A Heart Revealed (22 page)

He laughed. “Okay, I’ll settle for ‘love, honor, and no secrets.’”

“Or plotting,” Mitch said with a stretch of his arms.

“Yeah,” Luke agreed, “just open, honest communication like their saint of a mother.”

Ball tucked under his arm, Sean butted the screen door open with his hip and held it while the others ambled through. “Yep, my father’s one lucky man.”

Luke plucked the ball from Sean’s grip and strode to the court, his gait cocky and his smile even worse. “Yeah, he is,” he said, arms extended midair. His soles lifted off the pavement as he let the ball fly, allowing it to spin into the net with a satisfying swoosh. His teeth gleamed white against bronze skin. “With a
very
unlucky son.”

Marcy chewed the edge of her lip as she cut the coconut cream pie—Patrick’s favorite.
Please, God, let tonight be my lucky night
, she prayed, the awful scent of coconut wrinkling her nose along with the thought. Sweet heavens, she hated coconut . . . almost as much as she hated keeping secrets from Patrick, but what choice did she have? Sweat beaded her brow—from the heat of the oven, the dog days of summer, and the monumental task of winning her husband’s consent. Her anxiety was as oppressive as the August heat, and Marcy longed for a breeze to flutter the limp kitchen curtains. The sound of male laughter filtered in from the dining room, laced with the joyous giggles of a little girl. Marcy positioned the slice just right on the plate and peeked at the kitchen door that stood between her and her dream—the dream to become the mother of a ten-year-old street orphan. That is, if novenas held any sway.

“Don’t gargle your milk, young lady!”

Marcy winced at the edge in Patrick’s tone and knew that tonight wasn’t the opportune time. Not when Sister Mary Veronica had called Patrick at work to complain that Gabe was bullying the boys in her Wednesday evening catechism class. A weary sigh drifted from Marcy’s lips. Apparently Marcy’s discipline didn’t suit the good sister, so she went straight to the top, completely oblivious that she was jeopardizing Marcy’s peace of mind.

Rolling her tongue to her teeth, Marcy sprinkled extra coconut on Patrick’s pie, taking great care to position a luscious strawberry—partially cut to the stem and fanned just so—on top of the whipped cream. Opportune time, indeed. Unfortunately, with Gabe, there never seemed to be an “opportune” time, which is why Marcy now found herself sick with worry that tonight wasn’t the right time to broach the subject of adoption with her husband. And yet, the new school year loomed mere weeks away, and Marcy would give anything to send Gabe to school as Gabriella Dawn O’Connor instead of Smith.
Even
if it meant pulling a “Charity” and “plotting” the right time to win him over. She divvied up pieces for Gabe, Steven, and Sean and then swiped a strand of blond hair from her eyes. The folded letter in her pocket all but burned a hole in her pale blue summer dress—
also
Patrick’s favorite.

She should have eased him into it, she knew, laid the groundwork better than she had. But something always managed to stand in the way. Whether it was Gabe in a fight with the neighborhood boys, Patrick’s longer hours at the
Herald
for reduced pay, or his incessant worry over finances during a dismal economy, the moment had never been right. And now, with the new school year less than a month away, Marcy was running out of time. If Gabriella Dawn Smith was going to have a “fresh start” with a new name, she needed to be registered by the end of the month. Which meant that the petition for adoption in Marcy’s pocket needed her husband’s signature . . .
tonight
.

The rich rumble of Sean’s baritone laughter reached her ears, and she smiled, grateful he was home for dinner rather than working late at the store. Their eldest son always had such a positive effect on Patrick, and right now, Marcy needed all the help she could get.
Thank you, God, that Sean is awful at chess
, she thought with a wry smile—a definite plus in upping Patrick’s mood with a win. Drawing in a deep swell of air, she toted the tray to the door and butted her hip against the worn wood. A prayer and a smile hovered on her lips—in that order.

“Sweet saints, Steven, a ninety-six-year-old great-grandmother with a still in her basement?” Patrick’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he took a sip of his coffee.

