Falling Angel (16 page)

Ben watched her reaction with interest.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said.

“I started it right after we met. I had a feeling I’d see you again.”

“Thank you!” She hugged him, and after a moment of stiffness, he returned her embrace. He smelled clean and salty, like the sea.

“You’re in control of your destiny, Cara,” he said. “Own your wings.”

.   .   .

The statue on her night table was the first thing Cara saw when she woke up the next morning. Feet of clay, wings extended, the vanes of each feather rendered with a master’s precision. Cara’s heart lurched painfully as she thought of their parting the night before. She missed Ben already.

They had said goodnight at the door with a chaste kiss. “My roommate and I aren’t really getting along,” Cara said. “I don’t feel comfortable inviting you up.”

Ben had squeezed her hand. “No problem.”

As he turned to go, she called out to him. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

He walked back and cupped her face in his hands. “Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He turned to go again, and this time she let him.

.    .    .

Early next morning, Cara woke from a deep sleep to the shrill ring of the phone down the hall. She answered it, her voice thick and hoarse.

“Darling, sorry to call so early, but I have a small emergency.” Ingrid’s Swedish accent was much more pronounced than usual, as it tended to be when she was stressed or tired. “The manager of the Playgirls just called. The lead singer has a bad case of laryngitis and they’ve had to cancel all their bookings for the next week.”

“But the wedding’s on Saturday!” Cara exclaimed. “What are we going to do?” The Playgirls were a popular girl band and always in high demand. To find and book an act of their caliber with such short notice would require a minor miracle. Not to mention a lot of phone calls, emails, and networking.

“That’s where I’m hoping you can help me,” Ingrid said. “I haven’t got time to work on this today.”

“Of course. I’ll be right there,” Cara said.

She showered, cleaning the sand and grit from her hair, and dressed in a white button-down shirt and black pants. A small pearl necklace and earrings, a gift from her mother for her 21st birthday, completed the professional ensemble. She would have to catch the early bus; there was no time for breakfast. As she clattered down the hallway in her black pumps, she heard Ann stirring in her room.

Cara spent the morning on the phone, desperately trying to find a replacement band. She found a group with a similar sound located in northern California. They agreed to come if, in addition to an exorbitant performance fee, the client would pay their travel expenses and make all the arrangements, ensuring they were back in California by Sunday afternoon for an evening gig. For the rest of the morning, Cara booked plane tickets and arranged lodging and transportation for the band members.

“You have to wear many different hats in this line of work,” Ingrid had told her when she started. By noon Cara felt as though she had donned half a dozen. Exhausted, she leaned back in her chair. Swiveling around to look out the window for a refreshing view of the lake, she met Ingrid’s sympathetic blue eyes.

“Go get some lunch,” she said. “You’ve been going non-stop all morning.”

Cara was about to oblige, gratefully, when the phone rang again.

It was none other than the bride herself, a high-maintenance client who, along with her mother, had lived in a perpetual state of semi-hysteria since the wedding plans commenced.

“It’s ruined!” Bridezilla shrieked into the phone. “Absolutely ruined!”

“What’s ruined, Miss Roundtree?” Cara asked soothingly.

Covering the phone receiver with one hand, she whispered to Ingrid; “She better not be calling off the wedding again or I’ll shoot myself.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes sympathetically.

“My dress. Ruined. You know that lace for the veil and trim? The imported French Chantilly? It’s not coming! And my couturier said there’s no substitution for it.”

“Of course it’s coming,” Cara said. “I called the port yesterday and they confirmed the shipment was coming in today.”

“Well, it did. But all the containers have been embargoed. Some idiot drug-smuggler tamped 40 pounds of cocaine into a container wall. Now they’re holding all the freight indefinitely at the docks so they can search more containers.”

“Maybe I can call the manufacturer and have them Fed Ex us the quantity you need.”

“No! If it doesn’t get here on time we’re screwed! You have to go to the docks and get my lace,” she demanded.

Yeah, right, Cara thought. “I’ll do my best,” she promised, silently resolving to call the manufacturer as soon as she got off the phone. If they overnighted the fabric, the dress could still be completed in time for the Saturday afternoon wedding. Cara sighed, and plunged into another round of contentious calls.

