by Nancy Moser
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Books of Nancy Moser
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Letter to the Reader
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Excerpt from The Invitation
Solemnly
Swear
by
Nancy Moser
Solemnly Swear
Published by:
Mustard Seed Press
PO Box 23002
Overland Park, KS 66283
Copyright © 2008, 2016 by Nancy Moser
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual people, places, or events are purely coincidental.
All Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, New Living Translation
Front cover design by Mustard Seed Press with thanks to Jeff Gerke
The Books of Nancy Moser
CONTEMPORARY BOOKS
The Invitation (Book 1 of Mustard Seed Series)
The Quest (Book 2 of Mustard Seed Series)
The Temptation (Book 3 of Mustard Seed Series)
The Seat Beside Me (Book 1 of Steadfast Series)
A Steadfast Surrender (Book 2 of Steadfast Series)
The Ultimatum (Book 3 of Steadfast Series)
The Sister Circle (Book 1 of Sister Circle Series)
Round the Corner (Book 2 of Sister Circle Series)
An Undivided Heart (Book 3 of Sister Circle Series)
A Place to Belong (Book 4 of Sister Circle Series)
Time Lottery (Book 1 of Time Lottery Series)
Second Time Around (Book 2 of Time Lottery Series)
John 3:16
The Good Nearby
Solemnly Swear
Crossroads
HISTORICAL NOVELS
The Pattern Artist
Love of the Summerfields (Book 1 of Manor House Series)
Bride of the Summerfields (Book 2 of Manor House Series)
Rise of the Summerfields (Book 3 of Manor House Series)
Mozart’s Sister (biographical novel of Nannerl Mozart)
Just Jane (biographical novel of Jane Austen)
Washington’s Lady (bio-novel of Martha Washington)
How Do I Love Thee? (bio-novel of Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
Masquerade
An Unlikely Suitor
The Journey of Josephine Cain
A Patchwork Christmas (novella collection)
A Basket Brigade Christmas (novella collection)
Read excerpts at www.nancymoser.com
DEDICATION
Many thanks to the Kansas Eight,
my fellow writers who brainstorm
the bizarre plots that pop into my head:
Steph, Deb, Till, Colleen, Cheryl, Mel, Rene.
It’s all your fault.
PROLOGUE
Since your refuge is made of lies,
a hailstorm will knock it down.
Since it is made of deception,
a flood will sweep it away.
ISAIAH 28:17
Someone is coming.
I’m in control but my heart still pounds. I can’t let anyone see me this way. Calm. I have to look calm. That’s the only way this will play out like I’ve planned.
I check my watch. Twenty minutes, thirty tops. I know where this person lives, how close it is. I know it won’t take long to get here.
Things will work out. The way this whole thing set itself wasn’t a coincidence. I don’t believe in such a thing. I believe in fate. Yet sometimes fate needs a well-planned push.
My watch again. Another minute gone. It’s time to stage things and get in place. I already know my lines—and theirs. People are predictable. It’s a fact I count on to get what I want.
I sluff off my suit pants and shirt from work, hanging up one, drilling the other into the laundry basket. I pull on my swim trunks and pause to look in the mirror. I flex my muscles. Six-pack abs, even at age thirty-five. But looking studly doesn’t figure into tonight’s scenario. The meeting that’s coming down is mental, not physical. Luckily, my mental capabilities are also in A-1 condition. My mark doesn’t have a chance.
As intended.
I pour myself a glass of wine and take it—and the bottle—outside to the hot tub I put in last year. It’s not one of those tacky lumber-store numbers but a hotel-quality, in-the-ground tub that can hold six people. It has twenty-eight jets and a hot-spot waterfall. Hey, why not? Don’t I deserve the best? Besides, I didn’t pay full price. I got connections. I am the connection. I make things happen.
My way or no way.
I slide into the tub, enjoying the sting of the hot water and the steam rising in the winter air. I keep it hotter than most. Some like it hot. Hmm. I got wit too. I got it all.
But I want more. As much as I can get.
After tonight’s little transaction, I’ll be richer by fifty thou. My mark didn’t like the price and said it would be hard coming up with it. They always say that, but they always do it. What choice do they have? My offers can’t be refused.
Not that I’d do a Corleone on them. I’ve never had to resort to that. Charm and brains. That’s worth more than any thug technique.
I sip my wine and make a face—a reaction I reserve for moments when I’m alone. I still don’t like wine, but I drink it because it fits the part I play.
I turn on the jets, letting the swirling water pulse against my lower back. My job requires me to stand a lot, and though my legs have gotten used to it, my back is weak. But I’m working on it. Four hundred crunches a day. Working with weights. I’m not arrogant enough to be blind to my weaknesses. Unlike most people, I do something about them. People don’t have to be incomplete. All it takes is a little work.
