A Light in the Window, Page 2

  Sam angled a brow. “Not interested in free wine or pretty Alice McPhee?” He shook his head and took another draw. “You sick, O’Connor?” An unruly grin slid across Sam’s face. “Or just contemplating a brief respite of fidelity in the name of love before you break Emily Fischer’s heart a third time?”

  Patrick winced, Sam’s barb niggling his conscience more than he liked. Emily was the girl he cared for more than anyone else, but it was a caring that fell far short of honor when tempted by the numerous Southie lasses always vying for his attention. Pushing the sliver of guilt aside, he chuckled, eyeing Sam through lidded eyes as he rested his head against the wall. “If I am sick, I’ve died and gone to heaven, then, ‘cause I saw my first angel today.”

  “Did you, now?” Sam leaned back, a gleam in his eye as he hooked an arm behind his head. “Who and where?”

  Patrick exhaled slowly, pulse picking up. “No idea who she is, but I saw her walking into the convent with Sister Francine today when I was playing basketball with Father Fitz and the guys …” He shot Sam a silly grin, but didn’t care. “And all I can say is—I’m in love.”

  Sam’s laughter ricocheted in the tiny quarters, and Patrick jostled him with his toe. “Hey, keep it down, O’Rourke, will ya?” His whisper was harsh. “You want Father Fitz to know we’re here?”

  “Sorry, Patrick, but I have a hard time seeing you take after a girl who spends time in a convent.” He shook his head and took another drink. “Holy blazes, you barely know how to pray.”

  “Trust me, Sam, for this one? I’m willing to learn.”

  Setting the bottle down, Sam angled to the wall, cushioning both hands behind his neck. “So, what’s she look like, this celestial creature?”

  A slow smile eased across Patrick’s face at the memory of a woman he had every intention of getting to know—well. He had never believed in love at first sight before, but he had a gut feeling this girl could shackle him to sobriety and spoken vows faster than he could say, “I do.” A tenuous exhale drifted from his lips. “I swear, Sam, this girl had hair the lightest shade of blonde you have ever seen on a woman’s head, and it spilled and shimmered down her back in soft, loose curls like spun gold.”

  “Spilled and shimmered? Spun gold?” A grin split Sam’s swarthy face. “Blue blazes, O’Connor, you must be in love.” He glugged more wine. “Or sicker than I’ve ever seen.”

  Patrick folded his arms with a contented sigh, enjoying the vision that burned in his brain. “I’m sick all right—of any other girls after seeing this one. I don’t know, Sam, she just seemed different somehow—almost ethereal—kind of a sweetness and calm that went bone-deep, you know? And the eyes?” He gave a low whistle. “So blue, they could have been snatched from the sky after a hard rain.”

  “Okay, now I know you’re sick. The last time I heard verse like that was in Sister Francine’s literature class, which come to think of it,” Sam said with a scratch of his jaw, “you carried me through with your confounded A’s.”

  Patrick ignored him, seeing only heaven in his mind while his body grew warmer by the moment. “And so help me, the fullest, pinkest lips you have ever seen—” He glanced over with an unprincipled grin. “Or kissed—in the Southie neighborhood and probably all of Boston. She’s a little bit of a thing, maybe five foot two or three, but trust me—every single inch is sheer perfection.”

  Creases buckled Sam’s brow. “So, you didn’t try to find out who she was? Where she’s from?”

  Patrick’s lips went flat. “Are you crazy? Of course I did, but Sister Francine wouldn’t give me the time of day, and Father Fitz just said he thought she was a new senior, moved here from out of town.”

  “Tarnation, O’Connor, sure hope you see her again.” He winked. “Or I do.”

  Patrick scowled. “This one is mine, Sam, so keep your distance.”

  Sam grinned. “If you can find her …”

  “Oh, I’ll find her all right, you can bet on that.” Patrick stood with a groan and a stretch, then reknotted the tie he’d loosened after work. He tucked his white shirt into his gray trousers and snapped his suspenders in place, then lifted his flat cap before wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “Blast it, O’Rourke, it’s hotter than the devil’s kitchen in here,” he groused, whether from the wine, the cramped space, or pure guilt over drinking stolen sacristy wine in Father Fitz’s domain. His scowl softened as he tugged his cap back on. Or maybe haunting blue eyes? He stepped over Sam, rolling his sleeves to reveal biceps still sore from a hard day at work. “Let’s go to Brannigan’s and get some decent brew.” Unlatching the door as quietly as possible, he winced when it eased open with a truly annoying squeal.

