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
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
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