Fallen Angel (9 page)

"Cate," Sarah said, "this is Zach," and, "Zach, this is Cate."

"Hello, Cate," Zach said, and held out his hand. Bemused, she took it, still wondering what this was all about.

"Hello, Zach. Nice to meet you." His handshake was firm and warm, and he had lovely hands with long fingers. And he looked right into your eyes, which was nice, if a bit unsettling.

Zach was walking around the bookstore, browsing, eating his ice cream cone--and Sarah would
never
have allowed anyone else anywhere
near
the books with an ice cream cone! She waggled her eyebrows comically at Sarah when Zach's back was turned, but Sarah just smiled at her and mouthed,
Later
. So she finished her ice cream, gathered up her knitting and her books and said goodnight, shaking her head as she walked out.

"Would you like a cup of coffee before I dump out the pot?" Sarah asked Zach. "Or tea? There's still hot water."

"Tea would be nice," he said. She washed out the coffee urn, then made two mugs of tea with the last of the hot water and brought them over to the table in the corner. It was flanked by two overstuffed chairs, and she tucked her feet up into hers as she cradled the mug in her hands.

"So," she began. "I told you all about myself the other night. What about you? What's the story of your life?"

"I told you," he said. "I'm an angel. Your guardian angel, to be specific."

She just looked him. "So is that like those gang members in New York? The Guardian Angels?"

"No, not like that. What would it take for you to believe me?"

"Oh, I don't know. Wings, maybe?" She was teasing him;
surely
he was teasing her, too.

He looked up. "Ceiling's a little low for that."

She laughed at him. She couldn't help it. "Come on, Zach. Stop pretending. I know you're not an angel. Who are you, really?"

He leaned toward her, his mug held in both hands, balanced on his black-clad knees. "My real name is Zachriel. I'm an angel."

Okay
, she thought.
I'll humor him
. "All right, so you're an angel. Did you use to be . . . human? Were you someone who died?"

"No. It doesn't work that way. Angels are . . . sort of like a different race. Not human, but . . . other."

"So what
does
happen to people when they die, if they don't become angels?"

"Most of them go to Heaven, but they're not actually angels. They don't become angels, they're just people who have died. They're souls." He looked a little uncomfortable at the explanation.

"Were you born?" she asked.

He took a sip of tea, then grimaced. It had obviously gone cold. "Well, in a manner of speaking. Everything is born. Everyone is born."

"When?"

"A really long time ago," he answered. "Is there any more hot water?"

"No, there's not. And I really want to know."

"Sarah," he said, "time is really irrelevant. It's measured differently in Heaven, it's . . . well, like I said, it's irrelevant. I've been alive, in a manner of speaking, since the beginning of the world. Eons."

Eons
. As ludicrous as his story was, the word gave her a chill.

She leaned forward and took the mug from his hands, turning to set it on the table. "Zach," she began, "I like you. I really do. But this angel story is nonsense, surely you know that." She turned back to him, only to find his chair empty. Her gaze flew around the room, but she didn't see him anywhere, until a tap on the front window caught her attention.

He was standing on the sidewalk, a tall young man wearing a long black coat, with a pair of the most magnificent wings she could have imagined lifting to the heavens behind his shoulders.

13.

She stood up slowly, her hands pressed to her mouth, and walked toward the front window. Sophie, who had been lying in the front window in a pile of not-yet-hung Christmas garlands, stood also, the fur on her tail standing out in a bottlebrush. Zach bowed from the waist as if acknowledging a standing ovation, and Sophie took off like a shot back into Sarah's office, where she cowered under the desk.

To Sarah, it was the most amazing thing she had ever seen. The corners of her mouth turned up in a grin, and she shook her head and spread her arms in acknowledgement. Zach motioned for her to join him on the sidewalk and she opened the door. "Do you have your keys?" he asked. She felt in her pocket and drew them out. "Lock the door, then, and let's take a walk."

She reached inside and pressed the door's lock button, then pulled the door shut and followed him down the sidewalk, still grinning.

"Zach! Zach!" she cried, hurrying to catch up to him. "You
are
an angel!"

"What have I been telling you?" he asked. "You're awfully hard to convince."

She walked slowly around him, and then turned to look behind them. There were several people on the street, but no one seemed to be paying them the slightest attention. She would have thought that everyone would be goggling at him--after all, how often did you see an
angel
on the street, even in Florida? "How come no one's looking at us?" she asked him.

"They can't see me," he said.

"What do you mean, they can't see you?"

"Just what I said--they can't see me. I'm invisible to them. You have to believe in angels in order to see them."

"I didn't believe," Sarah said.

"You may not have believed that
I
was an angel, but you do believe--otherwise, why would you have written all those letters?"

She stopped. "What do you mean? What letters?"

"The letters to the Dead Letter Office. You remember, don't you?"

"Well, of
course
I remember, but how did you know about them? I thought they were private . . ."

