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The quiet darkness suffocated her, the scratching of the palm fronds on the window that she’d longed for days ago, now sending her nerves to the edge. Shadows flickered over the ceiling and danced down the walls. Maire bit her lip and tasted blood. He would come for her again in her thoughts. The minute she let down her guard, she would see him, hear his voice, and feel his hands.
She wadded herself into a ball on the bed, pulling her gown over her feet, tears streaming down her cheeks. It was too quiet, too spooky, being alone.
She looked at the door. Everyone was asleep. Her parents had turned in early, exhausted from their travels. Michael, for once, had retreated to his room, and Gerritt had gone to his. Gerritt. She wanted to be with Gerritt. He would make this go away.
She could go there. No one would know. Then, if she left early, they wouldn’t see, and she would at last get some sleep. She reached for her robe, slipping her hands through the sleeves, and tying the sash at her waist, then crept to the door. She opened it carefully, so that no one would hear, and her gaze crossed the empty space between their rooms.
She swallowed her misgivings. He wouldn’t mind. He knew how afraid she was.
Maire entered Gerritt’s room, shutting the door softly, and crept over to his bed. He lay on his side, his ebony hair whisked over his face. She took in the sight, her heart pounding, until the tapping of limbs on the window sent her fleeing to his feet.
“Gerritt.” She spoke in a whisper.
He stirred.
“Gerritt, I’m afraid.”
He mashed the heel of one hand to his eyes. “Maire? What are you doing here?”
“I can’t sleep,” she said. Her throat clogged. “He’ll come back. Please, Gerritt, I want to sleep with you.”
“With me? Maire, I don’t think that’s a good idea ... your parents are home.”
But her body shaking, she reached for him, her fingers clasped tight. “Please ...”
He paused but a moment, then slid to the side and gathered her in his arms, pulling the bedcover over them both.
How he got into this boggled his mind. One night with her turned into two and three and four. Before he knew it a week had passed. Each night, sometime after midnight, Maire would appear, begging until he gave in and allowed her to crawl in at his side.
It was wrong. She shouldn’t be doing it, and he should say no. But he couldn’t. The fear in her eyes always proved too much. At the same time, if he didn’t put a stop to it, they’d get caught.
Gerritt rolled the thought over in his mind and found himself pressed to the wall. His parents’ return neared, and their return meant more people in the house and thus more suspicion. Suspicion was high enough already, especially on her brother’s part. He’d never known him to be quite so nosy, so apt to hang around and pop up at weird times. It didn’t help that Maire’s behavior was also decidedly odd. Her confidence was entirely gone, and she refused to ever be alone. She’d told her parents she was ill, but he saw her mother’s doubts surface the more time went by.
He had to get her to himself and talk to her about all of this, and there was no good way to do it, except to take her out on a date.
He paused at that thought. His asking her out would add to the suspicions considerably. But it still seemed preferable to someone walking in on them. Therefore, Gerritt sucked up his courage and approached her father.
Michael O’Fallen gazed back from his seat in the kitchen, a cup of coffee cradled in his palm.
“Sir, I wish to speak with you about Maire.”
Michael O’Fallen was a kind man, if a bit intimidating at times. Surely, he would honor a reasonable request.
“I’d like to take her out to dinner tonight.”
Michael’s eyebrows arose, and his green eyes flared. He waved Gerritt toward a chair. “Sit,” he said. “What brought this on?”
Gerritt inhaled. There was no getting around it now. He had to make it good. “Well, she’s a beautiful woman, and I’d like see if we have feelings for each other.”
Michael’s face was impassive, but his tone was thick. “Do you ... have feelings for her?”
Gerritt rubbed a clammy hand down his pants leg. “I don’t know. You know how that is.” He gave a weak smile.
The flare in Michael’s eyes became a twinkle. “It’s been a while, but yes.”
“I’d like your permission,” Gerritt continued.
Michael sat forward, his coffee apparently forgotten. “It’s fine with me, but have you asked her?”
