This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The song “Your Love” © 1990 Dawnn Lewis, Donald Robinson, Randy Bowland
The song “Perpetual Praise” © 1996 Jacquelyn Gouche-Farris
Copyright © 2001 by Victoria Christopher Murray
Reading Group Guide copyright © 2002 by Warner Books, Inc., with Walk Worthy Press
All rights reserved.
Published by Warner Books with Walk Worthy Press™
Warner Books
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
First eBook Edition: December 2008
ISBN: 978-0-446-55377-3
Cover design by Flag and Blanca Aulet
Cover photo by O'Brian Tschidde/Photonica
Contents
Also by Victoria Christopher Murray
Dedication
acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
chapter 55
chapter 56
a bit later ...
about the author
Reading Group Guide
PASTOR FORD TOOK ANYA'S HANDS, BOWED HER HEAD AND BEGAN TO PRAY.
Anya closed her eyes and tried to stop the trembling that was beginning deep inside. Within seconds, the shaking reached her skin; every inch of her body quivered. But Pastor Ford continued to pray, not stopping even when sobs heaved from Anya's chest.
“Let her feel your power, Father.” Pastor Ford raised her voice and gripped Anya's hands tighter. “Free her from the hold that still controls her. You said in your word that if the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed. So I pray, in Jesus’ name, that Anya be freed here, Lord.”
The pastor began to pray in the spirit and Anya's sobs became louder.
“Oh, God. How could this happen to me?” Anya cried.
PRAISE FOR VICTORIA CHRISTOPHER MURRAY
“[Murray is] … a bright new author for this new Christian imprint.”
—Library Journal
“Groundbreaking.”
—Essence on Temptation
… AND FOR WALK WORTHY™ PRESS BOOKS
“Need a little good news in your novels? Look no further.”
—Essence
“Quality Christian fiction titles written by and for African Americans.”
—Publishers Weekly
ALSO BY VICTORIA CHRISTOPHER MURRAY
Temptation
To Ray and Monique—my Joy
acknowledgements
First, as always, I give glory and honor to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. The gift of writing comes from Him, the stories come from Him, the discipline comes from Him … need I go on?
There are so many people who stand with me, encouraging me and making sure that I continue with God's plans for my life. Thank you to my parents, Edwin and Jacqueline Christopher, who always believe. I love you two so much. To my sisters, Michele, Cia, and Cecile, and my brother-in-law, William, who tell everyone they know about their sister. To my uncles Herbie and Danny, who beam with pride and make me feel so good.
To the best friends God could have ever placed in my life: Tracy and Walter (thank you for that incredible tea!), Veronica and Joseph (I hope you guys have to come back to L.A. next year), and Lolita Files (thank you for believing in me so much and always telling me so).
To Dawnn Lewis and Jacquelyn Gouche-Farris. Thank you not only for your friendship, but also for allowing me to use your words. You inspire me and so many others with your beautiful songs.
The Murray clan is always so excited for me. Thank you, Grandmother, Nana, Jim, Dad and Ercelle, Michael, Elvis and Ruth, Victoria, and my nieces and nephew—especially Ta'shara (you too Allen), and Victor and Janaya.
To everyone at Warner Books, especially Jamie Raab and Christine Saunders. And a major thank you to Frances Jalet-Miller, who worked on every word of this novel. I learned so much from you.
Thank you to all of the authors who walk this road with me and who always have a word of encouragement and love: Kimberla Roby, Stephanie Perry Moore, Eric Jerome Dickey, E. Lynn Harris, Timmothy McCann, Jacquelin Thomas, Parry Brown, Franklin White, Lajoyce Brookshire, Yolanda Joe, and the many others.
To the book clubs across the country, I cannot thank you enough for your support. But especially to Denise, Cheryl and Tabahani, Dorothy and Minds in Motion, Jan and The Reading Group of Sisters and Friends, Tori and A Room Full of Sistas, Vanessa, Tina and Journey's End, and Wilma Wilkerson, who is my Texas connection all by herself. I thank you all for your never-ending support.
To all my sorors in Delta Sigma Theta. Thank you for coming out in every city and giving me much sisterly love!
Finally, to my top four:
Denise Stinson, my publisher. From the beginning you've had total faith in me and constantly encourage me to keep moving down this road. Not one of these pages could have been written without you. Thank you for your vision, your prayers, and your friendship.
Pastor Beverly “Bam” Crawford, my shepherd. Every time I listen to you, I learn. I cannot thank you enough for your spiritual leadership and guidance. I am stronger in the Lord because of you, and I love you so much.
Ray Allen Murray, my husband. You always believe, don't you? Thank you for thinking that your wife is the best and for encouraging me to believe the same. And thank you for walking this walk alongside me, for dreaming these dreams with me and loving me throughout it all.