It was well after three by the time she surfaced again. Ingrid had gone out to meet with a potential new client, and the office was silent except for the hum of the computers. Cara thought of sending Ben an email, but decided not to. She had a mistrust of sending anything too personal over email, afraid that somehow her message might get into the wrong hands. And a simple ‘thanks for yesterday, I had a great time,’ sounded so banal, when she really wanted to say so much more. She thought about calling him; pictured him downtown in his studio, immersed in his work, stopping to pick up the phone and smiling at the sound of her voice. Impulsively, she picked up the phone and dialed.

His voice message, upbeat but impersonal, came on. “You’ve reached Ben Kilpatrick and Kilpatrick Creative Inc. Please leave a message.”

Cara took a deep breath, battling her urge to hang up and disengage. “Ben, it’s Cara. I wanted to say thank you for a lovely day yesterday, and for the beautiful birthday gift. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how I’m in control of my future. And I wanted you to know that I definitely hope to see you in it. Anyway, call me. Bye.”

Shocked at her daring, she hung up with a trembling hand. She hoped her message didn’t sound too brazen. Knowing Ben, though, he would appreciate her directness.

The phone rang again, and she sighed, steeling herself for the next challenge.

“Great Expectations.”

“Ms. Cara Walker, please.” As she heard the familiar voice, Cara smiled.

“Ben, it’s me.”

“Hey. You sounded so professional; I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“How did you get this number?”

“I have my ways. What are you doing?”

“I’ve been dealing with flaky bands and Bridezilla’s all day.”

“You must be wiped out. Did you take a lunch break?”

“No. I’m about to start gnawing on the desk.”

“Let me take you out for a bite.”

“I can’t. I’m so swamped.”

“Everybody has to eat.”

“I know. I was planning on grabbing a sandwich at the grocery store.”

“I love grocery stores.”

Cara laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m dead serious. Strolling through the aisles of the local supermarket is one of my favorite ways of unwinding. I’d go grocery shopping with you anytime.”

“No man’s ever said that to me before.”

“Well I’m not your ordinary kind of guy, you know.”

They agreed to meet in half an hour at the QFC on the north side of the island, a quick trip across the bridge from Seattle for Ben.

As Cara drove the Highlander along East Mercer Way, she hummed along to the radio. This had to be the first time she’d felt nervous about a trip to the grocery store.

Chapter Fifteen

Ben was waiting for her at the entrance, with a cart at the ready. In his faded blue jeans and plaid shirt, with his hair rumpled as though he’d just woken up and a three-o-clock shadow on his chin, he looked incredibly cute, in a rakish kind of way.

Impulsively, she kissed him. He looked surprised but pleased. “You look like you slept in your clothes,” she said.

 “Just about. I’ve been up since 5 working on my exhibition canvas.”

“How’s it going?”

“Slow, but good.”

They entered the store and walked down the produce aisle. Ben held open a plastic bag as Cara selected Granny Smith apples from a stacked display. “That was a nice message you left on my machine,” he said.

Cara blushed. “I wasn’t sure if you’d heard it yet.”

“Why did you think I called you two minutes later?”

With Ben pushing the cart, they moved on to the bread section, where Cara selected whole wheat sandwich bread and corn tortillas.

Ben reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a red silk scarf. “I found this on the coat rack in my hallway. Is it yours?”

“Oh, yes, thanks.” Cara tucked the scarf into her purse. “I’m always forgetting my things. I swear the whole country is littered with bits and pieces of my clothing and jewelry.”

“For a while I thought it may be the only reminder I’d have of my mysterious female visitor.”

“Well, I guess you’re discovering the more pedestrian side of me now,” Cara joked as she placed a jar of marshmallow crème into the cart.

“I don’t know. You’re still pretty mysterious.”

“How so?”

“Well, frankly I’m at a loss to understand how a woman of your obvious intelligence, breeding and refined tastes could possibly be putting marshmallow crème into her shopping cart.”

“I happen to harbor a mild addiction to Fluffernutter sandwiches. Is that so wrong?”

Ben raised his hands in mock defense. “I’m not complaining. But you’ve got to admit, it’s mysterious.”

“I’m no more mysterious than you.”

“
Moi
? What is it about me you find so. . . “ he raised a surreptitious eyebrow, “intriguing?”

“Well, the fact that you’re still single, for one.” Cara reached for a large container of laundry detergent on the top shelf. Effortlessly, Ben hoisted it down and into the cart.

“You mean, at my advanced age?” he joked.

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Thirty four. And you’re right, a lot of guys have already set up house with their significant other by now. But don’t forget, I was in a serious relationship for a while.”