Adam Winslow, Esquire, patted the two hundred thousand dollar check in his suit coat pocket. He chided himself just a tad for lacking humility, but he knew his largess would make possible a new church meetinghouse, aptly named Adam Winslow Hall. His sigh, heavy with satisfaction, escaped into the air.
Wife Margaret smiled at him, taking his arm. He squared his shoulders and stood a little straighter. They walked toward the chapel exit, toward a familiar bronze plaque nestled in the stone of the church wall. He knew every word.
Covenant Assembly Church Founded 1780 Walter Moses Winslow, First Deacon Talbot Mills, New Hampshire
Once outside, Margaret stopped to visit with friends. Adam, spying church elder Jacob Lattimer, excused himself and walked across the wide lawn to join him.
“I have what I promised,” Adam said.
He began to remove the check from his pocket, but Jacob placed his hand on Adam’s arm.
“I’ve a surprise for you,” Jacob said. “I won’t take the check now. We’ve planned an official presentation at the board meeting tomorrow and invited the local press. There’ll be an article and picture in the paper. It’s always good to let the townspeople know how the church is growing.”
“Wonderful idea. I’ll be there, Jacob. With the check.”
They shook hands and Jacob moved on to speak to another parishioner. Adam strolled toward the shade of a leaf-heavy maple tree, delighted the story and picture would appear in The Talbot Mills Tribune.
His forebears would call his pride-filled manner a sin. However, it was time the people of Talbot Mills recognized him and his achievements. His mother called him a pillar of the community, besting the Winslow men before him, even his father.
A pillar. He liked that.
As Adam inhaled the clear Sunday air, a slender woman, hips swaying beneath a yellow summer dress and a large straw tote bag hanging on her arm, strolled toward him.
“What a surprise. Hello, Jack. Remember little ol’ me?”
Jack? Jack? Uh-oh. Jack. A breath wedged in his throat. The slow, soothing voice. The southern accent. Her playful blue eyes, trim athletic body, auburn hair. The recent attorneys’ convention in New Orleans. Oh, yes. He remembered all right.
“Ah, Miss Bellerose. Monique.”
Moisture collected under his arms. What was she doing here? His wife, her back to him, chatted with Orinda Benson by the rose garden.
Monique brushed a wisp of hair from her face. “Whatever y’all doing so far from your offices in Los Angeles?”
Jacob Lattimer, mingling among the parishioners, glanced at them.
Adam rubbed his sweaty palms together. “Ah, um, touching base with our New England associates about a current case. Squeezing in a little sightseeing. And you?”
“Visiting my sister in town. Said I should see this little ol’ church. Probably hoping a little religion will rub off.” Monique made a slight frown. “Jack, you never called me after the convention.”
Adam cleared his throat, but Monique didn’t wait for his reply.
“No harm. I know all about the crush of business.” She removed a business card from her bag, jotted a number on the back of it. “I do have to rush. Nephew’s surprise birthday party today. Call me. I’m staying for ten days. Y’all can show me the sights.”
Adam watched her walk away and shoved the card in his pocket. He enjoyed his usual convention fun. What was the harm? No one ever knew. But how in the hell did he find “fun” with a sister in Talbot Mills? What were the odds of that? He dabbed his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief.
He glanced at Margaret and jammed a finger inside his collar. For a hundred dollar shirt, it suddenly felt like it would choke him. He slowly walked across the lawn toward her, his brain ablaze.
Ten days.
Tribune article.
Glad-hand picture.
What if Monique discovered who he was?
Bells clanged in his ears, except the church bells weren’t ringing.
What if his wife found out?
His heart pounded, timpani drums run amok.
His reputation?
Good God.
Forcing himself to meet Margaret’s eyes, he stood beside her.
“Adam, dear, I was afraid you’d forgotten. We’ve promised to take Pastor and his wife to brunch at the country club today.”
Early morning coffee and French pastry churned in Adam’s gut, followed by a rolling rumble of gas.
Good God Almighty.