Wounded Wings (Cupid Chronicles)

by Allen, Shauna

  She swung her gaze to Elijah. “I . . .” She obviously had no idea what to say as she picked up the soiled apron. “What am I going to do? I can’t cook my way out of a cardboard box,” she said to herself. She glanced around the full diner and shook her head.

  Darn. He just wanted an omelet.

  And to move on. Away from his demons. Or, perhaps, towards them.

  She tucked the apron under the counter, and he watched as a lone tear coursed down the woman’s cheek. Something about that tugged at the core of him and was impossible to ignore.

  Before he knew what he was doing, he said, “I can cook.”

  She lifted wide, watery eyes to him. “You can?”

  He may no longer be an angel, but his belief in The Commandments held firm. He couldn’t lie. He nodded.

  She tilted her head, obviously appraising his longish hair and stubble. “What kinda experience you got?”

  He still had no idea why he was doing this, but the words left his mouth of their own accord. “I was executive chef at Le Gavroche in New York City.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  He shrugged.

  “You sure you can sling hash and make eggs to order? That sort of thing?”

  He smiled. He’d handled Coq au Vin for heads of state and Boeuf Bourguignon for somebody they called Beyoncè and her husband Jay Something-or-other. He didn’t know who they were, but everyone in the restaurant thought it was a big deal. “I’m pretty sure I can handle it.” For a little while anyway. Maybe just a day or two until his car was ready to drive.

  “Hey, Sharla!” someone yelled out from across the diner. “Where’s my breakfast? I don’t have all mornin’, you know.”

  She glanced over, then back to Elijah. She sighed, seeming to appraise him one last time and he could nearly feel her anxiety rise as her desperation notched up. “Well, I guess we can try you out for one shift and see how you do, then talk about it later. Whadya say?”

  Elijah stood. The sooner he got to the kitchen and got this over with, the sooner he’d get his omelet. Even if he had to make it himself. “Sounds good.”

  She smiled and led him to a side opening to let him into the kitchen. “Hey, what’s your name, anyway?”

  “Elijah.” He made himself hold her gaze, though he was ashamed and felt it was a dishonor to speak his full angelic name aloud. Had been ever since his fall and he avoided it whenever possible. He swallowed thickly. “Elijah Smith. But please just call me Eli.”

  Chapter 2

  Naomi blew the bangs from her eyes and swept her hair into a ponytail before slipping into the back room. She slid the tray of lemon cupcakes from the oven, their perfect citrus scent filling the air, and tucked them into the fridge to cool.

  Even though it was only early March, it was already warmish, and with the ovens pumping full steam, it was getting downright hot in the bakery.

  The front door bells jangled just before the compact overhead stereo kicked out the welcoming lyrics of “Apple, Peaches, Pumpkin Pie”—something Vi’s husband had installed to make his wife and her customer’s smile. It still worked all these years after his death.

  “Hello? Anyone home?” called one of her favorite people.

  She grinned and headed out front to the display case. “Why, hello, Sheriff Shanahan. What brings you by?” As if she didn’t know. She automatically pulled out his regular, a low-fat banana nut muffin.

  He smiled in turn as he paid her.

  “You know,” she said, “I could just drop one of these off when I swing by the diner every morning and save you the trip.”

  He accepted his change and took a bite. “Nah. Then I wouldn’t get to check in on you and Vi. It’s the highlight of my day, you know.”

  She eyed her oldest friend. Beau had shared her deepest secrets and heartaches—and there were plenty—since they’d met in middle school. They’d never been more than friends, though he did try to kiss her once when they were in ninth grade and they held hands for about a week. It didn’t last, and they quickly realized they were only meant to be the best of buddies. And not because he wasn’t good looking, he was. Tall, clear hazel eyes, aristocratic features. He was honest and fun. He ticked all the proverbial “perfect guy” boxes, but there was just no spark between them. It was a shame, really, because it would be so convenient.

