A Heart Revealed (26 page)

A moan trembled from her mouth and he smiled, descending on her lips to seal the deal. “So, what do you say? You ready to put both of our dreams in God’s hands and let him decide?”

She nodded, a hazy look in her eyes.

“Good,” he said, teasing her lips with a playful tug of his teeth. “Then I say we get busy.” He lowered her to the bed, his breathing rapid and warm as he whispered against her skin. “Because as you know, I don’t like to lose.”

“I know, but you can’t always win, McGee.”

His chuckle rumbled against the hollow of her throat as his fingers toyed with the button of her blouse. “Sure I can, Katie,” he whispered. His mouth explored her collarbone with deadly intent. “Because when it comes to winning,” he said with a lingering kiss, “I seldom strike out.”

“Da-da? Stor-wee?”

Luke froze, lips fused to Katie’s throat while her chuckle vibrated beneath his mouth. She wiggled from his hold to sit up and grin at Kit, who stood in the door with a book in her hand.

Katie patted the bed. “Sure, Peanut, Daddy would love to read you another story, wouldn’t you, Luke?” Her smile was innocent. “By the way, honey, did I mention Kit’s learned to climb out of her crib?”

A groan trapped in his throat as their daughter scrambled into their bed with the same dexterity with which she obviously escaped her own. He scooped her up and settled her on his lap with a kiss to her neck, then took the book from her hand. His gaze thinned as he shot his wife a warning smile. “Don’t get cocky, Katie Rose—this is only a rain delay, not a loss.”

“Whatever you say, Luke,” Katie said with a bored yawn. She jumped up to collect her clothes from the bed, then sauntered to the dresser, delivering a sassy smile over her shoulder. “Which only goes to prove my point, McGee, that if you think you’re going to win
this
competition”—she angled a brow—“I’d have to say you’re all wet.”

“Gosh, Emma, I don’t know who’s the better cook—you or Mrs. Peep.” Eighteen-year-old Casey ladled the last spoonful of strawberry trifle in her mouth with a moan, winking at their elderly landlady who sat across from her at Emma’s kitchen table.

Emma tossed her young neighbor a smile, the aroma of stew and fresh-baked bread mingling with the smell of fresh-ground coffee beans that Emma had just prepared to brew. The happy sound of chatter merged with the chug of the coffee and the laughter of children playing stickball in the street outside Mrs. Peep’s six-family flat. Lemon-yellow gingham curtains fluttered in the summer breeze, infusing the kitchen—and Emma—with the clean scent of new-mown grass, along with a cozy feeling that fit as snugly as the floral wallpaper hugging the walls.

“The better cook? Why, Emma, of course.” Mrs. Peep spooned a bite of dessert into her mouth, savoring it with a dreamy roll of her eyes. Shadows from crystal candlesticks flickered and swayed across a lemon-yellow tablecloth bedecked with floral-patterned china cups and saucers salvaged from a return at the store. She patted a napkin to lips now pursed in a pout, then hiked one silver brow in a show of authority. “Although my Archie swore till the day he died that it was my cooking that got him to the altar.” Her blue eyes suddenly twinkled. “Said it was better than a Big Bertha cannon at a shotgun wedding.”

Emma glanced over her shoulder, smiling at her pert landlady and the young woman who’d become more like a daughter. “I’d put your money on Mrs. Peep, Casey. I can’t compete with a woman who cooked for six strapping sons over the years and a hungry husband too.
Whom
,” she said with a lift of her brows, “I guarantee didn’t marry her just for the taste of her food.” Emma dipped her head in tease, eyes warm with affection. “You forget I’ve seen your portrait on your mantel, Mrs. Peep, the one that’s a dead ringer for Greta Garbo.”

“Oh, pshaw!” Mrs. Peep tossed her head, but Emma could see her pleasure in the glow of her face, dewy and soft despite an abundance of wrinkles. Finger waves glimmered against her temple like white satin as she straightened in her chair, a tiny woman, petite and pretty in a perky housedress that brought out the blue of her eyes. Weathered lips crooked into a droll smile when she leaned in to return Casey’s wink. “I can tell you right now that if I were a dead ringer for Garbo, Archie wouldn’t have let me spend so much time in the kitchen.”

“Mrs. Peep!” Even Casey’s cheeks hazed pink, probably the exact shade of Emma’s.

