Angel Wings (5 page)

Then she reached for the bottle, but he grabbed the base of it, holding it on the table, so she couldn’t lift it up. She noticed, reluctantly, that he was not touching her hand. He was as insubstantial as a whim or a wish.

“You can’t be happy because you haven’t let yourself feel sad,” he said, still pinning the bottle to the table.

She released her hold and perched on the edge of the couch, facing him. “Of course I have. I’m sad all the time!”

“No, you’re not. You’re angry.”

“I am not angry,” she shouted, feeling strange, hearing herself shout.

He let go of the bottle, picked up his wine glass and relaxed back on the couch. “Maybe I’m angry too,” he said.

What? Why was he changing the subject? “That’s ridiculous. Angels don’t get angry.”

“Sure they do.”

Angels do
not
get angry. And besides, they were supposed to be talking about her, not him. She snatched the bottle of wine, clutched it to her chest and glared at him, daring him to try and take it.

He quirked a little smile and then sipped some wine. “It’s your hangover,” he said. “I will not take responsibility for it.”

She tipped the bottle up and took a long swallow, burning her throat. Then she looked at the window again, where he’d crashed into her life last night.

She had no idea her imagination was this fertile.

Looking beyond the glass, she could see the sun now, as it oozed closer to the horizon, spilling out from the cloud cover, turning the water red and making a river of ripples, flowing from the sun straight to the shore.

“You can’t be an angel.” She focused her gaze on him. “Angels are white. And you’re always dressed in black.”

He sipped his wine, looking amused. “That’s a stereotype,” he said. “And I like black.”

· · · · ·

Jessibelle opened her eyes to morning light and noticed that she’d gone to bed with her door open, again. She rolled over to look at the clock and winced as her brain pounded. The luminous numbers on her alarm clock said 6:03, telling her it was too early to get up. She eased back under the covers, and caught her sleeve.

Awareness prodded her, as she realized she’d gone to bed with her clothes on. Again. Her miserable life continued its downhill spiral. Ever since her angel had shown up.

No, there was no angel. Things were worse ever since Rodney and Hanna’s wedding invitation had shown up.

She yawned, knowing one thing was for sure. She’d drank a lot of wine last night trying to drown the thoughts of Rodney.

She’d drank a lot and she’d talked a lot. About Rodney. Telling her—figment—about how they’d met. About her hopes, and her plans. And about how everything had collapsed. But mostly, she’d talked about how much her life hurt. Almost like she was trying to prove to her figment—okay, to herself—that she was hurt. Not angry.

She did not get angry. Never. No shouting, no condemning, no crying, nothing.

The aroma of coffee invaded her bedroom.

Had she programmed that coffeemaker again? But how could she program the thing when she had never read the instructions?

She got out of bed. Too fast, because the room spun. Stumbling back to the edge of the bed, she sat and took some deep breaths. Then she got up again, slowly.

When she reached the living room, she could see Gabe, setting the table, with two place settings this time. He wore the same clothes as yesterday—the black jeans and the black T-shirt with the white wings across the front, but he looked different.

More human, she decided, with his tousled hair and the shadow of beard stubble etching his strong jaw.

He saw her and pulled out a chair for her. She collapsed into it and tried to clear her mind, realizing she couldn’t clear her mind because her angel was still in it.

He put her yellow smiling face coffee mug in front of her, filled with steaming coffee and with the milk added. She wrapped both hands around it, inhaled, and swallowed a tentative sip.

The warmth and the flavor soothed her aching head. She took another sip and closed her eyes, carefully holding the mug, feeling the heat flow into her hands, and into her soul.

She could sense Gabe standing beside her, watching her. Her headache pulsed, as she tried to banish his image. And then she quit trying, because resisting her illusion wasn’t working. Resisting her illusion only made her head hurt more.

And pushing away what she was really feeling—that wasn’t helping either.

“I did feel angry last night,” she admitted, feeling her shoulders slump and loosen. “But I’m tired of being angry.”

“Now you can be sad,” he said, in a voice so kind it took her breath away.

A lump of emotion lodged in her throat. She set the mug on the table, took her hands away, and covered her eyes. Then she started to cry.

“Jessi.” He swung her chair toward him and knelt in front of her. “That’s good,” he said. “It’s okay for you to cry.”

In her mind, she heard her grandmother’s words
. It’s all right to feel sad
. But, her grandmother was not here. Gabe was here. He gripped her shoulders and lightly rubbed his thumbs over her aching muscles.

She bent her head toward his chest and he gathered her into his arms and held her, strong and sure.

And real.

She didn’t know how long she cried, but it seemed like a very long time. “I’ve cried all over your shirt,” she said. “All over your wings.” At least, all over the white wings on the front of the T-shirt he wore.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just a shirt.”

She placed her hand on the damp fabric, and looked up at his eyes. “Do you have wings?”

Smile lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “Would you like me to have wings?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I have all the basic parts,” he said, with that teasing smile. “And they work.”

Chapter Four

After a breakfast of coffee and dry toast and aspirin, and a long hot shower, Jessibelle walked to work with Gabe, who had insisted on coming along. Since there was nothing she could do about whether or not her illusion followed her, she didn’t object. And, she liked having him around. She was beginning to accept her craziness.

“I love your shower,” Gabe said, as they crossed Chatham Street.

The apartment’s showerhead featured a pulse mechanism that pounded the water into your back, massaging out aches and spasms and unhappy spots.

Gabe marveled at everything. The shower, the coffee, his eggs and the way the yolk spilled into the toast. The buds on the cherry trees amazed him, as they hovered along the branches, ready to bloom. The scent of the air enticed him, as the spring breeze mixed with the smell of the ocean. Jessibelle felt an accepting smile touch her lips.

