Angel Wings

by Stengl, Suzanne

  More human, she decided, with his tousled hair and the shadow of beard stubble etching his strong jaw.

  He saw her and pulled out a chair for her. She collapsed into it and tried to clear her mind, realizing she couldn’t clear her mind because her angel was still in it.

  He put her yellow smiling face coffee mug in front of her, filled with steaming coffee and with the milk added. She wrapped both hands around it, inhaled, and swallowed a tentative sip.

  The warmth and the flavor soothed her aching head. She took another sip and closed her eyes, carefully holding the mug, feeling the heat flow into her hands, and into her soul.

  She could sense Gabe standing beside her, watching her. Her headache pulsed, as she tried to banish his image. And then she quit trying, because resisting her illusion wasn’t working. Resisting her illusion only made her head hurt more.

  And pushing away what she was really feeling—that wasn’t helping either.

  “I did feel angry last night,” she admitted, feeling her shoulders slump and loosen. “But I’m tired of being angry.”

  “Now you can be sad,” he said, in a voice so kind it took her breath away.

  A lump of emotion lodged in her throat. She set the mug on the table, took her hands away, and covered her eyes. Then she started to cry.

  “Jessi.” He swung her chair toward him and knelt in front of her. “That’s good,” he said. “It’s okay for you to cry.”

  In her mind, she heard her grandmother’s words. It’s all right to feel sad. But, her grandmother was not here. Gabe was here. He gripped her shoulders and lightly rubbed his thumbs over her aching muscles.

  She bent her head toward his chest and he gathered her into his arms and held her, strong and sure.

  And real.

  She didn’t know how long she cried, but it seemed like a very long time. “I’ve cried all over your shirt,” she said. “All over your wings.” At least, all over the white wings on the front of the T-shirt he wore.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a shirt.”

  She placed her hand on the damp fabric, and looked up at his eyes. “Do you have wings?”

  Smile lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “Would you like me to have wings?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I have all the basic parts,” he said, with that teasing smile. “And they work.”

  Chapter Four

  After a breakfast of coffee and dry toast and aspirin, and a long hot shower, Jessibelle walked to work with Gabe, who had insisted on coming along. Since there was nothing she could do about whether or not her illusion followed her, she didn’t object. And, she liked having him around. She was beginning to accept her craziness.

  “I love your shower,” Gabe said, as they crossed Chatham Street.

  The apartment’s showerhead featured a pulse mechanism that pounded the water into your back, massaging out aches and spasms and unhappy spots.

  Gabe marveled at everything. The shower, the coffee, his eggs and the way the yolk spilled into the toast. The buds on the cherry trees amazed him, as they hovered along the branches, ready to bloom. The scent of the air enticed him, as the spring breeze mixed with the smell of the ocean. Jessibelle felt an accepting smile touch her lips.

  And then she caught herself. She still had to get through this next month.

  “You said there were three things we had to do to get ready for the wedding,” she said, remembering, and wanting to get on with the process. “What are the other two?”

  “First, the dress.” He held the big glass door open for her and they entered City Realty.

  Jessibelle started work at half past eight. The realtors and the rest of the staff trickled in about nine. And the majority of the clients visited in the afternoon and evening. So it was unusual to see someone sitting in the waiting room.

  Even more unusual, when that someone turned out to be Daphne Whithammer.

  “Look at you,” Daphne said, as she stood. “Right on time.”

  “Hello,” Jessibelle said, feeling curiosity, instead of the routine dread she felt whenever she had to talk to the impeccable Daphne. Today Daphne wore a white suit and her blonde hair swept up in a tight bun at the back of her head.

  Gabe stopped by the reception coffee table and looked at the magazines, with his back toward them.

  “Hanna told me she was going shopping with you. To help you buy a dress for the wedding.” Daphne waited, like she was waiting for agreement. When Jessibelle waited too, Daphne said, “So, I’m volunteering to go with you.”

