by Lori Adams
The town is drippy and crowded with volunteers donning raincoats and umbrellas. Dismantling the Harvest Festival is well under way. The McCarthy twins are decked out in full-body slickers and galoshes as they walk their ducks in the rain. They look like two Teletubbies wrapped in yellow cellophane. They catch my eye and nod ceremoniously. It is the only acknowledgment of last night’s audacious display of idiocy that I will receive.
The Soda Shoppe is teeming with kids and noise, and a food fight looks inevitable. French fries and Brian Setzer’s “Rock This Town” whizz around my head as I negotiate my way to a booth by the window and plop down next to Rachel and across from Bailey.
“Well, well, look what the catnip dragged in,” Bailey muses. I shrug and cop a sip of her float.
“Missed you in church,” Rachel says.
“Yeah, I overslept.” She gives me a look so I say, “What?”
Rachel toys with her hair, a telltale sign that something is on her mind. Bailey and I stare at each other—a nonversation that says we’re dying to talk privately about last night—while Rachel awkwardly recites the town council’s concerns about my dad’s lackluster sermon. Apparently, his deflated enthusiasm and sullen appearance was not what they bargained for.
“So, is your dad ill or something?” Rachel asks.
“What? No, why?”
“I just told you why. He seems sick. Is he sleeping?”
I think back to this morning. Yeah, Dad looked unkempt, like a depressed divorcée. I would’ve mentioned it to him but I was otherwise preoccupied. Dad hasn’t looked well for weeks. I don’t have a plausible answer for Rachel.
Duffy slides in next to Bailey and splays his upper half across the table to ensure that he is the center of our attention. His face is hidden beneath a gray hoodie and red Ed Hardy sunglasses. He is moaning for effect so Bailey gently pats his head. He scolds, “Not so loud!” and we all laugh.
“Okay, Duff,” Bailey says maternally. “On a scale from one to stupid, how bad was it?”
Duffy groans like he’s too weak to move but he inches his hand over and jacks a fry from Rachel’s basket. It disappears inside the hoodie.
“We got chemically enhanced last night, and I had a minor pisshap in the bushes.”
“Ah, self-inflicted stupidity. How très chic of you.”
“Who’s we?” Rachel asks.
Duffy mumbles, “Me and J.D. and Jordan and Pacer.”
“Serves you right for hanging out with Jordan,” Bailey says.
Duffy sits up. “It wasn’t that. The mayor got me up at the butt-crack of dawn!”
“Let me guess.” I laugh. “It was the mayor’s bushes.”
“You ever pass out while peeing? Well, I don’t recommend it.”
“You passed out in the mayor’s bushes?” Rachel scoffs.
“You know, Duff,” Bailey says, patting his arm. “It’s like you’re in the lab but you just don’t know what you’re smokin’.”
“You should know,” he smirks. “So there I am around six o’clock, sprawled between the bushes with the mayor standing over me, and I look around and everybody else has bailed. The mayor is bitching me out like I’m in verbal handcuffs, and then I start speaking highlingual or something. Don’t know what the hell I said. Might have dropped a few maternal expletives. Then he dragged me across the square because somebody vandalized the library and he thinks it was me! I mean, seriously man, I’m guilty by urination! How is that fair?”
Bailey’s eyes hit mine and we freeze. Duffy rambles on about how the library basement looked like a chicken coop exploded. “There were dead candles everywhere and wax splattered all over the walls and feathers stuck to everything.” He lowers his voice to mimic Mayor Jones. “And then he says, ‘Now Duffy, I don’t even want to know what you were doing with all those feathers and candles. Just clean it up!’ ”
“What were you doing with them?” Rachel asks.
Duffy yells, “It wasn’t me!”
And Bailey laughs. “It never is.”
At that moment the second heartbeat rises in my chest, and I’m gripped by sudden excitement. I look out the window, up and down the street, across the square, through the park, and around tourists. No Michael, but the gentle thrumming is a personal LoJack; I know he is close. Duffy sneaks out when the mayor and Abigail Monroe walk by the window. Abigail looks right at me, nods stiffly, and returns her nose to the air. I wonder what the mayor would say if he knew that three of the town council members had wrecked the library basement.
