Charity swallowed hard, determined not to give in to the hot wetness springing to her eyes. "Don't be sorry, Emma. I love you. And you had no way of knowing." She lifted her chin and moved toward the table, taking a seat. "Besides, you've actually given me an idea."
"What?"
She cocked her head. "He wants my sister? I'll give him my sister."
"How?" Emma scurried to sit beside her. The soft flicker of the oil lamp danced across the marred table. It cast shadows over the grooves and pock marks dominating its surface.
An impish smile settled on Charity's lips. "How? Well, Mrs. Malloy, it was your idea, after all. Perhaps the two of us just need to put our heads together and figure that out."
What was he doing here? Again? Mitch sucked in a deep breath, thick with the loamy scent of wet leaves and burning peat, and turned the ignition off. The car sputtered to silence. He sagged back in the seat, surrounded by stillness except for drizzle on the roof of his Model T, the distant yapping of a dog, and the pounding of his pulse in his ears.
Chin stiff and face straight ahead, he glanced at Charity's grandmother's house out of the corner of his eye as if it were a forbidden zone, dangerous to his health, toxic to his life. He exhaled, suddenly aware he'd been holding his breath. The cheery light spilling through chintz-curtained windows winked back at him, beckoning. He flung the door wide, slowly unfolding from the vehicle to stand and face the cottage head-on. He grunted. To face his fear head-on. Not fear of losing his heart to Bridget or Mima. No, not that. Fear of losing his heart to her. A woman who was a feast to his eyes but a drought to his soul. He sighed and slammed the car door shut, bobbling a small gift-wrapped box in his hand. What was he doing here?
With great hesitation, he approached the wraparound porch. He stared at its layers of weathered paint and its rustic bogwood swing and wondered if he should have declined Bridget's invitation. He lifted his fist to knock on the door. Mima's eightysecond birthday.
"Can you come?" Bridget had asked in that little-girl voice of hers.
No. I'm busy. For the rest of my life.
"I wouldn't miss it," he had responded. But he would have liked to. In a heartbeat. He knocked again. The door wheeled open to a shaft of lamplight and heavenly smells from the kitchen. His stomach rumbled.
"Mitch, thank you for coming!" Bridget's eyes twinkled with genuine fondness, her face flushed the slightest shade of pink. She ushered him in, tugging him forward as if she thought he might bolt. "It means so much to Mima and me."
He smiled, his eyes inadvertently scanning the room. And Charity.
Her gaze lit on the box in his hands. "And what's this?"
"For Mima. Chocolates." He handed it to her and slipped out of his coat, tossing it over the rack in the hall. He turned, his smile dimming. "She can have chocolate, can't she?"
Bridget chuckled, the sound of it warming his soul. "Yes, of course. It's her favorite. Although I have to limit her to special occasions." She looped her arm through his and looked up. Her blue eyes were identical to Charity's except for the abundance of fine lines around their almond shape. "She'll love it."
They entered the kitchen with its crackling fire and flickering candles, the room aglow with expectation. Charity turned at the sink, her smile wide and welcoming. "We're having Mima's favorite-pot roast and dumplings. Hope you're hungry."
Mitch's throat went dry. He stared and swallowed. He was. But not for pot roast.
Charity bounded over, her skin luminous in the radiance of the firelight. She surprised him with a gentle hug, and a trace of lilacs teased his senses. She pulled away. "Can I get you a glass of wine, cider ... milk?" A glimmer of mischief danced in her eyes.
"Cider sounds good," he said, eyeing her with a faint smile.
Bridget patted his arm. "Mitch, you sit down at the table while I bring Mima in."
"Let me help," he said.
Bridget shook her head. "Absolutely not. This is our usual routine and I will handle it." She led him to the chair at the head of the table and gently pushed him down. "Now, sit!" She disappeared down the hall, humming and leaving him to Charity.
He turned and watched as Charity moved to the icebox, chattering about Bridget's cider being the best in all of Dublin. She poured him a glass, and he couldn't help but notice she seemed different. Softer. He scrunched his brows, trying to decipher what it was. The hair? Possibly. The flaxen tresses that normally swayed about her shoulders now gathered into a loose topknot at the back of her head. A few loose tendrils strayed, feathering her neck with soft curls of spun gold. He liked it, he decided. More schoolmarm than temptress. Even her dress bespoke a more subdued Charity. Although her maroon tweed pencil skirt revealed curves no fabric could hide, the cream blouse was cotton rather than silk, its wide bib obscuring the full shape of her breasts.
