Wounded Wings (Cupid Chronicles) (20 page)

“What happened to your back?”

Naomi’s softly spoken words nearly stopped his heart.

He glanced down automatically. He still had his shirt on. What was she seeing?

He spun around.

Naomi’s eyes caught his, and all he saw was true concern, compassion, and . . . understanding. But he couldn’t go there with her.

No.

He yanked up his towel and moved away. “Nothing.”

She followed. “Don’t lie to me. I can see the scars through your wet shirt. Something awful obviously happened to you.”

He walked faster.

“Eli.”

He kept going toward the food tent. Maybe if he ignored her, she’d go away. Leave it alone. Leave him alone.

He got nearly to the flap at the opening when she grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Eli!”

He wouldn’t look at her. He kept his gaze pinned to the ground.

“Please.” Her voice shook. Her emotion nearly broke him, but he couldn’t. Just couldn’t. He backed up a step, wishing for some of her anger back. That would be easier to deal with.

“You can tell me. I’ll understand, I promise.”

He glanced at her, but only got as far as her lips. It was impossible. He shook his head.

“Eli—”

They were interrupted when a small group from church filed out, all in tears. “Oh, my God,” one of them cried. “Why? Of all days, why today? On little Emma’s day? They should be here . . . They’re such a part of this community. They’re such wonderful people . . . they deserve better.”

Naomi released her grip on his arm and turned toward them. “What happened, Barb?”

The woman breathed in as fresh tears coursed down her cheeks. “Oh, Naomi, I’m sorry.” She glanced at Elijah. “I didn’t see you there.”

Naomi waited.

The woman blinked and gathered herself. “We just got word . . . Pastor Donovan’s wife, Janet, passed away this morning.”

“Oh, no!” Naomi covered her mouth with a hand. “Poor Pastor. Who’s with him?”

“That’s just the thing,” Barb went on. “He’s all alone. He hasn’t let anyone over to be with him all day. We’re all terribly worried.”

Elijah’s heart trembled as that December day when he lost Sarah came crashing back into his soul.

The blackness.

The aloneness.

The anger.

That had been the day that defined all the rest of his days.

He didn’t know how he knew, but he needed to get to Pastor Donovan.

Now.

“If you’ll excuse me . . .”

He spun away and sprinted from the tent and toward the Pastor’s, his feet gaining speed until he was in front of the Donovan home, his hair still wet, his eyes wetter, his soul confused.

He just stood there, unsure what to do. Had he made a mistake in coming?

The man’s wife had just died.

They were nothing more than passing acquaintances and he wasn’t receiving visitors. What made Elijah think he’d see him? And why?

He moved to go, cursing himself for an idiot when the front door creaked open.

Elijah stopped and turned. The sun bloomed from behind a cloud and he squinted against its onslaught as it blinded him, warmed him. He stood there, unable to move, unsure of what to say. His heart beat an erratic tattoo in his chest.

The Pastor studied him for several moments then finally stepped off the porch and approached him, his steps that of an emotionally drained man. As he got nearer, Elijah could see his eyes were red-rimmed, tired, pain-filled.

Peaceful.

Elijah found himself taken aback at that last revelation.

“Eli,” Pastor Donovan said once he reached him.

“Pastor.”

“Thank you for coming.”

Elijah glanced down, then back up. “I’m not really sure why I’m here.”

Pastor smiled. “I am.” He waited a beat, as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say, or perhaps he wasn’t sure Elijah would believe it. “I was told you’d come.”

More confused than ever, Elijah stepped back, rubbed a hand through his now wind-tousled hair. “By who?”

A stunning smile bloomed on the man’s face. “By a Prophet of the Lord.”

Chapter 28

Elijah’s knees hit the ground as his mind tried to wrap itself around the Pastor’s words.

Father remembered him? Could it be?

His skin suddenly thrummed with electricity, his heart thundering so painfully it threatened to pound right out of his chest. He clutched at his T-shirt blindly trying to ease the ache.

The sun, which had warmed him earlier, now felt excruciatingly hot on the top of his head, and he struggled to take in a breath.

“Eli?” Pastor placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, temporarily drawing him back. “Are you all right, son?”