"As private as a prayer." He stopped walking and turned to face her. "Listen, Sarah," he said. "The Dead Letter Office is my project. It . . . I'm the angel in charge of memory. I made it because I thought it might help people deal with their memories more easily, let go of the bad ones, in a way. It appears I was wrong. At least in your case, it seems to have made things worse. I was fearful that you would never get over your grief, and I thought maybe . . . I don't know. I thought maybe I could help."

He had started walking again, but Sarah, stunned, still stood in the middle of the sidewalk, people walking around her as if she were one of the streetlights.

"I don't understand," she said. "
You
made the Dead Letter Office? You read my letters? You
read
my
letters
?" Furious, she started running, and when she hit the turnoff for the beach, she ran unthinkingly down toward the ocean, sinking down into a pile of misery on the sand. When she felt him standing over her, she said, looking out over the ocean, "I can't believe you read my letters."

He crouched beside her, the wings now drooping and forlorn. "Sarah, didn't you
want
someone to answer you? Didn't you hope that someone was reading them, that someone understood you, and would help you if they could? That's all I wanted to do."

She continued to stare out over the ocean silently. "I don't know," she said, finally. "Maybe." After another long moment: "I just . . . wish I could
tell
them, you know? I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. They were both dead before I knew it, and I couldn't tell them that I loved them. And I've been searching for a way ever since."

He reached over and put his arm around her. "Sarah," he said. "Oh, Sarah. They know. Believe me, they know." She turned and buried her face in his chest and cried as if her heart was breaking, but by the time she stopped, it felt as though it had been healed.

* * *

He helped her up, and she wiped the tears from her face with her palms. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't usually fall apart in public. I try to keep it at home." She laughed. "I feel
pounds
lighter. Thank you."

"Good," he said, smiling at her. "Do you want to go back to the store?"

"Not yet. Let's stay out here a little while longer. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," he said, and took her hand as they set off down the beach. When they reached the hard packed sand, Sarah reached down and, steadying herself with a hand on his arm, took off her sandals and carried them in her hand.

"So . . . you . . . what? Have the internet in Heaven? That's how you read my letters?"

"Well, not exactly, but something like that. I mean, I didn't actually have to use a phone line, or an actual computer, although the process is pretty much the same."

"Oh, come on," she said. "If you're not using a phone line or a computer, the process is nothing
like
the same!"

"Well . . . maybe not. But the
result
is basically the same. Well, okay, no, maybe it really isn't anything like the same. Does it matter?"

"I guess not, but I'd just like to try to understand it."

"Well," he said, "it's just like prayer. You pray, assuming--or hoping--that someone will hear you . . . it's just that the vehicle is different. In simple terms, I'm sort of the librarian in Heaven, and I'm kind of in charge of the internet, so . . . well, I heard you, and I came."

"What are libraries like in Heaven?" she asked.

"Much like yours here," he answered. "Except we don't have to whisper."

She laughed. "Cute," she said. "You know, I always kind of wanted to be a librarian."

"Yes, I know," he said.

"Oh. Right. I guess you would," she said. "Is there anything you
don't
know?"

"There's a lot I don't know," he answered. "I'm not omniscient."

"I thought you were," she said.

"Nope. I'm just an angel.
God
is omniscient, but I'm just a regular angel."

"What's he like?" she asked.

"Who?" he countered.

"
Who
? God, who do you think??"

He thought.

"Well, you know that new reggae gospel? He likes that quite a lot." He tried to hide his grin.

She swatted him on the shoulder. "You know what I mean! I don't mean what
does
he like, I mean what
is
he like!" Then she gasped and flung her hands to her mouth.

"
What
?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"I just swatted an angel!" she said from behind her fingers. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!"

"Hey, it's okay, Sarah. I'm perfectly fine. No lightning bolts from the sky, see?" He gestured toward the black bowl of the sky. "And as far as God, he's very difficult to describe. But I think I can assure you that he won't be striking you down for smacking me. In fact," he said, first grinning at her and then sobering, "hit me again if you think it would make you feel better."

"No, it's okay," she said, laughing weakly. "I'm okay. At least for now, I think I'm okay."

* * *

They walked on silently, their fingers intertwined. They looked out over the Gulf and saw the lights of a distant ship--a yacht or a fishing boat, its masts strung with Christmas lights. And then suddenly, from the blackness of the sky, a shooting star. "Quick!" he said. "Make a wish." She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand. "I think I've already done that," she said.

14.

When she got to the store the next morning, Cate and Jason were already there, huddled behind the counter with their heads together. When she opened the door, ringing the bell, they jumped up guiltily. "Well!" Cate said. "What happened here last night? When I got here all the lights were on, and your stuff was still in the office, and Sophie was starving to death!"

"Oh, right, I'm sure she was starving to death. Were you starving to death, Soph?" Sarah scooped Sophie up in her arms as she walked through the store into the office. "Ooh, yes, I believe I can feel your ribs!" She plopped Sophie into the chair in the corner. "I assume you fed her?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, we fed her." Cate and Jason were standing in the office doorway, Cate with her arms folded and Jason peering over her shoulder.