Authors: Julie Lessman
She blushed and plucked the bill from his hand, tucking it back in his pocket with a grin. “Then use it for the eyeglasses you so obviously need. When I board a bus, I want to make sure the driver can see.”
A rich chuckle parted from weathered lips as he gave her a wink. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, patting the bill in his pocket. His smile sobered. “You’re one of those angels everybody sings about this time of year, Mrs. Malloy, and make no mistake about it. Merry Christmas.”
She tossed a smile over her shoulder as she descended the steps. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Tuttle.” She was still smiling when the bus pulled away, the bitter cold unable to dampen her spirits as she plodded her way to Charity’s house. Giving was what Christmas was all about, she thought, gingerly sidestepping a sooty snowdrift. And
nothing
brought more joy than giving.
Especially to Sean
. . .
A sweetness like nothing she had ever known ached in her chest, filling her up with the overwhelming need to give of herself to the one man who loved her just as she was.
And to Rory? Her smile faded as she reflected on the early years of her life. Yes, especially to Rory. To give of herself to a man who desperately needed to be loved for just who he was. A shard of fear pricked in her heart, as cold and biting as the snow now stinging her face. Yes, she was afraid, but God had not brought her full circle for nothing, and now she had the chance to be his instrument in Rory’s life. God’s grace had changed her, and she knew deep in her soul that it could change Rory as well. Had, in fact, already begun, if Rory’s presence here was any indication. But only time and prayer would tell, she realized, a lesson she’d learned once when she’d had nothing to give. And yet, in the midst of her pain, God had not only sustained her with the gift of his Son . . . but with the habit of giving, saving her from a lifetime of bitterness over what she did
not
have. With a rush of joy, she closed her eyes, wishing with all of her heart that people knew. Giving of one’s self—like Jesus had—was the only love that healed.
Unconditional love.
A sad smile touched her lips, along with the ice crystals that fell from the sky.
And the one gift I can give Sean this Christmas . . .
Ribbons of lamplight spilled from Charity’s windows onto a crystalline blanket of snow, welcoming her home. Stomping her boots on the brick porch that Mitch had obviously shoveled, Emma peeked through the etched-glass door into Charity’s polished foyer, experiencing a twinge of grief over leaving these people she loved. She opened the front door to the sound of Charity’s voice, and a gloom instantly settled despite the soft glow of a Tiffany lamp that graced a marble table. Emma bent to slip off her snow-crusted overboots and set them on the rug by the door, placed there for that very purpose. Rising to her full height, she stood for a brief moment, eyes closed to embed in her memory the sound of her best friend’s laughter. A lump immediately formed in her throat.
Oh, Charity, I will miss you so . . .
“There you are!” The object of her thoughts posed in the parlor door, peeking at the watch on her hand. “I thought you fell into a snowdrift, and we’d have to send out the St. Bernard.”
Emma smiled and tugged off her gloves, shoving them in her pockets before she hung up her coat. “Without the brandy, I trust,” she said with a crooked grin. She glanced around, head cocked as she listened for Mitch and the twins. “It’s awfully quiet—where is everybody?”
Charity’s voice faltered, but not her smile as she linked an arm through Emma’s. “Mitch took Hope and Henry to spend the night at Faith’s because Mitch and I have a special guest.” She ushered Emma into her holiday-ready Victorian parlor where a ceiling-height Christmas tree dazzled with endless strings of lights and countless glass ornaments shimmering in their glow. The nostalgic scent of pine mingled happily with that of gingerbread men on the tree, while the hint of hickory lent coziness from a wood-burning fire that crackled in a brick hearth.
Emma halted at the edge of the pastel Oriental rug, eyes spanning wide at the sight of Father Mac reclining in one of Charity’s gold wing chairs. “Father Mac!” she said with a welcome smile. Mischief tugged at her tone. “Uh-oh . . . what trouble has Henry gotten into now?” She shot Charity a sloe-eyed smile. “Or maybe it’s his mother?”
Father Mac rose, his smile far dimmer than Emma’s. “I’m happy to report that Henry’s in the clear for the time being, Emma, and so is his mother.” He glanced at Charity with a twinkle in his eye. “Although it’s a close call as to which of the two garners more of my attention.”
Charity jutted her chin. “I’ll have you know, Father McHugh, that I have been incident-free for well over a month now.”
