Promise Me

Christopher Santos

Description

How easy it is to judge - without having all the knowledge to form a proper opinion? Anna was the sort of woman, women envy. Tall, beautiful, wealthy and elegant, wife and mother. She was also a regular member of the congregation at her local church. Anna also does voluntary work and on the surface her life seemed without reproach. She was well respected within the community although slightly unapproachable and remote. But behind this facade of respectability was a woman with a secret, living a life that bore no reality to what her external appearance portrayed. With her family away for the summer, Anna is enticed into an affair with a younger man who is looking for a summer dalliance. After a turbulent start, their relationship grows into a love affair. Anna knows that dark secrets are often hard to keep as sometimes you have to satisfy your own need to tell, and in a moment of indiscretion, she confides something that happened in her past. The reaction she received was not as anticipated. This admission by Anna, sets of truly life changing events for her and her family. PROMISE ME regards a human dilemma, a diabolical act and a new beginning that finally resolves a troubled conscience - albeit with humane retribution.

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 mai 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781784629694
• Langue: English

Extrait

PROMISE ME
Promise Me was first published in 2012 as A Mile In Her Shoes
From the same author:
An Hour Too soon?
ISBN: 978 18487 63883
(Watch the book trailer online.)
For more information regarding the author please visit: www.christophersantos.com

