Christmas At Timberwoods (12 page)
Read Christmas At Timberwoods Online
Authors: Fern Michaels
“I didn’t know that. Is there anything in particular you would like for dinner?”
“I’m not fussy, but I would like some hot coffee to go with whatever you make.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll see you later then. Good-bye, Charlie.”
“Good-bye, Angela,” Charlie said, a wide smile splitting his face. He’d been right. It was a good day and it was going to get better.
Angela danced her way around the kitchen as she set a package of chicken breasts out to thaw. She wiped down the stove and refrigerator with a solution of baking soda and vinegar and was pleased with the high shine her efforts produced. She wondered if Charlie would notice. She scrubbed two oversized yams and deftly cut up vegetables for a salad. She found some fresh string beans that were limp but still useable, cleaned them, and set them to soak in a bowl of ice water. They’d crisp up in an hour or so.
Now for the cake. She looked around, pushing jars and boxes to the back of the cabinet as she searched for the ingredients. Charlie looked like the chocolate type.
Everything in front of her, Angela dusted her hands together dramatically in preparation for her first homemade cake. The cake batter prepared and in the oven, she set the timer she’d found in a drawer and then settled herself to watch soap operas. An hour later she was disgusted. The scheming older heroine reminded her of someone she would rather forget.
The overheated daily drama gave way to the 4:30 movie. Before long Angela became engrossed in the story. She raced to the kitchen during the commercial break to set the table and mix the salad dressing. Since there wasn’t enough sugar in the house to make frosting for the cake, Angela made instant pudding and then poured it over the cake. Later she would add the whipped topping she had seen in the refrigerator. Charlie must like the creamy white stuff because there were six containers resting on the back shelf. She drained the string beans and tested one by snapping it to see if it had crisped.
It had. She added fresh water and set the pot on the stove. She peeked at the roasting chicken breasts and grinned. They were browning nicely and the dressing underneath would surely add to its flavor.
Boy, the kitchen smelled good. Charlie would be pleased. Men liked to come home to a goodsmelling house and know that all they had to do was sit down and eat. She was definitely channeling her grandma.
What else? Oh, right. Coffee. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use an automatic coffeemaker. Old-fashioned perked coffee was the only kind she liked. Irma, her mother’s housekeeper, had taught her that. Angela stared at the coffeemaker and decided it must be fairly new since there were no stains on the white plastic. Charlie probably used it because it was quick and he didn’t have much time in the morning. She pulled out a stool, climbed up, and started to search the cabinets. Charlie looked like the type to save things if they weren’t worn out.
Angela finally found an aluminum percolator in the back of the third cabinet she searched. Industriously, she scoured the small pot till it gleamed. It was the kind that perked on the stove, and now not only would there be dinner aromas but also the fragrant smell of real brewed coffee to greet Charlie.
Gee whiz,
she thought wryly.
Look at me, morphing into a 1950s housewife. Everything but the gingham apron.
Well, playing house made her feel calm. Almost normal. And it kept her from obsessing.
she thought wryly.
Look at me, morphing into a 1950s housewife. Everything but the gingham apron.
Well, playing house made her feel calm. Almost normal. And it kept her from obsessing.
She measured out the coffee, added cold water, and set the pot behind the string beans. Both would be turned on at the same time.
Satisfied that everything was under control, Angela trotted back to the living room to the movie. She had missed too much of it and her interest waned. Oh well. Another half hour and Charlie would be home. They would sit down and eat and talk. It had been a long time since she had talked to anyone—really talked.
Tears stung Angela’s eyes; she impatiently wiped them away with her shirt sleeve. Crying like a baby wasn’t going to snap her out of this weird, drifting mood.
But she couldn’t stop herself. Something was wrong with her and always had been. If you were to believe her mother, she had been hatched from an egg. A rotten egg. The tears burned again. This time she let them gather on her lashes and then trickle down her cheeks.
