Judi Coltman’s In The Name of the Father:
The author hopes you will enjoy this free excerpt:
Prologue
It always seemed to occur during the 10 o’clock service. After the Confession of Faith, when Rev. Matthew Williams intoned, “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” the sun would hit the stained glass image of Jesus’ last moments on the cross and create a conflux of light play throughout the sanctuary. Colorful beams of light fractured and danced across the congregation making Matthew feel as if he, himself, had created a miracle. Satisfaction penetrated his body as he lowered his arms and finished, “Amen.”
The congregation, his congregation, responded with a collective and affirming, “Amen.”
Matthew had recently taken over the church from its retired pastor. His first parish, Matthew was both inspired and compelled to deliver His word with enthusiasm. He wanted to bring the congregation closer as a group and closer to God. It was his job. It was his mission. He took it very seriously. So far, it seemed, the congregation was responding. Attendance and tithing were up and Matthew wore this as his own mantel of pride. He didn’t think God would mind because it was all for Him.
Gazing out at the congregation as the offering was collected. Matthew surveyed the attendance. He enjoyed this later service because it brought out the younger families and it gave him an opportunity to inspire the youth to give service to God. It was certainly time better spent than the alternative- hanging out at the schoolyard, or the other mischievous activities that kids in small towns managed to find.
Matthew had established a youth group for teens, Sunday school classes for adults and potluck dinners as well, all meeting on Wednesday nights. If he could get more than one day a week from his people, he knew he had a better chance of inspiring the flock.
Rosewood was a burg situated in a valley of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. The only way in or out was the road that traversed one of the mountains, allowing for occasional glimpses of the picturesque view of the town below. Like a painting, on top of a small hill was a stone church, a soaring steeple and bell tower, beckoning people to come in. Rosewood was a town that evoked comfort and peace. Matthew was inspired when informed that his first parish would be in a small town. He looked forward to an opportunity to really know the people, to guide them, and to reveal the Truth in all its glory. Enthusiasm radiated from his soul and he eagerly began to grow his church. And Rosewood followed. The older members, staunch in their beliefs, appreciated Matthew’s conviction and his adherence to scripture. The younger members enjoyed his passion and his commitment to them as well as to their children. It wasn’t long, though, before the older church ladies began to question his bachelorhood and insisted on finding him a nice girl.
A “nice girl” was exactly what he had in mind. He had spent a lot of time planning what he hoped would be his life’s path. There had never been a doubt that he would give his life to God. He felt that call in his youth and followed it without question. Now, with his own church, the next stop on the path was to find a wife. It would not be appropriate for a pastor to date around and thus; Matthew did not wish to waste time. Instead he focused on the few young ladies who seemed rapt by his sermons. It didn’t hurt if they were attractive, and seemed somewhat interested in him. But, those ladies had been few, mostly older and not quite part of the perfect picture Matthew had drawn in his head.
The ushers returned to the front of the sanctuary with the collection baskets full. Matthew blessed the offering and sent the ushers back to count and record the gifts. The sun was still shining through the stained glass window but the light play was subsiding. A single golden ray settled on a pew about five rows back, illuminating the lone person seated there on the aisle. A beautiful dark haired young woman sat in full anticipation of what might come next. Her hair, pulled back into a low bun revealed a slender neck, milky white skin and slim shoulders. She wore a lavender colored spring suit with a white blouse, pearl earrings and necklace that draped down, lightly brushing her collarbones, a simple pair of lavender pumps to match. The light from the window emphasized heavy dark mascara on her eyelashes, and vibrant berry colored lips. More than her appearance though, was her obvious enthrallment with the sermon. With every word, she would nod her head, smile, and wait for more. So many of the younger women these days were caught up in the post hippie movement, touting “free thought, free love, free sex” for which Matthew was shamefully intrigued. If he allowed his imagination to travel down those unfamiliar roads, the fear of getting lost in those thoughts always brought him back, which made Matthew shudder with embarrassment. He had never felt comfortable with forward women, but it was difficult to find a woman willing to consider becoming the wife of a preacher. The expectations were great. Matthew’s wife would be expected to head up or involve herself with the Women’s Group, hostess the coffee hour and be there for Wednesday Night Sunday School. She would also have to represent him in all of her social events as well as support him every Sunday. Children were a forgone conclusion. Matthew had stringent requirements for the wife he imagined and beauty was not the least of them. It was only fitting that a charismatic preacher have a beautiful wife who openly adored him. Perhaps an old-fashioned notion, but Matthew clung to it as if it were carved in stone. Matthew could not take his eyes off the young woman and he was determined to introduce himself as the congregation filed out.