Lounging back in his chair, Steven ruffled a hand through dark chestnut hair as Marcy distributed dessert. “Yep. Claimed it was for medicinal purposes. And would you believe she even packaged it in medicine bottles?” He glanced up. “Thanks, Mother.”

Sean chuckled and dove into the pie Marcy placed in front of him, giving her a grateful smile. “The tonic of choice for what ails, eh?”

“Apparently.” Steven poured cream in his coffee with a wry smile. “Seems the neighbors call her Dr. Maude, but I’ll tell you what—the good doctor’s out of practice now.”

“You didn’t arrest her, did you?” Marcy froze, coffee pot poised over her empty cup.

“No, ma’am,” he said with a sheepish grin as he stabbed at his pie. “The little dickens reminded me so much of Great-grandmother that I’m afraid I went soft. She’s a little bit of a thing that you want to swallow up in a hug because she’s so blasted cute, so Joe and I just dismantled the still and gave her a warning.” He downed the rest of his coffee and then held his cup while Marcy replenished it, giving her a swerve of a smile. “
Before
she served us cookies and tea.”

Patrick laughed. “Marcy, the pie is wonderful,” he said, effectively wolfing it down. He winked and sipped his coffee. “Pot roast and coconut cream pie. What’s on your mind, darlin’?”

A rush of warmth invaded her cheeks as she choked down a bite of her pie.

“Why’s your face so red?” Gabe wanted to know, freckles in a scrunch.

The heat in Marcy’s face climbed clear up to her feathered bangs. She snatched her napkin from the table to fan herself, giving Gabe a pointed look. “It was 95 degrees today, if you must know, not to mention I’ve been cooking over a hot stove all afternoon.”

“You know, Marcy, an occasional sandwich on unusually hot days would not be a crime. I don’t need a big meal every night of the week.” Patrick patted his vest. “Although Steven will certainly need the sustenance if he plans to beat me at chess.”

“No!” A second blast of heat braised Marcy’s cheeks at her family’s startled looks. She quickly rose to collect the empty plates from the table, avoiding Patrick’s eyes. “I mean, I . . . uh, just assumed you’d play Sean tonight since he’s so seldom home these days.”

“Oh sure, throw
me
to the wolves, why don’t you?” Sean rose to his feet and slapped his brother on the back with a smirk. “No, I think Steven should be the victim tonight. After all, if he can disarm a ninety-six-year-old bootlegger, he can certainly handle Father, right?”

“Oh, I can handle him all right,” Steven said with a cocky grin. He pushed his chair in and swaggered into the parlor behind Patrick, shooting his mother a wink over his shoulder. “The question is, will Mother be able to ‘handle’ Father when I obliterate him?”

Marcy groaned inwardly, latching onto Gabe’s arm when she tried to slip away. “Oh, no you don’t, young lady. You and I need to do dishes pronto so I can finish my sewing. Plus you have catechism homework.”

Gabe’s elfin features screwed into a mask of pain. She sagged against the table as if Marcy had banned her from her beloved Dubble Bubble for life rather than the one-week punishment Patrick had doled out before dinner. “But I’m no good at catechism,” she moaned. “And besides, Sister Mary Vomit hates me.”

“Gabriella Dawn Smith!” Marcy gaped, hand to her chest. “If I ever hear you refer to your teacher in such a crude manner again, you will be banned from Dubble Bubble for a year, is that clear? Now, apologize this instant!”

“Sorry,” Gabe mumbled. Her lips hardened. “But she does. Picks on me all the time.”

“Only because you probably make her life miserable, squirt.” Sean pinched the nape of Gabe’s neck with his fingers, eliciting a giggle and a squirm from the little girl. “Come on, kiddo, I’ll help you do your homework, okay?” He glanced up at Marcy. “And, Mother, you go finish your sewing. Gabe and I’ll do the dishes.”

Marcy adjusted the stack of dirty plates in her hands. “Oh no, Sean, you worked all da—”

He tugged them from her grip and attempted a scowl, the effort unsuccessful given the twinkle in his eyes. “Hardly work. I spent the day building a sports display, which was a labor of love. Go on now, get busy in the parlor while Gabe and I polish off the pie.”

“Gosh, Sean, really?” Gabe’s face glowed as if Sister Mary Vomit had just choked on Dubble Bubble.