She handed him the cider, a fragile smile gracing her lips. Her perfectly shaped brows knitted into a frown, sloping as she looked up. "Mitch, I apologize for coming to the Times."
Heat cuffed the back of his neck. He took a gulp of the cider. "Forget it," he said, trying to clear the gruffness from his throat.
She swiped a curl from her face. "No, it was wrong of us ... of me ... to come." She turned away to occupy herself with the pot roast on the stove. When she lifted the lid, the steam whirled up, enveloping her in a cloud of wonderful smells. She returned the lid with a thud, her fingers lingering there as she kept her back to him. "I ... I wasn't thinking clearly ... I was ... being selfish ... thinking of myself. I wanted your attention."
Mitch stared, his gaze fixed on the nape of her neck, the curve of her hips. Her words suddenly registered. Honesty? From Charity O'Connor? His eyes narrowed. "Why?" he asked, regretting the word the moment it left his lips. He already knew why.
She turned, her expression as pure and open as a child's. "Because I think I may be in love with you, and I want a chance to find out."
His heart constricted, and his breathing shallowed. "You're not in love with me, Charity."
"How will I know ... unless you give me the chance to see?" She leaned back, supporting herself with hands that gripped white on the counter. There was a hint of pleading in her eyes. "I think about you, Mitch, dream about you ..."
He gripped the cider, draining it dry, then slapped the glass on the table. "I can't love you."
She blinked, the luminous eyes jolted with hurt. She lifted her chin. "Can't? Or won't?"
He expelled a breath of frustration, his eyes fixed hard on hers. "Won't."
"Because of Faith?"
"Because of you. We don't believe the same way."
A thin veneer settled over her. "You mean like Faith."
He eyed her, his jaw stiff. "Yes, I mean like Faith."
She inhaled a deep breath, as if drawing in strength. Her chin notched higher. "Then I guess I'll have to settle for friendship. I care about you, Mitch. I want you in my life."
Friends. He studied the strong line of her jaw, the lush, full lips so ripe for tasting, the graceful curve of her neck plunging toward a body that took his breath away. Friends?
Not likely.
"Well, here's the birthday girl." Bridget stood in the doorway, her arm braced around Mima's waist. "Look, Mother, Mitch came to celebrate with us."
Mitch jumped to his feet and pulled out a chair. "Happy birthday, Mima. Heard a rumor you're eighty-two, but that's impossible. You don't look a day over sixty."
She cackled, a surprisingly deep chuckle for so tiny a woman. "An Irishman to the core, you are, Mitch Dennehy, oozing more blarney than the blessed stone itself."
He laughed, and the tension eased in his neck. "Maybe a wee bit, but not by much. You look very pretty tonight."
She lifted a frail hand to pat her snow-white topknot, looking quite pleased. "Do I? Well, the credit goes to my greatgranddaughter who fusses over me like a favorite doll."
Charity adjusted the scalloped collar of Mima's navy blue dress before helping her into the chair. "You are
my favorite doll, Mima, the perfect size to primp and pamper."
Mima's faded blue eyes quirked in Mitch's direction while her lips twisted in a smile. "See what I mean?"
He grinned and glanced at Charity. "Some little girls never grow up, I guess."
Charity's brows lifted in surprise. "And some do, but nobody notices." With an air of refinement, she elevated her chin as if to turn away, then stuck her tongue out instead.
Mitch blinked, then burst out laughing. "Thanks for proving my point." He sat down in the chair and shifted to converse with Mima, keenly aware of Charity as she and Bridget chatted and prepared food for the table.
Mitch felt Mima's soft touch on his hand and blinked up in surprise. A serene smile hovered on the old woman's lips.
"She's beautiful, isn't she?" she whispered, her voice so soft and low he had to lean forward to catch it.
Heat roared to his cheeks.
She chuckled. "Inside and out, you know. But few people realize that."
Mitch swallowed, pressing his lips tight.
