“I don’t think it’s that uncommon. They’ve even got TV shows now about people like me, seeing spirits and helping them resolve their issues.”
“Resolve their issues,” Henry repeated with a whooping laugh, as though that was the funniest thing he’d heard in a long time.
“Yeah, I guess some people think those who stay here after they, you know, don’t know how to get to heaven. Or they have some reason for not going yet, some thing they want to do before they move on.” Zoë looked at Henry’s shimmering face. “How come you are still here, Henry? Don’t you want to go to heaven?”
“That’s just stories,” he said, his tone firm. “I already had my heaven, and there ain’t no going back to it.” Henry stood and looked down at her. “You trust your eyes. What you got in yours ain’t common. You’re a good girl, Zoë.”
She sat, her eyes downcast, unable to look at him. “Henry, why hasn’t my father ever come to visit me?”
The softness returned to Henry’s voice. “He can’t get here from where he is, Miss Zoë.”
“He’s in…” Zoë couldn’t bring herself to say “hell.” She’d told her father to go to hell more than once, but now the thought horrified her. Visions of lava and three-headed dogs and swarms of stinging bees filled her head.
“No,” Henry said quickly. “Heaven and hell, they aren’t what you think. All them books about what happens once you cross that threshold were written by people who hadn’t done it. It’s wishes and nightmares, but what’s real—that’s something else altogether.”
“Can you go where he is, Henry? To maybe give him a message for me?”
“What message would you give him, if you could?” Henry shook his head, pity etched deep in his eyes. “What do you want to say?”
“I don’t know. I always thought he stayed away because…” She paused and finished the statement silently. Because he didn’t want to see me.
“There’s lots of places I can’t go, and if I tried, I couldn’t get out again.” Then seeing the startled expression on her face, he added, “Don’t you worry about your father, Miss Zoë. Now is a time for you to be living your life.”
“Don’t you dare do anything to hurt yourself, Henry. I couldn’t stand it if I didn’t have you. You’re one of my best friends.” Zoë stood up and wiped her eyes. The day hadn’t turned out like she thought it would.
“Why, Miss Zoë, that’s the kindest thing I think anyone has ever said to old Henry. Things sure have changed since my day.” He leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek. It tingled against her skin. She closed her eyes and put her hand to her face. Times had changed since Henry was alive, an era when black men and white women would hardly have become friends and shared a lunch hour telling stories. It saddened her, this thing they never talked about, but at the same time she was glad it didn’t come between them now. Death improved some things more quickly than time ever could. She struggled for the right words, but when she opened her eyes seconds later, Henry had gone.
Zoë made her way up the stairs slowly, the weight of the things she needed to think about pushing her shoulders toward the ground. Simone was standing at her desk when Zoë arrived. “You have got to quit spending your lunch hour with dead people. It’s not right. You’re never going to find yourself a man if you don’t go into the real world sometimes.”
“I had a date with a man last night, in fact.” Zoë sounded more defensive than she wanted to. When Simone’s eyebrows shot up she said, “You know. Alexander. The mailman.”
“Didn’t waste any time, did he?” Simone said.
“Simone, you can’t be annoyed that I don’t go out and then be critical because I do.”
Just then, Ronald approached through the main entrance, and Zoë couldn’t help but feel disappointed to see the ordinary human postman.
“Are my ears burning?” he said. His blond hair stuck out around the edges of his US Postal Service baseball cap.
“Not you,” Zoë said. “We were talking about the guy who took your route yesterday. Alexander.” Then she added, “Do you know him?”
“No.” Ronald’s expression looked vague and confused, as though he was trying hard to piece the story together in his head.
Zoë sighed. She didn’t even know how to get in touch with Alexander, and he didn’t have a phone. She looked down at the business card the messenger had left. Thomas. Hmm, she thought. Then his words sank in. Testify? A panic filled her. Was Alexander in some sort of trouble? Why wasn’t I listening before?
