A Light in the Window (5 page)

Suddenly overcome with emotion, Marcy blinked wide to deflect the threat of more tears. “You see, this is a story in which we, too, can shine our own light of Christ’s love through the windows of our eyes … our hearts … our actions …” Her voice tapered off to a reverent hush as her gaze slowly scanned each face in the room. “At a time and place in history when our own community not only desperately needs it, but the very God we serve ordains it.”

The room was silent, and for a split second, she froze, gaze darting from Father Fitz to Sister Francine. And then all at once, Father Fitz rose to his feet in a resounding ovation in which the others quickly followed suit, swelling her heart with joy despite the discomfort of praise. She glanced at Sam, and he winked again, that pirate grin sending her stomach awhirl. And then her gaze flitted to Patrick, and her breath hitched in her lungs. No smile, no praise, no applause. Just staring with mouth agape and a sober look of respect in eyes she could have sworn held a sheen of moisture. Her heart tipped.

“Oh, you were wonderful,” Julie whispered, stealing her attention with a tight hug.

“Congratulations, young lady, that was a stellar presentation if ever there was.” Evan extended his palm in a hearty shake.

Marcy rose to place her hand in his, offering a wobbly grin. “Thank you, Evan. We certainly couldn’t have done it without you or your passion for the center
or
the information you provided.”

“Young lady …” Sister Francine approached, towering over Marcy with an imposing breadth and height that surely intimidated students large and small. “I don’t mind telling you that the weight of the world has slipped off my shoulders tonight.” She surprised Marcy with a near-crushing embrace before rattling her with a sound pat on the back. “You are an answer to this old woman’s prayers, and the saints be praised that your father brought you home from New York.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Marcy said, tugging Julie close to share in the accolades. “But I couldn’t have done it without Julie.”

“Obviously a match made in heaven, ladies.” Father Fitz advanced with a broad smile while Sister Francine dispensed an equally devastating hug to Julie. “I think it would behoove us to meet biweekly here at the rectory for status reports and marching orders from these two dynamos, eh?” Hands clasped to his back, he slanted back on his heels. “Does seven on Tuesdays work for you ladies?”

“Oh, yes, Father, absolutely,” Marcy said while Julie echoed her approval.

“Sister Francine, is that suitable for you and Evan as well?”

Both agreed and Father Fitz nodded, his gaze straying to Sam and Patrick who stood patiently in the background, hands in their pockets. “Gentlemen? I trust that meets with your busy schedules?”

“Yes, sir.” Patrick’s response was immediate, his gaze meeting Marcy’s with an intensity that triggered an odd warmth in her chest.

“Thank you, Patrick.” Father Fitz zeroed in on Sam, one silver brow jagged high. “And you, Mr. O’Rourke?”

Sam hesitated, eyes flicking to Marcy and back. “Some Tuesdays, Father, of course, but I can’t guarantee all as there will be evenings Patrick or I work late at the
Herald
.”

“Ah, dedication, yes—a commendable trait in an employee, Mr. O’Rourke, as is commitment to a cause as noble as ours. And I have no doubt Arthur Hennessey will feel the same way.” He cocked his head, brows lifted in question. “Would you like me to ask him for you? We’re long overdue for lunch and I’ve been thinking of calling, you see, so I’d be happy to assist.”

A nerve flickered in Sam’s swarthy jaw. “That won’t be necessary, Father. I’ll just decline overtime hours offered on Tuesdays.”

“An excellent idea, Samuel, and one I’m sure Miss Murphy will be most grateful for, along with your sister.”

“I hope so,” Sam said with a faint smile, those black eyes searing Marcy to the spot until she thought she couldn’t breathe.

Her body jumped at the clap of Father’s hands. “Excellent! That settles it, then. Two weeks, same time, same place. Evan, if you have a moment, and Sister Francine, I’d like a word with you both, but you ladies are free to go. Good night.”