Bailey lets out a low whistle. “What’s up with sugar britches?”
I am instantly on alert but try not to react.
“What do you mean?” Rachel asks, and Bailey nods across the room.
“He’s been staring at Sophia since he got here.”
Oh my, now my insides are shivering.
Rachel turns and looks at him. “Wow.”
“What?” I ask all innocent like.
“Uh, she means, You’ve Got Male. Look.”
I turn around and there is Michael, lounging in a booth with J.D. and Holden. He is wearing a blue shirt that makes his eyes glow without any spiritual aid. He is unbelievably handsome, and he is grinning at me. When I smile back, he winks, and everything inside me begins melting into my toes. I feel flushed and warm and have to cross my legs.
Michael beckons me with a finger and I pretend to mull it over. When I cock a skeptical eyebrow, he challenges this with a look that says, You better come over here or else! I laugh at his silent threat and return to the girls and continue chatting.
Michael slides from the booth and walks over. “Sophia, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Bailey and Rachel gawk at Michael, and then at me. We haven’t spoken in public for weeks so I understand their surprise. But Michael said we couldn’t let anyone know what happened last night or how we feel about each other. Well, he’s off to a great start.
“About what?” I give him a look that says this isn’t the right time. Hiding secrets from Bailey is like hiding an elephant behind a flagpole.
Michael braces one hand on the table and the other on the seat behind me and leans in closer. “We need to discuss the astronomy project. Now.” His eyes flash and I know he doesn’t want an argument.
I scoot out of the booth, trying to act cool in front of the girls, and then start rambling like a levy burst. “Oh, that’s right. We have to discuss the astronomy project. You see, we haven’t gotten much done. Lord knows I’ve been trying, but Michael has—” He yanks me away before I blow the whole thing.
The rain is light on our heads. Michael maneuvers us through the crowded sidewalk to an awning stretched between the Words ’N Water bookstore and the café. He leans against the wall, crosses his arms, and looks at me. My confidence slides off to pool at my feet. I am strangely nervous about talking privately with him. I’m afraid he’s going to say it was all a mistake, that he didn’t mean what he said in the courthouse, that he doesn’t really feel the same way I do. That we’re too different.
I shove my hands in my back pockets to keep from trembling. Michael is looking at me like I’m something on a dessert tray and he can’t decide whether to splurge or not.
“You okay?” he asks, and I shrug because my heart is punching through my lungs. I don’t trust myself to speak. I stare at my shoes. “What is it?” He tips my chin up to look at me. “Jeez, calm down, Sophia. You look like I’m gonna take a bite out of you or something.” We laugh and this helps me relax.
I glance around and then lean in and whisper, “You’re a guardian angel.”
He whispers back, “Yeah, I know,” and his eyebrows dance with a sexy look that makes my knees quiver. I want to launch myself at him, to throw my arms around his neck and smother him with kisses. But I know I can’t.
“So now that you’ve had time to digest everything, you’re okay with it?” he asks. “You don’t mind having a secret boyfriend who’s a little … different?”
Boyfriend?
My whole body fills up with something hot and sweet. But I pull myself together and pretend to ponder the complexities of it all. “Hmm, let me see.” I tap a finger against my lips. “I think I can suffer through somehow.” He laughs and I smile. “Of course, Michael,” I add seriously. “I mean, it wouldn’t matter if you were or not. I’d feel the same.”
“Then what are you so worried about?”
I blush, remembering he can sense my emotions. “Well, I wasn’t sure how it would be between us. I mean, you know, last night was pretty crazy, and now in public I just … didn’t know …”
Michael nods and his eyes flick around us. Soggy tourists shuffle for cover in the café. He waits until they are gone and then strikes a careless attitude while his eyes continue to roam. Anyone watching would think he is bored and looking for something better to do. What he says takes my breath away.
