A Heart Revealed (45 page)

“Casey!” Johnny turned, but Emma launched against the door, blocking his way.

Her stomach quivered, but her voice was steady with a cold rage that matched his, word for word. “You will leave this instant,” she whispered, “and you will never come back.”

He rammed her hard against the door, rattling her jaw. “Get this and get this good, you scar-faced witch. I’m not going anywhere, and if you so much as breathe a word to Casey’s mother, I’ll pretty up the other side of your face, make no mistake.”

She didn’t blink despite the sweat beading her brow. “I’ll have you arrested.”

He leaned in, his breath foul. “I don’t think so, darlin’. Unless you want Casey to look like you.” His lip curled, making his handsome face almost ugly. He stroked a finger down the length of her scar. “She’s too pretty for that.” His grin was demonic. “Like you used to be—”

“Get your filthy hands off me.”

He laughed, his finger trailing to the neckline of her blouse. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll have you arrested for assault.” She hurled his hand away. “That is, as soon as the police arrive.” She had no talent for lying, but the words rolled off her tongue with the ease of a politician selling used cars. “I asked Mrs. Peep to call before I came up.”

The scowl died on his face. “You’re lyin’.”

“No, I assure you I’m not. Because unlike you, I’m rather partial to the truth.”

He cursed and shoved her away. “You’ll pay for this.” His gaze darted, an animal caught in the sight of a hunter. Another profanity hissed in the air. “Where’s my clothes?”

It was a moment graced by God, and Emma knew it. A soiled heap of clothes that littered the bathroom floor, along with his shoes. He turned toward the bed, and she fled, scooping them up on her way to the door. She spotted his coat on the rack and snatched it as well. A bubble of laughter tickled her throat until Casey’s door slammed behind her, and then it tumbled from her lips as she scrambled down the steps. Her breathing was labored when she pounded on Mrs. Peep’s door, but never had she felt so alive . . . so free . . .
SO
vindicated!

“Are you okay?” Casey’s voice was shrill as the door swung open.

Emma rushed in, chest heaving. “Lock it, now. And call the police.”

“Already did,” Mrs. Peep said, eyeing the pile of clothing in Emma’s arms. One silver brow jutted high. “His clothes? You stole his clothes?”

With a quick perusal of Casey’s tiny frame, Emma plunked the pile onto Mrs. Peep’s couch with a grin. “Let’s hope nothing in Casey’s closet fits . . . at least until the police get here.”

Casey put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Emma!” Her lips trembled into a smile before a sob broke from her throat. With a halting groan, she threw herself into Emma’s embrace and wept, her body heaving in Emma’s arms.

Emma held her close, soothing her with gentle strokes of her hair. “Shhh . . . it’s over now, Casey, it’s over. We won’t let him hurt you anymore.”

“Oh, Emma, can you ever forgive me?” Casey pulled away, her cheeks sodden with tears. “H-he was s-so attentive and loving in the b-beginning, and then he started to p-push.”

Emma cupped her chin. “Of course I forgive you, because I know how that can be, a man who puts stars in your eyes and makes you feel so special and so loved.” She pushed a blond strand away from Casey’s face, her eyes somber. “But you know what this means, Casey.” A fragile sigh drifted from Emma’s lips. “You have to go home.”

Casey stared, a trickle of tears streaming her cheeks as she nodded.

A door slammed upstairs, and a cry of terror whimpered from Casey’s lips as she lunged to clutch Emma with a racking heave.

Heavy footsteps thudded down the steps, and Emma held her breath. They thundered past Mrs. Peep’s apartment and out the front, jiggling Mrs. Peep’s pictures when the door bashed against the wall. Emma’s stomach clenched before she ran to the window, Casey giggling over her shoulder and Mrs. Peep chuckling at her side. But it was a barefoot six-foot-plus man charging down the street that brought a true smile to Emma’s face. Ablaze with lemon-yellow flowers, Casey’s tiny housecoat barely covered his hairy body, although it did show off his legs to nice advantage.

