A Heart Revealed (54 page)

A trait she obviously shares with my wife.

Mitch sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, thoughts of Charity inflaming his senses as they had every waking hour for the past two weeks. And during some fitful hours of sleep as well, if “sleep” was even accurate for a six-foot-four frame on a five-foot-ten sofa.

In a fit of jealous rage, she’d lost his respect overnight, something he hadn’t believed possible, at least not for a woman who possessed his soul. And although she’d rebounded with calm humility and even tender love in the face of his anger, the humiliation and fury of that night still scalded the back of his neck. Fury that she had invaded his work life, exposed him to ridicule, and then thwarted his authority in front of God and man. He ground his jaw. Fury that she had the audacity to accuse him of infidelity with any woman, much less Marjorie Hennessey. Nothing churned the anger in his gut more than that, lipstick on his collar or no. Not when he had fought Marjorie tooth and nail for months now.

And for what? So that the woman he actually lusted for—his own wife—could accuse him of dallying with another woman. The unfairness of it stung his pride something fierce, and he found his anger stoked white-hot once again. If ever there’d been a time he’d needed Charity’s understanding, her love, it had been the last four months, when another woman seemed hell-bent on giving him hers.

Hell-bent. An apt description for Marjorie Hennessey, and yet Mitch couldn’t deny the pull she provoked. Less frequency of making love to his wife had a dangerous effect, he soon discovered, making him more vulnerable to Marjorie than he liked. Drawing his glance to the swell of her breasts, warming his body with a slow cross of her legs. He licked his lips as his mouth went dry, remembering the trigger of his pulse whenever her body eased against his.

Purely physical. And purely wrong.

And yet, you can have her.

The thought sucked the air from his lungs as his heart rate accelerated. He jolted up in the chair. “God, help me,” he whispered and dropped his head in his hands.

“Go home to your wife, Mitch, Marjorie isn’t coming.”

For the second time in mere seconds, all air abandoned him as he startled, paralyzed at the sight of Patrick in his door. He blinked, still in a daze. “What?”

“I said, go home to your wife, Marjorie isn’t coming.”

His prior thoughts and Patrick’s untimely words suddenly merged, forcing a blast of fire into his face.

Patrick studied him for a moment, then slowly walked in and shut the door, his gaze never leaving Mitch’s as he moved into the office. Without a word, he sat down at the front of Mitch’s desk, his body looking tired and worn and battered from the day. He rested his hands on the arms of the chair with fingers limp over the edge. Releasing a weary sigh, he peered up with a cloudy look that registered concern. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Mitch ignored the roar of heat in his cheeks and steeled his jaw, leaning forward with palms on his desk. He ground his words out. “Maybe you need to tell me, Patrick, since Marjorie has obviously chosen to inform you rather than her cochair. Why isn’t she coming?”

Patrick stared for several seconds, then propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his hands. “You’re off the auction, Mitch.”

He blinked, eyebrows raised and jaw going slack. “What?”

“You’re to turn all your notes over to O’Reilly, first thing in the morning.”

“You’re joking . . .”

Patrick idly tapped two tented fingers against his lips, his steady gaze fused to that of his son-in-law. “No, I’m not.”

“But, why?”

Patrick drew in a quiet breath. “It would seem my daughter has put the fear of God into Marjorie Hennessey, which,” he said with the trace of a smile, “is not necessarily a bad thing.”

Mitch gaped. “She told you that?”

“No, not in so many words, but I’m not deaf, Mitch, and I’m not blind, either.”

Mitch blinked, his sagging jaw apparently a permanent condition tonight. “You knew? Knew how Marjorie has been after me, and yet you did nothing?”

“No, I didn’t know at first, of course, other than knowing her reputation with men. But frankly, there was nothing I could do. Arthur specifically requested you, and to be honest, I trust you and respect you more than I can say.”

Mitch looked away, shame adding to the heat crawling up the back of his neck.

Patrick paused, his tone measured. “Mitch, being tempted by a woman and giving in are two entirely different things.”

