again. You're looking well."
She grunted. "No, I'm not. But it's kind of you to say."
Charity gently pushed Mima's chair in and leaned to buss her cheek with a kiss. "You do too, Mima, so you might as well face it. You're gorgeous and you know it."
Mima patted Charity's hand with a faint chuckle. "Such a good girl. And speaking of gorgeous. Wouldn't you say, Mitch?"
Mitch smiled, but his mouth went dry. "Absolutely."
Charity giggled. "Mima, you're embarrassing me! Drink your wine."
The evening proceeded pleasantly enough with Mitch enjoying the meal despite the memories it provoked. They chatted on, catching up on Mitch's job at the Times, Mima's health, Bridget's garden, and Charity's job at Shaw's, among a host of other amiable subjects.
And then the conversation steered a deadly course.
"It's hard to believe it's been a year since we've seen you, Mitch, and now it's passed so quickly. Why, Christmas is just around the corner ..." Bridget's voice broke. Her eyes filled with tears, causing Charity to lean and touch her hand.
"Grandmother, please don't," she whispered, her voice suddenly hoarse.
Mitch watched the scene, dread crawling inside like a swarm of spiders.
Bridget straightened in the chair and patted Charity's hand. "I'm sorry, dear, I suppose it's the wine making me a bit melancholy. I'll be all right."
Mitch sipped his coffee, working hard to sound casual. "Not looking forward to Christmas?"
Bridget rose to clear dishes from the table, and Charity followed suit. "Oh, I love Christmas. Just not this year."
"Why not?" he ventured, holding his breath for her answer.
She and Charity exchanged glances. "Well, you see, Mitch, Charity will be going home."
He blinked. "Home?"
"To Boston."
Without thinking, he grabbed his glass of wine and swallowed a sip. "For Christmas?"
"For good, I'm afraid."
He tasted the alcohol on his tongue and scowled, pushing the glass away once again. He turned to Charity, striving for nonchalance. "After all this time and help you've been to your Grandmother and Mima, I just thought you intended to stay."
She watched him, as if studying his face for the slightest expression. "I was. But I'm afraid my father has other ideas. It's important to him we all be together."
He nodded, as if he understood completely. "Of course, for Christmas."
Charity looked at her grandmother, who suddenly shifted her attention to a boiling pot of pump water on the stove. Charity sighed. With the slightest hitch of her chin, she turned to stare at him head-on. "Yes ... and for the wedding."
He might as well have been gut-punched.
It was the first reference all evening to her family in Boston. The same family that had become his own in the brief time they'd been here during the war. He swallowed hard, remembering with painful clarity everything about them. Everything that should have been.
His family. His wife. His wedding.
She was watching him. They were all watching him, and he suddenly realized they'd been avoiding this as much as he. On pins and needles, just like him. He cleared his throat and stood, pushing back his chair. "I really should be going. I have a long day tomorrow."
Bridget approached, her brows knitted with concern. She rested her hand on his arm. "Mitch, please don't feel like you have to run off. You haven't even had dessert."
He patted his stomach and forced a smile to his lips. "Blame it on the sixth piece of chicken or the triple portion of potatoes. Honestly, I couldn't eat another bite. I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too. We enjoyed visiting with you. Will you come again? Mima and I live a pretty sheltered life. After Charity leaves, it will be mighty dull. We'd love the company."
He nodded and reached to take Mima's frail hand in his. "Mima, it was wonderful visiting with you again. I pray you stay well."
"You, too, Mitch. I'll gladly take those prayers." An impish smile tilted her cracked lips. "And give you some of my own."
He smiled and stood, extending his hand to Bridget. "I can't tell you when I've enjoyed such a delicious meal. Thank you for your warm hospitality."
"Oh, go on with you. It was my pleasure," she said, squeezing his hand. She glanced at Charity. "I'll see to Mima while you walk Mitch to the door." She leveled her gaze on Mitch, a glint of steel in her sparkling blue eyes. "Don't be a stranger. You promise?"
