A Heart Revealed (57 page)

“Sounds like that could cause the boy some pain.” Brady smiled as he tackled his cake.”

Luke grinned. “Yeah, pain as in watching Collin with a basketball in his hand.”

Collin chuckled. “Or you vowing to rein Katie in,” he said with a flash of teeth.

Katie spun around. “You said that?”

Tucking an arm to her waist, Luke attempted to disarm her with a kiss. “Come on, Katie, that’s just Collin shooting his mouth off.”

Collin bolted down the last of his cake and cut another piece. “After you shot yours off, you mean.” He dropped a hefty piece on his plate. “I’d get the couch made up, Luke my boy, if I were you—I think you’re going to need it. More cake, anybody?”

“More over here, unless the birthday girl wants it first,” Sean said, deferring to Charity.

“Nope, I’m done. How about you, Emma?”

Emma shook her head. “Couldn’t eat another bite, but I concur with your husband, Mrs. O’Connor, the cake is wonderful.”

“Why, thank you, Emma,” Marcy said, hopping up to pour more coffee. “I take that as the ultimate compliment since Sean says you’re one of the best cooks around.”

A blush tinted Emma’s face as she rose with her dirty plate. “Yes, well your son
is
Irish, Mrs. O’Connor, so he’s not above spinning tales, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, so Irish men are not to be believed, is that what you’re saying, Mrs. Malloy?” Sean sent her a smile that launched another tinge of rose to her cheeks.

“I think Emma is just stating the obvious,” Charity said with an angled smile, “so if I were you, I wouldn’t ask for a show of hands.”

Faith popped up. “All right, enough of this chitchat—it’s time to get serious. Who’s up for a game of Blitz or Rummy? Charity’s choice.”

“Oh, I wish I could,” Charity said with a yawn, “but I didn’t sleep well last night, so I’m afraid I’m going to call it a night.”

“But it’s your birthday,” Faith said with a scrunch of brows. “It won’t be any fun without the birthday girl.”

“Sure it will,” Steven said with a wink.

Charity rubbed her temple with a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry, but I actually don’t feel all that well, either—must be a headache coming on.” She reached for the cake pans to carry them to the kitchen. “Mother, dinner was wonderful—thank you for having everyone over.”

Marcy huffed and snatched the cake pans from Charity’s hands. “You are not helping to clear the table or do dishes on your birthday, for heaven’s sake. And I’d hardly call chili dinner, Charity, but you’re very welcome. I just wish it could be more.”

“Chili’s one of my favorites, and you know it. Especially with corn bread and honey butter. Besides, you keeping Henry and Hope overnight is a godsend in itself because I’m exhausted.” She bent to give her mother a kiss. “Love you.”

“Love you too, dear, and we’re thrilled to have the cousins tonight, aren’t we, Patrick?”

“‘Thrilled’ might be a tad over the top, darlin’, but yes, we’re more than happy to host a pajama party for the children.
Especially
since Steven promised to join them in the fort he plans to build on the sunporch. We
are
thrilled, however, to give our children and their spouses a night alone.” Patrick stood and gave Mitch a pat on the back. “May they utilize it wisely.”

Charity’s smile faded as she assessed color rising up her husband’s throat once again.
A night alone.
Her heart twisted. “Alone” being the operative word.

“I’m sorry I won’t be able to help with the dishes, Mrs. O’Connor,” Emma said as she rose to her feet, “or play cards with the rest of you.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Charity said, “you’re staying. Sean’ll bring you home, won’t you, Sean?” She bit back a smile at the sight of Sean and Emma, a matched set with pink hazing their cheeks.

“Uh, sure, I’ll be happy to drive her home,” Sean said, recovering quickly.

“No, really—I don’t want to be a bother.” Emma appeared flustered.

“You could never be a bother, Emma,” Sean whispered. “I insist.”

“Then it’s settled.” Charity glanced up at Mitch, fully aware of the firm set of his jaw. “You don’t mind taking me home, do you, Mitch? You can always come back if you like.”

