A Heart Revealed (23 page)

“Father, it’s Mr. Hennessey.”

A dangerous groan garbled in Patrick’s throat as he stood, eyes fixed on his son in a veiled threat. “As if you need more time to strategize my demise,” he said with a thin smile. He adjusted his trousers with a sharp tug and strode for the kitchen, leaving Marcy in panic mode.

“Steven!” Her voice was hoarse. “I need your help.”

He turned, forehead crimped. “What’s wrong?”

Sucking the blood from her finger, she rose and hurried to her son’s side with a nervous peek over her shoulder. “Steven, I beg you—you’ve got to let your father win tonight.”

His mouth parted in surprise. “But I’ve got him just where I—”

“I don’t care!” she rasped, her whisper a harsh plea. “Please, do this for me . . . for Gabe.”

“What do you mean, do it for Gabe?”

She rattled his shoulder, fingers as pinched as her voice. “I don’t have time to explain, but just trust me on this—
please
.”

Steven blinked. “All right, Mother, if it’s that important to y—”

The kitchen door blasted open. “You may as well put me out of my misery now, because when Mitch hears what Hennessey wants me to do, he’s going to be sorely tempted to do the same.” Patrick stormed back into the room with a deep ridge in his brow. His eyes narrowed as he took his place across from Steven. “That is, if my son doesn’t finish me off first.”

Marcy hurried to her chair, grateful Patrick hadn’t noticed her collusion with Steven. “What does Hennessey want you to do?” she asked, settling in with less composure than she felt.

“It’s not what he wants
me
to do—it’s what he wants
Mitch
to do. Marjorie needs a cochair for the Fogg Museum auction, and apparently, Arthur has handpicked Mitch for the job.”

“Who’s Marjorie?” Steven asked.

“Hennessey’s spoiled niece,” Patrick said with a press of his jaw. “Who will make Mitch’s life miserable. Which,” he said with a press of fingers to his temple, “will in turn, make my life miserable. The man is so overworked now, he’s like a sleep-deprived grizzly without a cave.”

“Can’t he decline . . . or at least get some help?” Marcy asked.

Patrick’s brows shot up a half inch. “In this economy? At an understaffed newspaper that’s just itching to lay somebody off? It would be sheer suicide.” His lips flattened as he studied the chessboard. “Which may not be a bad option at the moment, come to think of it.”

Steven made a move, and Marcy noted the subtle lift of Patrick’s mouth, easing the tension in her chest.
Bless you, son.
She exhaled slowly while knots untangled in her stomach.

It was almost nine when she finished mending several school uniforms—Gabe’s bedtime. With a weary sigh, she folded each of the mended items in a neat little pile and rose from her chair, her only thought to get that girl safely in bed and out of harm’s way.

The kitchen door squeaked open and Marcy froze, fingers stiff on the plaid material of Kelly O’Connell’s school uniform. Sean steered Gabe through the door, hand gripped at the back of her neck while he ushered her into the parlor with a somber look in his eyes. “Uh, Father—Mr. Lambert would like to speak to you outside.”

Patrick looked up, forehead rippling. “What about?”

One glance at Gabe—sullen gaze glued to her feet, lips compressed—told Marcy that no win at chess would save her tonight.

Sean hiked a brow. “Well, it seems our Gabe has developed a fondness for tomatoes. Mr. Lambert claims she stripped his vines bare.”

“What?” Patrick was on his feet faster than Marcy could gasp. He strode to within an inch of the little girl and jerked her chin up. “Did you steal Mr. Lambert’s tomatoes?”

The tiny jaw quivered against his thumb as she nodded.

“For the love of all that is decent, why? You don’t even like tomatoes.”

“I needed ’em . . . ,” she whispered, eyes downcast. “For Civil War.”

Patrick jerked his rolled sleeves down and rebuttoned the cuffs while a tic pulsed in his cheek. “What are you talking about?”

Gabe’s gaze flicked to Marcy and glazed with tears before she faced Patrick once again with the barest lift of her chin. “We play Civil War in the neighborhood, girls against boys,” she said with all the dignity of a soldier caught behind enemy lines. “And I’m the general.”

Patrick folded his arms. “And the tomatoes?”

“Cannon fire,” she muttered.

A cough that sounded suspiciously like a strangled laugh hacked from Sean’s throat. Pursing his lips, Patrick shot his son a narrow gaze before returning his attention to Gabe with folded arms. “I see. Well, General Smith, the battle is lost. Not only will you pay for your thievery with Dubble Bubble, you are now Mr. Lambert’s prisoner for an entire week.”

