A Passion Redeemed (7 page)

The smile stiffened on his lips. "Acquaintances. Never friends."

"Really? Well, he speaks quite highly of you."

Mitch scowled. "I doubt that." He turned to Bridget. "Mrs. Mur ... Bridget ... I couldn't help but notice your garden. Have you planted your winter vegetables yet?"

Bridget nodded, her eyes sparkling, obviously delighted to discuss gardening with Mitch while Charity poured the wine. Someone knocked on the glass pane of the kitchen door and Charity jumped, spilling the port. Bridget hurried over to let her neighbor in, a tiny woman with flame-red hair and watery eyes to match.

"Oh, Bridge, I sorely need your help. My youngest, Davy, poured some salt in the stew, and I don't know how to fix it. I swear he'll be the death of me yet. Can you be a dear and save me neck? My Johnny's bringing 'is boss home for supper, wouldn't ya know, and it'll be me in a stew if ye don't help me out."

Bridget put an arm aroundher shoulder. "Sure, and Johnny'll never know once I'm done with it, I can tell ya that." She reached for her shawl and gave Mitch a penitent look. "Make yourself at home and have a sip of wine while I run over to help Maggie. Charity, would you mind bringing Mima to the table? I'll be back, fast as you please." The door slammed behind her.

Mitch glanced at Charity. "Can I help?"

"No, you heard Grandmother. Sit down and make yourself at home. Mima's no problem whatsoever." She hurried out with a smile.

He stood in the middle of the room, feeling lost. He certainly wasn't at home in this house. Not anymore. Rubbing the back of his neck, he ambled to the table and sat down. He eyed the glass of wine. It would take the edge off, but the aftertaste was too bitter to suit him. He pushed it away.

He cleared his throat, drumming his fingers on the table in a staccato fashion. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, then crossed them once again. He jumped up, stifling a swear word at the back of his throat. Surely he could help! He marched out of the kitchen and down the hall to Mima's room. He peeked in the door, poised to speak. The breath stilled in his lungs.

At eighty years old, Mima was little more than skin and bones, a tiny Dresden china doll with long, snowy hair fanned across her pillow. Charity stood over her, sponging her pale, translucent cheek with a wet cloth, her voice soft and tender.

"There you are, Mima, your skin is as glowing as a newborn babe's. How pretty you look! Now just a dab of color . . ." Charity rubbed her finger across her own lips and applied a hint of blush to her great-grandmother's cheeks. She leaned back with hands on her hips. "Goodness, Mima, I'll bet if Great-Grandfather could see you now, he'd fall in love all over again."

A weak chuckle rasped from Mima's throat, followed by a harsh cough. Charity soothed her with a gentle touch. "Now let's twist your hair into a pretty topknot, all right?"

Mitch stepped away from the room. He turned and made his way back to the kitchen. Before long, Bridget bounded through the door.

"Goodness, it's nippy out there, isn't it?" She slipped her shawl on the coatrack, then looked at Mitch and smiled. "Ol' Johnny'll be none the wiser tonight, I can tell you that. The stew will go down well enough. But"-her smile broke into a grin-"not as well as the fried chicken, I'll wager."

Mitch laughed. "As I recall, there are few who can rival the cooking skills of Bridget Murphy. Although Mrs. O'Connor does come close."

Bridget chuckled and began to chat until Charity appeared in the doorway, arms firmly around Mima's waist.

Mitch stood up. He observed Charity, patient and tender as she held the frail woman upright with each fragile step she took. Mima wore a thick chenille robe that swam to her feet. Her hair, pulled back in a knot, emphasized the gaunt curve of her cheeks. The same blue eyes as Bridget and Charity assessed him with a glimmer. "Hello, Mitch," she whispered, allowing her great-granddaughter to settle her into a chair at the head of the table.

"Mima, it's good to see you again. You're looking well."

She grunted. "No, I'm not. But it's kind of you to say."

Charity gently pushed Mima's chair in and leaned to buss her cheek with a kiss. "You do too, Mima, so you might as well face it. You're gorgeous and you know it."

Mima patted Charity's hand with a faint chuckle. "Such a good girl. And speaking of gorgeous. Wouldn't you say, Mitch?"

Mitch smiled, but his mouth went dry. "Absolutely."

Charity giggled. "Mima, you're embarrassing me! Drink your wine."

