A Heart Revealed (30 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” Emma said with affection. “Goodbye, Bert, see you on Monday.”

Bert’s grunt followed her out the door as she flopped a hand in the air.

Emma grinned and turned, her smile fading into a sigh at the slam of another drawer. She tiptoed over, absently chewing her lip as she peeked in his office.

Despite the vibrancy of a sunny September day, Sean O’Connor lay sprawled in his chair, eyes closed and looking as spent as if he’d tossed and turned all night in his bed.
In his clothes
. Clean-shaven when he’d arrived, a shadow of beard was beginning to emerge as he reposed, head back and legs crossed on his desk. His eyes were shaded with fatigue, nicely complemented by facial muscles that drooped as if in dire need of sleep. Even the shirt that he wore, usually so starched and so neat, seemed to sag along with the man, sleeves rolled and tie tugged loose. Wayward hair, the exact color of autumn wheat, fluttered against his tan forehead while a breeze rustled the paper held limp in his hand. Generous lips that usually sported a smile now bent in a frown, ratcheting Emma’s pulse along with her concern. With a deep draw of air, she inched into the room, arms hugged to her waist as she inhaled the scent of freshly mown grass from the park across the way.

“Sean, are you . . . okay?”

His eyes lumbered open and he gave her a smile that fell flat. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“You just don’t seem yourself today. No energy, a bit worn, and maybe . . . a bit edgy?” She hesitated, noting the lack of humor in his eyes. “Even Bert noticed . . . and we’re worried.”

He scrubbed his face with his hand and slid his feet to the floor, tossing the paper he held onto his desk. “Well, don’t be, I’m fine. Didn’t sleep great last night, that’s all.”

She eased in, confused by the bite in his tone. “I have brownies . . . ,” she whispered.

He yanked a drawer open, then slammed it after finding what he wanted. “No, thanks.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do—”

“You’ve already done enough, thank you.”

The sharpness of his tone heated her cheeks. She took a step back, lips parted in hurt.

He huffed out a noisy sigh and looked up, eyes softening and voice contrite. “Look, I’m sorry, Emma, you don’t deserve my nasty mood.” His mouth slanted. “Or maybe you do.”

She cocked her head. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Rose, would it?”

He angled a leg against a drawer and peered up. “No, Emma,” he said dryly. “It has
everything
to do with Rose.” His gaze sharpened. “You forced me to have coffee with her.”

She blinked. “Forced?” She bit back a smile but somehow it escaped to her eyes. “I don’t remember firearms being involved, Mr. O’Connor.”

His piercing gaze glinted with a hint of his trademark humor. “Oh, they were, Mrs. Malloy, trust me on that, and I have the insomnia to prove it.” His smile was stiff. “Shot clean through the heart with both barrels, taking me down with a double blast of guilt and shame.”

“Sean, I—”

He raised a hand. “And now,” he emphasized, enunciating each word, “because of your expert marksmanship, Rose Kelly has finagled her way into coming to my game tonight.”

She what?
Emma’s heart stalled in her chest, mouth agape. “You mean she came out and asked you?”

“Oh no, Mrs. Malloy, she’s far more devious than that. Gets me talking about myself, how I coach the St. Stephen’s team and then cries me a river about she’s an only child and never had a chance to experience things like that. Next thing I know, I mutter something about how she should come sometime and
bam!
‘How about tomorrow night?’ she says with a bat of her eyes.”

Emma pressed a hand to mask a smile. “Oh, Sean, I’m so sorry.” Her eyes widened in a calculated innocence that would have made Charity proud. “But maybe she just likes baseball.”

His gaze narrowed. “This is
not
funny, Emma.” He leveled muscled arms on the desk, accusation thick in his tone. “Because of you, I have to deal with this headache one more time.”

With a gentle sigh, she slipped into the chair in front of his desk and gave him a sympathetic smile, affection warm in her voice. “It was the right thing to do, and you know it. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, my friend, it’s that you’re a man who always does the right thing . . .” Her teeth tugged at the edge of her lip. “Sooner or later.”