Mitch swallowed hard and closed his eyes.

“Besides,” Patrick said with a hint of levity in his tone, “I know my daughter and had every confidence that Marjorie had met her match.”

Mitch’s eyes popped back open, his anger rekindled. “Your daughter humiliated me, Patrick, made laughingstocks of both of us—you and me, not to mention herself.”

“Yes . . . yes she did, no question about that. But you know, Mitch, in her own misguided way, she also proved just how much she loves you. She took a stand with Marjorie to make sure that woman wouldn’t get too close. A she-cat with her mate, if you will. And,” he said with a slant of his lips, “she managed to accomplish something neither you nor I could do—cut you loose from a project you disdain . . . and deliver you out of the clutches of Marjorie Hennessey.” He smiled. “If I were you, I’d go home and thank her.”

Mitch didn’t share his sentiments. His lips flattened. “No, thanks, Patrick, I think I’ll nurse this grudge awhile longer. At least long enough for my pride to heal and Charity to learn that she can’t go off half-cocked whenever she gets a whim.”

Patrick sighed and slowly rose to his feet. “I’m sorry to hear that. It seems I remember being in a similar situation when Sam O’Rourke came to call a number of years back. I wasn’t ready to forgive Marcy then, either, and I believe it was you who told me not to take too long to forgive. That my time for healing might be Marcy’s demise . . . and mine.”

Patrick walked to the door, then turned halfway with his hand on the knob. “I wish I had listened then, Mitch . . . just like I wish you would listen now.” He sighed. “But I can’t make you, any more than you could make me. But I can pray . . . pray that you will put that hurt pride of yours aside long enough to realize that life is too short and love is too precious to waste even a single moment. Go home to your wife. Forgive her and tell her you love her.” His lips skewed into a bittersweet smile. “Trust me, I have painful experience.”

Without another word, he opened the door and left, leaving Mitch to stare after him with the sour taste of pride in his mouth. The thought came to him to pray, but he put it aside for the moment, knowing full well that the time would come when he would.

He would pray. And he would forgive. And he would even love his wife once again.

But . . . not until he was ready.

“For mercy’s sake, Sean . . . it’s a basketball game, not a duel to the death.” Father Mac gasped, hands on his knees and scarlet face lined with sweat despite heaving breaths that billowed like smoke into the chilly November night. “At this pace, I’ll need Last Rites.”

Sean grinned, swiping the sweat from his own face with the sleeve of his gray rolled-up sweatshirt, his breathing not near as raspy as that of the fifty-four-year-old priest, but definitely strained. “Come on, Mac, given your age, you’re in better shape on the court than Collin, Mitch, and probably Brady too, even though all of them work out at the gym religiously.”

“Yes, well, I work out religiously too, but one does not get a lot of exercise in a three-by-three confessional.” He straightened with a groan and stretched brawny arms in the air, a glimmer of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Although I confess I’ve been sorely tempted to hide a set of dumbbells when Miss Ramona rambles on about her latest dance recital.” He fished a handkerchief from his cassock pocket and mopped his face with a wry smile. “Probably should anyway, to beef up for moments like this when certain members of the flock have a mind to clip me on the court.”

“Sorry, Mac,” Sean said with a smile. “Had some frustrations I needed to vent.” He draped a loose arm over the winded priest’s shoulder on their way to the rectory kitchen.

Father Mac held the door while Sean ambled through, then headed straight for the icebox. “Figured as much. Haven’t experienced that much humiliation on the court since Brady’s struggle over Lizzie before they got married.” He waggled a milk bottle in the air, brown eyes pinched in a squint. “Milk, coffee, or tea? My nose tells me that Mrs. Clary just baked a fresh batch of snickerdoodles, so make your decision accordingly.”

“Milk sounds great, thanks.” Sean placed the basketball on the counter and scrubbed his hands at the sink, his mouth watering from the smell of cinnamon still hovering in the air. His stomach rumbled while he dried his hands on the towel, suddenly nervous about the real reason he was here tonight, other than to vent his frustrations on the court. He sucked in a bolstering breath and straddled a chair, watching Father Mac as he poured two tumblers of milk. He cocked his head, eyes trained on his friend. “You ever get tired of it, Mac? People venting?”