Gerritt ceased the rapid movement of his fingers, curling them into a fist. “Not yet, but I thought to save her the worry of your reaction. I realize it’s unusual since she and I grew up together and figured that would help my chances.”
Michael chuckled under his breath and leaned across the table. “I hope I can trust you,” he said.
Gerritt refused to blink. Trusting him was the last of her father’s worries. He hadn’t seen the terror in her eyes, and he didn’t know what put it there. That fact made her his responsibility, no matter what their behavior looked like to everyone else.
“You can,” Gerritt said.
Michael extended his hand, and Gerritt took it, unhesitating.
“Where will you go?”
Gerritt stood to his feet. This part he’d considered long and hard. “I thought I’d take her to the Garden Room.”
Michael’s face held many questions, but he asked only one. “You know how to dance?”
“No.” Gerritt replied with a definite shake of his head. It was an unusual choice for him to make, but he hadn’t chosen it for social reasons. He could care less about gaining attention or making small talk. He wasn’t interested in music or dancing. Instead, he’d picked that spot because it was well-lit and less likely to scare her half to death.
“I’ll manage,” he said with a shrug. “But I would like to borrow the buggy.”
Michael nodded, sharp, and Gerritt slipped out without another word. At Maire’s room, he knocked, then, not waiting for her response, pushed it open with his knuckles. She gazed up from her perch on the bed. She was thinner than usual with dark circles beneath her eyes. This whole thing was wearing on her.
“How’d you like to go out tonight?” he asked, reclining his lean frame against the doorpost.
“Go out?”
“To dinner with me.”
She pursed her lips, disbelief on her brow. “Just you and me?”
He smiled in encouragement. “You and me. Your father says it’s fine.”
“You spoke to Papa? But ...”
Gerritt crossed the room and took her hand. “No buts, Maire. We need to talk, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
All these years, she’d dreamed of being with Gerritt, wanting him to look her way, and now, he’d actually gone behind her back to get permission to take her to dinner.
Maire coiled her hair into a knot at the base of her neck and stuck in a jeweled pin.
He said he wanted to talk. About what? How he felt sorry for her? Or perhaps she made him uncomfortable. But if that was the case, then why did he continue to allow her to crawl in beside him at night?
One side of her argued she should stop. What would her parents say? His parents? Her brother? But they didn’t know what had happened to her, and Gerritt did. Being with him drove the thoughts away. He kept the images from returning to her head and replaying themselves in fantastic proportions. What’s more, he’d asked nothing of her in return. Until now.
She ran a finger over the dark circles beneath her eyes. “What do you want, Gerritt Finnegan?” The question no sooner left her lips than a shadow slanted over the door. She looked behind into the face of her mother.
Anne came up behind her and laid her hands on Maire’s shoulders. “I wanted to speak with you,” she said. With loving fingers, she caressed the slope of Maire’s neck, adjusting the collar of her dress. “I talked with your father. He said Gerritt asked for permission to court you.”
A flutter in Maire’s heart took her breath, and she squeezed her hands together. “He ... he did?”
Anne inclined her head, curiosity in her gaze. “Of course. You didn’t know?”
“No ... Yes.” She caught her mother’s wary eye.
“Which is it, Maire?”
Maire licked her lips. If he had expressed it that way, then what did it mean? Gerritt had only ever been kind to her through all of this, but he’d never declared any wish to make things serious. She refocused on her mother’s face.
“Yes,” she said.
The slight tensing of her mother’s palms and the steely lines on her face displayed a certain amount of skepticism. “Do you feel well enough?” she asked.
Maire offered what she hoped was a steady smile. “I’m fine.”
Her mother raised a hand to the crown of Maire’s head, and she prayed, words of comfort, of healing, of peace. “Whatever troubles you keep locked inside are not too big for God,” she said. “I like Gerritt. He is a good boy.” She smiled tentatively. “A good man. He’s no longer a boy. I trust him with you. But, Maire, he is not a Savior, so don’t put that responsibility on him.”
