A Heart Revealed

  Start Reading

  © 2011 by Julie Lessman

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3403-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Scripture quotations labeled NKJV are from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  To my amazing son, Matt—

  whose uncommon kindness, gentle strength,

  and love of sports provided the perfect framework

  for the hero of this book.

  May Sean O’Connor touch the hearts and lives

  of my readers just a glimmer as deeply and powerfully

  as our son has touched ours.

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Author

  Back Ads

  And thus the secrets of his heart are revealed;

  and so, falling down on his face, he will worship God

  and report that God is truly among you.

  —1 Corinthians 14:25 NKJV

  Prologue

  Dublin, Ireland, 1916

  She heard it before she felt it. Harsh air sucking through clenched teeth, the grunt of an arm raised, the soft swish of a hand slicing the air.

  “I want the truth—”

  And then she felt it. The crack of his knuckles when her jaw met the back of his hand, the thud of her head against the wall, the putrid rise of nausea as it climbed in her throat.

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  “No, I swear—”

  “Liar!”

  Cruel hands rattled her shoulders while the vile stench of whiskey smothered her air. The taste of blood and vomit soured her tongue, forcing the words to heave from her throat. “It was an innocent comment, I swear, from a friend and nothing more—”

  He wrenched her arm and her scream pierced the night before he jerked her close, his foul breath hot against her skin. “You think I’m stupid, do ya? I see the way he looks at you, the way they all look at you . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter, Rory—you’re the one I love—only you!” The air seized in her lungs as she waited for her words to take effect. Blood pulsing in her brain, she licked her lips and forced her gaze to his, watching as his rage slowed and simmered into lust. Her body quivered as she pressed in close, tracing his mouth with shaky fingers. The violent throb of her pulse betrayed the casual huskiness of her whisper. “You . . . I only want you . . . forever and ever.”

  He stared, the crazed look in his eye finally fading into the smoldering obsession she had mistaken for love. Jerking her close, he devoured her with his mouth, his lips hard and cruel as they plumbed the depths of his desire. He shoved her to the wall, pinning her there with a possessive gaze while his hands took the liberties allowed to a husband. “Mine . . . you’re all mine, Emma, and no other man can ever have you—do you hear?”

  His breathing quickened as taut arms swallowed her up. “Don’t you know how much I love you?” he whispered, his voice pleading as the dark bristle of his late-day beard ground against her cheek. He jerked away to cup her face in his hands, all of his fury suddenly chased away by the lovesick look in his eyes. A gentle smile lifted the corners of his mouth, transforming his handsome face into the lost little boy she’d fallen in love with. “Emma, my beautiful, beautiful Emma, I’m sorry for hitting you, love, and I swear from now on, I’ll give you all the love you deserve.”

  His kiss was gentler this time, and her eyes fluttered closed. Mrs. Rory Malloy—the envy of every girl on O’Connell Street. Her sweat-soaked blouse shivered against her skin. Every lass’s dream . . . and one woman’s nightmare. Rory’s whispers of love tickled her ear, but all she could hear was her father’s curse, ricocheting off the battered walls of her mind.

  I pray to God you get what you deserve . . .

  With a gentle stroke of her cheek, Rory carried her into their bedroom. He closed the door with the tip of his shoe, severing the light as surely as he’d severed the hope from her soul.

  Not to worry, Da . . . I did.

  1

  Boston, Massachusetts, July 4, 1931

  Always a bridesmaid, never a bride . . . and the saints be praised! Blessed relief curved Emma Malloy’s mouth into a gentle smile. She inhaled a deep breath of rose-scented air while Charity O’Connor Dennehy tucked an arm to her waist, palm resting against the pink chiffon of Emma’s bridesmaid dress. With a contented sigh that merged with Emma’s own, the two best friends studied Charity’s youngest sister, Katie, laughing as her new husband slipped the garter from her leg.

  “Brides and babies have to be some of God’s most beautiful creatures.” Charity’s tone was wistful. She rested her head against Emma’s, the two of them lost in a sea of noisy guests celebrating Katie and Luke’s wedding in a cozy back room of Kearney’s Café.

  Ivy garland from the O’Connor garden looped its way along a lace-covered table where a crystal vase of yellow roses presided over cake and punch. Long rectangular tables were cloaked in a wide array of tablecloths on loan from the other three O’Connor sisters, all sporting crystal bud vases abloom with roses in varying shades as different as the sisters themselves. Dusty pink for twenty-seven-year-old Lizzie—the color of the shy blush that often tinged her cheeks—blended nicely with the vibrant scarlet blooms that her older sister Charity seemed to prefer. Creamy white tea roses called to mind the innocence and sincerity of Charity’s eldest sister, Faith, while Katie’s bridal bouquet of lemon-yellow roses bespoke the joy and promise of a new beginning.