Matthew clapped the shoulders of his elderly members as he shook hands and gently guided them through the line that snaked back into the sanctuary. He could see her dark hair and lavender jacket peeking around the throng who slowly filed out, greeted Matthew and then meandered out the door to enjoy their Sundays. His palms were sweating in anticipation as he prepared himself to be charming, and calmly waited for her to walk through the door.
“I felt as if you were speaking directly to me Rev. Williams.” Her eyes were blue and glinted with flecks of green. Irish. She must be Irish. Thin, not too tall, full lips made obvious with the red lipstick and those eye were the most incredibly expressive eyes he had ever seen. They reminded him of the fractured light play that occurred every Sunday without fail.
“Well, that’s my job,” he said and then visibly shuddered at the stupidity of his response. “I mean, I’m glad you got something out of it.” He was shaking her hand, but reluctant to let it go. She gently tugged, smiled and backed away so he could greet the next person. As he released her hand, he reached out again, “Wait! What’s your name?”
“Leslie,” she said and lowered her eyes in a shy smile.
“Join me for coffee,” he blurted out, “in my office, after I am finished here.” Matthew had never been so bold in his approach.
The Rev. William’s office was roomy, with two leather chairs across from his organized desk and a shelf of books behind his own chair. He held the door open for Leslie and sniffed the fading but sweet scent of her perfume as she walked in and took one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Coffee then?” he asked pouring some into his own mug.
“Yes,” she replied, “please.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Both, thank you,” she responded nervously. He was a nice-looking man, he had certainly been paying attention to her during the sermon. This sudden small talk almost seemed like a step backward. But, she thought, maybe this is the way it is supposed to work. They talked about church, small town living, Leslie’s job at the Crowley’s make-up counter, and their hopes for the future.
A cup of coffee. A conversation. The discovery that the other offered something in the way of hope for their futures. To Leslie, the simplicity of it all stood in complete opposition with the life she had sought after high school. Her desire to escape the constraints of a small town, with its accepted and expected course of life: get a job, get married and have children. It wasn’t what she thought she wanted at all. Leslie wanted to be a model, splashed across magazine covers, she wanted to be the face sought after for commercials, she wanted to be famous. She thought moving to the city would make that happen, when really, it only served to make her appreciate the security of her small town life.
Matthew was charming and soft-spoken when they were together, which became often as the summer progressed. He made her feel significant, wholesome. Charismatic and adored when he preached, Leslie found herself falling in love with this man who was the antithesis of what she had loved before. She loved Matthew in ways she didn’t know existed and he, had fallen for her.
It thrilled Leslie that Matthew, while respecting her, acknowledged that she made him want to do things he knew were not right. Matthew too, was overcome with his desire for Leslie, her enjoyment of simple things, her carefree spirit that transcended serious spiritual discussions and simple conversations. It took deep meditation and prayer for Matthew to quell his physical desire and allow Leslie to reinvent herself from the inside out. And in that time, Leslie completed the picture Matthew had been coveting since his days in seminary.
The hills rolled out from the house, the meadow grasses rippling in the light breeze. Lingering over a cool, crisp white wine and country white bread freshly baked in the church oven, Matthew and Leslie relished the afternoon sun. From their blanket, on the hill, they could see not only the parish house but the chapel with its steeple rising high above the church overlooking the town below. Leslie spread creamy butter on a slice of bread and laid back on the chenille bedspread Matthew brought for a picnic blanket. Her dark hair had grown long and wavy over the summer and she cared less and less about make-up. Matthew convinced her that less make-up was more attractive and Leslie had complied willingly. She loved not having the burden of working to look like she was naturally “photo ready” as had once been the expectation. She embraced this new simplicity and Matthew felt pride in her recognition of true beauty.
