Angel Wings (2 page)

With wisps of sleep still floating through her mind, she breathed deeply. She hadn’t slept so well in a long time. And now it was time to get up. She felt her mind pause, with the disorientation of waking.

There was something about yesterday. She stretched, not wanting to sort it out just yet—and tangled her arm in her sweater.

The groggy feelings fell apart, leaving her wide awake with the realization that she’d fallen asleep with her clothes on. Rubbing her hands through her hair, she tried to think.

Her job, at City Realty, had mushroomed since she’d been hired a month ago. Technically, she was the daytime receptionist. But since she’d started, there’d been a backlog of filing and ordering and billing to catch up on. Perhaps she was working too hard, trying to get everything caught up all at once. Today, she would be sure to stop for a lunch break.

But there was something else . . . about yesterday. She’d had the strangest dream. A man in her living room. Her living room window—

Her open bedroom door caught her attention. Usually, she closed the door when she went to bed. But she’d forgotten. Obviously.

And that other sound? That was not the seagulls? She tilted her head, listening hard. Music? And then, voices?

Her radio, set to the Seraph Morning Show, played in the kitchen. She’d forgotten the radio too. That must be the Morning Traffic Report.

Not that traffic mattered, since she walked to work.

She pushed back the covers, sat up, and considered her bedroom. She needed to clean it out. Or at least get rid of the stack of Belle Magazines next to her desk. She never read them, but it felt reassuring to have them there. In case she wanted to read something before bed. In case she needed something to take her mind off . . . things . . . before she fell asleep.

The magazines could go, she told herself. She had no trouble falling asleep. Except, maybe, occasionally. Maybe there was the occasional long sleepless night thinking about Rodney and—

She stopped the thought. Tonight, she’d take her basket of laundry to the laundry room in the basement. And she’d take her Spanish homework too.

The flamingo orange sack containing her Spanish books leaned against the bedroom door frame, reminding her of assignments to be completed.

She looked away, cringing. Somehow, she’d managed to miss last night’s class. If she didn’t spend some time studying, she’d never learn the language, and she’d never take that trip to Spain.

Hopelessness slipped past her defenses and she sighed, deeply. And then she smelled—

Coffee?

Puzzled, she smelled again, breathing the aroma into her lungs. Had she actually programmed the coffeemaker? She never did that. She hated programming things. And when Rodney had bought the coffeemaker—

Rodney? Her heart rushed. Was Rodney here? He’d never returned his key. Was he looking in on her?

Flinging back the covers, she headed out of the bedroom, down the hall and into the living room. Pausing on the threshold, she forced herself to look at the living room window—which was bright, clean and spot free. Not even a tuft of seagull feathers.

Just a bad dream. Nothing to be concerned about. She was not losing her mind. She would get more sleep, starting tonight.

The radio sang over the room, telling a story of a lost love. Jessibelle crossed the living room to the dining area. It adjoined the galley kitchen and showcased her round cherry wood dining room table—a gift from her grandmother and her one decent piece of furniture.

Jessibelle paused in front of the table, breathing in the scene. The deep brown hardwood with its hint of dark red displayed a mouthwatering breakfast: three strips of bacon, two poached eggs and a stack of buttered toast triangles.

And, a new jar of marmalade, not something she’d bought. Rodney must have brought the marmalade: a little jar with a green plaid covered top.

All that and the steaming coffee, already poured with milk added. The way she liked it.

He’d used her yellow smiling face coffee mug, and one of her yellow-check place mats, and one of her yellow Serendipity plates.

But where was Rodney? Why hadn’t he stayed?

Disappointment overshadowed her initial delight. And then she noticed it—the folded card propped behind the marmalade jar. She picked it up.

And her heart sank. Here was the gold-lettered invitation she’d received yesterday. This much of yesterday’s dream was real. And this was why Rodney had made her breakfast. He wanted to know what she thought of the invitation. He wanted to know if she would come.

As she dropped the card onto the table, someone knocked on the door.

Jessibelle straightened, ignoring the ping of anticipation that rippled through her at the sound of Rodney’s knock. And then horror struck, as she realized she hadn’t even combed her hair this morning. She ran to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, saw long straight brown hair, and fluffed it with her fingers.

Okay, so not beautiful, but she certainly had that slept-in look. Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself. And chided herself. She had to quit hoping for a miracle.

Rodney was here as a friend: to check on her, to see if she’d received his invitation, and to gauge her progress in getting over him.

She would not disappoint. Brushing her hands over the wrinkles of yesterday’s clothes, she stood before the door, and braced.

A second knock sounded as the radio started a new song. Now or never, she thought. She set her determination and opened the door, ready to face the man who had broken her heart.

The sparkling sensation of déjà vu blasted her again and she took a step back. Not Rodney at all, but yesterday’s dream. He stood before her, quite real. Tall, muscular, still wearing black jeans but now wearing a different black T-shirt. Last night’s T-shirt had been solid black. This one had a pair of white wings across the front. His hair looked darker than ever, but at least there wasn’t any glass in it. And his eyes seemed to tease her.

“I thought I’d use the door this time.”

“Pardon?” she answered, automatically. What she was thinking was impossible. She had not met this person before. Or, if she had, she was positive she could not have met him in her living room last night. There was a perfectly logical explanation.

“Do you want to invite me in?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but walked past her and into the galley kitchen. He opened the cupboard door above the sink, took out a mug—the Irish one that Hanna had given her on St. Patrick’s Day a couple of weeks ago—and poured himself some coffee.