“No!” Marcy and Sean’s voices rang as one.

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to bite my head off,” Gabe said with a pout. She collected utensils on a plate, then glanced up at Marcy with hope brimming in her eyes. “If I finish my homework early, can I stay up and play checkers with Sean?”

Marcy studied the delicate heart-shaped face framed by loose curls and felt her heart swell with love. Almond-shaped eyes, as deep brown as the girl’s rich mahogany hair, stared back in innocent question, confirming to Marcy once again that Gabriella Smith was nothing more than a battered little soul who needed to be loved.

“Can I, Mrs. O’Connor,
please
?”

Mrs. O’Connor . . . ,
she thought with a twinge in her chest,
when it should be Mother
.

The childlike plea of Gabe’s tone, the innocence of her freckled face, disarmed Marcy completely. She thought how a game of checkers could disrupt Gabe’s nine o’clock bedtime, which in turn would disrupt her husband’s rigid code of discipline, and knew she dare not risk it. She glanced at the clock in the hall and sighed. “Gabe, it’s almost seven-thirty, darling, I don’t think you’ll have time tonight.” Her heart squeezed at the look of disappointment on Gabe’s face, but it couldn’t be helped. Not if Marcy wanted this waif as her daughter. She stroked the girl’s cheek with a gentle hand. “How about I let you stay up to play the very next time Sean is home for dinner? I’ll even do the dishes by myself so you can get an early start.”

Gabe flung herself into Marcy’s arms, and Marcy thought her heart would melt. She closed her eyes and squeezed tightly, certain that this little girl was a gift from God for the daughter she’d lost so many years ago. Tears pricked at the thought of Faith’s twin, Hope, lost to polio at a young age, leaving her twin sister and her family devastated. No, there was no doubt in Marcy’s mind that Gabriella Smith was not only an answer to prayer . . . she was Marcy’s last chance at motherhood as well.

“Wow, thanks, Mrs. O’Connor, you’re the best! I wish I had a mom like you.”

Oh, Gabe . . .

“Come on, squirt, if we fly through dishes and homework, there just may be a few extra minutes for a game of catch in the backyard.” Sean hoisted the plates in his hands and headed for the kitchen with Gabe on his heels, bubbling like it was Christmas.

Marcy drew in a deep breath of air and put a shaky hand to her chest.
Please, Lord . . .

The pinch of Patrick’s lips immediately told her that Steven was winning, a revolting development that caused Marcy’s tongue to glide across her teeth several times. She glanced at the board and uttered a silent groan. Steven had won the advantage of white while Patrick was black.
Black, indeed, like his mood is prone to be.
The parlor windows were wide open, but they may as well have been closed. Nothing stirred in the steamy summer night but heat—not children, not locusts, and not air, for that matter. Marcy dabbed her handkerchief to the V of her summer dress and glanced at her husband. He had dispensed both vest and tie, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves—not a good sign for a man prone to be neat. Sweat gleamed on his tan face, neck, and just above the dark hairs of his chest. His forearms corded with strain as he assessed the board before him.

Marcy chewed on her lip. Patrick hated the heat almost as much as losing at chess, a thought that iced Marcy’s skin despite the warmth of the room. She reached for her sewing basket and settled in her chair, only to startle at the sound of glass shattering in the kitchen.

Sean popped his head into the parlor with an awkward smile, an apology evident in the sheepish look on his face. “Sorry, Mother, but I’m afraid ‘we’ had a little mishap—the coconut cream pie took a dive along with your glass pie pan, but we’ll clean it up.”

Patrick groaned. “Not my pie . . .”

“Check!” Steven said with a deft move of his rook, and the very sound shattered Marcy’s calm as thoroughly as Gabe had shattered the pie plate.

She tried to focus on threading the needle, but her hands refused to comply, shaking while Patrick’s fingers drummed incessantly on the table.
Please, God, let him win . . .

Twenty minutes passed before the muscles in Marcy’s stomach began to relax. The jangle of the phone jarred her in her seat and she flinched, stifling a cry when she pricked her finger.
Sweet heavens,
what else can go wrong?