  “Ah, Mr. O’Connor and Mr. O’Rourke …” Father Fitz stood not two feet away, chin high and hands clasped behind his back. He jutted a silver brow in a smiling face reminiscent of a cat stalking a canary. “Eager to be confessing your sins, are you?”

  The heat in Patrick’s body converged in his face before the blood iced in his veins. “F-Father Fitz,” he stammered, feeling like that little boy who’d been caught smoking in the choirboy closet at the age of ten. “We needed a quiet place to talk …”

  With an imposing height that nearly equaled Patrick’s six-two, the fifty-year-old priest appeared to lift on the balls of his feet, his stocky frame leaning forward with a casual sniff. “Talk, yes,” he said with a careful nod. “About the virtues of sacristy wine, no doubt.”

  Heat suffused Patrick’s cheeks as Sam slithered out of the booth empty-handed.

  Brows wrinkled, the priest flicked impatient fingers at the confessional. “You might at least clean up after yourself, Mr. O’Rourke,” Father Fitz said. “After all, you’re a proud graduate of St. Mary’s, young man, not a street hooligan littering an alley with empty bottles.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam ducked back in the booth to retrieve the near-empty port, then took his place beside Patrick, bottle limp at his side.

  Father Fitz held out his palm with a snap of fingers, and Sam relinquished the wine. The priest righted the bottle with a quick flick of his wrist to squint at the label, giving an appreciative nod. “Ah, yes, port—one of my favorites.” He peered up at Sam, then veered to Patrick with a lidded gaze. “Yours as well, evidently.”

  “Father Fitz—”

  The priest cut Patrick off with a stiff hand in the air. “Save your breath, Mr. O’Connor, please. There’s not a single word you can say in your defense unless it’s behind the screen of that confessional.”

  “Yes, sir.” Patrick dropped his gaze to the marble floor.

  Father Fitz snapped his fingers again, and Patrick’s head shot up. “I believe you have something of mine, Mr. O’Connor?” he said with an extension of his palm.

  Fire scalded Patrick’s neck as much as the key scalded the hand in his pocket. Clearing his throat, he placed it in the priest’s palm. “Sorry, Father.”

  “So am I, Patrick. I thought we’d gotten beyond this.”

  “We have, sir,” Patrick said, his voice no more than a rasp. Regret seared in his chest, hotter than that blasted key. Senior year, he and Father Fitz had forged an unlikely friendship when the priest discovered Patrick’s dreams to go to college and write for The Boston Herald. Despite Patrick’s propensity for breaking rules and endless detentions reported to Patrick’s father by Father Fitz himself, the priest had reached out in ways his father never would. A man who was not even blood, singling him out for games of basketball, football, and discussions of literature. Taking him under his wing like the son Patrick could never seem to be for a father who harped and hounded. A reedy sigh of remorse shuddered from his lips as he looked up, his gaze connecting with the priest who was more of a father than his own. “And you have my word, Father, this will never happen again.”

  The priest’s measured gaze seemed to burn straight into his. “Your word, Mr. O’Connor,” he repeated quietly, lips compressed in a bare hint of a smile. “Tell me, if we tr
aded places right now—would that be enough?”

  Shame scorched Patrick’s face as he hung his head, hands slipping into his pockets like dead weights. “No, sir,” he whispered.

  A hearty chuckle rose in the darkened church, expanding into laughter that echoed clear up to the vaulted chamber past the gothic arches overhead.

  Patrick sucked in a harsh breath and looked up, the lingering scent of incense and lemon oil filtering into his nostrils as shock filtered across his face. Sweet chorus of angels—he’s laughing?