Emotional cripple. She had heard her mother say those very words about her to her father, if not to her face. If she was, then it was because they had made her one. God knows she hadn’t become this way on her own.
Charlie walked into the house promptly at sixteen minutes after six. Angela’s eyes lit up as she watched him sniff the air. Her thin face brightened into a delightful grin that matched his when he said, “It smells just like Sunday dinner the way my mother used to make it. Roast chicken, chocolate cake, and all the works.”
“Right, right. And I found your old aluminum coffee pot and perked some real coffee for you. I know you like coffee,” Angela said, suddenly shy.
“I love perked coffee,” Charlie said exuberantly. “Is it ready?” he asked hopefully.
“All you have to do is sit down and eat. Come on.” Angela took him by the arm. He didn’t pull away from her as she thought he might.
Quickly and deftly, she served him—a regular June Cleaver out of the old TV show. Charlie ate ravenously, making comments like “This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook? This is every bit as good as my mother used to make. More, one more helping.” And then, finally, “How did you know my mother used to pour pudding over the cake?”
“I didn’t know.” Angela could feel herself smiling from ear to ear. “There wasn’t enough sugar to make frosting, so I improvised. I’m so glad you like it and that I did it right. More coffee?”
“Sure, and another slice of cake. Aren’t you having any?”
“Charlie, I already had three pieces.” She giggled, rolling her eyes.
“Oh, I’ve been so busy eating, I didn’t notice.” Charlie leaned back and patted his stomach. “God, I ate too much. If I ate like this all the time, I’d be as fat as a pig. People shouldn’t eat so much. I know. I used to be fat, and people made fun of me, but I couldn’t seem to stop eating,” he said honestly.
“How would you like to be as skinny as I am and hear people say you look like a scarecrow or a skeleton? I can eat any kind of food I want, but I just can’t gain weight. It might not be so noticeable if I didn’t have such irregular features.”
Charlie stared at Angela. “I think you have interesting features, Angela. You’re no beauty queen, but most girls aren’t. You’re . . .” He searched for just the right word that wouldn’t hurt her feelings. For some reason he really cared about this odd-looking girl with the toobig teeth and strange nose. “You’re just ordinary,” he said sincerely, knowing he meant every word he was thinking and saying.
Angela’s face brightened again. “Do you mean it? You really don’t think I’m ugly? How about homely?”
“Ordinary,” Charlie said firmly as he held out his coffee cup. “Which is a lot better than being awkward like me.”
“You’re just big,” Angela said, leaning her elbows on the table. “Big people are always awkward. It comes with the territory. What really matters is that you have a likeable face. A pleasant face actually,” she said, leaning closer. “And you have a great smile.”
Charlie felt a surge of something, and it had nothing to do with his libido. Protectiveness—that was it. He wanted to wrap himself around her and hold her tight. The feeling startled him. “You mean that?”
Angela stared at Charlie for a full minute before she replied. “You’d better know something about me, Charlie Roman. If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a liar. What you see is what you get.”
Another strange surge coursed through Charlie. He would figure out what it was later. Now he had to leave, or he would be late and Dolph Richards would have his head. He nodded. “Works for me. Hey, I gotta go. I’ll see you later. That was the best dinner I’ve had in years. Thank you,” he said shyly.
Angela blushed. “Hurry up or you’ll be late. When you get home I’ll make some popcorn and we’ll sit on the couch and watch television together.”
Charlie beamed and nodded as he closed the door behind him. God, was he ever lucky that she’d landed on his doorstep. And to think he’d almost blown it. He shook his head and laughed silently.
Charlie returned from work anticipating a relaxed hour or two with Angela. She was as good as her word. A large bowl of hot, buttery popcorn rested on the table. Frosty glasses of beer were set on napkins on the end tables. For over an hour she sat next to him on the sofa in companionable silence, munching, sipping, and watching TV. Reluctantly, Charlie finally had to call it a night. He needed his sleep. Angela yawned and agreed.