  That makes sense, Jessibelle thought. Daphne was feeling left out. That’s why she was here now.

  The door to City Realty opened again, and Bobbi walked in, with her high school backpack slung over her shoulder.

  Daphne looked at Jessibelle. Either because she was waiting for a yes to the offer for help—or she was wondering what the pigtailed girl with the purple jacket, green jeans and orange running shoes was doing in the office.

  “This is Bobbi,” Jessibelle introduced her. “She’s one of the evening receptionists.”

  “It’s not evening,” Daphne said.

  “And this is Daphne,” Jessibelle completed the introduction.

  “Pleased to meetcha,” Bobbi answered, walking around behind the desk. “Betsy left one of my textbooks here last night,” she said, as she started opening drawers.

  Daphne glanced at Jessibelle again, clearly disapproving of the young receptionist and her oddly assembled outfit. Gabe had selected a magazine and was reading it in a chair that faced the street.

  “Daphne. Daphne. Daphne,” Bobbi mumbled. “Oh yes!” She stood up straight, holding a copy of Romeo and Juliet. An old book, with a worn brown cover and tattered pages. “You’re the one who left her boyfriend,” she said. “At a very bad time.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Betsy was telling me.”

  “Betsy is one of the other receptionists,” Jessibelle explained, hoping Bobbi would not continue with this story. “They share the evening receptionist job and they go to high school togeth—”

  “So what was the very bad time?” Bobbi asked. She fanned the pages of her book. “Is there ever a good time to leave your boyfriend?”

  “You were gossiping about me?” Daphne focused her attention on Jessibelle.

  “No, they were just talking about you,” Bobbi elaborated, stuffing the book into her backpack. “Hanna and Jessibelle.”

  “Hanna?”

  “So?” Bobbi had come around the desk, preparing to leave again. “What was the very bad time?” She looked from Daphne to Jessibelle. “What? I thought it was interesting.”

  Jessibelle took a quick breath. This morning’s breakfast of toast sat queasy in her stomach. A deep pit seemed to open under her feet. “Will you be in tonight?” Jessibelle asked Bobbi.

  “I didn’t leave him at a bad time,” Daphne said, mounting her defense. “I had already left him by the time he was in the hospital. It’s not my fault he fell off a cliff.”

  “A cliff? Wow,” Bobbi said, impressed. “He fell off a cliff! Were you with him when it happened?”

  “Of course not. He was working. It was his stupid job. No money in it, and, obviously, too dangerous.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Mountain climbing.”

  “Mountain climbing’s a job?”

  “Search and Rescue. Something like that.” Daphne checked her watch. “But not to worry. I’m over him. My new boyfriend Luke is much more suitable. He’s a lawyer over at Scriber and Speeken. We were meant for each other.”

  Jessibelle heard a magazine slap down on the coffee table. A bit forcefully. Gabe must not have liked what he was reading.

  “Look,” Daphne said, with her usual impatience. “Do you want me to help or not?”

  Jessibelle didn’t. “I’ve got it covered,” she said. “But thanks for the offer.”

  Daphne’s eyebrows shot up, and she seemed to catch her brea
th. “Like you can find something decent to wear?”

  “I already have,” Jessibelle told her. “At the Jolie Femme. I’m just thinking about it.”

  “You? The Jolie Femme?” She shook her head, and abandoned her campaign. “Well, don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

  As Daphne headed toward the big glass door, Gabe stood up and turned to look at her. Daphne, almost at the door, paused and looked at Gabe. Or at least in the direction of where Gabe was standing.

  And then, like the lizard capable of changing its skin, Daphne transformed. Suddenly her expression exuded charm and friendliness. Not only did she look beautiful physically, she radiated beauty like it sprang from an internal source.

  “You look familiar,” she said, speaking to the air where Gabe stood. “Have we met?”

  Jessibelle’s heart pounded and she froze. Could Daphne see Gabe? Daphne was not supposed to be able to see Gabe. Gabe belonged to Jessibelle. He was her illusion. Not Daphne’s.