  “Highlight of your day. Right.” She shooed him toward the door. “Get outta here and go do some real police work or something.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” He pushed open the door, then spun back. “Hey, you might wanna stop by the diner to eat sometime soon. Sharla hired some new cook guy and he’s really good. Got old Chuckie beat by a mile.” And with that, he was gone.

  She frowned at his back. New cook? She was sure she’d seen Chuck in there just that morning.

  Hadn’t she?

  She shook her head and turned to get back to work, certain that she just hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before. In no time, she got a red velvet cake mixed, a batch of chocolate chip cookies in the oven, and started icing the cooled lemon cupcakes.

  She reached over to flip on the radio and smiled when Air Supply began serenading her that she was every woman in the world. As if. There were times she felt downright invisible. Like her life was in a holding pattern. Which it was.

  She glanced up at the Arizona Country Times magazine she’d taped to the wall. The cover was dusted with flour and had a small tear in the corner now, but it still represented the same thing.

  Hope.

  When the magazine’s reporter came to town in six weeks to do a feature article on the best unknown small towns in Arizona, they’d be on the map and hopefully well on their way to boosting tourism. And, more importantly, if she could get him to taste Vi’s treats and mention them specifically, it would help their dwindling business and she’d be one step closer to paying back the debt that she could never truly repay. Not even with her life.

  She sighed. Six weeks couldn’t get here fast enough.

  The bells above the door jangled and Jay and the Techniques started their ode to pies again, but Vi and Delaney Dixon’s laughter drowned it out.

  “I swear to you, Vi, she had no idea her eyebrows were penciled in crooked. They made her look like a Russian brute. A sad state of affairs, let me tell you! Poor, poor woman.”

  “Oh, now, be nice.” Vi tried to suppress her laughter as she tucked her purse under the counter. “Did you offer to help her at least?”

  Delaney rested her ample bosoms on her arms as she leaned on the counter. “Oh, heavens, no. I just went right on with her permanent and tried to ignore the black caterpillars perched on her forehead.” The younger woman smiled brightly and turned to Naomi. “Hi, sweetie. How are you?”

  Naomi stifled a giggle and offered her cheek for Vi’s kiss as her cupcakes passed a cursory inspection. “I’m good, thanks. Sounds like you’ve had an eventful week.”

  Delaney inspected her nails as she spoke. “Don’t I always?”

  Vi skirted the worktable as she slid her apron over her graying ponytail. Naomi really wished she took more time to do things for herself, like get her hair done. But she’d always blow it off for another day. “You’ve been plenty busy this morning, Naomi. What did you leave for me?”

  Naomi glanced around with a smile. Nope. No keeping Vi Stevens from working. “Well, the cookies should be about ready to come out, then we can start icing the chocolate cups, and then I think we have a birthday order for this afternoon.”

  “Ooohh, whose birthday?” Delaney piped up, hoping for gossip tidbits.

  “Mr. Peterson at the nursing home. It’s his 90th,” Naomi answered.

  Delaney’s face dropped in disappointment as she came around scouting for a fresh cookie from the tray Vi had just pulled from the o
ven. Naomi envied the way she moved like she was as comfortable in her own skin as her skin-tight jeans and cleavage-hugging bustier top. And who wouldn’t be at a size four with perfect hair and flawless skin? Not a blemish or imperfection in sight. No ugly, puckered burn scars, there for everyone to see. To pity.

  Self-consciously, Naomi tugged her three-quarter-length sleeves down her arms as far as they would go and faced the worktable. “Oh,” she said, speaking to the wall, keeping her eyes averted, “we also need to slice up some strawberries for the crème cakes.”

  “I can help.” Delaney spoke with a mouthful. “I’ve got a little while ‘til my first appointment.”

  Naomi’s gaze snapped up. “You’re sure?”

  But Vi was already sliding out the strawberry cartons and handing her a cutting board and a knife.

