A Passion Most Pure (49 page)

I am ... a father to the fatherless ...

She jerked up in the dark and groped for the light. Mrs. Gerson's guest-room Bible rested on the nightstand, and she gripped it with the same ferocity as the pain gripping her. She flung it open, her fingers trembling down the page until she found it.

"His name is the Lord-and rejoice before him. A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling."

With a pitiful moan, she fell onto the open book, and her desolate sob pierced the solitude of her room. "Oh, God, no ... please no ..." she wailed as she thought of her father, so young and so strong. Images of him holding her mother, wrestling with Katie, stroking Beth's cheek, and playing chess with Sean-all swam before her in a kaleidoscope of tears. She saw his teasing smile as they drove to work and remembered the warmth of his embrace whenever her heart had been broken. All the love he had given, all the joy he brought to the family who all but worshiped him, all gone ... gone.

Suddenly, she thought of Marcy and knew that whatever grief she felt as a daughter, it paled in the face of her mother's. Theirs was a love Faith had seldom seen in her lifetime, the kind that inspired and instilled hope. Patrick O'Connor had not just been a father and a husband, he had been a life force in the O'Connor family. Some might say, in time, they would get over it, and in an attempt to comfort, say that the best was yet to come. But Faith knew in her heart that the best had come and gone, snuffed out on a field in France, taking with him any hope of regaining the joy they had once known.

She had no idea of the time or how many hours she had lain prostrate on her bed. She hadn't expected to sleep, but the shock had taken its toll. As the haze of the full moon rose in the sky and filled the darkness of the room with its eerie light, Faith slipped into a restless slumber. But not before whispering a prayer for strength. She had to be strong, strong for her mother-requiring, she knew, a strength far beyond human will. Exhaustion finally loosed the grip of pain from her mind and sent her fading into the night, her lips moving with a promise, silent and salted with tears. He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds. A final breath shuddered through her, stealing her certainty of faith. He was, after all, Jehovah-Rapha-the God who binds wounds no matter how deep the gash or boundless the bleeding.

Mitch stole a glimpse at Marcy out of the corner of his eye and smiled. She perched on the edge of the seat and peered out the taxi window, hands all but welded to the door, poised as if she would spring out the moment it stopped. Mitch shook his head. She was a woman in her forties, and yet she exuded this little-girl quality he'd seen so many times in Faith, and even Charity. Now he knew where they'd gotten it.

He was grateful he had come along. It had been good for her, the trip over. They had spent a great deal of time talking, and crying too, on Marcy's part, of course. He had been the perfect sounding board, not close enough for her to worry that her sorrow would bring him down, yet far enough away from being a stranger. They even found time to laugh, over stories he'd tell of Faith's unbelievable stubbornness, and she with tales of the same in her husband.

Marcy's love for Patrick had been fierce, and as he listened to her, he doubted it would ever wane. In his life, he'd seen marriages that had been good, but this-this was the stuff Faith had so often spoken of, an intangible bond of love stronger than anything she had ever seen. She had been bent on having it for herself. It was what drove her, along with her love for God, to run the race set before her, and to wait until she had it, holy and pure in the grasp of her hand.

"Look, Mitch!" Marcy cried as they rounded the corner.

"That's it-our home! Driver, right here is fine." The taxi came to a halt long after she opened the door.

Mitch laughed and pulled out his wallet. Marcy reeled to face him. "I intend to pay for every cent," she vowed, "from the ship to the taxi, I will reimburse you, Mitch, rest assured."

Mitch handed the cabbie his fare and gave Marcy a threatening look. "So help me, Mrs. O'Connor, if you mention paying me back one more time, I'm turning around and going home."

Marcy vaulted from the cab and smiled. "Oh, I don't think so. I have a feeling you'll be quite enamored with Boston. Or at least, a certain Bostonian."

Mitch grinned. "Now I know where your daughters get it from!" he teased, and he heard her laugh-one of the first since the ship had sailed into the harbor. "Are we going to your home?" he asked, hoisting the luggage in both hands.