She tilted her head, her gaze penetrating his. "You don't, do you?"
Mitch jumped when Charity plopped a steaming bowl of dumplings on the table. "Almost ready." She darted back to help Bridget with the pot roast. Mitch's stomach growled.
He looked over to see Mima studying him once again, her nose wrinkled in thought. She smiled and leaned close, her voice barely a whisper. "She's an enigma, our Charity. A real puzzlement. She begrudges fiercely and loves fiercely. Seems to be no in between with her. Have you noticed that?"
A smile tugged at his lips. "Maybe."
Charity groaned as she hefted a heavy platter to the table. Mitch shot up to take it from her, setting it down with a thump. "Sweet saints above, Mrs. Murphy, who else is coming? You have enough here to feed the whole block."
Bridget turned at the sink with a grin on her face. "I know. I seem to get carried away on special occasions. And it's Bridget, not Mrs. Murphy." She wagged a wooden spoon at him. "And don't make me tell you again, young man."
Charity giggled and leaned close to pour more cider. She scrunched her nose at Mima. "Did she say young' man?"
Mitch stifled a smile and fixed her with what he hoped was a threatening glare. "I suppose anything seems old to someone your age ... little girl."
Charity smirked.
Bridget hurried to the table with a bottle of wine and corkscrew in her hand. "Will you do us the honors, Mitch? We have to have a birthday toast, after all."
He poured Mima's first, then Bridget's, bypassing his glass to move toward Charity's.
Bridget scowled. "Mitch Dennehy, this is a celebration and we must all clink on Mima's birthday. Is that understood?"
He hesitated before relenting with a smile. "Maybe just this once. In honor of Mima."
He poured wine for himself, then let the bottle hover over Charity's empty glass. He glanced at Bridget. "Are you sure she's old enough?"
Charity flicked the cuff of his sleeve, causing a dribble of scarlet to splash into her crystal goblet. "Grandmother, make him behave."
He grinned, his eyes challenging hers to a truce. "I will if you will."
Her smile softened into serious resolve. "I will, Mitch." The hope in her face plucked at his heart. Friends. She wanted to be friends. He smiled and poured her wine. So be it.
Charity eased back in the chair, legs comfortably tucked beneath her skirt. She studied the man who made her stomach flutter. She wasn't sure if it was the effect of the wine or Mitch regaling them with stories of his dear, old landlady, but either way, she was sure she was glowing. Her gaze drifted to Mima and Bridget, both rapt with attention and giggling like schoolgirls, then back to Mitch with his teasing eyes and heart-melting grin. She released a quiet sigh. Here she was, head over heels, and the man wouldn't reciprocate to save his soul. Instead, they would be friends. She took another sip of wine and smiled. For now.
She entertained the prospect. Gruff, solid Mitch Dennehy, a friend in need, a shoulder to cry on, a stabilizing force. A man who quelled her nerves by just walking into the room. A safety net, a father figure.
Charity silently gasped, startled by the thought. She observed his massive shoulders hunkered down, brawny arms planted firmly on the table, and a hard-chiseled chin shadowed by a day's growth of beard. Fatherly? She smiled. Hardly.
"What are you grinning about, young lady?" he asked.
She blinked, staring at three sets of blue eyes focused on her. A hot flush warmed her cheeks. "Why, your comments about your landlady, of course."
His left brow jagged high. "Which one? The fact she's been widowed for fifteen years or the one about her dog dying?"
Her cheeks scorched hot. "Oh, goodness, Mitch, I suppose I missed that. I apologize."
He chuckled and settled back in his chair. "Well, at least your grandmother and Mima find my company interesting, even if you don't."
"I think someone's just feeling the effects of the wine," Bridget said, stifling a yawn. "I know it certainly has relaxed me." She lifted the watch pinned to the lacey lapel of her best blouse. "Goodness, Mother, you must be exhausted. It's half past ten."
Mima chuckled, her paper-thin eyelids drooping noticeably. "So that's why I'm weaving in my chair. Thank you all for a wonderful birthday. And thank you for coming, Mitch, and for the lovely chocolates. Bridge, Charity-dinner was delicious."
"You're welcome, Mother. Now let's get you to bed before you fall asleep at the table."
