Serenity

The prison was in the middle of nowhere; at least that was how it seemed to me. Not many property owners must want a facility like that in their backyard, even one for women. So there were no crops of housing developments taking up farmland around here the way they seemed to everywhere else. Not that I thought much about farmland, even having grown up in the middle of it. The only green cornfields I’d seen since I’d left for college were from an airplane as I jetted from one end of the country to the other.

“Are you here for the Catherine Carlson release?”

I looked up in surprise as not one but a half dozen people seemed to have appeared from nowhere. I’d noticed a couple of vans and cars farther down the parking lot but hadn’t seen any people until now. My gaze had been taken up by the prison, a forlorn place if ever I saw one. Even the entire blue sky wasn’t enough to offset the building’s ugliness. Block construction, painted beige like old oatmeal. If the cinder walls didn’t give it away, the lack of windows made it clear it was an institution. The electric barbed wire fencing told what kind.

Two men in my path balanced cameras on their shoulders, and in front of them a pair of pretty blonde journalists shoved microphones in my face while another thrust forth a palm-sized recorder. One on the fringe held an innocuous notepad.

My first impulse was to run back to my car and speed away. But Dilly was waiting. I clamped my mouth shut, gripped the strap of my Betsey Johnson purse, and walked along the concrete strip leading to the doors of the prison. There was an invisible line at the gate that not a single reporter could penetrate. But I knew they’d wait.

At the front door, a woman greeted me through a glass window. Dilly was being “processed,” she told me, then said to have a seat. I turned, noticing the smell of inhospitable antiseptic for the first time. Hard wooden benches were the only place to sit. Evidently they thought the families of those in such a place needed to be punished too. I’d have brought a book if I’d known the wait was going to be so long; there wasn’t even a magazine handy to help me pass the time.

Only thoughts. Of how I would make up for my failures. I’d told Mac, my best friend—and somehow it seemed he’d become my only friend—that this was the first step in fixing things. Keeping a broken past in the past. Dilly’s . . . and mine.

I remembered the day our parents brought my sister home from the hospital just after she was born. The excitement was as welcome as the warmth of the sun shining through the bare trees that early March afternoon. Everyone smiled, and even though Mom was moving kind of slow up the stairs to our farmhouse, she smiled too. It was the kind of excitement you see when there’s a new and hopeful change, like at weddings.

I was five, and even at that age I knew my parents had waited a long time for my sister. I heard Mom say once that she’d envisioned a houseful of kids, but the Lord hadn’t seen fit to bless her with a productive womb. I think I wondered, even then, what my mother would have done with a bunch more kids when I seemed to be in the way of other things she did: lunches with friends she’d known all her life; making decorative quilts and pillows she sold at fairs; canning fruits, pickles, and jam; or endless work on the farm. In retrospect maybe it was a surprise they’d even had me and Dilly; she must have been so tired at the end of the day.

I wondered later if everybody was happier because things you wait for seem better once you finally get them. But in recent years I thought everybody in town might have been relieved there weren’t a whole slew of kids born into our family.

“Go take a seat, Hannah,” Dad had said to me after Mom told us I couldn’t hold the baby unless I was sitting down.

I skipped over to Aunt Elsie on the couch and hopped up next to her, holding out my arms as my mother made the careful transfer. It wasn’t like holding one of my dolls, even though the blanket was made of the same soft material my plastic babies enjoyed. Unlike my dolls, my sister was warm and squirmy. Dad told me not to hold her too tight, so I put her on my legs and pulled back the cover to get a good look at her.

Her eyes were closed, and she wore a pink cotton bonnet. Even then, the straight lines of her brows had been drawn, which later filled in so well. Her cheeks were splotched red and white and her arms and legs moved in four different directions. When she opened her mouth, I saw her flat gums, no hint of the teeth to come someday. I thought she was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.

“She’s a dilly,” I whispered to Aunt Elsie, who’d taught me her favorite word for the things she liked. It came from a song called “Lavender Blue,” and while my parents spent so much time at the hospital in those last couple of days, that was what my aunt and I had been doing—going about farm chores singing of things being dilly.

The name on my sister’s birth certificate was Catherine Marie Williams, but neither Catherine nor Cathy nor even Marie ever stuck. She was Dilly from that day on.

Nearly thirty years later, here I was, ready to bring Dilly back home to our farmhouse.

Finally I heard something other than the distant sounds of an institution. Closer than the clatter of plates somewhere, something nearer than the echo of a call down a corridor. I heard the click of an automatic door lock, followed by the swish of air accompanying a passage opening.

Dilly. Instead of prison orange, she wore regular street clothes. Was it possible she was taller? Did people grow in their twenties? She was still short, having taken from the same gene pool I’d inherited, but I was barely an inch taller now. Spotting me right away, she dropped her black leather suitcase on the floor. For a moment the case looked vaguely familiar, but that thought was lost when I noted a shadow of someone standing next to Dilly. My eyes stayed on my sister. She flung herself at me before I had the chance to go to her.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, and her voice was so wobbly I knew she was fighting tears. I choked back my own.

“Thanks?” I repeated. Thanks? How could I not come?

“It’s a long way from California.”

I laughed. “Yeah, another galaxy.”

The woman beside Dilly stepped closer and I couldn’t ignore her any longer. She was tall and thin, dressed in jeans but with a more formal black jacket that somehow didn’t look misplaced over the denim.

I pulled myself away from Dilly and accepted the woman’s handshake.

“I’m Catherine’s social worker, Amanda Mason. We just finished our exit session and she’s all set to go.”

Dilly held up a folder. “Probation rules, contact names, phone numbers.”

“Formalities, Catherine,” Amanda said. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

It was always something of a surprise to me that others outside of our hometown knew my sister by any name but Dilly. She certainly looked ready to go home, wearing a spring jacket I hadn’t seen before, carrying a suitcase I now recognized as one I’d left behind when I headed to college so long ago.

“I didn’t know you’d have luggage,” I said when she picked up the black leather case. I didn’t know what else to say.

“The women are allowed to purchase certain necessities during their stay. Clothes, mostly.”

I knew that, because Mom had told me I could send Dilly money—no cash, just cashier’s checks or money orders, no more than fifty dollars at a time—but somehow I never connected that money with actual purchases. It wasn’t like there could be a regular store inside a prison.

“Socks,” Dilly said with a grin. “My feet still get cold.”

When we were little, we shared a full-size bed, before our parents finally bought a set of twin beds. I still remember her icicle feet in winter. “You have a suitcase full of socks?”

“Just about. They never let me keep them all in one place till today. Guess I didn’t know I had so many.” Then she turned to the other woman and set the suitcase down again. “Thanks, Amanda. You—” Something caught in her throat, and she stopped herself. “You did so much for me.” She put both of her hands on the woman’s forearms, and the social worker didn’t even flinch.

Amanda shifted her arms to take Dilly’s hands in hers. “I haven’t done enough,” she said. “Not nearly enough.”

They hugged and I watched, wondering if the prison movies I’d stopped watching since Dilly’s arrest had given me the wrong impression. No hint of inmate animosity toward those in power here.

“Keep praying, though, will you? I won’t stop needing that.”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

Then Dilly slipped away and I had to turn and follow her or be left behind.

Prayer. That was what Dilly had asked for. All our life we’d been told to pray. On our knees, right after we got up, right before going to bed, and as often as possible in between. I might have had faith as a child, but by the time I was in high school, I began wondering what I was praying to. Some light in the sky that saw all the suffering in this world and didn’t lift a finger—a supposedly all-powerful finger—to do something about it?

I’d given up prayer years ago; spiritually, long before I left home for college. Physically, once I stepped foot outside my parents’ home. I eyed Dilly, trying to see if she’d been serious about the request or said it because that was what the other woman wanted to hear. But Dilly was looking ahead, walking out the door.

The reporters were still there when we stepped outside. I meant to warn Dilly, to make some sort of plan about getting to the car as fast as we could, telling her in advance which way to go.

But when Dilly came upon them, instead of hustling past, to my amazement she stopped. For a moment she looked to the ground, then to me, and I thought I saw a hint of uncertainty before she took an audible breath. “I just want to say one thing.” Her voice trembled slightly, and she paused long enough to look down at the sidewalk again, then at each one of the reporters.

“When I did what I did so long ago, I didn’t have any hope. When I stepped into this place, I didn’t have hope. But that’s all changed now because of the Lord Jesus.”

I stared, aware of the silence that followed as the reporters waited to see if she was finished. But that wasn’t why I couldn’t find words or even the gumption to pull her along to the car. What was she talking about? Between this obviously rehearsed statement and the request for prayer, it was as if she’d “done found Jesus,” as Grandpa used to say.

A barrage of questions shot from the reporters.

“Are you going to see your daughter?”

“Are you going to try to regain custody?”

“Has your husband forgiven you for what you did?”

Dilly didn’t answer a single question. Instead, she looked at me, then toward the parking lot. It took the briefest moment for me to realize she didn’t know where to go, which car was mine, so I led the way. I pressed the keyless remote to unlock her door before she reached it. She struggled a moment to get her bag into the rear seat, then settled herself just as I slid behind the wheel.

One of the reporters, the one I’d mistakenly believed harmless because the only technology he held was a pad of paper, had followed us to the car. He tapped on the window. I saw Dilly reach for the button, but quicker than her, I touched the window lock.

“I was only going to crack it,” she said.

“Do you really want to hear what he has to say?”

He was yelling now, his young, impassioned face nearly pressed to the glass. “Did it take prison to teach you you’re not the one to take matters into your own hands? that your daughter’s life is just as important as anyone else’s?”

Dilly and I exchanged glances. I put the car in reverse; there was something militant about the young man that made me want to get away from him, spare Dilly from anything else he had to say. I’d seen judgment in people’s eyes before and I was sure Dilly had too. This guy might be a reporter, but he wasn’t an unbiased one. If such a kind existed.

Dilly stared at him, the brows everyone noticed on her, so thick, so dramatic, now drawn. A moment ago she’d found the courage to speak about something most people kept to themselves: faith. Now she looked like the Dilly I’d known when we shared the same roof. Timid, malleable. Maybe hoping I would take her away as fast as I could.

I backed out of the spot even as a thousand questions came to my mind too. I wanted to resist asking, though, unlike the guy with the notepad. His emphasis had been all wrong. He’d asked about the effect of prison, unconcerned about what Dilly really believed these days.

I still felt awkward after being away from her so long. But even that wasn’t enough to keep me quiet. Once an older, wiser sibling, always so. I figured it gave me the right to be nosy.

