Fallen Angel (10 page)

"C'mon, give," Cate demanded. "What happened? Where did you go? We thought maybe you'd been kidnapped, or robbed, or something, but the door was locked so . . ."

"Nothing happened." Sarah busied herself in her top desk drawer, rearranging the paperclips and pencils. "I just . . . left in a little bit of a hurry, that's all, and then it was late, and I figured since I
had
locked the door, everything would be okay until this morning. And it was, wasn't it?" She looked up defiantly.

She
had
intended to come back last night. She and Zach had walked for a long way along the beach, until she was so tired she was stumbling. It had been a very exciting (and emotional) night. When they turned back, he had taken off his coat and placed it around her shoulders, and she walked back to her house enveloped in his warmth.

He had left her at her porch again, but this time he
had
kissed her, just a soft brush against her cheek, and when she had opened the door, Dinah had startled her by rushing out and all but jumping into Zach's arms. Sarah had shrugged out of his coat and handed it to him as he handed over Dinah to her.

"I can't believe that!" she said. "Dinah's
never
friendly to strangers!"

When he handed her to Sarah, Dinah was purring. "Oh, Dinah and I are old friends, aren't we, Dinah?" he asked the cat, and Dinah responded by bumping her hand with her head.

"All right," Sarah laughed, "I'll leave that explanation for another time. Goodnight, Zach."

"Goodnight, Sarah," he had said, and, "Sleep well."

"Earth to Sarah." Jason interrupted her reverie.

"I'll tell you all about it, but not right now, okay?"

"Ooooo-kay." Jason rolled his eyes at Cate as he walked back out into the store, and mouthed,
Find out!
at her. She nodded.

Sarah still had her head down and was fiddling with something in the drawer; Cate picked up Sophie and sat down in the chair with Sophie in her lap. Finally, Sarah looked up. "What?" she asked, trying to sound annoyed, but with a smile starting on her lips that she couldn't suppress.

"Tell. I'm not leaving until you do."

"Well . . . I met this guy."

"Uh huh. Go on."

"The guy from the other night." Cate nodded, and Sarah continued. "Well, I mean that's not when I
met
him, I met him a few weeks ago. I thought he was stalking me, but then he disappeared for awhile, and then the other night when I stopped in at Mahoney's for dinner, he was there, and he bought me dinner, and then I ran into him again last night and . . . well, you saw."

15.

Cate's face was solemn. "Yes, I saw. But listen to yourself, Sarah. I'm really, really happy that you're happy, and yes, he seemed like a nice guy, but you just said you thought he was stalking you. What was that all about?"

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

"Well, I think I forgot to tell you that part."

"Uh huh. I guess you must have."

"Let's see . . . well, he was here at the store one night when I was by myself, and then, I don't know, I got up one morning and he was on my porch . . ."

"Doing?" Cate prompted.

"
Sleeping
. Or, well, no, I guess I just assumed that--he was sitting on the steps when I went out to get the paper, and he said he was watching over me, and then he sort of took off, but then--"

"Sarah! He was
sleeping
on your porch? Is he homeless? Does he
have
a home? What does he do for a living?"

Sarah didn't quite know how to answer that. "Um, I don't know. I don't know a lot about him, and what I do know, I can't really tell you."

"Why not?"

"I just can't. Not right now. Maybe later."

"Okay. You're a big girl, and I know you've had a lot going on, and I know you think you know what you're doing, but
please
be careful, okay? If you don't want to tell me, that's fine, but if there's stuff you can't tell, that tells me that there's something wrong, and I
really
don't want you to get hurt. Promise me you'll be careful?"

"I'm being careful."

"Just keep
on
being careful."

"I will. Now why don't you get out there and see if Jason needs help?" As they talked, Sarah had heard the bell on the door ring several times, and Jason probably
did
need help, but he was certainly capable of letting someone know if he did. She just didn't want to talk about Zach anymore; or, well, she
did
, and that was the problem. She wanted to tell Cate all about him, and she didn't think she could do that, didn't think she
should
do it.

What was the protocol in this type of situation? Cate was sure to think she was nuts, and if she didn't, if she believed her, she'd demand proof, and
then
what? Oh, but wait! Zach had said that you had to
believe
in angels in order to
see
angels, and Cate had seen him the other night, so, if that meant that Cate believed in angels, then was it okay to tell her? She was going to have to get this all straightened out with Zach, find out what it was okay to tell and what was taboo. Assuming she saw him again.

What if she didn't? She groaned and buried her face in her hands. She was acting like a lovesick teenager. She hadn't been emotionally involved with anyone since James' death. She'd gone out on a few dates, mostly arranged by friends, but no one had ever clicked, and she hadn't met anyone that she'd missed when they stopped coming around. Because they all did, eventually, stop coming around.

She knew she wasn't the easiest person in the world to be with. She had all that history, all that baggage; an awful lot of baggage for someone still in their twenties. Closer and closer to thirty now, though, and whoa. It just hit her. What if . . . Might it be possible to have another child? It was something she had never allowed herself to think about, because in some way it seemed disloyal to Gabrielle. But maybe . . . Was that her biological clock she suddenly heard ticking? She nearly laughed out loud.

