“I don’t have time to do any filing, ya know,” Betsy told her, as she unloaded books from her sack. “I’ve got homework for tomorrow. We’re studying Romeo and Juliet in English class.”
“Just answer the phone.” Jessibelle slipped on her jacket, picked up her purse, and wondered again about going to the Jolie Femme. That type of store catered to clients with excellent taste and lots of money, so, not her kind of store. But what should she do about a dress?
Almost as if answering her question, her used-to-be Best Friend Hanna pushed open the big glass door of City Realty.
“Wow,” Hanna said. “We meet twice in one day.”
Uncertainty flooded Jessibelle’s mind as she stared at her old friend. “What are you doing here?”
Hanna laughed. “Not hello? Not great to see you? Lighten up, Jessibelle. I’m here to help you pick out a dress.”
Gabe was here to help her pick out a dress.
The thought had flashed through her brain. And then Jessibelle felt her mind twist. Gabe was a figment of her imagination, and here she was thinking of him like he might be real.
Oddly, she found herself preferring his help over Hanna’s. That probably meant she wanted to do the shopping by herself.
“How did—”
“How did I know you were shopping today? Well, of course, Daphne told me.”
“Ah, yes. We met at lunch.”
“She stopped by the Registrar’s Office after her meeting with the Horticultural Society.”
Jessibelle felt herself smiling. It felt strange to be smiling, but she couldn’t help it. She waited, holding her breath, wondering if Hanna would say more.
“I don’t think she’ll get the contract,” Hanna said, seeming unconcerned. “It will be the first one she’s missed since she started her Events Planning business.”
“What did she do about, ah—”
“About her clothes? She ran home and changed her blouse, so she arrived late. But she didn’t take a good look at her skirt,” Hanna broke into a broad smile. “Because it had chocolate dribbles on it too. Something she noticed during the interview.”
Jessibelle felt guilt nudge her, and she got rid of the smile. “Well, things happen.”
“Yes, they do. And it couldn’t have happened to a better person.”
“Hanna!” Had her old friend really said that? Out loud?
“I know that was unkind of me. But I still have trouble with how she dealt with her boyfriend, last autumn.”
“How did she deal with her boyfriend?” Betsy asked. “Last autumn?”
Hanna turned to look at the evening receptionist. So did Jessibelle. She hadn’t realized Betsy was listening.
“Sorry,” Betsy said. “Eavesdropping. So, what did she do to him?”
“She left him,” Hanna said. “At a very bad time.”
Which was putting it mildly. “It may have been the only way she could cope,” Jessibelle said, leaning over to Hanna.
“It was an excuse,” Hanna answered. “Now let’s go shopping.”
Two hours later, after exhausting the saleslady at Market Outlet, they gave up for the day.
Strangely, Jessibelle felt some of her old camaraderie with Hanna. Maybe it was because there had been no talk of Rodney. “Want to get some dinner?”
“No, I’d better get home,” Hanna said. “Rodney will wonder where I am. I was supposed to watch the car race on TV with him.”
The familiar ambivalence returned. So much for the Rodney free conversation. “And I have to study tonight.”
“Yes, the Spanish. Maybe we can meet later this week.”
“No rush. I have four weeks to get a dress.”
They said goodbye outside of Market Outlet. As Jessibelle headed back to her apartment, she wondered if Gabe would be upset that she’d stood him up for the Jolie Femme.
She stopped walking, questioned her sanity again, and then shrugged. Even if he was just a figment of her imagination, she kind of missed him.
Chapter Three
Riding up the elevator to the seventeenth floor, Jessibelle noticed her mood.
Spring embraced the world, with blossoms and breezes and promise. This first week of April had arrived. The May first wedding loomed on the horizon.
She hadn’t realized how sad she’d been, ever since last June, when Rodney had taken her out for dinner to La Petite Maison and told her about Hanna, and how he’d fallen in love.
Her world had crumbled then, but now, facing the wedding, the simple task of finding a dress made her feel better, somehow.
