A Heart Revealed (11 page)

“I just bet you have a bed in that supply room, don’t you, made up all neat and proper?”

Surprise lifted the edges of Emma’s mouth as she blinked up at Charity, who stood at the door, hip slanted.

“Go ahead—I dare you to deny it,” Charity said strolling in with her clutch in one hand and a bulging shopping bag in the other. With a quick scan of Emma’s spacious office, her blue eyes went wide, lids and penciled brows shiny with petroleum jelly in the style of the day. “Oh! You finally redid your office—I love it!” She nudged the rounded toe of her blue Mary Jane heel against a maroon geometric-patterned rug with clean, straight lines—except for one frayed edge—then hiked an appreciative brow. “No fringe—very art deco.
And
very expensive. So unlike you.”

Emma smiled. “Clearance, Boss, damaged in shipping. Couldn’t sell it to save my soul.”

Charity nodded and eyed the rest of the office that Emma had worked so hard to make cozy. With as many hours as she spent here, Emma had finally relented to Charity’s badgering to decorate her “home away from home.” The result was a wonderful oasis where she’d transformed a cold, sterile section at the back of the second story into a warm and inviting office space that felt almost like home. A tall arched window boasted several lush plants as well as a view of a tiny city park where children now played before dusk chased them home. Pale pink light from the waning summer sun spilled into the room, casting a warm glow over cream-colored walls splashed with color from vibrant framed prints. Sleek, modernistic images of flappers and garden parties stared back, a haunting reminder of an avant-garde era that boasted better times. Charity deposited her shopping bag next to the phonograph machine on a cherrywood buffet against the wall, then leaned to inspect her lipstick in an art deco mirror with fanned edges of matching wood.

“Mmm . . . very nice,” she said with a pucker of her lips.

Emma chuckled. “The furniture . . . or your face?”

Charity wheeled on her heels and grinned. “Both,” she said with a smirk. She lifted a record from the phonograph and quirked a brow. “Spending your evenings with Rudy Vallee, are we? Why, Mrs. Malloy, you little vixen, you . . . and all this time I thought you were working.”

A low chuckle parted from Emma’s lips as she propped chin in hand to give Charity a sultry look, tone husky. “What can I say, the man and I work well together.”

“Ha! ‘Work’ being the operative word.” Charity strolled over to trail a hand along the cherrywood finish of Emma’s desk. Her mouth sagged open. “A dining room set?”

Emma shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “A total dining room return—Mrs. Wellington III claims there was a gouge on the table when Horace delivered it.”

“Was there?” Charity asked, plopping into one of the matching cherrywood padded chairs in front of Emma’s “desk.”

“Not anymore,” Emma said with a proud smile. She scooted her antiquated typewriter back several inches to reveal a nasty scratch that was filled in with stain. “Horace says it wasn’t there when he delivered it, but it’s the store’s word against hers, so I decided to make good use of it for both me and my trusty Remington.”

Charity crossed her legs with a lift of her brow, and Emma caught a whiff of Chanel No. 5. “Very ingenious, but what are you doing with a typewriter? I thought that was Bert’s job.”

Emma grinned and laid her pen aside. “God bless her, Bertolina Adriani is crabby enough these days, so I’m just trying to lighten the load.”

“Humph . . . God has already blessed her with a supervisor who does half of her work.” Almond-shaped eyes thinned into a scowl, but Charity’s voice held a hint of humor. “You are such a pushover, Emma Malloy, you know that?”

Emma spiked a brow. “Oh, and you’re not, Mrs. Bleeding Heart? The woman who insists on giving bonuses for both Thanksgiving
and
Christmas, with her husband none the wiser?”

“Yes, but I’m a pushover nobody knows about, while you”— Charity flailed a hand at her best friend before nodding at Emma’s prized carpet—“are as blatant as this unraveled rug and, I might add,” a slight crimp of her brow offset the tease in her eyes, “probably walked on just as much.”

