A Heart Revealed (8 page)

Her gaze lighted on a messy clump of blue yarn as it trailed out of her wicker sewing basket to squiggle its way across her floral-patterned rug. She shook her head and lay back while her lips tipped in a smile, quite certain that Lancelot was the culprit. The tail of it lay bunched beneath an oak easel with a half-finished canvas of a fat bluebird squinting down at her as if he’d had a bad day, his squat neck hunched into his stout chest of brilliant azure feathers. Her smile broadened at the memory of the plump, little bird who’d lighted on her window weeks past, making her giggle with his almost sour demeanor. She had promptly christened him “Grumpy Bluebird,” capturing him with her beloved oil paints to hang on the wall. She stared back at him now with a grin, noting the stark contrast between the vibrant blues, greens, and yellows of the painting and Mr. Grump’s gray mood. She tilted her head and grinned. “Cheer up, little fluff,” she whispered. “I’ll be painting ‘Happy Bluebird’ soon to keep you company.”

With a smile still warm on her lips, she closed her eyes and buried her nose in Katie’s bouquet once again, drinking in the heady scent along with the memory of a wonderful day. Outside her window, she could hear the laughter of children as it floated in on the summer breeze, merging with the muted sound of jazz from Mr. Harvey’s radio one story above. Her thoughts flitted to the O’Connors, and another gentle smile curved on her mouth. “Thank you for this family, Lord,” she whispered. And not for the first time.

From the moment she and Charity had first lighted from that ship in Boston Harbor eleven years ago, the O’Connors had welcomed her into their family as if their very blood traveled her veins. Never in all of her fifteen years with her own estranged family had she felt such a bond, such acceptance . . . such love. Her mood turned bittersweet at the thought of Da and Mum, turning her out in the streets for the sin of marrying a Protestant. She had betrayed them for a “worthless sot,” a sacrilege in a family where Catholic clergy ran strong. And so she’d been sacrificed on the altar of piety, a sinner destined to “burn in hell.”

A shiver traveled her body that had nothing to do with the gust of the fan.
Burn in hell
, she thought to herself, and tears pricked her eyes. A painful prophecy brought to pass by a man who had incinerated her every hope, scalding her first with his words and then with his actions, leaving her life in ashes.

Wherefore I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes.

Water welled beneath her eyelids and she opened them, her gaze fixed on the gold band of her left hand as it rested against the bouquet on her chest. Job’s lament had been her own at one time, but in the gift of a precious friendship with Charity, God had changed her grief to joy, her repentance to rejoicing.

To give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness . . .

She inhaled deeply, reveling in the sanctuary of her cozy apartment, a respite untainted by the horrors of her past. Rory’s ring may still mar her finger, but in the sacred sanctuary of her life here in Boston, she was free—from the rejection that branded her soul as surely as Rory had branded her face. Free to be the woman that God intended her to be, unencumbered by a past . . .
or
the wishes of a husband.

Setting the bouquet aside, she stared at the gold band, her smile melancholy as she grazed it with her fingers. Charity saw it as a shackle of doom, condemning her to a life alone, and Emma had to admit, there were times the truth of that statement pierced her very soul. Not during the light of day, of course, when career obligations and commitments to friends kept the loneliness at bay, but sometimes in the dark of night, when sleep evaded and longings stirred. Longings buried so deep, she sometimes forgot they were even there. Simple human desires—to be held . . . to be touched . . . to be loved for the woman she used to be.

And still secretly was.

Her eyelids weighted closed as she idly caressed the ring on her finger, refusing to allow impossible stirrings to steer her off course. No, for her, the love of a man had proven fatal to her adolescent dreams of romance, indeed, shackling her to a vow she could never escape. And yet, those same shackles set her free as well . . . to become all that God had called her to be. Because to her, this ring was a symbol of hope as well, guaranteeing a life of faith as pure and precious as the gold on her hand. She did God’s bidding now, not Rory’s, and with the infinite depth of the Father’s love—and that of friends and family he’d supplied—she would
never
be alone again.