Elijah blinked up at the other man and focused. God, how selfish he was being. He was here to offer sympathy and condolences. Not simper and cry over his own mental anguish on the poor man’s lawn.

Quickly drawing himself up, Elijah dusted off his knees. “I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

Pastor studied his face. “Would you like to come inside?”

Elijah hesitated. But he’d come for a reason, even if he didn’t know what that reason was. “Sure. If it’s not an imposition.”

“No. Not at all. Like I said, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Elijah swallowed, not sure whether to be uncomfortable or jubilant about that, and followed him into the living room, the sweet smells of a home enveloping him; Lemon furniture polish, lavender, fresh flowers from several arrangements that cluttered the entryway . . .

“Would you like coffee, tea?”

Elijah pivoted and found himself trapped in the Pastor’s smiling eyes. “Water would be fine.”

The Pastor nodded and they moved toward the kitchen where he poured him a glass of ice water and a mug of coffee for himself. “Lunch?”

Elijah shook his head. “No, thank you.” With his emotions churning his stomach like a hurricane-frothed ocean, the last thing he wanted was food.

“Well, I hope you won’t mind if I fix a bite to eat. I haven’t eaten since . . .” His eyes glazed over as if trying to remember. “Well, I guess it’s been a while.”

“No. Go ahead.” Elijah sipped his water as the man puttered around making a sandwich and tried to gather his thoughts. What was he doing here? What should he say? And how had the man known he was coming?

More importantly, could it really have been a prophecy?

A Brother?

His heart flailed hopefully at the idea. But, unwilling to be crushed if it was a fantasy of a grieving man, he tamped it down.

Pastor finally sat with his ham and cheese and took a bite. He ate in silence until his sandwich was down to just the crust, then he dabbed his mouth with a napkin, sipped his coffee from his
I Love my Wife
mug, and sat back. Pinning Elijah with his penetrating gray eyes, he finally spoke.

“So, Eli, tell me what brings you here. What are you seeking?”

Elijah’s heart, which had become complacent in his chest, immediately sparked awake with a jolt. He dipped his eyes, unsure what to say.

“I heard about Mrs. Donovan,” he finally managed to choke out. “I wanted to offer my condolences.”

“Thank you. She was a wonderful woman and I loved her very much.” Elijah finally met his eyes again. “We had many beautiful years together and I’m grateful.”

“Grateful?”

Pastor cupped his coffee mug in both hands as if to draw warmth from it. “Yes. I wouldn’t trade a moment of our time together for anything.” His thumb repeatedly traced a tiny crack on the handle of his mug, his eyes appearing lost in some memory.

“But aren’t you angry? Bitter? Don’t you blame God at all for her suffering? Perhaps yourself for not praying enough?” Guilt washed over Elijah as he realized he was voicing his own feelings, but he couldn’t stop them. “Do you feel you let her down?” His soul ached like never before. Hot emotion clogged his throat. “Do you feel you could have . . . should have done more?”

The Pastor’s eyes snapped to his, the gray simmering like the ocean brewing a storm. “Of course I do, Eli. But the Lord had a different path for her, and it’s not for me to question.” He took a breath. “But do I
blame
God? No. Absolutely not. And neither did she.

“We’re all given a certain amount of time in this life, Eli,” the Pastor continued. “A certain amount of love. It’s our job—our duty—to not waste it.

“Father,” Michael prayed from the confines of his compact car, his head bowed, his eyes squeezed shut, his heart aching pitifully. “Father, please hear me. I’ve never felt so alone or lost in an assignment.” He swallowed, fighting back tears, disliking that weakness of the human vessel as it mirrored his emotion for the world to see. His failure. “Perhaps You made a mistake, Father. I’m not cut out to lead Love Detail.” He dipped his head and wiped an errant tear. “Elijah has hardened his heart and cannot see the beauty right in front of his eyes . . . and I have no idea what Brother Jophiel’s part is in all of this. Please help me. Please guide—”

His plea was cut off as a brilliant ray of sunshine burst through the clouds and shone down on the food tent. Just as Naomi stepped out.

She shielded her eyes from the onslaught of the sun’s rays, her golden hair glinting like spun gold.