  Wait. Jessibelle blew out her breath. Even if Gabe were real, she had no rights to him. No right to feel this . . . jealousy. Because that’s what it was. Jealousy. Strong and dark green.

  She hated herself.

  Gabe watched Daphne, staring at her face for a few seconds, and then looking at her breasts, her slim waist, her white shoes with the elegant high heels. Then his gaze returned to her face.

  She looked slightly bewildered by his examination, but her projection of genuine warmth held solidly in place.

  “I don’t think we know each other,” Gabe said.

  · · · · ·

  After Daphne had left the office, Jessibelle rushed over to Gabe. “How come she could see you?”

  And, worse, how come Jessibelle felt jealous about it? Where had this unexpected feeling come from?

  “Everybody can see me,” he said, speaking calmly. “I told you, I’m grounded.”

  “I thought that was just for a day?”

  “For twenty-four hours.” He lifted her wrist to look at her watch.

  Jessibelle felt the solid grip of his hand on her wrist, felt the warmth of his skin soothe into hers.

  “I can see him,” Bobbi said, as she neared the door on her way out. “He looks great to me. I’d keep him.”

  What? Confusion flickered through Jessibelle’s senses and she felt her jaw drop. How could Bobbi see him?

  “Yes, you should keep me,” Gabe said, still holding her wrist. His lips quirked into that smile of his. “You were jealous.” He let go of her.

  She felt the break in physical contact . . . felt like she’d been set adrift. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered. “That’s impossible.”

  “Why? Because you think I’m not real?” That same smile again. “Or because you’re still in love with Rodney?”

  Rodney? Jessibelle blinked. She’d forgotten about Rodney.

  “You’ve already forgotten about him. That’s good. We’re making progress.” He bent quickly, kissed her cheek, and left, letting in a blast of the fresh spring air and leaving her alone in the office.

  And wondering.

  Had any of this really happened? Had Daphne and Bobbi really been here? And seen Gabe?

  Not possible, she decided.

  Then she stopped, and listened to her heart, and realized something had changed inside her. Her intense feelings for Rodney had gone away.

  Jessibelle was smiling, and it felt odd. The Rodney melancholy had lifted. She felt strange, like she had peeled off a heavy coat and she felt light.

  She started her work, and as the day progressed, she changed her mind half a dozen times. Would she really go to the Jolie Femme? And then suddenly it was four-thirty and Bobbi arrived to take over for the evening shift.

  “I like your new boyfriend,” she said.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  Jessibelle still wasn’t sure if she’d go to the Jolie Femme. And maybe, at this point, she needed to decide if she should even be going to the wedding?

  Now that she was feeling happy again, maybe she wouldn’t have any more hallucinations?

  A deep sigh escaped her. She didn’t need to get a special dress to cope with this wedding. Not anymore.

  But, before she quite knew what she was doing, she was on the bus, heading toward the little boutique at the end of Seventh Street.

  · · · · ·

  Jessibelle opened the door to the Jolie Femme, hearing the strand of bells announce her arrival. In the far corner, two women, probably in their forties, chatted and browsed, pulling out outfits and holding them up for inspection.

  “Can I help you?”

  Jessibelle turned to find a slightly plump saleslady with frizzy orange hair who beamed goodwill and helpfulness.

  Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.

  “I need a dress for a wedding,” Jessibelle told her.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular? Formal? Street length? Something you can wear again?”

  “I’m not sure.” Jessibelle had no idea what she wanted.

  “Then let’s try on a few things, shall we? Shopping is so much fun. Size six?”

  “Maybe,” Jessibelle answered, meaning maybe shopping could be fun, and maybe she was a size six. Mostly her clothes were baggy so sizing didn’t matter a lot.