Who knew whether anything would develop with Zach or -- oh dear. If he was telling the truth, he wasn't even human. She groaned again.
Oh, my God
, she thought.
I'm losing it
. She got up and went out to help Jason and Cate in the store.
What will be, will be
.

16.

It was a ritual--a private ritual--held on November 18 each year, the anniversary of the date that she had lost James and Gabrielle. Well, there had only been two so far--this would be the third--but a ritual nonetheless.

It was midnight. Sarah had come home from work, taken a long hot bath, and then put on her favorite flannel pajamas. She'd eaten a spare meal of tea and a bowl of soup, then brought every candle in the house--which was a considerable number--into the bedroom. Every flat surface--the dresser, the two nightstands, and an occasional table in the corner--was covered with various kinds of candles. There were tiny tea lights in glass cups, a few pillars on plates, a couple of large hurricane lamps with candles inside (and one true oil lamp, another vintage item that had originally belonged to her grandmother), and votive candles of every type.

She had lit them all with matches--a part of the ritual that she did not question. Lighting them with the butane lighter seemed sacrilegious somehow, although it would certainly have been quicker. But speed didn't enter into it, not tonight.

The whole room glowed with the flickering candle flames. It was almost like being underwater, or inside some sort of fancy Christmas ornament. She went to her closet and brought out the wicker box. It had originally been a picnic basket that had been given to her and James as a wedding gift. It had held the traditional red and white checked tablecloth and a complete table setting for four including wine glasses, three of which had long since been broken.

The fourth was still inside, wrapped in tissue paper, and she drew it out, unwrapped it, and filled it with red wine from the bottle she had brought into the bedroom with her.

Dinah sat on the floor beside her, legs tucked underneath, watching impassively.

The next item to come out of the box was a woolen scarf. James had been wearing it the night he died. It was one of the few items of his clothing that she had saved. She'd given almost everything to the Salvation Army, keeping only a couple of his sweaters, a few soft t-shirts that she sometimes slept in, and this. She unfolded it from its tissue paper and spread it out over her pajama-clad knees.

She ran her hand across the soft cashmere, then lifted it to her face and rubbed it softly across her cheek. She took a deep breath, then put it down and lifted another tissue-wrapped parcel from the box, this time a tiny white eyelet dress, a dress that had been meant for the baby who was never born. She
had
kept the things that they had bought for Gabrielle, and the things that had been given to her at the baby showers she had had before everything fell apart.

Her mother had had one for her, inviting all of her female relatives and her mother's friends, and there had been one at the office, too, and she had had no idea what to do with the things after the baby had died. It seemed too upsetting to try to return the things to the stores, and, anyway, she didn't feel like she should benefit financially from it; after all, her friends had given her things in anticipation of the baby actually
using
them.

Now that there
was
no baby . . .

The undershirts and tiny socks and hats and diapers were stored in the bottom drawer of her dresser, a drawer that she never opened. She had given a lot of the paraphernalia away to charity, the baby bottles and nipples and baby bags and those kinds of things, but she hadn't been able to force herself to give away the tiny clothes. Especially this little white dress. She had bought it in a sudden impulse while wandering through the baby department on a shopping trip to buy maternity clothes.

She almost hadn't needed any maternity clothes--most of her dresses were soft, flowing things anyway, and she never got very big, even at the end--but it was fun to look at them, and she had purchased a few pieces. She hadn't really expected to buy very many baby things, knowing that she would be given so many things at the showers, but it was fun to look at them, too. This little dress, with eyelet trim and a tiny rosebud appliqué at the neckline, had been too precious to resist.

Now, it rested in the wicker box, never worn, along with James' wedding ring and wallet, the scarf, the wine glass. The last item in the box was in its
own
box, a white cardboard gift box. She had found it in James' dresser when she finally came home from the hospital, alone. It had obviously been intended as a Christmas gift for her, and had been hidden among his socks.

Gabrielle had been going to be a Christmas baby, or
close
to Christmas, anyway. For weeks before she had gone into the hospital, they'd been teasing each other with, "What do you want for Christmas?" "Oh, I don't know, how about a
baby
?" They had agreed not to worry about Christmas gifts for each other, but of course both of them had ignored that. Sarah had bought James a beautiful sterling silver pen set, a practical gift because he was forever losing pens, and James had bought Sarah this--a completely
impractical
gift--a snow globe.

She drew it out of the box and set it on the floor while she put the box away, then she picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It was a large one, the globe fitting perfectly within her two hands. It sat on a smooth wooden base, and inside the globe was a snowman. She shook it, and snow fell on him, collecting on the brim of his hat and on his silly carrot stick nose.

There was a key set into the bottom of the base, and Sarah carefully wound it. After a scratchy beginning, the tinny music box began to play, "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

This was the point at which Sarah normally began to cry. She had expected to cry herself to sleep tonight, as she had in the past two times she'd done this, but it didn't seem to be going to happen tonight. Her eyes were wet, she felt a little teary, but the expected flood of tears didn't come. She thought about it for a few moments, felt sorrow, but not the overwhelming grief that had been a part of her life for so long.
Maybe that part is over
, she thought.
Maybe . . . maybe I can put that part of it behind me, finally
. She thought about it for a little longer, and wondered if that was okay. She finally decided that it was.