Emma sighed and turned, her smile easing into a grin. “Mmm . . . I’m not sure, but I think that may just be his color.” She cocked an innocent brow. “Don’t you?”

14

D
irty laundry.
The perfect activity for a Thursday night when the kids were in bed and she was all alone. Charity scowled as she heaved her wooden laundry basket from the floor of her closet, wondering again why she always saved her least favorite chore for her least favorite day. Her lips kinked. Maybe because she put it off . . . like she did with thoughts of Mitch working with that woman. And then,
boom!
Suddenly it was Thursday again, and her hampers were full of grimy clothes, and her mind, grimy thoughts.

She sighed and wished it were easier—what Faith had taught her to do. Taking every thought captive—her wild imagination, the jealousy, the fear—and keeping her thoughts pure. And for the most part she had, reining in her doubts and her temper to stay squeaky clean. But come Thursday, it seemed she was always in need of a wash, and then her clothes and her guilt would be scrubbed within an inch of their lives.

Basket on hip, she moved to her bed to strip off the sheets, reflecting on the Scripture Faith insisted she memorize.

For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds; casting down imaginations . . . and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.

She chewed on her lip. Easier said than done . . . especially for a wife whose “weapons” tended toward “carnal”—that is, except in the bedroom of late, where her husband’s desire seemed as exhausted as his body at the end of a grueling day, compliments of the
Herald
. Heaving a sigh, she dropped the sheets into her basket and proceeded to flip the mattress, a habit she’d acquired during pregnancy when she’d been afflicted with constant backaches. Apparently it was a surefire way to keep the lumps out for the best support, at least according to her mother. Charity grunted as she heaved the mattress in place.
How about a surefire remedy for keeping the lumps out of my marriage?
she thought with a wry bent of her lips, wishing application of Faith’s Scripture was as easy and simple as turning a bed.

Especially on Thursday nights.

She remade the bed with fresh sheets and carried the basket to the hamper in her bedroom closet, quoting Faith’s Scripture in her mind.

For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal . . .
She tossed three pairs of Mitch’s underwear into the basket.

But mighty through God to the pulling down of strongholds . . .
Several pajama bottoms and socks followed.

Casting down imaginations
. . . She stopped, noting something peeking from behind the hamper, items that Mitch had obviously carelessly flung.
So that’s where his pin-striped shirt went
, she thought with a shake of her head, retrieving the shirt that she loved along with a pair of wrinkled trousers. She dropped the trousers into the basket and then with a rush of longing, she crushed the shirt to her face and breathed in his scent, craving his touch. She closed her eyes and dwelled on him—her gruff and practical husband, tall and strong and dangerously handsome. A man who exuded a quiet strength and passion in everything he touched—whether in his faith, in his family . . . or in his bed.

Fingering the soft, smooth material in her hand, she wondered how late he would be tonight. It seemed every week “the queen” demanded more and more of his time. She sighed and tossed the shirt into the basket, the fabric fluttering in slow motion as her arm froze in the air. Paralysis claimed her mid-blink, and she stared, all breath lost in her throat. With trembling fingers, she bent to retrieve the shirt and gasped.

A streak of scarlet lipstick edged the collar like a bloody gash, bleeding all rational thoughts from her mind
.
Her body jerked, and she dropped it again, slumping to her knees with a choked sob.
No, God—please!

Vile thoughts pelted her mind—perfumed notes, a woman’s scent on his clothes, late nights at the office, and then at her house. Charity shivered. And scarlet lipstick on his collar.

The color of sin.

No! She put a hand to her eyes, desperate to fight it.
Casting down imaginations, casting down imaginations
. . . She drew in more air. Mitch loved her, he did, and he was a good man. But all she saw in her mind was Marjorie Hennessey, the darling of Beacon Hill—wealthy, beautiful . . . and notorious for indiscretions. Temptation in the flesh.

