A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 4

  Bridget plopped the eggs on a platter along with the bacon. Not saying a word, she retrieved the toast from the oven. She placed everything on the table, along with plates and utensils, then settled in her chair and bowed her head. "Dear Lord, bless the bounty of our table and the steps of our day. Amen." She reached for a piece of bacon. Her eyes gentled. "I thought you were over Collin."

  Charity stabbed at her eggs. "Well, I hardly have a choice now, do I, since he's to marry Faith in less than three months?"

  "Might I remind you, young lady, you were the one who sent him packing."

  She sighed. "I know, at least the second time around, I suppose. I guess it was inevitable I'd lose interest when he put our engagement on hold before the war. It just hurts, that's all ... to see Faith and Collin in love back in Boston while I'm here all alone."

  One silver brow raised as Bridget stared, her cheeks puffy with eggs. She quickly swallowed. "I'd hardly call dating a small army of men being 'alone.' Not the least of which is one of Dublin's most eligible bachelors."

  "I suppose. But it still feels that way."

  With a quick swipe of her mouth, Bridget jumped up. "Oh, speaking of Boston, we received a letter from your mother yesterday." She hurried to the counter and plucked an envelope from the windowsill. She placed it on the table with a chuckle. "Poor Marcy, sounds like she has more wedding jitters than Faith and Collin."

  The fork all but dropped out of Charity's hand in her haste to pick up the letter. Without thinking, she lifted it to her nose, as if to breathe in the scent of home. She pressed the cool parchment against her cheek, suddenly overcome with longing for her mother. She blinked to clear her eyes, then put the envelope aside. Her fingers lingered to caress her mother's graceful script. "Is she all right?"

  "Yes, of course, other than missing you."

  Charity smiled. "I miss her too. Terribly. So why the 'wedding jitters'?"

  "Well, it seems she's rather fit to be tied with all the preparations. Apparently Katie, the most stubborn flower girl on God's green earth, according to Marcy, is refusing to walk down the aisle with Collin's ten-year-old cousin, the ring-bearer."

  Charity grinned. "Father always thought I was the difficult daughter. I suspect he's met his match with Katie."

  "So it seems. When he's home to discipline her, that is. Marcy says he's been working longer hours since his promotion to editor, and that doesn't set well with her, either. And then there's Faith and Collin ..."

  Charity took a quick sip of her coffee. "And what's the problem with the lovebirds?"

  "Wedding jitters, I suspect. Evidently they're sparring like siblings, Marcy says. Claims Collin wants Faith to quit her job after they get married, and Faith is none too happy about it."

  Charity chuckled. I think Faith traded in the most stubborn fiance in the world for the second most stubborn. With her temper, it should be interesting to watch." She popped up to refill coffee, her tone suddenly buoyant. "And speaking of stubborn, guess who I saw at Duffy's last night?"

  Bridget stopped chewing. "Not Mitch Dennehy, for mercy's sake?"

  Charity giggled and shimmied into her seat like a little girl with a big secret. "One and the same!"

  "Goodness, don't just sit there grinning like a monkey, how is he?"

  "Handsome as ever, of course, but still holding a grudge, I suspect."

  Bridget puckered her lips while buttering her bread. She placed her knife on the plate. "Mmmm, I don't wonder."

  "Well, it's water under the bridge now, Grandmother; he needs to get over it." Charity chomped on a piece of toast and brushed the crumbs from her lips. "So I suggested you and Mima would love to see him."

  Bridget jagged a brow. "And you?"

  Charity frowned and shoved a piece of bacon into her mouth. "And me, yes, of course. Why not? We're all family."

  Bridget chuckled. "Or would have been."

  "Grandmother!"

  "Like you said, dear, water under the bridge. We can certainly laugh about it now, can't we? So ... do you think he'll come?"

  Charity polished off the last of her eggs with a smug smile on her face. She drained her coffee and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a definite degree of confidence. "Do I think he will come?" She nodded and grinned. "Whether he wants to or not."

  "Tonight? He's coming tonight? Saints alive, Grandmother, why didn't you tell me?" Charity all but ripped her black, woolen shawl off her back. Her insides quivered while her arms hung limp at her sides. The shawl dangled to the floor, puddling in a pile at her feet.

