When Angels Cry (5 page)

Kaylee gasped and touched her temple again.  She swayed slightly before Bastian bent, slid his arm under the bend of her knees, and picked her up.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Finding the couch for you.  If you aren’t going to sit on your own, I’m going to help you.”  He carried her into the living room, noti
ng
she had closed her eyes and leaned against him.  Her arm tightened around his neck slightly
,
as though she’d stopped trying to fight him.  Her silken hair tickled his chin.  Once he
’d
reached the couch, he carefully set her against the cushions
and
her head lolled against the couch
.  S
he looked up at him
with
half-lidded
eyes
.  Her hair fanned out around her head.

“Head hurts
,
”
she whispered.

Bastian brushed the bangs from her forehead and touched her temples.
  “It seems to do that a lot.”
 

“No, not really.”  Kaylee closed her eyes.  “Only when I’m awake.” He lightly rubbed her temples.  “Mmm.  That feels good
--really
good.”

“It does, eh?
  Anything I can get for you?
”  Bastian stared
into
her face, watching as she licked her lips.  He wanted to trace them, to touch the swell of her cheeks,
and
the graceful line of her neck.  Instead
,
he stroked her forehead and savored the slow rhythm of her breath. 

“A truckload of Tylenol 3.”

“Where’s the truck?”

Kaylee laughed.  “Don’t have one.”

Bastian leaned closer.  “Then how do you expect me to accomplish that one, lady?”  He watched her smile slowly slip away.  “Perhaps I should take a rain check on the hot chocolate,” he said quietly.

“
It’s already made
,” Kaylee slurred.  “Can’t you stay?”

“You look dead tired, Kaylee.”

“What an expression.  Okay, maybe I don’t want hot chocolate.  Maybe I just don’t want to be alone.  Would that be
so unforgiveable?
” 
Kaylee reached up and touched his hand as it stroked her face.    She forced her eyes open. 

“Okay, fine.  I’ll get
the
hot chocolate.”  He stepped into the kitchen, poured the water into one of the mugs and stirred.  Then he walked back into the living room and found Kaylee asleep.  He sat on the edge of the couch and slowly sipped his cocoa until he
’d
reached the bottom
and set the empty mug on the table before he stood.

“Sweet dreams, Kaylee
.  I’ll stop by and check on you tomorrow
,” he said softly.  He reached behind her and
unfolded the
afghan
on t
he back of the couch
, draping it over her and
tucking the edges in
around
her.

That was a promise he never meant to make, but, as he walked out the
front
door, he knew it was one he intended to keep.

Chapter Three

From a distance, Kaylee heard the grandfather clock down the hall chime six.  Forcing her eyes open, she peered around the room and realized she wasn’t in her bed but instead lying on the couch.  A blanket covered her, and for just a few seconds, she wondered how she had gotten there.  Then, as she remembered yesterday’s ride from the hospital, she fingered the blanket, brushing the surface where Bastian’s hands might have touched it.  Sitting up, she looked over at the mug on the table and saw a film of cocoa coating the bottom.  Bastian had stayed long enough to finish
it
before leaving.

“What were the odds?” she mused, thinking that of all the people who could have fished her out of that pond, she never would have put him on the list
;
the
first time she’d seen Bastian was six months ago
when
he came in for a hot meal at the soup kitchen where she volunteered.

Her secretary, who also volunteered, had nudged her.  “Get a load of that one,” Rosie said, smiling.  “Tall, dark, and knock your socks off, baby.”

Despite her best intention at ignoring her friend’s comments, Kaylee
had
still looked and found herself mesmerized.  A rough stubble
had
lined his blunt chin
, and the
length of his dark hair
had
rested on his shoulders.  Dressed in black jeans, a grey sweatshirt
,
and tennis shoes, he
’d
refused to meet her gaze
but
instead star
ed
at the tray she
’d
offered.  As he
’d
accepted it, she
’d
glanced at his left hand
: no
wedding ring.  Even then, without knowing him, she’d been drawn to
him, curious about his silence and
the darkness that
had lain
draped upon his shoulders like a black leather duster.  She’d wondered what he was like, what his voice would sound like when he spoke her name.  Now she knew his voice.  Still, it wasn’t enough.