“Did you mean what you said back there?” Since I was navigating out of the now-busy parking lot, I had to focus on driving, avoiding the need for eye contact.

“About Jesus?” She looked behind us at the reporters now packing up. “Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”

“What did you mean?”

“Just what I said.”

I didn’t know how to rephrase the question to get an answer I could understand, so I found the silence I probably should have stayed with. Once we pulled away from the prison grounds, Dilly touched my forearm much as she had the social worker’s. I spared a quick glance, keeping both hands on the wheel.

“I’ve changed, Hannah. God changed me.”

I wasn’t yet sure I believed her. I wasn’t the only one who’d grown up in a house where rules were more important than people, work more important than any kind of play, keeping up an appearance of holiness more important than living a holy life. We’d both vowed never to set foot in a church once we moved out of our parents’ house, and I’d kept my end. I thought Dilly had too. I knew she’d stopped going to church after she got married. But lately . . . Did they even have church in prison?

“Since when has God done anything for either one of us, Dil?” I asked.

“I wanted to write you, tell you all about it—”

“Right.” Even I heard the cynicism. I’d received exactly three letters from her the entire six years she’d been in prison, despite the hundreds I’d written. Well, one hundred, anyway. That first year. After that I just sent money orders as I made my plans. True, I’d made those plans without input from her, but I’d made them to benefit both of us.

Her eyes, brown like two spots of oversteeped tea, shone with sudden, yet-to-be-shed tears. “You know me, Hannah. I’m a talker, not a writer. I tried a thousand times to write, but every time I did, my brain froze. I can’t explain it on paper. It’s something I wanted to tell you in person.”

“What about last Christmas? I visited you then.”

She let out something that sounded a little like a Ha! but not quite as cynical as me. “In front of Mom and Dad? Are you kidding? I couldn’t explain it with them there.” She sat back in her seat, and laughter squeezed out one tear, leaving her eyes dry. “Not that everybody wouldn’t have liked to see a good argument—from Mom and Dad about what grace and forgiveness really mean and from you about . . . about everything. The inmates would’ve laid bets for a winner, except if nobody drew blood they wouldn’t have been able to figure out who won.”

I didn’t know if she was being sarcastic or not, since our family didn’t argue. We hid all our resentment and anger, especially from each other. Even now I held my tongue. For a moment I felt like I was back home, preparing to listen to one of Dad’s endless sermons at the family altar he’d set up in the corner of the living room.

I sucked in a breath. “Okay, let’s have it, then.”

But Dilly didn’t reply. She shook her head, her whole body facing me instead of the dashboard. “I will tell you, Hannah. Everything. But not right now. Not yet. I need to know something first.”

I glanced at her again, prepared for the questions I knew she’d ask.

“Have you seen Sierra?”

I nodded. “Yesterday.”

“They let you? Nick’s mother let you—you know, in the same room? You talked to her? How is she?”

I shook my head. “I went to her school. They wouldn’t let me into her classroom, but they told me she was there. That she’s all right. Then I waited outside until the buses came, and . . .” I was tempted to lie, to tell her I’d seen Sierra close enough to prove what the school receptionist had said, that Dilly’s daughter was okay. “I saw all the kids get on their buses, and they looked happy.”

Whatever joy, whatever light I’d seen in Dilly’s eyes since the moment she mentioned her daughter’s name began to fade before I’d even finished talking.

“So she wouldn’t let you see her?”

There was no way I’d describe the phone conversation I’d had with Nick’s mother; I didn’t use that kind of language. Nick had never really taken charge of his own daughter’s care, but his mother had taken full responsibility for Sierra. One thing she’d stipulated: no visits from anyone in our family.

“I’ve got to see her,” Dilly said, so low I barely heard her.

I knew seeing her daughter was only the beginning. I knew what she really wanted, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted. Did I really want a fight to restore everything to the way it used to be or should have been? What if we won?

But I reminded myself that when determination was greater than fear, people could do just about anything, even take charge of someone like Sierra.

All I had to do now was make sure that determination stayed stronger than my fears. All I had to do was convince myself, and then Dilly, that I wouldn’t let my fears stand in the way.

Because if I knew Dilly—and I still did, even when she seemed different—my guess was that our future held three of us together. Somehow, in some way.

Me, Dilly, and her daughter, Sierra.

But not God.

Day One
In Tune with God’s Purpose

God’s love is meteoric, his loyalty astronomic, his purpose titanic, his verdicts oceanic. Yet in his largeness nothing gets lost; not a man, not a mouse, slips through the cracks.

—Psalm 36:5–6, The Message

Reflection

When I was twelve years old, I attended a program at my school that significantly impacted my life’s story. A speaker asked people to come forward if they felt God leading them to give their gifts and talents to Him. I felt led by God to respond and ask for His direction in discovering His will and purpose for my life. It was that same year that God began to lead me into music. At age thirteen, I released my first album in Australia. It was a worship album titled Refresh My Heart. I’ve been asked a number of times, “What do you feel most called to do?” I feel that my God-given purpose is to encourage people to stand for God, to live radically for Him, and to live a life of worship. The roots of this began when I responded to God at age twelve.

This devotional journey is all about seeking purity of mind, body, and spirit. And to seek after purity, we must begin in our minds. One definition for pure, when used in the sense of a musical tone, means “free from harshness or roughness and being in tune.”1 God has a purpose for every one of our lives, and He invites us to get in tune with His plan. To be pure is to seek His purpose first and foremost in our lives. If we want our lives to have an impact, that begins and ends with discovering and living out our God-given purpose. Without purpose we have no clear direction, and we may not know which decision to make when we’re at a crossroads. Purpose gives us focus to discern what is important. And purpose gives us the strength to do what we need to do. One of this world’s greatest tragedies is a life lived without discovering one’s God-given purpose. We need to be careful to not just go through the motions without knowing our life purpose. We aren’t really living unless we know why we’re alive.

Looking Further

Since the beginning of time, God has made everything “on purpose.” He created the sky for a reason: to separate the water of the earth from the waters of the heavens (see Gen. 1:6-8). He made the land with a purpose: so there would be dry ground between the seas for us to live on (see Gen. 1:9-12). He designed the sun and the moon with a plan in mind: to mark off seasons, days, and years (see Gen. 1:14-18). And as the crowning glory of creation, He fashioned human beings in His own image (see Gen. 1:26-27). If He thinks highly enough of you and me to put His fingerprint on us, we can be assured that He has a purpose for every one of us. The apostle Paul put it this way:

Everything, absolutely everything, above and below, visible and invisible . . . everything got started in him and finds its purpose in him. He was there before any of it came into existence and holds it all together right up to this moment. (Col. 1:16-17, The Message)

Living It Out

Are you in tune with God’s purpose for your life? In order for your dreams and His plan to live in harmony together, you have to cooperate. If you are not on the same page with Him, ask God to show you what He has in mind and to give you the courage to follow His plan. He wants to make the journey with you toward finding the purposeful life for which He destined you.

Day Two
Who Determines Your Worth?

What’s the price of a pet canary? Some loose change, right? And God cares what happens to it even more than you do. He pays even greater attention to you, down to the last detail—even numbering the hairs on your head! So don’t be intimidated by all this bully talk. You’re worth more than a million canaries.

—Matthew 10:29-31, The Message

Reflection

Several years ago I embarked on a five-week life-changing experience in Switzerland. I needed spiritual, emotional, and physical recuperation, and I found it at L’Abri (which means “shelter”), a community study center where Christians and non-Christians can seek honest answers about God and His purposes for their lives. It was there that the Lord spoke to me of my God-worth to the point that it began replacing my selfworth. Before this experience I don’t think I had ever really discovered the sense of wholeness in God that I felt there.

One of the things I had to confront in my life was the issue of perfectionism. When you are a perfectionist, you tend either to push yourself all the time to be better or to go into failure mode and give up, believing that you’ll never succeed. My tendency was to live with a sense that God was disappointed in me—that I was not good enough. Through study and prayer and time alone with Him, the Lord assured me that I am loved and secure. I know that I’m His princess, accepted and cherished.

Because many people spend much of their time trying to please others, they’re uncomfortable in their own skin and don’t know who they are. Unfortunately, they derive their sense of worth from what they do or don’t do for others. It’s all based on a false and conditional love. We can get so wrapped up in our selfishness that we can’t see beyond ourselves to find our worth in God—who we are in Him.

Looking Further

If you’ve read The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J. R. R. Tolkien, or have seen the movies, you’re familiar with the creature Gollum and his obsession with “my precious,” the ring. He was willing to do anything to keep it, and went to great lengths in an attempt to reclaim it. Ultimately, his selfish fascination with the treasure cost him his life. Unlike Gollum, God’s love for us is purely selfless because He was willing to give up what’s most important to Him—His only Son—to redeem you. He cherishes you as His precious creation. The apostle Paul put it this way:

Christ arrives right on time to make this happen. He didn’t, and doesn’t, wait for us to get ready. He presented himself for this sacrificial death when we were far too weak and rebellious to do anything to get ourselves ready. And even if we hadn’t been so weak, we wouldn’t have known what to do anyway. We can understand someone dying for a person worth dying for, and we can understand how someone good and noble could inspire us to selfless sacrifice. But God put his love on the line for us by offering his Son in sacrificial death while we were of no use whatever to him. (Rom. 5:6-8, The Message)

Living It Out

How much time do you spend in the morning thinking about how others will perceive you based on what you look like each day? How could you spend some of that time contemplating your worth in God’s eyes? Look in the mirror and realize how precious you are to Him.

1. Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 10th ed., s.v. “pure.”

Copyright © 2008 by Rebecca St. James

Get on the Bus

One of my favorite authors and speakers, Patsy Clairmont, tells the story of when her son was about six years old. Because they lived out in the country, she walked her son to the bus stop every morning. One day, early in the school year, before she got back to the house, she heard the footsteps of her son running up behind her.

“What in the world are you doing?” she said to him. “The school bus will be here any minute.”

“I’m quitting school,” he said, looking her straight in the eye.

“You can’t quit school,” she replied. “You’re only in first grade. Why do you want to quit?”

“Well, it’s too long, too hard and too boring,” he said.

“Son, that’s life,” said Patsy. “Get on the bus.”

* * *

Have you ever wanted to give up?

There’s a worthy goal ahead, but to reach the goal takes time, effort and focus. When you run into obstacles, your first inclination might be to quit. That’s when the best thing you can do is square your shoulders, set your lunch kit firmly under your arm and get on the bus—in other words, take one simple step toward your goal.