Michael’s mouth tipped up in a half-smile. “Yes, I know, Father. But how do I get the two hardheads to go along with the game plan?”

He watched as she picked along the gravel walk in her strappy sandals. Then, as if in slow motion, one ankle twisted underneath her and her arms began pinwheeling as she lost her footing and fell in a heap onto her bottom in what appeared to be a pretty nasty fall.

In an automatic reaction, Michael rushed from Baby Blue since no one else was around.

No more time for whining. Father had spoken. Or pushed, as the case may be.

Chapter 29

“Are you all right, Miz Naomi?”

Naomi glanced up into Michael’s concerned eyes. She accepted his hand and he gently tugged her up. “Yes. Thanks.” She dusted the dirt off her butt.

“You’re hurt.”

She hissed when he brushed her elbow. She glanced down at the scrape. “Nah. It’s nothing. The only thing that hurts right now is my pride.” She peered up at him, hoping her cheeks weren’t flaming. “I bit it pretty good, didn’t I?”

He gave a lopsided grin. “Well . . .”

She shrugged. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.” She turned away so she could get back to her mission for more whipped cream, but Michael stopped her by clearing his throat. She glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

“How’s Miz Vi?” he asked.

“Good. Thanks.”

“That’s good.” He fidgeted with the metal chain hanging from his jeans like he was nervous or wanted to say more.

“Did you need something, Michael?”

“What? Oh. Uh . . .”

She turned to face him fully. “Because if this is about you fixing the bakery’s oven, we can definitely pay you if you’ve decided a pie wasn’t enough.”

His brow furrowed. “No. That’s not it. The pie was delicious. Wonderful.”

“I’m glad. You’re welcome to another.” She smiled. “We really appreciated your help.”

“Oh, anytime, Miz Naomi. Anytime.” He shifted from foot to foot.

“Thank you.” She stifled a sigh. “So, listen, Michael, I really need to get going. We’re running low on whipped cream.”

She spun away not giving another thought to what the heck was wrong with him when his next words, apparently spit out in a hurry, stopped her cold in her tracks.

“And Eli?”

She stood frozen for several heartbeats, not trusting what she might say, as her heart raged. She was truly sick of that name. Both from other people, and how it resonated in her soul.

Finally, she turned and met Michael’s clear blue eyes. “What about him?”

He didn’t avert his gaze one iota, his case of nerves apparently gone. “I was wondering how he was.”

“How would I know?”
Why do I care?
she wanted to scream.

“I thought you two were close. Seeing each other?”

She tracked a group of teenagers giggling their way across the field toward the games. “You thought wrong.”

When Michael didn’t respond, she finally faced him head on. He looked . . . pained, though she had no idea why. A myriad of emotions seemed to cross his face before he spoke. “Do you know if I can find him in the cook tent?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea. But I doubt it. We had a . . .”
What would you call it?
“. . . discussion, and he took off like his tail was on fire once we heard about Pastor’s wife. I haven’t seen him since.”

Michael’s eyes clouded with confusion. “What about Pastor’s wife?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?”

He shook his head.

“She passed away this morning. And when we found out, they said Pastor Donovan wasn’t taking any visitors. Next thing I knew, Eli took off like he’d seen a ghost.”

“Uh . . .” Something like comprehension dawned in Michael’s eyes, as he, too, looked like he was seeing an apparition. His face suddenly cleared as he  met her gaze full on. “If you’ll excuse me. It’s been . . .
enlightening
talking to you.” And with that he was gone. “Whatever,” she said to herself.

She spun away, intent on her whipped cream mission, but her smarting elbow now stung like a son-of-a-gun. She bent her arm. Watery blood trailed down the side and tiny pieces of gravel were embedded in her skin. She sighed. She’d better go take care of that first.

She diverted for the women’s restroom and was greeted by the humid, non-air-conditioned stench of sweat, mildew, urine, and some other things she didn’t want to name. She quickly made her way to the sink and studied herself in the mirror. Her hair had sagged in the day’s heat and her cheeks were rosy. She plucked her T-shirt from her sweaty chest where it’d stuck to her like a second skin.

“Yuck.”

