A Passion Denied Page 3

  Brady poured the sour milk into the sink and rinsed it out. He absently washed the glass as he struggled with his thoughts. He traipsed to the sofa and collapsed, dropping his head back and closing his eyes.

  He knew why.

  As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.

  A bitter smile twisted his lips. If only he could forget as easily as God. Remove his own shame as far as the east is from the west. Instead, it burned inside him like an eternal fire, singeing any hope of beauty and innocence. Any hope of Beth.

  Brady hunched on the couch and put his head in his hands. “Help me, Lord. I’m sick with grief over what I have to do. I love Beth more than my own life. Help me to give her up, to let her go. Give me the grace to do it. To see it through. I pray that you will help her understand. And bring a godly man who will love her like she deserves to be loved.”

  A heaviness settled on him like the cloying heat of his tiny apartment. He rose and crossed to the window to lift the sash and let in what little breeze he could. He inhaled the fresh evening air, heartened by the scented promise of rain. He grasped his leather Bible from the mahogany desk and settled back into the couch. He began to read and felt the gentle wind of God blowing through his mind with every anointed word.

  As always, peace flooded his soul. He exhaled. Thank you, God. His eyes lifted to roam his tiny apartment, grateful for the oasis it offered. Though sparse in décor, it exuded a definite masculine air that made him feel comfortable. Heavy but simple wood pieces were arranged in a practical manner. His antique mahogany desk, a gift from his Aunt Amelia in New York, was laden with books wedged between brass bookends from his father. On its polished surface, there was just enough room for a simple wood and brass lamp in the shape of a sailing vessel. His eyes scanned across the dark burgundy sofa on which he sat, moving on to admire the framed prints of ships hung on the walls throughout the room. Their nautical feel always seemed to soothe him. He closed his eyes and pictured the blue of the ocean as he sailed across it in his mind. Sailing, free and easy as a bird, the wind in his face. Not moored to a past . . . nor a future.

  Brady expelled a breath and opened his eyes to the imposing chestnut bookcase across the room. He had made it himself. Its shelves were lined with the rich hues of literature that helped to sate the inevitable loneliness that surfaced from time to time.

  He suddenly thought of Beth and her love of reading, and his earlier malaise returned with a vengeance. He stared at his collection of leather-bound books. Her hands had touched every volume on his shelves, cradled them in her lap, fingered each page with care. He had bought them all for her, to satisfy her craving for literature.

  He laid his hand on the worn pages of his Bible and closed his eyes, remembering his arrival in Boston almost fours years ago. He hadn’t known a soul but Collin, but the O’Connors had quickly drawn him into the warmth and security of their family. He had fallen in love with all of them, completely in awe of the closeness they shared, a reaction only heightened by his own bleak childhood. Beth had been thirteen then, almost fourteen, a shy and fragile little girl with soft violet eyes and a gentle nature. She had taken to him at once, enamored with his own love of literature and God. Seeking him out, making him feel special.

  Brady dropped his head back against the couch. She was the little sister he’d longed for. The one feminine touch in his life that would never become corrupt. All he had wanted was to protect her, nurture her, love her in the purest sense of the word. It was never meant to be more.

  Not for her. And certainly not for him.

  With a heavy expulsion of air, he closed his eyes, as if by doing so, he could shut out the feelings that had begun to surface over the last few months. When had the seeds of attraction been sown? At what precise moment had the tilt of her smile begun to trigger his pulse? Fear tightened his stomach. When had she ceased being a little girl? He opened his eyes with new resolve and cemented his lips into a hard line. It didn’t matter. He was her friend and mentor, a devoted big brother who wanted nothing but the best for her.

  And he was definitely not it.

  An urgent knock at the door shook him from his thoughts, and he lunged to his feet. He opened it to the sound of weeping. His neighbor across the hall stood on his threshold, her face streaked with tears. Strands of brown hair fluttered free from a disheveled bun as she stared up at him, her dark eyes pleading. “Oh, Brady, you’re home! Can you help me, please?”

  Brady’s gut tightened. “Pete again?”

  She nodded and clutched her arms around her middle, her body shuddering.