He laughed. "I promise." He followed Charity down the hall, his chest tight from the onslaught of emotions wrenching inside. She opened the door and leaned against it, her hand on the knob. "You don't have to leave, you know. We can talk."
He assessed her striking blue eyes, devoid of any guile he'd seen in the past. They stared back in complete openness, soft and concerned. Gone was the seductive tilt of her head, the calculated pose of her body that had always put him on edge. He smiled. "Thanks, but I really need to get home."
Her disappointment was palpable, changing her demeanor.
"I understand. Rigan says it's been a madhouse at the Times, what with the British proclaiming the Irish Republic illegal."
He scowled. Two of his least favorite subjects: the British and Rigan Gallagher. He turned. "Speaking of Gallagher, I've got something you need to hear."
She grinned, and the saucy tilt of her head was back in play. "Oh, now you want to talk."
"Don't turn on the charm, Charity. It won't work."
"It worked once," she said, strolling into the parlor, hands clasped behind her back.
He closed the door hard. "That was a lifetime ago."
She spun around, eyes twinkling. "No, only a year, remember? That night in the car? You said you were attracted to me. That I might have a chance with you if I got a little older." She grinned and dipped in a playful curtsy. "Wish me happy birthday, Mitch, I'm almost twenty."
He leaned against the parlor entryway, trying not to smile. He crossed his arms. "I also told you to shape up and fly straight."
She clutched her hands behind her back, like a little girl about to misbehave. "Most men think I have," she whispered. "I know Rigan does."
His smile dissolved into a scowl. Her blue eyes widened when he pulled her to the sofa and pushed her down. "Sit ... and listen. Spending time with a lowlife like Gallagher is hardly flying straight. He's nothing but trouble." He slacked his stance, hands braced on his hips. "Although I could say the same for you."
She perched on the edge of the sofa, hugging her knees. "Maybe you're just jealous."
He muttered under his breath and yanked her back up. He turned her to face him, his hands tight on her arms. "I'm not playing here, Charity. Rigan Gallagher is dangerous. I don't want you seeing him."
Her smile faded. "You're hardly my father, Mitch. I'll see whomever I please."
He softened his hold. "Not him. Trust me. He has a reputation."
She pulled out of his grasp and sank to the sofa, rubbing her arms where he'd gripped her. "So do you," she whispered, looking up with hurt in her eyes. "Especially with me."
He drew in a long breath and exhaled. He sat down beside her, his voice quiet. "You're right. I haven't exactly proven my virtue where you're concerned. I'm not excusing what you did, but I'm the one who gave in. I won't deny you were the temptation, but my actions ... ," he rubbed his palms over his face, "they were wrong." He looked up, his eyes heavy with remorse. "Will you forgive me?"
&n
bsp; She blinked. "It's no crime to be attracted to someone, Mitch. It was just a kiss. There's no sin in that."
He stood. "There is when you're in love with someone else."
She jumped up and restrained him with a hand on his arm. Her eyes were naked with pain. "I've died a thousand deaths over what I did to my sister, Mitch. And to you. But she's gone, and I'm still here." A glimmer of hope flickered across her face. "Attraction is the first step to falling in love, you know."
He stared for a long moment, then quietly removed her hand from his coat. "Not for me, Charity. I want more."
She moved away and turned, her eyes chilling him to the bone. "What more could there possibly be?"
He studied her. A little girl with the look of a woman, bent on a track that would destroy her soul. His smile was sad. "I only hope and pray you find out."
She stood stock-still for a full moment after the door closed behind him. Nothing but the cold click of the lock, a rush of frigid air, and the heat of her anger. She pressed a finger to her temple, her gaze singeing the paisley swirl of the worn parlor rug. She straightened her shoulders and moved down the hall, head high and fists clenched. Stopping briefly outside the kitchen door, she drew in a deep breath, heavy with the aroma of Bridget's boiled coffee. She flexed her fingers and practiced a smile, wide and relaxed. There was no need to worry Grandmother.
"Dinner was wonderful," she said, breezing into the room with a warm smile.