Matthew reached down and brushed the hair from Leslie’s cheek. She smiled and took a small bite of bread, chewing in a slow mesmerizing cadence. He stared, for a moment, into her deep, blue eyes and saw his own reflection. He was happy. God had brought this perfect woman to his church, she came willingly and he knew what his mission was. “Leslie, my life has been like sitting at the top of a precipice.” He took a deep breath as Leslie continued to gaze at him, “I’ve been sitting here, at the top, waiting for God to guide me, to tell me what to do. Do I wait? Do I climb down to safety? Do I jump? ” He gently took her left hand and stroked her fingers from base to tip. “I do believe, that if you would consent to be my wife, I could wait and be happy with you by my side. I could retreat and you would be there to lead me. I could jump, and you would be my parachute.” There, he had said it and when he could finally focus on Leslie’s face, he saw she was blinking back tears. “Will you marry me?”
Leslie breathed in the moment. She thought about her life in the city with Damon. If Damon had ever asked her to marry him, would she have said, “yes”? Maybe. She thought she was in love with him. Something as simple as the way he laughed when she didn’t get his jokes sent waves of warmth running through her body. Matthew was different. Matthew was sweet, genuine, God centered, and allowed Leslie to relax. She did love Matthew and she uttered her answer, “yes.”
When Rev. Williams announced his engagement in church that Sunday, the congregation stood and applauded, as much for him as for Leslie. After the services, the church ladies gathered around the two of them, fussing and planning the coming nuptial’s. Her wedding would be an event for the entire congregation, her title as the Reverend’s wife elevating her to a new status.
Leslie slid into her role easily, quitting her job at the Crowley’s make-up counter and throwing herself into several clubs sponsored by the church. Her favorite was the Wednesday morning Coffee Break ladies who gathered for Bible study. She enjoyed the women in this group, young mother’s, college students. The conversation always began with gossip, shared under the guise of “concerns” and the women would then hold their subjects up in prayer. It was well established that what was discussed in Coffee Break was confidential and as Leslie became more comfortable with her position in the church and with the women, she felt as if she could trust them. One morning the conversation began with scandal; the group held up a teenaged girl who had become pregnant by a local “bad boy”, and Leslie was compelled to pray deeply for this girl. She knew the taboo lure a man like that could wield. Like a drug that numbs pain, the illicit temptation held a potency for which Leslie was powerless.
John still held her hand when they walked down the hall, gripping with enthusiasm as he pulled her toward the Sunday school classroom. He stopped at the door and she bent down to kiss him goodbye. Perhaps she lingered a bit too long in her grasp because he pulled away abruptly and walked into the classroom. Leslie stood at the door long enough to watch him settle comfortably in with the other kids before departing.
Sunday dinner, a roast with rosemary potatoes, carrots and raspberry pie for dessert was sitting in the warm oven, ready as a meal for after services. The dishes were washed and draining in the sink. The table was set. Leslie, grabbed her purse, went out to the dark garage and got back in the Impala they purchased new last year. The engine turned and purred quietly in the dank, closed garage. Leslie bowed her head, lowering it to the steering wheel and resting it there. She began to pray until she could no longer form words in her brain, until the darkness enshrouded her and took her away.
BOOK ONE
Chapter One
Rosewood in 1972 was just catching up to the rest of the country. The Summer of Love happened in 1968 but was only making it’s way into the hearts and minds of teenagers in Rosewood now. Leslie zipped up the tea length pink prom dress she had worn to match her date’s tie. Carefully, she placed the slip in the hanging garment bag, draping it over the hanger bar. Finally, she hung the dress inside the bag and placed the matching shoes in the bottom before closing it all up. Leslie hung the bag in the back of her closet, closed the door and never thought about it again. In truth, she would have preferred to throw the whole thing away, forget that she was a small town girl and become someone entirely different.
Shelley Hack and Cybil Shepard appeared on the covers of all of the fashion magazines. Long straight hair, thin, tall and heavily made up with false eyelashes, and lips that were frosty and almost white. Go-Go boots in patent leather, mini skirts, and midriff bared. They seemed to have figured out the balance between beauty and freedom. Without her parents’ knowledge, Leslie had ordered a mini dress from the Sears catalogue and hidden it at the back of her closet where the demure prom dress now hung. And without her parents consent, she had her best friend Amy take some pictures on her Polaroid of Leslie wearing the dress; she sent them off to a modeling agency in Washington, DC. It wasn’t a New York agency, but Leslie was pulled in by the ad in the back of her Seventeen! magazine that promised high paying jobs and exposure. New York, not yet, but the nation’s capitol could be a stepping stone and Leslie was galvanized when she received a contract in the mail and a request for her to come to DC as soon as she was finished with school.
