A Light in the Window, Page 3

  “Thank you so much, Mr. O’Rourke,” Marcy said with genuine relief. “I’ll be sure to let him know.”

  “Do you remember me?” A miniature version of Julie stepped forward from a trio of female O’Rourkes, two of which were Julie’s twelve-year-old twin sisters who appeared either tired or shy. The fireball looked up at Marcy with dark eyes beneath a pert straw hat that complemented a white sailor dress. “Because I don’t remember you.”

  Marcy laughed and bent to give Julie’s seven-year-old sister a hug. “Of course I remember you, Erin, but you were only a toddler when I left, so I don’t expect you to remember me.”

  “Julie says you’re the best friend she’s ever had.” Erin tilted a head of black curls, and the navy ribbon on her hat followed suit.

  Marcy sent Julie a fond look. “Mine too.”

  “She says you’re gonna sleep here tonight,” she said with an innocent blink. “Maybe you can sleep in Sam’s bed because he doesn’t use it a whole lot anymore.”

  Marcy’s jaw went slack, the heat in her face giving the oven a run for its money.

  “Erin, hush,” Julie said with a blush that most likely matched Marcy’s. “Marcy will sleep with me because Sam needs his bed when he finally comes home.”

  “‘When’ being the key word,” Mrs. O’Rourke said with a weak smile in Marcy’s direction. “I wish Sam wouldn’t keep such late hours—it’s a poor example for the others.” A rueful sigh floated from her lips as she shot her husband a look of resignation. “But I’m afraid his father refuses to lay down the law.”

  “Sam’s a grown man now,” Mr. O’Rourke said with a wry twist of his lips as he filched his fourth cookie and homburg from the counter. He gave Marcy a wink that suggested he might have given his parents the same problem. “After boys graduate and begin working fulltime, they tend to burn the midnight oil and then some.”

  “But he won’t need his bed if he stays at Patrick’s,” Erin reasoned.

  “Sam mentioned staying here tonight, darling, although it’s safe to say they’ll be late.” Mrs. O’Rourke kissed Julie good night and hugged Marcy before prodding Erin toward the door, her husband close on her heels. “Come on, little one, it’s almost eleven, and we need to get you and Max to bed.” Her gaze lighted on Marcy with affection. “Marcy, I can’t tell you how good it is to have you home again, not just for Julie, but for us too. We’ve missed you.”

  Tears misted Marcy’s eyes. Being an only child had never been easy for her, but Julie and the O’Rourkes had eased the loneliness considerably. “Me too, Mrs. O’Rourke—more than I can say.”

  “Sleep in as late as you want, girls, and we’ll catch up in the morning, either over breakfast or lunch, all right?” Julie’s mother blew them a kiss and traipsed down the hall with her husband and daughters in tow, the creaks and groans of the polished staircase rousing even more wonderful memories in Marcy’s mind.

  Melancholy laced Marcy’s tone as she transferred the last few cookies from a cookie sheet to a platter already stacked high. “Goodness, Julie, I just love your family,” she whispered with a sigh of longing.

  “Mmm … even Sam?” Julie teased, licking icing from her finger.

  Marcy slipped her a patient smile. “I like your brother, Jewels, you know that.” Her lips crooked to the side. “I just like him a whole lot better when he’s not around.”

  “I doubt that,” Julie said with a wink. “Hey, I have tons of icing left, so how ‘bout one more batch, but iced sugar this time?”

  Marcy’s gaze darted to the clock and back. “I don’t know, what if Sam comes home?” Her tongue swiped her teeth in nervous habit. “I really don’t want to be down here if he does.”

  “Come on, you little chicken, you have to see him eventually, and you may as well get it over with, right?” She fetched a clean bowl. “Besides, I already told you, Sam is always out late on the weekend.”

  Marcy puffed out a sigh. “Okay, but if he comes waltzing through that door while we’re baking cookies …” She threatened her with a spatula. “You are in big trouble, Miss O’Rourke.”

  “I’ll say,” Julie said, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Because you know who will be with him.”

  Marcy shook her head and laughed. “You are incorrigible, you know that?”

  “Nope, that would be my older brother, so I suggest we get a move on before you find out firsthand.”