Bridget looked up with worry lines etched between her brows. "Is Mitch all right?"
Charity rounded the table to collect the dishes. She blew out the candles. "Of course."
Bridget hesitated. "Are you?"
Charity laughed as she unloaded the dishes onto the counter. "Yes, dear one, I am. It was a lovely evening." She turned. "Mima in bed?"
Bridget nodded.
"Well, you need to head that way too. I'll take care of the dishes."
"We'll do them together." Bridget moved to the sink.
Charity squeezed an arm around her grandmother's shoulder. "No, ma'am. You look as exhausted as Mima. I'm doing them, no argument." She pulled away to rub the sleeves of her blouse. "But I do believe I'll change into something warm first. You might just lose those impatiens tonight, Grandmother."
A sad smile curved Bridget's lips. "It's time, I suppose. Unto everything there is a season ..."
Charity kissed her grandmother's forehead. "One season ending just means another is beginning." She gently stroked her grandmother's cheek, staring long and hard into her eyes. "I love you so much. I hope you know that."
"I do, dear. And I feel exactly the same way." She patted Charity's face, a glimmer of wetness in her eyes. She put a finger to her lips. "Shhh ... you're my favorite granddaughter, you know. But mum's the word. Don't stay up too late, my dear."
Bridget shuffled from the kitchen, leaving Charity alone to clear the few remaining dishes. She lifted Mitch's full glass of wine in her hand and held it aloft. Trailing her finger on the rim, she dipped it in the wine, then closed her eyes and touched it to her lips. The taste was warm and strong. Like her feelings for him.
She set the glass on the counter and headed upstairs to her room. She leaned to light the oil lamp by her bed before stirring up the peat fire in the small pot-bellied stove. Her fingers felt numb while she worked with the buttons of her blouse, barely aware when it slithered to the floor. Ina daze, she stood before the mirror and unfastened her skirt. Its pale blue folds dropped in a pool at her feet.
Her focus sharpened on the girl in the mirror ... the one with the tragic eyes.
Sky blue eyes a man could get lost in. Full, ripe lips demanding his gaze. A lush body to quicken his pulse. Every man's dream. So she'd been told.
"Not for me, Charity. I want more. "
She shivered and picked up her robe from the chair, tying the sash with a jerk.
More. He wanted more. Anger knotted in her stomach. He wanted virtue and God and a weak-minded woman. One with the icy milk of human kindness in her veins.
She looked in the mirror, her eyes steeped in pain. He wanted Faith. They all wanted Faith-Collin, Mitch. And even her father, preferring her sister as the daughter of his heart.
Charity dropped on the bed. A mix of anger and guilt shuddered through her like the chill of the room. She couldn't escape it. She'd betrayed her sister. Now regret shadowed her in shame, never allowing her to forget.
She grappled her fingers through her hair. If only she could be free. A clear conscience. A forgiven heart. The love of the man she longed for. Her fist trembled to her mouth as an involuntary cry escaped her lips. Oh, Faith, I'm sorry. When did I start hating you?
Charity pressed her fingers to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut. Hadn't she, Charity, always been the beauty in the family? The younger sister who turned the heads? The apple of her father's eye? Yes. Until the 1907 Massachusetts polio epidemic changed everything. God stood by while it stole the life of her older sister, Hope-Faith's twin. Overnight, the family's focus shifted to Faith, the eight-year-old fighting for her life in a hospital far away.
Charity brushed at the wetness springing to her eyes. Even at the tender age of six, her memories were as sharp as the pain in her throat. No more tea parties with big sisters, no more center of attention, no more "Daddy's girl." No, that role belonged to Faith, along with stacks of pretty books, handmade dolls, and homemade fudge. As if she had a fairy godmother. Someone watching over her.
God?
Charity stood, staring in the mirror over her dresser. The line of her jaw hardened.
God. Some invisible being pandered to by her sister and parents. A lover of men, supposedly, good and kind. But not to her. Never to her. She squared her shoulders, clenching her fists at her sides. Nothing more than a demanding deity, thriving on partiality.
