Angel Wings (9 page)

“Anyway, Daphne is always telling Hanna what a great catch I am.”

“Daphne has good taste,” Jessibelle said, for lack of anything else to say.

“Yes, she does,” Rodney agreed.

“Is she the one who left her boyfriend at a very bad time?” Bea asked, not even pretending to look for her homework.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Rodney snapped at her.

“No,” Bea smiled, full of apparent innocence. “Go on. This is interesting.”

Rodney looked at the floor and appeared to be counting. “You need to talk to Hanna,” he said. “Convince her I’m the right guy for her.”

The irony of his words made her laugh. “I was once convinced you were the right guy for me.”

His shoulders fell and he looked like he was going to have to explain something to a small child. “That was ancient history, Jessibelle. We never really had anything.”

How could she have been so blind? “Nothing? At all?” She knew it was true, but she wanted to hear him say it.

“No,” he said, determined. “No spark. No passion. No earth moving. We’re simply friends, Jessibelle. Just friends.”

A short sharp spike of irritation rushed over Jessibelle. “No,” she said. “We’re not friends.” And she felt no loss.

He frowned, and Jessibelle remembered how he always got whatever he wanted from her. Because her goal in life—then—had been to please Rodney.

“Maybe there won’t be a wedding,” Bea said.

“There will be,” Rodney told her, glancing at Bea over his shoulder. “It can’t be cancelled at this point.”

“Why not?” Bea asked.

Rodney looked up at the ceiling and then he slowly turned to face Bea who sat at the Reception Desk, with her elbows on the desk and her chin in her hands.

“All of my relatives are coming,” he said. “People have booked flights.” He counted off on his fingers. “My Aunt Deborah is coming. My grandmother Lackster is coming. Even my cousin Eric is coming.”

“Even your cousin Eric? What’s so special about him?”

“He’s Eric Madison. And he’s coming all the way from Los Angeles,” Rodney informed Bea.

Bea looked at him, blankly.

“You haven’t heard of him? The race car driver?”

“Nope. But I’m sure he’ll be happy to get out of Los Angeles,” Bea said. “Smoggy there.”

The City Realty main door opened again and Daphne Whithammer entered, walking quickly. She wore one of her three-piece white suits, with her white heels, and she carried a little white purse tucked under her arm. Her blonde hair fell in loose curls down her back. When she saw Rodney, her face lit up with cheerfulness. “Rodney! What a surprise!”

Then she noticed Jessibelle and some of the cheerfulness slipped. Daphne stared at Jessibelle, looked back at Rodney, and then at Jessibelle again.

“I work here,” Jessibelle said.

Daphne looked confused.

“Good morning, Daphne,” Jessibelle said. “Is there something I can help you with? Are you looking at real estate?”

“No, I just wanted to talk to you about—” Daphne glanced at Rodney, and seemed to shift gears. “I wondered if you’d found a dress for the wedding yet?”

“I have.”

“Because I have time this—you have?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Daphne said, shifting gears one more time. “That’s all then.”

Rodney checked his watch, picked up his laptop and said, “I’ve got to go.”

And he did.

Daphne watched him leave, letting her gaze wash over him. When the door had closed behind him, she turned to Jessibelle. “Was he telling you about Hanna?”

“Yes.”

“She actually wants to cancel the wedding?” Daphne looked stunned. “She’s out of her mind.”

“Maybe not,” Jessibelle said. “Maybe he’s not right for her.”

Daphne sat down in the same chair Rodney had used. She took a deep breath and tried to collect herself. “How can she do that? Now? I mean we all have doubts . . .” She shook her head, lost in thought. “Even I have doubts.”

“You do?”

Daphne looked up at Jessibelle and realized she’d spoken out loud. “Normal ones,” she explained. “Like sometimes I wonder if my boyfriend Luke is the right one.” She tilted her head, considering. “Of course, he’s got an excellent job, over at Scriber and Speeken. But—”

She shrugged the thought away. “Never mind. We have to help Hanna. We have to keep her from making a big mistake.”

“Yes,” Jessibelle said. “Keep her from making a big mistake,” she repeated the words. And then, “I don’t think she’s going to make that mistake.”

“Found it!” Bea held up the book they were studying, the old Romeo & Juliet book, with its worn brown cover and tattered pages.

“This is a great story,” she said. “I sure hope it doesn’t end in a tragedy.”

Chapter Seven

Daphne left City Realty looking muddled and worried. Jessibelle spent a busy morning answering the phone, talking to clients and realtors, and finishing the filing. And Hanna arrived for lunch at a quarter past twelve.

They walked to the Friends Café on Collins Street, ordered lattes and salads, and spent the noon hour talking about the soon-to-be-cancelled spring wedding. If anything, Hanna was more convinced than ever that she would not marry Rodney.

At half past four, Betsy arrived with her backpack of school work, including the Romeo and Juliet book. “It has all the notes in the margins,” she explained. Jessibelle turned the reception duties over to Betsy and headed for home.

As she entered her quiet apartment, she wondered when she’d see Gabe again. He’d be back, she was sure, because he’d said they had one more thing to do. Tonight.

Outside her living room window, the late afternoon sunshine dappled the water on the bay and the seagulls soared, arcing over the sky. The lighthouse stood guard in the distance and the world seemed right.

Walking into her bedroom she spotted her Spanish books next to the door. The flamingo orange sack of books frowned at her, with its assignments untouched from last week.

Maybe she’d do like Gabe had suggested—forget Spanish and learn French. Because she didn’t want to go to Spain. That had been Rodney’s idea, not hers. Instead, she’d learn French.

The idea took hold. She’d always wanted to go to Paris. And, not only that, she’d be able to go to
La Petite Maison
and order in French.

