pushover, Emma Malloy, you know that?”
Emma spiked a brow. “Oh, and you’re not, Mrs. Bleeding Heart? The woman who insists on giving bonuses for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, with her husband none the wiser?”
“Yes, but I’m a pushover nobody knows about, while you”— Charity flailed a hand at her best friend before nodding at Emma’s prized carpet—“are as blatant as this unraveled rug and, I might add,” a slight crimp of her brow offset the tease in her eyes, “probably walked on just as much.”
“You know better than that,” Emma said with a weary smile. “Bert’s been going through a rough time right now with her son, so I’m just helping out. Heaven knows I can’t afford to see her quit.” She leaned back, allowing her hands to rest on the arms of the chair while she eyed the cherrywood clock on the far wall. “Goodness, seven-fifteen? To what do I owe this honor and how on earth did you talk Mitch into leaving him this late at night? Did I miss a blue moon?”
Charity’s lips veered into a wry smile. “I needed a new dress for a function at the Herald , so Mitch volunteered to watch the kids.” She inclined her head toward the shopping bags with a mischievous smile. “Trust me, he’ll be sorry I didn’t stay home.” Crossing her silk-stockinged legs, Charity eased back into the chair to contemplate her friend, arms folded and blue eyes pensive. She nodded toward the stacks of invoices and bills of lading on Emma’s desk. “Speaking of ‘home,’ are you going to see yours anytime soon?”
The question brought a smile to Emma’s lips. Charity, the caretaker. To some, a bulldozer, to others a tad bossy, but to Emma, the epitome of a God-given friend—honest, caring, and true. An enigma, her great-grandmother had once called her—someone who begrudges fiercely and loves fiercely, which Emma knew to be true. Although, she thought with affection, Charity had certainly mellowed with time. Emma studied her friend now, amazed that Charity’s striking beauty never made her feel less. A deep sense of fondness warmed her heart. Perhaps because Charity’s fierce devotion had always made her feel as if she were so much “more.”
Forever fashionable, Charity wore the pale yellow Elsa Schiaparelli dress well, its daring shoulder pads, bias cut, and belted waist showing off her shapely body to best advantage. Her shallow-brimmed blue straw hat matched both the piping on her dress and her eyes perfectly, swooping low on one side where golden curls peeked out. Born the same year as Emma, Charity was as stunning at thirty-one as when Emma had met her at eighteen. They’d bonded instantly, two penniless clerks who shared an innate loneliness at Shaw’s Emporium in Dublin, forging a friendship that saved Emma’s life—literally and figuratively. It was Charity who’d bound her wounds after Rory had scarred her, and Charity who threatened to quit if Mrs. Shaw fired Emma for those same offensive scars. Without question she was a bold and daring friend who’d convinced her to leave Rory, sparing her a life of degradation and abuse, or worse.
Emma’s thoughts traveled a million miles from the pain of Rory to where she was today—the manager of Charity’s prestigious store, surrounded by people she loved—and wetness stung her eyes. Charity was the sister Emma had never had, the friend with whom she shared and prayed for all the secrets of her soul. Guilt instantly pricked, forcing a lump to Emma’s throat. Well, almost all. Swallowing hard, she pushed the thought from her mind to focus on her best friend. When some had only seen a cool veneer on a pretty face, Emma had seen the vivacious little girl that Charity would always be—desperate to be beautiful and longed for and loved. Emotion thickened in Emma’s throat as her lips tilted into a tender smile. The friend of my heart.
“You haven’t answered me,” Charity said with a cock of her head, bringing Emma back to the
Emma spiked a brow. “Oh, and you’re not, Mrs. Bleeding Heart? The woman who insists on giving bonuses for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, with her husband none the wiser?”
“Yes, but I’m a pushover nobody knows about, while you”— Charity flailed a hand at her best friend before nodding at Emma’s prized carpet—“are as blatant as this unraveled rug and, I might add,” a slight crimp of her brow offset the tease in her eyes, “probably walked on just as much.”
“You know better than that,” Emma said with a weary smile. “Bert’s been going through a rough time right now with her son, so I’m just helping out. Heaven knows I can’t afford to see her quit.” She leaned back, allowing her hands to rest on the arms of the chair while she eyed the cherrywood clock on the far wall. “Goodness, seven-fifteen? To what do I owe this honor and how on earth did you talk Mitch into leaving him this late at night? Did I miss a blue moon?”
Charity’s lips veered into a wry smile. “I needed a new dress for a function at the Herald , so Mitch volunteered to watch the kids.” She inclined her head toward the shopping bags with a mischievous smile. “Trust me, he’ll be sorry I didn’t stay home.” Crossing her silk-stockinged legs, Charity eased back into the chair to contemplate her friend, arms folded and blue eyes pensive. She nodded toward the stacks of invoices and bills of lading on Emma’s desk. “Speaking of ‘home,’ are you going to see yours anytime soon?”
The question brought a smile to Emma’s lips. Charity, the caretaker. To some, a bulldozer, to others a tad bossy, but to Emma, the epitome of a God-given friend—honest, caring, and true. An enigma, her great-grandmother had once called her—someone who begrudges fiercely and loves fiercely, which Emma knew to be true. Although, she thought with affection, Charity had certainly mellowed with time. Emma studied her friend now, amazed that Charity’s striking beauty never made her feel less. A deep sense of fondness warmed her heart. Perhaps because Charity’s fierce devotion had always made her feel as if she were so much “more.”
Forever fashionable, Charity wore the pale yellow Elsa Schiaparelli dress well, its daring shoulder pads, bias cut, and belted waist showing off her shapely body to best advantage. Her shallow-brimmed blue straw hat matched both the piping on her dress and her eyes perfectly, swooping low on one side where golden curls peeked out. Born the same year as Emma, Charity was as stunning at thirty-one as when Emma had met her at eighteen. They’d bonded instantly, two penniless clerks who shared an innate loneliness at Shaw’s Emporium in Dublin, forging a friendship that saved Emma’s life—literally and figuratively. It was Charity who’d bound her wounds after Rory had scarred her, and Charity who threatened to quit if Mrs. Shaw fired Emma for those same offensive scars. Without question she was a bold and daring friend who’d convinced her to leave Rory, sparing her a life of degradation and abuse, or worse.
Emma’s thoughts traveled a million miles from the pain of Rory to where she was today—the manager of Charity’s prestigious store, surrounded by people she loved—and wetness stung her eyes. Charity was the sister Emma had never had, the friend with whom she shared and prayed for all the secrets of her soul. Guilt instantly pricked, forcing a lump to Emma’s throat. Well, almost all. Swallowing hard, she pushed the thought from her mind to focus on her best friend. When some had only seen a cool veneer on a pretty face, Emma had seen the vivacious little girl that Charity would always be—desperate to be beautiful and longed for and loved. Emotion thickened in Emma’s throat as her lips tilted into a tender smile. The friend of my heart.
“You haven’t answered me,” Charity said with a cock of her head, bringing Emma back to the
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