Authors: Christina Smith
Finding Abigail
Finding Abigail
by
Christina Smith
Published by Christina Smith
Copyright
©
2012 Christina Smith
Cover model- Brenda Tomasino
Cover art © by Stephanie Mooney. All rights
reserved
Edited by Christine LePorte
To
my sisters and friends, Debbie and Brenda. This really was a family affair.
And
to all the women out there who feel trapped in a relationship. I hope you find
the courage to somehow be free.
In order to keep this book as real as
possible, I worked with a woman who had been in an abusive relationship. Thankfully
she is now happily married to a great man. The abuse happened years ago but the
scars are still there. She let me take a peek into her memories so I could
create a character as realistic as possible. I couldn’t have done it without
her. And to this woman-this is also for you.
Look for these other exciting titles by Christina
Smith
My Young Adult Fantasy Series:
Fated Dreams (Book one in the Affinity Series)
Delusions (Book two in the Affinity Series)
Riley’s Curse, A Moon’s Glow Prequel (Free as an
eBook)
Riley’s Secret, A Moon’s Glow Novel #1
This book is a work of fiction and any
resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely
coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and
used fictitiously.
This
book is for adults eighteen and over.
On the edge of consciousness, I gazed into the deep brown eyes that
stared into mine. They were full of hate and disgust as the man attached to
them drained the life from my body.
He said he loved me, but continually treated me with violence and
ridicule.
He said he wanted to marry me, except to him, I was a possession.
He said he wanted to be together forever, but my life, my essence,
my soul, was slipping away at the hands of the man who loves me.
Lunch
“Shit, I’m
late,” I muttered.
The silence of
my empty apartment was the only answer. The clock hanging above my
mahogany-framed mirrored dresser read ten forty-five. The second hand ticked by
at what seemed to be an unnatural speed, mocking me. The meeting at my
publisher’s office was in fifteen minutes, and I was still applying my make-up.
Why the hell did I always wait so long to start getting ready?
Thank
God, the career I chose let me work at home, because otherwise, I would be
fired for repeat tardiness.
After tossing
my eye shadow into my red satin make-up bag, I assessed my appearance in the
mirror. Hair was … decent. Make-up looked… acceptable. And all my clothes were on,
so that was a bonus. My worst nightmare was rushing out and forgetting my
pants. With my head full of ideas for novels, I’m always forgetting things.
I ran to fetch
my briefcase that held my notes for the new children’s book I was writing, and
took off out the door of my apartment.
“Hold the
elevator,” I yelled when I saw it closing. I slid inside just before it shut.
“Thanks,” I said to my neighbor, Mrs. Newman. She stood alone near the controls
with her navy-blue sequined purse tucked under her arm. She didn’t go anywhere
without it, not even the laundry room.
“Running late
again, Abby?” she asked me as the elevator started to descend. The high pitched
ping
that sounded at each floor was annoyingly slow.
I smiled at
her. She was in her seventies and still in good shape. Her silvery white hair
was long and always pulled back in a braid or bun. The gray of her eyes
sparkled, and the wrinkles on her face made her look wise instead of old. And
for some reason she always smelled of spearmint.
I hoped to be half
as healthy when I turned seventy. She moved here a year ago, after her husband
of fifty years died. Her children lived on the other side of the city, so I
looked out for her whenever I could, to keep them at ease.
“You know me
so well, Sylvia.”
“What’s the
rush? Do you have a hot lunch date?” she asked me with a wink while jingling
the silver and blue beads she wore around her neck.
A snort escaped
my lips. “No, not today.” Not likely ever. My romantic life was at a bit of a
standstill, with zero prospects. I was fine with that. My life was full enough;
my friends, family, and career kept me busy. Although that didn’t stop my mom
from constantly nagging me to settle down, but wasn’t that expected of her? She
is my mom.
I’m only
twenty-seven years old, a long way from spinsterhood. I knew the reason I
hadn’t dated in a while—men didn’t actually knock on your door to ask you out.
And that was the problem, since I worked at home, and I was always working.
When the
elevator stopped at the lobby, we stepped out together. “You know, I have a
grandson who would love you—” she began, the sparkle in her eyes becoming
brighter.
I raised my
hand to stop her. “Sorry, Sylvia, but I don’t do setups. Last time that
happened, I was covered in mud at the end of the date, and temporarily deaf in
my left ear. Thanks anyway. See you later,” I called over my shoulder as I
rushed out the front door into the bright sunshine.
“Good morning,
Miss Watson. Lovely weather we’re having,” Spencer, the building’s doorman,
greeted me.
A grin spread
across my face. “It sure is, Spencer.”
“Would you like
a cab?” He was exactly what you would think a doorman looked like. Short, a
little on the round side, with a long black coat and top hat.
“You read my
mind,” I said with a nod of my head.
As I waited for
the cab, I lifted my face to soak in the sun. Renwood, the city where I lived,
was colder this time of year, like its neighbor, Watertown. Being close to the
Canadian border, you’d think we could blame them for our frigid weather, but
no. We accumulated more snow then they did, since our city ran parallel to Lake Ontario. And it also didn’t help that we were in a snow belt.
Fortunately,
this year it was only rain that had made the weather cool and damp. After the
soggy week we had, this change of weather was definitely welcoming. I felt the
sun’s heat on my exposed skin as a warm breeze blew a strand of hair into my
eyes. Since it was too early for the scent of grass or flowers, the day smelled
only of crisp fresh air, but it beat the smell of wet dog and earthworms.
He waved as a
cab approached. When it stopped, he opened the door for me.
“Thank you,
Spencer,” I called to him from the other side of the glass.
That was
something I would never get used to. Once my books started selling, I moved
from my tiny bachelorette apartment to this one, which came with a doorman. To
say it was different from my old building was an understatement. The age of my
former home and the smell of must and mothballs in the hallways were only a few
of the differences. The worst was the lack of an elevator. Trekking up seven
flights of stairs on grocery and laundry day was extremely inconvenient,
although my arms were more defined back then.
Once I arrived
at my publisher’s office, the elevator took me up to the twelfth floor.
I stepped out
into a large room filled with rows of desks. People were hard at work typing on
their computers, the sound of tapping keys echoing throughout the room. The air
smelled of ink, perfume, and air freshener. The large square fluorescent lights
hanging from the ceilings were bright, and radiating heat.
Walking through
the center aisle sometimes made me miss working with others. But thinking about
how early they woke up for work every day, I got over it. A few heads lifted as
I walked by, and I smiled in greeting.
Usually I
emailed my outlines to my editor, and really, I preferred to do it that way
since it gave me more time for actual writing. I enjoyed what I did for a
living; it made me happy, so why would I want to stop?
I started my writing
career with pre-K books. Introducing the world of words to young children was
my calling. The only problem was that there wasn’t a lot of money in those.
When a few of my fantasy pre-teen books really took off, I was able to return
to pre-K, where my heart was.
The first book
I ever wrote was for my niece and nephew when they were only a couple years
old. I read a few paragraphs to them, emphasizing my words on the different
noises from the story. I was surprised to see their eyes light up, their faces
eager for more. I knew then what I was meant to do.