If you’re reading this book, chances are good that you have a worthy goal in mind—you want your life and health to change for the better. Maybe you haven’t fully articulated the goal, but you know that you can’t stay the same. You know that something has to change in your life because parts of your life—perhaps all parts—aren’t what they could be right now.

What’s the most obvious part of your life that needs to change—is it your weight?

Being overweight is an obvious catalyst that invites you to open the door to positive change. It’s easy to admit to a struggle with weight when the mirrors, the scale and the clothes closets in your house don’t lie. Being overweight is noticeable—to you and to others. You can’t ignore it. It never lets you forget its presence.

• Maybe you feel the extra weight in your heart and lungs. It’s difficult to climb stairs. It’s difficult or impossible to play with your kids or grandchildren. You dread your annual physical checkup because you already know what the doctor is going to tell you.

• Perhaps buying clothes is distressing and embarrassing for you. You see the clothes you’d like to wear, but nothing fits or feels right. You dread wearing shorts. You detest wearing a swimsuit, and you might even refuse to participate in any activity that requires your wearing a swimsuit.

• Maybe you sense a subtle discrimination at work. You are passed over for a promotion and wonder if it has anything to do with your weight. Maybe your sales would be higher if you looked fit. Maybe you’d get more respect if you weren’t packing on the pounds.

• You dread social events, such as a class reunion, where you’re with people who haven’t seen you for a while. You hear people say good things to others, but no positive comments come your way. Maybe people give you pointed stares. Maybe they even joke that your spouse’s cooking must be really good.

• Weight affects your pocketbook. Your grocery bill is higher. Your life insurance premiums are elevated. You spend more on medical deductibles. Maybe you have paid a lot of money for weight-loss programs and related books.

• You fear the severe repercussions of being overweight. One of your grandmothers suffers from diabetes. An uncle died of heart disease. Another had a stroke. You’re about the same age and condition as they were when their bodies became diseased. What will be your fate?

The reasons why you are overweight are numerous. You may have struggled with weight forever. You’ve always been the “fat kid,” the one picked last in gym class, the girl without a date at prom or the tubby guy who’s always good for a joke. You blame the weight on your genes, the way you were raised or the fact that your mother always cooked with butter. But it doesn’t matter—in the end you’re overweight because you’ve always been that way.

Some people struggle with weight only after a major life change—the pounds came on after marriage, after reaching a certain age, during pregnancy. You remember what it was like to be fit, but that was definitely yesterday’s body. You see pictures of yourself taken a few years ago, before you gained weight, and wonder if you’ll ever look like that again.

Some of us wrestle with weight because, in our most honest moments, we know it acts as a cocoon. If this is your reason, perhaps you gained weight because something terrible happened years ago. Maybe your father died when you were young and you’re still grieving his loss; you were date raped as a teenager and it has taken years to overcome the tragedy; you went through an ugly divorce and are still scarred and wounded. The extra pounds feel like a protection. You believe your weight hides you from a hurtful world. Food is a refuge that always seems to make you feel better.

Some people struggle with weight because age or other health conditions hinder ease of movement. If this is your story, you long to be fit and healthy, but most mornings when you wake up you simply feel miserable. It’s hard to get off the couch, much less walk around the block.

Others struggle with weight because life moves too fast. You’ve got to work all day and pick up the kids after soccer practice and get dinner on the table and make phone calls for the committee after dinner and on and on and on—how can you possibly take time to focus on your health?

Whatever the reasons, you know one thing for sure: The pounds are there, and you wish they weren’t. You long for a better life—a vibrant, healthy life. Deep down you long to be the kind of person whose life is characterized by balance and satisfaction.

You can glimpse the better goal of being fit and well, but to reach that goal, you know it will take time, effort and focus. Obstacles will come up—they’ve come up every other time you’ve tried to lose weight, and when this happens, the temptation is always to quit. You know that you need to take one simple step at a time toward your target. But how do you do that?

The Place to Begin

There is hope for your future weight loss, and it’s found in a place you may have never imagined. The easy thing would be for me to give you another diet to follow. But statistics tell us that 95 percent of people who lose weight gain it back again.1 The simple fact is that another diet is not the solution you’re looking for.

I repeat: If all you’re looking for is a quick way to lose weight, then this book will disappoint you. That’s not what First Place 4 Health is all about. Besides, I won’t give you a quick fix that will take the pounds off only to have them come back on a short time later.

I want to give you a lasting solution that addresses not only the number you see on a scale but also your whole person—spiritually, mentally, emotionally and physically. It’s the plan that helps you lead the life you were meant to live—a good life filled with hope, purpose and health.

If that kind of life is something that interests you, I want to let you in on a little secret. The hope for your future weight loss begins with this simple fact:

God is good.

That’s where the First Place 4 Health program begins. Does that statement sound so simple that you feel like dismissing it? “God is good” is one of the most far-reaching principles of the Bible, and it affects your life in ways that you may never have imagined. Let’s take that one fact and unpack it a bit.

Imagine for a moment that you lived a few thousand years ago. You’re in a community of people loved by God, but you have all made mistakes over a long period of time, and you find yourself conquered, captured and carted off to Babylon by order of King Nebuchadnezzar.

In this new land, nothing feels the same and nothing looks the same. Obstacles are all around you. You’re a stranger in a strange land. But you get a letter from one of your “pastors”—the prophet Jeremiah—and the letter lays out the very words of God.

In the letter, God says that He knows everything there is to know about you, including the events of your life that have led you to this place of exile. God knows the mistakes you have made, but He offers you His grace. The Lord declares these simple yet profound words:

I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future (Jer. 29:11).

That’s the simple fact: God has good plans for you, plans to give you a hope and a future. In other words—God is good.

God is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. Even though He wrote those words through the prophet Jeremiah, to a specific group of people at a specific place and time, His righteous character is still the same toward us today. Whenever we turn to the Lord and ask for His help, He extends His hand of grace to us.

Nahum 1:7 repeats that thought:

The Lord is good, a refuge in times of trouble.

He cares for those who trust in Him.

That’s the real answer to your goal of losing weight and becoming healthy. Start with the fact that God is good. He cares for you. The answer you’re looking for encompasses not just taking off pounds, but also living the life of purpose and hope you were meant to live. This is the life God calls you to live. And that life is well within your grasp. This book will show you what it’s all about.

Do the Next Right Thing

To begin learning about this new, healthier lifestyle, you need to start right where you are. That means taking whatever positive step is right in front of you; or, in other words, “do the next right thing.”

I want to share with you part of a letter I received from one of our First Place 4 Health group leaders. She has chosen to show up to life every day. She takes small steps. She makes ordinary decisions for positive change. But she is walking the path of balance that leads to total health.

I have battled depression most of my life. When I became a Christian, that battle did not go away. In 1990, when I weighed 220 pounds, I prayed that God would deliver me from my addiction to food. One week later, I learned about First Place. (First Place has been a lifesaver for me. I have been a First Place leader off and on since 1991.)

When my mother came to live with us, and I became her full-time caregiver, I dropped out of First Place and my weight went up to 273 pounds. I am disabled and live with chronic pain on a daily basis. During this time there were days when I only got out of bed to take care of my mother’s most basic needs.

When she went home to be with the Lord in 2002, I chose to have gastric bypass surgery the next year instead of returning to First Place. I lost 90 pounds the first year and then stopped. I have since realized that there’s no magic cure for weight gain. Even with gastric bypass surgery, the answer is to eat less and exercise more.

I wanted so badly to start leading First Place again, but since I’d had weight-loss surgery, I felt that I couldn’t justify leading the class. I prayed and sought the Lord and called your office and was encouraged to share with the class and go forward. I have done that now for the last two years.

All of this leads up to why I am writing. I have battled depression since I was a very young girl. God has helped me so much since becoming a Christian, but it is a battle every day, and some days I lose the fight. One of my First Place assistants brought a copy of the April 2007 First Place Newsletter to class for each of our members. That newsletter has changed my life.

We all have Aha! moments in life when one word or one Scripture reaches us and the light bulb turns on. For me it was one line from that newsletter. “When there are times when all I can do is the next right thing, then I do the next right thing.” Wow! I thought. Maybe I can do that. So I typed up this saying and placed it on my bathroom mirror. The very next day I woke up in great pain, not knowing how to begin doing all the things

I needed to do, and with no energy and no desire to do anything. Then I remembered the saying—Do the next right thing. I read it out loud, and I read it again. And then, I did the next right thing. All day that day, if I got confused or overwhelmed or sad, I went back to the bathroom and read that statement and then did the next right thing.

My husband can’t believe the things I have gotten accomplished. My house is cleaner; my laundry is done (folded and put away); I go to bed earlier and get up earlier. I have started swimming at the YWCA. I have become interested in reading and doing crafts again. Previously, I just wanted to stay in bed until noon; but now I tell myself to just get up and do the next right thing.

The words “Do the next right thing” have completely changed my life. Do I still battle depression? Yes. Maybe I will for the rest of my life unless the Lord chooses to heal me. Am I still in constant pain? Oh, yes. I need surgery, and maybe now I will find the courage to go ahead with that. But I don’t have to worry about that—I just have to do the next right thing.

In the pages ahead, you will see more specifically what taking positive steps looks like. Together we will examine the model of the foursided person and explore what it means to live a balanced life mentally, spiritually, emotionally and physically. You are invited to make foundational shifts toward positive habits that will help you along your new journey. Through the power of God, you can decide to live a healthier life, and you can experience lasting positive change.

When I think of a person who has succeeded in this area, I think of my friend Deborah, a woman in my First Place 4 Health group.

Deborah had a number of strikes against her. At 5′8″, she weighed more than 200 pounds. She had been in an emotionally and physically abusive marriage and was in the process of getting a divorce. She had custody of her two preteen girls and was tired a lot. After suffering from chronic depression for years, Deborah was on several medications.

When Deborah came to her first meeting, all she did was sit. She sat through an entire 12-week session and didn’t lose a pound. She signed up for another 12-week session. She came and sat, and didn’t lose a pound.

So she signed up for a third 12-week session. On the day the session was to start, she sent me this email: “Carole, please take my name off the roll. I’m just dragging the group down.”

I knew that Deborah wasn’t doing her Bible study. I knew that she had not learned the food plan. I knew that she was convinced that all she was able to do was sit. And I knew that she had reached the point where the pain of not changing was forcing her to move beyond the lies and make a choice. Her choice was that she needed to make a choice.