Her heart still ached for Rodney, but it was like she could feel the pain isolated in her heart and not radiating throughout her body. It was like she’d taken a powerful drug that allowed her to be aware of the pain, but to not care so much about it.
This morning, she’d gone over the edge. She’d cracked and she’d started seeing and hearing things. But then Hanna had visited her, and it had been like old times.
And even Daphne. Jessibelle had survived a run-in with Daphne. Smiling, again, Jessibelle thought about the ball of chocolate ice cream splattered onto Daphne’s brilliant white blouse.
A big sigh escaped her. If only she could survive this last month, and not keep thinking Rodney would change his mind.
The elevator door dinged open and she headed down the hall to her apartment at the very end. As she inserted her key, Mrs. Hartfield’s door opened, and Gabe stood there.
“Good. You’re home. Did you go to the Jolie Femme?”
Mild surprise fluttered over her senses. Only mild, since she’d been half expecting to see him again. And what was that other feeling? Was she actually happy to see him?
Better not think about it too much . . . .
“Well? Did you?”
“No,” she said. “Did you?”
His shoulders fell and he seemed to relax. “I had a conflict. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“Oh, there you are, dear. Come in for some soup,” Mrs. Hartfield said, joining Gabe at the doorway. “We were just having supper.”
There it was again. That shared delusion. Mrs. Hartfield could see him too.
Jessibelle shrugged the thought away, smelled the soup, and entered Mrs. Hartfield’s apartment.
“Cream of pumpkin soup,” Mrs. Hartfield said, as she set another bowl on her dining room table.
A green tablecloth spread over the small rectangular table, set with a pumpkin-shaped soup tureen, a loaf of French bread on a wooden cutting board, a small pot of butter and a tray of cheddar cheese wedges.
Gabe followed her to the table, held the chair for her, and then sat beside her. He scooped two ladles of soup into her bowl, sliced her a thick slab of the bread and moved the butter dish closer. And all the while Mrs. Hartfield talked about today’s shopping trip and how she’d been searching out sleepers and sun hats for her new grandson.
Twenty minutes later, filled with the savory meal and a sense of well-being, Jessibelle dropped back in her chair. A picture of her grandmother’s kitchen popped into her mind, a room full of good smells and kind company.
“Would you like some tea and cookies?”
“I’d love some,” Gabe said.
Mrs. Hartfield busied herself in the kitchen with kettle and teapot and teacups. Jessibelle leaned close to Gabe and whispered, “How come she can see you?”
“Mrs. Hartfield is special.”
Jessibelle flicked bread crumbs together, making a little heap on the tablecloth. “How come I can see you? Are you real?”
“As real as you want me to be.” He licked his finger, pressed it to her pile of bread crumbs, then brought it to his mouth and licked off the crumbs, kissing his fingertip and watching her eyes.
Then he pressed his finger back into the pile of crumbs, stuck more crumbs, and brought his fingertip to her lips.
Heat moved over her skin and shock stunned her. Her mind shouted, not real, not real.
Or was he?
She leaned close
r, watching his eyes, his deep dark pupils circled by the border of dark brown with the green lines. Unable to resist, she touched her tongue to his finger and then sucked off the crumbs.
An ache of lust shot through her body and she jerked away from him. She forced herself to sit up straight as she tried to organize her mind. She could feel her heart racing. Something must be wrong with her.
“Here’s the tea,” Mrs. Hartfield said, as she set her teapot on the table in front of them—a cream colored teapot with a pattern of orange and purple flowers on vines. The handle was green—the color of the vines, and the lid was a frog sitting on a lily pad. The little frog lid looked up at her with confused eyes.
A moment later, the sugar cookies appeared, arranged on a green platter shaped like a leaf. And then Mrs. Hartfield clinked china teacups beside the pot. The teacups wore a smaller pattern of the flowers and vines.