She pulled off the cover and darted into the entryway where she flung open the door, only to find her driveway empty
,
as though he’d never been there
at all
.  A thick snow had erased all tracks, and more flakes
now
drifted steadily from the grey heavens.  Some of them landed in her hair, on her clothes, and atop her bare feet. As a northern breeze kissed her skin,
and
it blew her hair back from her face.  The harsh air cut through her clothes, hardening her nipples.  She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to remember what Bastian’s
truck
had looked like.  She knew it was a truck,
yeah,
but the rest of the details had vanished.

“You only rode home in it yesterday,
”
she muttered.

  Despite the harsh temperature, Kaylee lingered in the doorway
,
  half-expect
ing
Bastian
would
re-appear.  Snowflakes lifted and swirled, forming miniature white tornados before resettling
atop a vast white
blanket
, falling
on her skin and in her hair just as it had two nights ago.

Kaylee brushed the hair from her face and as she lowered her hand
.  S
he saw her fingers turning pale
in
the cold.  S
hivering, she
backed into the foyer.  With one last glance, she closed the door and leaned against it.
 
With her left hand, she touched her temple, trying to massage away the pain
, and finally slunk
back to the couch
where she
plunked into the soft cradle of cushions, nestling her head
amid their
embrace.

“There’s no point in sleeping away the day.” 
Perhaps she could forget the headache, but she doubted it would ever forget her
; it
was simply a part of a bigger picture.  She stood and
shuffled
to the corner, where an easel stood, holding an unfinished painting of a boat
ambling
calmly
along
as the sun sank in the distance.  Kaylee went to the kitchen
,
filled her palette, and carried
it
back to the easel.

With a heavy sigh, she dabbed the
orange
and stroked a piece of sky onto the canvas.  She kept
brushing in
the heavens, mixing
pink
in the clouds and puffing out whiteness until the sky appeared three-dimensional.  As Kaylee rinsed her brush in the cup on the table, she heard the doorbell ring.

“Today isn’t a good day, Rosie,” she muttered, thinking of her friend probably now standing on
t
he front porch, waiting to ask a million questions and hover.  She’d want to know why Kaylee hadn’t shown up for volunteer work.
Kaylee stared at her artwork, swirled her brush in the water, and began to p
ack
away her supplies. 

Damn.  Why had she ever told Rosie about her cancer?  The last thing Kaylee wanted was a second mother.
 
The doorbell rang again.  Kaylee picked up the cup of dirty paint water and walked to the kitchen.  As she dumped the liquid down the drain, Kaylee heard the third chime.  Ignoring it, she rinsed the brush and, laid it on a folded paper towel to dry.

Kaylee turned to get the kettle when her vision clouded, forcing her to grab
,
the counter to maintain her balance
, and h
er vision quickly dim
med into
blackness.  She thrust her arms in front of her and felt along the walls until she found the doorway.  As she fumbled through the darkness, she ran into something solid.

“Don’t you ever answer your door?”  A hand touched her arm.

“I thought you were somebody else.” 
Kaylee tried to look up to find a face to go with the voice, but her thoughts were scrambled.  She knew that voice and closed her eyes, focusing on it.  Bastian.  It was Bastian.

“Should I leave?”

Kaylee tried to brush past him but instead started to fall.  She felt Bastian’s hands quickly encircle her waist. 

“Kaylee? ”

“I need to lie down.” 

Once Bastian
had
reluctantly released her, Kaylee walked to the couch
.
Bastian followed closely behind with his hands awkwardly dangling at his sides as though he w
ere
unsure what
else
to do with them.

“Would you like me to leave?” he repeated as Kaylee’s knee bumped the couch and she finally
lay
down.

“No, I’d like some company right now.”

“Okay.”  He slowly removed his coat, walked to the coat rack in the hall, and hung up his coat.  On the wall, he spotted two Spanish swords crossed mid-blade
—authentic
weapons just like his father collected.  He gritted his teeth and turned away.  As he re-entered the room, Bastian eyed the rumpled navy afghan he’d covered Kaylee with
the
night
before
.  Then his gaze moved to her pale face.