Just like her father.
She lifted her chin. Let her sister have her God. She didn't need him. She would make Mitch Dennehy fall in love with her, and it wouldn't take prayer to do it. She turned and kicked her skirt across the room, then slumped on the edge of her bed. In the flickering shadows of her dark, cold room, she put her head in her hands. And cried.
Charity cricked her neck staring up at the ominous red-bricked front of the Irish Times. Her lips tightened into a flat line. Here goes nothing.
Rigan offered her his arm. "Are you quite sure you want to do this? It seems a bit more obvious than just slumming at Duffy's."
Charity sucked in a deep breath and wrapped her arm around his, hoping to bluff him with her most confident smile. "Absolutely. Since Mr. Dennehy isn't in a hurry to see me again, perhaps you and I need to jog his memory as to what he's missing."
Rigan grinned, hazel eyes glinting as he assessed her head to foot. "Oh, I'm quite sure he knows what he's missing. Trust me, any man who looks at you knows what he's missing."
A rush of heat flooded her cheeks and he laughed, the sound of it grating her nerves. She pulled away with her chin erect. "I don't appreciate your coarse humor, Rigan."
His teeth gleamed white. "Perhaps not my coarse humor, but certainly my coarse conspiracy."
Charity pulled away and shivered. He made her feel dirty, as if she were one of the vulgar women from Mountgomery Street who lured men for a price. She wasn't! She was a woman in love and nothing more. "Your tone, your words, they make me feel as if I'm doing something wrong. I don't like it."
Rigan cocked a hip and smiled, his face contrite. "It comes with the territory, Charity. You can't play the game of seduction without snagging other men in the process, myself included."
Charity fought a faint wave of nausea. "But I'm not a seductress. That sounds so ... so cheap, so tawdry ..."
Rigan's eyes softened the slightest bit. "No, you're not, actually. Oh, you certainly look the part and act it at times, but you'll never make the grade, my dear. Deep down, beneath that voluptuous body and those deadly eyes, I detect a frail echo of a conscience."
Charity released a
slow breath, her nausea abating ... or maybe it was her conscience. "Sorry, Rigan. I'm nervous, I suppose. I'll try not to let my scruples get in the way."
He grinned and bowed, offering his arm once again. She took it. "See that you don't. The stakes are too high-for both of us."
Charity leaned close as Rigan escorted her into the building, her mind suddenly far away. The image of an irate Times editor invaded her thoughts, causing the churning in her stomach to return, along with an ache in her heart. For pity's sake, she didn't want to deceive Mitch Dennehy, but what choice did she have?
"Good morning, Mr. Gallagher." The crisp tone of the Times' receptionist startled Charity out of her thoughts.
"Good morning, Miss Boyle. It's good to see you again. Is Michael treating you well?"
The young woman batted her nondescript eyes. Her professional demeanor was lost in a sea of pink flooding her cheeks. "Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Reardon is fine. He's a wonderful editor." Her lips trembled into a shaky smile. "A wee bit cranky, perhaps, because of the Brits, but fine."
Rigan smiled, sending more color into Miss Boyle's full cheeks. "Good. I'm here to give Miss O'Connor a tour. Is Michael in? And Mitch Dennehy?"
She bobbed her head, her gaze flitting to Charity's face. "Yes, sir, both of them. May I announce you, Mr. Gallagher?"
"No, that won't be necessary." He glided past, ignoring the receptionist's curious stare as he guided Charity through a set of double doors.
It was another world altogether. Miles away from the calm of her grandmother's cozy kitchen or even the busy pace of Shaw's Emporium. It was a dizzy whirl of action where rockjawed editors loomed over cowed copywriters and wide-eyed errand boys. Charity swallowed hard. Sounds and scents assailed her senses-the clicking of linotype machines and the tapping of typewriters shrouded in the smell of pungent ink and stale cigar smoke. A harried pace that spoke of import and deadlines and purpose. Charity paused, ignoring the tug of Rigan's arm.
What am I doing here?
A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 5
