The Consequence of Secrets - Part One (7 page)

In the time it takes me to walk back to the church, I replay almost every interaction I’ve ever had with Emma Williams in my mind, trying to figure out what it is about her that has me overstepping as often as I have. I mean, I know she’s troubled. That much is undoubtedly certain in my mind, and I also feel certain that it’s her husband who is the threat in her life. I want her to talk to me and tell me that it’s true, and I want to protect her, I want to take her away, because I have this urge to take care of her. And if I’m honest with myself, holding her was…intense.

It was more intense than…than anything I’ve ever experienced, and I wonder if she’s somehow a test of my devotion and silently pray for guidance, just like I have been since I met her and sensed that she needed me – sensed it like a jolt to my heart the moment we made eye contact. It’s like I can see into her soul and read her heart. It’s uncanny, and no matter how hard I pray for guidance and strength, all signs shown to me are leading directly to her.

I know she needs help. I feel absolutely sure of that. But, why was she sent to me for help? Why not Father Matthews or Deacon Salisbury? Why me? Why me when just being near her speeds up the beat of my heart and causes my mind to focus only on her? Why me when the more I learn about her, the more I want to learn, and the more of myself I want to share?

Why was she sent to me when I think she may be the only person on this planet who could possibly make me second-guess my path?

Why me? Why her?

When I reach the church, the first thing I do is kneel and pray for strength, but instead of giving me strength, the moment I close my eyes, I’m assaulted by the memory of what it felt like to hold her in my arms. Why is this happening?

So, I got home, and I had a complete meltdown, which is the absolutely worst thing that can possibly happen in my carefully planned days. Father Daniels is singlehandedly ruining everything I’ve worked so hard to build, and I don’t understand how a man who is a symbol of a religion I’ve grown to resent can step into my life and turn everything upside down – I had it all worked out. I had a plan. I’m not supposed to…to
feel
things for a priest. This is beyond ridiculous. I’m not a sixteen-year-old girl; I’m a twenty six year old woman. This shouldn’t be happening to me.

Peeling off my clothes, I ball them up and tuck them in the laundry basket as the shower heats. Then I stand in front of the large wall mirror, studying my naked reflection as the steam starts to fill the room. I see my multicolored eyes, puffy from crying; my mouth, red from worrying at my lips with my teeth; and my body, bruised from rough sex and angry hands. He says I deserve it – if only I’d obey…

As the steam creeps across the mirror, hiding my reflection, turning me invisible, I look down at my hands and run my fingertips over the raised lines at my wrists, the evidence of my attempted escape – my desire to end it all. Even that didn’t work.

Stepping into the shower, I let my mind sift through the mess of emotion that is threatening to take over my mind as I scrub at my skin and try to wash away the day, and somewhere between shaving my legs and conditioning my hair, I find myself praying when I didn’t think I’d ever pray again. It’s simple and it’s full of hope. “Please, save me,” I pray. “Help me.”

With my hair, makeup and dress perfectly done, I sit across the dinner table from Gabe, slicing small bites off the Cajun chicken salad I’ve prepared for dinner. Gabe chews quietly, as if he’s a food critic deciding how many stars he’d rate the meal. His eyes watch me as I eat my meager portion – not too much, not too little. But never as much as his, and I must always take as long as he does to eat. I can’t finish first, and I can’t clear my plate. It’s a delicate line, drawn in the imaginary sand that can move at any moment depending on his mood.

“How is the decorating squad going? Your father said Jules has lost interest already,” he says, lifting his glass of wine and taking a sip. I do the same.

“Seems that way. Father Daniels helped today, but now that we’re one down, he suggested we get contractors to help with the rest and have more of an instructional input.” The lie falls so easily from my lips.

“Is that what you’re so upset about?” he asks, his voice unconcerned.

I shake my head and plaster a smile on my face. “I’m not upset at all.”

He places his glass on the table carefully and meets my eyes as he sucks his teeth. “Your eyes are puffy. You’ve been crying. I know my wife, don’t tell me you aren’t upset.”

I drop my eyes and place my glass on the table as well, my hands clasping together on my lap as I take in a slow breath, knowing that I need to answer him very carefully. I can feel the change in the air. This must be how deer feel when a hunter is nearby. It’s a sense of danger. Just how much, I have no idea.

“Answer me, please.”

Looking up, I press my lips together, my mind racing for an acceptable reason. I can’t really tell him that I’ve been crying because the new priest held me, and it felt like the first time I’ve ever really been touched and cared for.

