A Light in the Window (22 page)

She glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice and then smiled at the cast. “I’d like to run through the entire second act at least once since I think it still needs some work. It’s important we create a warm family atmosphere for this scene because it underscores the true blessings of God, not only for this family, but for the audience as well, despite the obvious lack of presents and food. So try to imagine this is Christmas Eve in your own home to help conjure the glow of this special holiday, shall we?” Marcy’s gaze swept over the cast and halted at the look of dejection on Tillie’s face, suddenly reminded of the tragedy of her home life. “Or wait—do you remember the wonderful cast party Father Fitzgibbons and Sister Francine had for all of you in the center last week?” Marcy was relieved when Tillie’s eyes lit with excitement. “Well, try to think of this scene like that, okay?” She turned to thirteen-year-old Bobby Simmons who stood with his fiddle at his side. “Ready, Bobby?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Adelaide—you’ll have to take the lead as much as possible with Patrick, helping him as needed, all right?”

The poor thing gulped so hard, Marcy swore she could hear it, and the girl’s face was as red as the cranberries that looped the Christmas tree prop. “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered, peeking up at Patrick with so much trepidation that Marcy had to stifle a smile. Almost a year younger than Marcy, sweet Adelaide was painfully shy, and yet on stage she blossomed. Until tonight, apparently, the prospect of dancing
with
and being kissed
by
the Southie’s leading Lothario obviously unnerving her. And yet, it was Adelaide’s shyness with boys, be it Peter or Patrick, that was the weak spot in act two, and somehow Marcy had a gut feeling Patrick could help. She’d watched his tenderness with both Tillie and Holly and his big-brother camaraderie with the smaller boys, playing catch during breaks, and she sensed he had a gift with people. He winked at Adelaide, and Marcy’s lips quirked. Especially women—young
or
old.

“Then, let’s get started. Tillie, you have the first line, I believe.” Marcy nodded at Adelaide who perched on a love seat borrowed from the convent, commencing to knit while Patrick sat reading a newspaper in an easy chair donated by Father Fitz. Each child took their place—Bobby practicing his fiddle in the corner while Holly’s brother Nate played marbles with Michael Sherwood on the floor. Tillie played jacks with Becky Peterson next to Holly, who sat reading a book.

“Mama, I’m bored,” Tillie said with a wide yawn, “can we go outside and play in the snow?”

“Good heavens no, darling,” Adelaide said in her most maternal tone. “It’s frigid outside, sweetheart, and it’s almost time for bed.”

“But it’s Christmas Eve, Mama,” Becky piped in, “can’t we start our party for Jesus tonight—just a little? I want to celebrate.”

“So do I,” Tillie shouted, jumping up to plunk hands on her hips. “And Holly does too, don’t you, Holly?” She turned to Holly who looked like an angel in a cream chiffon dress. Holly nodded with a sweet smile while Tillie folded her hands to beg. “Please, Mama, can we, please, please?”

Sneaking a nervous peek at Patrick, Adelaide glanced at the clock over the wooden mantle and released a tired sigh. “I’m sorry, children, but it’s really too late for a party tonight—”

 
“Excuse me, Mrs. Brennan,” Patrick said with a grand rise from his chair, script in hand, “but may I remind you that in the Brennan household on Christmas Eve, it’s never too late for a party.” Children’s squeals rose to the rafters as he laid his newspaper aside and promptly offered Adelaide his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Adelaide had no trouble playing the part of a flustered wife as she stared up at Patrick with wide eyes and rosy cheeks. “B-but, Jeremiah, it’s nigh p-past ten, and the children really need to be in b-bed ...”

“Nonsense,” Patrick bellowed, appearing to enjoy his role as husband and father. He plucked Adelaide up and into his arms, then surprised them all with a quick whirl and a dramatic dip back that burnished Adelaide’s cheeks. The children all giggled while he quickly glimpsed at his script and then at Bobby. “Robert—music, if you please.”