“I’ll vouch for that,” Mitch said as he strolled in from the kitchen. He looped an arm around Charity’s waist and planted a kiss on her head. “Although it hasn’t been easy, I’m sure.”
“Mitch Dennehy!” Charity elbowed him away. She squinted her eyes. “You did remember to tell Faith to restrict Henry on chocolate, I hope?”
“Yes, dear,” he said with a droll smile, giving Emma’s shoulder a squeeze. “Cold enough out there for you, Mrs. Malloy? I told you I would have been happy to pick you up.”
“I know, Mitch, but I’m never sure these days just when I’ll be heading home.”
“Did you eat?” Charity asked, arms folded as if she were addressing Henry.
Emma smiled. “Yes, Mother. You packed both a lunch and a dinner, remember?”
“Good. Then how about coffee or tea? I have peach cobbler . . .” She wriggled her brows.
“Uh-oh, my favorite dessert,” Emma teased, eyes narrowing. “What do you want?”
The bob in Charity’s throat didn’t mix well with the smile on her face. She spun on her heel to address Father Mac. “Father, warm cobbler with or without ice cream and coffee or tea?”
“Coffee, black sounds wonderful,” he said with a wink. “And keep in mind it’s a sin to serve cobbler without ice cream.”
“Yes, sir.” She offered a quick salute and turned to her husband. “Mitch, would you mind doing the honors while Emma and I visit with Father?”
“Absolutely.” He squeezed Charity’s arm before he left for the kitchen.
Emma’s stomach did a flip.
Oh, no—what’s she up to now?
More than a wee bit nervous, Emma seated herself on the couch, and Charity followed suit, her friend’s chattiness definitely at odds with the stiff smile on her face.
Emma slid her a curious gaze. “So, what’s on your mind,” she said with a quick glance in Father Mac’s direction, “that you need to call out the clergy?”
Charity exchanged looks with the priest before she turned to face her friend dead-on. Inching closer, she laid a gentle hand on Emma’s arm. “Emma, we need to talk . . .”
Pinpricks nettled her skin. “I hope this isn’t about Rory again, because I already told you it’s time I move out of your home.” Emma exhaled her frustration at the relentless meddling of her friend, then forced a light tone. “Although I suspect the real reason you don’t want me to go is you like having an accomplice when you raid the kitchen at night.”
Tears welled in Charity’s eyes. “No, the real reason is that I love you . . .”
A knot formed in Emma’s throat as she embraced Charity hard. “I love you too, more than I can say. But it’s time to get on with my life . . . and that might mean with Rory.”
“No . . . ,” Charity whispered over her shoulder, her voice thick with sorrow. “It doesn’t.”
Emma pulled away, studying her friend’s face. “What do you mean?” Her stomach clenched as tight as the fingers she now gripped to Charity’s arms.
Charity squeezed her hand. “Emma, there’s a good chance that Rory may be deported.”
The lights on the tree blurred into one as Emma stared beyond Charity’s shoulder, trying to process the words coagulating in her brain. “What? Why?”
Charity averted her gaze while Father Mac cleared his throat. “Emma,” he began quietly, drawing her eyes to his, “Steven arrested Rory at a speakeasy this afternoon.”
White spots that weren’t part of the tree danced before Emma’s eyes. Her eyelids quivered. “Was he . . . drinking?” She swallowed hard on the word, praying that it wasn’t true.
He promised me . . . promised me he had quit.
“Because an arrest at a speakeasy doesn’t mean that he was drinking, you know . . .”
“He was very drunk, Emma,” Father Mac said softly, his gaze more than gentle. “He tried to assault Steven’s partner, so they locked him in a private cell.”
She found herself struggling for air. “But . . . but raids happen all the time, Father, and they don’t just ship people out of the country.”
He drew in a breath and released it slowly. “No, no, that’s true . . .” He paused before he spoke the words that stole the wind from her pipes. “Only immigrants wanted for questioning in the death of a child.”
A gasp stung in her throat. “No! It isn’t true . . . it was an accident, he told me so.”
Father Mac leaned forward, hands clasped. “Be that as it may, Emma—Steven verified it with Dublin authorities. And the truth is, at some point soon, Rory will have to go back.”