  “Ei-leen! Where the devil are ya?” Pete’s slurred tone rumbled from the bowels of the dark apartment, bringing with it a whiff of stale whiskey.

  Brady stared at the bruise on her cheek and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you—”

  She shook her head, then wiped her face with her sleeve. “No, I just got home. All he had time for was one quick whack across my face. I thank God you’re here to stop him. You always seem to have a way with Pete when he gets like this.”

  Brady pulled her into his apartment. “I’ll talk to him, Eileen, but I want you to stay here. I thought he’d given up the bottle. What set him off this time?”

  “Ei . . . leen! So help me . . .”

  She shivered. “He was home before me, so I’m guessing he lost his job again. Oh, Brady, I’m so scared! What are we going to do?”

  Brady wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her to his kitchen. He gave her a quick squeeze. “Same thing as always, Eileen, we pray. God always turns it around, doesn’t he?”

  She nodded and sniffed.

  “There’s coffee in my cupboard. Make a pot, will you? Double strength. I’ll go in and talk to Pete, and you bring it in when it’s ready, okay?”

  She nodded and then threw her arms around Brady’s middle. Her voice broke. “Oh, Brady, you’re a gift from God, ye are! Sometimes I think you’re an angel instead of a man.”

  Heat scalded the back of his neck. He patted her shoulder. “No, Eileen, I’m just a man who’s found the grace of God.” He steered her toward the cupboard, then headed for the door. He turned and gave her a reassuring smile. “Prayer and coffee, in that order, okay?”

  A smile trembled on her lips and she nodded. He closed the door behind him.

  “Ei . . . leen! I’m gonna blister you . . .”

  Brady strode into Eileen and Pete’s apartment and drew in a deep breath for the task ahead. An angel instead of a man. His lips quirked into a sour smile. That would certainly be nice. Especially at a moment like this. His jaw tightened. As if I could qualify.

  Angels didn’t have his past.

  2

  Lizzie pushed through the swinging kitchen door, and it slammed against the wall with a loud thwack. Their golden retriever, Blarney, lumbered up with a fierce bark and trotted over to lick her hand. Lizzie absently patted his head, then blinked at her older sisters, Faith and Charity, seated at the wooden table in their mother’s large but cozy kitchen. Both sisters stared in shock, hands stilled on the potatoes they were peeling.

  “What are you two doing here?” Lizzie asked, scanning the floral-papered room for some sign of their mother. She noted the freshly baked loaves of wheat bread on the counter and two lattice-top pies, their golden crusts bubbled over with peaches her mother had canned last summer. She took a sniff, and the heavenly smell of pot roast watered her mouth. “Where’s Mother? And Faith, why aren’t you at work?”

  “One question at a time, Lizzie. Mother had a doctor’s appointment, and Charity volunteered to take care of Katie, who—thank you, God—happens to be taking a nap at the moment. I wasn’t feeling well, so Father brought me home from work on his lunch hour, and I took a nap too. Now, suppose you tell us why you’re rattling the door off its hinges?”

  “I hate him.” Lizzie dropped into the nearest chair and plunked her elbow on the table, chin propped in her
hand. She closed her eyes to ward off threatening tears.

  “Who?” Charity asked, dropping her peeled potato into a cast-iron pot. She wiped her hand on the stained dishtowel draped over her shoulder and absently rubbed her pregnant belly.

  “Who do you think? The most stubborn man alive.”

  Charity angled a brow and shifted in the chair with a groan. “That would be my husband, Lizzie, and I’m pretty sure you’re not talking about him.”

  Faith chuckled and jumped up to close the kitchen window. “Knowing Mitch Dennehy, I’ll vouch for that. But trust me, Collin isn’t far behind. Brrr . . . I’m chilly. Anyone for tea?”

  Charity sat up straight to massage her back. A wicked grin surfaced on her lips. “Must be men in general,” she muttered, “compounded by Irish descent, no doubt.” She loosened the top two buttons of her blouse and began to fan herself with a well-worn copy of Harper’s Bazaar. Golden strands of honey blond hair quivered in the breeze. “I can’t believe you closed that window. Sweet saints above, it feels like the devil’s kitchen in here.”

