A Light in the Window (14 page)

Sam’s mother playfully pushed her husband away, dodging his hands when he attempted to pull her back. “Only when one cheats in keep away by manhandling the opposition.” She hurried to the kitchen door, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “Next time there will be a no-touch rule—no kisses, no twirls, no distractions—just pure, unadulterated skill, understood?”

“You still won’t win,” Sam said, pitching the beanbag to Max in an impromptu game of catch. “Girls aren’t any good at keep away when they play with men, right Max?” He grinned, catching Marcy off-guard when he lobbed the bag her way.

His jaw fell when she deftly caught it one-handed with a jag of her brow. “Wanna bet?” She tossed it high in the air again, neatly catching it with a sassy smirk. “You obviously haven’t been challenged by the right girls, Mr. O’Rourke,
or
played fair and square. Because when it comes to playing keep away from rogues such as yourself and Mr. O’Connor?” Marcy shot a smug smile while she linked arms with Julie on their way to the kitchen. “Some of us are better than others.”

“Merciful heavens, what a day!” Stifling a yawn, Marcy rolled a kink from her neck as she pitted the last of the cherries for tomorrow’s cobbler just as Miss Clara pulled a piping hot confection from the cast-iron oven. The moment the warm rush of air infused the kitchen with brown sugar and cinnamon, Patrick and Julie ceased their horseplay while washing dishes at the sink. All eyes—and noses—were held captive by the cobbler in Miss Clara’s hand, even Evan’s, who managed to tear himself away from his beloved bottom lines. Closing her eyes, Marcy took an appreciative sniff. “Goodness, Miss Clara, that cobbler makes me wish I was working the soup kitchen tomorrow instead of helping with Mother’s sewing circle.” On cue, Marcy’s stomach emitted a noisy rumble that warmed her face as much as the oven warmed the room.

Miss Clara flopped a potholder on the scarred oak table where Marcy and Evan worked before clunking a bubbling pan of cobbler on top with a grunt. “Well, seems to me that anybody who worked as hard as you young people did today has earned a fine piece of this here cobbler, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Evan?”

Leaning back in his chair with a groan, Evan scratched the back of his neck with the blunt side of a well-worn pencil. “And then some.” Despite facial muscles that appeared to sag from fatigue, he offered Marcy a tired smile. “At this rate, that fundraiser can’t come soon enough. Today was our biggest day since I’ve been here—over 650 meals served.” He huffed out a weary sigh, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m just grateful Father Fitz expanded the dining room on last year’s budget because we’re barely eking by at this point for groceries alone.”

“Now, you just hush up ‘bout money tonight, Mr. Evan,” Miss Clara said with a wave of her hand. She deposited a stack of plates and utensils on the table and started dishing cobbler, her brusque tone a poor mask for the concern in her eyes. “We may not be fancy here, but my mama done taught me how to stretch a dollar when it comes to putting food in a belly, so we’ll be fine till this here angel of mercy fills up them coffers.”

“Mmm … angel of mercy,” Patrick said with a grin, pulling out a chair to seat Julie before claiming his own next to Evan. He leaned in, eyeing Marcy with a glint of tease, pinstripe sleeves rolled to display hard-sculpted arms casually folded on the table. “Dare I hope that extends to more than fundraising?”

“You in need of mercy, Mr. Patrick, is that what I’m hearin’?” Miss Clara plopped a hefty piece of cobbler onto a plate and slid it his way, her affection for the rogue evident in the twinkle of umber eyes.

Marcy fought the inclination to roll hers and gave him a patient smile. “I’m not sure ‘angels,’ are prone to extend mercy to one with a bit of the devil, Mr. O’Connor, but you’re in luck—the Lord requires it of human beings.”

“Good to know,” he said with a slow smile, before digging into his cobbler.

“Well, bit of the devil or no,” Evan said with a friendly tap of Patrick’s back, “this man has certainly outdone himself in his volunteer work on heaven’s behalf. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you or Sam this summer, Patrick, so please accept my profound gratitude for your time and the sweat of your brow.”

“Hear, hear!” Miss Clara bellowed, pounding a meaty palm on the table.