The evening proceeded pleasantly enough with Mitch enjoying the meal despite the memories it provoked. They chatted on, catching up on Mitch's job at the Times, Mima's health, Bridget's garden, and Charity's job at Shaw's, among a host of other amiable subjects.

And then the conversation steered a deadly course.

"It's hard to believe it's been a year since we've seen you, Mitch, and now it's passed so quickly. Why, Christmas is just around the corner ..." Bridget's voice broke. Her eyes filled with tears, causing Charity to lean and touch her hand.

"Grandmother, please don't," she whispered, her voice suddenly hoarse.

Mitch watched the scene, dread crawling inside like a swarm of spiders.

Bridget straightened in the chair and patted Charity's hand. "I'm sorry, dear, I suppose it's the wine making me a bit melancholy. I'll be all right."

Mitch sipped his coffee, working hard to sound casual. "Not looking forward to Christmas?"

Bridget rose to clear dishes from the table, and Charity followed suit. "Oh, I love Christmas. Just not this year."

"Why not?" he ventured, holding his breath for her answer.

She and Charity exchanged glances. "Well, you see, Mitch, Charity will be going home."

He blinked. "Home?"

"To Boston."

Without thinking, he grabbed his glass of wine and swallowed a sip. "For Christmas?"

"For good, I'm afraid."

He tasted the alcohol on his tongue and scowled, pushing the glass away once again. He turned to Charity, striving for nonchalance. "After all this time and help you've been to your Grandmother and Mima, I just thought you intended to stay."

She watched him, as if studying his face for the slightest expression. "I was. But I'm afraid my father has other ideas. It's important to him we all be together."

He nodded, as if he understood completely. "Of course, for Christmas."

Charity looked at her grandmother, who suddenly shifted her attention to a boiling pot of pump water on the stove. Charity sighed. With the slightest hitch of her chin, she turned to stare at him head-on. "Yes ... and for the wedding."

He might as well have been gut-punched.

It was the first reference all evening to her family in Boston. The same family that had become his own in the brief time they'd been here during the war. He swallowed hard, remembering with painful clarity everything about them. Everything that should have been.

His family. His wife. His wedding.

She was watching him. They were all watching him, and he suddenly realized they'd been avoiding this as much as he. On pins and needles, just like him. He cleared his throat and stood, pushing back his chair. "I really should be going. I have a long day tomorrow."

Bridget approached, her brows knitted with concern. She rested her hand on his arm. "Mitch, please don't feel like you have to run off. You haven't even had dessert."

He patted his stomach and forced a smile to his lips. "Blame it on the sixth piece of chicken or the triple portion of potatoes. Honestly, I couldn't eat another bite. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. We enjoyed visiting with you. Will you come again? Mima and I live a pretty sheltered life. After Charity leaves, it will be mighty dull. We'd love the company."

He nodded and reached to take Mima's frail hand in his. "Mima, it was wonderful visiting with you again. I pray you stay well."

"You, too, Mitch. I'll gladly take those prayers." An impish smile tilted her cracked lips. "And give you some of my own."

He smiled and stood, extending his hand to Bridget. "I can't tell you when I've enjoyed such a delicious meal. Thank you for your warm hospitality."

"Oh, go on with you. It was my pleasure," she said, squeezing his hand. She glanced at Charity. "I'll see to Mima while you walk Mitch to the door." She leveled her gaze on Mitch, a glint of steel in her sparkling blue eyes. "Don't be a stranger. You promise?"

He laughed. "I promise." He followed Charity down the hall, his chest tight from the onslaught of emotions wrenching inside. She opened the door and leaned against it, her hand on the knob. "You don't have to leave, you know. We can talk."

He assessed her striking blue eyes, devoid of any guile he'd seen in the past. They stared back in complete openness, soft and concerned. Gone was the seductive tilt of her head, the calculated pose of her body that had always put him on edge. He smiled. "Thanks, but I really need to get home."

Her disappointment was palpable, changing her demeanor.

"I understand. Rigan says it's been a madhouse at the Times, what with the British proclaiming the Irish Republic illegal."

He scowled. Two of his least favorite subjects: the British and Rigan Gallagher. He turned. "Speaking of Gallagher, I've got something you need to hear."

She grinned, and the saucy tilt of her head was back in play. "Oh, now you want to talk."

"Don't turn on the charm, Charity. It won't work."

