A Passion Denied (36 page)

Marcy stole a sideways peek as Patrick lifted Katie from the front seat. He hefted her high in his arms with a grunt, bestowing a gentle kiss to her forehead while she slumped against his chest. The poor thing had been so keyed up, she’d chattered most of the way home. Between her and Lizzie, Marcy hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise. And thank God, she thought to herself. The clip of her heart had rivaled the adrenaline pace of Katie’s banter, and Marcy was more than grateful for the buffer provided.

She watched him circle around, undaunted by the dead weight in his arms, despite the fatigue she knew he must be feeling. She swallowed a deep breath and slipped out of the car, unlatching the back door to jostle Steven’s arm. “Come on, son, we’re home.” He didn’t move and she tugged, finally shifting him to his feet. He towered over her by a foot, but she braced his back with her small frame and followed Patrick and Lizzie into the house and up the stairs, each disappearing into the appropriate rooms.

She made quick work of Steven, stripping off his shoes and clothes in no time, then wrestled a clean T-shirt over his head.

“Did Charity have the baby?” Sean’s voice sounded groggy from across the room.

“Oh yes! Two as a matter of fact, a boy and a girl.”

“No kidding! Twins? Is she okay?”

Marcy tucked the sheet in around Steven’s bed. “Yes, everyone’s doing fine, even Mitch. How are you feeling?”

“The stomach’s still bubbling some, but better. At least I got some sleep.”

She bent to kiss his forehead. “No fever, that’s good. Probably just a quick bug. I’d think about sleeping in tomorrow.”

“Can’t. Too much to do.”

She sighed and tucked in his sheet. “We’ll see. Good night.”

She closed the door and glanced down the hall. Her bedroom was dark. Was Patrick inside? She pressed a calming hand to her stomach. Good heavens, she was acting like a love-struck school girl! She chewed on her lip and tiptoed into Katie and Lizzie’s room to give them a kiss. Both girls were already sound asleep. Clothes and shoes littered the floor. A faint smile tilted her lips. Oh, to sleep like that again!

Her smile faded. She had once. Before Sam O’Rourke came to call.

She shut their door and paused, her fingers hovering on the knob. Was that a light on downstairs? Her stomach tightened. No . . . please, he wasn’t . . .

Her throat constricted as she moved to the landing, and her eyes spanned wide at the light streaming from the parlor. In a catch of her heart, she skittered down the steps like a little girl at Christmas, hands shaking when she finally reached the door. She bit her lip, suddenly shy. “It’s almost midnight, Patrick. You must be exhausted. Are you . . . will you . . . come to bed?”

He looked up from his paper, eyes limp pools of exhaustion. In fact, everything about him bespoke fatigue—heavy lids, sagging cheeks, drooping shoulders. As if he hadn’t slept in days. Or weeks. A mere husk of a man, except for one thing: the hard line of his jaw, now shadowed with a day’s growth of beard. He continued reading. “Not for a while. You’ll probably be asleep when I come up for my things.”

She listed against the door. “Y-you’re leaving?”

He glanced up. “You know that.”

“But I thought . . . the babies . . . you and I . . .”

He turned the page, his tone as steeled as his jaw. “Go to bed, Marcy. You need sleep.”

She blinked, unable to fathom the depth of his coldness. She had done as he asked, left him alone for weeks on end. To sort out his thoughts and give him time. She had cried out to God and dealt with his rejection, praying with Mrs. Gerson to let it all go. “Keep your heart free of bitterness,” Christa had warned. And she had. Obedient to a fault, weeping and forgiving until she thought she would die. And now . . . he wanted her to
go
?

Something deep inside snapped, defying all reason. With a low groan, she raised her fist and flew across the room, bludgeoning him with her rage. He leapt to his feet to ward her off, but she only struck harder, too blinded by tears to see the look on his face. “You want to leave? Well, then, go! And don’t come back!”

He gripped her wrists and glanced at the door. “Stop it!” he hissed, “You’ll wake the children.”

“Pretense,” she screamed, thrashing against his hold, “that’s all you care about. Well, I won’t live with it anymore, do you hear?”

He forced her to the sofa and she bit his hand. He recoiled in shock, his anger congealing into cold fury. “Really? Well, I’ve lived with it for over twenty-six years.”