“What?” she sputtered.

“You heard me,” Patrick said. “Which means your troops will have to do without you for the next seven days while you complete every mission Mr. Lambert or I assign, is that understood? Tending to his garden, hoeing, sweeping, planting—whatever the man needs.”

“But that’s not fair!” Gabe cried.

“Neither is war, young lady, nor pilfering vegetables for that matter. Now, I’m going out to apologize to Mr. Lambert, and I suggest you go to bed—you’re going to need all the sleep you can get.”

Gabe groaned.

Patrick strode toward the kitchen. “And, Marcy, after you’ve tucked the prisoner in, I’ll need her shoebox of Dubble Bubble please. Compensation for Mr. Lambert’s tomato supply.”

“No!” The blood drained from Gabe’s face as if she had just been shot.

Hand on the swinging door, Patrick turned, eyeing his foster daughter through pencil-thin lids. “Yes, General Smith, something needs to convince you that stealing is wrong. Just think of it as an opportunity to give yourself to the great and glorious cause . . .” He gave her a mock salute. “Preservation of your backside from the blistering you so richly deserve.”

The kitchen door whooshed closed and Marcy wasted no time steering Gabe upstairs. “Did she finish her catechism?” she asked Sean with a worried glance over her shoulder.

“In record time.” He winked at Gabe before plopping onto the sofa with Patrick’s discarded newspaper. “She’s a quick study when she wants to be. G’night, squirt.”

“Sleep well, Gabe . . . hear tell Gus Lambert can be a real slave driver.” Steven’s grin deepened the little girl’s scowl as she shuffled out with shoulders slumped.

Marcy’s eyes flitted to the swinging kitchen door and back. “Pssst . . . Steven,” she whispered. “I’ll make double-fudge brownies for you if you let the man win and win fast. Sean, tell your father I went up to tuck Gabe in and I’ll see him upstairs, okay? Good night, boys.”

Steven grinned and Sean chuckled. “Good night, Mother.”

Marcy bundled Gabe close and trudged up the stairs, quite certain that tonight her foster daughter would sleep more soundly than she. Her heart softened as she ushered the sleepy girl through the process of brushing her teeth, washing her face, changing her clothes, and saying her prayers. Curling into a ball under the cover, she yawned sweetly and told Marcy she loved her, and the moment the words parted from the little girl’s lips, Marcy knew she was doing the right thing. She placed a gentle kiss on Gabe’s freckled nose and turned out the light with a quiet sigh.

Now to convince my husband.

Getting ready for bed, Marcy tried to ignore the guilt that needled her mind, but it bothered her all the same as she slipped into the satin nightgown that Patrick loved. She dabbed the barest hint of perfume on her throat, telling herself that her cause was just—Gabe was way too important. A halting breath wavered from her lips as she stared in the mirror.
And my husband way too stubborn
, she thought with a glide of her teeth. She drew in a fortifying breath, grateful that she didn’t make a habit of coercing her husband, but the fate of some things—and some people—just couldn’t be left to chance.

It was almost an hour later when Patrick finally entered their room with a yawn that told her he was as tired as Gabe. Marcy lowered the book in her hands and smiled, watching as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it toward the hamper. “Did you beat him?” she asked.

He glanced up with a secret smile, and her stomach fluttered for the first time in a very long while, taking her by surprise. His dark hair was sifted with gray at the temples and badly in need of a trim, and the clean line of his jaw was shadowed with dark stubble, but to Marcy, Patrick O’Connor had never been more handsome. He stepped out of his trousers and tossed them over the trouser press, his grin gleaming white in a tan face etched with the rugged lines of a man who was aging well. “Humiliated might be a better word.”

She studied his tall frame as he slipped into his pajama bottoms and felt her pulse catch when he stripped off his T-shirt and sailed it toward the hamper, revealing a broad chest matted with hair. “It’s too blasted hot to wear clothes tonight,” he muttered, flipping the switch on the fan before dropping down beside her, eyes closed and hands folded on his stomach. She traced the curve of his bicep with her palm, suddenly aware she’d been so focused on Gabe, she’d forgotten just what a gift her husband truly was. “I love you, Patrick,” she whispered.

One eyelid edged up. The breeze ruffled a stray curl on his forehead. “Don’t toy with me, Marceline, I’m way too tired.”