To the readers who continue to overwhelm me (in a positive way) with their thoughts and love. Nothing is possible without you. Thank you.
Prologue
The man entered the apartment, secured the upper and lower locks, then chained the door. Only then did he feel it was safe to turn on the lights. His eyes adjusted to the bare overhead light and he scanned the concrete-gray, paint-chipped walls, trying to soak up every picture. There were photos of her all over, probably at least one hundred, if he'd taken the time to count them. One day he would. He stood with his back to the door, admiring his sanctum.
The heels of his shoes clapped against the planks of the wooden floor as h
e walked to the center of the room. He took off his tailored suit jacket, loosened his red tie and threw both on the iron cot. He turned and took twelve steps to his kitchen.
A sudden swell of revulsion hit him as he opened the microwave. The stench from the half-eaten dinner he'd left there almost scurried to meet him. With his nose upturned, he used the tips of his fingers to dump the brown-green furry object into the sink. The two-shelf refrigerator tilted as he opened the door. It was empty. He'd forgotten to buy food. No matter. He was too tired to eat anyway.
He opened a drawer from the old dresser, and pulled out the photo album crammed with pictures. He flipped through the images of her at work, jogging on the beach, leaving church, going into her townhouse. But even though he had come here to look at the pictures, he didn't have the energy to do it tonight. He slammed the book shut and dropped it to the floor.
Walking back to the cot, he counted the steps in his mind. He always did this, though he didn't know why. Out of habit, he supposed. He knew how many steps it took to get to each part of this room. Five steps to the bathroom, eleven to the clothing rack; thirty-eight steps and he could walk around the entire apartment.
The cot creaked under his weight as he fell onto it. He thought about changing his clothes, but there were no more steps in him. He lay back, making a mental note to buy a pillow, but only if it didn't cost more than five dollars. No need to splurge on frivolous, unnecessary items. He wouldn't be keeping this place much longer anyway.
He picked up the towel from the floor, threw it over the clock and wondered if he'd be able to sleep with the light. He'd have to—he wasn't getting up now.
Finally, he closed his eyes. It had been a long day. He'd spent his free time watching her—sometimes up close, sometimes from far away. But that was the best part; she never knew it.
The man felt himself drifting off to sleep, comforted by the muted, steady tick-tick-tick of the alarm clock. A vision slowly filled his mind. She was dressed in a suit, the burgundy one—his favorite—the one that made her look like a real woman.
She was looking straight at him, unbuttoning her blouse. Her face was soft with desire. All signs of her usual arrogance were gone. Now she was just a woman, doing what she was supposed to do: preparing herself for him. He smiled in his slumber. It would only be a matter of time. Then Anya Mitchell would be completely his.
Chapter 1
Any day now!” Anya shouted, as the car in front of her remained motionless even though the other lanes were inching forward.
Anya leaned on her horn, the blaring sound startling drivers around her, causing them to turn and stare. The driver in front of her looked back through his rearview mirror, held up his hands, then rolled down his window.
“Where do you want me to go?” he yelled.
Anya almost smiled. He really didn't want her to answer. She honked again—just a little, to annoy him, but she felt bad the moment she did it. She couldn't help it though—it was one of those habits that lingered from her college days in New York. Twenty years later, she used her horn as if she were still in Manhattan.
She bounced back in the seat of her BMW and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, praying for a break in the traffic. She only had ninety minutes to get back to the office and then to the restaurant.
“Ahhhh!” she yelled. She squeezed her fingers around the steering wheel and a pinpoint of sunlight burst through the windshield, hitting her ring at the perfect angle. Her emerald-cut engagement ring sparkled like lightning, and the rainbow hues danced across her slender mocha finger. Anya stared at the flawless diamond, hypnotized for a moment by its brilliance.
Her cell phone rang and she jumped. She clicked the speaker button.
“Hello,” she said, forcing a smile into her voice.
“What are you wearing?”
His seductive tone put a smile on her face. “My burgundy suit.”
“The one with the short skirt? Umm, my favorite. How's your day?”
“Don't ask. What about you?”
“I've been in front of the computer all day, but now I want to see you. Are you going to be on time tonight?”
She detected a sprinkle of sarcasm in Braxton's tone and her smile faded a bit. “I'll be on time, Braxton, I promise,” she said, running one hand through the tight curls on her head.
“Good, ‘cause I can't wait to see you. We haven't spent enough time together lately.”
“That's not true.”
“Seems that way. That's why we should live together now. Waiting for the wedding doesn't make sense.”
Her smile disappeared. “Braxton.” She exhaled his name in a whine.
“Never mind. I'll see you in an hour. I love you.”
She clicked off the phone and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She shook her head to clear it of thoughts of her fiancé. There were more pressing issues in front of her.
