Abbey Burning Love. Donan Ph.D. Berg

      

      Abbey

      Burning

      Love

      Donan Berg

      DOTDON Books

      Moline IL

      DOTDON Books are published by:

      DOTDON Personalized Services

      PO Box 1302

      Moline, IL 61266-1302

      Orders: [email protected]

       http://www.dotdonbooks.com

      Author E-mail: [email protected]

      Published in eBook format by DOTDON Books

      Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com

      ISBN-13: 978-0-9820855-5-4

      Copyright © Donan B. McAuley

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, except for the inclusion of brief quotation in a review.

      This is a work of fiction. The places, characters, and events only exist in this book and the author’s mind. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is unintentional and purely coincidental.

      Also By

      Donan Berg

      Novels

      A Body To Bones

      First Skeleton Series Mystery

      The Bones Dance Foxtrot

      Second Skeleton Series Mystery

      Short Stories

      Bubbling Conflict and

      Other Stories

      One

      IN THE FADING ILLINOIS TWILIGHT, Melissa Malone’s right thumb spun the wristwatch minute hand backward. Despite a prayer, the rewind couldn’t erase memories of ex-boyfriend Attorney Mark Brooks. When her gaze lifted from the 18-karet Everose-gold-encircled dial, she gasped. Mark scurried with long strides in her direction along the cedar-mulched garden path beneath The Abbey bell tower? Molars crunched a green-striped breath mint; it’s aftertaste as unpleasant as the expected confrontation.

      “Refusing my invitation was rude,” Mark snarled. “I bought a table.”

      “Please, no new heartaches,” Melissa whispered. She gazed up at the treasured gothic tower, a Boulder Isle landmark and her childhood escape and fantasy playhouse. She swallowed hard; her balance on heels unsteady.

      Mark’s muscular abdomen didn’t bulge; what was that bump under his gray suit coat a right hand clamped tight? “Casting me off one thing; embarrassing me in public unnecessary salt to the wound.” He bit into his lower lip as if to dam the venom Melissa expected. Within earshot, chattering escorted female gala arrivals, in floor-length satin bustier dresses and embroidered chiffon skirts bunched in clenched wedding-banded hands, tiptoed through dusty parking lot gravel to The Abbey ballroom entrance.

      “Now’s not the time or place.”

      “Lately, never is.” Mark bumped Melissa’s shoulder causing knees to twist as he strode off, elbows pinched to his sides. Without a caustic word, he faded into the darkness between a parked black Cadillac and Hummer.

      Alerted by renewed gravel-crunching footsteps, Melissa clasped both hands behind her back to hide an elbow’s non-tender, bumpy, red, stress rash.

      “Find Rob Campbell?” friend Sarah, in a gala volunteer blue vest, asked.

      Melissa glanced left and right. “Who said I was looking for him?”

      “C’mon. We in the thirty-plus lonesome sisterhood read minds.”

      “Tonight’s money to stop the wrecking ball more important.”

      Above them, the scrolled, rust pockmarked, wrought iron hands of The Abbey tower clock’s interlocked gears squeaked loud to foreclose Sarah’s further probing. The cast-iron, massed bells rotated to chime seven times. The notes mesmerized Melissa. Trembling, she tried to rub warmth into her left forearm counteracting the chilly, freshening east breeze that filled her nostrils with roasted prime rib aromas wafting from kitchen exhaust vents. Exactly a week before Melissa waited in this exact spot with crossed fingers during a public health inspection that by three points reversed a prior failing stove safety grade, which would’ve canceled this evening’s fund-raising gala.

      “Whatever. Don’t stew. What did Mark say?”

      “Nothing worth repeating.” Melissa hugged arms to chest.

      “He, muttering who knows what, pivoted in the parking lot when he saw me. His eyes on a hand holding something important, hiding it under his coat.”

      “A gun?”

      “Don’t think so. See ya.” Sarah started to jog away. “Got cars to park.” Her slowdown shout to a BMW snatched Melissa’s gaze across the parking lot toward a streetlight-silhouetted figure. Couldn’t be Mark or Rob ... too fat ... too short. The figure’s movement blocked by the stone Celtic cross saved by her eighty-three-year-old father during a lifetime dedicated to preserving the historical Western Illinois nunnery and beneficiary of tonight’s festivities. Backstopped by 3,000 petition signatures gathered by Melissa and older sister Carol, Aleck Malone’s singular force of will, and a threat to chain himself to the chapel doors, deflected the scheduled 2011 wrecking ball.

      Achoo. Before spring ragweed allergy stuffiness plugged thirty-one-year-old air passageways, Melissa reached for a gold-chained black pearl-studded purse only to remember she left the purse, inhaler, and black silk gloves inside backstage. Her handheld Blackberry rang with the caller ID stating “Wally’s Club.” She couldn’t report to her employment, not tonight, but still she answered. “Can’t. Could I visit Pedro in the hospital tomorrow? Trust me. Leukemia isn’t that fast acting.”

      Inside at the welcome desk, left hand clutched the Blackberry while her right hand exchanged handshakes with four donors and apologized a duty promised to Father beckoned. Quick steps on the balls of her feet and a helping handrail guided her to stage right curtains behind the stage’s proscenium arch. Melissa’s hand creased the corner stage curtain to peek at the audience. Rob’s in the ballroom. Where? Where is he? Prior to going outside, she walked past his reserved table placard. The place setting’s cloth napkin dropped on the table’s empty chair seat. What if she used the PA system to say he had a message? No, absolutely no. She’d revisit Rob’s table after she fulfilled her promise to Father she’d make him proud as fund-raiser MC.

      A deep breath temporarily relaxed the stomach butterflies always aflutter before she spoke to large groups. In the grand ballroom of Boulder Isle’s The Abbey, tonight would be a critical debut to represent her family’s passion for The Abbey. However, stepping out of the stage wing solved neither personal quest nor quelled hundred’s of furiously flapping butterflies churning a queasy stomach. The dazzling spotlight beam practically blinded her. She couldn’t positively identify anyone beyond the third table row. However, Father sat front and center in the row closest to the stage apron, his outstretched hand and ear-to-ear toothy smile greeting big and small donors alike.

      Following the announcement she’d be the Gala Chair, best friends Sarah and Alice nagged and challenged her to jettison a lackluster tailored pants suit image. Hours before she’d snipped price tags off a torso-clinging black mini. The stretch-scuba dress, like the fine leather racing gloves