And then she caught herself. She still had to get through this next month.

“You said there were three things we had to do to get ready for the wedding,” she said, remembering, and wanting to get on with the process. “What are the other two?”

“First, the dress.” He held the big glass door open for her and they entered City Realty.

Jessibelle started work at half past eight. The realtors and the rest of the staff trickled in about nine. And the majority of the clients visited in the afternoon and evening. So it was unusual to see someone sitting in the waiting room.

Even more unusual, when that someone turned out to be Daphne Whithammer.

“Look at you,” Daphne said, as she stood. “Right on time.”

“Hello,” Jessibelle said, feeling curiosity, instead of the routine dread she felt whenever she had to talk to the impeccable Daphne. Today Daphne wore a white suit and her blonde hair swept up in a tight bun at the back of her head.

Gabe stopped by the reception coffee table and looked at the magazines, with his back toward them.

“Hanna told me she was going shopping with you. To help you buy a dress for the wedding.” Daphne waited, like she was waiting for agreement. When Jessibelle waited too, Daphne said, “So, I’m volunteering to go with you.”

That makes sense, Jessibelle thought. Daphne was feeling left out. That’s why she was here now.

The door to City Realty opened again, and Bobbi walked in, with her high school backpack slung over her shoulder.

Daphne looked at Jessibelle. Either because she was waiting for a yes to the offer for help—or she was wondering what the pigtailed girl with the purple jacket, green jeans and orange running shoes was doing in the office.

“This is Bobbi,” Jessibelle introduced her. “She’s one of the evening receptionists.”

“It’s not evening,” Daphne said.

“And this is Daphne,” Jessibelle completed the introduction.

“Pleased to meetcha,” Bobbi answered, walking around behind the desk. “Betsy left one of my textbooks here last night,” she said, as she started opening drawers.

Daphne glanced at Jessibelle again, clearly disapproving of the young receptionist and her oddly assembled outfit. Gabe had selected a magazine and was reading it in a chair that faced the street.

“Daphne. Daphne. Daphne,” Bobbi mumbled. “Oh yes!” She stood up straight, holding a copy of Romeo and Juliet. An old book, with a worn brown cover and tattered pages. “You’re the one who left her boyfriend,” she said. “At a very bad time.”

“Pardon?”

“Betsy was telling me.”

“Betsy is one of the other receptionists,” Jessibelle explained, hoping Bobbi would not continue with this story. “They share the evening receptionist job and they go to high school togeth—”

“So what was the very bad time?” Bobbi asked. She fanned the pages of her book. “Is there ever a good time to leave your boyfriend?”

“You were gossiping about me?” Daphne focused her attention on Jessibelle.

“No, they were just talking about you,” Bobbi elaborated, stuffing the book into her backpack. “Hanna and Jessibelle.”

“Hanna?”

“So?” Bobbi had come around the desk, preparing to leave again. “What was the very bad time?” She looked from Daphne to Jessibelle. “What? I thought it was interesting.”

Jessibelle took a quick breath. This morning’s breakfast of toast sat queasy in her stomach. A deep pit seemed to open under her feet. “Will you be in tonight?” Jessibelle asked Bobbi.

“I didn’t leave him at a bad time,” Daphne said, mounting her defense. “I had already left him by the time he was in the hospital. It’s not my fault he fell off a cliff.”

“A cliff? Wow,” Bobbi said, impressed. “He fell off a cliff! Were you with him when it happened?”

“Of course not. He was working. It was his stupid job. No money in it, and, obviously, too dangerous.”

“What kind of job?”

“Mountain climbing.”

“Mountain climbing’s a job?”

“Search and Rescue. Something like that.” Daphne checked her watch. “But not to worry. I’m over him. My new boyfriend Luke is much more suitable. He’s a lawyer over at Scriber and Speeken. We were meant for each other.”

Jessibelle heard a magazine slap down on the coffee table. A bit forcefully. Gabe must not have liked what he was reading.

“Look,” Daphne said, with her usual impatience. “Do you want me to help or not?”

Jessibelle didn’t. “I’ve got it covered,” she said. “But thanks for the offer.”

Daphne’s eyebrows shot up, and she seemed to catch her breath. “Like
you
can find something decent to wear?”

“I already have,” Jessibelle told her. “At the
Jolie Femme
. I’m just thinking about it.”

“You? The
Jolie Femme
?” She shook her head, and abandoned her campaign. “Well, don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

As Daphne headed toward the big glass door, Gabe stood up and turned to look at her. Daphne, almost at the door, paused and looked at Gabe. Or at least in the direction of where Gabe was standing.

And then, like the lizard capable of changing its skin, Daphne transformed. Suddenly her expression exuded charm and friendliness. Not only did she look beautiful physically, she radiated beauty like it sprang from an internal source.

“You look familiar,” she said, speaking to the air where Gabe stood. “Have we met?”

Jessibelle’s heart pounded and she froze. Could Daphne see Gabe? Daphne was not supposed to be able to see Gabe. Gabe belonged to Jessibelle. He was
her
illusion. Not Daphne’s.

Wait. Jessibelle blew out her breath. Even if Gabe were real, she had no rights to him. No right to feel this . . . jealousy. Because that’s what it was. Jealousy. Strong and dark green.

She hated herself.

Gabe watched Daphne, staring at her face for a few seconds, and then looking at her breasts, her slim waist, her white shoes with the elegant high heels. Then his gaze returned to her face.

She looked slightly bewildered by his examination, but her projection of genuine warmth held solidly in place.

“I don’t think we know each other,” Gabe said.

· · · · ·