“I’d like to say you look better this morning, but I’ve never been a good liar.”

“Gee, thanks.  Such a thoughtful way of saying ‘you look like shit.’” 
Kaylee opened her eyes and found the murkiness in her vision had cleared.  She smiled weakly
.

Bastian raised his hands. 
“Now wait a minute
—I
didn’t say that.” 
 

“No, you didn’t.  You might as well have, though.  It’s true.   Perhaps at some point you’ll see me on a good day.”
  Kaylee patted her hair and ran her fingers through the length, trying to untangle
it
. 

Bastian sat on the love seat. 
“How do you feel?”
.

“About as good as I look.  Enough said?”  Kaylee retorted.  “And you?”

“Cold, actually.
  That’s quite a storm out there.
“  Bastian peered out the window at the huge white flakes silently tumbling from the heavens.

Kaylee drew the afghan over her body.  “Isn’t it, though?”  She twisted a section of the blanket in her hand.  “I’d offer to make you some tea, but my head still ach
es
and I’m freezing.”  As if in response, the heater kicked on
,
blast
ing
hot air from the ducts above.

“Would you like me to make some?” 
Bastian stood
and
started toward the kitchen.

“You’re an angel,” she said, smiling.

“What did you say?” 
Bastian stopped mid-stride. 

“You’re an angel.”

“So there’s no longer any question about it, eh?” he asked,
peering at a copy of “Innocence” painted by Bouguereau.  In the painting, a woman stood with her hands to her ears as two cherubic angels hovered behind her head.  One of them offered her a flower.

“What do you mean?” 
Kaylee looked at him with a puzzled expression
and
wound a strand of hair around her forefinger.

  “Don’t you remember what you asked me when I fished you out of the pond?”  Bastian stared at her as though studying her features.

Kaylee shook her head. 

“You asked me if I were an angel.”  He rubbed his chin with his index finger and thumb.  “
Must have been
because
of a street
lamp behind me.”

“I don’t remember that
.  Mostly I remember the cold.  Every part of my body felt like ice
,” Kaylee said, shivering slightly.  Her fingers gripped the blanket and drew it higher over her body.

“Yeah, I know that feeling.  You probably picked the coldest night of the year to take a dip.”  He slipped into the kitchen.  Grabbing the teapot, he filled it with water and set it on the burner.

“Where do you keep the tea bags?” he yelled, opening a few cabinet doors, scouring the contents.

“In the pantry.”

Bastian peered around the kitchen
and crossed to the pantry.
  “Why don’t you pick a more logical place to keep stuff?” he muttered.  The  tea bags (orange flavored?) stood at eye level, and Bastian
snatched two
bags
from the box.
  He vaguely remembered which shelves held the mugs and quickly grabbed two.  While waiting for the water to boil, he set a tea bag inside each mug and glanced around the
pristine
kitchen
, its stark cleanliness
overpowering.  Formica counters, mini blinds, refrigerator, appliances, floor tiles
—all
blind
ing
white
as they were in
his father’s house.

“What in the hell am I doing here?” he muttered, shaking his head.  As he stood before the microwave, he peered at his disheveled reflection.  The
wind
had done a number on his hair, and he tried to pat it back into place.

The teapot whistled sharply as a funnel of steam puffed through the spout and dissipated quickly
.  Once he’d filled the mugs,
Bastian
carried
a cup to Kaylee, but his hand trembled
and
some of the hot liquid spilled down the side
,
burn
ing
his hand
.  He
releas
ed
his grip.  As
the cup
crashed to the floor, it shattered.  He closed his eyes and saw his father’s face.   “Goddamned it
.
  That cup cost money,” he could hear his father say.
  He gritted his teeth, bent, and picked up the fragments.  After he tossed them in the trash, he grabbed the dishtowel and mopped up the tea.

“Damn,” Bastian swore. 
H
e walked over to the cabinet and pulled out another cup and two saucers.  Sliding a saucer under each mug, he then picked up one in each of his hands and
stepped
into the living room.