A Light in the Window (8 page)

Patrick stared, reminded once again that the man before him was as drawn to Marcy as he and if not for the toss of a coin, would be pursuing her even now. He blasted out a heavy sigh. “No.” He gouged the back of his neck and glanced to the stage where Marcy worked with the children. He muttered a rare curse under his breath. “It’s as if the blasted woman has put a hex on us both, and God help us.”

The sober intensity in Sam’s eyes glinted into humor. “I’m not sure God’s inclined to helping the likes of us,” he said with a low chuckle, giving a nod toward Marcy, “but we sure in the blazes better hope He isn’t helping her. Or you and I, my friend, may well never see the light of day with the woman of our dreams.”

A grin creased Patrick’s lips, the truth of Sam’s statement lightening his mood for some strange reason. He chuckled in spite of himself. “Saints almighty, O’Rourke, it’s enough to make a grown man cry, isn’t it?” He cuffed Sam’s shoulder with a firm grip, his words low and laced with a thin thread of hope. “Or pray ...”

“Marceline, you are a wonder! The progress we’ve made tonight is remarkable.” Sister Francine paused to place a hand on Marcy’s arm, the geese flaps of her starched white cornette appearing as limp as Marcy felt at the end of the third rehearsal. Marcy stifled a yawn, and the wings of Sister’s headdress drooped even more when she leaned in, a crimp in the fleshy ridge of her brow. “Dear girl, this won’t be too much with your studies and then school starting soon, will it?”

Marcy tucked her master script into Papa’s portfolio and smiled, the blissful silence of an empty auditorium making her sleepy. Her gaze flitted to the clock on the wall, noting that at almost ten o’clock, this was their latest rehearsal yet. “No, Sister, I’ll be fine, really. Julie and I will attend to most of the fundraiser details on the weekends so we can focus on schoolwork throughout the week.” She followed suit when Sister Francine lumbered up, yet another yawn sneaking past her lips as she stood and stretched. “But I am particularly tired tonight, I suppose because it went so long.”

“Well, you best be heading home, young lady.” She paused, one thick gray brow angled dangerously high as she and Marcy made their way to the double doors at the front of the auditorium. “You’re not walking home alone, I hope?”

“Just tonight, I assure you. Julie and I usually walk together, but she had to leave early.” Marcy waggled Papa’s leather portfolio with a tired smile. “But it’s not too far, and I can always smack an assailant with this if need be.”

With several loud clicks, Sister Francine flipped a row of tap switches, slowly dousing the gas lighting throughout the auditorium until the room went dark. Fishing a ring of keys from her pocket, she proceeded to lock the doors, tugging to make sure they were secure. “Well, I shall pray there is no need for use of your portfolio for anything other than carrying papers. Good night, my dear.”

Sister turned and halted, eyes wide. “Good heavens, Miss Dewey, whatever are you doing out here by yourself?”

Marcy whirled to see Tillie perched atop a brick column at the bottom of the steps, skinny legs dangling and a gleam of white from her gap-toothed grin. “Waiting for you, Miss Murphy. We’re going to walk you home.”

“We?” Marcy said, brows in a scrunch.

“Yes, ma’am.” Tillie’s eyeglasses gleamed as bright as her smile in the light of the streetlamp overhead. She nodded to the next brick column partially obscured by a thick lilac bush. “Me and my friend.”

“Your friend?” Marcy peered past the bush at a shadowed span of long legs crossed at the ankles, too long and too large to belong to Tillie’s young neighbor who always walked her home. The shadow straightened and ambled forward, and Marcy’s stomach lurched at the face she saw illuminated in the glow of the lamp.
Oh, Lord, no …

“‘Evening, Sister, Miss Murphy.” Patrick gave a slight bow, eyes fixed on Marcy with a calm smile that produced an effect in her stomach that was anything but. “If you’ll permit—Miss Dewey and I are at your disposal.”

Marcy was shaking her head before the words could even stutter past her lips. “T-thank you, t-truly, but that’s not necessary.”