  “Well, you see, Mr. O’Connor, that’s where you’re different from me, and when I’m done with you, young man, it’s my hope you’ll be different as well.” His burly black cassock shifted with a slack of a meaty hip. “Of course I’m in the business of forgiveness, which makes me different as well, so this is your lucky day, gentlemen—I’m ready to absolve you of this regrettable stunt.”

  The breath Patrick had been holding seeped from his lungs in an audible sigh. A shaky smile made its way across his face. “Sweet soul-saving mercy, Father—you won’t regret this.”

  “No, I don’t believe I will, Mr. O’Connor, although I’m not so sure about you and Mr. O’Rourke. You see, we’re not explicitly talking ‘mercy’ from the throne of God here,” he said with an ominous chuckle. “You know, ‘As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us’? No, rather more of an absolution of a wrong committed where retribution is due.”

  Sam cleared his throat, his stance as awkward as Patrick’s. “If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what exactly does that mean?”

  Father Fitz glanced at Sam, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Ah, Mr. O’Rourke has found his tongue, I see, which is excellent because you’re going to need it, young man.”

  Staring straight ahead, Patrick actually heard Sam gulp. “Sir?”

  A grin twitched at the corners of the priest’s mouth. “For the play, Mr. O’Rourke, for which you and Mr. O’Connor are not only going to build sets or whatever else Sister Francine may need you to do, but perform as well.” A smile bloomed on his face. “Oh, and I’m quite sure your time spent in the soup kitchen will be most rewarding, although the Southie lasses are sure to miss you, no doubt.”

  Sam began to hack, and Patrick commenced to absently pounding him on the back, eyes fused to the priest who’d proven himself a most capable mentor. But this? An infraction that extracted more penance than Patrick was willing to pay? He gouged the back of his neck, the priest’s semblance of a smirk giving rise to Patrick’s temper. “Look, Father, we appreciate your leniency, but can’t you just give us some Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s and be done with it? Both Sam and I work 40-hour shifts every week, sir, and we have no extra time for things like play practice or a soup kitchen.”

  Father Fitz arched a definitive brow, his gaze flicking to the confessional and back. “Yes, Mr. O’Connor, I can see that your spare time is put to excellent use.”

  Patrick had the grace to blush.

  With a cumbersome sigh, Father Fitz tucked the bottle under his arm. “No, gentlemen, I’m afraid Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers have run their course here.” He shook his head with a grimace. “Trust me, I’ve stockpiled them for you both since you crossed the threshold of St. Mary’s, so now it’s time to put your money where your mouth is.” His chin inched up with a steeled sobriety Patrick had seen many a time. “And since time is money, you will pay through the nose with as much community service as I can possibly bleed from the both of you.”

  “And if we won’t do it?” Sam said, a spark of challenge to his tone.

  Father Fitz studied Sam with a firm tilt of his head, the faint shifting of a jaw that Patrick recognized all too well from countless hours of detention with a man few students defied. “You know, it’s a curious thing, Samuel—your mother has been after me to come to dinner for months now, so perhaps I should come next week, imparting some information that just may batten your hatches a wee bit.”

  Patrick’s eyes weighted closed. Great. Another knock-down, drag-out with Pop.

  “I think I may just chance it, Father,” Sam said, the dark stubble on his jaw as menacing as the stubborn gleam in his eye. “I can live without my mother’s approval.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. O’Rourke, but the question remains—can you live without money?”

  Sam blinked. “Pardon me?”

  Humor played at the edge of the priest’s mouth, which was compressed like his jaw in a battle of wills. “Money, Mr. O’Rourke. You know, remuneration for a job well-done that allows you to buy a round a drinks at the corner pub, dazzle a pretty girl with an ice-cream soda, or purchase the proper clothes befitting the neighborhood rakes?”

  The blood drained from Patrick’s face as quickly as it did from Sam’s.

  “Yes, well, you see, gentlemen,” Father Fitz continued in a tone as matter-of-fact as his smile, “a priest has friends in high places in addition to the Almighty, you know. Such as, shall we say, the Herald?”

  Patrick’s eyes lumbered closed, the lump in his throat as tight as the noose Father Fitz was cinching around their necks. Both he and Sam needed their jobs at the Herald if Patrick was going to go to college and Sam was going to rise to management.