The tiny woman chuckled, sipping the cup Emma had just filled. “My Archie was a real Romeo, romantic to the core,” she said, her exuberance edging into a touch of melancholy, “and I can’t help but remember him that way. I was young once, you know.” Her gaze trailed into a faraway look that tipped her lips with a soft smile. “Truth be told, I still am.” She closed her eyes to sip her coffee before they popped open with a cheeky grin. “Now, if I can just convince my mirror.”

Emma bent to give the old woman a hug. “Fifty-two years with the love of your life is a lot of blessing, Mrs. Peep, and more awaits when you see Archie in heaven.”

Her smile trembled. “I know, my dear,” she said with a sigh. She patted Emma’s cheek, eyes brimming with fondness. “You’re too good to waste, Emma Malloy, you know that?”

“I totally agree,” Casey said. Sitting cross-legged on her chair, she swiped whipped cream from her lip with the tip of her tongue, as if she were eight instead of eighteen. “It’s a real shame Emma doesn’t have anyone to cook for.”

“I do too,” Emma said with a mock scowl. “I cook for you and Mrs. Peep every chance I get.”

Casey licked her spoon with a glint of mischief in her blue-gray eyes. “Come on, Emma, you know what I mean. You should be making these wonderful concoctions for a grateful man who can shower you with praise . . .” She wriggled her brows. “Or kisses . . .”

“Casey Miranda Herringshaw!” Emma’s cheeks flamed hot as she poured cream into her coffee. “You’re as bad as Mrs. Peep, for goodness’ sake. Must I remind you I have a ring on my finger?”

The imp chuckled. “Oh, that ring
claims
you have a husband, Mrs. Malloy, but I sure don’t see one around. Which is a real shame, because Mrs. Peep isn’t the only one who thinks you’re too good to waste—Mama and I do too.”

Emma stifled a smile with a stern jut of her brow. “So now my life is a waste, is it?”

“Now you know that’s not what we mean, Emma,” Mrs. Peep said.

“Of course not. We just wish you had a little romance in your life, that’s all.” Chin in hand, Casey drifted off into a dreamy stare. “Because every girl needs a little romance, right, Mrs. Peep? Someone tall, dark, and handsome to weaken her knees?”

Mrs. Peep giggled like a schoolgirl, leaning to give Emma’s hand a quick press. “Or tall, blond, and handsome, such as my Archie. But yes, even though I know it can never be, Emma, nothing would give me more pleasure than seeing a little romance in your life.”

Gulping her coffee too quickly, Emma scalded her tongue, a timely reminder of how “romance” could do the same. Memories assaulted her—of roses from Rory, candlelit dinners, the warmth of his lips, the stroke of his hands—and her heart cramped at the knowledge that she would never have that again.
Nor the pain
, she reminded herself for the thousandth time since she’d left Rory’s bed.

Blowing on her coffee, she studied Casey and wondered if she’d made a mistake in convincing her mother to let her stay in Boston. For all of her independence, Casey seemed too naïve when it came to love, much like Emma at the same age. Too wide-eyed and unaware as to just how treacherous the wrong relationship could be.

She swallowed a sip of coffee and smiled. “Romance isn’t always moonlight and roses, you know, especially if you fall in love with the wrong man.”

The faraway look in Casey’s eyes melted into sympathy. Her voice was gentle. “I know that happened to you, Emma, because my mother told me everything. And I can’t express how sorry I am. But I hope—and I certainly pray—that my Johnny is nothing like your Rory.”

Guinevere meowed and grazed against her legs, and Emma picked her up, choosing her words carefully as she absently stroked the white bundle of fur now balled in her lap. Sadness tainted her smile. “I’m afraid the man I fell in love with was nothing like my Rory either, Casey . . . at least not in the beginning. Not all of us are as lucky as Mrs. Peep in finding our Archie.”

“Unfortunately, Emma’s right. Out of five girls in my family, my sister Margaret and I were the only two who weren’t married to lying cheats and sots.”

“Goodness, you’re both starting to sound like Mama! She’s always fretting some Lothario will break my heart. But I’m eighteen now, and I can sense when a man has feelings for me, truly. Like Johnny. He genuinely cares for me, Emma, I’m certain.”