His eyes bore into hers as he pushed his chair in. “No, little girl, I’m pretty tired myself.” He headed toward the kitchen to say good night to the kids, and Charity silently followed, her mood in stark contrast to the busy chatter of sisters clearing the table and cousins painting pictures with chocolate frosting. When they returned to the foyer, Mitch shook hands with Patrick and gave Marcy a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for taking the kids tonight. I can’t remember the last time I slept in on a Saturday morning.”

“You’re welcome, Mitch,” Marcy said. “Just take care of our girl on her birthday.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Red blotches bled up his neck as he quickly retrieved Charity’s wrap. He placed it around her shoulders while sisters hugged all around. He opened the door. “Ready?”

She glanced up at his rugged and angular jaw, shadowed with heavy evening bristle as always, and her heart broke all over again at the coolness in those piercing blue eyes.

Was she ready? For more hurt and rejection? No, but apparently she had little choice in the matter. Other than to forgive . . . to love . . . and to pray.

“Yes, I’m ready,” she whispered. And through the grace of God . . . she was.

“Honestly, Sean, this wasn’t necessary. I could have just as easily gone home with Charity and Mitch.” Pulse erratic, Emma kept her eyes focused on the walkway while Sean ushered her to his father’s Model T, the protective touch of his palm against her back making her feel anything but safe. She stumbled slightly on a catcher’s mitt strewn across the dark sidewalk, and his sturdy arm immediately hooked her to his side, causing her heart to climb into her throat.

“You okay?” He scooped the wayward mitt up and tucked it under his free arm while the other remained snugly latched to Emma’s waist. “Wait till I get my hands on Henry,” he said with a shake of his head. “I’ll tell you what, Charity’s got her comeuppance with that boy.”

A weak chuckle left Emma’s lips, the sound strained and nervous as she attempted to slip from his embrace. “She always tells me Henry is her penance for all the times she tormented Faith.”

A low laugh feathered the side of her head as he tightened his hold. The clean scent of soap, shaving cream, and Snickers coaxed an extra beat out of her heart while his husky whisper baited her. “Hold on there now, Emma, I’m not going to bite, you know. I just want to see you safely to the car. As I recall, this sidewalk’s sent you flying before.”

The heat coursing into her cheeks defied the cool of the night. She quickly ducked into Patrick’s car as soon as Sean opened the passenger door, hands shaking as she tucked them into the pockets of her coat. Before the door closed, she caught a glimpse of his easy smile in the glow of the lamplight overhead, and her heart took a tumble. She closed her eyes.
God, please . . . give me the grace that I need.

“So . . . you sure played a pretty mean game of Rummy tonight, Mrs. Malloy.” Sean scooted in on his side and slammed the door, tossing the stray baseball mitt onto the seat before jiggling his key in the ignition. The car roared to life, and he flipped on the headlights, casting a quick glance in the rearview mirror before shifting into gear. Shooting Emma a quick grin, he slowly maneuvered the vehicle down the dark street.

She could tell he was trying to put her at ease, but the kindness of his intent only endeared him all the more. She drew in a cold breath of air and slid him a shy smile. “Charity and I used to play Rummy a lot during our lunch breaks at Shaw’s in Dublin. We both got to be pretty good, but I guarantee that your sister would have walked away with the win had she played tonight. She’s a lot like Luke at Pinochle, you know—almost unbeatable.”

Sean’s chuckle seemed to warm the car despite the chill of the air. “Yeah, Luke’s pretty unbeatable at most games, I’d say.” He cut her another grin. “Except the game of marriage.”

Emma tilted her head, studying him with a faint smile while her brows dipped in surprise. “You see marriage as a game?”

He downshifted at an intersection, looking both ways before continuing on, then sent her a sideways look. “Yeah, don’t you?”

She laughed, the motion easing some of the tightness in her chest. “No, of course not. What makes you think it’s a game to be won or lost?”

