A Love Surrendered (15 page)

“He’s not leaving till I finish annihilating him in chess,” Steven said, a hint of jest in his tone, and Marcy knew he was aware how badly Sean wanted to stay. “Come on, you can check on him before I send you home with your tail between your legs.”

Sean glanced up, a shadow of a smile despite the pallor of his skin. “You’re on. I have enough angst in my gut right now
to bury you in your pride, tail and all.” He squeezed Patrick’s hand with a sudden sheen of tears. “Get some rest, Pop, and I’ll take care of this upstart for you.”

Patrick’s eyelids edged up, heavy, as if roused from a deep sleep. A ghost of a smile flickered the corners of his mouth. “Well, then . . . I best get well . . . because that I’d like to see.”

A grin split Sean’s face despite the glaze of moisture in his eyes. “Yes, sir.” He hooked Marcy in a hug before following Steven out. He turned, hand on the knob. “Want it closed?”

“Please.” The tightness in her chest eased when she heard the gentle click of the lock. Kicking her shoes off, she crawled in beside her husband and shimmied over to him, resting her head on his chest while her arm looped his waist. She worked hard to allay his fears and hers with a light tone. “Are you trying to put the fear of God in me, Patrick O’Connor?” she whispered, a hint of his pipe tobacco soothing her senses with its maple and vanilla scent.

She could almost feel his smile. “No, darlin’, just in a wayward child.”

“Well, I’d say you accomplished that and then some. Gabe was downstairs sobbing like a baby.” Marcy paused, the beat of his heart burning in her ears while a piece of paper burned in her pocket. “She wanted me to tell you she was sorry.”

Her cheek rose and fell with the expanse of his chest in a weary sigh. “As am I, darlin’, for losing my temper. I was wrong.” He slowly slipped his arm around her shoulders, giving her a gentle pat. His words carried a touch of levity despite the fatigue in his voice. “About the temper, Marceline, not the discipline. The child needs a firmer hand than we’ve given her.”

No, the child needs your name to know she truly belongs.

“Tonight was a scare for me, Marcy,” he continued, words barely audible, but their message loud and clear, stirring her fears once again.

Oh, Lord, our youth has slipped away . . .

“Heart racing, pressure in my jaw, neck, and shoulders, and throat burning like the devil.” His fingers calmly kneaded
her arm, belying the turmoil waged against them tonight. “It was like I couldn’t catch my breath, had no energy, nauseous. When Sister Mary Veronica told me what that girl did . . .” Marcy felt the thick shift of his throat as he swallowed, causing her to do the same. “I . . . felt defeated, betrayed, an old man bested by a child and a failure as a parent.”

His last word spoken ignited a spark of hope, and she lifted her head. “But that’s just it, Patrick, Gabe is not our child and we are
not
her parents. But if we were—” The dark shadows beneath his eyes halted her midsentence, tears pooling at the prospect of ever losing this man. She cupped his bristled jaw, a tremor invading her words. “Oh, Patrick, I’d be lost without you.”

He drew her back, his hoarse chuckle feathering her hair. “Well, for the moment I’m still alive and kicking, Mrs. O’Connor, so don’t bury me just yet.”

What-ifs pummeled her mind and her eyes squeezed shut while she clutched him with all of her might. “God help me, Patrick, but I love you more than anything in this world.”

“ ‘God help you’ is right, Mrs. O’Connor, because if I had energy for anything other than sleep tonight, I’d be looking for proof.” He shifted, attempting to remove his trousers. “Get my pajamas, will you, darlin’, I’ll be wanting to sleep.”

She jumped up to retrieve his pajamas and helped put them on before tugging the covers back so he could slip under the sheet. He grunted as he tossed the top coverlet away, and that mere effort seemed to totally exhaust him. He dropped back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Thank you, darlin’,” he whispered.

“Can I do anything else, Patrick? Get you a glass of water, bring up the fan, anything?”

An almost imperceptible smile curved the edges of his mouth, although his eyes remained closed. “Stay with me awhile?” he whispered, voice fading to slumber. “I like having you near.”

Her heart leapt in her chest as the pressure of tears stung in her nose.
Oh, Patrick . . .
Battling her grief, she climbed in beside him, her fear evident in the tight clutch of her hands.

“Marceline,” he said quietly, “I don’t want you to worry. I just forgot.”

She paused, her breathing shallow. “What do you mean you forgot? Forgot what?”