I replied to her email message with one line: Deborah—just come today.

That day, when Deborah arrived, I hugged her, and she started crying.

That was her moment of choice. From that moment on, she started responding to the program. She began doing her Bible study and memorizing verses. She started walking around her neighborhood with her girls. She started eating according to the Live It plan.

Soon, she had lost 60 pounds.

Previously hidden aspects of Deborah’s personality began to shine through. She was fun! We learned that she was a talented photographer. In fact, in March 2006, she went to Israel with a tour group arranged by First Place 4 Health. She took pictures for the group and walked up and down the rocky terrain. I had never seen her like that—so vibrant and full of action. She had just been so squashed down all of her life.

“Deborah,” I said, a while ago, “tell me what finally happened for you to make a choice.”

“Carole,” she said, “you believed in me. You believed that I could do it. Nobody ever believed in me before.”

What she said is true. I believed in her. And I believe in you. I believe that you can do it. Even if no one has ever believed in you before, know that someone believes in you now. With God’s help, you can change. It’s your choice. And you have the power to do it.

As you take your next steps toward positive change, keep in mind that you must choose to change before change will begin.

First Place 4 Health is not a diet; it’s a lifestyle shift.

People often believe that if they can just get on the right diet, all their weight problems will be solved. That’s an easy mistake to make, because the latest, greatest diets are always marketed as the solution we need. Yet First Place 4 Health is much more than a diet; it’s a change in how to approach life. The good thing about the First Place 4 Health food plan is that it’s not restrictive like a diet would be. We invite you to explore all the wonderful world of food choices the Lord has provided.

• First Place 4 Health is not about rigid rules; it’s about helpful invitations. We used to stress commitments—which is a good concept. We wanted people to be dedicated to pursuing health. But we have found that people sometimes looked at commitments as laws, and if laws were broken, then guilt and rigidity set in. Instead, we are inviting you to make a number of positive changes in your life. No one does them all perfectly, all of the time. So relax. There isn’t just one way to live a healthy life. Develop the plan that works best for you, and give yourself grace to make mistakes and adjustments along the way.

• Get involved at your own pace. When it comes to living a healthy, balanced life, success will look different for different people. Some people lose 100 pounds the first year they’re involved in First Place 4 Health. Other people lose 20 pounds and keep it off for 20 years. For others, success is found in not gaining any more weight. You are welcome in First Place 4 Health regardless of where you are with your current level of health. We encourage you to do no more than what you are ready for. Yet we do encourage you to take a first positive step as soon as possible.

• Your invitation starts right now. Any change requires some sort of adjustment. Your invitation is to jump in to this new life today. Just begin. Get on the bus. Make the choice to give yourself wholeheartedly to this new season in your life—a season that will hopefully stretch into a lifetime of healthy living. Have fun exploring new ways to grow in your faith and in your understanding of health. Develop new friendships by getting involved in something good for you. Don’t be satisfied with standing on the outside—come on in! Be courageous and take the next step in living a balanced life.

What Keeps You Going?

The formula for lasting change:

A worthy goal reached through time + effort + focus

When obstacles to meeting your goal come up, your first inclination may be to quit. That’s when you take the next step toward your goal— just one simple step at a time.

It helps to have a clear idea of what a worthy goal looks like. You may not have articulated more than the words “to lose weight.” While this is a worthy goal, it usually breaks down when obstacles come up, because you need a greater understanding of the motivation behind your goal. When you remember why it is that you wanted to lose weight in the first place, that knowledge keeps you heading toward your goal.

People lose weight for all sorts of reasons. The Bible provides the foundational motivation, and it’s as simple as this: God is interested in your health. The motivations are shown in two passages of Scripture.

Check out Romans 12:1-2:

Therefore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.

In other words, you are urged to present your body—your actual flesh and blood and bone and skin—to God as an act of worship. How you take care of your body is a reflection of what you think about God. It’s honoring to the Lord to take care of the body He has given you.

When your body is presented to God, He invites you to use your life in service to Him.

Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body (1 Cor. 6:19-20).

The benefit here is yours. To live for the Lord God of All is an incredible privilege. God’s invitation is to an abundant life full of purpose and hope. A foundational motivation for weight loss and total lifestyle change is to give your body to God.

It seems strange to think about it, but if you have accepted Christ as your Savior, then you have the actual Spirit of God living inside your body. It doesn’t make you a god. It means that your body houses the spirit of God, and that He works in your life by faith.

So what are the foundational motivations for losing weight and living a life of balance?

First, God wants you to. God is interested in your health.

Second, when your life is in balance, it’s much easier to be a leader in your family and a role model for your children and spouse. It’s difficult to lead people where you have never been yourself. Many children are overweight and need encouragement from their parents. Many of the weight problems of our children would evaporate if we led by example.

I’ve experienced this truth in my own life. When I first started to exercise, my oldest granddaughter, Cara, loved to walk or jog with me. Would she have done it on her own? No way! Yet in a heartbeat, she came with me at my invitation. Children love being with their family members.

Third, weight loss can also expose the true needs in our hearts. I’m talking specifically to those of you who need emotional healing. A weight gain is often a symptom of a deeper issue. For instance, women and men who have been emotionally or sexually abused often attempt to hide their pain by eating.

But whatever motivation is speaking to your heart, just take a moment now to get on the bus.

In the space on the following pages, jot down some ideas about the reasons you want to lose weight. It can be very beneficial to see your goals on paper. When obstacles come (and they will), you can refer back to this to gain encouragement.

Sometimes it helps to record a positive goal as well as its negative extrapolation of what might happen if you don’t do anything. Sometimes it can help to imagine your life in 5, 10 or 15 years. What will happen if something changes? What will happen if nothing changes?

Take some time to think through the following declarations.

I want to lose weight because . . .

I want to lose weight so that I can . . .

and be a good example to . . .

If I lose weight, then in the future I can see myself . . .

If I don’t lose weight, then in the future I can see myself . . .

There is no correct way to word your goal. What matters is that you know your goal, remind yourself of it often and keep in mind that your goal is reachable. With God’s help, you can do it.

Congratulations! You’re on Your Way

God never promised us that life would be rosy and without difficulty. Instead, the Lord promises to carry us through any situation and trial. God already knows your goals. He knows that you desire a better life filled with purpose, health and hope. And He knows the obstacles you will encounter that tempt you to quit the journey. Don’t give up! You can make it!

Remember, you have already taken the first step by reading this chapter. And it wasn’t that hard. Now you’re on the bus! You’re on your way to a whole new you.

Checklist for Success

• Acknowledge the truth that God is good and that He offers you a hope-filled plan for your life and future. Your success begins with this simple fact.

• Run from quick fixes—they never provide you with the lasting change you need. First Place 4 Health is a lifestyle change that affects your whole person—mentally, spiritually, emotionally, physically. It will take time, but it’s worth it.

• Accept the invitation to give your life to God. He is interested in everything about you—including your physical health.

• Write down the specific reasons why you want to become healthy. Refer back to your declarations often for motivation. Remind yourself why not doing anything isn’t an option.

• Start today. Obstacles and excuses will come up, but quitting isn’t the answer. Do the next right thing!

Note

1. This statistic is frequently cited in weight-loss journals and health-related articles, for example: http://preventdisease.com/fitness/weightloss/articles/carbs.html (accessed January 23, 2007).

“Make them like tumbleweed, O my God,

like chaff before the wind. As fire consumes the forest or a flame

sets the mountains ablaze, so pursue them with your tempest

and terrify them with your storm. Cover their faces with shame

so they will seek your name …”

– Psalm 83:13-16

A passion redeemed

Prologue

Boston, Massachusetts, The Day After Thanksgiving 1918

Patrick O’Connor stirred from a deep sleep at the feather touch of his wife’s breath, warm against his neck. “Patrick, I need you …”

Her words tingled through him and he slowly turned, gathering her into his arms with a sleepy smile. He ran his hand up the side of her body, all senses effectively roused.

“No, Patrick,” she whispered, shooing his hand from her waist, “I need you to go downstairs—now! There’s someone in the kitchen.”

Patrick groaned and plopped back on his pillow. “Marcy, there’s no one in the kitchen. Go back to bed, darlin’.”

She sat up and shook his shoulder. “Yes, there is—I heard it. The back door opened and closed.”

“It’s probably Sean after a late night with his friends. He hasn’t seen them since before the war, remember?”

“No, he came home hours ago. It’s three-forty-five in the morning. I’m telling you, someone’s in the kitchen.”

Marcy jerked the cover from his body. Icy air prickled his skin. Both of her size-six feet butted hard against his side and began to push.

He groaned and fisted her ankle, his stubborn streak surfacing along with goose bumps. “So help me, woman, I’ll not be shoved out of my own bed …”

She leaned across his chest with pleading eyes. “Patrick, I’m afraid. Can’t you at least go downstairs and check?”

Her tone disarmed him. “It’s probably just Faith, digging into Thanksgiving leftovers. She didn’t eat much at dinner, you know.”

“I know, and that’s what I thought, too, but I just peeked in her room, and I’m sure she was under the covers.

“One of the others, then—”

“No, they’re all sleeping. I checked. Please, Patrick? For my peace of mind? Won’t you go down and see?”

He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Yes, Marcy, I will go down and see. For your peace of mind.” He swiped his slippers off the floor and yanked them on his feet. “And for mine.” He started for the door.

“Wait! Take something with you. A shoe, a belt—something for protection.”

He turned and propped his hands low on the sides of his tie-string pajamas. “Shoes. Yes, that should do the trick. Newspaper editor bludgeons intruder with wing-tips.”

Marcy tossed the covers aside and hopped out of bed. “Wait! My iron. You can take my iron. It weighs a ton.” She padded to the wardrobe in bare feet and hefted a cast-iron appliance off the shelf. She lugged it to where he stood watching her, a half-smile twitching on his lips. “Here, take it. And hurry, will you? He could be gone by now.”

He snatched the iron from her hands. “And that would be a good thing, right?” He turned on his heel and lumbered down the hall, stifling a yawn as he descended the steps.

“Be careful,” Marcy whispered at the top of the stairs, looking more like a little girl than a mother of six. She stood biting her lip, barefoot and shivering while golden hair spilled down the front of her flannel nightgown. He waved her back and moved into the parlor, noting that Blarney wasn’t curled up on his usual spot in the foyer.

Patrick stopped. Was that a noise? A chair scraping? He tightened his hold on the iron while the hairs bristled on the back of his neck. He spied the shaft of light seeping through the bottom of the kitchen door and sucked in a deep breath. Heart pounding in his chest, he tiptoed to the swinging door and pushed just enough to peek inside.