  Her grandmother blinked. "Well, for mercy's sake, Charity, I just found out myself this afternoon. He came by on his lunch hour."

  Charity's heart took a nosedive. "Mitch was here? This afternoon? Grandmother!"

  Bridget crossed her arms. Her blue eyes bristled. "I believe that's what I said, and I don't appreciate your tenor, young lady."

  Charity expelled a calming breath and adjusted her tone. "I'm sorry. You just took me by surprise, and I'm. . ." She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling faint. "I'm not ready!"

  "Charity, you look lovely-"

  "No! I'll have to take a quick sponge bath, fix my hair, and ..." Her breath came in short, raspy gasps. She clutched at the front of her gray voile blouse. "And change my clothes."

  Bridget rested a thin, veined hand on Charity's arm. "Saints above, Charity, you're white as a ghost. You're not going to throw up, are you? I know what worry does to your stomach. Besides, it's only Mitch. Why are you so nervous?"

  Charity felt the color drain from her cheeks and put a shaky palm to her middle, hoping her lunch would stay put.

  Bridget stepped back. A hand fluttered to her chest. "Oh, no, please tell me you're not setting your cap for Mitch? Mercy me, Charity, the man's old enough to be your father!"

  Charity's jaw ascended the slightest degree. "He wasn't too old for my sister."

  Bridget huffed. "He most certainly was! And if it wasn't for that headstrong mother of yours disregarding my opinion, he would have never gotten through that door." She folded her arms, gumming her lips in annoyance. "Just plain stubbornness," she muttered, "inherited from her father, no doubt." She made the sign of the cross. "Bless his soul."

  Charity swallowed hard to dispel the sour taste on her tongue, suppressing a tiny burp with a hand to her mouth. "Well, it's too late to argue about it now. When is he coming?"

  Bridget glanced at the clock on the parlor mantle. "Six. You've got an hour."

  Charity groaned and ran her fingers over the topknot she'd worn to work. She tossed her shawl on the coatrack and raced for the stairs, scaling them two at a time.

  "I'll need help with the vegetables and the table, you know," Bridget called after her.

  "I will, Grandmother," Charity promised, shooting a smile over her shoulder. "Twenty minutes. I'll be down in twenty minutes-you have my word."

  "Humph," Bridget said on her way to the kitchen, "I'd rather have your help."

  Charity grinned. A giggle bubbled in her chest that rivaled the nausea in her stomach.

  He's coming!

  She hurried to her closet and flung it open. She stared at the arsenal of dresses purchased with her wages and discount from Shaw's Emporium. She had to look perfect. She snatched an armload of clothing from the rack and heaved it onto the bed, then kicked off her shoes and shimmied out of her skirt. Her fingers flew over the buttons of her blouse until it opened, allowing her to strip it off and hurl it across the room. She took a deep breath and pressed her hands to her stomach. Please don't let me throw up. Why did he make her feel this way? No man had ever reduced her to this, not even Collin.

  She plucked a pale green frock from the heap and posed in the mirror, assessing with a critical eye. With a grunt, she launched it across the room to join the blouse. Maybe the pink organdy. No, too dressy, too obvious. Why is this so difficult? A skirt and blouse? Yes! Definitely more "Why hello, Mitch, I didn't know you were here ..." She tunneled through the pi
le, her breathing erratic. She dragged out a lemon yellow silk blouse that had garnered a number of compliments from male customers at the store. Yes! She draped it across her chemise, pleased at how the color brought out the blue of her eyes. She looked at her alarm clock and bit her lip. Oh, fiddle. No time to take a sponge bath. She dressed in the blouse, fumbling with the buttons, then backtracked to the closet. She honed in on a pale blue hobble skirt, guaranteed to show off her figure. Posing, she smiled into the mirror. The smile died on her lips. Her hair!

  Topknots may be the style, but if she had learned anything from men, it was that they liked a woman's hair free, unfettered, pure seduction in its flow.

