to introduce us to this little hayseed we’ve all been hearing about.”
Patrick ignored his father’s belittling reference to Mary. Despite her country upbringing, she was well-spoken and lovely—something his family would surely recognize once they met her. He had, however, forgotten about his mother’s plans. Such a large gathering might prove problematic with Mary, if he could even get her out of the house. Still, Mary had promised to visit, and visit she would.
A loud stomping and a whinny came from the van’s cargo compartment behind them. “Son, have you named this colt yet?” Patrick’s father asked.
A regal power coursed through Patrick as he remembered the feel of Mary’s face locked in his hands and the sweet taste of her mouth. He, a gentleman and heir to a great fortune, would have all to which he was entitled, including the queen of his choice. “Funny you should ask, Pop,” Patrick said. “I just decided on it. His name’s Monarch.”
Chapter 5
In the gray February dawn, Father O’Brien drove slowly up the hill toward the white marble home. Even with all-wheel drive, his truck strained as it rolled through almost nine inches of new snow. He pulled around to the side of the house and removed his key to the back door from his coat pocket. His hand trembled as he inserted it into the lock.
The house was still and silent except for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the parlor. Father O’Brien wiped his shoes on the doormat and proceeded quietly through the house, up a sweeping marble staircase to Mary’s bedroom. He could have walked this route blindfolded. But today was different. He took each step carefully, keeping a hand on the banister. He paused for a moment at the door before stepping inside.
Her adjustable hospital bed faced the bay window opposite him. The bed was in a slightly upright position to enable her to see out the window, and Father O’Brien had to step in front of the bed to see her. His breath caught in his throat as he came around and whispered her name.
“Mary?”
She was gone.
Mary lay in the bed, her eyes closed and her hands resting gently in her lap. He took one of her hands in his. It was still warm and pliable. Her skin was a grayish pallor tinged with the yellow of jaundice, but her illness had cast such a tone over her for so long that now, in death, Mary looked to him as if she were only sleeping. The absence of her breathing revealed the truth.
For a long moment, Father O’Brien looked at her. He let go of her hand to smooth a strand of hair out of her face. His lip quivered as he noticed the empty prescription bottle on her nightstand. As he began to pray over her, his voice cracked and fell to a whisper. His tears fell freely onto her. He prayed for her soul, suspecting how she died and hoping that her soul would somehow be allowed into heaven. When he finished, he made the sign of the cross and knelt by her bedside. In the stillness of the marble house, the sound of weeping joined the ticking of the grandfather clock.
~~~
Kyle was a pancake master.
Since his wife’s death, his abilities in the kitchen had vastly improved. Through trial and error and frequent solicitation of advice from Ruth Fitzgerald, he had developed a limited repertoire of meals that he could prepare successfully. Pot roast and mashed potatoes, for example. Slap the roast in the crock pot for eight hours--simple. Boil peeled potatoes until soft, add milk, salt, and butter, and beat the heck out of them--easy. Hot dogs, hamburgers, and other things that he could boil or fry were no problem. Most vegetables could be boiled or eaten raw, and he forced himself to eat them so that he sounded more credible when he insisted that Rowen eat hers, too. But pancakes were his specialty and Rowen’s favorite.
This Sunday morning, after mixing up a bowl of batter, Kyle stood in front of the stove. He was armed with two spatulas and a turkey baster. When the oil in the
Patrick ignored his father’s belittling reference to Mary. Despite her country upbringing, she was well-spoken and lovely—something his family would surely recognize once they met her. He had, however, forgotten about his mother’s plans. Such a large gathering might prove problematic with Mary, if he could even get her out of the house. Still, Mary had promised to visit, and visit she would.
A loud stomping and a whinny came from the van’s cargo compartment behind them. “Son, have you named this colt yet?” Patrick’s father asked.
A regal power coursed through Patrick as he remembered the feel of Mary’s face locked in his hands and the sweet taste of her mouth. He, a gentleman and heir to a great fortune, would have all to which he was entitled, including the queen of his choice. “Funny you should ask, Pop,” Patrick said. “I just decided on it. His name’s Monarch.”
Chapter 5
In the gray February dawn, Father O’Brien drove slowly up the hill toward the white marble home. Even with all-wheel drive, his truck strained as it rolled through almost nine inches of new snow. He pulled around to the side of the house and removed his key to the back door from his coat pocket. His hand trembled as he inserted it into the lock.
The house was still and silent except for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the parlor. Father O’Brien wiped his shoes on the doormat and proceeded quietly through the house, up a sweeping marble staircase to Mary’s bedroom. He could have walked this route blindfolded. But today was different. He took each step carefully, keeping a hand on the banister. He paused for a moment at the door before stepping inside.
Her adjustable hospital bed faced the bay window opposite him. The bed was in a slightly upright position to enable her to see out the window, and Father O’Brien had to step in front of the bed to see her. His breath caught in his throat as he came around and whispered her name.
“Mary?”
She was gone.
Mary lay in the bed, her eyes closed and her hands resting gently in her lap. He took one of her hands in his. It was still warm and pliable. Her skin was a grayish pallor tinged with the yellow of jaundice, but her illness had cast such a tone over her for so long that now, in death, Mary looked to him as if she were only sleeping. The absence of her breathing revealed the truth.
For a long moment, Father O’Brien looked at her. He let go of her hand to smooth a strand of hair out of her face. His lip quivered as he noticed the empty prescription bottle on her nightstand. As he began to pray over her, his voice cracked and fell to a whisper. His tears fell freely onto her. He prayed for her soul, suspecting how she died and hoping that her soul would somehow be allowed into heaven. When he finished, he made the sign of the cross and knelt by her bedside. In the stillness of the marble house, the sound of weeping joined the ticking of the grandfather clock.
~~~
Kyle was a pancake master.
Since his wife’s death, his abilities in the kitchen had vastly improved. Through trial and error and frequent solicitation of advice from Ruth Fitzgerald, he had developed a limited repertoire of meals that he could prepare successfully. Pot roast and mashed potatoes, for example. Slap the roast in the crock pot for eight hours--simple. Boil peeled potatoes until soft, add milk, salt, and butter, and beat the heck out of them--easy. Hot dogs, hamburgers, and other things that he could boil or fry were no problem. Most vegetables could be boiled or eaten raw, and he forced himself to eat them so that he sounded more credible when he insisted that Rowen eat hers, too. But pancakes were his specialty and Rowen’s favorite.
This Sunday morning, after mixing up a bowl of batter, Kyle stood in front of the stove. He was armed with two spatulas and a turkey baster. When the oil in the
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