While she’d been lost in her own world, Ronald had dropped the mail on her desk and headed to the door. Simone started to ask about Zoë’s date with Alexander when people began filing back in from lunch in twos and threes. Zoë mouthed “later,” and sat down.
“Simone, right?” Dustin Bittner had come in with a couple of colleagues. They kept walking while he hesitated at Zoë’s desk.
Simone froze in place with her mouth open awkwardly.
“Yes,” Zoë said in a far-too-cheerful voice. Poor Simone and her stage fright. She was absolutely gorgeous and smarter than Zoë would ever hope to be, yet the sight of a normal, successful guy locked her brain up so tight Zoë expected to hear sirens.
“Umm, hi,” Dustin said, suddenly floundering as badly as Simone.
Zoë rolled her eyes.
Then as though he’d come back to his senses after a couple of long moments, he guided the stunned Simone aside. “I was thinking,” he said.
Zoë strained to hear the actual invitation, but he’d taken Simone out of earshot. Damn. Now she’d have to wait for the inevitable text message.
With no more distractions to tempt her away, Zoë dug into her reports. She tuned out the world and worked. Tension and worries lost their grip as she focused on the mundane.
Somewhere toward late afternoon, she came out of her industrious trance, lulled back to the bright florescent lights of reality by a dull buzz. Knowing it would be Simone sending a text with details of her conversation with Dustin, she grinned and touched the smudged screen of her phone with her fingertips, selecting “Read Messages” from the pop-up. Instead of the expected “Squee” however, the incoming message read “Call Thomas.” The “Sender” line was blank, which shouldn’t be possible.
“How did you get this number?” she wondered aloud and then laughed at herself for repeating such a phony Hollywood line. She recognized it wasn’t the first time she’d wasted her time recently with the wrong questions.
She dialed the number on the odd business card. A woman answered in a warm, purring voice. “Thomas’ office. How can I help?” Zoë paused, lost in thought for a moment. The tone evoked the feeling of a memory long forgotten, but just out of reach. “Hello?” the woman said patiently.
Zoë shook herself. “This is Zoë Pendergraft. I’m calling for Thomas?” The phone clicked twice, and she thought they’d been disconnected, but a few moments later a man’s voice came on the line.
“Zoë, thank you for getting back to me. Is tomorrow morning good for you?” Like the woman before him, his voice was rich, but stronger, like dark chocolate. Why did angels always remind her of food?
“Tomorrow morning for what?”
“We need to go over your testimony before the hearing, of course. I explained in my letter.”
Zoë picked up the letter and looked at the looping calligraphy Once again she could hear Henry’s voice telling her to trust her eyes. Must not always be applicable, since her eyes didn’t seem to want to focus enough to let her understand what it said.
“I have to work,” she said.
“No problem,” Thomas said. “We’ll make it afternoon. I’ll send someone to pick you up. One second,” he said, and Zoë heard a muffled sound as though he’d put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. When he came back he said, “Thanks again, Zoë. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The phone went dead.
Zoë held it away from her ear, staring at it. “I don’t care if you do smell like chocolate, you
’re an ass.” She looked around for a moment, hoping no one heard her swearing at inanimate objects. Besides, one couldn’t actually smell people over the phone, which was probably a very good thing.
As soon as she put down her cellphone, her desk phone rang and the “Line One” button lit up. She punched it. “Good afternoon. Fiskers Technology Group.”
“Hi, Zoë! Caroline from Personnel here.”
“Hi, Caroline. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Who exactly am I supposed to report to?”
“Haven’t you been here for over a year?” Caroline sounded startled.
“Something like that. I just wanted to make sure.” Zoë felt stupid for asking, but this situation with Marilyn was getting on her nerves.
“Who do you usually check in with?”
Zoë had to stop herself from saying “Mega-Bitch.” She cleared her throat. “Marilyn Baker, but—”
Caroline cut her off with a cheerful squeak. “That’s fine. You keep doing that.”
“Right.” That wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear, but she couldn’t think of any way around it.
“Great,” Caroline said, bringing perkiness to an entirely new level. “I’m calling about your court dates.”
