The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(72)



“Right? How can you possibly make things right?”

“We’ll get married. Not immediately, of course. I’ll have to divorce Kathleen, and she’s probably not ready for this, so it’s gonna take time, but eventually –”

“What about your boys?” Abigail asked. “Will you divorce them too? Get rid of them, the way you would have gotten rid of our baby?”

“That’s not fair!” he snapped, “I’m only trying to please you!”

“Please me? Please me by hurting other people?”

“Jesus Christ, Abigail,” he moaned, “what do you want? Tell me. I’ll do whatever you ask; just tell me what will make you happy.”

She pulled herself from his grip and turned toward the window. The sky was already darkening, but far off on the horizon she could see a glimmer of lingering sunset. How greedy the red ball of sun seemed, clawing at the sky, refusing to step aside and allow the moon its rightful due. Abigail wanted to cling to John as the sun clung to the day, she wanted to feel his arms around her, feel his lips pressed to hers, and know that he’d be beside her year after year until they both grew old and silver-haired. From where she stood, Abigail saw the entrance to the park, the stone archway, beyond which was the bridal path. Nothing would ever drive out the haunting memory of that icy cold night. Theirs was a love born of sin and strewn over with lies and heartbreak, a love for which she had suffered an unjustly cruel punishment.

“Go home, John,” she said without turning back. “Go home to your boys.”

“Abigail, please. Can’t you see I’m trying –”

“Don’t. What kind of life would we have together? Do you think there’s ever any joy for people who carve their happiness out of someone else’s hurt? And what about your boys? You gonna have them grow up with no daddy?”

“I’ll visit the boys often as I can.”

“The way you do me? When you’re passing through some nearby town?”

“Abigail, you know damn well, I came to see you every chance I got!”

“It was never enough. You’ve no idea how often I cried myself to sleep missing you. Sometimes I tried to picture the way you’d look coming through the door, but there was always a piece of you missing – an eye, an ear, an arm, always something. Now I realize it was because the whole of you never did belong to me.”

“Things will change. I’ll ask for a smaller territory, I’ll be here more often.”

“It’s too late,” Abigail said, “way too late.”

John pleaded with her throughout the night but she stood firm in her resolve. When he said that he loved her more than life itself, Abigail turned her face to the wall so he couldn’t see the flow of tears coming from her eyes. Just as the first light of dawn flickered across the sky, he pulled on his overcoat and walked out the door. Abigail stood at the window and watched him cross the street, he didn’t turn back, didn’t look up at the window to see if she was there. He climbed into his car and started the motor. For several minutes he sat there like he was thinking maybe he’d forgotten something, and then he drove off.

“I’ll never let myself fall in love again,” Abigail sobbed as she watched him go, then she threw herself across the bed and cried more tears than she’d ever dreamed a person could have. Hours later, when she staggered into the kitchen for a drink of water, Abigail found the door key she’d given John lying on the table.

That evening Abigail gathered up the fancy dresses, slips and nightgowns that John had given her and packed them in a valise along with the pair of worn slippers and a pipe he had never smoked. She could not bring herself to get rid of the things, so she closed the valise and slid it beneath her bed. Two years later, she deposited it on the doorstep of the Salvation Army.




For years after she’d seen the last of John Langley, Abigail would stretch her neck or turn full around to catch a glimpse of some dark-haired man passing by on the far side of the street. On those occasions when she’d encountered someone who walked with his swagger, or spoke in his teasing tone of voice, she’d lie awake all night, looking at the moon and wondering if she’d done the right thing in sending him away. In the dark of night, her bed seemed to grow larger, and the space that John had once occupied felt barren as the inside of her body. When morning came, Abigail would gather herself together and recall her reasons for turning him away. Thy shalt not covet thy neighbor’s husband. Thy shalt not steal. Thy shalt not lie.

It was one thing to lay claim to the love of a man free to give it, it was quite another to steal someone from his family. Forbidden love was a sin for which Abigail had paid dearly – she had lost both her baby girl and the only man she’d ever love.

Abigail filled the years of emptiness with other children; toddlers who’d gather round in a circle as she read nursery rhymes or fables of fairies and flying elves, little boys she’d introduce to swashbuckling stories of pirates and princes, teenage girls longing for tales of romance. “Just remember,” she’d say with a smile, “true love seldom comes riding in on a white horse.” The girls would nod politely, but Abigail could tell, their heads were filled with the same foolish fantasies as hers had been.

In nineteen-eighty-four Abigail retired from the Richmond Library; she’d been there for forty-eight years and was hoping to make fifty as did Miss Spencer, but at seventy-two her knees were beginning to ache and her eyes no longer focused in on the clarity of words.

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