A Passion Denied by Julie Lessman Page B

the table.”
    “Thanks, Lizzie.”
    Marcy left and Lizzie frowned. “You think everything’s okay? She seemed quiet.”
    Faith sighed. “She did at that, but then she has been cooking all day, which is enough to wear anybody out. And I know she doesn’t like it when Father works on Saturdays.”
    The doorbell rang. Lizzie startled and slapped a hand to her chest. “It’s Brady. I’ll get it.”
    Charity clamped a hand on her sister’s arm. “Oh no you don’t. For the last four years, you’ve run for that door every time Brady’s come to dinner. Not tonight.” She gave Sean a pointed look. “Mind letting him in, Sean? Lizzie’s busy.”
    “Unbelievable,” Mitch said, shaking his head.
    “Yeah, she’s busy all right—spinning a web,” Sean said with a tease in his tone.
    Lizzie blinked. “But I’m not busy.”
    “Oh yes you are. Sean, stall Brady at the door a few moments, will you? Lizzie needs to make a quick phone call to Peter Henly.”
    “Peter Henly? Why on earth am I calling him?”
    Charity parked a hand on her hip. “Because if you hope to have a prayer of turning Brady’s head, you’ll have to incite his interest with a bit of jealousy. And Peter called earlier about a homework assignment, so we may as well take advantage. When Brady walks through that door, I want you talking to Peter in your most hushed but charming tones, understand?”
    Collin paused with knife in hand. The expression of shock on his face mirrored Mitch’s. “A prayer of turning Brady’s head? You don’t really think God is going to sanction this . . . this female trickery, do you? Are you crazy?”
    Faith looped an arm around Lizzie’s waist and shot her husband a mischievous grin. “Maybe a little crazy, but if it’s meant to be, then Brady will be crazy too—about our very own Lizzie. Care to join us?” She wriggled her brows.
    Collin chuckled and turned to slice the roast clean through. “Nope, you go right ahead, Little Bit, but leave me out of it. The name’s Collin McGuire, not Benedict Arnold.”

    Patrick listened to the table chatter with half an ear, barely tasting the pie he methodically shoveled from plate to mouth. His favorite, he suddenly noticed—coconut cream. The realization unleashed a burst of pleasure to his taste buds and a sudden swell of gratitude for his wife. He glanced at her, but she seemed as preoccupied as he, absently pushing at the uneaten cream filling on her plate as she hunted for pastry, the only part she liked.
    He smiled and touched a hand to her arm. “Thank you, Marcy, for making my favorite. I know how you can’t abide coconut, and it’s a special treat after the week I’ve had.”
    She startled the slightest bit and stared up at him, the blue of her eyes wide with an innocence that never failed to draw him in. Suddenly his focus stilled to only her. Collin’s laughter and Charity’s droll comments and Katie and Steven sparring over whose turn it was to do dishes—all faded away as he searched his wife’s face. Seldom did she seem as tired as she did tonight, rare lines of fatigue more pronounced despite the soft glow of candles flickering across her features. He thought he saw a glaze of wetness in her eyes, and his stomach tightened.
    “You’re welcome, Patrick. I know how hard you’ve been working, so I wanted to make something special.” Her eyes flitted back to her plate. She patted his hand, which was still draped on her arm. “Will you need to do this much longer . . . working on Saturdays?”
    His concern for her evaporated at the mention of work. He sighed and pushed his plate away with a frown. “I don’t see any way around it. At least not for the foreseeable future. I could work seven days a week and not put a dent in it, it seems.”
    “Patrick . . .” Her voice was so low he had to strain to hear it.
    “Yes, darlin’?”
    “I . . . we . . . we need to—”
    “Father, it’s Steven’s turn for dishes and he won’t do it!”