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Microsoft Word - 2014_Great_American_Fiction_Contest-The_Answer_Box-by_C_Morgan_Hunt.docx

marabou slippers. She ran a brush through her honey-colored hair, and returned to the living room with a bottle of Hot Heartbreaker nail polish, polish remover, and cotton balls. The doorbell rang. “Father Jeremy.” Not in the mood for company, Rachel tried to keep her voice even. At least George hadn’t broken the restraining order. A line of perspiration dampened his upper lip, where Errol Flynn would have worn a mustache. Father Jeremy was no Errol Flynn, but he did take in the pajamas, her crimson lips, the bitter bright espresso eyes. “Mrs. Kersey, can you spare a few minutes? I’d like to speak with you.” Rachel motioned him into the foyer but no further. She did not usher him into the living room or shoo the children to their rooms. She kept one eye on the TV, took shallow breaths, and waited. “It’s been a long day, Father. What’s this about?” “George has been to see me about your situation. He doesn’t want this divorce.” Father Jeremy fidgeted with his watchband and let that sink in. “Marriage is a sacrament; you vowed ‘till death do you part.’ If you go through with this divorce, you’re violating God’s laws and endangering your very soul. Surely you can reconsider …” “Father, with all due respect, you’re not married. You


Microsoft Word - 2014_Great_American_Fiction_Contest-The_Answer_Box-by_C_Morgan_Hunt.docx
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