  Marcy chuckled. Whether it was the lively chatter of her best friend, the O’Rourke’s homey kitchen, or the steamy warmth of a summer night laden with smells of cinnamon and vanilla, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was she hadn’t felt this relaxed and happy since before Papa had taken them away to New York. Overnight she’d been thrust into a stiff and snooty society in which Marcy had no desire to fit in. Debutante balls and society teas were not her idea of home, and she found herself craving the simple and unpretentious life she’d left behind in Boston. A life where family and faith meant more than money and prestige, and where she could be who she was meant to be—Marceline Rose Murphy, a woman who loved family, friends, and faith with a passion.

  And Sam O’Rourke?

  No! Marcy jumped up to slide the last of the sugar cookies into the oven with shaky hands, then carried dirty bowls and utensils to the sink, eye on the clock. “Okay, Jewels, all done. Let me help with those dishes so we can get to bed.”

  Julie handed her the milk bottle she’d just rinsed. “Here, set this out on the porch, then you can help dry the last of these dishes, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marcy said with a smile over her shoulder as she opened the door, “and then I’m ready for sweet dreams—”

  “Oh, me too …” a husky voice said.

  Marcy bounced back into the kitchen with a tiny squeak after colliding with an immovable object so tall, her face was flush with his chest.

  “Do I know you?” Sam asked, and Marcy was sure she’d melt into the floor. And oh, sweet saints, how she wished that she could! Her limbs and lungs had ceased upon impact, rendering her helpless to do anything but stare unblinking into a pin-stripe shirt open enough at the collar to expose a hint of dark hair. She tried to respond, but all words adhered to her tongue, the air rasping from her throat in thick, heavy breaths that refused all utterance. Her muscles were so paralyzed, she was totally incapable of even lifting her head. But she didn’t have to—she knew who it was. If the low, gravelly tone didn’t give him away, the lemon scent of William’s Shaving Soap certainly did, intoxicating her as if she’d had one too many of her grandmother Mima’s whiskey eggnogs. The shock of his presence caused her to sway on her feet, and her breath caught in her throat when his hands burned through her cotton sleeves like the cookie tins through the potholders. “Whoa … are you all right?”

  No! Somehow she managed to lunge back, milk bottle clutched to her chest as if it were a prized possession.

  Julie’s laughter floated somewhere behind, foggy and faraway—like Marcy wished she could be. “She’s changed a wee bit, hasn’t she, Sam?” Julie said.

  “Mar-cy?” His tongue sounded slow and thick like hers, the intonation of his question heavy with shock.

  Her eyelids lifted in a sluggish sweep of lashes as if each were made of lead, her gaze lighting on the face that had haunted her dreams since she’d been a little girl. “Hello, Sam,” she whispered.

  Black eyes that had always held a hint of a dare traveled her body so deliberately, her legs nearly buckled as heat pulsed in her cheeks. The burn of his hand returned when he steadied her once again, and his thumb was a torch setting fire as it kneaded her arm. “Well, I’ll be … Marceline Murphy,” he said softly, the very sound of her name on his tongue quivering her stomach. As if it had a mind of its own, his gaze slowly swept down and up once again while a perilous grin teased on his lips. “Blue blistering blazes,” he muttered, “who would have thought this was hiding beneath that little bookworm afraid of her own shadow?”

  “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she, Sam?”
Julie’s voice fairly shimmered with pride.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, she most certainly is …” he breathed, grazing her chin with his thumb as if he couldn’t believe it was her. Marcy jolted, and he chuckled. “But still the same shy and tongue-tied little girl, I see.” He turned and draped a loose arm over the friend who stood behind him, then nodded her way. “And you said it wasn’t a good night, O’Connor. You remember Julie’s best friend Marceline Murphy, don’t you?”

  Patrick O’Connor remained as mute as she, the lines of his chiseled face sagging in shock as he stared, dark-bristled jaw slack while light gray eyes all but swallowed her whole. He was every bit as handsome as she’d expected, if not more so, and her trust factor for beautiful men like him sank to an all-time low. She’d seen his type in New York and witnessed first-hand the damage they could do, and she would never allow herself to fall in love with a man like that. A man like Nora’s fiancé, who made eyes at Marcy while he made love to her cousin.