Gabe poured three cups of tea and Jessibelle inhaled the aroma of cinnamon and spices. She couldn’t remember ever drinking such a sweet cup of tea. Of course, she’d eaten Mrs. Hartfield’s sugar cookies before, but tonight they tasted better than ever—creamy and light and lemony.
It must have been a long time since she’d eaten cookies. Maybe her appetite was returning. Or, maybe being here, with Mrs. Hartfield and Gabe, was like being in a bubble, isolated from her real life.
“Time to go,” Gabe said.
Mrs. Hartfield gave Jessibelle a bag of sugar cookies. They thanked her, and left for Jessibelle’s apartment.
· · · · ·
“Are you coming in?”
They stood outside the door to her apartment. She looked up at him, standing so tall, still wearing the black T-shirt with the white wings from this morning.
His eyes held an unfamiliar serious tone. “I’d like to,” he said.
“I suppose you’d come in anyway.”
He watched her for a few seconds, and then a slight grimace. “I can’t today.”
Puzzled, she stared at his eyes. “Why not?”
He shifted his feet, hesitating. “I’m grounded.”
His words buzzed in her head and she felt her eyebrows lift, asking the question. She focused on his face, looking for signs of a joke. And not finding any.
“For misbehavior,” he said. “I’m grounded for a day.” And then, after a pause, “Can I sleep on your couch?”
Sleep? Her figment? “Do you even need to sleep?”
He smiled. “Today, I do.”
Nothing about Gabe made sense but she dismissed all questions from her logical mind and decided to let the night evolve. It simply meant she wanted to visit with her illusion a little longer. And why not? It was better than trying to study her Spanish.
She handed him the bag of sugar cookies, reached in her purse for her key, and unlocked her door.
He followed her inside. “I noticed some wine in your fridge this morning.”
He meant the bottle of Summerhill Chardonnay. Hanna and Daphne had given it to her when she’d started working at City Realty a month ago. And Jessibelle had left it in her fridge, untouched.
She hadn’t had any wine, not a single drop, not since Rodney had made his announcement that night last June at La Petite Maison. The night Rodney had ended everything. She sighed with the futility of it.
Maybe tonight, she would have some wine, with Gabe.
The thought struck her as odd—drinking with Gabe, who wasn’t real. Did that mean she was drinking alone?
Gabe opened the cupboard beside the fridge and selected two wine glasses. “Opener?”
She hadn’t expected that. “You mean you don’t know where it is?”
“I haven’t looked for it before so, no, I don’t know,” he said, as he opened the fridge and collected the wine. “It’s part of being grounded.”
“Why are you grounded?”
“Don’t ask.”
She pictured the ice cream cone incident and wondered again if that was him. Then she shrugged, pulled the corkscrew from the cutlery drawer and handed it to him. He took it from her, being careful not to touch her fingers.
Because he couldn’t touch her fingers. He wasn’t real.
Except . . . she’d sucked the crumbs off his finger. That had felt real. And she’d felt him swat her butt at the Market Outlet. Had she imagined that? And what about Mrs. Hartfield? How come Mrs. Hartfield could see him?
Maybe Mrs. Hartfield wasn’t real either?
No, Jessibelle shook her head, Mrs. Hartfield had to be real. Otherwise all the relatives that visited her would not be real either.
Don’t think about it.
Gabe uncorked the Chardonnay, picked up the wine glasses and inclined his head toward the living room, inviting her to follow him. A moment later she leaned back on her couch looking out the big picture window at the sunset over the bay.
Tonight, clouds obscured the view. The sky was dark, except for a band of pale light at the horizon.
Gabe sat beside her, close, but not touching, and he filled the wine glasses.
“You said . . . grounded?”
“Yes.”
“Are you an angel?”
“You could call me that.” He handed her a glass of wine. “What should we drink to?”
“Why do we have to drink to anything?”
“To being alive.”
A swell of loneliness swept over her and she shivered. It came to her then. The reason he was here. “So I’m supposed to be happy to just be alive. I’m not supposed to be heartsick because Rodney left me. Is that it?”