  Naomi and the other two women worked in silence with only the radio and the occasional clank of the oven door to break the monotony. She enjoyed this routine, especially on busy mornings.

  After about forty-five minutes, Delaney slammed her knife down with a smack. “Are you two always this quiet? Seriously, this is ridiculous.”

  Naomi and Vi looked at her, then each other.

  “No, not always,” Vi said. “But until the front cases are at least decently filled, we keep busy. Not much time for chit-chat when you’re elbow-deep in flour and icing.”

  Delaney picked her knife back up and started slicing again with a vengeance. “What? You can’t multi-task?”

  Naomi exchanged another glance with Vi.

  “Sure,” Vi said. “What would you like to talk about?”

  “Well . . .” Thwack. “Naomi . . .” Thwack, thwack. “How’s our fine Sheriff Shanahan been doing lately?” Thwack, thwack, THWACK, she chopped the strawberries to a fine mince.

  Naomi glanced up, surprised. She had no idea Delaney was interested in Beau. And, the protective best friend part of her wasn’t sure what to feel about that. Not that it was any of her business . . . he was a grown man. “He’s fine.”

  “Just fine?” The strawberries got a little more chopping, but Delaney didn’t look up. “It’s just he used to come in and get his hair cut every three weeks, on the dot, and I haven’t seen him in more than a month.” Now she peered up. “And, since you’re his good friend, he would’ve told you if I’d done something to upset him or he was unhappy with his haircut or . . . something?”

  Naomi watched as Delaney, obviously really upset, turned back to the poor, mangled strawberries. The poor girl had it bad for him.

  Oh, man.

  Naomi racked her brain for any mention Beau might’ve made about Delaney or his haircuts while she iced the last of the chocolate cupcakes. Nothing. And, come to think of it, his hair was getting a little shaggy.

  When she said as much to Delaney, the smile that bloomed on the woman’s face would’ve rivaled the moon. But, just as quickly, a screech broke from her lips as the knife skittered across the countertop and bright red blood started streaming from her hand and drenching the strawberries making a red-on-red mess as Delaney howled in panic.

  “Oh, God,” Vi said, her voice hoarse. “She’s cut the tar out of her hand. I think we need to call for help.”

  “I . . . uh . . .” A shot of anxiety had adrenalin flowing through her veins in a rush, but Naomi quickly stilled as her training kicked in. Panic gave way to calm. She focused on Vi with a steady gaze. “Right. You call for help. I’ve got this.” She grabbed a clean towel from the cabinet and rounded the table to Delaney. She tuned out the panicked cries and reached for her bleeding hand.

  “It’ll be all right. Just take a deep breath and let me see.”

  Tears streaked down Delaney’s face as she held out her injured left hand, her whole body shaking, her face ashy white.

  Blood was gushing in a steady stream from her index and middle fingers where she had sliced clean through, nearly to the bone on her index finger. But at least they were clean cuts. Nothing jagged, no foreign bodies. There was movement in the fingers, so hopefully no permanent nerve damage.

  Keeping her assessment short, she wrapped the towel around Delaney’s injuries to staunch the blood flow and held as tightly as she could.

  She glanced over to make sure Vi had called for help and she was still on the phone talking to 9-1-1. Hopefully they’d be here soon.

  She turned back to Delaney. Her face was even paler, if that was possible, and her legs were beginning to wobble.

  “Here,” Naomi instructed her, “sit down.” She helped her slide to the floor and held her injured hand to keep it above her head, maintaining a steady, firm pressure on the two bleeding fingers. She frowned and shot up a plea for help as blood began to soak through the towel and seep through her fingers. Delaney wilted against her.

  “It’s okay, Delaney,” she assured her, more to keep her talking and out of shock than anything else. “Just stay calm and stay with me, okay? The paramedics are on the way and they’ll get you fixed up.”