“I agree.” Julie hiked her chin, the gleam of pride in her eyes unmistakable. “Even Mama and Papa are all but glowing that you and Sam have given so much of your time to a charitable cause.”

With an awkward bent to his smile, Patrick quickly shoveled more cobbler. His face—as red as the cherries on his spoon—caused Marcy to pause mid-chew, surprised at his humility.

“Although …” Julie said with a smirk and a taunt, “the ‘devil’ is plainly afoot when the man helps with the dishes, as the dampness of my shirtwaist will quickly attest.”

Patrick grinned and flapped the front of his equally damp pinstripe shirt. “Might I remind you, Miss O’Rourke, that yours was the first splash.”

A giggle tripped from Julie’s lips, soft blotches pinking her cheeks. “Now there’s a bit of the devil talking, I’d say. Ladies do not instigate water play, Mr. O’Connor.”

“No, but minxes do, Miss O’Rourke,” he said with a challenging gaze, and Marcy’s lips firmed at the flirtation between the two. Gulping the rest of his cobbler, Patrick pushed the empty plate away, mischief lacing his tone. “And be it devil or angel, there’s a heavenly host to affirm that you threw the first splash.”

“I did not—”

“Ahem …” Evan placed his fork on the empty plate and peered up at Julie. Patrick’s devilment was obviously catching, judging from the trace of tease in brown eyes usually prone to be serious and shy. “Actually, Miss O’Rourke,” he said in his usual gentle tone, “I believe I saw the first wave of soap bubbles coming from your direction, if I’m not mistaken.” Marcy blinked, mouth all but gaping like Julie’s at the hint of the devil in the man’s smile, a smile that promptly toasted Julie’s face with a pretty blush. His gaze flicked to Marcy and back. “Of course, in lieu of Father Fitzgibbons, I’m sure our angel of mercy can always absolve this innocent infraction on your part. That is,” he said with an uncharacteristic wink, “if you promise to behave in the future.”

“Thank you, Evan, my man,” Patrick said with a sound slap on his back. “Heaven knows I can use all the support I can get with these two ladies.” He had the audacity to follow Evan’s lead and give Marcy a wink. “Especially our angel of mercy.”

Miss Clara lumbered to her feet, stacking the cut tray of cobbler beneath a tower of others, all slated for tomorrow’s dinner. “You people can splash all the livelong day iffen those dishes are clean and the floor wiped up after,” she said with a low chuckle, cutting a piece of wax paper to cover the top tray. “Now, people, it’s nigh on ten o’clock, and this here woman is tired and heading home, so I suggest you do the same.”

Marcy and Julie rose to clear the dishes, but Miss Clara shooed them away. “You girls, scoot. Mr. Evan and I draw a salary here, not you, so we’ll finish up.” She poked a stubby finger in Patrick’s direction. “And you, Mr. Devil-In-His-Eye, will see these young girls home, safe and proper, you hear?” A pixie grin split her full face. “Although I’m thinkin’ neither ‘safe’ nor ‘proper’ likely pertains to a handsome devil like you.”

 
Patrick placed a peck to Miss Clara’s glossy cheek, giving the rotund woman a side hug. “Now, I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, Miss Clara.”

“It’s not,” Marcy muttered under her breath, and Julie hushed her with an elbow to her side.

“Thanks for filling in today, everyone.” Evan shuffled his papers and stood to push his chair in. “With several of our regular volunteers out sick, you girls were lifesavers.” He extended a hand to Patrick. “And I know you passed on an overtime shift with Sam tonight to pitch in, so I can’t thank you enough.”

“My pleasure.” Patrick shook Evan’s hand, his humor softening into a sober smile. “It feels good to help out, and I find I like myself more when I do. I admire what you do here, Evan, and I’m proud to be even a small part.”

Marcy blinked.
Sincerity? From a rogue?

“Well, go on now, you young’uns, git.” Miss Clara prodded them out the back door. “G’night, all.”

Patrick donned his sack coat and cap, then helped Julie on with her bolero jacket before ushering the girls out. The lock clicked behind them, and Marcy instantly clutched her arms to her thin shirtwaist. Feeling a nip in the air, she was sorry she hadn’t brought a jacket of her own given the unseasonably cool evenings of late.