She picked up the sack, feeling its weight—the textbook, the workbook, her binder of notes,
The Handbook of Traveler’s Phrases
and the CDs of
Learn Fast
. She took out her binder, removed her pages, and tossed them in the recycle bin. Tomorrow, she’d take the textbooks and the CDs to the College Secondhand Bookstore.

And now, it was time to think of something to make for dinner. As she entered her living room, she saw Gabe, standing in front of the big picture window.

His dark brown hair was tousled and looked windblown. In fact, he looked like he’d just flown in, except there wasn’t any broken glass.

“Hi,” she said.

“Good, you’re quitting Spanish.”

Once again, he surprised her. “How did you know?”

“They fill us in on details,” he said, watching her with a warm light in his eyes.

He wore black slacks and a black shirt open at his throat. The ends of the collar held a tiny white design. She walked closer to him and he closed the distance between them catching her in a quick hug and then holding her shoulders and looking down at her.

“You had a good conversation with Rodney this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry about that part where he said no passion. Some people don’t have any chemistry.”

“I don’t think—”

“You’re plenty passionate, just not with Rodney.”

She wasn’t sure about that, about the passionate part. Her life was subdued, not passionate. At least, it had been before Gabe had crashed through her window on Monday night.

And on Tuesday night, she’d been so angry about Rodney. A burning, consuming anger. Then Wednesday morning, she’d been sad. A stormy, heart aching sad, more sad than she ever remembered. And later on Wednesday, just last night, when she’d danced with Gabe?

She’d felt light and carefree and happy. And romantic, and even a little crazy. Could she actually feel passion? Maybe not with Rodney, but with someone else?

Standing so close to Gabe, she could see the pattern in his black shirt, the crosshatch of the threads. And on the ends of his collar, the tiny white motif—his logo of Angel Wings.

Did the Angel Wings mean something? Did they represent something she’d been searching for? Could the wings mean freedom?

That was another thing she felt around Gabe. She felt free and powerful and uninhibited. And maybe, even passionate.

He still held her by her shoulders. He hadn’t let go. She didn’t want him to ever let go. Even if it was not allowed.

Don’t think about that. She put her hands on his chest. “Take me flying?” Her words were out before she’d had a chance to consider what she was saying.

He hesitated an instant, a question in his glance. “You mean without an airplane?”

She sighed, amazed at her boldness. And then, “You said you had wings.”

“Of course I do.” He smiled. “I’m an angel.”

She was certain now. She knew what she wanted. “I want you to take me flying.”

He nodded, slowly, gripping her shoulders. “All right,” he said. “We’ll do that. But first,” he released her, taking a step back, “we have to eat.”

Once again, she felt the loss of his touch. But she couldn’t think about that. Not allowed, he’d said.

Focus, she told herself. “I have to eat. You don’t.”

“I want to eat,” he said, pausing as he seemed to study her. “And I want to look at you.” He stepped close again, took hold of her shoulders again. “Wear your dress for me.”

Surprise flickered over her. “Why?”

“Because you look like—” He took a moment to think about it. “A winsome nymph,” he decided. “And I love looking at you.”

A warm blaze spread through her body, even though she knew he only meant he loved looking at pretty things. It had nothing to do with loving her. She was simply a feast for his angel eyes. “Is that you feeling your senses?”

“Feeling my . . . ?”

“You experience your senses, more than most humans.”

“I love my senses,” he admitted. “I love the way everything looks and smells and sounds and tastes.” He rubbed his hands slowly down her arms. “And feels.” He was savoring the feel of her. “I’ve missed this.”

She put her hands on his chest again. She could feel his heart beating. “Do you remember being human?”

“Oh yes.”

“Do you remember how you—” She wanted to say died, but she couldn’t. “Do you remember what you were doing right before you became an angel?”

He thought a moment. “I remember slipping . . .” Then his thoughts seemed far away. “Mostly, I remember the things I left behind. At the time, they seemed important. More important than anything. But now, from this distance, they’re not important. Almost like . . .”

“Like what?”

“Like coming here to help you, has helped me, too.”

He looked up at the ceiling, considering his own words. And then he forgot them. “Get dressed,” he said. “I’ll make dinner.”

· · · · ·

She showered, then blew her hair partly dry, letting it fall in random curls around her shoulders. Pulling open a drawer, she found the silk panties that matched the dress. And then, sitting in front of the mirror in her bedroom, wearing only the red lace panties, she applied a little makeup, and a dab of Enchantment.

If Gabe loved his sense of smell, he’d love the perfume.

Finally, she donned the light-as-gossamer dress. The red chiffon and silk stretched over her breasts, leaving a lot of skin exposed . . . slightly more than she remembered. Slightly more risky, and sexy. Her back was mostly bare and her skin tingled, like it waited for the touch of a hand in a dance. Below her breasts, the silk rosettes accented the tucks of fabric and the petals of chiffon wisped down to her knees. She slipped into the red sandals, buckled the straps and stood before her mirror.

He’d said, a winsome nymph.

She inhaled, letting herself feel the compliment. He was right, she did look pretty. Not only pretty, but confident and graceful and alluring as a goddess.

She twirled, testing the sandals and watching the petals of chiffon spin around her. Then she went to find Gabe.

· · · · ·

The table promised an unforgettable meal, displaying deep red roses, her white Eternity china, and rose-tinted candles the same shade as her dress. Light from the big picture window cast the beginnings of sunset colors around the room. Music, a jazz style, played quietly—something Gabe had picked, something she didn’t own.

He’d made a Caesar salad and baked potatoes and steaks, grilled to succulent perfection.