A husky laugh bubbled in his throat. He heaved the door wide, pinning it open with the iron. “I trust this means you’ve made up your mind?”

“Father!” Faith jerked out of Collin’s embrace while Blarney darted to the door and speared a wet nose into Patrick’s free hand. His daughter faltered back several steps and pressed a hand to her cheek. Her face was as crimson as the bowl of cranberries on the table. “I … I was just giving Collin Thanksgiving leftovers.”

Patrick smiled. “Yes, I can see … starting with dessert, were you?”

“Patrick, who is it?” Marcy’s frantic whisper carried from the top of the stairs and he grinned, turning to call over his shoulder. “It’s Faith, Marcy, getting a bite to eat. Go back to bed. I’ll be right up.”

Collin took a step forward. His face was ruddy with embarrassment despite the grin on his lips. “Mr. O’Connor, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you again. When I’d heard you were killed in the war …” His voice broke and he quickly cleared it, his eyes moist. He straightened his shoulders. “Well, when my mother told me you were alive, I hitched a ride anyway I could just to get here from New York.” He took another step and held out his hand. “Sir, despite the fact that you could take me to task for kissing your daughter, I thank God you’re alive.”

Patrick grinned and pulled him into a tight hug. He closed his eyes to ward off tears of his own at holding this man who was more like a son. He cleared his throat and pulled away, waving the iron at Collin’s chest. “So, the chest wound all healed up? Good as new, despite the war?”

Collin smiled and tucked an arm around Faith. “Better than new, Mr. O’Connor. You might say I’m a new man.”

“So I’ve heard,” Patrick said, scratching his forehead with Marcy’s iron.

Collin stifled a grin. “Uh, sir, did we wake you up … or were you catching up on your ironing?”

Patrick chuckled and set the iron on the table. “Marcy’s idea, I’m afraid. She’s a light sleeper.” He reached over and popped a piece of turkey in his mouth. “So, Collin, you haven’t answered my question. Have you made up your mind?”

Collin glanced down at Faith and swallowed hard. “Yes, sir, I have. I’m in love with Faith. I want to marry her.”

Patrick assessed the soft blush on his daughter’s cheeks as she gazed up at the man who had once been engaged to her sister. Her eyes shimmered with joy, and he had never seen her so happy. He snatched another piece of turkey. “And Charity? You’ve discussed all of this with her, I suppose? As your former fiancée, she has a right to know of your intentions with her sister.”

“Yes, sir, I agree and wrote her immediately before I came home from the war.”

“And she’s fine with it? No heartbreak?” Patrick chewed slowly, studying the pair through cautious eyes.

“No, sir, no heartbreak, I can assure you. Actually, she was more than fine with it. As I told Faith, it seems she has a new love interest.”

Patrick stopped chewing. “A new love interest? Who in blazes could that be?”

Collin and Faith exchanged looks before Faith took a deep breath. “Father, we think she’s after Mitch.”

Patrick blinked. “Your Mitch?”

Collin’s lips pulled into a scowl, and Faith squeezed his hand. “Father, please, we’re not engaged anymore, so he’s no longer ‘my’ Mitch. And yes, we think he’s the one Charity’s after.”

“Saints alive, the man is practically old enough to be her father! And after the stunt she pulled in Dublin, trying to break you and Mitch up, does he even like her?”

Faith bit her lip and glanced up at Collin. “I don’t think so. But you know Charity. Once she gets an idea in her head, it’s there to stay.”

“Yes, yes, I know Charity.” Patrick exhaled a weary breath. “Faith, put some coffee on, will you? Then you let that man sit down and eat. I suspect your mother won’t be able to sleep anymore than I will, so we may as well talk. We’ve got a lot of praying to do—about your plans for the future, your wedding, and your wayward sister in Dublin.”

Faith grinned and scooted to the stove to make coffee. “Yes, sir. Want a sandwich too?”

“May as well. Looks to be a long day, and I’m going to need all the energy I can get.” Patrick started to leave, then turned with his hand braced on the door. He squinted at Collin. “You’re home to stay, I hope? No more New York?”

Collin shot him a grin and reached for a hefty drumstick. “Yes, sir, home to stay. I hope that’s good news. Except for your grocery bill.”

Patrick chuckled and pushed through the kitchen door. Thank you, Lord, for bringing that boy home safe and sound. With a bounce in his step, he mounted the stairs, anxious to share the good news with Marcy. His thoughts suddenly returned to Charity, and his pace slowed considerably. She was the daughter who puzzled him the most. Beautiful, stubborn, wild—and so hard to reach. He fought a smile and made his way down the dark hall, shaking his head as he entered his room. God help Mitch Dennehy!

Chapter One

Dublin, Ireland, October 1919

Poor, unsuspecting Mitch. The dear boy—well, hardly a boy—doesn’t stand a chance.

The thought coaxed a smile to Charity O’Connor’s lips as she entered the smoky confines of Duffy’s Bar & Grille. The aroma of boxty cakes and sausage bangers sizzling on the griddle reminded her she’d been too nervous to eat. Her escort held the heavy wooden door while she stepped in. The brisk night air collided with the warmth of the cozy pub. Her eyes scanned the room, past the long serpentine bar crowded with patrons, to the glazed mahogany booths lining the mirror-laden walls. Disappointment squeezed in her stomach like hunger pangs.

He isn’t here!

With a lift of her chin, her gaze shifted to the sea of tables occupied by lovely lasses and well-to-do gentlemen fawning over their food and each other. In a cozy corner, a flute and concertina harmonized, the sound of their lively reel laced with laughter, off-key singing and the hush of intimate conversations.

“Charity, if this is too crowded, I know a quiet place we can go—”

She whirled around. “No, please. I see a table in the back.”

Her breathy tone and eager smile produced the desired effect on Rigan Gallagher. His hazel eyes softened. Slacking a hip, he notched his straw boater up with one thumb to reveal an errant strand of dark hair, giving him a boyish look despite his thirty years. His lips pulled into a wicked grin. “Aye, Duffy’s it is. But it’s fair to warn you, Miss O’Connor, you can’t avoid being alone with me forever.” He pressed his hand firmly against the small of her back and guided her to the one unoccupied table at the rear of the room.

Every nerve in her body tingled with electricity, but not from Rigan’s touch. Charity took the seat he offered and draped her shawl over the back. Her eyes flitted to the booth she had shared with Mitch Dennehy over a year ago. The memory washed over her like the candlelight flickering across the crisp, white tablecloth before her, its flame dancing high and hot.

A tall, gangly waiter approached and Charity looked up, fixing him with a radiant smile. He must be new, she thought; she hadn’t seen him before. A lump the size of a persimmon bobbed in his throat while two pink splotches stained his cheeks. He handed them each a menu, his bony fingers fumbling the parchment sheets. “G’day, miss … sir. What can I get for your pleasure?”

Rigan opened the menu. “I daresay the most important thing would be a liter of your best wine, my good man.”

“Yes, sir, very good, sir.” The waiter wagged his head and darted away.

Rigan perused his menu, absently reaching across the table to twine Charity’s hand in his. “Suddenly I find myself quite ravenous.” He looked up, a twinkle lighting his eyes. “But then you always whet my appetite, Miss O’Connor.”

Charity bit back a smile and slipped her hand from his. “Rigan, you are incorrigible. Behave … or I shall never accompany you again.”

He leaned back in the chair with a low, throaty laugh. His gaze assessed her from head to waist, finally lingering on her mouth. “Oh, I think you will. I’ve been told I’m irresistible.”

“Mmmm … to the right woman, I suppose.” She studied her menu and decided on the shepherd’s pie. She looked up, eyes blinking wide in innocence. “Tell me, Rigan, did they happen to mention anything about being a rogue?”

He clutched at his chest with a pained expression. “Charity, you wound me. The moment I stepped into Shaw’s Emporium, I’ve only had eyes for you.” He leaned forward, his manner suddenly serious. “Charity O’Connor—you, only you—take my breath away.”

She fidgeted with the filmy sleeve of her lavender blouse to deflect the intensity of his gaze. For the hundredth time, she thought what a pity it was she was in love with Mitch Dennehy. With money, looks and reckless notoriety, Rigan was a catch for any girl. But alas, for her, that’s all he was. A catch—the perfect man to “catch” the eye of a certain editor from the Times.

Rigan removed his hat and placed it on the table. He returned to his menu, his manner confident as he relaxed in the chair. That maverick strand of ebony hair fell across his forehead in an unruly fashion—like the man himself—providing a mesmerizing contrast to the umber hue of his eyes. His nose, no doubt once straight and strong, now sported the slightest of bumps, as if broken in a brawl. Probably over a woman, Charity mused, given what her friend, Emma, had told her about Rigan Gallagher III.

“Too handsome for his own good, that one,” Emma had whispered on the fateful day he entered the shop where Charity worked. “And too handsome for the good of any lass, if you ask me.” Dear Emma had rolled her eyes in such a comical way, Charity had to stifle a giggle. “Aye, and too rich as well. But that won’t be stopping Mr. High-and-Mighty once he sets his eyes on the likes of you, I’ll bet me firstborn.”

The waiter returned with a bottle and two glasses. His hands were quivering as he poured the wine. Suddenly a stream of port splashed over the edge into Rigan’s hat. Rigan jumped up with a shout. He snatched his hat from the table and shook it out. “You clumsy oaf! It would take two months of your wages to replace this hat!”

Charity shot to her feet. “Rigan, please,” she soothed, “it was just an accident, and it’s only a dribble of wine.” She blotted the table with her napkin, chancing a peek at the waiter. The poor man appeared to be having trouble breathing as he gasped for air. Charity chewed on her lip. Oh, my—she had never seen a redder face! She laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Don’t mind him,” she whispered, “It could happen to anyone. Why, my first week on the job, I broke an expensive bottle of perfume and the shop reeked for days.” She patted his hand and smiled. “But after that, the place smelled rather nice.”

The fear faded from his eyes and he nodded. “Thank ye, miss, you’re a kind lady, ye are.” He turned to Rigan and clicked his heels. “Forgive me, sir, for my clumsiness. Please allow me to tidy your hat …”

Rigan waved him away. “No, the lady’s right. It’s only a dribble of wine.” He glanced at Charity with a sheepish grin. “Although I’d prefer it dribbled down my throat rather than my hat.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said with another blush. “I can bring a fresh bottle if you wish …”

“No, no, just see to our food, my good man, and we’ll call it even.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

Rigan ordered their food and dismissed the waiter. Charity watched as he poured their wine and put the bottle down. He propped both arms on the table and leaned forward, slowly twiddling his glass. He fixed her with a probing stare. “So, Charity, tell me. Why are we slumming in Duffy’s again when there are nicer places I could take you?”