  Emma couldn’t help but smile at the thought of four sisters who “cloaked” each other—and her—as well with a mantle of love and support as beautifully woven as any lace tablecloth. From Katie’s independent zest for life and Lizzie’s soft-spoken gentleness, to Faith’s solid faith and Charity’s quirky humor, Emma felt more like a sister than a friend in this family that she now claimed as her own. A sigh feathered her lips as she leaned in, tilting her own chin-length brunette curls against Charity’s golden marcel waves. “Mmm . . . brides and babies, yes,” she repeated reverently, the softest hint of brogue in her tone. “And sure, when it comes to brides, our Katie is one of the most beautiful.”

  Indeed, rising from the chair to stand next to her new husband,
Katie glowed like the crystal chandelier overhead, her cheeks as soft and dewy as the delicate bouquet in her hand.

  “Oh—look! She’s getting ready to throw the bouquet.” Charity tugged Emma closer while a surge of young women pressed forward with outstretched arms. Turning her back to the crowd, Katie launched the bouquet over her shoulder in a wide sweep.

  Plunk. Emma stared at her feet in shock, where Katie’s bouquet nestled neatly between her satin Mary Jane pumps. Pandemonium erupted with little-girl shrieks and flying limbs. Emma blinked, too stunned to move.

  In a blur, Charity snatched the flowers from the jaws of death and thrust them in her hands. “It’s yours, Mrs. Malloy, married or not. And may it bring you the happiness you so richly deserve.”

  Heat gorged Emma’s cheeks. The happiness she so richly deserves? She gulped, the action almost painful for the guilt clogging her throat. Oh, Charity, that’s blasphemy . . .

  “Hey, no fair—she’s already married,” ten-year-old Gabriella objected. The O’Connor’s tomboy foster child crossed her arms in indignation, the spray of freckles on her heart-shaped face all bunched in a frown. Eyes the same deep mahogany of her hair narrowed considerably, ready to take Emma on.

  Charity tweaked a dark banana curl on her foster-sister’s shoulder. “The flowers will be dead tomorrow, Gabe. Let the woman have some happiness, will you?”

  “But . . . but I can’t . . . ,” Emma managed with another hard swallow.

  “They’re flowers, Emma, not a death sentence, so enjoy them.” Charity cocked a brow. “Did you even have a bouquet when you took your vows?”

  Emma shook her head, avoiding Charity’s eyes.

  “Well then, consider it the bouquet you never had at your own wedding, all right?”

  “But . . . but . . . they should go to somebody who’s not . . .” Emma thrust the bouquet back at Charity, her voice a strained whisper, “married.”

  “There’s nobody more ‘not married’ than you, Mrs. Malloy, cheating sot of a husband notwithstanding.” Charity cupped an arm around her friend’s shoulder. “Enjoy the flowers, will you, Emma? They may well be the only decent thing you’ll ever see out of a marriage.”

  Cheeks burning, Emma hid her discomfort with her nose buried in the bouquet, the scent of the flowers far sweeter than the memory of her past. At thirty-one years of age, she was quite certain that Charity was right. Over eleven years ago, a handsome Irishman named Rory Malloy had dashed her hopes of happiness with a pan of hot grease that scarred her face during a drunken fit. Suddenly, she was no longer the comely Irish lass who had turned his head, but an albatross as disfigured and scarred as their love had proven to be. She closed her eyes, lost in the satiny spray of roses in her hand. Grazing the ribboned stem of the bouquet with her thumb, she felt the prick of a forgotten thorn and sighed, reminded of just how painful marriage could be.

  From the moment Rory had put the ring on her finger, it seemed her happily-ever-after had quickly dissolved into a murky nightmare of physical and emotional abuse, finally ending when he moved in with another woman. The pain of her sham marriage had convinced Emma once and for all that for some women—at least women like her—marriage was not a good thing. She sighed as Luke dipped his bride back to smother her throat with kisses. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Katie happier or more beautiful. The perfect bride, I’d say.”

  A throaty chuckle quivered the chiffon bodice of Charity’s bridesmaid gown. She pulled back to give Emma a mischievous smile. “You mean the perfect distraction when Luke discovers ‘our Katie’ is anything but the ‘perfect’ wife.”

  Emma’s fingers playfully nipped at Charity’s waist. “Stop that, Mrs. Dennehy. Katie and Luke were made for each other, and everyone knows it.”

  Charity sighed and studied the happy couple. “I suppose. I guess it’s the ‘iron sharpening iron’ Scripture in play. Luke agreed Katie can continue to work with him three days a week at the BCAS while Lizzie watches Kit, but everybody knows he’s bent on having a family, so I suspect Katie’s tenure will be short-lived. Five to ten says sparks will fly when he tries to lower the boom after the honeymoon.”

  “Lower the boom?” Emma repeated with a lift of her brows. Her eyes flicked to Luke as he tugged his fifteen-month-old daughter “Kitty Kat” out of the arms of Katie’s sister, Lizzie, with a tickle of Kitty’s ribs. Husky baby giggles echoed in the room as he planted a kiss on her tummy.

  “Yeah, you know, like Mitch did with me over ten years ago? We get married, he buys the store for you and me to manage, and then, boom! I get pregnant with the twins, and my working days are over. And in the blink of an eye, you’re saddled with a store to manage all by yourself while I’m locked in an ivory tower like Rapunzel with a shoulder-length bob.” Charity shot an affectionate scowl at her husband who was deep in a conversation with her brothers, Sean and Steven, then returned her knowing gaze to the newlyweds. “Trust me, Mrs. Malloy, as much as those two like to have their own way, this will be a marriage where sparks will fly.”