The lively sound of Bobby’s fiddle filled the auditorium while Patrick bowed to his “wife” and attempted to dance with Adelaide, whose smile, unfortunately, was as stiff as her body. Marcy chewed the edge of her lip when Adelaide missed a line, wishing there was some way she could help her relax. She leaned close to Julie, her voice a whisper. “The poor thing needs somebody to show her how it’s done, Julie—would you mind?”

Julie turned, brows elevated a full inch. “Oh, no you don’t—not me. I’m all talk when it comes to Patrick O’Connor, and you know it. Goodness, I’m likely to be more tongue-tied than poor Addie. Why don’t
you
show her how it’s done since the man obviously has no effect on you?”

No effect?
Marcy worked hard not to gulp, sucking in a deep breath instead. “All right, I will,” she said, ignoring an annoying flip in her belly. Rising to her feet with a firm tilt of her jaw, she blew her whistle and marched up the stairs to the stage, hoping her smile softened her “bossy” stance. She ignored Patrick’s twinkling gaze and tucked an arm to Adelaide’s waist. “Addie, sweetheart, I know you’re nervous about this scene, so would you like me to show you how I envision it?”

A lump bobbed in Adelaide’s throat. “Yes, ma’am, that might help.”

“All right, first I’ll show you what you’re doing, then I’ll show you how I’d like to see you do it instead—would that be okay?”

The young girl nodded and stepped aside while Marcy moved in to stand in front of Patrick. Giving him a crisp smile, she calmly took his hands in hers in a matter-of-fact manner, then lifted them to a dancing position while she glanced at Bobby over her shoulder. “Music, Bobby, if you please.” Stomach skittering, she turned to Patrick with a lift of her brows. “Shall we dance, Mr. Brennan?”

A smile eased across his lips. “My pleasure,
Mrs.
Brennan …” Taking the lead, he slowly whirled her to the music with effortless grace while Marcy did her best to look stiff as a board, no easy feat with Patrick’s obvious mastery of dance.

“See, Addie, you just have to forget that Patrick is the Southie’s most notorious rogue,” Marcy said with a tease in her tone that elicited several chuckles from the cast. “Or that Peter is the boy in your class that Sister Francine always sends to Father Fitz.” She paused to smile at Adelaide, grateful to see a semblance of a smile on the girl’s face as well. “Instead, focus on playing the part of an actress who is simply dancing with her husband … like this.” Returning her attention to Patrick, Marcy gave him a perfunctory nod, almost breathless when he took control with a graceful spin as fluid as the flow of Bobby’s music. In his arms, she felt lighter than air and with little or no effort, she giggled as they danced, her cheeks flushed with fun while the rest of the cast clapped in time. With an odd bit of reluctance, Marcy stopped and pulled away, then laughed when everyone in the auditorium gave them a rousing ovation. “Why, thank you,” she said to the cast, pulse racing from the exertion. She turned to Patrick and gave him a playful curtsy. “And thank you, Mr. O’Connor—you make an excellent husband and dance partner.”

Patrick bowed at the waist, the intensity in his eyes at odds with the mischievous smile on his face. “As do you,
Mrs. O’Connor
.”

The obvious slip of tongue caught Marcy by surprise, prompting a queer feeling to curl in her stomach. She whirled around. “Did you see the difference, Adelaide?”

The young girl giggled and nodded, shooting Patrick a shy smile.

Marcy gave her a quick squeeze. “All right, then—you can do it, Addie,” she whispered in her ear, “I have faith in you, and I’ll be praying, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Adelaide said with a deep draw of air.

“Okay, everyone, back in position, please, and we’ll take it from the top.” Marcy hurried off the stage and returned to her seat, eyes fixed on Adelaide while she whispered a prayer.

“So, how was it?” Julie teased. “You seemed to enjoy yourself a little too much up there, if you ask me.”

Marcy ignored her—and the heat in her cheeks—to follow Adelaide and Patrick as they danced with far greater ease than before. “I think she may have it,” Marcy said, her voice tentative with hope.

Julie chuckled. “No,
he’s
the one who has it—that magical charm that just naturally sweeps all women off their feet. Except you, I suppose, which is a good thing.” She tweaked Marcy’s shoulder. “At least for me and my brother.”

