A Love Surrendered (14 page)

Charity jolted in her chair, fumbling her teacup. “Sweet saints, Mother . . .” Her voice rose several octaves. “You mean for the adoption?”

Lizzie caught her breath, hand to her chest. “Oh, Mother, finally!” Her breathless tone matched the soft glow in her cheeks. “So you’re going to ask him tonight?”

A lump shifted in Marcy’s throat. “I’m afraid so, which is why the timing is not the best, what with your father so preoccupied lately and working one grueling day after another.” She sipped her tea, vaguely aware her rib cage felt two sizes too small. “The papers need to be signed and submitted tomorrow so I can enroll Gabe for the new school year—” moisture pricked in her eyes as she chewed at her lip—“as Gabriella Dawn O’Connor.” Blinking to ward off the tears, she straightened her shoulders with maternal resolve. “With all her problems at school, the child needs a fresh start, as an O’Connor, not an orphan simply fostered by a family. And I intend to see she gets it, Patrick’s bullheaded notions or no.”

Lizzie’s hand lighted on Marcy’s arm. “Please, Mother, don’t worry. We’ve been praying about this for a long time now, and hopefully tonight is the night.”

“I pray so,” Marcy whispered. Her gaze trailed into a stare.

“I think it’s wonderful what you’re trying to do,” Emma said quietly. “With all the little ones in orphanages today with no families of their own, sometimes I wonder if adoption isn’t the most noble path to parenthood.”

Thwack. Swish. Bang.
The swinging kitchen door ricocheted off the kitchen wall, rattling its hinges when Gabe darted through. Not missing a beat, she hurled the pink tutu
into Charity’s lap before streaking into the backyard as if lit by a fuse. With a loud clang, the screen door slammed behind her, its jarring effect bringing a wry smile to Charity’s lips. “If not the bravest.”

Marcy’s smile was tentative. “Yes, the child’s a handful, no question, but I truly believe if Patrick would give her a chance, open his heart to her, give her his name, Gabe would straighten out and make the man proud.” She sighed. “All I need is one good mood, be it a favorite pie, a win at chess, or one solitary day where Gabe stays out of trouble, and Gabriella Dawn would be on her way to becoming an O’Connor before the ink could dry.”

“Sean will certainly do his part to allow a win at chess,” Emma said, eyes twinkling.

“Allow?”
Charity said with a full hike of a brow. “Emma, without Collin here, Sean is Mother’s only hope for a soul-soothing win. Unless she can bribe Steven to throw a game.”

“Which I have been known to do, I’m ashamed to say,” Marcy said, gaze darting to the clock once again. “But, no, I’m afraid Sean and Collin are my salvation when it comes to softening your father up for an agreeable mood.”

“Speaking of Collin,” Lizzie said, “where is Faith tonight? I knew Katie had a law seminar, but I thought Faith’d be here, since Brady and Collin have inventory.”

“Faith is meeting Sister Bernice tonight about the catechism class she hopes to—”

“Marceline!”
Patrick’s unnaturally icy tone boomed from the foyer, freezing Marcy’s heart into an avalanche that slid from her chest into her stomach.

“Saint’s preserve us,” she rasped, all blood draining from her face. “The man’s in a foul mood once in a blue moon, and tonight has to be it.” Making the sign of the cross, she shot to her feet. “Charity, warm the rolls in the oven, and Lizzie, pour his tea with lots of ice, please.”

“What can I do?” Emma whispered as Marcy hurried to the door.

“Marceline??!!”

Drawing a deep breath, Marcy mouthed one word over her shoulder. “
Pray!”

Moments later the swinging door flew open with a crack to the wall. “I blame this on your coddling,” Patrick shouted, his handsome face mottled with red beneath a shadow of beard that indicated a particularly long day. “Well, I’ve had enough.”

“Patrick, please,” Marcy begged, “the child will hear you . . .”

Shrugging her hand off, he stormed to the back door, jerking his tie loose and shedding his coat. He hurled both onto the counter and began rolling his sleeves, not even sparing Emma or his daughters a glance as he glared into the backyard. He slammed a hand to the screen door, wheeling it open. “Gabriella? In the house
now
!”

“Patrick, you’re tired and hungry,” Marcy reasoned, the plea in her tone as frail as his patience. “Please, can’t this wait till after you eat?”

He turned, gray eyes glittering like black onyx. “No, Marceline, it can’t. I’ve obviously waited too long as it is when a child under my care borders on expulsion from school.” A nerve flickered in his temple. “I suspect a three months’ absence of her beloved Dubble Bubble will be the only thing she’ll understand.”

