Angel

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 28

 

  She felt so human that he could barely carry on a conversation.

  Finally the truck rolled to a stop. They were on a giant concrete forecourt on the outskirts of town, with a gleaming gas station in front of them. “The garage there’ll give you a tow,” said the trucker in his southern drawl, jerking his thumb at it. “And Rose’s Diner shouldn’t poison you too bad, if you want something to eat. ” A grin flashed through his beard.

  “Thanks, man. We appreciate it,” said Alex, shaking his hand.

  “Yeah, thanks,” echoed Willow as they climbed down from the cab. She gave the trucker a friendly wave as he pulled away; then her gaze fell on Alex again, and her smile died.

  They went into the garage, and Alex arranged to have the Mustang towed in, though the mechanic said that it would be a couple of hours before he could look at it. Great. Back on the forecourt, he and Willow looked at each other. A huge American flag was flying over the gas station, rustling gently in the wind. And there was a Church of Angels billboard, showing the familiar gleaming white church with an angel hovering over it, protecting it with its wings.

  Alex glanced at the billboard and then at Rose’s Diner. Though there didn’t seem much else to do here while they waited, could they afford to take the chance? A quick scan showed him that there were no angels around . . . but it wasn’t just angels that they had to worry about.

  Behind her sunglasses, Willow seemed to be thinking the same thing; she was gazing fixedly at the restaurant. “I wonder if any Church of Angels people are in there,” she said in a low voice.

  Alex made a face. Tennessee was part of the Bible Belt; the Church of Angels was big here. “Better not risk it,” he said.

  Willow didn’t respond; she stood very still as she stared at the diner, apparently deep in thought. “It’s OK,” she said suddenly. “I just — sort of have a feeling. ”

  Alex hesitated. His pistol was hidden under the waistband of his jeans, but he knew he’d be loath to use it on another person — even a Church of Angels fanatic. “Are you sure?”

  Still looking at the diner, Willow nodded slowly, the sunshine glinting off her dark glasses. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. ” She glanced at him, her expression tight. “Sorry. More half-angel freakiness. ”

  Not wanting to get into it, Alex shrugged. “Fine. Let’s try it. ” Crossing the forecourt, they entered the diner; a rush of air-conditioned coolness greeted them. Alex slid into a booth; Willow sat across from him. Waitresses in brown dresses bustled about, refilling coffee cups and carrying trays piled high with cholesterol-laden food. Alex’s stomach growled as he pulled a battered plastic menu from between the salt and pepper shakers. They’d been living off gas station sandwiches for almost two days now.

  “What’s a fritter, anyway?” murmured Willow to herself, regarding her own menu. “Or grits?”

  “A fritter’s a sort of fried thing,” said Alex, reading about the different burgers on offer. “Grits are for breakfast; they’re like oatmeal. ”

  She looked up at him, her face inscrutable behind the sunglasses. “You’ve traveled a lot,” she said after a pause.

  Alex lifted a shoulder, wishing he hadn’t said anything. They fell back into silence, reading their menus. A red-haired waitress appeared and set down two glasses of ice water in front of them. “Y’all ready to order?” She took a notepad out from her apron.

  “Yeah, I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger and fries,” said Alex. “And coffee. ” He shoved his menu back in place.

  “Bacon cheeseburger and fries,” the waitress repeated, scribbling it down. “How about you, honey?”

  Willow started to respond but stopped, staring at the waitress. “I —”

  Looking across at her, Alex could see how tense she was suddenly; her knuckles on the menu were white.

  The waitress regarded her with a frown. “Hon? You ready yet?”

  Willow seemed to give herself a slight shake. “Um — yeah,” she said, glancing down at her menu. “I’ll have the club sandwich. And a salad with ranch dressing. ”

  The waitress’s pen moved across the pad. “Coffee?”

  “No, just water. ”

  Willow’s gaze followed the waitress as the woman headed back toward the counter. Catching sight of her profile behind her sunglasses, Alex was taken aback by the conflicted expression on her face.

  “What?” he said.

  She winced, glancing at him and then the restaurant around them. Looking at the waitress again, she seemed to make up her mind about something and started to slide out of the booth. “I’ll be right back. ”

  “What is it?”

  She shook her head with a quick grimace. “Nothing. I’ve just . . . got to talk to that waitress for a minute. ”

  Alex watched in confusion as Willow crossed the diner, slim and petite in her jeans and T-shirt. A moment later she was leaning over the counter, talking to the redheaded waitress. She pulled her sunglasses off as she spoke; the waitress’s eyes were saucer-large.

  What the hell was going on? Unable to just sit there watching, Alex got up and crossed to the counter, too, propping himself against a red leatherette stool. “Is everything OK?”

  “Yes, fine,” murmured the waitress. Her attention was riveted on Willow. “Go on. Please. ”

  The tips of Willow’s ears were turning red. Her eyes met his; he saw her embarrassment that he had appeared — and then she straightened her shoulders and turned back to the waitress. “Look, I know that you don’t know me and this might be an intrusion, but I really am psychic like I said. If you could just let me hold your hand, I might be able to see something. ”

  The woman hesitated. GEORGIA, read her name tag. A black waitress with dyed blond hair had been listening, and now she nudged Georgia. “Go on, honey,” she urged. “It might be just what you need. ”

  “Please?” said Willow. “I really want to help. ”

  As if she were under a spell, Georgia held out her hand, and Willow took it in her own. She gazed silently down at the counter for a moment; when she spoke, her voice was hushed, almost dreamy. “Your husband died of lung cancer in March,” she said. “I see you nursing him for years before that. You had the spare bedroom at home fixed up, so that he didn’t have to be in the hospital so much. ” She looked up. “You loved him more than anything, didn’t you?”

  Georgia had gone pale, swaying with shock. “I — oh, my gosh —”

  “That’s right!” cried the other waitress. “His name was Dan, and he —”

  “No, don’t tell me anything,” interrupted Willow. “Georgia won’t be able to believe it afterward if you tell me anything. ” She went silent again, her body very still as she seemed to listen to something within herself.

  Alex leaned against the counter, unable to take his eyes off Willow as she continued. “I see pills on a little shelf in your bathroom,” she said slowly. “Diazepam. The doctor gives them to you for stress, and you’ve been hoarding them for months. You’ve researched it on the Internet, and you know just how to do it. ”

  Tears began streaming down Georgia’s stricken face. She stifled a sob as her friend rubbed her arm.