“You know better than that,” Emma said with a weary smile. “Bert’s been going through a rough time right now with her son, so I’m just helping out. Heaven knows I can’t afford to see her quit.” She leaned back, allowing her hands to rest on the arms of the chair while she eyed the cherrywood clock on the far wall. “Goodness, seven-fifteen? To what do I owe this honor and how on earth did you talk Mitch into leaving him this late at night? Did I miss a blue moon?”

Charity’s lips veered into a wry smile. “I needed a new dress for a function at the
Herald
, so Mitch volunteered to watch the kids.” She inclined her head toward the shopping bags with a mischievous smile. “Trust me, he’ll be sorry I didn’t stay home.” Crossing her silk-stockinged legs, Charity eased back into the chair to contemplate her friend, arms folded and blue eyes pensive. She nodded toward the stacks of invoices and bills of lading on Emma’s desk. “Speaking of ‘home,’ are you going to see yours anytime soon?”

The question brought a smile to Emma’s lips.
Charity, the caretaker.
To some, a bulldozer, to others a tad bossy, but to Emma, the epitome of a God-given friend—honest, caring, and true. An enigma, her great-grandmother had once called her—someone who begrudges fiercely and loves fiercely, which Emma knew to be true. Although, she thought with affection, Charity had certainly mellowed with time. Emma studied her friend now, amazed that Charity’s striking beauty never made her feel less. A deep sense of fondness warmed her heart. Perhaps because Charity’s fierce devotion had always made her feel as if she were so much “more.”

Forever fashionable, Charity wore the pale yellow Elsa Schiaparelli dress well, its daring shoulder pads, bias cut, and belted waist showing off her shapely body to best advantage. Her shallow-brimmed blue straw hat matched both the piping on her dress and her eyes perfectly, swooping low on one side where golden curls peeked out. Born the same year as Emma, Charity was as stunning at thirty-one as when Emma had met her at eighteen. They’d bonded instantly, two penniless clerks who shared an innate loneliness at Shaw’s Emporium in Dublin, forging a friendship that saved Emma’s life—literally and figuratively. It was Charity who’d bound her wounds after Rory had scarred her, and Charity who threatened to quit if Mrs. Shaw fired Emma for those same offensive scars. Without question she was a bold and daring friend who’d convinced her to leave Rory, sparing her a life of degradation and abuse, or worse.

Emma’s thoughts traveled a million miles from the pain of Rory to where she was today—the manager of Charity’s prestigious store, surrounded by people she loved—and wetness stung her eyes. Charity was the sister Emma had never had, the friend with whom she shared and prayed for all the secrets of her soul. Guilt instantly pricked, forcing a lump to Emma’s throat.
Well, almost all.
Swallowing hard, she pushed the thought from her mind to focus on her best friend. When some had only seen a cool veneer on a pretty face, Emma had seen the vivacious little girl that Charity would always be—desperate to be beautiful and longed for and loved. Emotion thickened in Emma’s throat as her lips tilted into a tender smile.
The friend of my heart.

“You haven’t answered me,” Charity said with a cock of her head, bringing Emma back to the moment. “When are you heading home? And keep in mind, Emma Malloy, as owner of this store, I
can
order you to go.”

Emma sighed and gave Charity a tired smile. “Soon. Although I remember many a night you burned the midnight oil at Shaw’s, ignoring my pleas for you to go home.”

Charity took on a faraway look, a faint smile tugging at her rose-colored lips. “Oh, how I used to love running that store! Which is why I miss my two days a week here so much now that the kids are home for the summer. I guess retail is in our blood, Emma, starting way back in Dublin.” A hint of melancholy laced her tone as she trailed into a stare. “I was happy working at Shaw’s, as I recall, despite all the heartbreak Mitch put me through back then.” A heavy sigh shivered from her lips. “Goodness, that all seems so long ago, doesn’t it?”

“A lifetime, my friend,” Emma said wistfully. She picked up her pen. “And speaking of Mitch, you better get home. He can’t be in a good mood these days with his workload at the
Herald
. And you’ve said yourself that Henry has a talent for trying one’s patience.”

The edge of Charity’s lips crooked up. “Only mine, it seems. For Mitch he’s a perfect angel, apparently.” She scowled. “Must be my track record with Irish men. All I can say is thank heavens for my sweet twin, Hope Marceline. Can you imagine twins with two of Henry?”