“Patrick, no, please, her Dubble Bubble means everything to her. A week maybe, but not three months.” Marcy worried her lip, stomach roiling.

“Y-yes, sir?” A greatly subdued Gabe stood at the screen door, eyes downcast and a sea of freckles dark against pale skin.

Face tight with tension, Patrick let the screen door slam with a loud bang that made the little girl wince. “I understand from Sister Mary Veronica that the youngest Kincaid boy has broken his jaw. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Dark curls quivered on Gabe’s shoulders as she shook her head, her short, jerky motion betraying her guilt.

“Well, suppose I enlighten you,” Patrick said, the gray eyes mere slits of charcoal, “and tell you all about my visit with Sister Mary Veronica tonight—”

“She hates me,” Gabe shouted with a sudden pool of tears, “and she lies.”

“Something you have in common, apparently,” Patrick said with a clamp of his lips. “Did you break Victor Kincaid’s jaw?”

“No—”

“Don’t lie to me, Gabe,” Patrick said, latching on to her arm, “I want the truth!”

Marcy took a step forward, hand to her throat. “Patrick, please . . .”

“Did you?” he shouted, lifting her chin with a firm finger.

“No, honest—”

“Then-let-me-rephrase-that,” he said, articulating each word while he leaned close, face flushed. “Did-you-swing-the-bat-that-broke-Victor-Kincaid’s-jaw?”

Marcy gasped. “Gabe, no . . .”

“It was an accident,” she whimpered, squirming away from his touch.

Patrick folded thick arms across his chest, lip curling in a dubious smile as hard as his tone. “Yes, I’m quite sure it was, just like the tar on Sister Mary Veronica’s chair, the goldfish in the water fountain, and my personal favorite, a snake in the confessional.”

“But he spit at me,” she pleaded, “and I was just trying to scare him, I promise.”

He loomed over her—judge, jury, and executioner of Marcy’s one hope and dream—chest heaving with vindication. “Well, good job, Gabriella Dawn Smith,” he said with a touch of drama, “you not only scared Victor Kincaid, his family, your classmates,
and
Sister Veronica, you scared the tar out of me. Obviously I’m an inept foster parent raising a hooligan better suited to a detention facility than a family. Consequently, I hope to put the fear of God into
you
with a
detention that will convince you I mean business.” Casting a steely look in Marcy’s direction, Patrick fished his handkerchief from his pocket to swab at the sudden gleam of sweat on his face. “Marceline, you will confiscate Gabe’s stash of Dubble Bubble immediately.”

Gabe’s eyes spanned wide. “B-but f-for how long?” she rasped, her little lip quivering along with Marcy’s.

“Three months, young lady—no Dubble Bubble. And your stash?” He hiked a brow, his gaze as cold as the pit at the bottom of Marcy’s stomach. “To be distributed—
when
he can chew—to Victor Kincaid.”

“Noooooooo . . .” Gabe’s shrieks split the air as she bolted for the door.

But Patrick was ready for her, halting her dead in her tracks with a cinch of her overalls. “Oh no you don’t,” he said, dragging her to the table. “You will sit right here in this kitchen until your Dubble Bubble is safely hidden.”

She tried to dart away, and Patrick looped strong arms to her waist, chest heaving as he lugged her back to the table. Flopping like that goldfish in the school fountain, she flailed and kicked until the toes of her Keds made contact with Patrick’s shin.

A garbled groan escaped her husband’s throat before he doubled over, allowing Gabe to shoot from his grasp. The little girl spun on her heels. “I hate you!” she screamed, her face near purple as Patrick’s.

Marcy caught her breath, too stricken to move, vaguely aware of Steven and Sean’s presence behind her. The younger cousins stood wide-eyed at the screen door until Emma ushered them away while Charity and Lizzie just stared, zombies rooted to the floor.

In a split-second reaction, Patrick lunged, and Gabe grunted at the door when he hooked her waist again, his breathing heavy from exertion. “Not as much as you will, young lady, when you can’t have Dubble Bubble for a solid year. You’re going to bed right now.”

“Nooooooo!” Gabe bucked like a wildcat thrashing in his arms.

“Patrick, please,” Marcy pleaded, heart racing as she hovered near with a wring of her hands. “Can’t you just send her to her room after dinner for a few days? Along with no Dubble Bubble for three months? A year’s so long, and you know how she loves it . . .”

Face somber, Steven pressed a palm to the swinging door to open it for his father while Sean stepped quietly aside, lips grim and gaze glued to the floor.