"No ... no, renters live in it now, I'm afraid . . ." Her voice withered as she stood before the home where she and Patrick had made their life.

Mitch sensed an instant heaviness in her manner. But then, that was the way it was, she had said-overwhelming grief punctuated by moments of peace that quickly faded whenever she thought of Patrick. And how could she help but think of him now as she looked at the home where he had loved her and fathered her children and promised he would never leave her ...

"I just wanted to see it again, that's all," she whispered. "We'll go to Mrs. Gerson's, my neighbor who lives three houses down." Marcy swiped at the tears on her face, and a heavy sigh shuddered from her lips. "I'm so very tired of crying," she said. "How one woman can cry so many tears is beyond me. But then again, how one woman could have been blessed with such a love astounds me even more. And now it's gone. . ."

Mitch watched as one of the sudden mood swings he'd become so familiar with took its toll, and his heart ached for her. He gently touched her arm. "Which way?" he asked.

"That way," she whispered and linked her arm with his.

They walked, Mitch's heart hammering in his chest at the thought of seeing Faith again. She would be home, he supposed; it was Saturday, after all. But then again, she might be out, and a twinge cramped in his chest. Maybe she had met someone. Maybe she was still angry and would treat him coldly. Maybe she wouldn't speak to him at all. He took a deep breath. No, she wasn't like that. She would, he knew, treat him with the utmost courtesy. His lips compressed into a tight line. But confound it, it wasn't courtesy he wanted, and he found his stomach tightening as they climbed the steps to the house.

He rang the bell and thought he could feel Marcy shivering, or maybe it was him. And then the door opened, and he saw her, auburn hair spilling over her shoulders and green eyes glistening with tears. He swallowed hard as he stared and knew he never wanted to be without her again. She fell into her mother's arms, and the two of them wept, their fingers knuckled white as they clung. For the first few moments, she never even noticed he was there.

All at once, Marcy pulled away and wiped her face with her sleeve. "Goodness, I almost forgot," she said with a shaky laugh. "Mitch brought me, Faith. I hope you don't mind."

For the first time in over a month and a half, their eyes met. His heart stopped. "Hello, Faith," he whispered.

She smiled-the most perfect smile he had ever seenand his heart took off again.

"Hello, Mitch."

She embraced him, and he could smell the familiar scent of her hair. He pulled away. "I'm so very sorry about your father," he said quietly. "I wish I could have met him." He hesitated. "I've missed you." He hadn't planned on saying it like that, but his lips betrayed him.

"Me too," she whispered, and his heart soared.

She turned to her mother and linked her arm to take her inside. Mitch stooped to pick up their luggage. She glanced back. "You can leave it on the porch, Mitch. Mrs. Gerson is anxious to see Mother, and she really wants to meet you. But after that, we're going home."

Marcy stopped. "Home?" she whispered.

Faith smiled. "I gave the renters notice right after I started back at the Herald. They moved out a week ago Friday. And, I'll have you know, I've been cleaning every day since."

Marcy threw her arms around Faith's neck and started to cry, prompting a fresh round of tears from her daughter as well.

Mitch sighed and reached in his pocket for a handkerchief. He pushed it into Marcy's hand. "Are you people going to stand out here crying on the porch, or do I get to meet this incredible woman I've heard so much about?"

Faith wiped her eyes with her sleeve and laughed. His brows rose in humor as he held the door. She brushed passed him, and the old familiar warmth surged through him once again. He had been a fool, he decided for the hundredth time. Closing the door behind, he made up his mind to never let it happen again.

It was their first meal in their home in a year, and the taste of it was bittersweet. The moment Marcy stepped foot over the threshold, a solemnity settled over her, and at times, Faith felt as if she and Mitch were alone. Of course, it helped to have Mrs. Gerson there, now recovered from her own shock at Patrick's death. She seemed reenergized with her faith and chattered about anything she hoped would take their minds off the pain they were feeling. She enjoyed Mitch, it was obvious, but then who didn't, Faith wondered as she watched the two of them discuss Scripture. She had forgotten how handsome he was. Even her recent daydreams had not done him justice, and her heart picked up pace as she sipped her tea.