"It worked once," she said, strolling into the parlor, hands clasped behind her back.

He closed the door hard. "That was a lifetime ago."

She spun around, eyes twinkling. "No, only a year, remember? That night in the car? You said you were attracted to me. That I might have a chance with you if I got a little older." She grinned and dipped in a playful curtsy. "Wish me happy birthday, Mitch, I'm almost twenty."

He leaned against the parlor entryway, trying not to smile. He crossed his arms. "I also told you to shape up and fly straight."

She clutched her hands behind her back, like a little girl about to misbehave. "Most men think I have," she whispered. "I know Rigan does."

His smile dissolved into a scowl. Her blue eyes widened when he pulled her to the sofa and pushed her down. "Sit ... and listen. Spending time with a lowlife like Gallagher is hardly flying straight. He's nothing but trouble." He slacked his stance, hands braced on his hips. "Although I could say the same for you."

She perched on the edge of the sofa, hugging her knees. "Maybe you're just jealous."

He muttered under his breath and yanked her back up. He turned her to face him, his hands tight on her arms. "I'm not playing here, Charity. Rigan Gallagher is dangerous. I don't want you seeing him."

Her smile faded. "You're hardly my father, Mitch. I'll see whomever I please."

He softened his hold. "Not him. Trust me. He has a reputation."

She pulled out of his grasp and sank to the sofa, rubbing her arms where he'd gripped her. "So do you," she whispered, looking up with hurt in her eyes. "Especially with me."

He drew in a long breath and exhaled. He sat down beside her, his voice quiet. "You're right. I haven't exactly proven my virtue where you're concerned. I'm not excusing what you did, but I'm the one who gave in. I won't deny you were the temptation, but my actions ... ," he rubbed his palms over his face, "they were wrong." He looked up, his eyes heavy with remorse. "Will you forgive me?"

She blinked. "It's no crime to be attracted to someone, Mitch. It was just a kiss. There's no sin in that."

He stood. "There is when you're in love with someone else."

She jumped up and restrained him with a hand on his arm. Her eyes were naked with pain. "I've died a thousand deaths over what I did to my sister, Mitch. And to you. But she's gone, and I'm still here." A glimmer of hope flickered across her face. "Attraction is the first step to falling in love, you know."

He stared for a long moment, then quietly removed her hand from his coat. "Not for me, Charity. I want more."

She moved away and turned, her eyes chilling him to the bone. "What more could there possibly be?"

He studied her. A little girl with the look of a woman, bent on a track that would destroy her soul. His smile was sad. "I only hope and pray you find out."

She stood stock-still for a full moment after the door closed behind him. Nothing but the cold click of the lock, a rush of frigid air, and the heat of her anger. She pressed a finger to her temple, her gaze singeing the paisley swirl of the worn parlor rug. She straightened her shoulders and moved down the hall, head high and fists clenched. Stopping briefly outside the kitchen door, she drew in a deep breath, heavy with the aroma of Bridget's boiled coffee. She flexed her fingers and practiced a smile, wide and relaxed. There was no need to worry Grandmother.

"Dinner was wonderful," she said, breezing into the room with a warm smile.

Bridget looked up with worry lines etched between her brows. "Is Mitch all right?"

Charity rounded the table to collect the dishes. She blew out the candles. "Of course."

Bridget hesitated. "Are you?"

Charity laughed as she unloaded the dishes onto the counter. "Yes, dear one, I am. It was a lovely evening." She turned. "Mima in bed?"

Bridget nodded.

"Well, you need to head that way too. I'll take care of the dishes."

"We'll do them together." Bridget moved to the sink.

Charity squeezed an arm around her grandmother's shoulder. "No, ma'am. You look as exhausted as Mima. I'm doing them, no argument." She pulled away to rub the sleeves of her blouse. "But I do believe I'll change into something warm first. You might just lose those impatiens tonight, Grandmother."

A sad smile curved Bridget's lips. "It's time, I suppose. Unto everything there is a season ..."

Charity kissed her grandmother's forehead. "One season ending just means another is beginning." She gently stroked her grandmother's cheek, staring long and hard into her eyes. "I love you so much. I hope you know that."

"I do, dear. And I feel exactly the same way." She patted Charity's face, a glimmer of wetness in her eyes. She put a finger to her lips. "Shhh ... you're my favorite granddaughter, you know. But mum's the word. Don't stay up too late, my dear."