“My pills,” he muttered, his voice groggy. “Forgot to refill the prescription.”

She shot up, eyes wide in the dark. “Your angina medicine? You haven’t been taking it?” Her voice rose to a near shriek. “Sweet mother of Job, for how long?”

His eyelids lifted halfway, a drowsy apology in his gaze. “Two weeks,” he whispered. “Meant to refill, but so busy at work . . .”

Her anger whooshed out as relief took over.
Oh, Lord,
he’s not getting worse!
There was a reason for the attack.

Patrick’s gentle snore broke her reverie, peace settling as lightly as the thin sheet across his body. Lying with him awhile, she finally glanced at the clock on his nightstand, noting an hour had passed since the fateful confrontation with Gabe. She leaned to give him a gentle kiss. “I’ll be back soon, my love,” she whispered. Tiptoeing to the door, she expended all air when it closed behind her. A quick scan of the darkened hall meant Gabe was probably dreaming away and Marcy sighed, relief giving way to a heavy heart. Worry over Patrick’s angina may have lightened, but not over his rift with Gabe.

The soft murmur of her sons and a single light in the parlor indicated Charity and Lizzie had most likely gone home, and Marcy braced the railing, head bowed. With a quivering release of air, she fingered the paper in her pocket, its feel cool to the touch.
Like Patrick’s affections for Gabe.
The very thought slumped her shoulders, and she put a hand to her eyes. Without Patrick’s signature, Gabe would not be enrolled as an O’Connor, and Marcy fought the sobs rising in her throat until one finally slipped through. Only . . . it didn’t belong to her, she realized, and goose bumps prickled her flesh. Her gaze darted down the hall to Gabe’s closed door, and the breath seized in her lungs as she strained hard to listen.

A whimper. A muffled sob. A heart breaking as thoroughly as hers. With a ragged gasp of air, Marcy flew down the hall and opened Gabe’s door, stomach cramping at the tiny lump that quivered in the bed. “Oh, Gabe,” she whispered, rushing to bundle the little girl in her arms. “Honey, everything’s going to be okay . . .”

“N-no, it’s n-not,” she sobbed, her blotchy face slick with mucous and tears, painful confirmation she’d been weeping a long time. “H-he h-hates m-me.”

Marcy’s throat ached. “No, darling, he doesn’t, I promise. He loves you. We all do!”

She shook her head violently, her frail chest quivering with every heave. “You d-do, but not h-him. H-he d-doesn’t w-want m-me . . .”

Pain lanced Marcy’s heart. “Of course he does,” she soothed, resting her head against Gabe’s, rubbing her back, kissing her hair. “He was just angry, darling, over what you did to the Kincaid boy.” She pulled away to gently tuck a strand of hair over Gabe’s delicate ear. “Why did you do that, Gabe?” she whispered, locking eyes with this daughter she so longed to claim.

Gabe sniffed and swiped at her eyes. “Because he spit at me and called me a street rat.” Her whisper was harsh as she listed into a lifeless stare. “Said I’d always be a street rat nobody really wants. An orphan with no family of my own, no matter who I live with.”

“That’s not true,” Marcy cried, gripping Gabe’s shoulders. “You’re part of our family, Gabe, and I couldn’t love you more if you were my own flesh and blood.”

The staunch little chin quivered as water brimmed in her eyes. “I love you too, Mrs. O’Connor,” she whispered. The scent of Dubble Bubble rose in Marcy’s nostrils as Gabe’s tiny hand patted her cheek, eyes as lost and sad as if she still wandered the streets. “But I’m not family, ma’am. I ain’t nothing more than a lucky foster kid you just happened to take in, and the truth is, sometimes it hurts so much that I . . . ,” a nerve flickered in her cheek, “do things I shouldn’t.” Her
skinny chest expanded as she lifted her chin, resolve burning deep in those waterlogged eyes. “But you have my word I’ll try. Try real hard to be the foster kid you want me to be.” Without warning, she lunged into Marcy’s arms. “Because I love you, Mrs. O’Connor,” she cried, “and if I ever had a mom, I’d want her to be just like you.”