  The saleslady collected three dresses: one long in navy, and two short ones. One of the short ones sported sequins on white silk, the other billowed with peach chiffon. “This will give us an idea,” the saleslady said, as she ushered Jessibelle into a large well-lit dressing room with a huge three-panel mirror edged in a wide frame of antiqued silver. Large ornate hooks in the same antiqued silver bordered the room and a high-backed blue velour chair sat in one corner. Jessibelle deposited her purse on it.

  The saleslady arranged the dresses on the hooks, displaying them side by side. “Take your time,” she advised. “I’ll be just outside.”

  Jessibelle studied the dresses. They glowed with radiance, suggesting beauty and grace and elegance. But would any of them look good on her?

  She picked up the first dress, a navy silk gown with a high collar. She held it in front of herself, testing it in the mirror.

  “Not you,” Gabe said.

  Jessibelle spun around, clutching the dress to her chest, feeling a mixture of delight and exasperation. Gabe sat on the high-backed chair, wearing a black dress shirt and black dress pants, and holding her purse in his lap.

  She’d hoped he’d be here, but she hadn’t expected him to be inside the dressing room with her. “What are you doing here?”

  “Would you like me to leave, dear?” the saleslady asked from outside the dressing room door.

  “She can hear you,” Gabe said, setting Jessibelle’s purse on the floor.

  “But not you?”

  “Not me?” the saleslady answered, sounding slightly confused.

  “It’s all right,” Jessibelle spoke to the door. “I was just talking to myself.”

  Gabe crossed the small room and inspected the peach colored chiffon. “Not your color,” he said.

  He handed her the short, white, sequin-shimmering dress. “Try this one.”

  Jessibelle accepted the dress, hung it on the hook behind her, and slipped off her shoes. Then she looked up at Gabe, who stood there, watching her.

  “I have to undress,” she whispered.

  “Go ahead,” he said, waiting.

  She stared at him. Did he really think she would undress in front of him?

  He lifted his eyebrows in question. “You want my help?” He reached for the top button of her blouse.

  She stepped back, bumping into the wall. “Turn around.”

  He didn’t, so she reached for the chair and turned it to face the wall. “Sit,” she whispered. He shrugged, and then sat.

  Watching his back she quickly removed her blouse and pants and slipped into the sparkling dress. As she felt behind her back for the zipper, she faced th
e mirror again, and noticed the skimpiness of the dress which didn’t completely cover her bra. And since the lacy bra didn’t completely cover her breasts either—

  Suddenly Gabe was behind her, zipping the dress firmly over her body.

  She stiffened, watching in the mirror as the dress molded over her skin, squeezing her breasts together, and making her appear voluptuous.

  “I can’t wear this!”

  “Would you like a different size?” the saleslady asked from outside the door.

  Jessibelle spun around, facing Gabe. “It’s too . . . revealing,” she said, out loud.

  “It looks great,” he said, approvingly, “but you need to lose the bra.” He slipped one finger under a bra strap. “Want me to get rid of this?”

  She slapped his hand away.

  “What do you think of the peach chiffon,” the saleslady asked.

  “Tell her it’s the wrong color,” Gabe said.

  “It’s the wrong color,” Jessibelle repeated for him. “And the white one with the sequins is too . . .”

  “Sensual?” he suggested.

  “Tight,” she said. “And the navy is too . . .”

  “Drab,” Gabe said. He handed both the navy and the peach to Jessibelle. “Give these back to her.”

  “These aren’t quite right,” Jessibelle said, as she opened the door a crack and passed the dresses to the saleslady, who peaked inside to get a look.

  “It is a little tight,” she agreed, nodding her frizzy orange head. “But think about that one. You’ve got the perfect figure for it.”

  “I’m not sure about—”

  “Don’t worry,” Gabe said. “I’ll send her an idea.”

  Jessibelle watched as the saleslady’s eyes lit up. “I know just the thing,” she announced, and she left with the two dresses, humming to herself.

  “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Send her ideas.”

  “It’s basic training.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around, facing the mirror again. The dress fit her like a second skin and would have been perfect if she were the sort of person who could wear it. Even with her bra showing it looked provocative.