The bus trip up to Washington took about seven hours with stops in every little town along the way, Woodstock, Front Royal, Centerville. Leslie wondered when her parents would find the note she left on her bed telling them that she was heading to the city to become a model. They were going to be furious. There was a chance they could come after her so she had given no details, just that she had a contract and a place to stay and would contact them as soon as she was settled. It really had been her mother’s dream and her father’s desire for her to stay in town, maybe work at the department store or as a receptionist and then get married. It was the way things worked in Rosewood and it was that very notion that drove Leslie away. She wanted to experience life as the rest of the world knew it and she wanted to do it on her own. Her parents never would have given her the money to make this trip so she had saved every last bit of babysitting money after she bought the mini dress, knowing this hoarded cash was going to take her into a new life.
The bus pulled into the station in Washington, DC in the mid-afternoon. The mass of people moving about seemed to know where they were headed and Leslie followed hoping it would take her out to the street. Leslie began walking until she found a pay phone. Dialing the number, Leslie calmed her nerves and tried to control the shakiness of her voice.
“Hello,” a gravelly male voice abruptly answered.
“Yes, is this the Diablo Modeling Agency?” Leslie asked tentatively.
“Uh, yep, are you looking for a model?” The abruptness gave way to a slicker demeanor.
“No, I have a contract. I am a model. I just came up from Virginia and was wondering if I could have directions to the agency, please.” The silence on the other end was broken by muffled tones that sounded like a conversation.
“Why don’t you just tell me where you are and I’ll send someone to come get you.” The sudden calmness reassured Leslie and she relaxed. It was only going to be a 20 minute wait so Leslie wandered over to the newsstand and thumbed through a fresh copy of Vogue before parting with the dollar to buy it . Tucking it under her arm, she headed out to the street and waited for the driver.
An orange Karman Ghia swung wildly onto the curb, forcing several people to jump back. The passenger side window rolled down and a stream of blue smoke curled out, “Which one of you is waiting for a ride to the Diablo Agency?” The same gravelly voice bellowed through the open window. Leslie considered not answering but the alternative wasnʼt something she was prepared to deal with.
“I am,” she confirmed and waited a moment before realizing she would have to take care of her own bags. Heaving her suitcase and train case into the front trunk of the car, Leslie slipped into the front seat of the smoke filled vehicle. Unlike the tobacco smell she was used to back in Virginia, this was not so unpleasant and had an almost sweet odor to it. There was a pipe in the ashtray, but it certainly wasn’t like the one her grandfather had smoked, this one was made of colored glass and was small enough to fit inside the ashtray.
“You want a hit?” the man with the voice asked as he pulled away from the curb. Leslie had tried cigarettes before which left her feeling nauseous and dizzy, but in a moment of determination to leave her life behind, she took the pipe from the man and inhaled. The burning sensation crept down her throat and into her chest, before she coughed it back and exhaled the smoke in a burst.
“Youʼre supposed to hold it in longer to get the best buzz,” the man directed. Wearing a pair of blue jeans, a white t-shirt and a leather jacket, he looked like an updated James Dean. Blonde hair, curling over his ears and penetrating, dark blue eyes. Damon Wood was experienced in all walks of life. A photographer by trade, Damon eked out a living any way he could finagle a buck. A day-to-day existence and some cash to get him by. For Damon that meant taking pictures, taking drugs and screwing.
This chick had walked into his scam, nubile, and eager. All he had to do was smile, his dimples accentuating the charm, blue eyes casting an approving look over her and she melted. Clearly a virgin, he prided himself on removing that burden. And this one in his car right now was the perfect conquest. She was there, from her small idealistic little town to become a model. He knew how it went, they come, they try, they get disappointed and either they go back or they find themselves attached to the other aspects of city living. Not a bad prospect. Damon had encouraged many a fledgling model to come to DC and after he turned them onto the beauty of sex and the mind-expanding trips of LSD, coke or some other altered state, he could get them to do about anything. And if they didn’t want to comply, they usually left.
