“Sure. I’m just leaving Paducah. Does your mom need anything else? Paper plates? Paper cups?”
“Do you need anything else, Mama? Are we using paper plates?”
Faith shook her head. “No, I’m doing Memorial Day like Thanksgiving in May this year. I just need enough people to eat all the food.”
“She says to bring people.” Tara relayed the message.
“I haven’t eaten all day, so I’m bringing a three-meal appetite,” Emma promised. “Be there in forty-five minutes or so.”
“Okay. See you then.” Tara pressed the button to end the call, and, before she could think, reached to rub the burning itch on her right hand. As had happened so many times over the past two months since her accident, her breath caught at the empty space her pinkie and ring fingers had occupied, and she sent up a quick prayer of thanks that two fingers and a spleen were all she’d lost. She traced the bright red scar that stopped halfway up her arm. “I’m thinking I might get another tattoo. Maybe some leaves that will make this look like a vine.”
That got her mom’s attention. Faith shot her daughter a pointed look. “Your dad will disown you. He took your first one pretty well only because it’s hidden, and the second with a grain of salt, but he threatened to write you out of the will over the last one.”
Tara didn’t mention the two they knew nothing about. She grinned, remembering the aggravated look on her dad’s face when she’d shown off the Celtic symbol for life just beneath her left earlobe. When she’d explained it was in memory of Grandma O’Malley and their Irish roots, he’d held his tongue, but the hard set of his jaw had indicated his displeasure.
Tara often referred to her dad as the closest thing to a saint she’d ever known. As the preacher at the lone church in Taylor’s Grove, Kentucky, Sawyer O’Malley sought to lead a life above reproach, and for the most part, he’d been successful. A loving and faithful wife...three relatively good kids.
Thea and Trenton had both gone through some rebellious stages during their teenage years, but it was just regular teenage stuff—a little drinking, some partying. But Tara, the “good girl,” had been the surprise to everyone, including herself.
Five years ago, her fiancé, Louis, returned from a mission trip in Honduras with a brand-new wife—an event that threw Tara’s world into a tailspin. Louis, her boyfriend of eight years, had been the only guy she’d ever dated. They’d even signed pledge cards that vowed chastity until marriage. Then he’d shown up with a wife, leaving Tara as an oddity—that rare twenty-three-year-old with her virginity still intact.
She’d made quick work of making up for all the lost time.
“Are Louis and Marta bringing their brood?”
Her mom answered with an affirmative nod as she slid the giant pan of macaroni and cheese into the oven.
Tara’s ex and his wife hadn’t lost any time, either. Three children in five years. And though it had taken a couple of years, Tara was glad she and Louis were friends again. She liked his family—especially Marta and her quiet, kind ways.
Tara set her phone down, feeling guilty that her mom was so busy, and she was doing nothing of great importance. “I’m not an invalid, Mama. Can I at least set the table?”
Her mom chewed her lip for a moment. “All right, you can set the table. But I’ll get Lacy’s china myself.” She disappeared into the other room.
Tara took the hint. Grandma O’Malley’s Belleek tableware was too precious to risk being carried by someone with newly missing fingers.
Trenton came in through the back door, arms laden with cartons of soft drinks and bottled water. With the blood drive in Tara’s honor going on, the annual O’Malley Memorial Day Dinner had swelled to triple the usual number of people. The entire day had been very humbling.
“Hey, pinky.”
Tara snorted and rolled her eyes at her brother’s twisted sense of humor. He’d labeled her with the new nickname before she’d even gotten out of the hospital.
“Would you help me with the chicken?” He found an open spot on the drink-and-dessert table, and unloaded his arms. “I’ve got to get all those pieces turned and basted, and the ribs need a close eye kept on them.”
“Sure.” She eased out of her chair, still aware of the tightness from the scar where her ruptured spleen had been removed. “But I need to know your blood type first. I’m filling in an emergency app for our family.”
“AB,” he answered.
Tara keyed in the information, and then frowned as she glanced down the chart. “What’s with this?”
Her dad came in from the garage just in time to hear her question. “What’s with what, lovebug?” Slipping an arm around her shoulder, he gave her a quick hug and a peck on her temple.
She pointed to the chart. “It doesn’t make sense. Trent’s AB like you. Thea’s A like Mama. I’m the only O negative in the bunch.”
Her mom came in from the dining room with Grandma O’Malley’s china stacked to just below her chin. Sawyer moved quickly in her direction, ready to alleviate her of the load as Tara continued voicing her thoughts to no one particular. “Is that even possible? Can an A and an AB produce an O?” She laughed. “Maybe we need a paternity test, Dad, to see if I’m really yours.”
Faith’s loud intake of breath drew everyone’s attention. Her eyes went wide with a horrific look of mingled shock, pain and undeniable guilt an instant before twelve of Grandma O’Malley’s treasured china plates crashed to the floor.
* * *
FAITH ISABEL FRANKLIN O’Malley had never wanted to die before, but the past seven hours had convinced her that death would be preferable to the excruciating pain she was presently feeling. It was as if she was dangling from a cord attached through her heart and the organ was being ripped slowly from her body. She’d been aware of every second of every minute of every hour that had brought her closer to this time when it would be just the immediate family.
Time for her confession.
People had started arriving before the broken china could be disposed of, so the mess and loss of family heirlooms made a convenient cover for the tears she couldn’t bring under control. Sawyer, Tara and Trenton watched her with guarded expressions throughout the afternoon, and even Thea, soon after her arrival, began questioning the family quietly about what was going on.
Their looks of pain had been almost more than Faith could bear, but Sawyer’s blessing for the food had been her major undoing. She’d lost it completely when he gave his thanks for the spared life of Tara, his beloved daughter. His voice had cracked at the words, and Faith and the rest of her family knew the reason behind the falter.
She knew that he knew. They all knew.
She also knew the next few minutes could bring her family crashing down around her. The china had served as a warning.
Her hands lay on the table in front of her. She clenched and unclenched them, twisted her fingers, then her rings. She swallowed hard, trying to clear the way for the words, knowing in her heart there were no “right” ones—none that could ever make this anything but what it was.
“His name was Jacques Martin,” she said at last, finding no preamble that could ease her into the subject. “He was from France. Paris.”
Tara’s eyes widened at the news. She sat up straighter in her chair and rubbed the side of her hand vigorously—a common gesture for her since the accident.
Faith shifted her eyes to her husband. “We spent one night