  With frantic hands, she ripped the pins from her hair. All at once, she doubled over in pain as her frantic nerves churned the soda bread and kippers she'd had for lunch into pure acid. She shot a hand to her stomach and closed her eyes, biting hard on her lip to stop the wretched contents from rising to her throat. With a groan of defeat, she ran down the hall and flung herself over the washbowl in the bathroom and spewed, dislodging any sustenance she'd consumed that day. Slowly she straightened, feeling somewhat better. She brushed her teeth, then moistened a towel and wiped her face before proceeding to gargle with lilac water. She spit it out in the washbowl and sighed. As a child, she hadn't minded when her nerves had worked their way into bouts of easy vomiting. It had won her mother's sympathy on more occasions than one, often alleviating her of going to school or hated chores. It had become, in fact, a talent she had perfected. But sweet saints alive, she had no time for it now when she needed every precious moment to get ready!

  Wasting no time, she ran back to her room and grabbed the hairbrush, stroking until her scalp ached. She flipped her hair back and brushed some more until it fell in loose, gleaming curls down the front of her blouse. She reached for the rouge on her dresser and applied the tiniest amount to her ashen cheeks, then cheated and rubbed a bit on her lips. She blotted them with a pucker that resounded with a soft pop and glanced at the clock. 5:19. A mischievous grin worked its way across her rosy lips. How about that? Time to spare.

  Mitch turned the car off and sat, staring blankly at the cottagestyle home where he'd once spent happy times. Returning to this house was more difficult than he thought. He had hoped to get his visit over with easily, quickly, during the full light of day. But he'd forgotten Charity would be at work, and Bridget had begged him to return for dinner. As much as he dreaded coming back, he didn't want to disappoint Bridget and Mima. He released a quiet sigh. He missed them.

  In slow motion, Mitch pocketed the switch key and climbed out of the car, feeling like a bloke on death row going to his last meal. With the onset of autumn, the days were getting shorter, casting the pale pink glow of dusk over the houses along Ambrose Lane. Despite the coolness of October evenings, Bridget's garden seemed to thrive, pink mounds of sedum lining the cobblestone walk. Tufts of purple fuchsia stood guard, swaying in the breeze.

  He took a deep breath and made his way to the porch. Sagging a bit from age, it still invited him with its rustic bogwood swing and flowerpots burgeoning with impatiens not yet nipped by frost. A mix of smells assaulted him, taking him back to better days: the scent of viburnum, wood fires, and chicken frying on a stove. His stomach growled, and instantly he made up his mind to enjoy the evening. These were people he knew, cared about, despite their relation to the woman whose memory had stolen a year of his life. He lifted his fist to knock on the door. Tonight he would move on, he decided with a rush of resolve. He would put Faith O'Connor out of his mind and his life, once and for all. A wry smile curled his lips. And hopefully keep her beautiful sister at arm's length.

  The door swung open. Bridget stood smiling, reminding him so much of Faith's mother Marcy that he felt a twinge of regret she wouldn't be here tonight.

  "Mitch! Thank you for coming. I just knew Charity wouldn't want to miss your visit. Come in, come in. Can I take your jacket?"

  "Thanks, Mrs. Murphy." He sniffed the air as he handed her his coat. "Something smells awfully good. Fried chicken?"

  Bridget giggled and closed the door behind him. "Yes, with colcannon, glazed carrots, and fresh-baked soda bread. And do call me Bridget, will you please? We're old friends now, aren't we?"

  She hung his coat up and ushered him to her kitchen at the back of the house, a large, open room with a wood fire crackling in an oversized fireplace. Windows covered in cheery yellow chintz peeked out on a vegetable garden in between seasons, the shimmer of dusk lending an ethereal air. A large wooden table stood in the center of the room draped with a crocheted tablecloth. Yellowed with age, it was charming nonetheless, accented by sparkling china and Irish-lace napkins. A crystal bud vase in the center sported sprigs of fuchsia, a nice complement to two crystal candlesticks glowing with flame.

  "Mitch, you don't mind if we eat in the kitchen, I hope. Mima chills so easily these days that we've taken to having our meals in here by the fire."

  "Of course not, Mrs.... Bridget. How is Mima?"

  Bridget's smile faltered for the briefest of seconds, then returned. "Oh, she's been better, I'm afraid, but we're muddling along." She glanced out the back window, squinting. "Oh, good, here she comes. I sent Charity to the neighbors to borrow a touch of cream for the coffee. I'm afraid I used all mine for the trifle we're having for dessert."