“So, I have you set up for a shoot tomorrow. Are you comfortable in a bikini?” Damon cut a sidelong glance at Leslie who sat perched in the passenger seat, purse on her lap, staring straight ahead. He continued to stare until the edges of Leslie’s mouth twitched.
She turned to Damon and found her heart pounding, he wasn’t just looking at her, he was looking inside her, shallowing her breathing and she whispered a response, “Yes.”
Pulling into a parking space in front of an old brick warehouse that looked abandoned, Damon hopped out of the Karman Ghia, opened the passenger door for Leslie and guided her to the large, paint chipped wooden door that looked more like it was meant to keep people out than allow them in. Leslie’s legs shook as she allowed this stranger to lead her into an old abandoned building. She could hear her mother’s caution, “Don’t believe everything you hear and only half of what you see,” and every instinct told her to turn and run, except the contract in her hand – a ticket to fame, a way out of her antiquated life. She had spent the better part of her senior year studying fashion magazines, modeling poses, hair, and make-up. She knew what they wanted and she knew, given the chance, she could deliver. This guy, Damon, had taken the time to pick her up and bring her here. He had booked a photo shoot and she really had no place else to go. The pot had calmed her enough to rationalize ignoring her instincts so she took a deep breath and followed Damon up the hollow metal stairs.
Damon lived in the top floor of the warehouse. One large room, there were no real walls to separate space. On one end, there were kitchen appliances and a formica table with 2 metal chairs. There was another area near a large window containing hundreds of smaller panes where a mattress lay on the floor, blankets and sheets strewn about. On the other side, an area where there was a dilapidated black leather couch and several multi-colored large pillows around an industrial spool that served as a coffee table, and an area that appeared to be a photography studio. A black backdrop hung from hooks on the rafters and there were three cameras set up on tripods with silver umbrellas and spotlights set around them. Behind the backdrop were props, a rack of clothes, costumes and bathing suits.
“You can put your clothes in the closet,” Damon threw his arms out and twirled around indicating that there was no closet, “It’s a walk-in.” His smile put Leslie at ease a bit and she set her case by the couch.
“You live here?”
“Live here, work here, love here. This is it.”
Leslie’s nostril burned with the first burst of white powder that came through the straw. Until now, cocaine had been one of those drugs she read about in Time magazine. It was something other people did, but here she was well into her first high and the explosion of Amnesia was exhilarating. In one quick snort, Leslie wanted to run naked through the streets. The buoyancy of freedom intoxicated her and she felt Damon watching her with a knowing smile of satisfaction. Had he hit the other line? She couldn’t remember. Stretching out on Damon’s loosely made bed, a tray between them, he offered her the straw again and she willingly accepted.
Damon waited until the coke had made a complete entrance into her system. She was relaxed, innocent and quite strikingly beautiful. Damon lifted the mirrored tray off the bed and placed it on the floor. They could have more later, if needed.
Running the back of his hand down Leslie’s cheek, he caressed her neck and slowly guided her head forward, kissing her passionately. “Lie back,” he whispered and she did, her dark eyes dilated into black pools that communicated a fear muted through the inhibitions of coke. Damon moved slowly, kissing her neck, and slowly unbuttoning her dress. Leslie complied, concern for proprieties buried under the tingle of cocaine. She willingly nudged Damon’s hand downward. He resisted, “have you ever fucked before?”
“No,” Leslie meekly whispered and if she was embarrassed by her virginity, it didn’t show. Again she urged his hand underneath her dress and Damon smiled. She was ready.
It was much easier than he anticipated, but it helped to have someone who was looking for a new life and clearly this chick was. She was young, but, as Damon reasoned, she had less time to ponder her decisions, not having lived on her own before. Cocaine was the great icebreaker and he used it often with models who were not into taking off their clothes. He always started them out in something, a sundress, a bathing suit, gained their trust and then, little by little they usually became more willing to do the things Damon requested in front of the camera and behind. Tomorrow he would bring in his bike, which usually encouraged his models into some wildly erotic positions. A few good shots in a bikini and Leslie might be willing to do something more risqué. Damon’s customers were definitely more into the risqué and Damon was known to produce for them.