And a little luck.
I hear a car. My neighborhood is in the boonies with the houses sitting on acreages, giving plenty of privacy. The flicker of headlights on the tree at the edge of the backyard tells me a car has pulled into the driveway. I gave instructions to meet me out back. I don’t want anyone in my house. Plus I want the advantage of creating a scene that’s unexpected. Blackmail works best if the victim is a bit put off, uncomfortable, uncertain. That’s why I always pick my turf. Sure, it lets them know where I live, but the privacy means I don’t have to worry about some stranger hearing or seeing what they shouldn’t. It’s worked so far. I’ve never had problems with a one of them coming back. I assure them what’s done is done and I won’t be bothering them again. And I keep my word. One blackmailing per customer.
There is such a thing as honor among thieves.
I turn off the jets to listen more closely. I hear footsteps on the walkway that connects the front of the house to the back.
I wait just long enough.
“Welcome,” I say.
The look of surprise is right on cue.
I turn the jets back on, sending the water into motion. “Want to join me? The water’s great.”
My victim wears a winter coat and gloves and carries a gym bag.
The money.
My invitation is declined. “I want to get this over with.”
“Excellent. Then let’s get down to bus
iness.”
***
My head is killing me. I lean my neck against the edge of the hot tub and press a hand against the wound. Pieces of the broken wine bottle litter the patio, reflecting the light.
I can’t believe it went so wrong. Before today…everyone else paid their money and left. But this one wanted to discuss it. Then the discussion turned into an argument. It was totally unexpected. My marks always accept their guilt because they are guilty.
Hitting me over the head with the bottle was unplanned; I know that for a fact. It was followed by wide eyes, a gasp, and “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry” before a panicked getaway.
I mean, who says such a thing at such a time?
Someone who’s innocent.
I can’t think about that now. I need to think about me. I need to get out of this tub.
I try to sit upright, but the pain and the dizziness force me back in the water.
I can’t do this alone. I need help. Suddenly the distance between neighbors is a bad thing. And my phone is inside.
A world away.
Hold on. I have to hold on.
I doze.
I snap awake when my face hits the water. My grip on the sides is weakening. I’m weakening. If only the jets weren’t going.
I need help.
Now.
The water bubbles around my chin.
It teases me, pretending it’s innocent.
It’s not.
I’m not.
It nibbles at my grip.
It grabs at me, pulling at me.
It wants me.
It…
It…
Wins.
ONE
Those who are wise will find a time
and a way to do what is right,
for there is a time and a way
for everything, even when
a person is in trouble.
ECCLESIASTES 8:5-6
“Abigail Buchanan?”
“Here.”
Abigail stood without pushing on the arms of the chair. She forced herself to walk faster than her normal gait. She willed her spine to be as straight as it was fifty years earlier when she’d gone on her first audition.
Being an out-of-work actress who was over seventy was the pits. Actually, the pits had started at age forty when leading roles started to fade into character parts. The first time she’d played the lead’s mother instead of playing the lead had been a wake-up call. Welcome to reality.
The young woman who’d called her name held the door. Not a wrinkle in her dewy soft skin. Abigail hated when people made statements such as, “I’ve earned my wrinkles. I’m proud of each and every one.”
Pooh. Such declarations were the pitiful rationalization of a person consumed with panic, a person resorting to any kind of desperate validation they could muster. Abigail stood by her original statement: getting old was the pits.
Although she hated wrinkles as much as the next woman, she’d never succumbed to the knife, mostly because plastic surgery had been a touch and go procedure back when she’d first been tempted. Seeing one of her actress friends end up with a mouth as tight and wide as Donald Duck’s had also been instrumental in her decision to wing it.
Yet she had tried every face cream, wrinkle reducer, scrub, and gimmick that promised to bar time at the door. It didn’t take long to realize that those creams—when and if they worked—only offered time a coffee break. Time was relentless and insisted on getting back to work. Crummy job too, making days turn into months turn into years that made a person old.
Bummer.
“Stand over there,” the sweet young thing said, indicating the space directly in front of two seated men who held Abigail’s future in their hands.
She smiled, “Afternoon, gentlemen.”
A nod. “You’re Abigail Buchanan.”
There was the slightest indication he’d heard of her. “That’s me. Star of Winsome Girl on Broadway and The Jackie Daniels Show on TV.”
The other man looked confused. She could go on to explain that she’d won the Winsome Girl role away from Mary Martin and had earned a full-time role on Jackie through the depth and breadth of her talent, but she had the feeling her explanation would gain her another blank stare.
