The Marriage - K.L. Slater (story books to read .TXT) 📗

years ago when the two investigating detectives came back into the claustrophobic interview room to tell him Jesse had died, his friend’s image had been forever seared into his mind’s eye.

The expression on Jesse’s face was always the same too, the one he’d worn the split second before Tom had issued that fateful punch. The exact point in time when he might just as easily have chosen to turn around and walk away. If only.

But now he had a second chance at life.

The door opened and the chaplain entered. He was a small, rotund man with thinning hair and dark-rimmed glasses. Around his neck he wore a buttermilk satin cassock. He held regular weekly services at the prison, but Tom had attended none of them.

Today, the chaplain clutched a sheaf of paperwork in one hand and balanced a purple velvet cushion on the other with the ring on it. Tom had worked more hours than he could count in the prison kitchen and also on additional cleaning duties to raise funds and the governor had allowed the chaplain to purchase a modest ring on Tom’s behalf.

It occurred to Tom that this, the morning of his wedding, was another of those life-defining moments when it was in his power to slam on the brakes or freewheel all the way into a tempting new life. A better life this time, filled with love and redemption.

The door opened again and there were hushed voices. Reedy classical music began, filling the corners of the room with its thin sound. Bridget walked in and Tom’s breath caught in his throat. She looked an absolute vision. Stunning. She wore a mid-length plain white satin sheath that clung to her toned, shapely body. Tiny sparkles played around the delicate straps and she clutched three calla lilies, their vibrant green stems elegantly bound with silver ribbon. On her feet were dazzlingly high silver sandals that showed off her glossy French-manicured toenails and neat, lightly tanned feet.

He knew what the lags and certain officers here were saying behind his back. He had purposely kept himself to himself inside, but there were a couple of guys he trusted and had bonded with. They’d told him things they’d heard when Tom wasn’t around. That he must be crazy to marry someone so old and it would never last. That she must be of unstable mind, as the mother of the man he’d killed … no decent woman would ever do that.

But what did their petty, spiteful opinions matter in the scheme of things? Soon he’d be a free man and he’d never have to see these lowlifes again.

People didn’t understand that the bond he and Bridget shared was special. Unbreakable. People outside were going to have similar concerns, and as Bridget had said many times when they’d discussed the issues they’d face, that was their problem.

In Tom’s opinion, Bridget looked a good ten years younger than her age. She’d barely changed from the days when he used to spend a lot of time at Jesse’s house. She was still a gorgeous-looking woman.

She walked slowly into the chapel, her eyes meeting his and the hint of a smile playing on her lips. Her ash-blonde hair had been curled and gently pinned up at the back so that soft ringlets hung down here and there. Carefully placed white flowers framed her delicate features.

Sometimes when he looked at her he saw Jesse’s eyes, his profile. But not today. Today she was Bridget Wilson, his soon-to-be wife. Mother of the young man he had killed with a single punch almost ten years ago.

Bridget had found it in her heart to forgive him, and through that decision she had saved him. She was his past, his present and his future all rolled into one, and he made a silent vow to himself that no matter how difficult things might be outside, he would let nothing and no one get between them.

He couldn’t wait to start their new life together. He just had one final hurdle to overcome.

He had to break the news about their marriage to his mother, Jill. And it would not go down well.

Four Jill

October 2019

I stared at the neat array of paperwork and the foil of paracetamol set out on the polished mahogany coffee table in front of me and felt a warm glow spread into my chest. I’d been waiting ten long years for this moment and now it was finally here. Tom was coming home.

I tapped each piece of paper and mentally checked through the list once more.

Details of a two-bedroom flat just a ten-minute walk away from this house. One call and the letting agency would prepare a tenancy agreement for signature. Tick.

A new bank account with an opening balance of one thousand pounds. Tick.

Details of a temporary job offer, courtesy of my contact at the central library archives. Tick.

Last, but not least, an appointment with a highly recommended counsellor in two weeks’ time. Tick.

I sat back and closed my eyes. I’d been thorough and I really needed to relax now to give the tendons in my neck a chance to loosen. I had to simmer down a bit, otherwise the headache I’d had for the last twenty-four hours would never go away. Waking up at five o’clock this morning hadn’t helped matters, and that was after popping one of the new sleeping tablets the doctor had recently prescribed.

‘All sorted?’ Robert walked into the room carrying two cups of tea. He placed one on the low table and sat down in his chesterfield leather armchair with the other.

‘It’s all done,’ I said, swallowing two paracetamol with my tea. ‘We’re finally ready for him. Have you organised the car?’

Robert performed one of his mock salutes. ‘Exactly as instructed, ma’am. Full tank of petrol, his favourite playlist, and enough water and snacks to last us three times the journey.’

But my husband’s cynical reassurances did nothing to stop the fluttering in my chest. I just wanted – needed – everything