Her cheeks grew warm. “No reason. I came here once and liked it, that’s all.”

Rigan eyed her with frank curiosity. “With Dennehy?”

Charity drew a quick breath. It lodged in her lungs, refusing to budge.

Rigan’s laugh was harsh. He grabbed his wine and downed it. “Really, Charity, how big of a fool do you think I am? The moment you discovered my father owned the Irish Times, you were more than willing to go out with me. Of course, that was fine with me—you certainly wouldn’t be the first woman after my money.”

“Rigan, you’re being ridiculous. I couldn’t care less about your money …”

“Or me.”

“Well, no, not when you behave like a fool.”

He poured himself more wine and lifted his glass in a toast. “To the ‘fool’—a part I suspect I will play more than once when it comes to you.” He took a drink and settled back in his chair. “So … what is Mitch Dennehy to you?”

She fingered the silk ruffle of her V-necked blouse, careful to avoid his eyes. “I already told you. He was my sister’s fiancé. He’s like a member of the family.”

Rigan snorted, idly tracing the rim of his glass with his finger. “How is it that I don’t get a ‘brotherly’ feeling?”

Another rush of warmth invaded her cheeks, stiffening her jaw. “What you ‘get’ or don’t get is of no concern of mine. Nor are my relationships any concern of yours.”

He slanted forward with a low growl. “They are if I intend to go on seeing you.”

Charity pushed her wine glass away and reached for her shawl. “Very well, perhaps you’d better take me home.” She stood in a rush and swiped a strand of hair from her eyes. Take that, Mr. Gallagher!

He rose and blocked her exit, straw boater in hand and a smile on his lips. His thumbs stroked the nubby rim of his hat. “I can do that, but I don’t think that’s what you want. I think you would much rather stay and enjoy a plate of Dublin coddle with a charming—albeit notorious—scoundrel.” He bowed slightly, his boater clutched to his chest. “Especially a scoundrel with a knack for boiling the blood of Mr. Mitch Dennehy.”

Charity drew in a quick breath. “What do you mean?”

Rigan pressed close, his low laugh warming her ear. “I mean, who better to enlist in turning the head of the man you love than the one he can’t abide?”

“Oh, Rigan, you’re utterly impossible. I’m not in love with anyone.”

He cocked a brow. “Maybe not, but for some reason I have yet to ascertain, you desperately want to catch his eye. Of course, I hoped you were interested in me. But regrettably, I do believe I detected an increase in your ardor once you learned of my connection with the Times. Tell me, Charity, did you think I wouldn’t notice your subtle queries about him? And now this—” He waved his hat toward the pub, “your curious obstinance to continually have dinner in a middle-class bar frequented by Times employees?”

Charity thrust her chin out. “Are you suggesting I’m using you?”

Rigan lifted a curl fallen loose from her topknot. He fondled it with his fingers as he studied her. A hint of a smile played on his lips. “I am … and most happily so. I must admit I was disappointed it wasn’t my charm that wooed you. But alas, I will take you, Charity O’Connor, anyway I can. If I am to be the bait to entice some hapless suitor, so be it.”

Charity sank to her chair. “You would do that? Whatever for?”

Rigan returned to his seat. “Call me a hopeless romantic. Or maybe I’m counting on you falling in love with me in the process. Either way, I’m willing to play the fool—for a price.”

Her gaze narrowed. “What price?”

The waiter interrupted with steaming plates of shepherd’s pie and roast mutton before dashing off again. Charity felt her stomach rumble. She picked up her fork. “What price?” she repeated, stabbing into her food.

Rigan sipped his wine. He took his time while he watched her over the rim of his glass. He finally set it down and relaxed back in the chair, assessing her through hooded eyes. “The taste of your lips—anytime, anywhere.”

Charity’s fork clattered to her plate. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the nervous laughter from bubbling up. Impossible! It rolled from her lips in unrestrained hilarity, bringing tears to her eyes and discomfort to her cheeks. The rogue! He couldn’t be serious! She dabbed at the wetness with her napkin and took a deep breath, a shaky hand pressed to her chest. “Really, Rigan, I have a mind to leave right now and never see you again. You can’t be serious.”

He never blinked. “Quite.”

Charity quickly reached for her wine, desperate to diffuse her shock. Her lips rested on the edge before sipping it while thoughts of Mitch Dennehy clouded her mind. She stared at the scarlet liquid glazing the glass and fought back the hint of impropriety that nettled her nerves. No! She couldn’t do this … could she? She swallowed hard and slowly looked up, careful to place the glass back on the table with steady fingers. Her chin lifted with resolve. “My lips? And nothing more?”

She could feel the heat of his gaze from across the table.

“Nothing … until you beg.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. Dear Lord, what was she doing? She picked up her fork and forced a smile she didn’t feel. At least the tantalizing smell of the food, if not Rigan, had her salivating. She took a deep breath to dispel her discomfort and strove for a show of confidence. “Not a likely scenario, but I won’t ruin your fun.” She closed her eyes for her first taste of the pie, fighting the urge to emit a soft moan as she rolled it across her tongue. Opening her eyes once again, she hoisted her glass with a nervous grin. “Absolutely delicious … and far, far better than the taste of my lips, I assure you. Nonetheless, feed me, kiss me and turn a head in the process, and we, my good man, shall have a deal. After all, I’m a woman who usually gets what she wants—a trait I also admire in others.”

Rigan tipped his glass in a toast. “Well then, my dear Charity, I daresay, if admiration were love, we’d be well on our way.”

***

Mitch Dennehy glanced at the clock and groaned. He plowed his fingers through his short, cropped hair, then stood from his desk to stretch. “Come on, Bridie, I’ll buy you supper. It’s the least I can do after keeping you so late.”

Bridie O’Halloran looked up, and her gold-brown eyes reflected the fatigue of a long day. She slumped back in the chair and blew a wisp of silver hair out of her face. “Sweet angels in Heaven, I thought you’d never ask! I’m no good dead from starvation, you know.” She held up the latest edition of the Times and wagged it in the air. “Read all about it. Fifty-year-old Dunkirk woman perishes at the Irish Times.”

Mitch laughed and reached for his coat. “And I’ll do better than Brody’s. How does Guinness Stew and fresh-baked soda bread sound, hot out of the oven?”

Bridie rolled her eyes in obvious ecstasy. “Like the gates of Heaven itself … or otherwise if you’ll throw in a pint of ale.”

Mitch retrieved her coat and held it while she slipped it on. “Well then, Duffy’s it is. Nothing but the best for my slave labor.”

Bridie grunted. “Keep that up and I’ll be ordering scones and lemon curd as well.”

Mitch laughed and ushered her through the newsroom and into the lobby, nodding at those who worked the second shift. He opened the door, and a rush of cold air assaulted their faces. With it came the fumes of the city, from its gas lamps and motor lorries and faint whiff of manure. Bridie shivered as he led her around the corner to Duffy’s, a favorite haunt he’d once frequented. Shouldering the heavy, oak-carved door, Mitch pushed it open and allowed Bridie to enter before him. One foot on the threshold, and the onslaught of boisterous laughter and tempting aromas assailed his senses. The reaction in his gut was immediate. Everything—from the pungent smell of spiced beef and crubeens simmering on the stove, to the scent of lemon oil gleaming the bar and booths to a high sheen—all of it, dredged up memories he’d rather forget.

Mitch slammed the door behind him. His lips stiffened in a frown as he surveyed the room, hunting for an empty booth or table, to no avail. What? They giving food away now?

“Saints above, has it always been this busy?” Bridie asked, searching the room for some sign of an empty chair.

“Didn’t used to be. But I haven’t been here in a while.”

Bridie wheeled to face him. “Aw, Mitch, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot—this is the place you and Faith—”

Mitch pushed past her, hooking her elbow on his way to the bar. “Yes, it is, but it doesn’t matter. It’s been over a year and by thunder, if I want to eat in Duffy’s again, I will.” He glanced behind the bar, catching the eye of a portly, red-haired waitress toting a tray of foaming ales. At sight of him, her mouth tilted into a toothy grin. She passed the tray off to another waitress and hurried over, her blue eyes sparkling.

“Well as I live and breathe, if it isn’t the man of me dreams.” Clutching fleshy arms around Mitch’s waist, she squeezed with a teasing groan. “Where on this fair isle of ours have you been keeping yourself, Mitch Dennehy? We’ve missed you! The rest of us thought maybe Duffy poisoned you.” She grinned at Bridie. “Nice to see you too, Bridie.”

Mitch laughed and returned the woman’s hug with one of his own. He chucked her double chin with his thumb and grinned. “Truth be told, Duffy told me ol’ Harry finally proposed. Near broke my heart, it did. Enough to stay away and nurse my wounds.”

Sally blushed. The folds of her full cheeks dimpled in delight. “Aw, go on with you now, you silver-tongued rake.” Her smile faded. “We heard about Faith, Mitch. No tight lips in a place like this, you know. I kinda wondered if maybe that was why we hadn’t seen ya. You okay?”

Mitch sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, Sal, I’m okay.” He leaned forward, ducking his head. “But I’d be a sight better if we had a booth.”

Sally tossed her head back in a giggle, causing her short, puffy curls to bob. “Well now, I can’t toss customers out, even for a heartbreaker like you.” She inclined her head with a saucy sway. “But I’m not without my influence. Why don’t you and Bridie sit at the bar and get yourselves a pint. I’ll see you get the very next one.”

Mitch planted a kiss on Sally’s glowing cheek. “You’re the best, Sal. Tell ol’ Harry to treat you right or I’ll hunt him down.”

Mitch steered Bridie to the nearest empty stool where she sank against the bar with a low groan. “Never again will you talk me into working this late. I’m starving. Hope you brought lots of cash.”

He gave her a wry grin. “I always bring lots of cash when I feed you. What’s your pleasure?”

She perked up and squinted her eyes at the rows of bottles behind the bar. “I believe I’ll have an extra stout porter.”

Mitch signaled the bartender and ordered a Guinness for Bridie and a ginger ale for himself. He turned and leaned back to survey the action.

She swiveled on the stool and puckered her brow. “Ginger ale? You’re reduced to ginger ale?”