  The clearest gray eyes she’d ever seen continued to stare, and cold fingers of warning slithered Marcy’s spine. Dark curls framed his Adonis face, easily securing Patrick O’Connor’s reputation as the Southie’s leading Lothario. And, Marcy suspected, a cocky demeanor as well. His hard-chiseled features matched a hard-chiseled body with shoulders as broad as his ego, no doubt, and she couldn’t help but bristle, her guard immediately edging up. She’d encountered his type in New York society more than she liked, and their swagger and conceit grated, convincing her once and for all that he was as dangerous for Julie as Sam was for her.

  —

  Patrick could do nothing but gape, tongue pasted to the roof of his mouth as surely as his lids were pasted to the sockets of his eyes, denying even a blink. “Marceline Murphy,” he finally rasped, almost to himself, voice tinged with awe. The breath he’d been holding slowly expelled with a duck of his Adam’s apple while he stood rooted to the floor, the angel of his dreams barely two feet away. “It was you …”

  Sam squinted at him. “It was her?” he said, awareness dawning in a pinch of brows. “She’s the one?”

  “The one what?” Julie wanted to know, hooking the angel’s arm to steer her to the counter. Handing Marcy a towel, she commenced to washing dishes, eyes wide in question as she peered over her shoulder.

  Patrick swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to Sam in silent threat before shooting Julie an easy smile that belied the sweat slicking his palms. “The ‘one’ I saw Sister Francine drag into the convent today,” he said casually, striving for nonchalance as he ambled over to help himself to a cookie. He butted against the counter with legs crossed, giving Marcy a wink. “Hope she wasn’t plying vocations, Marceline, because that would surely make grown men cry.”

  “Me included,” Sam said with a grin. He swiped a cookie and straddled a chair, eyes twinkling as he chewed. “The cookies are great, ladies, but we’d enjoy them a whole lot more with a glass of milk and pretty company—”

  “No!” Marcy dropped a spoon, cheeks bruised with color. “I m-mean we’re t-tired, especially your sister since I’ve been bending her ear, so we’re heading up after the dishes, aren’t we, Julie?”

  Patrick retrieved the utensil and slipped it back in the dishwater, grateful Marceline Murphy was apparently as nervous as he. He grinned. “You could always warm the milk, you know, maybe take the edge off to ensure a good night’s sleep?”

  Sam reached for another cookie. “You’ve had Marcy to yourself all evening, Jewels. Can’t you give us a few minutes to catch up?”

  Julie’s nervous gaze flicked to Patrick, and he met it with a crooked grin. “Come on, Jewels,” he said softly, coaxing with his trademark smile, “one glass of milk and you two’ll be tucked in bed before you know it.”

  With a chew of her lip, Julie peeked at Marcy, her manner hesitant. “One glass of milk won’t hurt, will it?” she said under her breath, as if she didn’t want him to hear.

  Patrick’s pulse stalled at the reluctance in Marcy’s eyes, those full pink lips compressing almost imperceptibly. Her chest rose and fell with an audible sigh. “One glass,” she emphasized carefully, blue eyes locked on Julie’s face with clear warning.

  The breath that had lodged in his throat slowly seeped through his lips. He turned to retrieve four glasses from the cabinet before offering Marcy a boyish smile. “I’ll be happy to warm yours if you like.”

  “Thank you, but no,” she said in a distant tone he wasn’t used to hearing from a woman, abruptly turning away to finish drying a bowl.

  Patrick blinked, then strolled to the icebox with a crimp in his pride. The cold shoulder? From a girl? He bent to grip the milk bottle, his resolve as firm as the glass in his hand. And just as breakable? Maybe, but then Marceline Murphy obviously didn’t know with whom she was dealing. He had never struck out with a girl in his life, and he wasn’t about to start now. He poured four glasses of milk, only half listening to the conversation while a thin line of determination steeled his smile. Because other than Sam O’Rourke, nobody knew how to warm up a cold shoulder better than Patrick Brendan O’Connor.

  “How did you like New York?” Sam asked after the girls had finished the dishes.

