In the
small but thriving English county of Downshire people go about the tasks of
their everyday existence in ways that range from the mundane to the
extraordinary as their forebears had done for centuries before, in the varied
and diverse landscape, from the Ancient forests of Dancingdean and Pepperstock,
the craggy ridges and manmade lakes of the Pepperstock Hills National Park, the
rolling hills of the Downshire Downs, to the beautiful Finchbottom Vale and the
short but beautiful coastline to the east.
But it’s in
the old market town of Abbeyvale where the participants of this particular tale
live their lives, and the tale began as December started, and the town was dressed
for Christmas.
Donna
Garcia was just descending the steps after leaving St Bernadette’s Church, and
her dark eyes, sultry and steamy flashed him a side
ward’s glance from beneath the black lace of her Mantilla and in return he
gave her a more appraising look altogether, focusing on the curvaceous figure
beneath her conservative Sunday dress.
Her eyes flashed up again, a lingering languid glance which spoke volumes of
her being very much a woman and not the putative girl her parents would have
her be still.
She was the center of his admiration, and he was hers as they saw recognition
in each other’s eyes, no words were spoken everything was intuit and with
amative study and libidinous perusal, the girl was his object of pulchritude
and he was her beloved swain.
All at once
they had to separate and the spell was broken until their reunion, for they
were not strangers first met on those Church steps.
However,
the last time he had looked into the eyes of the young woman in the black lace
Mantilla she was wearing black lace of a very different kind.
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