Copyright © 2015 Christopher Santos
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1784629 694
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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
CHAPTER ONE
June 1998:
That Sunday morning there was just the one space left in the church car park. The driver of the white BMW had begun to reverse towards it when an orange Volkswagen Beetle clattered swiftly in to claim the space, a manoeuvre that was met with a blaring of the BMW’s horn.
The driver of the Beetle got out and smiled victoriously to himself as he heard a woman’s irate, middle-class voice exclaim:
“Manners maketh the man!”
Jack Fearnley locked his car door without replying.
Anna de Courtney was forced to park her BMW in a side street and now, later than usual, she walked purposefully towards the Narthex of Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church. On entering she nodded to one of the Brothers before instinctively moving to the metal display stand that she had erected for the charitable organisation LATE, of which she was Chairman. Anna pursed her lips disapprovingly as she saw some of the leaflets in disarray, and deftly rearranged them to her liking. Then, taking the church newsletter from the stand and with her missal and hymn book in her hand she glided forward to dabble her fingers in the Holy water, and with eyes and head lowered moved with stately grace up the centre aisle of the church.
Anna expected to sit in the same pew every Sunday. This morning, however, a frown creased her brow as she saw it was already occupied. She had to move one pew back and genuflected before stepping sideways to take her seat, knelt down on the leather hassock and recited her usual prayer. It was a moment of peace; she crossed herself before focusing her eyes upon the altar.
The candles there flickered as she sat back. Recently she had not been sleeping at all well. Unpleasant nightmares had invaded her mind and sometimes she was frightened to go to sleep, unsure of what hideousness the next dream would conjure up. Slowly she withdrew her mother’s Rosary from the pocket of her navy blue silk jacket and her long, white, elegant fingers with their bright red-tipped nails fingered the beads. The congregation rose to sing the first hymn while the priest and servers walked down the centre aisle. The smell of incense hovered and the Mass commenced. Anna crossed herself again before bowing her head slightly to join in the murmuring of the Penitential Rite.
The words tumbled from her tongue. She steered her mind to dwell on all that she did for others. Was it recompense? Had she washed her soul clean? Would she ever? If only she could tell someone of the terrible secret that lurked in her memory, unburden herself. Perhaps that would make it easier – but who want to listen and, more importantly, whom could she trust?
Now she watched as Father Matthews raised his hands and bestowed the blessing. Was it only yesterday that she had made her usual Saturday morning visit to Confession? To kneel in the silence of the church. Allowing the Rosary to slip through her fingers.
Sometimes she would remember a line of the poem her mother used to recite:
“…Each bead a thought, each thought a prayer…” Anna had forgotten the rest of the words. The thought of what she should say in her Confession had started to worry her. There was so little she wished to say and yet so much she had done. Sin was such an ugly word, wasn’t it? And what did it really mean? Had she sinned? She closed her eyes, not wishing to think of the answer.
She had talked in a vague way to Sister Joseph about the merits of the Confession. Sister had tried to be helpful and presented her with a small booklet. In it she learned that Confession usually amounted to no more than mentioning the uncharitable acts that even a good Christian couldn’t avoid.
But Anna knew only too well what the ultimate sin was. She thought again of yesterday’s visit to the confessional. She sat before Father Mathews in the small cramped room. It wasn’t the confessional of old – it now resembled more of a counselling session. She would recite her diluted shopping list of faults and inadequacies. Again she failed to recall the one event that was constantly on her mind.
She ran her tongue lightly over her lips, her attention drawn to the occupants in the pew in front; it looked to her like a mother and daughter. She turned away, wanting to ignore them as Anna heard the choir sing the Gloria so joyously. Her voice swelled to join in the words. Inexplicably, her attention was drawn again to the occupants in the pew in front. One carefully dressed upright female, with glasses beneath fringed dark hair who would occasionally turn and smile down at the frail figure, with the stoop of old age, in a flowery patterned dress and white cardigan. Anna saw the wispy white hair and the care-worn hand that shakily held the missal. Why did they have to sit in front of her, she thought petulantly. Anna felt a moment of tension and then her voice swelled again to join in the words the choir sang.
Involuntarily her eyes travelled again to the occupants as she heard the old lady’s missal drop to the floor, despite its slight weight it seemed too much for the feeble hands. The companion gently retrieved it and then placed an arm beneath the cardigan elbow. Anna heard the concern in the whispered question from the younger woman:
“Are you all right, mother?”
An affirmative nod of the white head.
Anna closed her eyes; she did not wish to listen to them and fixed her eyes on the priest. Her mind was unable to concentrate; it resembled a leaf blowing in the wind.
They sat after the Gospel and then, during the Homily, Anna thought of the unexpectedly hot June they had experienced. The long days of sun had not helped the garden. It had not been mowed since the gardener had been taken ill during the middle of May. It now needed a great deal of attention: the edges trimmed, and more plants put in. Perhaps she should attempt some gardening? Apparently it was therapeutic! But there was never any time. No, that was wrong, she did have the time, but she surreptitiously glanced down at her well manicured hands; gardening would mean broken nails and dirt. No, it was not for her! Suddenly her thoughts were shattered by the noise of another book dropping; she turned round, irritated, and recognised the bad mannered young man who had stolen her car park space sitting across the aisle.
Jack Fearnley was taken aback by the sternest of stares from the beautiful woman who was now frowning at the disturbance of her peace. He felt his heart jump: he knew in a blinding flash that she was the most sexually appealing woman he had ever seen.
He swallowed and managed to raise his eyebrows, half-apologetic and half-mocking, as he gave a faint smile. He saw her frown deepen and then an eyebrow rose ever so slightly as she caught her lower lip between her teeth. He was mesmerised as her eyes met his, ever so briefly – but in that second his world stood still. His heart thumped as he sat transfixed by her long black eye lashes and the high-winged raven brows. Her carefully made-up face and the luxurious long hair. And her clothes: an expensive blue jacket, a long white summer pleated pattern skirt and blue, open toed, high-heeled shoes. For the woman across the aisle suddenly evoked all Jack’s secret fantasies, in which an unobtainable, sophisticated, older woman would look at him and their eyes would fuse in a flare of immediate intimacy. He would dare to attempt the beginning of a smile. Her eyes would hold a secret message and her mouth would stretch, as if against her will, into a smile; a faint smile, but a smile redolent with promise.
Jack turned away and lowered his eyes, as he accepted an inner conviction that he had known her, seen her in his dreams. She had been next to him in his bed. He cast a surreptitious glance; yes, she is quite beautiful, he thought. Her eyes averted from his and returned to her missal. He stared at her for a moment longer, unable to pull his eyes away.
In that instant he knew what all the poets had been saying throughout the ages. ‘The fleeting glance that made instant wanting’ ; he felt his heart thumping against his chest. He knew now how Romeo must have felt when he first saw Juliet. Jack drew his brows together and tried to gather his scattered thoughts as the words of the Homily were said to his unresponsive ears. His large frame could barely sit comfortably within the restrictions of the pew. He rested his boots on the kne