The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(65)


“Try it on,” he said.

“A nightgown?”

“Wear the robe overtop, that’s perfectly decent.” When Abigail seemed as though she might be considering the thought, he added, “You ought to make sure it fits.”

She hesitated a moment then moved into the bedroom; when she came back she was wearing the nightgown. The romantic sound of ballroom music was coming from the radio and John was pouring a second glass of champagne.

“You’re a vision,” he said and gave a long low whistle.

Never before had Abigail known herself to be the object of so much admiration, it was an aphrodisiac that seeped through her skin and settled into her bones.

“A beautiful woman should always have beautiful things,” he whispered; then swept her into his arms and started swaying to the strains of Beautiful Dreamer. The room was tiny, crowded with furniture, too small to do a waltz or fox trot even, but Abigail closed her eyes and imagined that they were at the Rainbow Room, high above the world. She hardly noticed when the music stopped and an announcer started telling listeners that Duz is the detergent that does everything.

“Merry Christmas,” John said, and handed her the glass of champagne.

Although December twenty-fifth was long gone and the calendar hanging on her kitchen wall had already been switched over to 1938, it was the best Christmas Abigail had ever experienced, so when John wrapped his arms around her and pressed his body to hers, she offered no resistance. Nor, did she object when he slid his hand beneath the robe. When he whispered, “I love you,” and cupped her breast in his hand, Abigail was long past remembering that she’d planned to bring up the subject of marriage.

Only once, when John untied the shoulder straps of her gown and watched it drop to the floor, did she feel afraid of what was happening, but as she offered up the feeblest of protests, he worked his way into her body.

That night she dreamed of Preacher Broody pounding on the pulpit and hammering home the message that an adulteress will forever burn in Hell’s pit of fire. Abigail could see herself standing naked in front of the congregation, her body and her sins exposed. But when she woke in the morning and found herself wrapped in John’s embrace, the dream was quickly forgotten.

That January John remained in Richmond for eight days, surreptitiously slipping in and out of the apartment building’s side door to save Abigail’s reputation, but it was she who ultimately gave rise to rumors of romance. A rosy glow settled onto her skin like summer sunburn, she’d arrive at the library late and leave early, she’d find herself wearing one black shoe and the other brown, she’d be scribbling page after page of the name Abigail Langley and forget about the patrons standing in line to check out a book.

“Isn’t your name Lannigan?” Melissa Cooper asked, after she’d been waiting for a full fifteen minutes.

“It’s going to change,” Abigail answered with a smile.

Pretty soon, the word around town was that the librarian was in love and about to be married, but to whom people asked each other.



Abigail figured it was only a question of time until John proposed, so she set about demonstrating the kind wife she would be. She’d lock the library door on the dot of three and rush home to bake pork chops, or set a beef stew to simmering. The moment he walked through the door, she’d bring his slippers and the day’s newspaper. “Sit in the easy chair and relax,” she’d say, then start massaging his neck so he’d be certain to do so. After dinner they made love, and she held back nothing.

On January eleventh, as he was packing his things into the suitcase, she brought up the subject of his traveling.

“That’s my business,” he answered with a grin. “Traveling. I’ve got to go where buildings are being built. The bank depends on me.”

“Oh,” she sighed, making her disappointment obvious.

“Don’t frown,” he said, tracing his finger along the slope of her nose, “you’ll get wrinkles on that pretty forehead.” He turned and walked out, promising only that he’d be back at the end of the month.



John had been there for only eight days, but once he was gone the apartment seemed so empty that Abigail was forced to walk from room to room making certain the furniture had not also disappeared. Everything was as it had always been, except for the pair of slippers left alongside the living room chair.




Abigail, feeling very much in love, floated through January and February. Although a winter storm stacked three inches of snow on the ground, she swore the lilacs were getting ready to bloom. A smile settled onto her face and refused to leave. She’d walk down the street greeting passersby as if they were lifelong friends, or stopping to tickle the chin of a snowsuited baby. John was coming to Richmond every other week, sometimes he’d stay a few days, other times it would be just one night, and then he’d be gone before Abigail could rub the sleep from her eyes. When he was there, her skin itched with the desire for him to touch her, hold her, be inside of her again. Once they’d eaten supper, she’d stretch her arms above her head and start yawning, which was her way of suggesting the need to go to bed early.

When he wasn’t there, she’d be thinking of when he would be. On Valentine’s Day, forgetting that he wouldn’t be back for another six days, she roasted a large round of beef. That night she claimed to have heard the newspaper rustling in the parlor and John calling for a cold glass of beer, even though he was hundreds of miles away. Night after night she’d fall asleep imagining herself in his arms; but on nights when there was a full moon, she’d wake and start wondering what city he was in at that moment.

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