Charity jumped up. "Grandmother, I'll do it."
Bridget leaned down to clasp an arm around Mima's shoulders, worry lines bunching her brow. "No, Charity, I'd like to, if you don't mind. I just hope we haven't overdone it tonight. Do you think you can stand, Mother?"
Mima nodded slowly, but it was Mitch who supported her as she rose, his strong arm fastened beneath her elbow. He glanced at Bridget. "May I?"
Bridget's smile was as drawn and tired as Mima's. "No, Mitch, I can manage." She patted his arm. "But I'm sure Charity would love help with the dishes, if you're so inclined. I doubt I'll be much good to her once I get Mima undressed and into bed."
Mitch nodded, glancing at Charity before putting his hand on Mima's shoulder. He leaned to press a kiss to her forehead. "Good night, Mima." He squeezed Bridget's arm. "Good night, Bridget. Dinner was wonderful. Thank you for inviting me."
"My pleasure. So good to see you again, Mitch. Please come back."
Taking her cue from Mima and Bridget's departure, Charity gathered dishes from the table while Mitch followed suit. His towering frame seemed out of place as he carried a lopsided pile of dirty plates to the sink. He stacked them on the counter and turned, pushing his hands deep in his pockets as if not sure what to do next. A crooked grin surfaced on his lips. "You're not going to make me wash, are you?"
She laughed, the warmth of his presence oozing through her like thick, hot molasses. He appeared blissfully relaxed, and she silently thanked Bridget for plying him with wine despite his objections. She cocked her head. "Not if I want you to come back."
She ratcheted the pump, and water spilled into an old, dented pot. She rolled the sleeves of her blouse. "Mind lugging that to the fire? I like my dishwater hot."
He lifted the pot with ease, transferring it to the stove while she reached for two more, filling each half full. She sensed him watching her while she scraped plate after plate, and the thought made her giddy and flustered at the same time. When the dirty dishes were stacked high, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled. "Why don't you pour us more wine? We have to wait for the water to boil anyway."
He cocked a brow. "Don't you think you've had enough?"
Enough? Of this glorious warmth? She turned and smiled a secret smile, her back to him once again. "Might as well finish the bottle."
He cleared his throat, and she knew she'd won when she heard the gentle glug of the wine being poured. She pushed the stacked dishes aside for the moment and whirled around to retrieve her gla
ss. He handed it to her, filled to the brim, while his remained noticeably empty. Her fingers trembled as she took it, keenly aware of his overpowering presence. Desperate for some semblance of calm, she took a careful sip, studying him over the rim of her glass. "You didn't keep any for yourself."
He watched her, his eyes unreadable as he set the empty bottle on the table. "Gave it up. Tilltonight. But just for Mima." He turned abruptly to check on the pot. "It's steaming. Where do you want it?"
She set her wine down and hurried to the sink, snatching a dishtowel from a hook. She slung it over her shoulder. "Here ... half in the wash pot, half in the rinse." She stepped back, allowing him just enough room to pour. Vapor rose like a cloud of mist, delivering the faint scent of Bay Rum to her nostrils. His powerful back strained as he poured, his jacket pulling tightly across broad shoulders. He turned, pot in hand, dwarfing her with his height. "More?"
She swallowed hard. Her chin tilted up to meet his eyes. "More?"
A faint smile flickered at the edge of his lips. "Water. You said you like it hot."
Blood surged to her cheeks. "I ... no, that's fine. Just fine." She staggered back, lightheaded. Her hands were shaking when she reached for her wine. She gulped it too quickly. Settle down, Charity. He's just a man.
She took a deep breath and turned, patting the back of the nearest chair. "Why don't you just sit and keep me company while I do the dishes?"
He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, assessing her through hooded eyes. "Why? Too close for comfort?"
She blinked, and her lips parted in surprise. Ignoring the heat in her cheeks, she jutted her chin. "No. Is it for you?"
He grinned. A reckless gleam shone in his eyes. "You wash, I'll dry."
Charity took a deep breath and moved toward the sink, confusion and euphoria battling in her brain. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but her thoughts were tripping faster than the beat of her heart. What was he doing? It was as if a few glasses of wine had unleashed the rogue in him. He was baiting her, teasing her ... disarming her.
A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 8