He clinked her glass and then sipped some of the wine. Smiling, he closed his eyes and inhaled. “I forgot how good this tastes,” he said, skipping over what she’d just said.
“Answer me.” She gripped her glass, feeling the coolness of the wine. “No, wait, you can’t answer me. Because you’re just a figment of my sick mind.”
He set his wine on the coffee table, and sighed.
“I don’t know why I can’t be happy,” she persisted. “But I can’t.”
He folded his arms. “Or you won’t,” he said.
“Won’t?” She frowned at his words and then tasted her wine, savoring the flavor, fresh and fruity, like pears. The flavor seeped through her, touching the tightness that gripped her and nudging the careful balance that kept her mind steady.
“Yes,” Gabe repeated. “Won’t.”
Enough, she thought, trying to ignore her figment. And trying to ignore her normal caution. She drank the whole glass in a few gulps, feeling the weight of the alcohol rush to her head.
Then she reached for the bottle, but he grabbed the base of it, holding it on the table, so she couldn’t lift it up. She noticed, reluctantly, that he was not touching her hand. He was as insubstantial as a whim or a wish.
“You can’t be happy because you haven’t let yourself feel sad,” he said, still pinning the bottle to the table.
She released her hold and perched on the edge of the couch, facing him. “Of course I have. I’m sad all the time!”
“No, you’re not. You’re angry.”
“I am not angry,” she shouted, feeling strange, hearing herself shout.
He let go of the bottle, picked up his wine glass and relaxed back on the couch. “Maybe I’m angry too,” he said.
What? Why was he changing the subject? “That’s ridiculous. Angels don’t get angry.”
“Sure they do.”
Angels do not get angry. And besides, they were supposed to be talking about her, not him. She snatched the bottle of wine, clutched it to her chest and glared at him, daring him to try and take it.
He quirked a little smile and then sipped some wine. “It’s your hangover,” he said. “I will not take responsibility for it.”
She tipped the bottle up and took a long swallow, burning her throat. Then she looked at the window again, where he’d crashed into her life last night.
She had no idea her imagination was this fertile.
Looking
beyond the glass, she could see the sun now, as it oozed closer to the horizon, spilling out from the cloud cover, turning the water red and making a river of ripples, flowing from the sun straight to the shore.
“You can’t be an angel.” She focused her gaze on him. “Angels are white. And you’re always dressed in black.”
He sipped his wine, looking amused. “That’s a stereotype,” he said. “And I like black.”
· · · · ·
Jessibelle opened her eyes to morning light and noticed that she’d gone to bed with her door open, again. She rolled over to look at the clock and winced as her brain pounded. The luminous numbers on her alarm clock said 6:03, telling her it was too early to get up. She eased back under the covers, and caught her sleeve.
Awareness prodded her, as she realized she’d gone to bed with her clothes on. Again. Her miserable life continued its downhill spiral. Ever since her angel had shown up.
No, there was no angel. Things were worse ever since Rodney and Hanna’s wedding invitation had shown up.
She yawned, knowing one thing was for sure. She’d drank a lot of wine last night trying to drown the thoughts of Rodney.
She’d drank a lot and she’d talked a lot. About Rodney. Telling her—figment—about how they’d met. About her hopes, and her plans. And about how everything had collapsed. But mostly, she’d talked about how much her life hurt. Almost like she was trying to prove to her figment—okay, to herself—that she was hurt. Not angry.
She did not get angry. Never. No shouting, no condemning, no crying, nothing.
The aroma of coffee invaded her bedroom.
Had she programmed that coffeemaker again? But how could she program the thing when she had never read the instructions?
She got out of bed. Too fast, because the room spun. Stumbling back to the edge of the bed, she sat and took some deep breaths. Then she got up again, slowly.
When she reached the living room, she could see Gabe, setting the table, with two place settings this time. He wore the same clothes as yesterday—the black jeans and the black T-shirt with the white wings across the front, but he looked different.
Angel Wings Page 3