“What on earth …?” Marcy sat straight up when Patrick broke with the script to swoop Tillie up in his arms. He spun her in an impromptu dance that stole all objection from Marcy’s tongue before she could even utter a word.

“What’s he doing?” Julie asked, the very question stuck in Marcy’s throat as the actors on stage ceased being a cast to merge into a joyful family where Adelaide danced with her “sons” and Patrick with his “daughters.” So natural was the jubilation and unscripted revelry that Marcy watched in awe as the family on stage embraced her with a longing for just such a family of her own. In the midst of the merriment, Patrick squatted before Holly to whisper in her ear, and in a clutch of Marcy’s heart, he gently lifted her from her chair. With playful tenderness, he twirled her in his arms, her cream chiffon dress flying in the breeze while her giggles flew in the air, the little girl’s joy as contagious as the tears that glazed Marcy’s face.

“Oh, Marce, tell me you’re going to keep the scene just as he’s done it,” Julie said with an equal amount of emotion.

Marcy grinned and swiped at her eyes. “Oh, yes,” she whispered with a sniff and a chuckle, “and I just may appoint the rogue director as well.”

Julie’s sigh blew warm in her ear. “I’ll tell you what—the man may be a rogue, but you have to admit—he’s a rogue with an awfully big heart.”

Marcy swallowed hard, ashamed at just how much she had misjudged him. “That he is, Jewels,” she whispered, suddenly no longer seeing him as a rogue at all. “That he is.”

“Gosh, that was the most fun I ever had,” Tillie said with a giggle, skipping alongside Patrick while he walked her, Julie, and Marcy down Tremain Street on their way home.

“Me too, squirt.” Patrick tugged on her pigtail, inhaling the scent of wood smoke while the trill of tree frogs buzzed in the unseasonably cool air like excitement buzzed in his brain. The invigoration of filling in for Peter tonight as the male lead had taken him by surprise, allowing him to be a part of something that stirred a deep longing inside. Somehow, the glow of that make-believe family instilled a hope that someday he, too, might be a part of a close-knit circle of love that would envelop him with such joy and hope, redeeming him from his own barren upbringing. His quiet sigh drifted out as Tillie grasped his hand, the connection of family—no matter how make-believe—a balm to his lonely soul. He was grateful Sam was working tonight so he could escort the ladies home on his own, somehow prolonging this magical feeling. He squeezed Tillie’s hand. “Well, we’ll just have to see if Miss Murphy will allow us to do it again,” he said with a sideways grin at Marcy.

“Oh, she’ll let you, all right,” Julie said with a smirk. “You had her blubbering like a baby.”

“Julie Mariah O’Rourke!” Marcy halted with a turn on the sidewalk, mouth agape. “As if you weren’t mopping up your own buckets of tears!” Her gaze skimmed past Julie to Patrick, brow arched. “And you, Patrick O’Connor,” she said with a noticeable squirm of lips, “railroading the script to steal the show—you should be ashamed.” Her eyes twinkled as she delivered a mock glare, wagging a finger at him in obvious tease. “Ashamed you didn’t audition for the part of the father, you scamp.” She grinned. “You’re a natural, you know.”

A natural.
Her words made him heady … like he suspected the woman herself would do … if God answered his prayers.

“But what if it doesn’t work … what if God says no?”

“Either way, Patrick … you’ll encounter a peace unlike any you’ve experienced before ...”

Patrick tempered his hope with a slow exhale and a melancholy smile. “No, not a ‘natural,’ Marcy,” he said quietly, “just someone who wants a large, happy family as badly as you.”

The blue eyes blinked, as if he’d taken her by surprise, and his pulse skipped several beats.
Oh, give me a chance, Marceline, and let me truly take you by surprise …

“Patrick, can you give me a piggyback ride the rest of the way?” Tillie peered up, those luminous hazel eyes tugging his heart, as always.

“Your wish is my command, milady,” he said with a sweep of her tiny body into the air and onto his back.

She quickly dug her heels in with a giggle. “Giddy-up!”

Julie tickled Tillie’s waist. “Goodness, Patrick, my feet are killing me—can I be next?”