For endless seconds, she couldn’t breathe. She started to shake, but forced her chin up in cold defiance. “No,” she whispered, her voice as steely as his. “That would be the next twenty-six.” She rose and turned her back then—on him and their marriage—moving to the door like someone he couldn’t possibly know. A stranger with head high and back stiff, hardened by the very bitterness she’d fought so hard to avoid. With cold deliberation, she mounted the steps, making her way to the room they no longer shared. In an effort to purge herself of him altogether, she collapsed on her bed, seeking solace in tears. She slammed her fist to his pillow.

“I hate you!” she sobbed.

If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.

“I don’t care!” She rose up on the bed, her face streaked with tears and her body shuddering with pain. “Over and over I’ve tried, and I can’t bear it anymore.”

Love . . . beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things,
endureth all things . . .

“No! I have endured, for almost two and half months now, and forgiven until I’m blue in the face. How many times can one person forgive?”

Silence pounded in her ears.

Seventy times seven.

Comprehension seared the air from her throat. Seventy times seven.
God, no, please . . .

She tried to breathe, but the air was too thick, panting from her lips in a faint, feeble rasp. She pressed a hand to her chest, tight with the burden of decision. A choice. To lay down her pride and forgive. Or to embrace the hurt and strike back. Obedience or sin. She squeezed her eyes shut, torn by the prompting of his Spirit and the pull of her flesh.
Oh, God, I
can’t! Help me, please . . .

Thoughts pelted her brain. His cruelty. His indifference. His rejection.

She put her palms to her ears, desperate to shut out the thoughts.

“No! I choose to forgive.”

Gasping for air, she staggered from the bed, her mind set on a course that would cost her her pride. She groped for the light, then shielded her eyes from the glare, lips moving in silent prayer. Her pulse raced while she gathered his things, a clean shirt, pressed trousers, and a favorite tie. She bundled them in her arms. The scent of him rose, sweet to her senses, and her heart flooded with hope, purging the grief he had caused.

“Oh, God, help me . . . ,” she whispered. Her breathing became deeper, unrestricted as she moved to the bureau. By God, he would have clean socks and underwear.

And she would have a clean heart.

Her pulse beat steady and strong as she padded down the stairs, no longer afraid of the light in the hall or the stranger in the parlor. She drew in a deep breath.

Perfect love casts out fear.

He seemed so haggard as she entered the room, and her heart longed to hold him. Instead, she placed his things on the couch, grieved at the anger she still saw in his eyes. She looked away, unable to bear it.

“Forgive me, Patrick, for losing my temper. I love you . . . and I will forever.” She moved to the door, suddenly spent, pausing only to speak over her shoulder. “Good night, my love. Please get some sleep.”

And without another word, she returned to their room and silently dressed for bed. When she laid her head on the pillow, it wasn’t to sleep. No, it was first to pray, and then to weep. Because she knew, all too well.
The prayer of a righteous man
availeth much.

He stared at the empty door, unable to comprehend the love he’d just seen. His pulse droned in his ears as he slumped in the chair, body buzzing and mind numb.

She’d forgiven in the face of her anger. He dropped his head in his hands.

In total obedience to God. Unlike him. And total love for the man who spurned her.

Wetness welled in his eyes and he choked on a sob. An aching realization stabbed within, but its pain was kind, unlike the agony of guilt. Conviction lifted the blindness from his eyes, and he knew he had failed. He’d turned his back on God as well as his wife. And for what? Wounded pride that had yielded nothing but his demise. And hers.

Two souls for the price of one sin.

He heaved with pain, barely able to breathe. His mind grappled for the verse Mitch had given him. He closed his eyes and it suddenly pierced his thoughts, allowing a sliver of light to shatter the darkness.

The law of Jehovah is perfect, restoring the soul.

Oh, God, the law. To forgive. Could he really do it?

He opened his eyes in shock, revelation prickling his spine.

The law is perfect.
Like God’s love, Patrick thought, and hope surged in his chest.

He thought of Marcy, and for the first time in weeks, he could see her clearly, unscathed by his anger. A woman, pure of heart and strong of character, loving God while loving him. He thought of the damage he’d done, and his heart fisted in grief.
Oh, God, forgive me—I don’t deserve her.

