A Light in the Window (13 page)

Son. Friend.
Patrick swallowed hard to fight the sudden sting of tears, shocked at the emotion that swelled in his throat. Oh, to hear those very words from the lips of a father he could never please. But, no, they’d been uttered by a stranger instead, one some people might even discount as a human being. Wiping a palm against clean trousers, Patrick extended his free hand, his smile tight lest it quiver and convey how needy he was for the acceptance of a father. “Patrick Brendan O’Connor, sir, and it’s my extreme pleasure to call you a friend as well, Luther—”

“Tuttle, Luther P. Tuttle, young man,” he said with a surprisingly firm grip for a man so frail and thin. “I’ve been coming to this here soup kitchen for a while now, and I don’t mind tellin’ you, son, you’re a rare sight, indeed.”

Blood broiled Patrick’s face. “I’ll just get that soup for you,” he said quickly, the old man’s words shaming him to the core.
A rare sight, indeed.
And he wouldn’t be here at all except for what his father called the hooligan behavior of a smart-mouthed punk. He winked at several little girls who gaped as he passed, then unloaded his tray of dirty dishes onto the soapstone counter by the kitchen sink. Snatching a clean bowl from the end of the serving counter where the ladies worked, Patrick placed it on his empty tray and patiently waited for Marcy to finish conversing with a dirty-faced little boy. “Ahem,” he said when she was done, nudging her with the tray.

Sky-blue eyes widened as she glanced over her shoulder, and he couldn’t help but smile when those perfect pink lips parted in surprise. Handing her the bowl, he nodded to where Luther was flashing his toothless grin. “Mr. Luther P. Tuttle humbly requests a second bowl of vegetable beef soup served specifically by you, Miss Murphy.” He leaned close to her ear, voice husky as the scent of lilacs stuttered his pulse. “Don’t look now, Marceline, but I think the gentleman’s smitten.”

Shoulders as stiff as her smile, she plucked the bowl from Patrick’s tray and ladled while she sent Luther a shy nod. “Now, why do I suspect this is your bad influence at play, Mr. O’Connor?” she said under her breath, all the while smiling at Luther.

“Because Luther and I obviously share good taste?” he said, lowering his voice for her ears alone.

Those very ears tinged pink as she handed the soup back. “Here,” she said, clunking a particularly thick end slice of crusty sourdough onto his tray. “You might tell him not to bite off more than he can chew,” she said with a definite smirk that bordered on tease. “And you, Mr. Connor …” One beautiful blonde brow jagged high. “Would do well to follow suit.” She abruptly turned and continued to serve, and he grinned outright when Luther gave him a thumbs up.

Spoon in hand, Luther’s eyes followed Patrick all the way over to his table. “Not real partial to ye, is she, son?” he cackled when Patrick set the steaming bowl of soup before him.

“What do you mean?” Patrick shot a glance Marcy’s way, somewhat encouraged by her obvious tease.

“I mean the woman all but wrinkled her nose, boy, when you butted her with that tray.” He peered up beneath wiry brows, his expression thoughtful. “Appears you have a ways to go to make that little filly your gal.”

“My gal?” Patrick’s smile sloped off-center as he stacked more dirty dishes. “I’ve got news for you, Luther—I’ve got a ways to go before I make that ‘little filly’ my
friend
.”

Luther swooped into the soup with gusto, eyeing Patrick while he slurped the broth from his spoon. He struggled to bite off a piece of the bread, gumming it a few times before pert near swallowing it whole. “I’d say from the roll of those blue eyes and stiff set of those pretty shoulders, there’s no question that little gal’s got a hankerin’ to give ye a piece of her mind.” A grin split his weathered face, wrinkling it more than his rumpled shirt. He actually winked. “And nothing else, if you know what I mean.” The few teeth he had tore at the bread like a dog tussling a bone. “So, what put the burr in her saddle, son?”