He grunted. “You can put the gun away, Emma, I’ve already gone down in flames.”

A chuckle bubbled in her throat. “I was only aiming at the unforgiveness, Sean, not your bachelorhood. After the game, just make it clear to Miss Kelly that you’re not interested . . .”

One blond brow shot high. “Clear? To Rose Kelly?” He grunted again. “The only thing that would be clear to that woman is a gold band on my hand . . .
and
in my nose.”

“I’m sure if you just tell her in no uncertain terms—”

His mouth sagged open. “Don’t you think I have? I must have told her in three or four different ways, but the woman just blinked at me like I was speaking Chinese. I practically painted a picture for her in living color, but she’s obviously color-blind too.”

“Well, it
was
you who asked, you know . . .”

His words ground out between clenched teeth. “As-a-blasted-courtesy, not-an-invitation.”

Emma squinted in thought. “Why not tell her what you told her before? You know, after she cornered you in the storeroom that time—that you’re ‘seeing’ someone.” Mirth laced her tone at his contrived defense at the time, claiming it wouldn’t be a lie, because he
was,
after all, “seeing” Emma at every family function, wasn’t he?

“Yes, but that was when she had Chester. Now she’s free as a bird—a vulture, to be exact—and she’s circling, I can feel it.”

Mischief tugged at Emma’s lips. “Then just tell her the truth, that it’s nothing personal, but you’re contemplating the priesthood.”

A harsh laugh erupted from his throat. “Oh, yeah, like that’s going to stop her.” He gouged his temples with the span of his hand. “I tell you, the woman is diabolical.” Dropping back into his chair, he blew out a ragged sigh. “I think she apprenticed under Charity.”

Emma couldn’t help it. She laughed and shook her head. Rising to her feet, she straightened her skirt and challenged him with a devious glint of her own. “Well then, Sean O’Connor, I suggest you get on the phone this instant to give Charity a call.” She strolled to the door and turned, a crooked grin on her lips. “Because if I’m not mistaken,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, “I suspect other than prayer, your only hope is to call in a professional.”

“For pity’s sake, Mitch, would you
please
sit down?”

Mitch Dennehy halted midstride to stare at his father-in-law, a sharp retort weighting his tongue. He swallowed it hard, unwilling to break his vow to curb his temper, especially with his editor. His frustration pulsed in his cheek as he plopped into the chair at the front of Patrick’s burnished wood desk. He forced a tight smile. “Sorry, Patrick, but I’m having trouble understanding why Hennessey hauled us in on a Saturday and then makes us wait two blasted hours. Hours that could have been spent far more productively, I might add.”

Patrick glanced up from some galleys to give his assistant editor a sympathetic smile. “Both of us have had a chance to catch up on a few things while waiting, Mitch, and you could use the extra time to go over last year’s donor list, you know. That would be time well spent.” His lips shifted in irony. “Although not nearly as cathartic as pacing the floor, I’m sure.”

Mitch huffed. “You know I can’t concentrate when I’m riled. And nothing riles me more than Hennessey foisting some high-society soiree on us when he knows how swamped we are.” His mouth gummed in a tight line. “Especially when it keeps me from fishing with my son.”

With a slash of his pen, Patrick redlined a galley before sailing it into a bin on the corner of his desk. He laid the pen down and massaged his eyes. “I certainly understand—not to mention incurring the wrath of our wives. If Charity is anything like her mother—” he lowered his reading specs to deliver a wry look over the square rims, “and we both know she is—she’s probably still stewing. Marcy actually gave me the silent treatment this morning for working another Saturday. Which,” he said with a trace of humor in his tone, “given the highs and lows I’ve experienced during her change of life, is actually preferable at times. Silence is golden . . . at least when the alternative is a mood swing that unleashes anything from a rant to a crying jag.”

A smile wheedled its way to the corners of Mitch’s lips. “Yeah, mood swings—I remember them well with the twins—nine months of biting my tongue till I thought it would bleed. I’ll tell you right now I’m not looking forward to more of those if we have another child.” His smile faded into a grimace. “
Or
when Charity reaches the change, whichever comes first.”