Cars were beginning to creep forward and as her speed increased, she looked across the freeway's lanes. No three-car wreck, no stalled big wheeler. Nothing to cause the hour-long backup. She put her foot down on the accelerator and zipped her sports car across the lanes and around snail-paced cars. Maybe she could salvage the rest of the day. But the twisting in the pit of her stomach made her seriously doubt it.
“Hi, Anya. I have a couple of—”
Anya raised her hand, stopping her assistant mid-sentence. She skimmed through the pink slips Dianna handed her and sighed deeply. “Just take messages for the rest of the afternoon.”
Without saying another word, Dianna nodded knowingly. The entire office had been tense as the date approached for the final pitch to Linden Communications.
Anya threw her briefcase on her desk and flopped into her leather chair. She swiveled and turned to face the large floor-to-ceiling glass windows that extended over two walls of her corner office.
It was a sparkling clear southern California day. The day after one of those El Niño storms that washed all the smog and dirt from the air and removed much of the shoreline from the southern Pacific Coast as well.
Anya stood, pulled her silk suit jacket over her hips, and strolled to the windows. This was why she had chosen this space. When shed needed to expand her office, shed been determined to find one with a breathtaking view of the city. These windows removed her from the present and took her to a faraway place when she needed to escape.
What is wrong with me? Anya wondered, as she looked down at her ring. She wanted to feel it—all of the blessedness that had been there at the beginning. But all she felt was what shed been feeling the last few weeks: She was falling headfirst into an abyss.
She did remember the happiness that consumed her the day Braxton proposed. They were in church, in the middle of the service, right after the offering, when Pastor Ford had called his name.
“Braxton Vance, can you come up to the altar?”
Anya had frowned and pulled Braxton's hand. “What's going on?” she whispered with narrowed eyes.
He stood, looked down at her and smiled but wordlessly slipped away. Her eyes focused on him, as he trotted down the green-carpeted aisle.
Braxton moved up the two steps to the altar and took Pastor Ford's outstretched hand. She led him to the podium.
Clearing his throat, he pushed his thin gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, then ran his hand across his almost bald head before he spoke. “Good morning, family.” He paused as the congregation responded. “As many of you know, I'm a writer and this isn't the easiest career. In the beginning it was a struggle, but I am blessed that it is no longer. And now that the trial has passed, people everywhere remember me when and want to befriend me now. But most important to me are the people who were with me when times were thin—people who never cared about what I did for a living, where I lived, or what I drove.” He looked directly at Anya. “Anya Mitchell, would you please come up here?”
It took the nudging of the woman next to her to make Anya stand. She moved haltingly throu
gh the silent congregation until she was by Braxton's side. Her trembling hands were hidden behind her back. What is he doing? she thought, as possibilities ran through her mind.
Braxton took her left hand. “Anya, you've always been there for me and our friendship has turned to love. So now …” He slowly lowered himself until he was balanced on one knee. Then he removed a glinting object from his sports jacket.
Anya was frozen in place. Her glazed eyes fixed on the image in front of her. But she could hear the soft, growing rumble that moved through the six hundred or so parishioners sharing this moment with her.
“Anya Mitchell. In front of God, Pastor Ford, and our church family, would you make me the happiest man on earth and agree to become my wife?”
While the congregation cheered, Anya just stared. Pastor Ford's voice brought her back to consciousness.
“Anya, you haven't said anything,” Pastor Ford said, as she joined the two at the altar.
Anya allowed herself to smile but didn't trust herself to speak. She nodded.
“Braxton, I think you can take that as a yes!” Pastor Ford laughed.
The congregation roared when Braxton slipped the ring onto her finger. As the cheering continued, Anya allowed herself to relish the moment in front of hundreds of onlookers.
Anya smiled now, as she remembered that moment a little more than six months ago. She'd loved Braxton so much then and she certainly loved him now—even more. So what was wrong? Obscure emotions had unnerved her for several weeks, making her believe something bad was going to happen. But there was nothing specific she could pinpoint causing all of this doubt.
Braxton Vance was everything shed hoped for—he was a man of God, professionally successful, and financially stable. And there didn't seem to be any dirty secrets or angry women lurking in his background, waiting to pounce upon them. Topping it all, he was certainly easy on the eyes, as the women in her office told her whenever he came to visit. He was the perfect package.
Anya sighed deeply, and walked back to her desk. As she sat, her fingers did a syncopated dance atop her marble desk and she let her eyes wander around the office, finally settling on her brass desktop clock. Hastily, she pulled the Linden Communications folder from her briefcase and turned on her computer, determined to work efficiently during the next half hour. But within moments, she was leaning back in her chair, twisting the ring on her finger.
Joy Page 1