Leslie held her head as the hot water pelted her body. What had she done? Drugs, sex in less than twelve hours of arriving in DC. Drugs. She had tried tobacco exactly one time before and was sickened by the harsh smoke in her throat. Some kids enjoyed getting high, said it made them laugh, made them hungry, it was a fun way to spend a Saturday night, but Leslie had higher aspirations. Yet, here she was in a Washington, DC apartment with a professional photographer, a contract and she had not only just smoked pot but done cocaine and then had sexual intercourse with someone she had just met. The frightening part was that she had enjoyed it. She loved it. She wanted to go back out there and do it all again. At no other time in her life had Leslie felt confident enough in herself to do anything more than a little necking with her boyfriend. In a manner of seconds, the entire earth seemed to have lodged directly inside her head. She felt in control of everything around her, including her lust and she felt horny. She wanted to open herself to whatever Damon was willing to show her and he left her begging for more. He had laughed at her eagerness, cautioned that too much of a good thing might ruin the effect but then slowly consumed her body until she could no longer stand the pressure and mounted him, grinding her hips into him until she exploded with a shattering eruption, sweat trickling down her neck, between her legs.
“Welcome to DC, Babe,” Damon said when she emerged from the tiny bathroom, dressed in jeans and a gauzy shirt he had loaned her. Her hair was wound up in a towel and she was at a loss for what she should do with it. She had brought rollers but was more than ashamed of putting them in with Damon around. He would think she was a freak and after what he had just taken her through, she didn’t want to jeopardize anything. Damon was working with the lighting around the black backdrop, adjusting the height of the camera and the intensity of the light, “Come here, I want to see how you look through the viewfinder.
Leslie walked over and tentatively stood in front of the camera. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just look into the camera lens, Babe. ” Damon pulled the towel off her head, her wet hair cascading in sleek curls. He adjusted the focus and peered again through the viewfinder. “Perfect.”
Sparkles glistened across the motorcycle’s metallic blue gas tank as the light reflected off the chrome. The bike was low and sleek and Leslie straddled the seat, leaning forward in a royal blue bikini. She was a natural and when she allowed her hair to air dry, the waves gave her a wild, daring look. Damon was encouraging, asking her to move around the bike, a fan causing the natural waves of dark hair to flow gently behind her. It was intentionally cold for the shoot and the added chill of a fan prompted her nipples to stand out from the silky bikini top.
“Think about last night, Babe. That’s it.” Damon could tell he had a goldmine in this one and as the day wore on, he used the down time to sweet talk her into posing in other outfits, straddling a chair, standing in front of the backdrop, on the fake animal skin that normally draped the back of the leather couch. The photos were impressive and Damon assured Leslie that there would be a nice paycheck for her work.
Damon was a hustler with a camera. If he could supply his own models, he could create ad copy, calendars, adult books at a low cost, making enough cash to cover his equipment, his warehouse and his habits. The trick had been to find chicks who wanted fame, and money, and believed HE could do it for them. The Diablo Modeling Agency worked as a front to attract the chicks least likely to cause a problem. With a little finesse and a little cocaine, an occasional drop of acid, he was able to keep a girl long enough to usually get some good salable shots, enough blackmail material to keep her in his stable if he needed her and a little pussy on the side. This latest girl had been so easy. She walked off the bus and into his bed with almost no coaxing. The girl was a gorgeous dark haired beauty with a talent for the camera and with a little practice could produce some incredible pictures. Damon slipped through the unmarked door in the back of the building and signaled to the owner he had new material for purchase.
Jacqueline M. Lyon holds a master’s degree in Education with a concentration in English from Xavier University and a master’s degree in Health Planning and Administration from the University of Cincinnati. After beginning her career in the corporate world, she changed tack and entered academia. Today, she teaches writing and literary survey courses at Xavier University. Although The Marriage of Silence and Sin is her first novel, she is a published poet who views writing as “a passionate exploration seeking to uncover the internal and external factors that shape the human condition.” She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, with her husband, Michael, and her two daughters, and is currently at work on her second manuscript. 
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