The Consequence of Secrets - Part One (3 page)

When I reenter the church, I find Emma Williams knelt in prayer. She’s dressed a little differently than she was before. The jacket she had on is gone, along with the baseball cap. Her hair is twisted up neatly, but I’m sure it was her. I could tell by the curve of her shoulders as she walked, and the soft pale straw color of her hair.

I see her. Every day.

She spends an hour praying each time before she leaves and goes about her day. Although, she’s yet to look at me, and I wonder why she seems so withdrawn. Today, I begin to wonder if perhaps she’s in some sort of trouble.

So today, I approach her.

“You know,” I start as I slide into the pew beside her. “The acoustics in this old church are crazy loud. I swear I can hear the sound of eyelashes moving through the air every time someone blinks.”

She turns to me, her face the picture of confusion as her unusual eyes come to focus on me. It’s as if I just woke her from a dream.

“Excuse me?” she asks, her voice soft and a little breathless sounding – sweet.

I move my hand and point in a general circular motion. “I was just commenting on the acoustics. It can be very loud in here.”

She shifts from kneeling to sit about three feet away from me, and she slowly looks around massive hall. “I don’t know, I only really notice the quiet. It’s why I come here. Out there there’s so much noise. In here, there’s quiet, and there’s echo, but there isn’t noise.” She returns her eyes to mine. “Does that make sense?”

I find myself studying her, intrigued by the fact that she’s actually meeting my eyes for a change. I wonder if she hides her eyes because she’s aware of how interesting they are – they’re green and brown and blue, all at once.

She tilts her head quizzically, and I realize that I’m probably making her uncomfortable with my staring. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just your eyes…”

Reaching up, she touches her brow and drops her long lashes so she’s once again hiding them from view. “Oh, yes. Everyone says God was confused the day he signed off on my eye color. I’ve thought about getting contacts to make them only one color, but I don’t like the idea of putting something on my eyeball.”

“You shouldn’t cover them – they’re fascinating,” I respond, feeling a little pained that she’s hiding them from me again.

She runs her hands over her skirt, ironing out imaginary creases as she keeps her eyes on her own movement. “I’ve always been told they make me look crazy. I guess I’m just lucky we don't live in Salem, hey? I’d be burned at the stake.”

I sit and watch her fidget for a moment until she shifts her gaze back to mine then I find myself smiling and saying, “People don’t always understand things that are a little unusual. But, it doesn’t mean you should hide it – or yourself for that matter. No one should try to move through the world as invisible.”

She smiles a little and lets out a shot of air that could almost be a laugh. Although, it’s not out of amusement, it’s more disbelieving as she looks away and focuses on the stained glass above us.

“Why are you here, Father?” she asks after a moment.

I shrug. “Ah, I’m just shooting the breeze. Would you like me to leave you to your prayers?”

She glances back at me and shakes her head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean in Newport – why did you come here? Was it a choice or did the Bishop choose for you?”

“We all get sent where we’re needed most. I suppose with Father Dunbar taking ill and Father Matthew getting on in years, they felt someone newly ordained should be sent out here. I guess they figure I’ll last longer.”

“So, you’re not here to change things up? There’s a lot of talk around town that you’re going to bring in a gospel choir and try to get us all dancing.”

I glance over at her, my eyebrows raised. “Is that the word about town?”

She shrugs. “It’s what I hear.” Then she meets my eyes again. “I hear a lot of things actually, it’s one of the good things about being invisible – people don't pay attention to you so much.”

“Hmm, you must be a very knowledgeable woman then. But, to answer your question – no, no gospel choir. I am supposed to inject some new life into the sermons, but I certainly won’t be challenging any traditions or rapping the scripture if that’s what you’re asking.”

Her cheeks turn pink as she stifles a laugh. “I think I’d like to see that, actually.”

“It would get me sent away fairly quickly, I think,” I say as I press my hands to my knees and begin to stand. “Anyway, I’ll get you get back to your reflection. It was nice talking to you, Mrs. Eh…?”

“Williams, but just call me Emma,” she says with a smile. “My father didn’t have any sons, so I’m keeping his name. I’m not sure what my youngest sister, Jules will do. She kind of walks to the beat of her own drum.”

Smiling, I release a soft chuckle. “Yes, I kind of got that impression when I met her this past Sunday.”

“Oh, she didn’t somehow hit on you, did she?” she asks, her eyes wide with concern.

I shake my head. “No. No, nothing like that at all – it was just a sense I got.” I reach out and touch her lightly on the shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll let you go. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon. And please, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze before I release it, and I’m shocked when her features crumble and she winces in pain, flinching away from me.

“Are you hurt?” I ask immediately.

She stands and shakes her head. “I’m fine. Really,” she assures me, as she pushes past me and rushes out the front doors.

I spent too long at the church talking to Father Daniels today, and then the line at the grocery store was barely moving – now my entire day is out. I race inside the house with grocery bags weighing down my arms and place them on the white marble counter, trying not to let them tip when I glance at my watch. I have two and a half hours until Gabe gets home. I can do this.

Unbuttoning the pearl clasp of my blouse at my wrist, I roll my sleeves up to my elbows and kick off my heels.

I can do this.

Reaching for the apron that hangs on the back of the door to our pantry, I tie it on and begin unpacking all of the fresh produce I purchased to make
Chicken Provencal
. Right now, I wish I’d told Gabe I was doing steak and salad for dinner, but he’s expecting
Provencal,
and I know better than to change it to something different.