Emma’s lips curled into a soft smile. “You are, are you?” she said, a teasing brogue slipping into her tone.

The sparkle returned to Casey’s eyes as she folded arms on the table with a smile. “Well, almost certain. All I know is when I’m with Johnny, I feel beautiful . . . special.”

“That’s because you
are
beautiful and special,” Emma said. “Not because of Johnny.”

Mrs. Peep tipped the rest of her cup and set it in the saucer before pushing it away. She rose to carry her cup to the sink. “Dinner was lovely, Emma, as always. Thank you so much.”

“You’re not staying for dominoes?” Emma blinked up at her, coffee cup in hand.

“I don’t think so, dear, not tonight.”

A frown pinched Emma’s brow as she rose. “Do you feel all right, Mrs. Peep?”

“Of course.” She gave Emma’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Just tired and thinking of Archie, that’s all. I believe I’ll boil some milk and head on to bed with a good book . . .” Melancholy settled in the crook of her smile. “Or maybe a few of the love letters he wrote me before we were married.” Her gaze shifted to Casey. “Good night, dear, and good luck with your young man.”

Casey jumped up to give her a hug. “Thanks, Mrs. Peep. Good night.”

Ushering her landlady down the hall, Emma paused a moment to poke through the drawer of her Victorian desk before slipping ten dollars into Mrs. Peep’s pocket.

“Oh, no, Emma, not again—I won’t take it.” Her landlady thrust it back.

Emma captured her in a tight hug. “Yes, Mrs. Peep, please? It’s not much, and it’s only fair for all you do for me.”

“But it’s a difficult time right now, and you can’t afford it any more than anyone else.”

“I can, Mrs. Peep, truly.” She ducked to smile into her eyes. “Now, honestly, what else do I have to spend my money on? You know I work six days a week, which leaves no time to spend anything. Besides, I’m not the one who has two empty apartments to rent, remember?” She clasped the old woman’s hand, her eyes pleading. “Let me do this . . . please?”

Water welled in Mrs. Peep’s eyes. “You already pay too much, then feed me dinner too.”

“Yes, just like you insist on sneaking into my apartment and doing my laundry, so hush. You would do the same for me, and you know it. Now, you get yourself into bed, all right?” Emma opened the door. “I’ll check on you tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”

Mrs. Peep nodded, tears seeping into the tiny ridges that fanned from the side of her eyes. Her frail lips trembled as she squeezed Emma’s hand. “Good night, Emma. You are truly something special—the kind of woman who brings a smile to God’s face.”

Heat braised Emma’s cheeks. “I certainly hope so, Mrs. Peep,” she said with a forced chuckle and then quietly shut the door. Hand still on the knob, she slumped back with head bowed. A woman who brings a smile to God’s face? She sighed.
Maybe now . . . but definitely not before . . .
Exhaling quietly, she made her way to the kitchen where Casey washed dishes at the sink.

Arms folded, Emma tried to look stern. “How many times have I told you that you’re my guest, Casey—I don’t invite you to work.”

Casey shot a grin over her shoulder, a blonde curl obscuring one eye. “Just say ‘thank you,’ Emma, because we both know Mama would tan my hide if I didn’t.”

Emma sighed. “Thank you, Casey, I appreciate it, and your mother would be proud.”

The young girl paused, her smile pensive as she dried her hands. “So, why do you do it?”

“Do what?” Emma gathered the soiled tablecloth and placed it on the counter before retrieving the domino set from the bottom drawer of her cupboard.

Casey studied her, gaze narrowed in thought. “Give extra money to Mrs. Peep.”

Emma rose and turned, the wooden box clutched to her chest. “What do you mean?”

Tossing the towel over a rack, Casey ambled to her seat and settled in, arms folded on the table and lips twisted in a wry smile. “Come on, Emma, I know you give money to Mrs. Peep, just like you give money to me and heaven knows how many others. And as if that isn’t enough, you insist on fixing us dinners and lending me clothes. You keep Mama posted on my progress and you watch me like a hawk—” One side of her mouth crooked up. “A ‘mother’ hawk, to be exact, hovering over me, taking care of me. I’ve seen you bake brownies for people at work, kids in the neighborhood, and just yesterday, Margaret Latham told me you’ve been tutoring her in math.” She cocked her head. “So, tell me, because I really want to know—why do you do it?”