Especially for a man whose wife’s jealousy and neediness pushed him away.

Charity shot to her feet, fear warring with fury. Bolting from the room, she rushed downstairs, fingers shaking as she dialed the phone. She waited, ring after ring till finally—

“Hello?”

She collapsed against the wall. “Emma, I need you. Can you come over, please—now?”

“Charity? What’s wrong?”

She started to heave. “I . . . I need to see Mitch, but I c-can’t leave H-henry and H-hope.”

“I’m on my way.”

With a hand to her chest, she clicked the receiver several times and rang for the operator to call for a cab. She sucked in a calming breath, determined to regain control. She could do this, she could! This was
her
territory,
her
husband, and
her
fight, and by God, she’d make sure that Marjorie Hennessey knew that Mitch Dennehy was hands-off.

She was ready in record time, armed in Mitch’s favorite dress—the blue satin with a neckline that drew his eye—and the perfume that drove him crazy. She surveyed herself in the mirror with a grim smile, confident in the fashionable lay of her finger-waved bob and the deep rose of her lips. The doorbell rang, and she grabbed Mitch’s shirt and her purse and flew down the stairs, never more grateful that her children were in bed.

Emma rushed in as she opened the door, fear etched in her face. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to see Mitch.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she fought them off.

With a slow scan of her attire, Emma paled. “No, Charity, please—you can’t do this . . .”

“She’s after my husband, Emma, I know it.”

Emma grabbed her arm. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you. She’s a woman he chairs a committee with and nothing more.”

“No, it’s more than that, I can feel it. For months I’ve been fighting this uneasy feeling inside, you know that, Emma. And now I know why—she’s making advances to Mitch.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I do know it!” she rasped. She shoved the stained shirt into Emma’s hand, noting the flare of alarm in her friend’s eyes. “There’s perfume on his clothes and lipstick too, her phone number on a scented note, and meetings at her house. How much proof do I need?”

She jerked her coat off the rack by the door, and Emma clutched her shoulders. “Charity—no, I beg you! Confront Mitch when he gets home, if you must, but don’t go down there. You’ll only make a fool of yourself and embarrass him.”

A horn sounded, and Charity snatched the shirt from Emma’s hand. “Hope and Henry are in bed, and I won’t be long.” She kissed Emma’s cheek. “I love you, Emma. Pray for me?”

Emma squeezed her in a tight hug, then pulled away, hands still gripping Charity’s arms. “I will pray for you, but
here
, please! Charity, don’t go—I’m begging you. This isn’t like you, at least not anymore. That woman will think you’re crazy, and Mitch will be furious.”

Her lips cemented in a hard line. “He’ll get over it, Emma, but hopefully she won’t. Let her think I’m crazy because I am—about my husband—and I refuse to let her get close. I want that woman a little bit scared of just what I might do.” She gave Emma a tight smile. “Insanity can be a wonderful deterrent, you know. Especially to those who step on your toes.”

The horn sounded again, and Charity blew her a kiss, bounding out the door with confidence surging in her veins. Twenty minutes later, the cabbie pulled up to the
Herald
, and she felt her dinner rise in her chest.
God, forgive me . . . what am I doing?
She was a thirty-one-year-old mother acting like a brainless sixteen-year-old girl, and for one quaking moment, her feet were glued to the floor of the taxi. And then in a painful beat of her heart, she felt Mitch’s shirt clenched tight in her hand, and her fury rebounded. With resolve in her bones, she paid the driver and hurried into the
Herald
, greeting the night watchman with her brightest smile.

“Good evening, Angus, how have you been?”

The old man blinked in surprise and then gave her a toothless grin. “Miz Dennehy—what a sight for sore eyes. It’s a pleasure to see you again, ma’am. And I’ve been just fine, thank ye. Would you like me to let your husband know you’re here?”