Something soft tickled her arm and she smiled at Lancelot, apparently up from his nap and ready for attention. Emma feathered a hand across the tabby’s arched back, eliciting a soft hum that vibrated against her palm. “Well, hello, sleepyhead. Did you enjoy your day?”

The red tabby purred and stretched in response, his orange stripes the color of marmalade on fresh cream. With a bored flick of his tail, he sashayed over to his “throne” to hold court on his favorite burgundy and cream striped wing chair, draping its arm like a limp doily. Slits of amber eyes stared back, and Emma grinned outright, nodding at the tangles of yarn.

“I suppose you’re exhausted from all this redecorating. What, no moths to stalk today?”

A knock sounded at the door as Lancelot closed his eyes, obviously choosing to ignore the playful tease in her tone.

“Coming,” Emma called and bounded up with a noisy sigh.

She opened the door to her eighteen-year-old neighbor from upstairs, dressed in a brand-new outfit, judging from the grin on her powdered face.

“Casey—you look beautiful!” Emma said with a quick sweep of the young woman’s stylish polka-dot dress. “Where are you going?”

Casey whirled around, her petite size and little-girl action making her look all of thirteen despite voluptuous curves. “Oh, Emma—I’m going to a dance marathon at Revere Beach with the most wonderful man!” She spun one more time to give Emma the full effect of her pleated blue-and-white dress, snug at her hips in the style of the day before flaring just below her knees. Propping her hands to her slim waist, she gave Emma a generous smile, lips sporting the popular “Crawford smear” with rose lipstick rounded above to exaggerate their fullness. Meticulously drawn brows lifted in question. “So, what do you think? Will this new dress catch his eye?”

Emma reached to straighten the matching polka-dot sailor bow that complemented the sleeveless white bodice and leaned back with a chew of her lip. “Mmm . . . I’d say his eyes will be on you most of the night, young lady, instead of the marathon.” Her lips squirmed in jest. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

A gleam lit in the young woman’s blue-gray eyes as she wiggled her brows. She twirled a blond strand of hair from her Marlene Dietrich hairstyle, modeled after her latest
Photoplay
magazine, no doubt. “Maybe not wise, but certainly fun.”

“Casey Miranda Herringshaw!” Emma folded her arms in the pretense of shocked disapproval, doing her best to bite back a smile. “What would your mother say?”

Casey laughed and surprised her with a voracious hug. “She’d say, ‘If Emma approves, I approve.’” She pulled back to give Emma an impish smile. “You know you’re the only reason she lets me stay in Boston by myself, don’t you? Because you keep an eye on her little girl?”

Emma studied her through affectionate eyes, well aware that Susan, her best friend from the store, would have never gone home to Kansas to care for her sick mother if her daughter were alone in the big city. So Emma had not only found Casey an apartment in her building, but an excellent job with one of her suppliers as well, giving Susan her word that she would look after her daughter. A rush of love welled in Emma’s chest as she cupped a gentle hand to Casey’s innocent face. “Yes, and to keep an eye on the young men who come courting.”

Casey grinned and squeezed herself in a hug. “Oh, Emma, he’s such a dream! Tall, dark, and handsome and the perfect gentleman.”

“Is he now?” Emma said with a curious tilt of her head. She motioned a hand toward her sofa. “Care to come in and tell me all about it?”

“I wish I could, but I told him I would meet him outside the Ocean Pier Ballroom at eight, so I have to run.” She glanced at her watch, then looked up at Emma with a nervous tug of her lip. “Do you think I can borrow that darling little cloche I saw you wearing the other day, you know, the blue one?”

“Mmm . . . I suppose. In exchange for some information, that is.” Smiling, Emma closed the door with a lift of her brow. “Like his name, for instance?”

Casey made a beeline for Emma’s bedroom, shooting a smile over her shoulder. “His name is Johnny McIntire, and he’s as Irish as St. Patrick himself, with the most wonderful brogue. His family moved here from Killarney, and now he’s one of the top salesmen at work.”

A frown puckered the bridge of Emma’s nose as she followed Casey down the hall. “A top salesman? Goodness, how old is he?”