Patrick’s gaze flicked past Luther to the others at his table, satisfied that the noisy kids sitting beside him were too busy squabbling and tossing pieces of crust at each other to pay him much mind. A heavy sigh gusted out as he parked hands low on his hips. “She claims I’m a rogue with one thing on my mind,” he said with a hint of frustration, wondering why on earth he was opening up to some down-and-out cowboy in a Southie soup kitchen. But then, who else was there to talk to? He wasn’t comfortable talking to Sam anymore with his designs on Marcy, nor any of his other friends because his pride was at stake. His brother Paul would only chide him, mocking him unmercifully because he resented Patrick’s easy success with women, and Father Fitz was simply out of the question.

Luther squinted, chomping more bread. “Well, are you?”

“Used to be, I guess,” Patrick said, sending an idle glance Marcy’s way, realizing his thinking had shifted on the subject the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He turned back to Luther, venting with a noisy sigh. “Yeah, I suppose I was, Luther, at least before I saw her. But since?” He shook his head, reaching to wipe the section of table across from Luther with a wet dishrag. “Suddenly I have this crazy desire to be a better person.”

A raspy chuckle rolled from Luther’s lips as he sopped up the remaining soup with what was left of his bread. “Well, then, I’d say you’re in a heap o’ trouble, Patrick Brendan O’Connor, ‘cause that’s what the right gal’ll do for a man—first she lassoes his heart, cleans it up a might, then grows it real big till afore you know it, you’re a-givin’ rather than a-takin’.” He nodded toward Marcy, sourdough rolling around in his cheeks like chaw. “You best not let that one get away, son.”

Patrick’s laugh was harsh. “Yeah, well, it’s a little late for that. The woman despises me and I lost a bet with my best friend who intends to court her now, so the only hope I have is friendship.” He loaded more dirty dishes on his tray from the gaggle of kids who just left and wiped down the table in time for several middle-aged men who sat down. Nodding at the men, Patrick hefted the tray of dishes, giving Luther a thin smile. “Which I’m hoping will help cool these other feelings I have for the lady.” He gave Luther a salute. “But for now? I’ve got dishes to wash.”

Luther’s laugh crackled. “I wouldn’t count on friendship coolin’ you off any. It can warm a body a whole ‘nuther way than just a-courtin’, if you get my drift.”

Patrick chuckled. “You could be right, Luther, because feelings hot or cold, friendship or dishes—any way I look at it,” he said with a wink, “I’m still in hot water.”

***

“Jewels, quick—over here!” Hiking her navy muslin skirt high above her ankles, Marcy darted away from Sam with a squeal, all but leaping into the air to seize the beanbag Julie shot her way before Patrick could stop her. Wild cheers rose from Mrs. O’Rourke and each of her daughters along with groans from the men and giggles from the girls in a game of keep away in the O’Rourke’s spacious backyard. Sam’s sister Erin and little brother Max whooped and danced in circles while Marcy sprinted across a lawn freshly manicured and mowed by the man who now pursued her. Laughter bubbled up as she glanced behind her, heart slamming against her ribs when Sam lunged for the bag. “Noooo!” She skidded to a sharp stop and ducked away before he could snatch it. “Mrs. O’Rourke!” she screamed and fired the bag to Sam’s mother, not ten feet away.

Mrs. O’Rourke yelped when her husband ambushed her from behind with thick arms to her waist, spinning her around while trying to wrestle the bag from her hand. Fist in a death grip, she squirmed and squealed to get loose, but to no avail. Her younger daughters instantly rushed in to batter their father with giggles and shrieks while he derailed their mother with a kiss. Watching them, Marcy reveled in the joy of family, her wispy exhale drifting in the air along with the scent of fresh-cut grass, sap from the massive pine overhead, and the barbecued chicken Mr. O’Rourke grilled for dinner.

“Papa, no fair!” Julie yelled, making a mad dash to pry the bag from her mother’s hand before her father could steal it away. “Kisses are off limits!”