Bidding the others goodbye, Julie and Marcy made their way to the door, Marcy’s stomach as skittery as Julie’s, no doubt, over the prospect of Sam and Patrick possibly walking them home.
Please, Lord, no …
Her heart caught in her throat when someone’s arm brushed hers in a race to open the door, and she glanced up. “Thank you, Sa—”

She stopped, taken aback at the nearness of Patrick, unsettled by the serene smile on his lips and the startling clarity of gray eyes so close and so calm. Something in the way he looked at her gave her pause, a quiet confidence as if he expected her to succumb to his charm like every other woman. She caught a distinct woodsy scent similar to pine or sandalwood, and it triggered the faintest of flutters that immediately put her on guard. “Thank you,” she whispered softly,
but no thank you.
She quickly turned from both her unwelcome reaction and a man to whom she had no desire to become a notch on a post.
And God willing, neither will Julie.
Looping her arm through that of her best friend’s, she hurried Julie down the steps, hoping to steer them both far away from the two men behind.

“Marcy, wait up.” Sam touched her shoulder on the bottom step, and her pulse took off in a sprint the same time her body jerked to a stop. “Patrick and I will walk you girls home,” he said with a casual air.

“No, Sam, that’s not necessary, truly—we’ve already taken enough of your time.” Marcy’s breaths were uneven, as if she had just jogged a mile or two. And, oh, sweet saints, how she wished she had—miles and miles away from Sam O’Rourke!

“No, we insist,” Patrick spoke up, shoring up Julie’s other side.

Marcy inwardly groaned. Why couldn’t these two just go pester women who really cared? She gulped. Or at least women who cared enough to want them around? “Honestly, I’m sure you and Patrick have other things to do on a lovely summer night like this—”

“Mr. O’Rourke? Mr. O’Connor?” Father Fitz bellowed at the door, and Patrick’s low groan brought a half-smile to Marcy’s lips as he and Sam slowly did an about-face. “Might I have a word with you gentlemen before you head out for the night?”

Marcy heard Sam’s heavy release of air along with Patrick’s own noisy sigh, and she couldn’t resist a tug of her lip as her eyes smiled at Julie.

“Yes, sir,” Patrick said, lumbering back up the steps.

Sam hesitated, a hand to Marcy’s shoulder and eyes intense. “Will you wait?”

A cleansing breath filled her lungs before she unleashed it in a grateful sigh. “I’m sorry, Sam, but Julie and I invited several girls to my house tonight to solicit their help for the play.” Her eyes scanned skyward, taking in the pink glimmers of dusk slowly fading into the deep hues of night. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

A gruff clear of a throat drew their attention. “Mr. O’Rourke?” Father Fitz held the door, and Marcy bit back a grin at the challenge in the old priest’s eyes. “I meant tonight, of course.”

Sam’s broad chest expanded and released. “Yes, sir.”

“Good night, ladies,” Father Fitz said, a secret smile lighting on his weathered lips. He slipped them a knowing wink while the boys shuffled back inside, their broad shoulders sagging in a slump. “And bless you.”

 
Marcy grinned and spun on her heel, tucking her arm through Julie’s once again, while a hint of laughter twinkled in each of their eyes. “Oh no, Father Fitz,” she said with a playful squeeze of her best friend’s waist. “Bless you!”

“I want her, Sam.” Patrick stared aimlessly at the endless rows of bottles beneath the smoky mirror of Brannigan’s Pub, his elbows limp on the cherrywood bar while he twiddled the mug in his hand. “
Now
, in my life, as soon as possible.”

All around him, the buzz and hum of people conversing and laughing filled the smoky air along with off-key singing to the lively piano tunes of Tommy Thomkins while couples danced and flirted. But Patrick didn’t hear a thing. His mind was so foggy he didn’t know if it was the alcohol or if he was in love, but either way, his body buzzed at the mere thought of Marceline Murphy. He tossed back another swallow of beer, then pushed the half-empty glass away, his taste for alcohol suddenly as flat as his desire for other women. He peered up at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “I never believed in love at first sight, O’Rourke, but I gotta tell you—something about that woman took me down the minute I laid eyes on her.” He shook his head, a grin sprouting at the mere idea of Marcy wanting him too. “What can I say? She’s ruined me forever.”

