A Light in the Window (33 page)

Marcy’s gaze dropped as heat pulsed in her face.

Mrs. O’Rourke’s gentle touch drew Marcy’s gaze to tired eyes where sympathy shone. “Marcy, deep down Sam’s a good man like his father—he just needs a good woman to steer him right. And whether or not you are that woman, you need to know—most men are not prone to embrace God like we women, so when it comes to a deep faith, sometimes we just have to settle for a wee bit less than we hoped.”

Mary’s eyelids drifted closed.
Please, God, I don’t want to settle …

Her eyes opened when Mrs. O’Rourke tucked a finger to her chin with a patient smile. “My husband and I have a wonderful marriage, Marceline, and a beautiful family, so the good news is, despite my settling in this one area, there’s been little to no damage done.”

No, only to your son …

She patted Marcy’s hand. “I best head upstairs to make sure all is well, but I’ll send Samuel down to say good night posthaste. Sleep well, my dear.” She pressed a kiss to Marcy’s hair, the familiar smell of lavender not as comforting as it once had been. “You’re good for my son,” she whispered, giving Marcy’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, “so I don’t want you to worry. Sam will make you a fine husband someday, I promise.”

Marcy nodded. “Thanks, Mrs. O’Rourke. Good night.”

She watched Sam’s mother make her way down the hall while her words echoed in her brain.
“Sam will make you a fine husband someday, I promise.”

Marcy leaned against the counter with head bowed while a thought entered her mind that pricked as much as the sudden tears in her eyes.

Yes … but was it a promise she could keep?

Marcy nibbled a sugar cookie and smiled, content as she waited for Sam to refill her punch at the final cast party in the St. Mary’s Center of Hope. Enjoying a rare moment alone while Julie and Evan left to congratulate Father Fitz and Sister Francine, she breathed in the fresh smell of pine from the fir boughs decorating the middle of the dining-room tables, each flickering with a candle in honor of the last production that just ended. In the kitchen Miss Clara and her volunteers were still baking up a storm, the heavenly scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafting through the center. Gone were the wooden tables sanded and varnished to a gleam by Sam and Evan and Patrick over the summer, replaced instead with delicate layers of tissue paper laden with trays of Christmas cookies, some still warm from the oven.

Expelling a weary but satisfied sigh, Marcy’s gaze wandered a room looped with festive red and green paper chains cut and painted by grade school children from discarded newspapers. Raucous laughter erupted from a table of white-robed boys with halos askew. Each devoured cookies during games of gallows on the tissue with oil crayons provided by Sister Francine. Grateful tears pricked when Marcy spied Tillie and Holly giggling over a game of noughts and crosses with newfound friends, then glimmered with joy at a rosy-cheeked Julie who smiled up at Evan through lovesick eyes.
Oh, Lord, just look at what You’ve done—friendships forged and friends in love, all in the process of reaching out to the poor!
Julie’s face aglow, Marcy had never seen her best friend happier, and with a sudden cramp in her chest, she wished she could say the same for herself.

Her eyes lighted on the hearth and mantle scenery Patrick had built, and her heart immediately constricted over the friendship she’d lost. At Miss Clara’s request, he and Evan had delivered it here after the play as a fitting party backdrop to hang stockings filled with candy canes for each of the children. But looking at it now only reminded Marcy of the hateful way she had treated him, something she sorely regretted once her anger had cooled. She was not a woman prone to temper, yet he had evoked an anger in her like no one had since Nora’s shameful fiancé, and Marcy suspected it was because of the threat Patrick posed to her peace of mind.

Goodness, she’d dreamed of being Julie’s sister and belonging to a close-knit family like the O’Rourkes since she’d been a little girl, and secretly smitten with Sam for almost as long. Patrick’s blatant attempt to steal her affection by casting aspersions as to Sam’s fidelity—and this from the Southie’s king of infidelity, no less—had infuriated her. But now that the strain and stress of the play was over and Sam indicated he and Patrick were at least speaking again, she regretted the rift. She couldn’t count the times she’d longed to apologize over the last week of the play, but he avoided her—producing a dull ache inside akin to a splinter that festered inside her heart, painful to the touch. Another heavy sigh drifted from her lips. It was just as well, she supposed. With the feelings he claimed to have for her—if one could believe a rogue used to sweet-talking his own way—friendship would be difficult, at least until after Sam and she had been married a while.