“I took a pregnancy test today,” I lie. “And it was negative. I’m crying because I was so sure this would be our month,” I whisper, allowing my eyes to well slightly with tears, although, they’re nothing to do with the absence of a baby in our life. I go to great lengths to hide the fact that I’m on birth control, because there is no way I’m bringing a child into this relationship. I won’t put a child through the fear I go through, I’d rather die first.

“I see,” he says quietly, lifting his linen napkin and wiping it across his mouth before balling it up and tossing it on his plate. “Negative. Again…What is the
point
of you?” He shakes his head, his agitation apparent as his jaw ticks. “What is the
fucking point!”
he yells, sweeping his arm across the table and crashing the dishes onto the slate tiled floor. They shatter loudly as the cutlery bounces and clangs loudly before coming to rest. I try not to flinch, silently repeating my prayer, hoping that for once I was wrong, and there is a higher power that can stop something like this from happening. But, when he stands abruptly, growling that I’m a useless baron bitch, and his chair topples backward, I stop all praying, because as his hand fists into my hair and he drags me from my seat, I’m reminded why I quit believing.

No loving God would allow this.

The next morning, there was an absence of a certain beautiful blonde in the pews at church. Then she wasn’t at the youth center – there’s a crew of men working in her place. I don’t see her again the next day, and the next. I worry that I scared her off, and I worry that something may have happened to her. But on Sunday, I see her, sitting in the pews with her family, her eyes down and hidden behind a hat and veil. She looks perfectly put together, although she also looks small, well, smaller than she was before, and it causes an uneasiness to settle in my stomach that only seems to grow when she and her husband leave before communion and he needs to help her out the side door. She moves as if she’s hurt but she holds her stomach as if she’s ill. I worry even more.

On the Monday, I’m given the day off, and I dress in civilian clothes – a pair of jeans and a soft denim shirt with boots. Then I set off for her house, needing to know if she’s OK. I need to talk to her; I need to let her know she isn’t alone. I need to let her know that I will do whatever it takes to help her. I can’t agonize over how she makes me feel anymore, the situation seems far too serious for me to worry about the way I’m drawn to her. He has obviously brought us together for a reason, and His wishes and guidance are more important than my doubts. I prayed for him to guide my heart, and my heart is telling me to go to her and be there for her. She needs me – I can feel it.

I almost break into a run when I turn into her street, and actually do jog up her drive. Then I take a deep breath, and I hit the buzzer, my heart beating heavily against my ribcage as I wait…and I wait. Balling up my fist, I knock on the door. “Emma,” I call out. “It’s Braden, please answer the door. Your car is in the driveway, I know you’re there. I just want to see that you’re OK.”

The door opens a crack. “I’m fine, Father Daniels. You needn’t worry,” she says, before trying to close the door again. I place my hand against it to keep her in my sight. It catches on a chain, and all I can see is one side of her face, one tear filled stained glass eye…

“Braden,” I say. “My name is Braden, and I’m coming to you as a friend. Please, let me see you, Emma. I need to see that you’re all right.”

Her eyes close, and I can hear emotion in her voice. “You can’t be here,” she whispers. “I don’t think it’s a good idea that we see each other. I don’t think we should be around each other.”

I slide my hand through the door and cup her cheek the way I did when we alone at the youth center. Her breath catches and that same heats creeps over my skin and travels in waves throughout my body, causing it to hum from my fingers to my toes.

“Let me inside,” I coax, my thumb moving slightly over her delicate skin. “Please.”

I hear her sigh in a way that lets me know she’s conceding, and as much as it pains me to break contact, I pull my arm back through the door and wait for her to unlock it. The moment she does, I step inside, and I immediately catch her face in my hands again, my eyes wide as I look over the discoloring from a healing bruise on her right eye and cheekbone.

I run my fingers through her soft hair, brushing it back from her face as my chest aches for her. “Oh Emma. What did he do to you?”

Tears form in her eyes immediately and her hands reach up and grip my wrists firmly. “Nothing,” she cries. “It was a…” her voice hitches with her tears. “It was an accident. An elbow wh…when he was sleeping.” Her voice is a hoarse whisper as she spouts the lie, even though I can tell she desperately wants to tell me the truth.

“That’s absolute bullshit,” I tell her, wrapping her in my arms as she breaks down against my chest, her fists bunching the fabric of my shirt as she leans against me and cries. And just like last time, I simply hold her, knowing that’s what she needs right now. But inside, I’m seething.