  “Sorry, sis, but if you weren’t almost four months pregnant, you’d have goose bumps like me. Lizzie, you want tea?”

  “Go ahead and brew it. She looks like she could use it.” Charity stopped fanning to lean in and give Lizzie the eye. “So what’s Brady done to you now?”

  Lizzie sighed. Her anger faded into hurt. “Nothing—and that’s the problem. I thought with this new hairdo and turning eighteen this year, he’d start to take notice. You know, see me as a woman? But he hasn’t. And this afternoon, he made it pretty clear I’ll never be anything more than his little sister.” Faith turned at the stove. “He told you that?”

  Lizzie hopped up to get some cups from the cupboard, her anger refueling once again. “Yes. Says he’s too old for me.”

  Charity huffed and commenced fanning. “Too old? That’s ridiculous. Mitch is almost sixteen years older than me, and he’s not too old.” Her brows dipped into a frown. “Although, come to think of it, he can get rather crotchety at times.”

  Faith grinned and returned to the table. She grabbed a potato and sat down. “That’s not age. The man was born that way.”

  Lizzie sighed and clunked three china cups and saucers on the table before sagging into a chair. “All I know is that Brady is a mule, through and through. I know he cares for me—I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, but what good does it do?” She groaned and flicked at one of the cups and watched it teeter in its saucer. “Why did God let me fall in love with a man who obviously doesn’t want me?”

  Her sisters exchanged glances. Faith gently touched Lizzie’s arm. “Well, as much as I’d like to pop Brady right now, maybe we need to take the high road. Might be that he just needs time to get used to the idea that you’re all grown up. You have been his little sister for almost four years now, a constant shadow underfoot. All of a sudden his gangly little protégé has blossomed into a beautiful butterfly. That would take some getting used to for any man, much less a man like John Brady.”

  Lizzie frowned and looked up. “What do you mean ‘a man like John Brady’?”

  “Well, he’s not exactly a womanizer. Collin says he’s never even dated a woman in all the years he’s known him.”

  “But he was engaged before the war, he told me so. So he must like women.” Lizzie bit her lip.

  “Oh, trust me, John Brady likes women,” Charity said. She slapped the magazine on the table and closed her eyes to reach and knead the muscles at the small of her back. She released a low groan of ecstasy when she hit the right spot.

  Faith and Lizzie stared. “And how, exactly, do you know that?” Faith demanded.

  Charity’s eyes blinked opened. “Because he kissed me once, that’s how. And trust me, it was the kiss of a man who likes women . . . and then some.”

  Faith gaped. “Dear Lord, Charity Dennehy, who haven’t you kissed?”

  Charity’s lips pressed tight. “I’m not the same woman I was then, all right? My past is my past. Besides, one kiss with Brady convinced me that there’s a passion inside that man bordering on wildfire out of control. Believe me, if it hadn’t been for Mitch returning when he did, I might very well be Mrs. John Brady right now.”

  “Oh, Charity, I would have hated you!” Lizzie shivered and slumped further into the chair.

  Faith blinked. “I didn’t know that. Why didn’t I know that?”

  “I don’t tell you everything,” Charity said.

  “Yes, you do. At least since you came to your senses and started talking to me again.”

  Charity’s blue eyes squinted in thought. “Yeah, I guess I do. But maybe I didn’t mention it because that was the week Mitch showed up and forced me to marry him.”

  Faith rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah, I remember when he put that gun to your head.”

  “I can’t believe Brady kissed you!” Lizzie blurted out, relief and jealousy squaring off in her brain.

  Charity reached for Lizzie’s hand. “Only once, and I only mention it now because it showed me that Brady really does need a woman in his life. A woman like you.”

  Lizzie closed her eyes and imagined what it would be like to have John Brady’s lips tasting hers. Better than all the romance she’d ever read, she was sure. “Was it wonderful?” she whispered.

  Charity chuckled. “Yes, but let’s not get off track. My point is that Brady is a normal, red-blooded American male, yet for some mysterious reason, he refuses to pursue a romantic relationship.”

  Faith squeezed Lizzie’s shoulder. “It’s true, Lizzie. All I know is, according to Collin, women come in the shop all the time trying to catch Brady’s eye, but apparently he has no interest in spending time with any of them.”