“It most certainly is,” Sister Francine piped up, tone indignant. “Mr. O’Connor and Miss Dewey, thank you. I had misgivings about Miss Murphy walking home alone, so I am indebted to you for your thoughtfulness.”

“Our pleasure, Sister,” Patrick said, transferring Tillie from the column to the ground in one easy sweep. He took the little girl’s hand in his while his gaze reconnected with Marcy’s, that maddening smile still in place. “Since I’m walking Tillie home anyway, we figured we’d wait for Miss Murphy as well.”

“No, truly—”

“Nonsense, Marceline,” Sister said with a decisive wave of her hand. “I’ll feel much better knowing a strapping young man is escorting you home, right up to your front door, making sure that you’re safe.” She swished her fingers as if to shoo them away. “Now, scoot, the lot of you. Good night.”

Safe.
Marcy gulped. Not a word any woman associated with a rake like Patrick O’Connor.

Keys jangling, Sister scurried off in the direction of the convent, leaving Marcy at the mercy of the Southie’s most infamous Romeo. She expelled a weighty sigh.
At least Tillie will be along
. She switched hands on Papa’s portfolio while she descended the steps, avoiding his eyes.

“It was Patrick’s idea to wait,” Tillie said, her scrawny, little chest puffed out like a proud mama. “He said you’d need somebody to walk you home too.”

Marcy slid Patrick a sideways glance and a stiff smile. “Thank you,” she whispered, taking the hand that Tillie offered. “But why isn’t your neighbor walking you home, young lady?”

“Aw, he was in an all-fire hurry tonight, and I wanted to stay and talk to Patrick.” She peered up at Marcy, bright hazel eyes filling the whole of her glasses. “He’s my new friend, Miss Murphy, and I like him a lot.” Her little matted head tipped to the side. “Don’t you?”

Patrick chuckled. “I doubt Miss Murphy shares your opinion, Tillie.” He extended his free hand, gray eyes sparkling. “Here, Marcy, let me carry that for you.”

“No, really, that’s—” He reached across Tillie and wrested the portfolio from her hand, her face burning while he gently pried her fingers loose. “Thank you,” she said softly, quite sure the heat in her cheeks had nothing to do with the warmth of the night.

“My pleasure.” The husky timber of his tone unsettled her all the more, and she quickly turned her attention to Tillie.

“You’re a quick study, Tillie.” Marcy smiled as the little girl tried to swing between them, dragging on their arms while she bunched up her legs. “Nobody has memorized their lines as well as you.”

“Mama helps me,” Tillie said with another sway between Patrick and her. Skinny legs skidded back to the sidewalk as she blinked up. “And guess what, Miss Murphy?”

“What’s that, Tillie?” Marcy breathed in the scent of summer, fresh-mown grass, and honeysuckle, making her wish the warm weather could last all year.

“Patrick thinks I’m cute and that I’ll turn heads when I’m in full bloom.”

Marcy blinked, her gaze flicking up to Patrick’s. He gave her a wink, and she quickly looked away. “Well, he’s absolutely right,” she said with a reflective nod, “and that was a very nice thing for him to say.”

His rumble of laughter merged with the trill of tree frogs and crickets. “Contrary to opinion, Miss Murphy,” he said softly, “I have been known to be nice at times.”

She chanced a peek, slipping him a faint smile. “I have no doubt, Mr. O’Connor.”

“Sure you do,” he said quietly, the tease in his tone fading to serious.

“And guess what else?” Tillie tugged on Marcy’s hand, attempting to swing once again. “Patrick says he’s gonna hammer Omer if he ever whacks me again, ain’t that swell?”

Marcy’s heels skidded to a stop, along with her heart. “W-who’s Omer, and what do you mean he ‘whacks’ you?”

“Aw, he’s just Mama’s friend who hits me sometimes,” she said in a nonchalant tone, feet flying through the air.