As the evening wore on, Marcy rose from the table, her face drawn and her body exhausted. "I think it's time for me to retire."

Mitch started to get up.

"No, Mitch, you stay. You and Faith have a lot to talk about. I'm tired and could do with a good night's sleep."

Mrs. Gerson rose. "I couldn't agree more. Mitch, could I trouble you to walk me home?" she asked, and he obliged by jumping up and taking her arm.

"Christa, how I can ever thank you for all you've done, for all your prayers ..."

Mrs. Gerson smiled and patted Marcy's hand. "How can you thank me for something that has given me so much joy? It is I who needs to thank you for the gift of your family in my life. I am blessed to have such good neighbors."

Marcy hugged her and then squeezed Mitch's arm. "Thanks, Mitch, for seeing Christa home ... and for everything." Tears reappeared.

Mitch nodded and cleared his throat as he escorted Mrs. Gerson to the door. "My pleasure, Mrs. O'Connor," he said gruffly.

Marcy headed for the stairs, then turned, somewhat tentative. "Faith ... would you mind very much sleeping with me tonight?"

Faith smiled. "I planned to, Mother, whether you liked it or not." She moved to her mother's side and hugged her.

"Good night, Faith. I love you," she whispered and turned to slowly mount the stairs.

Faith watched her mother head up, then returned to the dining room to clear the table. She paused, dishes in hand, a sudden thought blinking in her mind. She would be alone with Mitch. The realization made her lightheaded as she carried the dishes to the kitchen. She was finishing up when the creak of the kitchen door set her stomach aflutter. Whirling to face him, her mouth parched to cotton at the sight of him. His blue eyes probed, and she swallowed hard before she was able to smile.

"That was fast," she managed, drying her hands on a towel.

"Not fast enough," he whispered, taking a step toward her. "About six weeks too late."

Her stomach performed a somersault, and she stared at the floor, rubbing her arms.

"Are you cold?" he asked. Another step forward.

"A little," she lied, painfully aware of the warmth he generated.

He stood before her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "We need to talk."

She nodded, too afraid to look in his eyes.

"But ... first things first." He lifted her chin with his fingers and gently stroked her cheek before carefully leaning to brush his lips against hers. It was a quiet kiss, his hands lightly cupping her face as if she were the most fragile thing in the world. "I love you, Faith. And I've missed you. . ."

"I've missed you too, Mitch," she whispered.

He kissed her again, then lifted her in his arms. He carried her into the parlor, then set her on the couch and sat beside her, his touch gentle on her arm. "Faith, I was sick when I heard about your father. I'm so sorry."

The mention of Patrick brought a rush of tears to her eyes. "I know. It's been pretty devastating for us all. The pain ... it's ... well, it's just so very hard to get past." She stared at him intently. "I'm glad you're here, Mitch, I really am. I need you right now. I think I'm going to need you for a long time."

He folded her into his arms and closed his eyes. "I think we need each other," he whispered, "and I'm hoping and praying it will be for a very long time."

He held her for several moments, then pulled away to reach into his coat pocket. He palmed the ring she had once worn. "This belongs to you," he said. "I'm asking you to take it back, Faith. There's not another woman alive who could wear it."

She touched it slowly, fingers trembling and vision blurred with tears.

He gently closed her fingers over the ring and covered her hand with his. His eyes reflected a rare humility. "Faith, whether or not you decide to wear this, it belongs to you. I don't blame you if you don't put it back on your finger. What I did was"-he glanced away, the muscles working in his throat-"despicable, unforgivable, and yet . . ." He looked up again, a glimmer of hope in his eyes, "I'm asking for forgiveness. Asking for you to give me another chance ... to prove that you can trust me."