He leaned back against the counter and took a long swallow. And then a deep sigh. “I forgot how good this stuff tastes.” He added more coffee to his mug, and went to the table to sit across from her place setting.

“Breakfast is getting cold,” he said. “You’d better eat.”

Jessibelle stood by the door, leaving it open. The thing to do now would be to leave her apartment and call the police from Mrs. Hartfield’s apartment. But at that very moment, Mrs. Hartfield came out of her unit wearing a pale blue raincoat and carrying her huge red purse.

“Oh, hello, dear. Did that nice young man find you?”

“Ah—”

Mrs. Hartfield poked her head inside Jessibelle’s unit, spotted the man sitting at the dining room table, and waved to him.

He waved back.

“I see he did,” Mrs. Hartfield said. “Good morning then. Have a nice day.”

Feeling oddly calm, Jessibelle closed the door. She checked her mind, to see if she could detect any symptoms of being crazy. But if you were crazy, how would you know?

“Breakfast?” he reminded her, as he leaned back in his chair.

Sure, why not. It was a delicious looking breakfast and she had to eat before she left for work. Anyway, this would all make sense in time. Everything in its time, her grandmother always used to say.

Jessibelle returned to the table and sat down. The food looked real, and smelled real. She coaxed one of the poached eggs onto a piece of toast and poked it. The bright yellow yoke spilled out, smothering the toast and, she had to admit, looked authentic.

Then she tasted, and the food tasted like eggs on toast, only better. The way food tastes when you have not had any for a long time.

After she finished the eggs, she looked up at the man opposite her. He slouched in his chair, cradling his coffee mug.

“Did you make me breakfast?”

He smiled and nodded. “One of my many talents.”

“And your name is?”

He smiled again, a broad grin, like they were meeting at a party, and not at the Twilight Zone.

“Gabe.”

“Just Gabe?”

“Yes.”

Conflicting feelings battled inside her. Ever since last summer, when Rodney had confessed his love for Hanna, Jessibelle had hoped against hope that he would come to his senses, and come back to her.

But he had not come to his senses. He had asked Hanna to marry him. He’d asked her on the first day of fall last year, at the Autumn Leaves Festival. And the next day, Hanna had flaunted her new diamond ring as she bubbled over with happiness.

Since then, life had been one meaningless day after another as Jessibelle went through the motions of living and tried to pretend her heart would ever be whole again.

And now?

Now a figment of her imagination was sitting across the table from her. And she was trying to decide if she should give up and go back to bed. Or if she should see a doctor. Or, if she should maybe play along and see where this lunacy took her.

“And why are you doing this?”

“Helping you?” Gabe, her figment, sat up straight now. “We got a referral,” he said. “You met the qualifications.”

“I did.” She nodded to him, wondering if he might really be there. And then shaking that thought away. Of course he wasn’t really there. But, it was strange how her fractured mind had conjured up such a handsome vision. Much more handsome than Rodney.

The thought surprised her. Could that mean she was starting to get over Rodney?

No. It didn’t mean that. She would never get over Rodney. But, for the moment, she would go along with her delusions. “So now what?”

“We have three things to do to get ready for the wedding.”

“The wedding?”

He reached across the table, picked up the invitation, and tapped it lightly on the cherry wood. “This wedding.”

Yes, she thought. Three things. Like a fairy tale. Three magic wishes, or something like that.

“First you need a dress.”

“I have lots of dresses.”

“No, you don’t. You never wear dresses. Personally, I don’t care what you wear.” He looked amused, and charming. “I don’t care if you wear anything actually, but I’m supposed to assist you in purchasing a suitable dress for the occasion.”

If she was crazy, did that mean Mrs. Hartfield was crazy too? Since, after all, Mrs. Hartfield had been able to see him . . . .

“Are you paying attention?”

“Oh yes.”

“So today after work, I’ll meet you at the
Jolie Femme
on Seventh Street.”

“Right.”

“You don’t know where that is, do you?”

“I’m sure I can find it.”

“Work will go well today. You’ll be finished on time.”

No, she thought, as the tired inevitability washed over her soul and she felt herself slump. Work would not go well. It never did.

Jessibelle had worked with her friend Hanna at the College Registrar’s office for five years, and she’d enjoyed her job and done it well. A month ago, she’d left, claiming that City Realty offered her more responsibility and more money. Which was true.

But the real reason she’d left was because of Hanna.

Jessibelle could not work with Hanna. Not anymore. Not if it meant having to hear about Rodney, every single minute of every single day.

The job at City Realty had freed her from those reminders but she didn’t enjoy the work, and there was always more of it. City Realty had quickly become a stream of unending, boring drudgery.

“I’m never finished on time.” Not ever, she thought.

“You will be finished on time today,” he said. “Now, have a quick shower. Don’t worry about the dishes. I’ll clean up. Do you want this bacon?”

“No, help yourself.”

He popped a piece of bacon into his mouth, and closed his eyes, obviously enjoying the flavor. “I forgot how good this tastes,” he said.

Chapter Two

For the first time since she’d started working at City Realty, Jessibelle left the office for her lunch break. She twisted the sign on the window next to the big glass door so it said
Gone To Lunch
and then she walked out onto the sidewalk. The filing could wait. She needed to buy a dress.

And not at the
Jolie Femme
. Boutique shops like the
Jolie Femme
only emphasized her awkwardness. She had never understood fashion and she dreaded having to deal with the sophisticated salespeople she would undoubtedly meet there.

Besides, a
Jolie Femme
dress would be way too expensive. Why would she spend a lot of money for a dress when she didn’t want to attend the wedding?