  “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you boys, but Arthur Hennessey and I go way back.” Father Fitz nodded with a faint smile, eyes trailing into what apparently was a fond trip down Memory Lane. “Actually coached him on the parish league, if you can imagine that.” He snapped out of his reverie, his smile brightening considerably. “Of course that was way before he took over as CEO of the Herald, you understand. Although I have to admit, nobody tossed a meaner knuckleball.”

  Patrick stifled a groan. Except you, Father Fitz ...

  “So … “ Patrick jolted when the priest clapped his hands, his grin almost as loud. “I look forward to seeing you gentlemen at the fundraiser meeting next week, where you’ll learn all about just why absconding with the sacristy wine is not a good idea.”

  “This is blackmail, Father,” Sam said with a scowl.

  Father Fitz blinked, a wedge popping at the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I suppose it is, Samuel …” He quickly dismissed his concern with a wave of a hand. “Well, no never mind,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, his smile veering into dazzling, “I’m on good terms with the Man upstairs—I’ll just absolve myself.”

  With a near-jaunty turn, he made his way to the door, pivoting when he placed his hand on the knob. “You know, I really should be thanking you gentlemen for helping me out. I’m afraid Sister Francine has been on my tail for weeks now, badgering me for able-bodied men to assist her new fundraiser chair.” His lips parted in a gleam of white. “And after a senior year of English Lit with the woman, I’m sure you boys can appreciate the kind of duress I’ve been under.” He hoisted the bottle of wine in the air. “You know, I believe I may owe a debt of thanks to this tasty port … and to you as well.”

  He turned to leave, but not before needling them with a knowing smile tempered by a stern gaze. “But a word of caution, gentlemen. When it comes to the drink, make no mistake—there are always debts to be paid. So if I were you, I’d weigh the cost carefully before you imbibe anytime soon.” He tipped the bottle in a salute and opened the door. “Tuesday, seven sharp at the rectory—don’t be late.” He winked. “The top of the evening to you, gentlemen, and I bid you good night.”

  Patrick stared open-mouthed as the arched wooden door squealed closed with a thud, the air in his lungs as slack as the line of his jaw. “A good night?” he repeated, staring at Sam with a dazed shake of his head. “Well, it certainly was, but not anymore.”

  Chapter Three

  “Something smells awfully good in here.” Mr. O’Rourke ushered his wife and three daughters through the kitchen door with a sleeping boy in his arms, a warm smile on his face that reminded Marcy so much of Sam, her stomach skipped. Handsome in a charcoal sack suit complete with black-striped bow tie, his black ey
es twinkled like Julie’s as he tossed his homburg hat on the counter and snitched a warm oatmeal cookie. He gave Marcy a wink. “It’s awfully good to have you back, Marcy,” he said with a swipe of two more, his sweet tooth obviously explaining a bulkier frame than she remembered. “Especially if it means I’ll have fresh-baked cookies on a more regular basis.”

  Julie shot her father a mock scowl, feigning insult as she spooned cookie dough onto a sheet. “Papa, I’ve baked for you a lot without Marcy here, I’ll have you know.”

  Shifting Julie’s five-year-old brother Max to his other shoulder, Mr. O’Rourke sidled over to dispense a hug before depositing a kiss on Julie’s head. “Ah, yes, but not as well or as often, eh?”

  “Papa!” Julie laughed, pretending to elbow him away.

  “Oh, go on with you,” Mrs. O’Rourke said with a playful butt of her hip, bumping her husband out of the way so she could hug Marcy good and proper. The familiar scent of Pears soap and her trademark hint of lavender tickled Marcy’s nose along with the feather from a hat that crowned blue-black hair wisped with silver. “Goodness, Marcy, I almost don’t recognize you, you’ve grown so much in five years.” Her gaze was affectionate as she buffed Marcy’s arms. “How are your parents?”

  “They’re well, Mrs. O’Rourke, although Papa’s still looking for work.”

  Julie’s father slipped a thick arm around his wife’s shoulder. “It’s pretty dismal out there right now,” he said, his look suddenly sober. “But I know for a fact Gunther Machinery is hiring, so tell your father I’ll be happy to put in a good word.”