“It says here you were on Friends once.”
“Those kids were so sweet.” Kids. I shouldn’t have called them kids. Yet it was obvious by the men’s appreciative nods that an appearance on Friends overrode dozens of more important performances in the too-distant past. “I also did twelve commercials as the Ivory Soap lady.”
The first man—who had one of those annoying little shocks of hair in the cleft of his chin—said, “You look older in person.”
You charmer you. She didn’t react.
Chin Hair sighed as if he’d already decided this was a supreme waste of time. He waved a hand at the girl. “Give her the script.”
If Abigail had participated in a paying job in the past nine months, she might have tossed the pages back at him, saying something trite but satisfying like “I don’t need this!” But since her rent was due and she really would like to eat something besides three-for-a-dollar mac and cheese for dinner, she took the pages and did her best.
When she was done, they didn’t even confer. Chin Hair merely said, “We’ll be in touch” and Cutie Pie popped out of her chair to show Abigail the door.
Don’t call us, we’ll call you.
At times like this, Abigail grieved divorcing her husband fifty years ago. Not because she missed him (what was his name again?) nor because she thought they should have stayed together. But having him around would have at least given her the possibility of companionship. The whole marriage experience had soured her to commitment and she’d never found another mate—marriageable mate, that is. As a result she’d never had children, which would have also provided her with some company in her old age.
There it was again. Old age. Nasty devil.
As it was, she had to bear her disappointment regarding not getting the part alone. She was used to it, but that didn’t mean she liked it. Once she’d entered the golden years (a dull yellow if you asked her) she’d found her bounce-back ability a huge bit wanting. And when she talked to her friends about wanting to work, they always made her feel moronic. “What are you thinking? Enjoy your retirement, Abigail.”
Doing what? With what? And with whom?
“Stop it!” she snapped at the traitorous thoughts.
Alas, the empty elevator did not respond. But it did offer a nice reverberation to her anger.
Smiling wickedly, she said the words again, yelled them within the confines of the moving box, and added a few more for emphasis: “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Abigail Buchanan!”
She imagined her words rising up the elevator shaft and ricocheting off the ears of some poor cuss waiting on the eighth floor with a cheek numb from Novocain.
Maybe she shouldn’t have said her name.
As the elevator doors opened on one, she laughed. What did it matter if people heard her name? As always, they’d forget it soon enough.
***
Abigail used her key to get the mail in the tiny foyer of her ancient apartment building—which had, at one time, been a stately Victorian home.
Looking through the mail, she realized how pitiful her life had become that she could get excited about offers for credit cards she didn’t want, vinyl siding she didn’t need, and cruises she couldn’t afford.
C’est la vie.
She was disappointed there weren’t any of the just-listed items but only a gas bill and a letter from some government agency. She shoved both into her shoulder bag and started up the stairs to her attic apartment. When she’d first gotten this place fifteen years earlier, she’d thought the stairs would keep her young.
Very funny.
The good thing about the stairs was that they were on the inside of the building and owned the essence of stately—somewhere beneath the countless
coats of paint that covered what surely was oak or walnut paneling. A shame. A crying, dying shame.
She traversed the second floor landing and walked to the end of the hall, where a small door led to her own private, winding stairs, so narrow that, out of habit and for support, she put her hands on either side, letting the grime of the day transfer to an existing swath of dark against the white paint. She should clean it. One of these days. It’s not like she didn’t have time.
The stairs winded her, so after retrieving the letters from her purse, she fell into the mauve Queen Anne chair that really should be re-covered into some with-it color. If she cared.
Which she didn’t.
She tossed the gas bill to the floor and zeroed in on the official-looking letter. Within moments, she sat up straight, fueled with a new energy.
Abigail kissed the letter. They wanted her for jury duty? Now there was a part she’d always wanted to play.
***
Ken Doolittle heard the water running in the master bath. It took him a moment to put a name to the person in the bathroom.
Loretta.
Lorena?
Since he couldn’t remember for sure, he decided to keep his eyes closed and pretend he was still asleep. No need for poignant good-byes. At age fifty-five, poignant had never been in his vocabulary. Or his game plan. As if he had one. One that worked anyway.
The water stopped and he heard the light being flipped off. The woman rustled through her purse and Ken nearly opened his eyes to see what she was doing.
But then he sensed her presence close. The scent of newly applied floral perfume wafted over him. Then footsteps. Away. On the stairs. He held his breath waiting for the front door to—
Click.
Ah. Safe.
The sounds of a car pulling away gave him permission to sit up. He saw a note on the pillow next to him: Thanks.
He stared at the note. That was it? Thanks? Not You were wonderful. Call me. Not even just Call me.