“I noticed that I don’t like being away from you.” He nods hello to Sheriff White across the street as though he just said, Hey, nice rain we’re having, instead of the heart-stopping confession that makes me stare.
“I realize this feeling I have when you’re near me is comforting. And when it’s not there, when you’re not near me, I feel … empty.” Pale blue eyes shift to mine, and I feel as if one of Abigail Monroe’s feathers could knock me over. The tapping rain against the awning and all extraneous activity recedes, and all I see is his beautiful face smiling at me.
Michael Patronus, the most eligible hot guy in recorded history of hot guys doesn’t like being away from me? He feels empty when I’m not around?
“Michael,” I say softly, shaking my head in wonder. I want to hold him but my moving parts are limp.
“I’m sorry if this is too much too soon,” he murmurs, staring at the ground. “I’m not very good at this kind of stuff but I wanted to be honest with you. I don’t want you to worry about how I feel. I meant everything I said in the courthouse.”
“Me too, Michael. I meant everything I said and …” More, so much more! I want to feel your hands on me. I want to satisfy this ache inside me. I want …
He lifts his arms to hold me but remembers we can’t and lets them drop. My hands fight back the temptation to cup his face, to slide my fingers through his hair. He stares deep into my eyes as his craving to touch me flickers across his face; his jaw muscle flexes violently and his nostrils flare as his chest heaves. My body throbs with need and my stomach clenches with sweet pain. Our unspoken desire grows into a tangible thing pressed between us. I can feel Michael’s longing, as he can feel mine. It hurts, like a hunger we can’t satisfy.
Michael is the first to look away and I can tell he is searching for something to say, a way to change the subject before we do something stupid. He works hard to steady his breathing. It is fascinating to watch this powerful guy struggle with his emotions, and to know that it is me that he wants.
Michael finally clears his throat. “Um, anyway, yeah, my mom was pretty upset about last night.”
“What? About me?” Panic swiftly replaces any lingering arousal.
“She was upset that we didn’t bring you by the house after we finished with the accident. She really wants to meet you.”
“Oh.” I take a moment to gather my thoughts. My nerves are still zinging from overstimulation. “Is that a good thing?”
He smiles softly. “Yeah, she’s been curious about you for a while. Probably wants to play twenty questions.”
“Oooh.” I nod smugly. “Well, you know I wanted to go to your house but you said nooooo.”
“Tonight then?”
“Come over tonight?”
“Please?”
I nod and bit into a smile.
“I’ll pick you up at six.”
“I can drive, Michael.”
“I know, Sophia. But I’ll pick you up at six.” Michael grins secretively, and I know he is up to something.
Chapter 34
The Playground of Angels
Michael’s house is warm and inviting with luscious aromas that seep through the rooms to greet us in the foyer—rich meats, fresh breads, tart apples in a pie. We hang wet jackets on dry pegs, and then Michael pulls me aside, wrapping his arms around me for a secret hug. I press against him as his soft lips trail down my neck, creating shivers that buckle my knees. My head droops but Michael holds me tightly and murmurs, “I’m sorry but I just needed to … I miss touching you.”
I blink slowly and offer a languid grin. He laughs at his obvious effect on me and my utter lack of effort to hide it. I bite into my grin and think he will be my undoing. I lay a hand on his face, and Michael pulls it away to kiss the inside of my palm, his eyes steady on mine. We don’t say another word because silence says it better than we ever could.
When our brief affection is satisfied, Michael gives me his serious look, which I promptly mirror back. We put on our platonic classmate faces and head into the family room.
I am nervous about meeting Michael’s mother and seeing the family again. I can’t shake last night’s embarrassment over my intrusive behavior that brought us to this point. I hope Mrs. Patronus likes me and doesn’t think I’m a freak.
The family room is a mixture of antique furniture and shabby chic: plump pillows, handmade throws, curio cabinets stuffed with books, family photos, potted plants with fat leaves and out-of-season blooms; it seems that anything can grow around here. There is nothing unnecessary or extravagant, all strangely normal, down to the fire crackling in the hearth that adds to the serene ambiance. But what did I expect, tufts of clouds and harp music?