Taking the chopping board out, I slice the peppers as I heat the griddle to chargrill them, counting in my head all the steps I need to go through before he gets home. I remove the cork of the wine that will be the base of the sauce and I tip it back, drinking it directly until I feel it heat my stomach and seep into my bones.

I can do this.

My phone beeps with an alarm as I’m washing up and wiping down the counter so only the serving dishes remain. At the sounds of the piercing bleat, my heart kicks up a notch, knowing I only have ten minutes to be ready. I take a deep breath and drain the sink, drying my hands as I scan the house for anything that could be considered out of place. All seems well.

Then I slide my feet back into my heels, place my apron back in the pantry and run for the powder room to check my hair and makeup.

It’s just as I touch up my lipstick that I hear the sound of the garage door lifting, and the butterflies start. Forcing myself calm, I give myself a pep talk, trying to convince myself that I haven’t forgotten anything as I replace the cap on my lipstick and slip it into the drawer. That’s when I remember that I didn’t dry the sink.

Rushing from the powder room, I grab the dishrag for where it hangs and frantically swipe it around the stainless steel sink before I neatly hang the rag again and slide across to the fridge where I remove a beer, pop the cap and dash for the door, coming to a skidding stop just as the handle turns. I glance quickly at the mirror on the wall to make sure I haven’t dislodged any strands of hair then plaster a happy smile on my face, and watch as the door swings open.

“Gabe,” I say in greeting, reaching forward to hand him his beer and take his briefcase from his hand. “How was your day?”

“Good. Dinner smells good,” he responds, and my heart beats wildly as he leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek before his eyes take in my appearance.
Please let him be in a good mood.

Then my heart plunges when I feel his hand slide down the length of my arm and land on the bare skin of my forearms, stopping as he takes my hand in his.

I forgot to roll down my sleeves.

“Why do you have to force me to remember this?” he asks, as he places his beer bottle on the hallstand and lifts my arm, turning it over and trailing his fingertips over the scars at my wrist.

My eyes prick and my mouth opens as I stammer out an explanation. “I…I was wa…washing up. I…I just forgot. I’m sorry. I wa…I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

With his brown eyes on mine, he slowly unrolls the sleeve on each arm and secures the pearl buttons at my wrists. I shake, never knowing which way these things are going to go. He moves his hand up to my face and cups my cheek, pressing a kiss to my forehead and holding it for a long moment. I hold my breath. “Just try to remember in future. You know that no one can ever know,” he murmurs, before withdrawing from me like a breath of fresh air.

I release a tense breath and blink rapidly as I hear his footsteps retreat.
That was close
, I think, as I pick up his beer and wipe away the condensation ring with my hand before placing his briefcase in the hall closet and following him to the dining room where I plaster that fake smile on my face yet again.

“Hungry?” I ask, placing his beer on the table in front of him, and he nods, sliding his arm around my waist and pulling me against him in a loving embrace.

He looks up at me. “Starving. You know how much I enjoy your cooking. If you weren’t so busy being my wife, I’d suggest you shared your culinary skills with the world. But, what can I say, I’m a selfish man, and I want you all to myself.”

Pressing my lips together in a smile, I place my hands on either side of his face and kiss him before pulling away. “I’ll get dinner out of the oven,” I say quietly, and as I walk toward the oven. I’m grateful he came home in a good mood, because that interaction could have gone very differently.

Gabe’s good mood continues during dinner, and we share a bottle of wine while he talks about a new project he’s working on and how pleased my father seems with his progress. I congratulate him and ask careful questions to keep the conversation in a zone that seems to please him, and I relish in the gentle buzz that the wine gives my body. I feel like I could just float away…

“Don’t you think?” I hear Gabe say, admonishing myself internally for letting my mind wander for a moment so that I missed what he said. I place my wine glass down on the table, decided that I’ve had enough, and I nod.

“Of course,” I respond, pushing away from the table to collect the dirty dishes, hoping he doesn’t need me to elaborate any further.

As I place them in the sink and turn the water on, two hands slide around my waist then down, over my mound to the hem of my skirt.

“Leave the dishes,” Gabe whispers, as he presses a kiss to the back of my neck and pushes his erection up against my bottom.

I gasp in response; needing to make the right sounds as he lifts my skirt then pulls down my panties where I step out of them carefully. Then he turns me around to face him and slowly undoes the buttons in front of my blouse, revealing the white silk bra with the black trim that he chose for me out of a catalogue. My gold crucifix hangs around my neck and touches the top of my cleavage, and as his fingertips brush over the soft skin of my breasts and catch the chain, I find myself thinking momentarily of Father Braden Daniels and his beautiful blue eyes, and for once, when Gabe lifts me to the counter and enters me, it actually feels good.

I allow myself to get caught up in the fantasy, imagining those eyes of his boring into mine, as he thrusts in and out of me, his broad chest rippling as he reaches between us and rubs on my sensitive spots to make sure I enjoy this as much as he does.

Then Gabe demands that I look him in the eye and come with him, tearing me from my fantasy and back to my vigorously pumping reality.

I do as I’m told, making the appropriate noises as always as he spills himself inside me and once again repeats the words I never intend to fulfill.

“Make me a son Emma.”