Oh, Gabe . . .
Marcy’s heart melted as she squeezed the little girl hard, her throat so thick with emotion, she could barely respond. “And I love
you
, darling,” she whispered, planting a kiss on Gabe’s little, matted head. “As a daughter I’d be so proud to have.” She tugged a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe the tears from Gabe’s face and then held it to her nose so she could blow. Tucking her into bed once again, she prayed with her, then pushed the curls from her brow to bestow a final kiss before leaving the room. “Sleep well, darling,” she said softly, quietly closing the door. With a silent heave, she put her hands to her face, a horrendous pain wrenching inside.
Oh, Lord, it isn’t fair! The child needs a family of her own—our family!

Her hands shook as she entered the bathroom and turned on the light, mind racing for a solution. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew the folded adoption application and smoothed it out on the vanity, the contents of her dream blurring before her eyes.
This
was the paper that could begin the entire process, only the first of many to make Gabe one of their own, to give her a family she truly belonged to. She closed her eyes, and the memory of Gabe’s broken sobs shredded her heart once again, convincing her she had no choice. She needed to begin the process . . . one in which Patrick would have the final say, most assuredly, via his signature on the final document. But . . .
not
if she didn’t set the wheels in motion first.

Uttering a fragile prayer, Marcy begged God’s forgiveness and picked up the pen. And with hands trembling as much as her conscience, she did the only thing her heart would allow her to do.

She signed her husband’s name.

6

A
nnie, wait!”

She turned, one foot in the backseat of Aunt Eleanor’s Packard in front of St. Stephen’s as her catechism teacher scurried down the church steps. Stepping back out of the car, Annie blinked and smiled while Aunt Eleanor glanced over her shoulder and Glory peeked out the window. The earthy scent of spring mulch merged with the smell of fresh asphalt and auto exhaust as a dusk-colored sky slowly faded from deep shades of purple to the dark of night.

Mrs. McGuire hurried up to the car with Annie’s leather purse tightly in hand. “You forgot this,” she said, a bit out of breath.

Annie gave her a sheepish smile. “Goodness, I can’t believe I left my purse behind. I’m sorry to inconvenience you like that, Mrs. McGuire, having to chase me down.”

“It’s no problem, Annie,” she said, handing the purse over, “and please call me Faith.” A twinkle lit green eyes that held a kindness Annie warmed to, a nice complement to rich, auburn curls that waved to her shoulders. “This is my first time teaching Adult Catechism class, you know, so I’m not quite comfortable with all the formality yet.”

“Good heavens,
Susannah
,” Aunt Eleanor said, emphasizing her preference of Annie’s given name over her new nickname, “I do believe you’d forget your head if it weren’t attached.” Aunt Eleanor held a gloved hand out to Faith, lips edging into a tight smile. “Good evening, Mrs. McGuire. I’m Susannah’s aunt, Miss Eleanor Martin, and I apologize for my niece. She tends to be a bit scatterbrained at times, but I assure you she’s an excellent student.”

“Oh, I have no doubt, Miss Martin,” Faith said, shaking Aunt Eleanor’s hand with enthusiasm. Her smile was apologetic. “I suspect I may be the blame for Annie leaving the purse behind, however. Annie had a few questions after class, you see, and we were just chatting away. When she realized the time, she bolted out the door, book and homework in hand, afraid she’d kept you waiting.” Faith’s smile was warm. “Well, I better let you go, but if you come early next week, Annie, I’ll be happy to answer any additional questions—”

“Ellie!”

Aunt Eleanor’s body went as stiff as her smile. A hint of rose bloomed in her cheeks when a gentleman sprinted toward the car from the rectory with a briefcase in hand.

“It’s very nice to have met you, Mrs. McGuire,” Aunt Eleanor sputtered, obviously shaken as she attempted to hurry Annie into the Packard. “Come, Susannah, we need to leave.”

“Ellie, wait, please—I need to talk to you.” The man huffed up to the car, dark hair disheveled from the run and cheeks apparently ruddy from the effort. Well over six feet tall, he was possibly a year or two older than Aunt Eleanor, maybe thirty-eight or thirty-nine, with a touch of silver at the temples. His handsome face was as strained as Aunt Eleanor’s when she faced him, his well-defined jaw tight with tension. Nodding at Annie and Faith, he fixed probing eyes on Annie’s pale aunt. “Ellie, you were supposed to look over the paperwork for the St. Stephen’s family shelter. Did you
forget?”

Chin high, Aunt Eleanor took a step back. “My apologies, Mr. Callahan, but my niece started catechism classes tonight, and I’m afraid it slipped my mind. Perhaps another time?”