 
Sam’s eyes narrowed as he nudged Patrick’s beer back his way. “I’ll say—I’ve never seen you turn your nose up at a beer before.” He took a swig of his own, troubled eyes appraising Patrick over the rim of his glass. Setting it back down, he shifted on the stool to face him, tone droll as his thumb absently glazed the side of his mug. “The lass doesn’t appear to be taken with either of us, Patrick, which is part of the attraction I suppose—a woman who plays hard to get.” His lips took a slant. “And that’s the dilemma, my friend—she’s not playing, she
is
.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Patrick said with a firm press of his jaw. “I want her in my life, Sam, and I mean to have her.”

Sam’s mouth curved in challenge. “As do I.”

Patrick tilted his head, studying his best friend through eyes as thin as his patience. “What are you talking about, O’Rourke? I saw her first.”

Upending his glass, Sam guzzled the rest, then clinked it down to signal Lucas for another. His grin edged toward predatory with just a touch of tease. “Not technically.” He canted against the bar, long legs stretched out. “She’s been sleeping in my house since she was six years old, remember?”

“So have I,” Patrick said with a scowl, “but that’s irrelevant since neither of us paid her any mind until now.”

Sam slid him a hooded gaze. “No, what’s irrelevant, my friend, is how you or I feel. It’s not up to us, it’s up to Marcy to decide who she’ll allow to darken her door.”

Patrick straightened on the stool, back square and Irish up. “We’ve been friends a long time, Sam.” A nerve flickered in his jaw. “I’m asking you to stay away.”

Sam regarded him carefully with the barest of smiles. “Why? Afraid to lose?”

Patrick laughed outright. Snatching his half-empty beer, he downed it in one furious gulp, then slammed the mug on the counter. He nodded his thanks when Lucas delivered two more and held his aloft with a broad grin, foam slithering the sides of his glass. “I’ve never lost yet.”

A low chuckle rumbled in Sam’s chest as he raised his in salute. “Ah, but then we’ve never gone head to head before, now have we?” He took a long swallow of brew, gaze fixed on Patrick as the beer glugged down his throat. Swiping the side of his mouth with his sleeve, he angled his head, the glint of a dare glittering in dark eyes. “So she’s to be a contest, is she now?”

The smile faded from Patrick’s lips, the thought of Marcy as the prize in an unsavory competition not settling well. “No,” he whispered, shoving the beer away a second time. “That’s not what I want. I’ll not have her hounded by the likes of us, torn in two different directions in some unholy tug-of-war.”

“What, then?” Sam said. “Because make no mistake, Patrick—I mean to have her as well.”

A nerve pulsed in Patrick’s temple as he stared, fist clenched on the bar. He and Sam had been best friends most of their lives, but never had he wanted to bloody that Roman beak of a nose more. His voice carried a warning. “So, you’re going to allow a woman to come between us?”

The bristled plain of Sam’s jaw hardened while both a question and a challenge burned hot in his eyes. “No … are you?”

 
Patrick slammed a fist to the counter. “Blast you, O’Rourke, no, but I’ll not cheapen her in a wager either, like so much loose coin. One of us has to back down.”

Sam eyed him for several seconds, gaze pensive. Releasing a heavy exhale, he finally reached in his pocket and tossed a coin on the bar, lips crooking when it spun to a stop. “All right, Patrick, not a duel to the death, then, or even a tussle that will tear Marcy apart.” He quirked a brow. “But perhaps a toss to decide who shall woo her first? If you win, I’ll bow out and leave her completely vulnerable to your devastating, pretty-faced charm.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “And if I win, you’ll do the same, agreed?”

Sweat licked the inside of Patrick’s collar as he stared, weighing the risk in his mind. He finally shook his head. “No, I’ll not chance it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Sam said evenly, his black eyes nearly piercing him through. “It’s either a toss or our friendship—you can’t have both.”

Patrick met his gaze, realizing for the first time that Marcy’s pull on Sam was obviously as strong as her pull over him and he swallowed hard, suddenly aware he might well lose. He bludgeoned the counter again with a knotted fist and swore under his breath. Eyes itching hot, he seared the man with a look that might have to come to blows if not for their fifteen-year friendship. “I have a mind to spit in your eye and do what I bloomin’ well please.”

Sam grinned. “But you won’t, because our bond is like blood.” He hoisted another toast, giving his friend a wink. “And we both know blood is thicker than lust.”