The family is scattered around the room, watching TV or reading. Dimitri, Gabe, and Raph, stand when we enter. Uriel is sitting on the floor with a bug-eyed baby lemur curled on top of his head.
They all smile—except Gabe, who studies me with open curiosity. I am offered “Good evening” and “Hello” and “Hiya, Sophia” which I accept with a faint smile and a wave. There is an awkward pause, and then Katarina Patronus walks in from the kitchen, making straight for me. Her blonde hair is swept into a loose, reverse-roll braid, allowing for a wonderful view of her striking features. She smiles radiantly, and then takes my hands, not waiting for Michael’s introduction.
“Sophia! I’m so happy to meet you.” Her voice is soft and elegant, and I feel drawn to her as if I’ve known her before.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Patronus. I’ve heard wonderful things about you.” Her eyebrows rise in question, and I’m compelled to explain. “Everyone talks about your garden … Um, your tomatoes and fruit?” I’m so nervous, it comes out as a question rather than a compliment. She saves me by laughing.
“Why, thank you. I’ve been working on several new organic concoctions. I could show you later. And, please, call me Katarina.” There is an exchange of nods, followed by another awkward silence, and then she says, “I’ve heard quite a bit about you, too.” There is no disapproving undertone in her voice, but I put one there anyway. She has to think I’m a lunatic who goes around jumping out of windows and attacking her son’s T-shirt.
She takes my arm and announces to the others, who are still staring, “I’m going to steal her for a while. Girl talk.”
Michael’s fear is realized. “Wait, what? Mom!” He reaches for me but it’s too late; Katarina is leading me down the hall.
The kitchen is a bright room with a high ceiling and open beams, copper pots hanging from a rack, stainless steel appliances, and red, yellow, white and green tile walls, obviously remodeled from the original Victorian kitchen. A butcher-block island is covered with chopped carrots, bowls of strawberries and blueberries, and piping-hot biscuits glistening with brushed butter. From the oven comes the intoxicating aroma of meat cooking to perfection.
I slide onto a bar stool and scoot up to the island and ask what I can do to help. Katarina is stirring a pot on the stove and peeking into another. She says, “Nothing to do but wait,” so I do. She hums as she works and then asks how
I like living here, how school is progressing, college intentions. Unbelievably common questions. I’m starting to wonder if Michael has explained anything that’s happened.
My answers are efficient and perfunctory, like a job interview, until she says, “I simply love your hair.” She tips my chin with a delicate finger to appraise my profile. “A French herringbone. Well done.”
“Thanks, my mom taught me.” I say this without thinking and can’t believe I did. Usually, I just say thanks. I never mention Mom or how she spent hours plaiting my hair and singing gently in her soft, lilting voice. It’s a private memory I never share. But something about Katarina relaxes my defenses, and I find myself divulging details and secrets; sometimes when I’m braiding my hair, I close my eyes and feel Mom’s hands gliding through the sections, pulling and twisting as if she were there. Sometimes I open my eyes surprised to find that she wasn’t there all along, working my hair into a braid I never learned.
Memories dance along my psyche and moisten my eyes. Like always, I feel a weight pressing down on me, as though her memories are heavy solid forces keeping me immobile. Katarina pats my hand with a knowing smile. She says she is sorry for my loss. All I can muster is a nod.
She returns to the stove and stirring, humming a light tune I can’t place. Without turning around, she says, “Try one.”
I’ve been staring at the blueberries that are the size of Junior Mints. I bite into one and it bursts like a tidal wave of flavor. I perk up and moan with pleasure. She laughs and tells me about her garden and soil treatments that are improving produce. She is a skilled horticulturist. I’m impressed.
“So you have a regular job then? I mean, besides being a Seer for The Council?”
“Yes, of course. It’s vital that we fit in so as not to draw undue attention.”
“I see.” I toy with another blueberry, thinking. “And what exactly does a Seer do?”
“Oh, I thought Michael would’ve explained all that. We have permission from The Council to speak freely around you. Did you know?”
