“I have work to do,” Abby said, doing her best to keep her voice even. “And so do you, I’d imagine.” She started to walk away before turning back. “And I did my duty by Hamish, Brigid. Till the end, I did my duty. In ways you can’t even begin to imagine.” She stopped, something occurring to her. “Things not as good as they should be with your husband? That why you’re harassing me instead of heading off to your job in the kitchen? You’re the one who got Benji in the end, you know. And I’m the one they gave to a fifty-five-year-old man. A marriage is what you make of it, isn’t it, Brigid?”
Another pause while Abby thought of where she was headed—escape, right over the top of the mountain, so close she could taste it. For the first time, it felt as though she wasn’t just leaving for Sammy.
Voice softer, Abby said, “I hope things are good between you and Benji, Brigid. I do.”
It was clearly the wrong thing to say. “Succubus,” Brigid hissed before Abby turned around and gave the woman her back.
It took a while to simmer down—probably a good half hour, during which Abby walked along the fence line in case she’d been followed. By the time she arrived at the top of the rise, she’d calmed enough to feel pity for Brigid’s plight. The woman’s miscarriage had been terrible.
It was God’s will, she knew, that she’d never had a baby with Hamish, but there were other factors she’d begun to suspect. Perhaps old men weren’t meant to sire children.
From this side of the mountain, looking out over the neighbor’s land with the potential of everything the world had to offer, Abby understood that it was a blessing not to have borne a child within the Church.
Closing her eyes, she remembered arriving here with Mama, a half-starved seven-year-old. After those months of sleeping together in the back of their car, Abby had felt so alone when Isaiah had taken Mama in marriage—another couple without offspring—and sent Abby to the dormitory with the other children. Goodness, how that had hurt. Much as she’d loved the Church—the singing and the togetherness, the specialness of being a Chosen One of the Lord—she’d cried herself to sleep every single night, missing the warm, soft feel of Mama like a front tooth.
Sucking in a breath to push away those memories, she looked out over the valley, toward Blackwood and Charlottesville and everything that awaited Sammy and her beyond. She thought of the infinite potential of a life lived on terms that weren’t this God’s. And despite the heaviness in her gut that told her this was wrong, she felt full of life and hope and the thrill of possibility.
When she caught sight of him—the man who’d given her this chance, she lifted her head, straightened her spine, and did her best to be strong.
* * *
The man greeted her without enthusiasm. He did, however, have the gloves and sweater she’d worn the day before. After she put on the sweater, he thrust a thermos of warm liquid into her hands.
She took a sip and—ecstasy.
“Is this coffee again?”
He nodded.
“Tastes different.”
His face, already pink from the cold, flushed, the color concentrating high along the ridge of those sharp, wide cheekbones. His answer came out on a mumble. “Better stuff.”
“Oh” was all Abby could manage as she took a second swig of the creamy, nutty brew. “Delicious.”
Another sip brought out something close to a moan, and she opened her eyes to find him staring. Abruptly, he bent to pick up his pruners and went back to work.
They’d been at it for over an hour when Abby finally dared open her mouth.
“Guess we didn’t get the weather everyone’s all worked up about,” she said.
“Apparently not.”
“They said we’d get ice, but there’s also talk of a couple feet of snow.”
His only response was a grunt.
Wordlessly, they worked their way through three more vines, Abby’s mind full of thoughts it shouldn’t have. Of the man and his coffee—both earthy and dark. She didn’t think she’d tasted anything earthy and dark before. Or quite so rich. She had a yearning, suddenly, for rich things: foods, tastes, smells, experiences that no God-fearing woman should want.
Experience. Even that word had her thinking of the man beside her, his broken voice and sad eyes. She didn’t need to look to feel him right there, the two of them working in quiet, easy tandem. She unclipped the branches from the wires and pulled, over and over, with nothing to stop her mind from crawling on.
Are you pure of soul?She thought of Brigid, snide and knowing.Eve in the garden of evil.
Maybe the woman was right.
She remembered when they’d been caught, her and Benji in the orchard, their drawers around their ankles and their hands hesitantly exploring.
Mama’d been angry, but Isaiah…he’d seemed forgiving.Poor Abigail Merkley. Always battling against your true nature.With such tenderness, Isaiah had told her he understood—and she thought maybe he had.We cannot help our sins, can we? We are the victims of our own transgressions, child.For years, she hadn’t even understood that word. Transgressions.
