A Passion Redeemed by Julie Lessman Read Free Book Online

she ran down the hall and flung herself over the washbowl in the bathroom and spewed, dislodging any sustenance she'd consumed that day. Slowly she straightened, feeling somewhat better. She brushed her teeth, then moistened a towel and wiped her face before proceeding to gargle with lilac water. She spit it out in the washbowl and sighed. As a child, she hadn't minded when her nerves had worked their way into bouts of easy vomiting. It had won her mother's sympathy on more occasions than one, often alleviating her of going to school or hated chores. It had become, in fact, a talent she had perfected. But sweet saints alive, she had no time for it now when she needed every precious moment to get ready!

    Wasting no time, she ran back to her room and grabbed the hairbrush, stroking until her scalp ached. She flipped her hair back and brushed some more until it fell in loose, gleaming curls down the front of her blouse. She reached for the rouge on her dresser and applied the tiniest amount to her ashen cheeks, then cheated and rubbed a bit on her lips. She blotted them with a pucker that resounded with a soft pop and glanced at the clock. 5:19. A mischievous grin worked its way across her rosy lips. How about that? Time to spare.

    Mitch turned the car off and sat, staring blankly at the cottagestyle home where he'd once spent happy times. Returning to this house was more difficult than he thought. He had hoped to get his visit over with easily, quickly, during the full light of day. But he'd forgotten Charity would be at work, and Bridget had begged him to return for dinner. As much as he dreaded coming back, he didn't want to disappoint Bridget and Mima. He released a quiet sigh. He missed them.
    In slow motion, Mitch pocketed the switch key and climbed out of the car, feeling like a bloke on death row going to his last meal. With the onset of autumn, the days were getting shorter, casting the pale pink glow of dusk over the houses along Ambrose Lane. Despite the coolness of October evenings, Bridget's garden seemed to thrive, pink mounds of sedum lining the cobblestone walk. Tufts of purple fuchsia stood guard, swaying in the breeze.

    He took a deep breath and made his way to the porch. Sagging a bit from age, it still invited him with its rustic bogwood swing and flowerpots burgeoning with impatiens not yet nipped by frost. A mix of smells assaulted him, taking him back to better days: the scent of viburnum, wood fires, and chicken frying on a stove. His stomach growled, and instantly he made up his mind to enjoy the evening. These were people he knew, cared about, despite their relation to the woman whose memory had stolen a year of his life. He lifted his fist to knock on the door. Tonight he would move on, he decided with a rush of resolve. He would put Faith O'Connor out of his mind and his life, once and for all. A wry smile curled his lips. And hopefully keep her beautiful sister at arm's length.
    The door swung open. Bridget stood smiling, reminding him so much of Faith's mother Marcy that he felt a twinge of regret she wouldn't be here tonight.
    "Mitch! Thank you for coming. I just knew Charity wouldn't want to miss your visit. Come in, come in. Can I take your jacket?"
    "Thanks, Mrs. Murphy." He sniffed the air as he handed her his coat. "Something smells awfully good. Fried chicken?"
    Bridget giggled and closed the door behind him. "Yes, with colcannon, glazed carrots, and fresh-baked soda bread. And do call me Bridget, will you please? We're old friends now, aren't we?"
    She hung his coat up and ushered him to her kitchen at the back of the house, a large, open room with a wood fire crackling in an oversized fireplace. Windows covered in cheery yellow chintz peeked out on a vegetable garden in between seasons, the shimmer of dusk lending an ethereal air. A large wooden table stood in the center of the room draped with a crocheted tablecloth. Yellowed with age, it was charming nonetheless, accented by sparkling