Father Mac turned at the counter where he was raiding Mrs. Clary’s pink pig cookie jar. He dumped a mountain of cookies on a plate and smiled, replacing the lid before returning to the table. “Never. I thrive on it, Sean. Just like you thrive on helping others, whether it’s coaching the baseball team, building risers for Sister Bernice”—his mouth inched into a grin—“or raising funds for Sister Cecilia’s pagan babies.” He dropped into a chair with a grunt and nudged a glass of milk forward, along with the plate of cookies. He took a healthy glug while eyeing Sean over the rim, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “
Or
helping Emma out at the store for less pay when we both know you’ve been offered a job making far more.”

Sean glanced up, his half-eaten cookie wedged in his mouth. “What? Who told you that?”

Father Mac chewed slowly, studying Sean with a pensive air. “You forget my weekly meetings with the parish council. Seems Ted Russo was quite put out you refused his magnanimous offer to manage his new Woolworth’s. I actually had to calm the man down.”

Sean sighed and pushed the plate of cookies away, his appetite suddenly diminished. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t leave Emma in the lurch, Mac, nor Mitch and Charity for that matter.”

“Ah, yes . . . your propensity to help others in play once again, neatly timed with my propensity to let people vent.” He brushed cookie crumbs from his lap and leaned back in the chair, assessing Sean with a patient gaze. “Anything you’d like to ‘vent’ verbally rather than on the court?”

The cookies churned in Sean’s stomach like cookie dough in Mrs. Clary’s mixer. Suddenly this didn’t seem like such a great idea, talking to Mac about Emma. What had he been thinking, anyway?
That I could use some divine assistance
, he thought with a clench of his jaw.
Preferably before I lose my mind.
He ground the ball of his hand along the socket of his eye, trying to alleviate the onset of another headache . . . the same one that seemed to throb whenever he thought about his problem with Emma. He blasted out his frustration with a noisy exhale and peered up at Mac, eyes shuttered to keep him at bay. “What makes you think I need to vent?”

The priest responded with a low chuckle, propping his legs up on the seat of another chair. He locked his hands behind his neck. “Well, I suppose I could convince you that it’s my keen sense of intuition, but that would be dangerously close to a lie. So, let’s just say as a priest, one’s skills of observation tend to become finely tuned.”

Sean leaned back in the chair and folded his arms, a trace of a smile shadowing his face. “Yeah? How so?”

“Well, for instance, when a typically easygoing and unusually kind parishioner annihilates his pastor on the court like Beelzebub himself, one begins to take notice that something is amiss.”

Sean’s smile crooked higher.

“And then of course, when said parishioner chooses an evening with the parish priest over decadent desserts baked by his mother and sisters, one gets a wee bit suspicious.”

Sean grinned, shaking his head.

“But the true tip-off, my boy, is something so remarkable that, indeed, the Vatican itself might classify it as a miracle . . .” Father Mac inhaled deeply, obviously enjoying his ruse.

“Yes?” Sean hiked a brow.

A smile eased across Father Mac’s face. “Sean O’Connor, stopping at one cookie—indeed, rarer than canonization for sainthood.” The priest leaned in to fold his arms on the table, his smile subsiding, along with the jest in his tone. “So, tell me, Sean, why are you really here tonight?”

His pulse stilled. This was it. The moment he could finally unload all the grief and acute disappointment strangling him inside. To confess it to another human being. Someone who could comfort him, counsel him, and yes, even pray for him. Sean looked up at the man who had not only offered his friendship, but could offer his absolution as well, and his eyelids weighted closed. He didn’t want to reveal his pain, his weakness, his sins to anyone, but he needed peace and God knows he needed absolution. Absolution for what he had done . . . Shame burned in his throat. And absolution for what he feared he would continue to do—at least, in his mind.