“Got it,” Casey said with a snatch of a blue cloche off the shelf in Emma’s closet. She ruffled a hand across Guinevere’s silky, white body as she snoozed on the bed quilt amidst a splash of bright flowers, then hurried over to the mirror to put it on, finally turning with a squeal. “Oh, Emma, it’s perfect! I can always count on you to have the latest styles from Dennehy’s. How do I look?”

“Beautiful, as always.” Emma’s eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “How old, Casey?”

Casey’s smile faltered. “He’s really nice, I promise, and he goes to church . . .”

Moving to where Casey stood picking her nails, Emma adjusted the cloche just an inch to the right. Her voice softened to a whisper. “How old?”

A blush tinted the young girl’s cheeks as she peeked up through heavy lashes. “Gosh, Emma, I don’t know. Thirty-two, thirty-three, maybe?”

Emma dropped her head with a groan, pressing a shaky hand to her eyes.
Sweet mother of Job, Susan will have my head!
She shrugged off the fatigue weighting her shoulders and looked up with a firm lift of her jaw. “Casey Herringshaw—what were you thinking? You’re barely eighteen and you agreed to go out with a man older than me? Your mother would have a conniption, young lady, and you know it.”

Casey grasped Emma’s hands in her own. The plea in her tone tugged at Emma’s heart. “Emma, please, he’s waiting for me now, and I really,
really
like him. Can’t we give him a chance?
Please?
”

Casey’s eyes disarmed her, glowing with hope. Emma drew in a heavy dose of air and released it again. “All right, young lady, you win—
this time
. But for the record, a real gentleman picks a lady up for a date, so I want to meet him next time—
if
there is a next time. Is that clear?”

With another squeal, Casey launched herself into Emma’s arms. “Oh, Emma, you’re the best! I promise I’ll tell you all about it on our way to church tomorrow, all right?”

A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Emma’s mouth. “See that you do. What time are you going to be home?”

“No later than midnight, as always.” Casey flew down the hall and opened the door. She suddenly whirled around, eyes wide. “Wait, I almost forgot—how was the wedding?”

“Wonderful. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Now scoot.”

Casey shot her a crooked smile, tempered with sympathy. “You look tired, Emma. Get some rest, okay? And don’t wait up.” She blew her a kiss and hurried out.

Emma poked her head out the door. “I
will
wait up, young lady, make no mistake,” she called after her, hand to her mouth, “so you best be home on time, you hear?”

Casey waved at the door, and Emma shook her head, suddenly wide awake at the prospect of Susan’s daughter going to Revere Beach to meet an older man. An older,
more experienced
man. Rubbing her eyes, she trudged to the sofa and plopped down, eyeing Lancelot with more than a little jealousy as he snoozed on the arm of the chair. Her lips twisted.
Well, at least someone’s getting some sleep.

“Get some rest,” Casey had said, conjuring up thoughts of Emma’s promise to Susan. She pulled her Bible off the coffee table and settled into the couch, realizing for the first time what it must feel like to be a mother. She groaned and flipped a page, sympathy rising for mothers compelled to safeguard their children.

“Sleep,” she said with a quirk of her lips. “As if that’s even an option.”

God, help me . . . this is harder than I thought.
Katie stared in the mirror and swallowed the lump in her throat, wondering if other brides were this nervous on their honeymoons. Anxious blue eyes stared back while the girl in the mirror gnawed on her lip, surveying the filmy negligee she wore—the one Charity had given her at her bridal shower. It had burned her cheeks then, and continued to burn her cheeks now, and she was pretty certain the heat wouldn’t end there once her husband got a glimpse.

Husband.
Her lips tilted into a wobbly smile.
Mrs. Luke McGee.
Who would have thought she would have fallen in love with a pest from her past, a man she’d butted heads with since the age of ten? But love him she did, and just the thought of Luke McGee’s long, muscled body stretched out on the bed in the next room—
waiting for her
—promptly produced another rush of heat to her cheeks that quickly traveled her body.