Sam’s comment barbed, and that’s when Patrick knew Marcy meant more than a fling or a conquest, more than just the favors and affection of a pretty girl. His pulse seized for a split second when comprehension assailed his mind, as sweet and intoxicating as the scent of lilac water when she’d passed him at the rectory door. For some reason he couldn’t ascertain, she mattered more to him than just the race of his pulse over eyes as blue as the sky, more than the heady warmth when he lingered on those lush pink lips. More—
far more
—than mere physical attraction, and the very thought stunned because for the life of him, he didn’t know why. He scowled. All he did know was that the sound of the word “lust” in regard to Marcy made him want to blacken Sam’s eye. His voice came off as a hiss. “It’s more than lust this time, Sam.”

“You’re right, Patrick—it is—and I feel it too. Marcy is …” He paused, eyes shuttering closed as if attempting to decipher the mystery of Marceline Murphy. “Unique, special, somehow different than most girls with whom we associate, almost as if she’s wiser, more caring.” His eyes opened to reveal a rare glimpse into a more vulnerable Sam. “A woman capable of eliciting great things from a man without ever letting him know.” His gaze trailed into a reflective stare. “And perhaps a woman who would love a man so much, he could almost love himself.” He glanced up with a melancholy smile, the effect somehow soft and so out of character for Sam O’Rourke, that Patrick could only blink. “We barely know this slip of a girl and yet here we are, the both of us, besotted over an ethereal beauty who is sure to steal our hearts as effectively as she has stolen our thoughts. A woman definitely worth fighting over.” He glanced up, the rake returning once again with a twinkle in his eye. “But we won’t. We will toss for the privilege of pursuit and cheer the winner on, eh?” He brandished his beer as if it were a call to battle.

Patrick gouged the back of his neck, then expelled a weighty sigh, his eyes locked with Sam’s. “If I win the toss, you’ll step aside and leave her be?”

He acquiesced with a dip of his head. “I will.” His eyes glittered. “And you’ll do the same. Unless the winner fails, that is. Then all bets are off, and it’s each man for himself.”

“Fail.” It was more of a statement than a question as Patrick stared. Jaw grinding, he clenched his lips in a tight line. “I don’t fail, Sam.”

Sam responded with a flash of white teeth. “Nor do I, Patrick, but something tells me Marceline Murphy is more than capable of making fools of us both. So … shall we have Lucas toss the coin to put at least one of us out of our misery?”

Stomach in knots, Patrick glanced over his shoulder. “Lucas—can you help us out over here?”

“You boys needin’ another brew?” Lucas Brannigan ambled forward, wiping the sweat from his brow with a muscled arm.

“Soon,” Sam said with a grin, “but for now, we need an impartial party in the toss of a coin.”

“Do you, now? And to what are we tossin’, might I ask—the cost of six beers?”

“Nothing so crass, Mr. Brannigan, I assure you.” Sam gave Patrick a wink. “And something far more satisfying, although I suspect the headaches may be far worse.”

He tossed the coin and Lucas caught it with a chuckle. “Now you boys have me intrigued.”

Sam hooked an arm around Patrick’s shoulder with a laugh. “A woman, Lucas, of the very highest caliber who, most likely, would only entertain the notion of one rogue at a time.”

Patrick grunted, giving Sam a sideways smile. “If any at all.”

“Oh, she’ll entertain all right—it’s just up to Lucas as to whom.” Sam deferred to the barkeep with a bow of his head. “If you will, Mr. Brannigan, our fate is in your hands.”

Lucas polished the silver coin against his white apron in a show of ceremony before placing it on the side of his fist. He peered up beneath bushy red brows. “Who makes the call?”

Sam slapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Let my friend call it.”

“All right, then, Patrick calls it in the air. Ready, gentlemen?”

Palms damp, Patrick nodded, his breath stifled as if the blasted coin lodged in his very throat.

In a blur of motion, Lucas flipped his thumb, and the coin sailed high in the air, spinning like Patrick’s stomach. “Heads,” he called, voice hoarse.

The flash of silver twirled several times before plummeting into Lucas’s hand a fraction of a second before he sandwiched it with a meaty palm. Nobody breathed as he lifted a finger to take a peek, a broad grin spanning the whole of his ruddy face. “Well, the devil take it,” he said with a wink. “Now here’s a lass in trouble if ever there was …”