  Charity planted her arms firmly on the table and leaned in. “Only you, Lizzie. He only spends time with you.”

  Lizzie blinked and then grinned. “I know. Three times a week at lunch, and we don’t always study the Bible or pray. Sometimes we just talk.” She sighed. “What am I going to do? I’m so in love with the man, I’m sick.”

  The teakettle whistled and Faith bounced up to get it. She poured the steaming liquid into each of the three cups, then returned the kettle to the stove. The sweet scent of jasmine billowed into the cool air as she placed three spoons and cream on the table. “Well . . . maybe our Brady needs a little jolt . . .”

  “A jolt?” Lizzie sat up.

  Faith grinned and glanced at Charity. “Wouldn’t you say, Charity? Something to make him more . . . attentive?”

  Charity chuckled. “Goodness, I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it myself. Heaven help me, this pregnancy must be dulling my manipulative skills.”

  Faith stirred some cream in her cup and took a sip. “Well, hopefully not too much, because I’m counting on you to teach our Lizzie a few feminine wiles.”

  “And you’ll cover the prayer department?”

  Faith laughed. “What else?” She cocked a brow at Lizzie. “But I’ll only be praying for you and Brady to get together if it’s what God has in mind, all right?”

  Lizzie pouted. “And what do you think I’ve been doing the last four years? Knitting? I’ve asked God over and over again to take Brady out of my heart if it’s not right, but my feelings have only grown. Why do you think I’ve turned down every boy who’s ever asked me out? If God hadn’t intended Brady for me, wouldn’t I have known it by now?”

  Faith smiled and patted her hand. “Seems like it. All right, then it’s settled. Charity will handle the romance, and I’ll handle the prayer.” She gave Charity a playful smirk. “Because obviously I’ve never had her abilities with men.”

  “I don’t remember you doing too badly,” Charity said with a grimace. She turned toward Lizzie, her brows bunched deep in thought. “Well, let’s see. You’ll need privacy, of course, and you can’t get that at the shop, not with Collin there.”

  “Collin’s not always there at lunch when Brady and I have Bible study. Sometimes he ru
ns deliveries.” Lizzie drowned her tea with a hefty dose of cream.

  Charity shook her head. “No, you need someplace romantic, someplace where you and he can be alone, without his Bible to hide behind.” She scrunched her face. “Is he coming to dinner on Saturday?”

  Faith grinned. “He is if I get Collin to ask him.”

  “Good! That’s perfect.” Charity waggled her brows. Her tone was thick with conspiracy.

  “Perfect for what?” Lizzie guzzled her tea.

  “For seduction, of course.”

  “What?” The tea pooled in Lizzie’s throat while the cup trembled in her hand. “You want me to seduce Brady?”

  “No, nothing that sinister. Just enough to get him thinking about you as a woman instead of a little sister.”

  Lizzie’s cup clattered to her saucer. She glanced at Faith. “And you’re in agreement with this?”

  Faith sighed and crossed her arms on the table. “Well, I’m not going to argue with the master. Besides, for what it’s worth, I’ve always had a sense that you and Brady fit together, like it was meant to be somehow. But ultimately, it’s God’s decision, not ours.” Her serious tone lightened with a lift of her brows. “Which means, little sister, that if it is what God wants, then John Brady needs a fire lit under him in a big way. And let’s face it—there’s nobody who knows how to do that better than Charity. I say we try—providing it’s innocent enough.”

  Lizzie’s pulse picked up pace as she blinked at Faith, then at Charity. “Okay, if you think I can do it. But just being close to Brady makes me so nervous, I don’t know if I’ll be any good.”

  Charity chuckled and rubbed her stomach. “Oh, you’ll be good, if I have anything to say about it.”

  “But what if Brady doesn’t respond? Maybe he isn’t attracted to me.”

  Charity’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think he is?”

  A blush heated Lizzie’s cheeks. “Sometimes. Every now and then I get this warm, funny feeling when he looks into my eyes. But he always jumps up and starts doing something right away or grabs his Bible, so I can’t really be sure.”