He frowned. “Lay off, Bridie.”

The bartender delivered their drinks. He gulped his like it was pure corn liquor, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Bridie shook her head. “I’ll lay off when you get back to normal.” She took a swig of her beer, eyeing him over her mug. “When you gonna get on with your life?”

“Leave it be, I said.” His lips cemented into a hard line as a clear warning.

“No, I won’t leave it be. You’re miserable. When are you going to move on?”

He shot up from his stool and loomed over her like a tree about to timber. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I said, lay off! As your manager, my personal life is none of your business.”

She bristled. Her chin slanted up. “Yeah, but as your ‘friend,’ it’s getting on my bloomin’ nerves. It’s been a year. Have you seen anyone else? Even taken another woman out to dinner?”

Mitch grabbed his ginger ale and guzzled. He turned away, a sour feeling in his stomach. “Not interested.”

She lifted her porter in a mock salute. “Mmmm … not interested in drinking, not interested in women. Sounds like the old Mitch left when Faith did.” She whirled to face the bar, two-fisting her beer like it was her long-lost mother.

Mitch cuffed the back of his neck. He released a noisy sigh, fraught with frustration. “So help me, Bridie, I knew you’d give me trouble tonight. You have no talent whatsoever for minding your own business.” He exhaled again, then turned to face her, his muscles fatigued from trying to fake it. “I’ve given up drinking because …” He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers, “once she left, it got harder to stop.” He leaned heavily against the bar and stared straight ahead. “And I gave up women because … not one could even come close.”

Bridie rested her hand on his arm. “Let her go, Mitch. Faith wasn’t for you. But someone is. Find her. Get out there and do what you do best—break a few hearts. Trust me, it will all make sense when you find the right one.” She tilted her head and grinned. “Where’s that annoying confidence of yours when you need it? Your faith in God?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, it did get me through the last year without losing my mind.” He downed the ginger ale. “But I suppose you’re right. Maybe it’s time.”

“Kathleen might be a good place to start, you know. You two used to have a lot of fun before Faith. And you know she still cares for you, Mitch.”

He nodded, his gaze fixed on the empty glass in his hand. “I know.”

“Ready for a booth?” Sally flitted by, gesturing for them to follow.

Bridie slipped off her stool. “The saints be praised! Another minute and I’d be but a faint heap on the floor. Get your wallet out, Mr. Dennehy. This is going to cost ya dearly.”

“It already cost me dearly,” he mumbled. He followed the bounce of Sally’s head as she led them across the room, menus in hand. He breathed a sigh of relief when she passed the front-corner booth where he and Faith had often sat.

She slapped the menus down on a booth at the back of the smoky pub. “How’s this?” she asked with a perky smile. “And Duffy told me to go ahead and wait on you myself, even though I’m working the bar tonight.”

Bridie grinned. “Oh, that’s a great big tip for sure, Sally girl.” She winked at Mitch. “Very dearly, my friend.”

“Thanks, Sally,” Mitch said, cutting Bridie a searing look. “I’ll take another ginger ale, then we should be ready to order.” Sally toddled away and he leaned back, stretching his legs. He picked up the menu, hoping he could assess it without drooling. “I swear, Bridie, I’m so blasted hungry, I could order one of everything.”

“The shepherd’s pie is quite good and, I might add, quite filling.”

The sound of a familiar voice froze his fingers to the paper. Looking up, shock nipped at the heels of his hunger.

“Charity …” Her name solidified on his tongue, refusing to let another word pass. It was seconds before he realized his mouth hung open, allowing painful silence to fill the air. He cleared his throat and stood to his feet, angered at the heat she generated. “Charity …”

“You said that,” she whispered, her smile almost shy.

His jaw hardened in self-defense. “You’re looking well.” Well? She was heart-stoppingly beautiful and nothing less. “How’s your grandmother doing?” he asked. He could feel his hands sweat.

The smile faded from her full lips. “She’s doing all right, I suppose, despite the fact that my great-grandmother is not.” Her clear, blue eyes darkened with worry. She pushed a strand of honey-blond hair away from her face. “Mima seems to get weaker every day. Grandmother and I are both concerned.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”

Charity blinked, the depths of her eyes drawing him in. “Mima would love to see you, Mitch. We all would.”

Something cramped in his gut, and he suspected it wasn’t hunger.

Bridie cleared her throat and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Bridie O’Halloran. I work with Mitch at the Times.”

Charity smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Charity O’Connor. Nice to meet you.”

“Faith’s sister?”

A blush crept into Charity’s cheeks. Her gaze fluttered to Mitch and back. “Yes.”

“It’s good to meet some of Faith’s family. We loved her at the Times, you know.”

The color in Charity’s cheeks deepened. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her smile faltered as she withdrew her hand and turned to Mitch. “It’s wonderful seeing you again, but we have to be going …”

“We?”

“My gentleman friend and I. We have tickets to the theater.” She glanced over her shoulder, then returned her gaze to his. “Do come by, Mitch. We would love to catch up.”

“Ready, darling?” Rigan appeared behind her. He rested his hands on her shoulders and gave Mitch a cool smile. “Hello, Mitch.”

The blood drained from Mitch’s face as his jaw calcified to stone. “Hello, Rigan. It’s been a long time.”

Charity’s hand floated to the flounce of silk on her chest. A pretty blush stained her cheeks. “Goodness, you two know each other?”

“Yes, Mitch works for me.” Rigan’s hands slid to Charity’s waist, resting comfortably. “Or should I say, my father?”

Mitch ground his teeth behind a tight-lipped expression, biting back insults that lingered on the tip of his tongue. He forced a smile. “Definitely not you.”

Rigan laughed and swung his arm around Charity’s shoulders, pulling her close. “No, not at the present, certainly. But perhaps the future?” With maddening ease, his fingers casually traced at the base of Charity’s throat, sending another wash of color into her face. “Shall we be on our way, Charity? It wouldn’t do to miss the first act. Good night, Mitch.” He nodded his head at Bridie. “Ma’am.”

“Good night, Mitch,” Charity whispered. “Stop by anytime, please.” She extended her arm to shake Bridie’s hand. “Bridie, it was a pleasure. I hope we meet again.”

Mitch watched while Rigan whisked her away. Heads turned as they made their way to the door. Mitch scowled. Nothing but trouble for any woman. Humph—a perfect match.

Bridie’s voice jarred him back. “My, oh my. So that’s the infamous Charity O’Connor? Goodness, Boss, rumors don’t do her justice. That one could turn the head of the Pope.”

Mitch frowned. “Where the blazes is Sally?” he bellowed, ignoring Bridie’s remark.

Her eyes narrowed. “And dangerous, too, from the look of that vein twitching in your head. Who’s the guy? He looks familiar.”

“Rigan Gallagher III.” Mitch all but bit the words out.

Bridie’s eyes popped. “No joke? So that’s Old Man Gallagher’s black-sheep son? Sweet saints above—handsome as the devil and all that money too.”

“He’s no good.”

“For you? Or for Charity?”

Mitch sneered. “He’s nothing but heartbreak for any woman.”

Bridie paused, then took a deep breath. “But she’s not just any woman, is she, Mitch?”

Sally descended upon the table, her cheeks puffing with heat. “Sorry about the wait. There’s some sort of company meeting in the back slamming away kegs of ale like it was sarsaparilla. Ready to order?”

“Just bring me another ginger ale, Sally. I’m not hungry.”

Bridie looked up. “Sally, bring us two plates of crubeens, a side of champ and some of your best brown soda bread. And I’ll have another Guinness.”

“Sit tight; I’ll dish it right up for ye.” She scooted away, disappearing through the maze of tables into the kitchen.

Bridie crossed her arms and rested them on the table. “She’s not, is she?”

He looked up, the whites of his eyes burning. “Not what?”

“Just any woman?”

He leaned in. “She’s a spoiled brat who uses her beauty to get what she wants. She ruined my life once. It won’t happen again.” He fairly spit the words in Bridie’s face.

“And you had nothing to do with it, I suppose …”

He slammed his fist on the table, causing her to jump. “So help me, Bridie, I’d fire you right now if I didn’t think Michael would cinch me up.”

The fire in her eyes matched what he felt in his gut. “All I’m saying is don’t be laying all the blame on her for hanging you up. You’re the fool who gave her the rope.”

“Stay out of it, Bridie; I’m warning you.”

“I will not. At least not until you admit she’s under your skin.”

“You’re out of your mind. No one’s under my skin.”

“She was once. Enough to change the course of your life.”

“She’s a kid.”

Bridie cocked a brow. “Not from where I was sitting. How old?”

He glared. “Almost twenty … going on sixteen.”

Her forehead puckered. “Oooh … that is rather young. What are you again? Thirty-four?”

Mitch looked up with a glare meant to singe.

Bridie ignored it. “Faith was twenty when you fell in love with her.”

“She’s nothing like Faith.”

Bridie reached across the table to take his hand in hers, her voice a near-whisper. “Nobody is. But there’s a reason it didn’t work out.”

He grunted. “Yeah, there’s a reason all right. A golden-haired vixen, five-foot-four.”

“No, I mean ‘a reason,’ like maybe Faith wasn’t the one.”

Mitch rubbed his jaw with the side of his hand. “Yeah, well, apparently not.” He looked up, his eyes shooting her a warning. “Don’t get any ideas. That woman gives me cold chills.”

Bridie pulled her hand away and leaned back against the booth, a smile hovering on her lips. “So I noticed.” She grinned. “I haven’t seen you that off-guard since Faith took a potshot at you on her first day of work.”

The memory brought a faint smile to Mitch’s lips. “Yeah, she was something.” He saw Sally heading their way with a tray piled high with food and drinks.

Bridie shook out her napkin. “Yes, she was. And so is her sister, evidently.”

Sally plopped two steaming plates of crubeens on the table with a thud. The smell of spicy pork caused his juices to flow. When Sally finished unloading plate after plate, she stood back and grinned, hands propped on her ample hips. “Hope you’re hungry. Ready to dive in?”

Bridie smiled at Sally and picked up her fork. She winked at Mitch. “You know, Sally, I think he just might be.”

***

“You’ve been awfully quiet all night, at least since we left Duffy’s. Honestly, Charity, I’m a bit dismayed. I thought you would be feeling quite victorious. You had him eating out of your hand, you know.”

Charity continued to stare out the window of Rigan’s Rolls Royce as they pulled up in front of her grandmother’s house. Moonlight flooded the garden, casting distorted shadows of fuchsia and larkspur across the cobblestone walk.