“’Tis the grace of God, for sure, sparing you such a fate,” Emma said with a chuckle. She scrawled her signature to a letter from the stack that Bert had typed today. “Although if anyone could handle it, it would be you.”

“That’s what Mitch always says.” Charity flicked at some lint on her dress and gave her a saucy smile. “Now if I can just learn to handle
him
.”

Emma grinned. “I thought you had.”

A sigh floated from Charity’s lips. “In my dreams. The man is more bullheaded than me, if that’s even possible.” She eyed Emma as she tugged on her gloves. “I have to go, but before I do, I need to ask you something.”

“What?” Emma signed her name to the next letter and looked up.

Charity swiped her teeth with a glide of her tongue, a nervous habit that told Emma the news wouldn’t be good. She angled to give Charity her full attention.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

The tongue made another pass as Charity sat up straight, fiddling with her gloves. She drew in a deep breath, then dropped her hands in her lap and looked up. “Sean was fired yesterday.”

The pen slipped from Emma’s hand. “What? Why?”

“A misunderstanding involving Rose Kelly, apparently.”

“No . . .” Emma sagged back in her chair with a silent groan. She closed her eyes, remembering their conversation the day of Katie’s wedding. “What happened?” she whispered.

Charity vented a heavy breath, and Emma looked up, the slump of her friend’s shoulders a telling sign. “Well, it seems Mr. Kelly found his daughter conversing with my brother . . .” Charity’s sooty lashes flipped up while her gaze locked with Emma’s. Her lips twisted in a painful smile. “In his lap.”

Heat flooded Emma’s cheeks. “The saints preserve us . . .”

“Yes, well, the saints are going to have to preserve something, because Mother says she’s never seen Sean like this—moody, depressed, quiet.” Charity sighed. “It breaks my heart.”

Emma leaned forward. “I don’t understand—how did it happen? And when? Because I know for a fact Sean had no interest in Rose whatsoever—he told me so at Katie’s wedding.”

“Yesterday. Sean’s not saying a lot, but Mother did manage to pull out that Rose came by to see him, claiming she didn’t love her fiancé. Apparently she kissed him, and when he tried to back away, he stumbled into his chair. The next thing Sean knew, she was in his lap, kissing him senseless.” Charity shuddered. “Dear mother of Job, it sounds like something I would have done.” She glanced up. “Way back when, of course.”

“And Mr. Kelly found them like that? What did he say?”

“Fired Sean on the spot. Even went so far as to accuse him of stealing. Father thinks the whole thing is just a convenient excuse to lighten his payroll, the stingy ol’ miser.”

“Oh, poor Sean.”

“Yes. And the worst part is that Sean has to go back there for two more weeks.”

“What? I thought he was fired?”

“He is, but Mr. Kelly needs Sean to orientate Lester, Mr. Kelly’s shiftless nephew who will take over the store, so he threatened to withhold everyone’s pay if Sean didn’t stay the two weeks. And although Sean would walk out in a heartbeat if it was just his salary at risk, he’d never do that to his employees.” Charity sighed. “Mitch says with the unemployment rate edging 16 percent, it’s going to be pretty rough to find a decent job in any field, much less retail.”

With a faint groan, Emma sank back in her chair and put a hand to her eyes. “I just can’t believe it—and after all Sean has done for that awful man, devoting his life to that store. I just wish there was something we could do.”

“Well . . . actually . . . there is.”

Emma glanced up. “What?”

Shifting in the chair, Charity leaned forward, the intensity in her manner as compelling as the excitement in her eyes. “How long have Mitch and I been after you to work decent hours?”

“I
do
work decent hours,” Emma said with a ghost of a smile. “Given the work to be done.”

“Always fighting us tooth and nail about adding more staff—”

“Charity, you know my budget can’t afford it—”

“No,” Charity said with a twinkle in her eye, pausing for effect. “But ours can.”

Emma sat straight up, her heart beginning to race as Charity’s words sank in. Her lips parted with shallow breaths. “What are you saying?”