“Cold?” Patrick shuffled his jacket off broad shoulders while they traveled the alley between the center and auditorium on their way to the street in front of the church.

“No, really—” she began, but he draped his coat over her shoulders anyway, cloaking her in the warmth from his body. “Thank you,” she whispered, wishing he would just stop attempting to be so nice. She remained silent while he and Julie chatted and laughed about the colorful characters that frequented the soup kitchen, including Luther who’d taken a shine to Patrick. The
woodsy smell of pine from his shaving cream mingled with the spiciness of Bay Rum to envelop her in his scent, annoying her when it caused her stomach to loop.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, angel of mercy,” he said casually, the huskiness of his voice merging with his scent to warm her more than the infernal coat.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” she said with a stiff smile she hoped came off as a tease rather than the truth. “I am neither an angel nor inclined to mercy where you’re concerned, Patrick O’Connor.”

“Marcy!” Julie’s tone held a playful scold.

A scold that found its mark—Marcy felt awful for the grudge she obviously still harbored toward Patrick despite her boatload of prayers.
Lord, forgive me …
She tempered her tone with humility, pushing aside her distrust of the man. “My apologies, Patrick, truly—that was uncalled for.” The words no more left her tongue when his stolen kiss suddenly popped in her mind for the umpteenth time. Her jaw instantly tensed. “Even for a rogue.”

“Goodness, Marcy,” Julie said with smile agape, “poor Patrick will think you don’t like him!”

Poor Patrick, indeed!
Poor reputation, poor morals, poor manners on a girl’s front porch …

Patrick’s low chuckle only raised Marcy’s temperature. “That’s okay, Julie. Our Marceline is rather like a wild Irish rose—skin as soft and dewy as its silky petals, but enough sharp thorns to keep predators away.” He scooped up a spiky sweet gum ball and bobbled it back and forth before he lobbed it a quarter block away. “But everyone knows the sweetest-smelling roses have the worst thorns, so I consider it a small price to pay for true joy and beauty.” He slid Marcy a secret smile. “As long as one keeps his hands to himself, that is, far from the prickles.”

“I thought you worked the same shifts as Sam,” Marcy said quickly, desperate to derail a conversation that might hint at the advances Patrick had made. She picked up her pace in an effort to hurry the last few blocks to Julie’s house, grateful she was spending the night and Patrick needn’t walk her home alone.

“I usually do, especially the overtime shifts like tonight.” He buried his hands in gray trousers, his gait as relaxed as Julie’s while the two lagged behind. “But I’ve already clocked three double shifts this week, so I figured I needed the rest.”

“Not much rest building tables and benches in the hot sun,” Julie said with a note of respect, “nor on your feet all night serving food, clearing tables, and doing dishes.”

“Or staving off water nymphs?” He gave Julie a wink that lured a giggle from her lips.

Marcy kept up her staunch march, blowing a stray hair from her face with no little exasperation.
For the love of decency, Julie, open your eyes. The man is an insatiable flirt.

“Seriously, I admire your work ethic,” Julie continued, her obvious admiration irking more than Marcy wanted to admit. “Sam says you almost have enough saved for college.”

College?
Marcy chanced a peek at his chiseled profile, almost wishing he had an unsightly wart. She fought the tickle of a grin.
What, now they have higher learning for rogues?

“I do, as a matter of fact,” Patrick said, and it was hard to miss the note of pride in his tone. “I’ve worked odd hours at the
Herald
through high school and full time since graduation, so I’ve been able to save some.”

Marcy’s prior humility died in a silent grunt.
Whatever you don’t spend at Brannigan’s, I guess.

A man on a bicycle whizzed by, and Patrick instinctively pulled Marcy close, out of its path, sending a jolt through her body. He released her just as quickly, as if no more than an afterthought, then faced Julie once again as he continued on. “I hope to begin next semester at Boston College, taking it one year at a time, of course. But I think I can do it working part-time at the
Herald
.” As if privy to Marcy’s negative thoughts, he turned to deliver a lazy grin. “So, you see, Miss Murphy, Brannigan’s doesn’t get all of my money.”