His broad chest expanded and released with a quiet exhale before he spoke, his voice gentler now and the furrows diminishing in his brow. “Ellie, we’ve been on a first-name basis since we were seventeen. Don’t you think it’s time we dispense with formalities?”

The blush deepened, bleeding into Aunt Eleanor’s cheeks while her gaze flicked to Faith. “If you’ll excuse me, please, this will only take a moment.” Her cool look shifted back to Mr. Callahan. “Perhaps it’s best if we discuss our business in private.” Before Faith could respond, Aunt Eleanor calmly moved to the base of the church steps while Mr. Callahan followed, their conversation lost in the chug and whoosh of passing traffic.

“Who’s that man?” Glory’s rosebud mouth expanded into a tiny yawn.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” Annie said, brow crimped at the exchange between her aunt and the gentleman that seemed anything but friendly, given Aunt Eleanor’s rigid stance.

“Mr. James Callahan, miss,” Frailey supplied, posture erect as he waited by the side of the door, gaze straight ahead. “Chairman for the St. Stephen expansion committee.”

“Thank you, Frailey,” Annie said, giving the butler a pat on his crisp uniform suit coat. Smiling at Faith, she inclined her head toward the man who’d worked for Aunt Eleanor’s family most of his life. “Frailey’s Aunt Eleanor’s butler and, I might add, Pinochle champ of his guild.”

Faith flashed a wide smile. “Why, hello, Frailey. Pinochle, huh? I’d like to see what you can do with my brother-in-law Luke McGee, in challenging his annoying luck in cards.” She gave him a wink. “He tends to get a little cocky in the family games, if you know what I mean.”

Annie’s jaw dropped when Frailey revealed more teeth than she’d seen in almost four months living with Aunt Eleanor,
except for the occasional grins Glory managed to coax. “The pleasure is mine, miss,” he said in precise speech that hinted of British roots. He bowed slightly, silver hair shimmering under the streetlamp. “As it would be to educate your Mr. McGee.”

“Who are
you
?” Glory wanted to know, neck craned out the door and blonde curls askew.

“I’m your sister’s catechism teacher, Mrs. McGuire,” Faith said, “and you are . . . ?”

“Glory, short for Gloria Celeste Kennedy.”

“Well, Miss Gloria Celeste Kennedy, it’s very nice to make your acquaintance.”

“What’s quay-tents mean?” Glory wanted to know, nose scrunched.

“It means it’s nice to meet you,” Annie explained.

“Do you have any kids I can play with?” The little stinker was suddenly wide awake.

Faith laughed and tugged Glory from the car, hefting her in her arms. “Well, yes, ma’am, I do. My oldest, Bella, is almost nine, Laney is seven going on eight, and Abby is six going on seven who,” she said with a tickle of Glory’s ribs, “is a little peanut just like you.”

“Wow!” Glory said with a giggle. “Is that what you call her, ‘Peanut’?”

“That’s what my husband calls her because she’s small for her age, but quite big in the bossy department, I assure you.”

“When can we play?” Glory’s eyes expanded so much, Faith chuckled.

“Soon,” Faith said, grinning. She turned to Annie. “What do you say? Should we take our girls to story time at the Bookends Bookstore? My girls love it, and I think Glory would too. Then I can introduce you to my sisters, and the two of us can chat. What do you think?”

“Jeepers creepers, that would be swell!” Glory said with a bounce.

Annie poked Glory in the ribs, eliciting a squirmy giggle. “I don’t suppose I have any choice or Miss Gloria Celeste
Kennedy will hound me to death, so thank you.” Her gaze connected with Faith’s, and somehow she had a feeling this woman would be good for her, not only as a teacher and friend, but as a woman to talk to now that Mama and Maggie weren’t around.

“It’s settled, then. We’ll put a date on the calendar next week, okay?” Faith kissed Glory’s cheek and tucked her back in the car. “Good night, Glory, it was nice to meet you.”

Annie sneaked a peek at Aunt Eleanor and Mr. Callahan, whose conversation appeared to have risen in tension based on their stilted posture. “I wonder why they don’t get along?” she murmured.

“Perhaps they’ve butted heads on the committee,” Faith suggested quietly.

A pucker wedged at the bridge of Annie’s nose. “Goodness, he is a decent and honorable man, I hope?” she said with another worried glance at her aunt.

“Oh, absolutely.” Faith’s smile relaxed the tension at the back of Annie’s neck. “Mr. Callahan is a widower who is a pillar of the community and one of the city’s best lawyers as well as counsel for the parish.”