“You can have the bathroom first,” Charlie said gallantly.
“Okay, I’ll see you in the morning then. Good night, Charlie,” Angela said quietly. “Oh, I forgot about the dishes. I’ll do them before I use the bathroom. You go ahead.”
“Oh no. You cooked dinner and made the popcorn. I’ll clean up. You go to bed. You look tired. Go on, now,” Charlie said sternly as though he were talking to a child. “Angela,” he added thoughtfully, “if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”
She turned to face him. “Is it important? Age is just a number, after all. It’s what’s in here and here that counts.” She tapped her heart and head.
Charlie nodded. If she didn’t want to tell him, he wasn’t going to pry. She hadn’t quizzed him and she hadn’t made any unkind remarks. He would show her the same courtesy. He knew he was older by a good many years and thought maybe that was what made him feel so protective of her. He bent over to pick up the bowl and the glasses.
“Angela,” he said quietly, “you aren’t just ordinary. You’re special ordinary.”
Angela was stunned. She stopped in midstride. She knew—she didn’t know just how she knew, but she did—that Charlie Roman had never said that to another human being. She was touched. Really touched.
“Thank you, Charlie,” she said with all sincerity. “I know you mean it. Good night.” She turned to go up the stairs.
Charlie followed her over to the foot of the stairs and watched her as she climbed the steps. She stopped on the fourth step and looked back at him over her shoulder. “You know, Charlie. That was probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” She sighed wistfully.
Charlie felt something burning inside him. “Listen,” he said impulsively, “I’m off on Sunday. How would you like to do something? Go somewhere?” He waited, hardly daring to breathe, for her answer. The invitation was the only way he could think of to find out if she was going to stay with him beyond tonight. He had learned the hard way from past experiences that when something was especially good, things started to go wrong. He willed her to say yes with every fiber in his body.
Angela smiled. “I’d like that, Charlie. Hey,” she said excitedly, “we never discussed me paying you rent. I meant to bring it up at dinnertime, but we were so busy talking and eating that I forgot.”
Charlie’s face went blank and then he flushed. “I don’t want any money from you. I thought we were friends. You said we were friends.” His voice stopped just short of being accusing.
“Okay, okay, don’t get upset. I just like to pay my way, that’s all. I’m not a freeloader.” Angela could sense him drifting away from her suddenly. He had done the same thing at dinner and then again when they were watching TV. It was almost as if he went to some other world for a few moments—a world he didn’t particularly like. She thought he must have something on his mind, something he had to work out.
That made two of them.
“Charlie,” she said hesitantly, “whatever it is that’s bothering you, do you want to talk about it?”
“It?” Charlie pretended he didn’t understand.
“Yeah, it. From time to time you sort of fade off into the distance, if you know what I mean. Like you have something heavy on your mind. Do you want to talk about it? If you do, I’m a good listener and I don’t flap my mouth. What I’m saying is, if it’s a secret, you don’t have to worry about me blabbing it.” She could see that he was getting agitated. “Never mind. It was only a suggestion,” she said hastily.
“No, it’s okay.” And it was. Relief washed over him, even though she didn’t realize it. “Some other time, though. Sorry if that sounds rude,” he added. “I don’t mean to be.”
“You weren’t rude,” Angela said, towering over him from her position on the fourth step. “Everybody has his private moments. I just wanted you to know you could bend my ear if it would help. And,” she cried excitedly, “I’m really looking forward to Sunday.”
Charlie grinned broadly. His world was right side up again. “Good night, Angela,” he said, walking out to the kitchen. He was happy and content. He did not feel sexually aroused; he felt friendly. It was a new experience. All the anger and hostility of the last few days evaporated and was replaced with a kind of contentment. He felt slightly puzzled about his lack of sexual excitement, but he had no desire to tamper with this strange new relationship. He hummed as he washed and rinsed the dishes and set them in the dish drainer to dry. He filled the coffee filter with coffee for the morning and set a pitcher of water next to it.
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