  Mitch glanced out the window just as Charity breezed in. Her cheeks were pink from the chill of the night. A smile lit up her face, and her full lips were the color of berries. She pushed soft strands of shimmering gold over her shoulder.

  "Mitch, hello! It's good of you to come. I'm so glad we ran into you the other night."

  The muscle in his jaw tightened. She'd caught him off-guard at Duffy's, but never again. He knew how to read womenwomen like her, anyway. And she was an open book-from the sway of her silk-spun hair to the mesmerizing eyes fringed with heavy lashes. The smooth fold of her silk blouse draped a body no decent woman should have. He nodded. "Hello, Charity. Did you enjoy the theater?"

  A spray of pink, which he suspected had nothing to do with the cold, painted her cheeks. She turned away to store the cream in the icebox and fumbled with the latch before finally pulling it open. Her hands were shaking, but her voice was as smooth as the silk of her blouse. "Yes, of course, it was wonderful. But then, I always enjoy Rigan's company." She turned, her composure flawless once again. "I understand you two are old friends."

  The smile stiffened on his lips. "Acquaintances. Never friends."

  "Really? Well, he speaks quite highly of you."

  Mitch scowled. "I doubt that." He turned to Bridget. "Mrs. Mur ... Bridget ... I couldn't help but notice your garden. Have you planted your winter vegetables yet?"

  Bridget nodded, her eyes sparkling, obviously delighted to discuss gardening with Mitch while Charity poured the wine. Someone knocked on the glass pane of the kitchen door and Charity jumped, spilling the port. Bridget hurried over to let her neighbor in, a tiny woman with flame-red hair and watery eyes to match.

  "Oh, Bridge, I sorely need your help. My youngest, Davy, poured some salt in the stew, and I don't know how to fix it. I swear he'll be the death of me yet. Can you be a dear and save me neck? My Johnny's bringing 'is boss home for supper, wouldn't ya know, and it'll be me in a stew if ye don't help me out."

  Bridget put an arm aroundher shoulder. "Sure, and Johnny'll never know once I'm done with it, I can tell ya that." She reached for her shawl and gave Mitch a penitent look. "Make yourself at home and have a sip of wine while I run over to help Maggie. Charity, would you mind bringing Mima to the table? I'll be back, fast as you please." The door slammed behind her.

  Mitch glanced at Charity. "Can I help?"

  "No, you heard Grandmother. Sit down and make yourself at home. Mima's no problem whatsoever." She hurried out with a smile.

  He stood in the middle of the room, feeling lost. He certainly wasn't at home in this house. Not anymore. Rubbing the back of his neck, he ambled to
the table and sat down. He eyed the glass of wine. It would take the edge off, but the aftertaste was too bitter to suit him. He pushed it away.

  He cleared his throat, drumming his fingers on the table in a staccato fashion. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, then crossed them once again. He jumped up, stifling a swear word at the back of his throat. Surely he could help! He marched out of the kitchen and down the hall to Mima's room. He peeked in the door, poised to speak. The breath stilled in his lungs.

  At eighty years old, Mima was little more than skin and bones, a tiny Dresden china doll with long, snowy hair fanned across her pillow. Charity stood over her, sponging her pale, translucent cheek with a wet cloth, her voice soft and tender.

  "There you are, Mima, your skin is as glowing as a newborn babe's. How pretty you look! Now just a dab of color . . ." Charity rubbed her finger across her own lips and applied a hint of blush to her great-grandmother's cheeks. She leaned back with hands on her hips. "Goodness, Mima, I'll bet if Great-Grandfather could see you now, he'd fall in love all over again."

  A weak chuckle rasped from Mima's throat, followed by a harsh cough. Charity soothed her with a gentle touch. "Now let's twist your hair into a pretty topknot, all right?"

  Mitch stepped away from the room. He turned and made his way back to the kitchen. Before long, Bridget bounded through the door.

  "Goodness, it's nippy out there, isn't it?" She slipped her shawl on the coatrack, then looked at Mitch and smiled. "Ol' Johnny'll be none the wiser tonight, I can tell you that. The stew will go down well enough. But"-her smile broke into a grin-"not as well as the fried chicken, I'll wager."

  Mitch laughed. "As I recall, there are few who can rival the cooking skills of Bridget Murphy. Although Mrs. O'Connor does come close."