Secret Sins: A Callie Anson Read Online Free PDF

difficult years of waiting—and fighting — for the right of women to be ordained as priests, he had been a rock and a constant support. And recently, as well, they’d been through such a lot together. Their bond of friendship was an extraordinarily strong one. She thought about the number of times they’d been together here in the cafe, drinking coffee and talking. An odd couple, she knew they must have appeared: Leo so large and so black, towering over the petite redhead.Neither conformed to the stereotype most people attached to the Anglican priesthood.
    Suddenly there was a lump in her throat. If he’d been there now, he would have noticed. ‘Frannie, pet,’ he would have said in his booming, lilting voice, leaning across the table in concern , covering her small white hand with his large dark one. ‘Whatever’s the matter? You can tell Leo.’
    Instead, though, it was Triona across from her. And Triona was the one who wasn’t quite right. Her very white skin was even paler than usual, and there was an unhealthy sheen on her forehead and upper lip. She swallowed hard, then took a sip of coffee. Her eyes widened, her hand went to her mouth. ‘Excuse me,’ she said faintly from behind her hand, rising to her feet. ‘I’ll be right back.’ Her head swivelled round. ‘Where’s the loo?’
    Frances took charge. ‘It’s this way,’ she said, abandoning her breakfast and guiding Triona towards the ladies’ room.
    ‘Sorry. You don’t need to…’
    Frances waited by the row of basins, listening to the unmistakable sound of retching. Uncontrollable, gut-wrenching. She remembered how it felt, and instinctively she knew what was wrong with Triona.
    Eventually Triona emerged, looking sheepish and wrung-out. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so sorry to ruin your breakfast.’
    Frances was ready with a damp paper towel to wipe her friend’s face. ‘Nothing to be sorry about. You can’t help it.’
    ‘I think it was the smell of the bacon that did it. And I shouldn’t have drunk that coffee.’
    ‘Probably so. When I was expecting Heather, I couldn’t touch coffee.’
    Triona swallowed hard, and averted her eyes. ‘You know, then,’ she said in a flat voice.
    ‘It’s pretty obvious to anyone who’s ever been pregnant. Morning sickness is wretched.’ Frances was shorter than Triona, and couldn’t really put her arm around the other woman’s shoulders, so she rubbed her arm instead. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’ she suggested.
    ‘No.’ She swallowed again. ‘Yes. But not here. And not in the cafe.’
    ‘No food smells,’ Frances agreed. She had worked at the hospital for years, and knew its every corner intimately. There were a few consultation rooms, where doctors took families to give them bad news in private, and one was quite near by. She led Triona there and sat her down, then took a seat next to her. Sometimes, she knew, it was easier to say difficult things if you didn’t have to look at someone face-to-face.
    ‘It just started a few days ago, maybe a week,’ Triona said. ‘But it’s been horrible.’ She clasped her hands together in her lap.
    ‘The father?’ Frances suggested gently.
    Triona almost spat the name. ‘Neville. The bastard.’
    ‘Neville Stewart ? Detective Inspector Neville Stewart?’ She was astonished, and couldn’t help showing it.
    ‘That’s the one.’
    ‘But…’ Frances thought back, trying to remember. Triona had mentioned that she’d known Neville Stewart, a long time ago.
    Neville Stewart. Frances supposed that some women— perhaps many women—might consider him attractive, with his slightly boyish looks and his trim body, though she couldn’t see it herself. He’d never bothered turning on his Irish charm with her, of course; she’d hardly even seen him smile. Well, she acknowledged to herself, there was no accounting for taste.
    ‘I’ll start at the beginning, shall I?’ Triona’s voice was sounding more Irish than