Maire’s eyes burned with unshed tears. Her mama was right, of course, and she would know. She’d been through much in her life, had things in her past that she never talked about. Yet telling her what happened at the lake would crush her heart, and she could never, never do that to her.
Maire lifted her chin, a smile fastened on her face. “It’s one evening, Mama, and we live in the same house. He’ll have me home on time.”
Her mother patted her cheek. “I can count on that,” she said.
“I should warn you what I’ll do to you if you hurt my baby sister.” Michael slung in the door not waiting for an invite, as he often did.
Gerritt ignored him, tugging at his coat sleeves. “I’ll bet.”
Michael leaned his shoulder on the wall. “Care to explain what’s gotten into you?”
Turning away from him, Gerritt glanced at his reflection in the mirror. “What’s gotten into me?”
Michael walked into his view. “We’ve lived in this house together for twenty years, and Maire’s followed you around from day one. Yet now you show interest?”
Gerritt leveled his gaze on Michael’s face. “She’s beautiful. Isn’t she?”
Michael inclined his head. “She is. You’ve just noticed?”
“My head was buried in a book.”
At this, Michael laughed. “Your mother will go ape at the thought of you two together.”
Gerritt couldn’t help but grin at that thought. She would. He was right. She had an unusual connection to Michael’s father and a love for him that no one ever bothered to question. Not even Michael’s mother. Yet it wasn’t love like she had for his father. There was really no way to explain it to outsiders.
“When are they coming back anyway?” Michael asked.
Gerritt met Michael’s gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “Tomorrow. The love of your life will be back.” He risked a lot saying that. His sister’s disaffection for Michael grew by the day.
Michael smirked. “I’ve missed her. So tell me the truth. What’s all this about?”
Persistent. Michael was incredibly persistent. Gerritt acted disinterested. “I’m taking your sister to dinner, in public, before hundreds of people, and they’ll see us and wonder why we’re together. Heads will turn and rumors will start on why the Finnegan boy, who has no interest in women, is dating O’Fallen’s daughter.”
Michael chuckled. “You’re right about all of that. But I was more interested in why you were doing this.” A dangerous glint appeared in his eye.
Gerritt moved toward the door, slipping past him, but he paused before leaving. “Because Maire understands me when others do not.”
Michael grabbed his arm and compressed it. “I’ve always said of all the people I trust, I trust you the most. But treat her with care.”
Gerritt peeled Michael’s fingers away and escaped into the hall.
The Garden Room was the name the townspeople had given the social hall attached to the Community Center. A number of years ago when he was about nine, someone decided a town the size of Lakesville needed a place to hold events – town hall meetings, social occasions, and the like. Then someone else thought it would be better if this place operated in the evenings with dinner and dancing. It was surprising that as stiff-necked as some of the more religious people here could be there hadn’t been more protests. But, in fact, the place had flourished.
Until now, Gerritt had had no reason to come here past a few events with his parents, so the lights and glamour of the place punched him in the face when they entered. He glanced down at Maire, who clung to his arm, and laid a firm hand on her fingers.
“Nervous?” she asked.
He roamed his gaze over her face. She seemed happy tonight. If nothing else, this evening might prove to her that life went on. “No. You?”
She gave a soft smile. “Not with you around.”
He nodded. “Good.”
An average-sized man with mousy, brown hair, smiled widely at them from the front of the room. “Mr. Finnegan and Miss O’Fallen, how pleasant to see you both.”
Gerritt offered a confident glance. “It’s nice to be here. We’d like a table.”
“Of course.” The man headed across the crowded room to a table set front and center to the rest. “Have a good evening,” he said, loud enough the rest of the room looked in their direction.
Gerritt and Maire exchanged glances.
“It’s your beauty,” he said. “They cannot believe ‘that strange Finnegan boy’ is by your side.”
“You aren’t strange to me. I find you handsome.”
Her words hit him square, each one weighted with meaning. Sleeping next to him, she’d perhaps formed an opinion, but that went both ways. She was definitely a woman, and his fears of being caught laid aside, a portion of him liked having her there.
A waitress appeared at their table to take their order, but after she left, the conversation dulled.