A shiver skittered Marcy’s body as her eyelids fluttered closed for the briefest of moments, memory of bruises on Tillie’s neck invading her mind.
Oh, Lord …

Tillie’s throaty giggle floated in the warm breeze along with her little body as she sailed back and forth, legs tucked. “But holy mackerel, almost wish ol’ Omer would pop me again just so Patrick can hammer him good.”

Marcy opened her eyes. Her gaze converged with Patrick’s, the sobriety in his look matching her own. She swallowed hard, heart breaking over Tillie’s lot in life. “You’re lucky to have Patrick for a friend,” she said quietly, unable to look away while tears stung. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

“I know,” Tillie said with the utmost assurance. She chattered on as they continued several blocks out of the way to the little girl’s flat in a questionable part of town, making Marcy most grateful for Patrick’s presence. “Well, here we are!” Tillie bounced back to the ground in front of a three-story brick tenement. Her tiny palms slipped from Marcy’s as she turned to give Patrick a hug. “Thanks, Patrick—you’re swell.”

He squatted to give her a hug back, then gripped her arms with a serious look, nodding down the street. “Tillie, I live about six streets down and four blocks over, #17 Hastings Street, brick house, green shutters. If Omer or anyone lays a hand on you ever again, you come get me, understood?”

“Okay.”

He gently pushed her glasses up and tugged on her braid. “Okay.” With a final kiss to her nose, he stood to his feet. “You go on, darlin’—we’ll wait till you get inside.”

“G’night, Miss Murphy.” Tillie rattled Marcy’s arm with a hard shake of her hand before turning to go. “Bye, Patrick,” she called, darting to her building with a palm flapping in the air.

“Tillie, wait!” Marcy’s cry stopped the girl midway. She ran over and stooped before her, throat convulsing as she wrapped Tillie in a fierce hug. “I’m so glad you’re in the play,” she whispered, eyes squeezed tight to contain the moisture welling beneath her lids. “I have a feeling you’ll be one of the stars of the show, sweetheart.” She pressed a lingering kiss to the little girl’s cheek.

“Gosh, Miss Murphy, thanks!” Tillie gave her an eager hug back before tearing down the sidewalk and up a series of cracked steps into her flat, waving all the way. A heavy wooden door slammed behind her with a loud thud.

Marcy stared after her, her chest in a vice. She sensed Patrick close behind her. “That breaks my heart,” she whispered.

“Me too,” he said, his voice as melancholy as her own. He offered his arm to help her up. “She’s a cute kid.”

Accepting his help, she rose to her feet and quickly withdrew her hand, the warmth of his palm staying with her. “That was really nice of you to tell her she was pretty,” she said, suddenly seeing Patrick O’Connor in a whole different light. More tears sparked. “I don’t think she has a lot of friends because the other children tend to avoid her.”

He gave an awkward shrug of his shoulders that seemed out of character. “I don’t understand why—she’s a friendly little thing.” His Adam’s apple shifted as he buried his hands in the pockets of his workpants, as if to deflect the emotion he felt. “Waltzed right up to me tonight bold as you please,” he said with a sheepish smile, looking so much like a shy, little boy that Marcy smiled back. He grinned in return. “Told me I was cute.”

She shook her head and started walking again, face forward and humor tipping her lips. “Oh, and I suppose you’ve never heard
that
before.”

He laughed and snatched something from a tree overhead. She peeked out of the corner of her eye to see him bobbling an acorn before he sailed it nearly a block away. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.” He paused, as if weighing his words. “I’ve never seen anyone as good with children as you, Marcy—you make each and every one feel special.”

She smiled, staring straight ahead as she kept a brisk pace. “Well, blame it on the fact I’m an only child who wishes she were from a big family where love flows like water.” She breathed in the loamy scent of a garden they passed, expelling it in a contented sigh at the mere mention of family. “Goodness, I love children.”

Pause. “And would that ‘love’ extend to men who act like children, I hope?”

A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she shook her head again. “It does not, Mr. O’Connor, but I’m quite sure there are enough lovely lasses in the Southie neighborhood to more than accommodate.”