If we get married …
Marcy’s heart skipped a beat at the tiny prickle of doubt she didn’t want to acknowledge, the one that had embedded itself over the last few weeks, infecting her peace of mind and threatening her dreams.

“Here you are, my love.” Sam deposited a fresh glass of punch on the table in front of her, along with a saucer of Miss Clara’s iced oatmeal cookies, still gooey from the oven. “Fresh punch and cookies for the lady of the hour.”

Her smile was tender as she gazed up at him, amazed at how much closer they had become since the quarrel with Patrick, as if the near-loss of a friend more like a brother had shaken Sam to the core. Suddenly attentive to a fault, he now spent every moment of his free time with her, opening his heart in ways he never had before. The fight with Patrick had devastated him, he said, prompting him to badger his “best friend” for forgiveness until the friendship was slowly being restored. Or nearly so, given that Sam now passed most of his time in Marcy’s company rather than Patrick’s. Pulling his chair out, he sat down beside her and grinned like a little boy while he snitched one of her cookies, and with a rush of affection, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

His grin broadened as he gave her a wink. “Mmm … if I get a peck on the cheek for stealing one of your cookies, what might I get for stealing a kiss?”

“A piece of my mind,” she whispered with a warning crook of her brow, “if you dare make advances in front of the parish priest.”

His deep chuckle blended with the revelry in the room. “As long as it comes with a piece of your heart, Marceline, you’ll hear no complaints from me.” His forehead puckered as he glanced around the room, his heavy exhale following on its heels. “I see Patrick didn’t show.”

Her wistful sigh matched his. “No. It would seem I’m a deterrent to your best friend.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said quietly, his smile conspicuously absent. “It’s hardly your fault for being the beautiful woman you are.” He feathered the edge of her jaw with his thumb, gaze reflective. “He’ll come around before we marry, I promise. Has to,” he said with a quick swig of his punch, the smile surfacing once again. “Who else could be my best man?”

A loud clanging captured everyone’s attention when Miss Clara banged a serving spoon against a cast-iron pot. “Listen up—Father Fitz has something to say.”

The conversation and laughter subsided except for the lilting flow of Father Fitz’s chuckles, which immediately expanded Marcy’s smile into a grin. “Thank you, Miss Clara,” Father said with a short bow in her direction, “for that most auspicious introduction. You can rest assured, my dear woman, that after tonight’s raging success, you may well find that new cook stove you’ve requested nestled under your tree.”

Miss Clara beamed while laughter circled the room.

Father Fitz paused, slowly scanning the faces before him with pride in his eyes. “Seldom have I seen a fundraiser this cohesive, a group of people who have bonded together more beautifully than those in this room. You have unselfishly given of your time, your talents, and your love to bless the less fortunate, and I have no doubt whatsoever that the Almighty is smiling down on each and every one of you this night. I want you to know that I have never been prouder of a group of people in this parish than I am of this cast and crew. You are …” A sheen of moisture glimmered in his eyes as his chin trembled almost imperceptibly. “The Body of Christ in action and in the truest sense—the purest expression of what Christmas is really all about. You have my undying gratitude and that of Sister Francine, Evan, Miss Clara and indeed, the entire parish, for a job remarkably well done.”

Applause and cheers broke out as a tear trailed Marcy’s cheek. Sam pushed his handkerchief at her, and she nodded her thanks before returning her attention to the front of the room where Father Fitz held up his hands. “Before we disperse for the evening, I would be remiss if I didn’t address three very important issues.” He raised a finger, silver brows lifted high. “One—our thanks to the Almighty, Who not only convened the best group for the job, but blessed their efforts beyond measure.” Waiting for the clapping to die down, he continued with a second finger in the air. “Two—when I said ‘blessing our efforts without measure, however, I didn’t mean to imply we met our goal of eight hundred dollars.”

Gasps sounded all over the room as Marcy’s breath hitched in her throat, silence settling like a shroud. The serious demeanor of Father Fitz’s face slowly eased into an elfin smile while mischief twinkled in blue eyes that sparkled with a bit of the devil. “No, I’m afraid we’ve set a very awkward precedent for future fundraisers at this church, ladies and gentlemen, for not meeting our goal or even coming close …” He paused for effect. “But exceeding it by well over five hundred dollars.”