“Oh, she’ll go to her room after dinner, all right, Marceline,” Patrick huffed, his breathing ragged and rough. “For a solid two weeks.”

The little girl twisted and dug her teeth into Patrick’s hand, and with a loud howl, he let her slip from his arms.

She attempted to escape through the door, but Steven restrained her in a death-grip hold.

Jaw slack, Patrick held out his hand, panting hard as he stared at blood pooling beneath the skin of a perfectly shaped bite. There was blood in his eyes as well when his gaze slowly rose. He took a step forward, his voice no more than a choked breath. “You will pay for this, Gabriella Dawn, you mark my words. I will—” He stopped. The air seized in Marcy’s throat when he winced, hand clutching his chest.

“Patrick?” She touched his arm, hysteria rising in her voice. “Patrick, what’s wrong?”
Please, God, no, not again . . .

He staggered back, his breathing shallow and rough.

“Pop!” In one violent surge of Marcy’s pulse, Steven was at his father’s side. Face ashen, he braced him while everyone else stood frozen in shock. “Sean, give me a hand . . .”

“You’re pinching me,” Gabe said, fidgeting when Charity clamped her arm like a vice.

“Hush, young lady, or I’ll show you what a pinch is all about,” Charity whispered.

Gabe’s eyes widened, and her voice held a tremor. “Is he gonna die?”

“No, honey.” Charity scooped her close, her soothing tone belying the strain in her face.

“Lizzie,” Marcy shouted, “get his nitroglycerin pills! I have extras in the foyer bathroom. In the medicine chest—now, please!”

Lizzie shot from the room while Steven latched a firm hand to his father’s waist. “Where to, Pop?” he said, the strong calm of his voice a stark contrast to the panic in his brother’s face.

“To the parlor on the couch!” Marcy rushed to hold the door while Sean and Steven all but lifted Patrick from the room.

“No . . .” Patrick’s voice was as limp as his body. “To . . . my bed.”

“You’re too weak to climb the stairs!” she shouted. “Take him to the parlor.”

Seizing to a stop, Patrick raised sunken eyes, a hint of Irish burning hot in their depths. “As long . . . as I have a . . . breath, Marceline, I will . . . run my own life—is that clear?”

Marcy smothered a sob and nodded before taking an almost-empty medicine vial from Lizzie’s palm. Hands shaking, she placed one of the pills under Patrick’s tongue before she allowed Steven and Sean to assist him from the room and up the stairs. Her voice was hoarse when she glanced over her shoulder, tears streaming her face. “Charity, put Gabe to bed, please, while I tend to your father, and Lizzie, if you and Emma would be kind enough to put the food away, I’d be most grateful.” A short, pitiful heave broke from her throat. “And pray,” she whispered, her voice cracking along with her heart. “Please . . .” She turned away.

“Wait!” With a wrenching sob, Gabe rushed forward, eyes squeezed shut and skinny arms clutching Marcy’s waist. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. O’Connor, will you forgive me? Please? And can you tell him I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean—” A violent heave swallowed her words.

Marcy bent to embrace her, vision blurred and heart swelling with love for this child she loved like her own. “Oh, darling, of course I forgive you! And Mr. O’Connor will too,
you’ll see.” She pried Gabe’s arms away to cup her sodden face. “Now, you pray for that ol’ grump of a man upstairs,” she said. “All right?”

Gabe sniffed and nodded.

“Good girl,” Marcy whispered with a kiss to her hair. “And I’ll just bet if you’re real good, Charity’ll tell you a time or two when her father lost his temper with her, okay?” She glanced at her daughters. “Thank you, both,” she said softly before hurrying to head up the stairs.

His eyes were closed when she entered their room, his once-strong body splayed on top of the covers in bare feet and rumpled clothes, quiet and still. Steven and Sean stood at either side, worry etched deep in their brows.
Oh, Lord, put angels around him
, Marcy silently prayed,
because we all love him so.
She moved to where Sean stood and slipped an arm to his waist. “You need to take Emma home,” she whispered. “Steven will be here if I need him.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She pulled away to clutch his hand, her heart wrenching at the fear in his eyes. “Go,” she whispered. “He just needs to rest and let the nitroglycerin take effect. This has happened before, Sean, after he was in the hospital, remember? Dr. Williamson said it might from time to time, although your father’s been incident-free since then.” Her heart skipped a beat when her gaze drifted to her husband, who lay deathly still, his breathing slow but steady. Drawing in a deep breath, she steeled her tone to convince herself as well as her son. “Please, take Emma home. She seems tired tonight, Sean, and Steven can handle anything I need.”