  Naomi sighed in relief when she heard the first sirens and Vi opened the door to let in the help.

  Beau was the first to arrive. The sheer panic on his face told her he’d obviously expected something horrible to be wrong with either her or Vi. He paused and glanced down in confusion.

  Delaney peered up. “Sheriff.”

  “Delaney?”

  “She cut herself pretty badly,” Naomi offered by way of explanation.

  “I see that,” he said, examining the towel bandaging. “Anything I can do until the paramedics get here?”

  Naomi started to say no, but Delaney spoke up first, her voice weak. “Yes, actually.”

  He knelt down to her level. “What’s that?”

  “I . . .”

  But she was interrupted by the wail of the ambulance sirens. Vi opened the door to wait for them, the bells and the singing jingle silencing Delaney further.

  Beau stood as the paramedics made their way in and assessed her hand. They didn’t do much to undo the work Naomi had done, saying they’d let the doctor at the hospital unwrap it in case it bled out again.

  “You did good,” one of them said to her.

  “Thanks.”

  Once they got Delaney out and off to the hospital, Naomi stood there in the middle of the bakery in a puddle of blood, her apron soaked in it, her mind a void of silence after Delaney’s cries. Vi and Beau flanked her on either side, offering quiet support.

  “You know, baby,” Vi finally said after several minutes. “It breaks my heart that you gave up your nursing for me and this bakery, and today just proves where your heart really is. Doesn’t it?”

  Naomi spun and strode away without a word. She wasn’t sure she had it in her to lie to her again. Not today.

  Chapter 3

  Michael headed toward the Navajo Nation in his baby blue VW bug—there’d sadly be no time for sightseeing today—and continued west on Hwy 40 toward his destination. New Destiny, Arizona. A tiny pit stop of a town about fifteen minutes from the reservation, with not a lot to distinguish it from any other small desert town in this state. Save one thing.

  Elijah.

  Michael had been waiting for him to settle there these past three months, though he’d had little idea the trek from his last assignment in Texas would be so long and . . . lonely. He left all he’d known behind to take on Elijah’s case, but this was unlike anything he’d ever done. For the first time, he’d have no support system to lean on or superiors to come to if things went badly. And on the most important assignment of his lifetime.

  He swallowed and wiped his sweaty palm on his jeans as the significance of the case weighed upon his soul. Father was counting on him. Gabriel was counting on him. They were all watching for his potential promotion to leader of Love Detail.

  A flutt
er flew from his stomach to his throat as the diner came into view and he switched on his turn signal.

  An angel playing cupid to another angel.

  A fallen brother.

  The absurdity wasn’t lost on him. But, it was what had been asked of him, so he resolved to see the assignment through.

  Michael parked and stared at the bustling diner.

  Oh, Father, help me pull this off.

  He stepped out of his car and smiled at the Sheriff who’d pulled in next to him. “Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Here goes nothing.”

  As Michael entered the diner, he recognized Elijah the moment he laid eyes on him. He might not be an angel any longer, but he still had a faint, shimmering aura that only another angel would recognize. As if his essence hadn’t quite dissipated yet. Fascinating.

  “Can I help you?” a slip of a waitress asked, her smile bright and open.

  “I . . . uh . . .” Michael could barely take his eyes off of Elijah as he worked in the kitchen, hustling around and flipping things on the grill, totally oblivious to anything going on in the diner. He knew from his research that Elijah had been a chef in his previous angelic work, but he hadn’t considered that he would retain that skill in his human form and use it for gainful employment. But then again, what else did he expect of him? He had fallen after his first long-term earthly angelic duty. All he truly knew were Heavenly tasks. As wondrous as those were, they wouldn’t be useful to him in this existence.

  Michael shook his head. Poor Elijah. His first assignment on Love Detail, and it’d gone so terribly wrong. But, as he watched him working so efficiently in the diner’s kitchen, he realized that Father had equipped him well and he’d adapted beautifully.