She closed her eyes and water stung beneath her lids. Her body was stiff, barely registering that Charity still held her hand. “It was an accident,” she said numbly, refusing to believe the worst of a man so in dire need of mercy. “The guilt is eating him raw, I’m sure of it.” She looked up then, her heart in her throat. “But he’s been sober until now, Father, and he can be again, I know it. He just needs someone to help.”
“Maybe,” Father Mac whispered, pausing too long. “But there’s also another woman.”
She stared for several moments, the words paralyzing her pulse, and then with the gentle touch of her friend’s hand, she crumpled into a heap. Clutching her close, Charity soothed with gentle words while Emma wept against her chest and agony ripped at her mind. Not over a man she hoped to love, but over a man she hoped to heal. And, she thought with a painful stab in her heart, a man who could have healed
her
of a lifetime of guilt.
Charity handed her a handkerchief, and she wiped the tears from her face like she wished she could wipe the scars from her soul.
“Are you okay?” Charity whispered, and Emma nodded, not sure that she was.
Stroking Emma’s hair, Charity offered a sad smile before rising to her feet. Her gaze flitted to Father Mac and back. “If you both will excuse me, I’ll just go check on dessert.”
Emma blotted her face, eyes raw as she looked up at Father Mac. “Thank you, Father, for telling me. I . . . I know this wasn’t easy for either you or Charity.”
“Or you,” he said, his tone kind.
A frail laugh broke from her throat. “No, not at all. I had hoped . . . prayed, really . . . that Rory had changed. That we could restore our . . . ,” her cheeks warmed, “. . . what we had.”
Father Mac sat forward again, chin resting on steepled hands as his sorrowful gaze flicked to her wedding band and back. “You mean your marriage, Emma?” he asked quietly. “So, you and Rory said your vows before a priest?”
Heat scorched her cheeks, and she looked away, almost stumbling over her words. “Really, Father, why would you even ask such a thing?”
The empathy in his tone all but embraced her. “Because in his drunken stupor, Rory revealed things to Steven that will be painful for you to hear, Emma, but the truth must come to light. For your sake . . . and for Sean’s.”
The breath hitched in her throat. “No,” she whispered, her voice a rasp, “he wouldn’t . . .”
Father Mac’s tone remained steady. “He not only would, Emma . . . he did. Boasted to Steven that he was a wealthy man because his wife had inherited an estate from her aunt.”
Her eyelids listed closed while the air seized in her lungs.
Killarney . . .
“Said he intended to take you there to claim it . . .
after
he married you, nice and legal.”
She slumped over, head in her hands, too mortified to face the man before her.
His tone gentled. “Emma, I need the truth. Were you legally married to Rory Malloy?”
It started in her stomach, an awful quivering that inched its way to the tip of each limb until she felt as if her brain would chatter along with her teeth.
“. . . your lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish until death do you part?”
“I do.”
“Emma . . .” His touch burned as he slowly pried her fingers from her face, but shame wouldn’t let her open her eyes. “Look at me,” he whispered.
She shook her head, and the motion unleashed a trickle of tears.
Father Mac carefully took her face in the palm of his hand. “Please.”
There was no trace of judgment in his tone, and his kindness wrung a sob from her throat. Her eyelids fluttered open, and each word tasted of pain. “Oh, Father, not by a priest . . .”
“By a magistrate, then?” His whisper held a thread of hope.
Hot moisture scalded her eyes, forcing her lids closed once again as shame choked the words from her throat. “No . . . not a magistrate . . . ,” she whispered, the salt of her tears stinging her tongue. “A clerk in the magistrate’s office, a friend of Rory’s.” She put a hand to her eyes, desperate to withhold the truth, but unwilling to lie to a priest. “Only . . . only he wasn’t a clerk at all, it seems—he was a janitor in the magistrate’s office who Rory paid to steal and forge the marriage certificate. Rory let it slip in a drunken fit years later, laughing that he’d gotten what he wanted without having to marry me at all.” A harsh laugh spewed from her throat. “Years living in sin, Father, when all along I’d thought it’d only been the six months before he put the ring on my hand.”
She looked up then, eyes swimming with pain. “I know it was sin, Father, sleeping with Rory before I took the vow, but once he placed that ring on my finger, I felt redeemed and whole. When he told me it was a lie, my world crumbled around me and I couldn’t handle it—the guilt, the shame. So I clung to my vows, real or not, because in my heart we were man and wife, as surely as this ring on my finger. I said my vow before God, I swear, and I’ve honored it ever since.”