He leapt to his feet, sin no longer weighting him down, and bounded the steps, two at a time. The hall was dark, but his step was light, and he prayed for mercy as never before. He neared their room and could hear her weeping, muffled and wrenching his heart like it should. He stopped in the doorway, staggered by what he’d done, and watched as their bed shivered with her grief. She didn’t hear him until he knelt by her side, and when he spoke, she jerked in surprise.

“Marcy . . .”

The hitch of her breath was harsh in the dark.

He pressed a hand to her wet cheek, sick inside at the pain he’d caused. “God knows I don’t deserve it, but can you . . . will you . . . forgive me for being a fool?”

His heart stopped when she didn’t move or blink, seconds of agony as she stared, motionless in the dark. And then with a pitiful cry, she lunged into his arms, landing them both on the floor.

“Oh, Patrick,” she sobbed.

He crushed her to him, and his voice broke. “I love you, Marcy, and I swear, I will never hurt you like this again.”

He picked her up and laid her on their bed, desperate to cradle her in his arms. Neither spoke for a long while, but their silence whispered volumes. He breathed in the clean scent of her, and a rush of love overtook him. He held her face in his hands. “I don’t deserve you, Marceline, but as God is my witness, I will spend the rest of my life trying to come close.”

Wetness shimmered in her eyes. She kissed his mouth, softly, gently, stroking his face with the tips of her fingers. “I love you, Patrick, with all of my heart. And as God is my witness, you are the first man I have ever really loved, and you will be the last. I thought I loved Sam when I married you, it’s true, but I was wrong. You taught me what real love is—with your kindness, your caring . . . your commitment. From the day I became your wife, I have felt nothing but safe and whole and cherished.”

He groaned and pulled her close, his voice raspy with regret. “Until recently.”

He felt her smile in the crook of his neck. “Yes, until recently. But even this, my love, has served us well. Losing you, Patrick—if only for two and half months—forced me into the arms of God in a way I’d forgotten. Sometimes, in the midst of my love for you, I tend to forget that he is my source, not you.” She pulled away to search his eyes. “I’ve missed you, Patrick. Life is not the same without you.” Her lips curved softly. “And I need my sleep.”

He kissed her again, his husky groan muffled against her mouth. “Explain to me what that is, will ya, darlin’? I seem to have a lapse of memory.”

She feathered his throat with soft, lingering kisses. “Really? I would have thought cold, cramped leather would have been the perfect bedding for a thick-skinned Irishman like you.”

He skimmed his hand down the curve of her hip until flannel gave way to skin. Her soft moan matched his as his kisses became urgent. “No, darlin’, not for sleeping . . . or otherwise.” The silky warmth of her skin against his lips caused him to shudder. “And God knows how I’ve missed you, Marceline. And ‘otherwise.’ ”

13

Brady squinted and held his breath. Father Mac’s shot glided high in the air, as if in slow motion, finally arcing into the basket with a soft, clean swish. As gentle as if carried on the wings of an angel. A groan erupted from Brady’s throat. “That was nothing short of divine intervention.”

Father Mac scooped up the ball and lifted a brow. “Are you suggesting that there was more than pure skill involved? Nobody likes a sore loser, John.”

Brady wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt and grinned. “What I’m suggesting is that you’ve been praying and practicing . . . in that order . . . since the last time I took you out. I thought priests weren’t supposed to dally with pride.”

Father Mac laughed and swabbed his face with a handkerchief as he headed for the rectory, basketball hooked tightly under his arm. “Consider it an object lesson. Pride goeth before the fall. My pride, your fall.” He butted the back door open and turned. A glint of teasing shone in his brown eyes. “Can I nurse your wounds with some lemonade? Mrs. Clary just made a fresh pitcher.”

“Sure.” Brady followed Matt into the rectory kitchen where Mrs. Clary was enjoying a glass of lemonade with company. At the sight of the priest, she bounded to her feet with a warm smile on her round, dimpled face. She bustled to the china cabinet to retrieve two glasses, then glanced over her shoulder. “So, who won?”

“I believe I taught this young man a valuable lesson in sportsmanship,” Father Mac said. He nodded at Mrs. Clary’s guest. “And how are you today, Miss Ramona?”

A tiny, wizened woman smiled back, her dyed black hair twisted back in a severe bun. Piercing black eyes glittered with interest as she nodded. “Excellent, Father. The girls are preparing for our best recital ever.” Her gaze flicked to Brady. “You are planning on coming, aren’t you, Brady? My granddaughter would be so disappointed if you didn’t.”