Forgotten Vows. Modean Moon

generations. Or had he?

      Edward had taken the picture from Madeline and the letter from Simms before Madeline had a chance to see it. He’d left his office, taking Simms with him long enough to swear him to secrecy about the photo and the contact’s name and address, then left the building. Later, after Madeline had left no fewer than five messages on his answering machine, and had come to his apartment but had not gotten past the new security guard, he’d left that building, too. And finally, he’d left the city.

      There was a small airport just outside of Avalon. Edward had noticed that while readying to leave. But he’d flown his executive jet into El Paso instead, because he hadn’t been sure of the availability of a rental car, hadn’t been sure he wanted to announce his presence in Avalon so blatantly and hadn’t been sure he wanted anyone in his offices to know where he’d gone or the folly that had brought him here. In the anonymous Jeep, he could look over the situation and leave, if he wanted, without anyone’s—without Jennie’s—ever knowing he’d been here; leave—without seeing her.

       If she’s here.

      For the first time since seeing the photograph, his mind began to clear. Why would the vicar place an ad like that if she were still here? Had she used the vicar, too? The woman he’d thought he’d known wouldn’t have—couldn’t have. But then, the woman he’d thought he’d known wouldn’t have disappeared with a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of bonds from his safe and after finding them nonnegotiable, she wouldn’t have ripped the stones from the rings he’d given her, returning to him only the mangled settings.

      

      The gray stone church was St. Alban’s. Ivy grew up the wall overlooking a well-tended cemetery on the church grounds. New plantings of spring flowers bordered the sidewalks leading to the red double doors of the graceful building. The vicarage sat to one side and slightly back from the road. Like the church, the cottage was a small stone structure that needed only a thatched roof to complete the fairy-tale setting.

      Edward stood on the front steps, folder in hand, and sounded the door knocker before he had time to question again the wisdom of his being there. The door opened quickly, and he found himself facing a pleasant-looking older woman.

      “Good afternoon,” she said, smiling. “May I help you?” Her voice was pleasant, too, well modulated, as gracious as her surroundings, and bearing a faint trace of an English accent. In spite of the gravity of the situation, Edward felt an answering smile begging to be set free, and wondered, not for the first time since seeing the village, if magically he had been transported to some alternate reality.

      “I’d like to speak with Reverend Winthrop, please,” he said.

      Not by a flicker of a lash did the woman reveal any curiosity. “Certainly,” she said, opening the door wider and stepping back. “Won’t you come in? My husband is in his study. If you’ll wait in the front parlor—” she gestured to a room opening off the foyer “—I’ll tell him you’re here.”

      She hadn’t even asked his name, he mused as he walked into the parlor. But perhaps as a vicar’s wife, she was accustomed to strange men knocking on her door, asking for her husband.

       Or she already knew who he was.

      Glancing about the room, his eye fell upon the painting. He felt as though someone had just slammed a two-by-four across his midsection. The pain was that instantaneous, that severe, when he saw the framed watercolor hanging over the mantel. He didn’t have to look at the artist’s signature; he recognized the work—a misty, otherworldly representation of the harbor during a festival of antique sailing vessels.

      “That’s truly a remarkable painting, isn’t it?” a man asked from behind him. Edward used the excuse of studying the painting to calm his features and his emotions.

      “My daughter sent that to me for Christmas,” the man continued. “I’ve asked her to find me more by this artist—Allison Long—but the cost of her work has skyrocketed. Oh, well. I suppose it is inevitable with talent like that. I should be grateful for the one I have.”

       Was this man for real?

      Edward schooled his features and turned slowly. The man across the room appeared guileless and innocent and a fitting partner for the woman who had admitted Edward to the house.

      “I’m familiar with—with Ms. Long’s work,” Edward said softly, waiting.

      The older man smiled. “Then we’ve both been blessed.” Then, slightly more formally, he extended his hand. “I’m Wilbur Winthrop. How may I be of assistance, Mr….”

      “Carlton,” Edward told him, looking for any sign of recognition or hesitation in the vicar’s eyes and finding none. “Edward Carlton.”

      “Please,” Winthrop said, gesturing toward a chintz-covered easy chair. “Sit down, Mr. Carlton. You seem… agitated. Would you care for some tea?”

      “No, I—” Was he that easy to read? Edward sat in the proffered chair but refused to sink into its depths. He glanced at the folder in his hand, opened it and held the picture toward the vicar. “I’m here because of this.”

      “Ah, Jennie,” Winthrop said. “Oh, my, that was fast. It doesn’t seem possible there has been enough time for it to appear in the paper and bring you here.”

      That was neatly done, Edward recognized. Instead of being defensive, or volunteering information, the wily old minister was questioning him.

      “The city editor knew of my interest,” Edward told him. A new thought lodged. “Did you send this to several papers or only—only the one?”

      “Just the one, for a beginning,” Winthrop told him, taking a matching chair facing Edward and leaning forward. “And your interest in her… ?”

      “Why?”

      Winthrop blinked. “Why?”

      “Why just the one paper?”

      “Oh, because of its circulation. And because of her clothes. Marianna Richards recognized the one label we found as being from an exclusive San Francisco shop. And your interest in her?” he asked again.

      Edward sighed. “What did she do? And how long has she been gone?”

      “Do? Jennie? What makes you think Jennie did anything? And Mr. Carlton—” his voice lowered, firmed “—I really must insist you answer my question. What is your interest in our Jennie?”

      Our Jennie? Edward took a deep, sustaining breath. “She didn’t mention me?”

      The vicar shook his head slowly. “She mentioned only one person, if indeed she did mention anyone. Matilda was with her that night and isn’t sure she heard properly. It was a strange name, if a name at all.”

      Edward studied the man across from him. He didn’t appear to be a victim, didn’t appear to be a conspirator. And, God knew, Edward had to trust someone. “I last saw her on the seventeenth of November.”

      Winthrop nodded. “She came to us the week before Thanksgiving.”

      “Less than—less than eight hours after our wedding.”

      “Oh, my. Oh, my. Oh, dear,” the vicar said.

      “When did she leave?” Edward asked, and questions welled up inside of him, spilling into the peace of the room. “How long was she here? What did she do that you found it necessary to run this?” He looked at the folder in his hand. “Did she know about it?”

      He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the compassionate eyes of Wilbur Winthrop, who now stood before him.

      “Mr. Carlton…” The vicar shook his head and crossed the room to a small cabinet, took out a glass and bottle and poured a drink, which he brought to Edward. He took Edward’s free hand and wrapped it around the squat, heavy crystal glass. “Medicinal,”