She laid her book aside and grinned, snuggling into his embrace while she feathered her fingers through the dark and silver hair on his chest. She thought of Gabe, still a little girl while her own daughters now had children of their own, and wistfulness laced her tone. “Do you ever feel like time is passing us by, Patrick? You know . . . moving too quickly?”

His chuckle sounded more like a grunt. “Every day, darlin’, especially when Steven now holds his own at chess.” He kissed the top of her head. “Makes me feel old.”

The edges of her lips tilted as she breathed in the scent of musk soap and the hint of maple and vanilla pipe tobacco. “No, my love, ‘old’ will be when you lose to Sean.”

His chuckle was warm against her ear. “Heaven help me if it comes to that.”

She paused. “Patrick . . . can we talk?”

“I thought we were, darlin’.” Gliding his palm the length of her satin gown, he suddenly shifted to face her, tugging her close to bury his lips in the crook of her neck. “Although with the way you feel and smell tonight, darlin’, I could be coerced into communication of a more intimate nature.”

Coerced.
Heat fanned through her body, but not for the right reasons. The usual flutters from Patrick’s touch gave way to skitters instead as she gulped, grateful for the drone of the fan that helped to diffuse the waver in her voice. “I mean . . . about Gabe.”

Her stomach kinked at the sudden press of his lips. His hand dropped to the bed, leaving her feeling exposed. “If you’re trying to kill a mood, Marceline, you’ve succeeded. Heaven help us, if ever a child needed a firm hand, it’s that one. I thought Katie was bad, but saints almighty, Gabe is the queen.”

Her breathing shallowed. “Really, Patrick, she’s not that bad . . .”

He flopped back on the bed, fingers tightly laced as they rested on his chest. The ridges in his brow deepened as he closed his eyes. “No, she’s worse. Tell me, Marceline, don’t you find it a wee bit ironic that my heart problems began the month
after
Gabe came to live with us?”

Marcy gasped. “Patrick! That’s an awful thing to say.”

His eyelids nudged up halfway, contrition in his gaze. “I’m sorry, darlin’, but the thought has crossed my mind more than once in the last year.” He closed his eyes again, tone tired and lips flat. “I know you’re attached to her, Marcy, but I’d be lying if I said there aren’t times when I wonder if we’ve made a mistake.”

The air seized in her lungs.
God, no, please!
“How can you even think that, Patrick,” she whispered, the rasp in her voice betraying her fear. “Gabe is like family, and you love her, I know you do!”

He glanced up, brows dipped in concern. Reaching for her hand, he squeezed and gave her a tired smile. “Of course I’m fond of the girl, Marcy, and yes, she is
like
family. But the fact remains that she is
not
, and quite frankly, I’m grateful. I’ve always prided myself on my firm discipline of our children, something that Gabe has made increasingly difficult. For pity’s sake, she’s the age of our grandchildren, Marcy, and I no longer have the energy of a young man to stay the course in raising any child, much less a difficult one.” He sighed, settling in on the pillow once again. “I suppose I should be grateful we’re only foster parents or I couldn’t live with myself for my failure to rein the girl in.”

“Oh, Patrick . . .” Tears stung Marcy’s eyes.

He looked up and sighed. Drawing her close with a tug of her hand, he kneaded her shoulder and released another weighty breath, his whisper tinged with regret. “Aw, darlin’, I’m not wanting to make you cry, really I’m not, but after that rift we had over Sam years ago, you and I pledged to be totally honest with each other.” He kissed the top of her head. “Did we not?”

She nodded, more moisture lining her eyes as guilt nicked at her heart.

He patted her arm. “So, I need to be honest and let you know my true feelings. But . . . that said, let’s just take it one day at a time and see where God leads us with Gabe, all right? Who knows—maybe one of these days she’ll surprise us all by becoming the perfect foster daughter.”

Marcy nodded again, the breath she’d been holding slowly seeping from her lips.
No, my love—the perfect “daughter.”

She snuggled in close, her grip tightening along with her resolve
. And oh yes . . . one of these days . . .

“Now,” he said, slipping his hand to her waist. He pressed a second kiss to her head. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Nothing,” she whispered, anxious to deflect his attention from a subject that would have to wait for the right time. She reached up to deposit a kiss on the edge of his bristled jaw. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

His low chuckle tickled her ear as he slowly rolled her back on the bed, hovering with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “Good,” he whispered, easing in to trail his mouth along the curve of her neck. “Neither do I.”