Patrick chuckled. “Well, judging from Marcy, you have another twenty years before the notorious change of life—a remarkably accurate term, I might add. Plenty of time to fill that house up with babies like Charity always wanted, if the good Lord is so inclined.”

Mitch fanned fingers through his hair, his discomfort evident in the press of his jaw. “Yeah, well, I’ve shown up for my part in giving Charity the family she wants, but the good Lord seems to be lagging behind.” He scowled at the door. “Not unlike Hennessey and his niece.”

Glancing at his watch, Patrick rose from his chair. “Well, he said they would be here at one-thirty and it’s three-thirty now, but he did mention that they might be running late. Something about a luncheon Marjorie needed to attend.”

Mitch exhaled a gust of frustration. “And why aren’t we doing this on Monday, again?”

“Marjorie was busy—she’s the chairperson for a number of committees, not the least of which is the Fogg Art Museum, for which you will be spearheading this auction.”

Mitch couldn’t contain his groan. “When is the blasted event anyway? I’d like to know how long I’ll be shackled to this ball and chain.”

“The day after Christmas—it’s a joyful holiday event they hope will complete the renovations for Harvard’s most prestigious museum.” Patrick calmly adjusted the sleeves of his suit coat with a tug of his fingers, but the flat press of his lips indicated he agreed with his son-in-law. “It’s Hennessey’s alma mater, naturally, and Marjorie went to Radcliffe.”

“Yeah, well, bully for Marjorie and Merry Christmas to us.”

“Don’t move—I’ll make fresh coffee.” Patrick rose and headed to his door.

“You’re not leaving, I hope?” Arthur Hennessey met Patrick with a smile and a handshake. Neatly combed dark hair, white at the temples and only lightly salted with gray, made him appear far younger than his sixty-five years. “Please forgive our tardiness, Patrick, but Marjorie had some errands to run. Hello, Mitch, good to see you again.”

Mitch reached for his pad and pen before rising in a slow turn, hands and teeth a matched set—both tightly clenched. His smile was strained. “Good to see you again too, sir.”
Finally
.

He pocketed the pen and moved toward the door to extend a hand
.
Arthur pumped it with enthusiasm and then steered in a Jean Harlow look-alike, complete with platinum blond hair and sultry mouth. Upon entry, the scent of gardenias filled the room. Cool green eyes assessed Mitch from head to foot in a sweep of sooty lashes before dismissing him with a bored shift of her gaze. She directed a smile in Patrick’s direction and held out a hand heavy with diamonds. “Hello, Patrick, it’s lovely to see you again. I missed you and Marcy at the spring benefit.”

Patrick shook her hand with a warm smile. “Marjorie, always a pleasure. And my apologies—Marcy came down with the flu the day before, but she’s looking forward to the auction in December.” He released her hand and directed her attention to Mitch. “And you remember my assistant editor, Mitch Dennehy, I trust—your cochair for this year’s auction?”

Arthur Hennessey’s niece swept him with another cool gaze, finally lingering on his face with a faint smile and a handshake. “Thank you for volunteering, Mitch. Arthur assures me that you are more than capable of ramrodding this important event so dear to my heart.”

Volunteering?
His eyes flicked to Patrick’s in a barely concealed glare before returning to Marjorie, the smile stiff on his face as he took her hand. “Yes, well, it’s Patrick who deserves the thanks, Mrs. Hennessey—he’s fully aware of my fondness for charitable causes.”

Patrick cleared his throat. “Shall we convene in the boardroom? I think we may be more comfortable there. Coffee anyone? I’ll make a fresh pot while Mitch sees you to the room.”

“Perfect,” Arthur said. “And coffee sounds wonderful. Black for me, please, and cream for Marjorie.” He cupped a hand to Marjorie’s elbow and ushered her out the door while Mitch followed. Suddenly he turned, his brow buckled in thought. “Oh, blast, Patrick—I left the circulation figures I wanted to discuss upstairs in my office.”

Patrick turned. “Are they on your desk, Arthur? I’ll be happy to get them for you.”