“What do two old friends who know everything there is to know about each other talk about?” Maire asked, as if in response to his thoughts.
He settled back in his chair. “You know everything about me then?”
“I know you hate oatmeal.”
He made a face. “Nasty stuff.”
“And peas,” she added.
“You don’t like melons,” he countered.
“Horrible,” she said. “How about this? You never talk about your writing. There’s something I don’t know.”
A fist curled around his gut. Writing. His thirty days had now dwindled to twenty-three.
“What do you write about?” she asked.
Her question awakened him. He roamed a finger in a random pattern over the tablecloth. “Whatever inspires me.”
The waitress returned, placing their glasses in front of them.
“What inspires Gerritt Finnegan?”
That was a good question, and he didn’t know the answer. He hadn’t anything in his life to draw upon. He didn’t travel, wasn’t social, and had no enthusiasm for politics or the press.
“I don’t know,” he said at last.
Her gaze widened. “You don’t know? There must be something. You could write fiction.”
He lifted his glass and took a swallow, then returned it to the table. “I’ve considered that, but I’m not sure I have the imagination.”
“How hard can it be?” she asked. “Just make something up. Write a love story.”
He stared at her. A love story? What did he know about love? This was the closest he’d ever been to any female who was not his mother or his sister, Jenny. Didn’t he have to experience love in order to write about it?
“Like what?” he asked.
She held her glass in her hand and the sweat on the outside ran through her fingers. “Like boy meets girl. Isn’t that how it works? Take my parents’ story. That would make a fascinating book, and people would buy it in droves.”
“Your parents?” She was right. The story of Michael and Anne O’Fallen was one of drama, intrigue, and romance. “You think he’d tell it?”
“Papa?” She pursed her lips. “Perhaps. Except for the part about New York. Or you could write about your mother, how she met your father.”
He shook his head and waved a hand before his face. “Oh, no. She would never, never talk about that. The last thing on earth she would ever want would be a book about her life.”
“Cousin Grace and Nick then.”
There was a possibility. Grace was the most forthcoming person he knew. She told everyone what happened to them, and Nick never seemed to care.
“It’s a good idea,” he said.
Their discussion ceased while they ate. Afterward, a band at the front piped up a tune, and couples moved onto the floor.
Gerritt fidgeted in his seat. He’d told her father he’d handle the dancing part, but he couldn’t dance particularly well, and silently hoped she wouldn’t ask him. Yet, her gaze soon strayed and longing appeared in the lines on her face. He couldn’t disappoint her, not tonight. He stood to his feet and extended his hand. “May I have this dance?”
The shine in her eyes took him aback for a moment, and he faltered. How had he looked at her all these years and not actually noticed her? She’d been another member of the household, another child sharing toys and space and meals. But in that time, she’d grown up and turned into an alluring woman.
“I’d love to,” she said.
Her hand in his, he led her across the room and, haltingly, placed a palm in the small of her back. After a moment, she pressed her cheek to his coat. Imperceptibly, the warmth of her seeped down to his skin and sped the rate of his heart. What was happening? She’d lain beside him for a week now. Why was tonight any different? Or was it a combination of the two?
His head over hers, his thoughts blanked, the minutes slipping past. Then, someone tapped Maire on the shoulder.
“Maire O’Fallen?”
Gerritt took in the lady addressing her. She was on the stout side with curly, gray hair and a dress that was way too small.
“We were wondering if you would sing.” She gestured toward the orchestra. “Maybe one song?”
Maire’s spine tensed beneath his hands. He’d heard her sing, of course, and she had a very sweet voice. But he’d never known her to be comfortable with it like her brother, Michael.
She twisted toward him, her brows knit together. “Gerritt?”
He stood back, a smile on his face. “It’s up to you.”
“Do you know Siúil A Rún?” she asked the lady.
The woman glanced behind her. “I expect Liam Flannery might. He’s played for your father.”
Maire’s hand lingered in his for a moment then she released it. “Perhaps one song,” she said, and she made her way to the stage.