“Mmm … too bad,” Sam whispered behind Marcy, and she jolted, pulse jumping along with her body when she glanced over her shoulder to see his mischievous grin. He winked and flashed past to join the noisy fray of O’Rourke’s attempting to steal the bag, and Marcy splayed a hand to her chest to slow the sputter of her heart. She grinned when Sam scooped Max up on his shoulders before hooking Julie at the waist just as she stole the bag. “Hold on, Max!” he shouted, whirling his sister in the air to make her dizzy, no doubt, while he bellowed for his father to grab the prize. Fending his wife off, Mr. O’Rourke swooped in to reclaim the win, but his efforts only unleashed a squall of female O’Rourkes, tackling in a breathless blur of laughter and limbs.

Marcy sighed, fighting the melancholy that always descended whenever she witnessed the love and laughter of a large family like the O’Rourkes. She adored her parents with every breath in her, but she would be lying if she denied that Julie’s family was everything she’d ever longed for—a house full of children, siblings to spar and play with, and parents who were clearly in love and made no bones about it. Her parents had a deep love as well, of that she was certain, but a quieter, more private one, with a reserved and gentle father who was clearly not one for public displays of affection.

Marcy chewed the edge of her lip when Mr. O’Rourke tugged Julie’s mother from the fracas to distract her with another sound kiss, leaving Sam, Max, and Patrick to battle Sam’s sisters in pursuit of the bag. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a family like that,” she whispered, ignoring the twinge of guilt that always accompanied this deep-seated desire. Too ashamed to voice her next thought out loud, she allowed her mind to stray to
the dream she’d harbored since she’d been a little girl stuck in the pine at the edge of their yard.
And, oh, to be part of the O’Rourkes rather than just an outsider looking in …

“Marcy!” Somehow, Julie managed to abscond with the bag while Patrick chased her down, capturing Marcy’s attention when she hurled it her way. Not missing a beat, Marcy launched a full foot in the air, nabbing the bag in a long stretch that landed her on the ground with a grunt and a jolt. Laughing too hard to catch her breath, she gasped when two powerful arms hooked her from behind, twirling her off the ground like Mr. O’Rourke had done with this wife.

“Don’t fight it, Marcy,” Sam whispered in her ear, grappling to remove the bag from her hand as he spun her around. “I aim to steal it away …”

She gulped.
Too late.
He’d stolen her breath the moment he’d touched her, the scent of lemons making her dizzier than her body while it whirled through the air. With high-pitched squeals, she attempted to dislodge his hold, chest heaving with laughter when he locked a massive hand over hers, capturing both the bag and her attention with a winded warning. “Let it go, Marceline,” he whispered, “or I’ll be forced to employ my father’s tactics.”

 
“Not … on … your … life … O’Rourke,” she ground out with a breathless giggle, fighting him with everything she had until his words finally registered.
His father’s tactics?
She felt something nuzzle her neck, and in a ragged beat of her heart, she was paralyzed in his arms, unprepared for the heat that blasted through her at the warm touch of his lips. As if singed by a coal from his father’s grill, she dropped the bag so fast, her legs wobbled when Sam pirated it away, leaving her
breathless and weak with a wayward wink
.

“The men reign supreme!” he boasted, tossing the bag to Patrick as he looped an arm to Julie’s waist. He deposited a kiss to her cheek, then spun her around once more. “It was a valiant effort, ladies, but that’ll teach you to challenge the men, eh, Miss O’Rourke?”

“Samuel O’Rourke, you put me down this instant!” Julie shouted through her laughter, but Sam only whirled her faster, finally leaving her dizzy and staggering while he pounced to do the same with each of her sisters.

“You’re as bad as your father, young man, you know that?” his mother said in a good-natured scold, her face aglow when her husband curved an arm to her waist.

“And that’s a bad thing?” Mr. O’Rourke said, halting her with a lingering kiss.

Yes
, Marcy thought, still feeling the burn of Sam’s lips on her neck.