She turned on the faucet and let the cool water run, doing her best to get her elbow in the stream and wash it with soap. She was holding a paper towel against it when the door swung open and another blast of hot air fluttered the bathroom’s pleasant assortment of odors.

She bit back a curse when she saw who sashayed in. Looking perfect, as freakin’ usual.

“Naomi.”

Snide didn’t even come close to the tone.

Naomi rolled her eyes. “Claudia.” She purposely glanced down at her elbow and dabbed, checking for bleeding. All good. She pulled the towel away and tossed it in the trash.

Claudia raised a hoity brow. “Took a tumble, did you? You all right?”

“Fine.” Naomi turned the faucet back on and washed her hands, which still felt dirty. Why wouldn’t Claudia just make a move to use the restroom or get out already?

Naomi ripped a few paper towels from the holder with more force than necessary as Claudia continued to stare at her, drilling holes into the back of her skull, by the feel of it. Finally, she spun around and matched her, stare for stare. “Did you need something, Claudia?”

The other woman shook her head. “No.” She stepped toward one of the stalls then stopped. “Well.” She eyed Naomi coolly. “I am curious. Did Eli cool off any since I dunked him?” She grinned like she had some inside secret. “He was looking mighty
hot
.”

Naomi snapped her mouth shut. She refused to rise to the bait. “You know what, Claudia?” She waited a beat to make sure she had her undivided attention, knowing full well the other woman thought she’d bested her. “Eli’s nothing to me.” She cocked her head as if she felt sorry for her. “He never was. Have at him. He’s all yours.”

She pranced out and let the restroom door swing shut behind her, knowing she’d left Claudia dumbfounded. Served the bitch right.

Naomi stewed on that all the way back to the tent, her feet crunching up huge strides of gravel. “‘
He was looking mighty hot
,’” she mocked under her breath. “Oh, I’ll bet he was.”

Her heart was pounding and so was her head by the time she ducked inside the flap and nearly ran headlong into Vi and Sam wrapped in an embrace, kissing like two teenagers.

“Oh, God.” Naomi pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry!”

Vi studied her, confusion written all over her face.

“What?” Naomi demanded, now getting frustrated on top of angry.

“Where’s the whipped cream?”

“Damn it!” She spun back around and stormed right back out. This was turning out to be the suckiest day in the history of sucky days.

The festival wound down without further incident, though Naomi was on her guard for further Claudia sightings or emotional upheavals.

She just didn’t know what to expect today.

But the benefit had turned out to be a resounding success, raising much more money than any of them had expected.

She packed up the left over whipped cream containers—she’d gone a little overboard in a bit of a tirade at the store—and glanced over at a grinning Maura, who had an arm wrapped around Scott’s waist. He brushed a lock of hair back before kissing her cheek as Emma danced at their feet. So simple. So easy. The way love was supposed to be.

“You almost done here, darlin’?”

She started at Vi’s voice. “Oh. Yes. This is the last of it.” She forced a smile. “I’m just glad we sold all the pies. I’m wiped and would’ve hated carting any of that back tonight.”

Vi’s gaze tracked hers back to the happy family they were celebrating. “It was a good day though, wasn’t it?”

Fatigue lined Vi’s eyes and mouth. Guilt tugged Naomi’s heart. “You’ve overdone it today. Why don’t you have Sam take you home?”

“Oh, phooey.” Vi waved her hand as if the idea was preposterous. “I’m fine. Besides, I’ve still got to take the chili pot back over to Sharla’s place.”

Naomi eyed the huge cast iron pot. “What? Why?” Sudden anger spurted through her that Eli had left that thing behind. Where
was
he, anyway?

“Oh.” Vi tilted her head. “Well, Raul took the second shift after Eli this morning, and Sharla told him to go enjoy the last bit of the festival with his kids and she’d take care of the clean-up.” Vi shrugged. “Unfortunately, she took off and forgot the pot. She called me and I told her Sam and I would bring it to her.” She studied Naomi’s eyes. “It’s no big deal.”

“No, it’s not. Because I’m taking care of it.” She strode over and hefted it. It was a sturdy son-of-a-gun.

“Wha—?”

“Go. Relax with Sam. I’ll get this to Sharla.” She eyeballed her when she didn’t move. “Go!”