He turned the ignition off and shifted to face her. “Charity, look at me.”

She glanced over, one hand hovering on the door handle. “What is it, Rigan?”

He scrutinized her, head cocked as if trying to decipher the mystery of her mood. “What’s wrong?”

She expelled a weighty sigh and leaned back, eyes fixed straight ahead. “I don’t know.”

“You got your wish. You turned his head. You should be happy.”

“I know,” she muttered, her tone quiet. I should be. But what if he still blames me …

“Charity, you effectively reduced the man to moronic monosyllables and clenched teeth.”

Mischief twitched on her lips. She had caught Mitch by surprise. His clear, blue eyes had stared in bold appraisal, taking her in from head to foot without even being aware. At six-foot-four, he towered over her, a mountain of a man with unruly blond hair and a petulant gaze, adept at turning heads as well as she. She grinned, peering at Rigan out of the corner of her eye. “I did, didn’t I?”

Rigan’s smile matched her own. “We did, my dear. You and yours truly—your partner in crime.”

She giggled and twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “It was glorious, wasn’t it? And yes, Rigan, I couldn’t have done it without you.” Her finger suddenly stilled, causing the curl to spring free and spiral to her shoulder. She tilted her head to study him through narrowed eyes. “Why does he dislike you?”

Rigan laughed and reached for her hand, warming it between his fingers. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Her rib cage suddenly felt too tight. A sick feeling settled in her stomach. She tugged her hand free and hefted her chin a notch. “He doesn’t dislike me.”

“Oh, he dislikes you, all right. It was as clear as his stony stare and the humorous tic in his jaw. A thin, cold thread of disgust tightly twined with a scarlet strand of lust. What did you do, Charity? Why does he hate you?”

Fear constricted her throat. He doesn’t hate me—he wanted me! She sat up, her eyes burning with heat. “I think this conversation has come to an end. Thank you for a wonderful evening. Now, if you’ll walk me to the door …”

She fumbled with the door latch, finally swinging it open. He reached across and slammed it closed. The heat of his breath was hot on her face. “No, this conversation is not over. Tell me, Charity. Why does a beautiful woman like you need the assistance of a rogue like me to snare another man’s heart?”

Her pulse pounded in her throat. She didn’t answer.

He jerked her close. “All right. I’ll tell you. I think somehow, someway, you’re the reason he’s no longer engaged to your sister. Lies, perchance. Or perhaps you exposed him, something dark and sinister from his past. Or maybe, just maybe, seduction …” He traced his finger along the curve of her jaw, pausing beneath her lips. “That would be my personal favorite, of course. A temptress.” He lifted her chin with his finger, his gaze upon her mouth. “I’m quite partial to temptresses, you know.” He leaned to kiss her.

Charity pushed him away. “Rigan, stop! What are you doing?”

“Extracting payment,” he whispered. The warmth of his words feathered her cheek.

“Oh,” she breathed, swallowing hard. He leaned in to nuzzle her neck, and the heat of his lips burned like fire. She twisted away. “Lips, Rigan, only lips. Our bargain, remember?” She stared, wide-eyed, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

He grinned. “So it was, Charity, so it was.” He stroked her cheek with his fingers. “I see our ‘temptress’ is nowhere in sight. Pity.” He sighed and took her hand in his. “But temptress or innocent makes little difference to me. Either way, payment is long overdue.”

Cupping her chin in his hand, Rigan brushed her lips with his own, a gentle sway of his mouth against hers before pressing in. A shiver of heat traveled her spine, and her eyes blinked wide as he pulled away. Her hand fluttered to her chest, surprised he’d left her breathless.

“I’ll walk you in.” He opened his door and swung out, circling the car to open hers on the other side. He extended his arm. “I do believe, Miss O’Connor, we’ve struck a bargain that will serve us well.”

Charity blinked and took his hand. “I do believe …” she whispered. She clung to his arm for the trembling of her legs on the final few steps to the porch.

***

“How’s it going, Jimmy?” Mitch scrounged in the pocket of his woolen suit coat. He tossed a punt into a battered can next to a tall pile of newspapers on the street in front of the Irish Times. He took a paper off the top, the stack taller than the toothless man hawking them.

“Oh, not too bad, I suppose.” Jimmy squatted, warming stubby fingers over a pitiful firepot at his feet. He cocked his head and looked up with a grin. “Let’s just say me and the missus won’t be going on a seaside holiday anytime soon.”

Mitch dug back in the coat. He tossed another punt in the can. “Give Mary my love.”

“I will at that, but I’ll wager she’d rather have it from you.”

Mitch attempted a smile and shoved the newspaper under his arm, yawning as he headed to his Model T. He should kick himself for coming back to work after taking Bridie home. What had possessed him? The work could wait. He reached down to rotate the crank. After several tries, the engine sputtered to life. He clenched his jacket closer and got in the car, slowly weaving into the flow of traffic. A weighty bloke on a bike darted in front of him, forcing him to skid to a stop. Mitch blew through his teeth. You’re testing my limits, mister. I’m in the perfect mood to run somebody down.

His foul disposition stayed with him all the way home. He parked the car and got out, flinging the door shut before shuffling up the steps to his grey-stone flat on Cork Street. The window flowerboxes spilled over with leggy impatiens and trailing ivy, stubborn survivors of Dublin’s temperate October nights. Mitch yanked on the curve-handled knob and opened the heavy Georgian door with its arched window and sunny yellow paint. It slammed behind him with a noisy thud. He mounted the gleaming wood staircase, noting that Mrs. Lynch had been busy—the warm maple flooring was buffed to a sheen. Where in the world did the woman get her energy? She was almost eighty, but her vitality left him in the dust.

Mitch jammed the key in his door and jimmied the lock with too much agitation. It might as well have been a fortress. He rammed the door with his knee. “Open up, you blasted thing.” He jangled the knob until the wall vibrated.

“Easy does it, Mitch.” Mrs. Lynch peeped around the corner of her door across the hall, silver tresses trailing beneath a lavender sleep kerchief. Her cornflower-blue eyes sparkled. “It’s just like a woman—the gentler, the better.”

Mitch hung his head in exhaustion. “Sorry, Mrs. Lynch. I didn’t mean to waken you.”

“Bad day at the paper?”

He breathed in some air, then blew it out with the last of his energy. His frustration drifted out along with it. “No, not really. I’m just tired.”

“Well, I already took Runt for his constitutional, so no need to worry about that. Looks like you should go straight to bed.” She squinted, her blue eyes obscured by paper-thin crinkles of skin. “You’re home late. Out with a lady?”

He turned back to the door, turning the key with painstaking ease. “No.” The lock clicked and the door swung open. Mitch managed a stiff smile over his shoulder. “Thank you, Mrs. Lynch. Good night.” He closed the door and flipped the bolt, flinging his coat on the wrought-iron rack. Runt greeted him, his tail thudding against the wall while he burrowed his cold nose into Mitch’s hand. His lovesick squeals helped to soften Mitch’s mood. Tapping his chest with his hands, Mitch chuckled when Runt jumped up, forepaws planted firmly against his shirt. “Hello, big guy, how’s my buddy today? Did you have a nice walk with Mrs. Lynch?”

Runt strained and groaned while Mitch rubbed the side of his snout, his tail flapping in ecstasy. Mitch leaned in and nuzzled the golden retriever, scrubbing his neck with a forceful motion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, big guy. You keep me sane, you know that?”

Runt woofed, jumped down and commenced dancing in circles.

“All right, all right. Dinner’s coming. Give me a minute to get my bearings.” Mitch struck a match and reached up to light the oil wick of a pewter wall sconce. The light flickered, then filtered into his parlor with a soft, steady glow. He stooped to pick up a piece of lavender-scented stationery off a stack of freshly laundered clothes. He held the note to the light, its edge scalloped with a lacey effect.

Mitch—Runt has been fed and walked. I still have a few of your shirts to press. You can pick them up tomorrow. Mrs. Lynch.

He lifted the sheet to his nose, doubting the lavender fragrance would have any effect in calming his nerves. God bless her. More like a mother than a landlady. A niggling guilt settled in. Great. Perfect company for the irritability that throbbed inside like a splinter of glass. He should take her on an outing. Lunch and the art museum, maybe. She would like that.

Runt continued to bounce, his tail reaching new heights of aerial flight. Mitch propped a hand loosely on his hip. “Don’t try to con me with that pitiful ‘I haven’t eaten in twenty-four-hours act.’ I’m wise to you, buddy-boy. I have it on the best authority you’ve already been fed and watered, and quite well, no doubt.” Runt let out a gruff bark and sank to the floor, extending his forepaws in a long stretch.

Mitch loosened his tie and tossed it on the chair. He lit the Tiffany oil lamp beside his cordovan sofa, then bent to rekindle the remains of a fire he’d started that morning. Warmth seeped into the room, along with the pungent smell of burning peat, but it did little for the cold feeling in his chest. He reached for the newspaper and stretched out on the sofa.

What was wrong with him? His muscles twitched like he’d just sprinted a mile. The clock on the mantle chimed and he looked up, fatigue and edginess warring within. Eleven o’clock, but sleep was nowhere in sight. Mitch sighed and pitched the paper to the other side of the couch. He reached down to scratch Runt, who had sprawled along the foot of the sofa. Mitch exhaled a hefty sigh. His thoughts strayed to their favorite topic.

Faith.

His stomach no longer clutched at the memory of her, but a dull sadness still remained. There had been times when he’d been like this with her, his nerves volatile as if raw and pasted on the outside of his skin. She could always sense it, feel it. And always knew what to do. How to calm him down, soothe him, love him.

Mitch closed his eyes and kneaded his forehead. Usually she’d put her arms around him and hold him, whispering words of love and encouragement and prayer. Always prayer.

Mitch jumped up to dispel the thought and tripped over Runt. A swear word got as far as the edge of his tongue before he bit it back. Runt looked up with liquid-brown eyes. Mitch sighed.

“It’s not your fault, buddy,” he muttered. Runt’s eyes followed him as he paced the room. He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. He had been doing better lately, hadn’t he? More like himself? Going for days at a time without even thinking of her. Even weeks without missing her. She was across the ocean, for pity’s sake, engaged to someone else. How much farther out of his life could she possibly be?

And then, tonight. Charity. Those hypnotic eyes, staking through his heart with bitter regret and deadly allure.

Just like before.

Mitch slapped the newspaper out of his way and sat back down, hunching on the far edge of the sofa, opposite Runt. He put his head in his hands. She was poison, pur