  Emma bumped Charity’s shoulder with a teasing grin. “Yes, Rapunzel, but apparently it’s worked for you and Mitch. Besides, I thought ‘sparks’ were a good thing.”

  Charity’s grin bordered on wicked. “Oh, they are, my friend—that is, if you learn how to channel the heat. And trust me, with those two, there will be plenty of heat. Let’s face it—you don’t just marry an Irishman, you marry a stubborn streak and an Irish temper.”

  “Not all Irishmen are like that,” Emma defended, brow puckering at the mere mention of “temper.” Despite the heat of the room, a chill iced her spine at the memory of Rory’s “Irish temper” before she’d left him in Dublin over ten years ago. Deliver me from men with tempers . . .

  Charity’s eyes narrowed. “Name one.”

  With a heft of her chin, Emma rose to the challenge. “Well, your brother, Sean, for one. He doesn’t have a lick of a temper and he’s the sweetest, most easygoing man I’ve ever met.”

  Charity’s gaze honed in on her unmarried brother across the room who stood, arms folded and hip cocked to the wall, chatting with his brothers-in-law.

  Emma’s gaze followed and then paused. Odd . . . Sean’s trademark smile was absent and his manner unusually stiff, a stark contrast to the others, who were laughing over something Mitch was saying. Emma frowned.

  “Oh, I’ll go along with that, but remember he’s Irish, Emma, so what Sean doesn’t have in temper, he makes up for in stubbornness.” She leaned in, as if Sean were close enough to hear. “And although no one ever sees it, trust me—there’s a temper lurking inside of that easygoing brother of mine. I only saw it once, mind you, when he was thirteen, but suffice it to say that it was that very ‘temper’ that effectively bashed in Herman Finkel’s head.”

  “What?” Emma turned, her eyes wide. “What on earth happened?”

  Charity pursed her lips as she studied her brother. “Well, Sean was walking me home from school one day when we passed the park where Herman was heckling Becky Landers.” Charity rolled her eyes. “God give me the grace to understand why little boys feel the need to torment the little girls they like . . .” Pausing, she shot a narrow gaze at her husband. “Big boys too, come to think of it.” She shook her head as if to dispel the thought. “Well, anyway, I had this sneaky feeling that Sean had a secret crush on Becky because as we all know, men are so obvious, when all of a sudden Herman tosses a snowball her way. Saints preserve us, Sean leveled the poor kid like a runaway train, knocking him flat. I’m telling you, Emma, before Sean was through, poor Herman had a split lip, black eyes, and a chipped tooth.”

  “No!” Emma’s mouth slacked open.

  “Yes,” Charity said, conspiracy thick in her tone. “Our gentle, nonconfrontational Sean O’Connor—the man who wouldn’t hurt a fly—suddenly pummeling poor Herman like Jack Dempsey on a bad day. That night, Mr. Finkel threatened Father with the police.” A secret smile formed on Charity’s lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Fa
ther so angry. Not sure what he said or did to Sean other than confiscate profits from his paper route for a solid year, but whatever it was, I never saw Sean lose his temper again.” A twinkle lit in Charity’s eyes as she gave Emma a smug look. “But as we all know, ‘still waters run deep.’ So for all his squalling about being a confirmed bachelor until the day he dies, when my brother says he has no interest in women, Herman Finkel is living proof that Sean is lying through his teeth.”

  Emma bit back a grin. “Poor Sean—desperate to remain a bachelor and he has you as a sister—the Queen of Romance.”

  Charity slid Emma a narrow gaze. “It’s for his own good, Emma, and you know it. Look at the man—he’s at his own sister’s wedding, for pity’s sake, and he looks like his tie is too tight. Somebody has to put him out of his misery, because I won’t rest until I see both of my brothers happily wed.”

  “He does look pretty miserable,” Emma said with a chew of her lip.

  “Of course he’s miserable—he hates weddings even more than being home sick with the flu. Which validates his stubbornness and neatly lumps him right in with every other Irish man.”

  Emma shook her head. “I don’t know—I’ve known Sean for eleven years now, and I’ve never seen it. He’s the peacemaker, the buffer, the Rock of Gibraltar everyone relies on. Seems like he always accommodates others just to keep everyone happy.”

  A low chuckle escaped Charity’s lips. “Oh, he’s a rock all right, right along with the rest of them, starting with Father and Mitch and right on down to Katie’s new husband. Trust me, Mount Rushmore has nothing on these guys, which,” Charity said with a nod in Katie and Luke’s direction, “brings me right back to the inevitable sparks between Katie and Luke. I mean, really, how appropriate is it for them to get married on the Fourth of July?”

  “Mmm,” Emma said, studying the happy couple with a tilt of her head. “Practically perfect except for missing the fireworks display at Revere Beach. I know how much Katie loves fireworks, so it’s a shame she’ll miss them this year.”