 
No one breathed for a split second, and then with a lusty swell of whoops, shrieks, and stomping feet, the room thundered with clapping and cheers while Marcy swayed in her seat, too dizzy and stunned to utter a single sound.
Over thirteen hundred dollars?
Only when Sam plucked her out of the chair to embrace her did comprehension dawn while moisture brimmed in her eyes.

Father Fitz hoisted his palms once again, stilling the gathering to a quiet buzz before he added a third finger to his count. “And finally, number three—it is my privilege and joy to honor the young ladies without whom none of this would be possible.” Hands clasped behind his back, he jutted his prominent chin in Marcy and Julie’s direction while a grin tugged at his lips. “Miss Murphy and Miss O’Rourke, would you please come forward?”

The room exploded with shrieks and whistles and the deafening clomp of more feet as Sam prodded Marcy up with a squeeze of her hand and a palm to her back while Evan followed suit with Julie. Uncomfortable with praise, Marcy’s cheeks burned as hot as Miss Clara’s ovens in July, gaze skittish as she stood between Father Fitz and her best friend.

“Marceline,” he began in his most regal tone, “the people of St. Mary’s parish, the Center of Hope, and the cast and crew of
A Light in the Window
would like to thank you and Julie for masterminding not only the single most successful fundraiser in St. Mary’s history …” He winked. “But in the diocese as well.”

Joyous pandemonium broke loose among the crowd while Julie grabbed Marcy’s hands and screamed, jumping up and down before she finally flung her arms around her best friend’s neck. “Oh, Marcy,” she cried, her giggles reverberating in Marcy’s ears, “can you believe it? We did it!”

“Ladies,” Father Fitz said loudly enough to subdue the chaos in the room, “as a small token of our appreciation, we’d like to give you a memento, not only of the incredible job you did, but hopefully to remember each of us by—cast, crew, and staff.”

Sister Francine approached with two small tissue-wrapped packages, handing one to each of the girls, followed by a pinch on each of their cheeks. “You deserve this and more for a truly excellent job.” Stepping back, she stood on the opposite side of Father Fitz, hands clasped at her waist as she watched them open the gifts with a wide smile that was a mirror reflection of Father’s.

With a huge grin, Julie tore into the tissue paper while Marcy did the same, squealing with delight when each unwrapped a beautiful snow globe. “Look, Marce, it’s our play!” Julie exclaimed, shaking the ball to watch the snow drift over a bough-trimmed window aglow with a candle.

Marcy shook her globe, lips parted in awe while tears welled in her eyes. She giggled when Father Fitz pressed his handkerchief into her hand, and she absently dabbed the moisture that blurred the drifting snow into a fuzzy fog of white.

“All right, one and all, our party has come to an end, but on behalf of Sister Francine, Evan Farrell, Miss Clara, and the parish—may your Christmas be as wonderful as you’ve made ours. God bless and good night.”

Laughter, hugs, and the scraping of chairs marked the end of a wonderful evening, but much like her snow globe, the next half hour was little more than a blur to Marcy as people crowded around to congratulate her and Julie. Miss Clara and her volunteers were busy cleaning up while Sam and Evan helped, and when the last cookie had been eaten and the punch all put away, Marcy sagged against Sam’s chest as he pulled her into his arms. “I do believe you may have to carry me home tonight,” she said with a sleepy smile, relishing the citrus scent of his shaving soap.

“It would be my pleasure, love,” he whispered, thumbs grazing her waist.

Eyes closed, she savored the comfort of his arms, a chuckle in her tone. “Or to Robinson’s first, if Julie and Evan want to celebrate, so I hope you’ve energized with enough punch and cookies.”

He tipped her face up, a smoldering look in dark eyes that warmed her to her toes. “I don’t need punch or cookies, Marceline,” he said in a husky voice, “the taste of your lips is all the adrenaline I need.” He startled her when he grazed her mouth with his own.

“Sam, please …” she whispered, biting the edge of her lip as she nervously glanced around. She twisted from his hold with an awkward smile, grateful everyone was gone except for Julie and Evan in the dining room and Miss Clara and a few volunteers in the kitchen. Hoping to deflect her embarrassment with a bright smile, she spun on her heel, energy rebounding. “So, Julie and Evan—shall we celebrate at Robinson’s?”

“Sounds good to me,” Julie said with a grin while Evan helped her on with her coat. She glanced up. “Is that all right with you, Evan?”

He paused for the briefest of moments, somber eyes flicking from Julie to Marcy and back. “Uh, sure, Julie.”