“Well, take Katie and Luke, for instance,” he began, right arm relaxed on the back of the seat while he steered with the other. “Luke’s brand new to the game, so he’s like a bull in a china shop when it comes to dealing with Katie’s independent nature. He approaches his role of husband a lot like he approaches a basketball game—he’s fast on his feet, drives hard, and likes to control the ball. Problem is, Katie’s the same way, so they end up with a lot of fouls and more than a little temper.”

“What about Charity and Mitch?” she asked, fascinated by his thinking on the subject.

He shifted to make a turn, his profile crimped in thought. “Well, Mitch is like a long-distance runner, mind focused on the road ahead, easy pace, lots of endurance. While Charity, on the other hand, is a sprinter—nips at his heels, spurts of emotional energy that kicks dust in his face, and sometimes even attempts to steer him off course, all to get his attention, of course. But he’s like a machine, legs pumping steady on one path and one path only—his—either running Charity down in the process or carrying her across the finish line tied to his back.”

She shook her head, dumbfounded at the amount of thought he’d spent on the subject. “The saints be praised, Sean O’Connor—and to think all this time I believed you were this naïve bachelor who never gave marriage a passing thought.” She shifted to face him, head cocked in question. “So tell me, Mr. I-never-saw-a-sport-I-didn’t-like, if you see marriage as a game, then why on earth are you so deathly afraid of it? I would think your competitive nature would be challenged, exhilarated by the prospect of winning at a game that few men have mastered.”

Taking the next corner with relative ease, Sean veered the vehicle several blocks down at a steady pace, finally shifting to maneuver the turn onto Charity and Mitch’s street. He smiled, offering a sideways glimpse shadowed with mischief. “It’s simple, really—I don’t like to play sports—or games—where my opponents have an unfair advantage.”

“You see a wife as an opponent?”

His grin broadened in the glow of the streetlamp as he eased to a stop. He shifted into park, turned off the ignition, and turned to face her. “I see
women
as the opponent.”

“And what’s the unfair advantage, pray tell?”

Leaning his head back against the window, he draped an arm over the steering wheel and studied her through hooded eyes, his veiled look unable to hide a glimmer of tease. “Why, moods, tears, and manipulation, Mrs. Malloy, all powerfully compounded by the deadly pull of sexual attraction.”

An onslaught of blood assaulted her cheeks, and she looked away. “Oh,” she whispered, palm taut on the handle of the door. She swallowed hard and gripped it tightly, ready to flee.

“Emma.”

Her fingers stilled on the latch when he touched her arm. The sound of her name had parted from his tongue as a mere whisper, yet the depth of its passion buoyed her heart with a joy she had no right to feel. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she stared at the strong hand now caressing her own and her eyes drifted closed, unwilling to face the man to whom it belonged.

“Look at me,” he said quietly, and her breathing shallowed as she slowly raised her eyes to his. The intensity of his gaze caused her stomach to quiver.

“You are like no woman I have ever met, and if God would allow it, I would get down on my knees right now and commit to cherish and love you all the days of my life.”

“Sean—”

“No, please—hear me out. I need to say these things, at least once. Before I go.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. “Before you go?”

He distanced himself, and she felt the loss of his touch. Settling back again, he picked up the baseball mitt to finger the binding, absently staring at the glove as he toyed with its laces.

“I’ve given a lot of prayer and thought to us, Emma, and I think the best course of action would be for me to leave.”

“Leave?” she whispered, the very word cleaving to her tongue.

His eyelids lifted halfway, revealing his sorrow. “Dennehy’s—for good.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest, stealing her air.

“I know this comes as a shock, especially after what I said to you, both in the office last week and that day in your apartment when I”—his throat shifted—“when
we
. . . discovered our true feelings for each other.” He gently took her hand in his, and she was too stunned to resist, staring at his thumb as it feathered her fingers. “I thought we could continue on as friends, but every time I look at you, touch you, see your smile, hear your laugh . . . ,” his large hand swallowed hers in a tender hold, squeezing gently before letting go with a deep draw of air, “. . . I only crave you more. To hold you, to love you . . . to make you my wife.”