Relief seeped through Annie’s lips. “Oh, thank goodness, because it certainly appears as if Aunt Eleanor doesn’t care for him, maybe even a bit afraid, I’d say, which I’ve never seen before.”

Faith patted Annie’s arm. “Well, not to worry. It could be something as simple as a disagreement on the Catholic Workers’ committee, since both your aunt and Mr. Callahan are board members. But if it worries you, we can always pray about it next week.”

“Pray about it?” Annie said, a dizzy sensation swirling through her body at the memory of her father’s propensity to pray about everything. Praying together had been as natural as breathing for him, an evangelical pastor who took everything—large and small—to the Almighty. But anyone else?
Unheard of!
“You . . . pray together? With people, I mean . . . one-on-one?”

Faith’s smile was gentle. “Every day of my life, whenever I see a need. It’s our verbal connection with God, just like you and I are connecting right now.” She gave Annie a hug. “I’ll see you next week, and we’ll put a date on the calendar for Bookends, okay?” She winked at Glory, then turned to extend a hand to Frailey. “Nice to meet you too, Frailey.” She grinned. “And, oh, how I wish I could bring you home to Luke.”

“’Tis a shame I’ll not have the opportunity to educate the boy. Good night, miss.”

“Indeed,” Faith said with a grin. With a wave, she hurried back up the church steps.

A moment later Aunt Eleanor strode toward the car with a pinched look, her disagreeable business obviously concluded. “Frailey, I have a dreadful headache, so do hurry us home.”

Annie’s stomach clenched when Aunt Eleanor bulldozed her into the backseat with a grim-lipped expression, prodding with the back of her hand. Both slid into the car, and Frailey shut the door.

“Aunt Eleanor—are you all right?” Annie asked, voice tentative.

“Yes, dear, I’m fine. Frailey, please stop at the Woolworth’s on Main. I took the last of my aspirin this morning, and we’ll need to pick up some more. They’re open till nine, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. I’m sure this would be a migraine come morning if I don’t attend to it tonight.” Aunt Eleanor closed her eyes and laid her head on the back of the seat, a silent dismissal of her niece.

They rode to the store and then home in silence, and Annie couldn’t help but reflect on the difference between her aunt and Faith McGuire. Probably only a few years older than Faith, Aunt Eleanor lived life as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. She seldom smiled, seemed addicted to aspirin, and possessed no joy or fun despite a beautiful home and healthy bank account. Faith McGuire,
on the other hand, radiated something different—joy, peace, and an unmistakable confidence. Not to mention a fabulous marriage to an incredibly handsome man, judging from how he’d kissed her at the door when he dropped off the lesson plan she’d forgotten at home.

A faint smile lifted the corners of Annie’s mouth even as her heart swelled with hope. Oh, to have a love like that! To have a man look at you like Faith’s husband looked at her . . . like Daddy had looked at Mama. She sighed. No, there was no mistake about it. Somehow Faith McGuire had learned the secret to being happy and fulfilled, while Aunt Eleanor—with all her money in the bank, lofty board positions, and countless charitable auctions she’d chaired—had not.

The thought made Annie sad, hopeful, and determined, all at the same time. Sad for Aunt Eleanor that she’d spent her life bound up in bitterness, never learning how to love. Hopeful that maybe—just maybe—Faith McGuire knew something Annie did not. And determined that if Faith McGuire did, indeed, possess special knowledge that put that glow in her face, then Annie wanted it too. She opened her eyes, jaw set as she peered out the window into a moonlit sky.
And the sooner the better . . .

“Whoopee—Annie’s the old maid!” Sitting Indian-style on the parlor rug next to Mr. Grump, Glory kicked stubby legs in the air, displaying pink lacy underwear in all of its glory. Lumbering up, Mr. Grump resettled by the French doors, where the scent of jasmine drifted in from a brick garden patio along with the silence of an elite neighborhood deprived of stickball or the chatter of children. Somewhere a tree frog twittered, heralding the arrival of dusk as a pink haze settled, a perfect complement for Glory’s drawers.

“Gloria Celeste Kennedy!” Annie dove across her neat stacks of playing cards to tickle Glory’s neck, prompting the
little dickens to squeal in delight. “Not only is it bad manners to make fun of the loser, you little stinkpot, but one does
not
display her underwear in public!”