Julie’s tease unleashed a bit of the devil in him and he slid her a sideways smile with a shuttered look that assessed her head to toe. “Although you’re just a sprite of a thing, Julie O’Rourke,” he said with a lazy smile, “I’m not sure I’m up to the task.” He gave her a wink that promptly colored her cheeks in the flicker of the gas streetlamp overhead. “But I’m always game to try.” His gaze eased past to Marcy, stuttering his pulse. “And you too, Marceline, if you promise not to kick too hard.” Hope swelled in his chest when she offered a shy grin.

“I wanna go fast,” Tillie announced, spurring him on with another flap of her heels, and Patrick jogged the remaining block to her
tenement flat. Reaching behind to grab her by the waist, he whisked her into his arms and up in the air, braids and shrieks soaring along with her giggles.

When Julie and Marcy caught up, he deposited a kiss to Tillie’s forehead and set her down, squatting to give her a tight hug. “G’night, squirt,” he said with a ruffle of her hair.

“G’night, Atrick.” She flew at Marcy and then Julie, giving each of them a giant hug around their skirts. “G’night, Miss Murphy, Miss O’Rourke.” She peeked up at Marcy, a bit of the imp in her eyes. “Would it be wrong to pray Peter doesn’t get well for a while so Patrick can be my dad?”

Patrick’s heart stalled in his chest.

Marcy stooped to take Tillie’s hands in hers, lips twitching as if she were fighting a smile. “Yes, it would, Miss Dewey, but how about I have Patrick go through the scene one more time, just to show Peter how it should be done? Would that work?”

“I guess,” Tillie said with a heavy sigh. “Better than nothing.” She turned to clutch Patrick’s legs one more time before trudging toward her flat, her wave listless as she wagged her hand in the air. “G’night, everybody.”

“G’night, Tillie,” Patrick called, wishing more than anything that Tillie were his sister so he could just take her home. And yet the very thought unearthed a gloom he worked so hard to hide beneath his carefree and easy-going façade. Because other than being spared the occasional beatings at the hand of her mother’s no-good beau, there was very little happiness he could offer within the walls of his not-so-happy home.

“She idolizes you, you know,” Marcy said softly as they continued their trek, “which I have to admit, shames me a wee bit because you see, in the beginning …” She glanced up with a sheepish tease. “I wasn’t sure that was such a good thing—you know, the questionable influence of a notorious scoundrel on a sweet little girl.” She sighed, cushioning the blow of a first impression she obviously now believed to be wrong.

Only it wasn’t
, Patrick realized, inwardly wincing at how selfish he’d been in the past, focusing on his own needs without caring about those of anyone else. He slipped his hands in his pockets and gave an awkward shrug as they continued down the street to Julie’s house, marveling at just how much he’d changed over the last few months. His chest constricted.
Since Marcy.
“It wasn’t,” he said quietly, “a good thing, that is, at least not in the past.” He exhaled his regret. “But I’m working on it.”

“Well, here we are—home, sweet, home.” Julie stifled a yawn before she gave Marcy a hug, hands latched to her arms as she studied her in the moonlight. “You sure you don’t want to spend the night? Mother promised French toast.”

Marcy shook her head, the wisps of gold fluttering on her neck drawing Patrick’s gaze. “No, better not. I promised Mother I’d help sew new curtains, bright and early.” Her full lips curved in a beautiful smile. “If you and I spend half the night talking, I’m pretty sure there will be very little ‘bright’ or ‘early.’”

Julie laughed. “All right, but I can’t say Sam won’t be disappointed.”

Patrick averted his eyes to stare at the sidewalk, Julie’s remark causing a twinge in his gut.
Yes, Sam, his best friend … and Marcy’s beau.

Marcy laughed. “Not if it means more French toast for him,” she teased. “Good night, Jewels—I’ll be over later in the day to study, okay?”

“Sounds good, Marce. G’night, Patrick.”

“Good night,” Patrick said, waiting until she entered her house before continuing on. They walked in silence, Patrick suddenly nervous. His tongue felt so thick, it was several moments before he managed to eke out a comment. “Sounds like you and Sam have really hit it off.” His voice was quiet.