  Knuckles gripped on her empty glass of milk, which she’d obviously bolted to hurry things along, Marceline expounded on the last five years of her life, her voice shy and soft with the barest hint of a brogue. Patrick was more than content to let Sam steal and steer the conversation, taking the opportunity to study the new Marceline Murphy with an admiring eye. He remembered her well, of course, because she and Julie were always thick as thieves, just like Sam and him, although he’d barely ever spared her or Julie a glance. Probably because he and Sam had been “early bloomers” as Mrs. O’Rourke liked to say, two boys who’d matured sooner than most. Tall at fifteen and fourteen with a hint of stubble just beginning to shadow their jaws, Sam and Patrick quickly developed an eye for the older, shapelier girls who welcomed their attention, stoking their desire for more of the same. He slowly twirled his glass on the table. Skills with women he’d easily acquired with little or no effort, or at least until now. He took a drink, resolve trickling through his body like milk trickled down his throat. Marceline Murphy—his very first roadblock.

  And my last.

  He rested his head on the back of his chair with a loose fold of arms, watching her through lidded eyes while his pulse thudded slow and sure. He was mesmerized by the pale gold that tumbled her shoulders, transfixed by the soft shape of her mouth, the silk of her skin. A summer-scented breeze fluttered tendrils of her hair against an alabaster neck, teasing both Patrick and the delicate lobe of her ear. He imagined suckling that very ear and his throat parched dry, compelling him to take another swig of his milk. He forced himself to focus on the person rather than the woman, and a calm settled like nothing he had ever experienced before. There was a reserved innocence that intrigued him and a gentle depth that called, both to his body and his soul. And although he didn’t know much about the grownup Marceline Murphy, he did know one thing for dead sure. This was a woman he wanted to know better—and in every possible way.

  “So, Marcy,” Sam said, crossing his arms on the table. “Tell me you weren’t seeking a vocation today, or I’m afraid some hearts and hopes will be sorely dashed.”

  Patrick prickled at Sam’s attempt to dazzle her with a smile meant to disarm. He didn’t know Marcy well, but he did recognize a woman who was uncomfortable with flirtation when he saw it, and he mentally filed her reaction away, noting she was not a girl won over by easy charm. He observed how the tip of her tongue nervously grazed her teeth before she offered a reluctant smile and surmised she was as modest and unpretentious as she was beautiful.

  “No, not a vocation, at least not as a nun.” She exchanged looks with Julie before meeting Sam’s probing gaze. “But Julie and I will be chairing the Christmas-play fundraiser this year, and we’re very excited.” Her eyes took on a sparkle for the first time. “Our first meeting is ne
xt week.”

  All air seized in Patrick’s lungs. “The Christmas-play fundraiser?” he repeated, his voice a near-croak. He locked gazes with Sam while a slow smile inched across both of their faces.

  She glanced from him to Sam, those incredible blue eyes narrowing the slightest bit. “Yes, why?”

  Patrick grinned outright. “No particular reason, Marcy, I just think it’s commendable of you girls to take on such a huge task for such a wonderful cause. And you can rest assured Sam and I will be at your beck and call if you need any help.”

  She blinked, his offer obviously catching her by surprise. Those pink lips tipped up in a perfect smile, and his heart turned over. “Why, thank you, Patrick,” she said as if she’d just noticed he was even in the room. “That’s very kind.”

  Patrick beamed. “Our pleasure, right, Sam?”

  Sam gave her a wink that tinted her cheeks. “Absolutely. In fact, what time is that meeting? We’ll be happy to show up and lend our support.”

  Her mouth dropped a full inch before a flicker of doubt shadowed her eyes. “Oh no, really, that’s not necessary ...”

  “We insist,” Patrick said, tone and chin adamant. “You’ll have scenery to build and auditions to run, and we are more than willing to assist with such a worthy cause. We spend a lot of time at church anyway, with basketball and what not, so we may as well put it to good use. What time is the meeting?” His eyes flicked from Marcy to Julie, not daring to breathe as he silently prayed Marcy would agree. The last thing he needed was for this proper lady to discover the infraction that mandated their attendance.

  Julie squeezed Marcy’s arm. “I think we should let them, Marce,” she whispered, “we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  The blue eyes appraised him for several moments while that delicate jaw shifted ever so slightly, wheels turning, no doubt, in that beautiful head. Her gaze veered from him to Sam and back before she finally heaved a shuddering sigh that seemed to drain all resistance. “Seven o’clock, Tuesday at the rectory, then,” she said with a slump of her shoulders that indicated her energy had been sapped. Eyes flitting to the clock over the sink, she rose to her feet. “Ready to go up, Jewels? I’m exhausted.”