Vi arched a brow. “Fine. Thank you.” She pecked a quick kiss to Naomi’s cheek. “Have a good night, dear. I love you.”

Naomi felt a little chip of the frustration she’d been carrying all day melt off her heart. “Love you, too. Now go rest.” She shifted toward Sam as he strolled up and took the pot off her hands and set it onto her cart of items to go to the car. She smiled at him. “Thank you. Now, go, both of you. And take good care of her.”

Sam wrapped a protective arm around Vi’s waist. “I will. Goodnight.”

Naomi waved them off and pivoted to finish loading up, then made her way out into the humid night. She breathed in the subtle scents of summer—honeysuckle, the sun easing off the pavement, the syrupy sweetness of the children’s melting snowcones. The twilight sky was easing into the gentle arms of the coming night, its multitude of shimmering stars painting the heavens like glitter.

She stopped and stared.

Remembered.

Her breath hitches, tears threatening as Paul’s arms wrap around her, his aftershave tickling her nose, his love making her safe—safer than she’d ever been in her life—as they snuggle on Vi’s old plaid blanket, sipping cooling hot cocoa, staring at the stars.

“That’s Orion,” he says, pointing, his voice a mere whisper, as if it’s a secret. “He’s the great hunter of the sky. Do you see his sword?”

She squints until she can make it out. “Yes. Yes, I see.”

“And do you see the angels?”

Her surprised gaze shoots to him. “Angel? Is that a star?”

He smiles. “No, baby. Heaven’s angels. And if you look hard enough you can see them. They soar among the stars, come as close as your very breath. All you have to do is look.”

Naomi didn’t know what to say to him then, but he went on and pointed out all the constellations. Most she didn’t remember, but she stood and stared now, hoping to find Orion again.

Or an angel.

He’d taught her to believe once, and she could sure use that magic again.

Nothing.

She heaved a ragged breath and moved on to her car. She loaded up and made the short drive to Sharla’s, hoping against hope that she could avoid Eli.

She found Sharla on the front steps, phone in hand. She parked and heaved the chili pot from the back of the car with a fatigued half-smile.

Sharla put the phone to her chest. “Hey, sweetie.”

“Hi. Got your pot. Thought I’d save Vi the trip out. Where do you want me to put it?” She shifted its weight on her hip.

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you! I keep that out back in Eli’s apartment.” She waved a hand in the general vicinity of her backyard, mumbling something about storage space. “Would you mind?” She indicated the phone in her hand. “I’m on an important phone call.”

Naomi struggled to keep her face and voice impassive. “Of course not. Is he home?”

“Oh. Uh, I’m not sure. I think so?”

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Naomi nodded and started that way, her stride eating up big, angry chunks of walkway. He was the
last
person she wanted to see. But Sharla didn’t notice with her face pressed back to the phone.

She found his apartment dark and breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he wasn’t home.

She knocked and waited. Nothing.

She knocked again for good measure, ready to leave the pot on the porch, then she heard a muffled voice on the other side of the door. Darn it, he was home. Had he called for her to come in?

Carefully, she shifted the pot and tried the knob. The door was unlocked so she inched it open and poked her head inside. “Eli?”

Again, the muffled voice came from the back of the apartment. “. . . please . . . come . . . I’m sorry . . .”

“Eli?” she called again.

She waited a heartbeat, nerves skittering up her spine. Deciding this was silly—she was only here to return a pot—she stepped inside and quickly set it on his tiny dining table. She rushed to leave, but his mournful cry stopped her cold.

As if drawn by an invisible force field, she followed the sound of his voice, his sorrow calling out to her. “Eli?” her voice came out as a whisper now.

She found him kneeling beside his bed, his head bowed, eyes squeezed shut, the moonlight streaming in through the single window onto his tortured form. The sorrow was palpable.

“Father,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. “Please hear my cries. I beg You to not forsake me as I have forsaken myself.” He choked back a sob. “Thank You, Father. Thank You for the gift of wisdom You’ve given me tonight through the Pastor and his words. But how can You possibly forgive me for the horrible thing I’ve done?”

He paused, tears streaming down his cheeks in a torrent of obvious cathartic pain.