She hugged her arms to her waist, as if the subject made her uncomfortable, but her soft tone told him all he needed to know, causing his heart to sink in his chest. “We get along well,” she said carefully, “despite the unlikely match.” A nervous chuckle toppled from her lips. “But then, like you, I’ve been part of the family since I was five, so it’s a comfortable fit.”

A comfortable fit.
Patrick swallowed hard, his response stuck in his throat at the image that conjured—Sam kissing Marcy, their bodies so close, the very thought seared the walls of his mind.

His silence must have given her pause because he sensed her tentative glance, and when she spoke, her tone was gentle with a hint of concern. “So, for me, it’s the best of both worlds, you see. Not only am I able to grow close with a boy for whom I’ve had a school-girl crush since I was eight
and
spend time with his family I adore …” Her hand lighted on his arm with a feather touch, halting both him and the breath in his lungs. “But I have the added blessing of forging a dear friendship with his best friend as well.”

A friendship.
The words inflicted a blow to his hope as effectively as Marcy's hand had to his cheek the night she’d whacked him for kissing her on her porch. Forcing a casual air, he flashed a bright smile, determined to pursue the friendship Father Fitz suggested. “Then, a winning scenario all around, I’d say.”

She grinned, her relief evident in the sparkle of her eyes. “Agreed.” She peeked up with a curious smile. “So, Patrick … how is your college fund coming and just exactly what field of study do you hope to pursue?”

You.

He returned her grin. “Well, by Christmas, I should have the funds needed for the spring semester at Boston College, where I hope to study journalism and English literature.”

Her eyebrows rose considerably, as if she were surprised a rogue would entertain any field of study other than women. “Very impressive,” she said with a wide span of eyes.

He laughed, the wonder in her tone coaxing another flash of teeth. “Yes, hard as it is to believe, Marceline, rogues can actually read and write too.”

She had the grace to blush. “Touché. I seem to be prone to all kinds of misconceptions where you’re concerned, so please forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” he said, burying his hands in his pockets. “Till now, my reputation for roguery far exceeded my aptitude for the written word, but that’s about to change, come January.”

“Really?” Her voice held an interest and respect he hadn’t heard before, at least not when it came to him. Hands clasped like a little girl, she looked up with such a glow of enthusiasm, it plucked at his heart. “What do you hope to do with your life?”

Marry you, Marceline … on my way to editorship of The Boston Herald.
He cleared his throat, tamping down desires that may never be met. “I hope to write for the
Herald
someday. You may not know this, but I
was
editor of the St. Mary’s Gazette two years running, as well as founder and first-year president of the Lantern Club.”

She came to a dead stop, the whites of her eyes expanding along with the gape of her mouth. “
You?
You’re
responsible for the Lantern Club?” she whispered, almost in awe. “But how? Why?”

He chuckled. “Well, contrary to my dismal conduct record at St. Mary’s, my grades in literature and English composition were actually pretty good, which is one of the reasons Father Fitz took me under his wing in the first place.” He slid her a sideways grin. “I was in his office for detention so much, we discovered a mutual love of books and verse. Turns out we shared the same favorites—Mark Twain and Stephen Crane. So when I read that both Twain and Crane were part of a writers group that formed several years ago in New York, I was fascinated.”

“I can certainly see why,” she said, her nod of approval a balm to his pride.

He continued, a warm glow from her interest slowly spreading through his chest. “Yes, well it
seems this group of esteemed writers actually shared their work during literary banquets held every Saturday evening. One of the members would read a piece they’d written, which the others would then critique. Only negative criticism was allowed, mind you, and the highest regard a reading could be given was complete silence.” He shrugged his shoulders, hands in his pockets. “So I suggested to Father Fitz that St. Mary’s do the same, and he agreed.”

She slowed in front of her house, turning toward him with a hand on the gate. “Goodness,” she said with a chuckle, “you couldn’t have shocked me more than if you told me you were going to be a priest.”

A slow grin curled his lips as he ducked his head to scratch the back of his neck. “Well, I can assure you most wholeheartedly, Miss Murphy, that
that
will
never
happen.”