Zoë pulled the phone away from her ear, stared at it a second and then brought it back. “Umm, yeah. I just heard about that myself.”
“Listen, Zoë, I know it’s tempting to want to get out of it, but it’s our civic duty, and Fiskers always encourages employees to vote, sit jury duty, and gives the necessary time for reserve duty or other military service and the like.” She sounded like she was reading out of the Fiskers Terms of Employment Reference Manual, or F-TERM as Zoë remembered it being called the one and only time she ever laid eyes on it. “So you take the time you need to comply fully,” Caroline said. “It’s been cleared with our office. We’ll get a temp to cover your desk tomorrow. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks, Caroline, that’s great.” Great, Zoë thought with more than a little dread. She didn’t even want to know how Thomas had managed it. She was beginning to have an idea of the reach angels had, and she suspected it went much further than she’d first imagined.
“No, problem. See you!” Caroline signed off, sounding like nothing could make her happier, as though Fiskers was strengthened by Zoë’s civic-minded and selfless deeds.
Zoë reached for her phone and keyed in a text one-handed, holding the device below the surface of her desk so no nosy passers-by would read it. Off-tmrow. Call u later. Then she picked Simone’s name off her very short call list and hit send.
She didn’t know which she was more depressed about: that Gran hated her new boyfriend, that her new boyfriend wasn’t even human and she had no clue what he wanted from her, or even worse, that she wasn’t sure if he was her boyfriend. One date and I’m using the ‘b’ word? To make it worse, the aforementioned “not-her-boyfriend” seemed to be in legal trouble and some guy named Thomas with squirrelly ancient handwriting wanted her to testify.
Zoë folded the letter from Thomas, stuffed it into her purse, and tidied her desk. It seemed strange, knowing a temp would sit here tomorrow, go through her papers, answer her phone and eat her peppermints. With that uncomfortable thought, Zoë popped a candy into her mouth before heading to her car.
She felt somewhat better that since she’d arrived early, she’d been able to park close to the front door today. Not that it mattered much. It was a difference between a fifteen second walk and a two minute walk. Oh, well, she thought and reminded herself little things did matter. Now all she had to do was drive home and make nice with Gran. She couldn’t cope with another sleepless night.
When she arrived home, though, Gran was nowhere around, and Zoë felt guilty, but incredibly relieved. She spent the evening watching a two-hour special episode of a trashy medical television show about twenty-something interns who couldn’t seem to stay out of each other’s pants. On commercial breaks, she ran back and forth to the laundry room, throwing clothes in the machines and then taking them out so she could fold during the next decadently drama-laden segment. When her show finished, she wiped tears from her eyes. It annoyed her that such a stupid show made her cry every single episode. She was powerless to stop herself, but she watched without fail. If it wasn’t on, she moped and wandered aimlessly like her best friend had stood her up.
The clock had rolled toward midnight by the time Zoë realized she’d forgotten to call Simone, so she tucked herself into bed with her electronic book reader, another gift-to-self. The house felt empty and quiet without Gran. Zoë rolled her eyes. The old lady was probably trying to teach her a lesson about respecting her elder spirits or something.
Unable to get into her book, and knowing it was going to be at least a couple more chapters before she got to the smutty bits, she put it down on the bedside table and turned out the light.
Chapter 4
When faint meditation music started playing in Zoë’s bedroom, she reached over and whacked the short, fat CD player without opening her eyes. She disliked waking to loud noises, and she’d gotten the CD free at a housewares store with a purchase of bath salts. Using it in her alarm player, she’d heard the first three seconds of that song at least five hundred times, but none of it beyond the first minute.
It took her a moment to remember she had the morning off. Caroline had told her to take the day, and she didn’t have to worry about getting to see this Thomas of San Francisco until some unstated point in the afternoon. The sheer pleasure of not having to do anything washed over her. It was like found money, winning a day in the lottery. She ordinarily stacked her time with to-dos and shoulds, but this morning was genuinely free. A purr rumbled in her throat and she snuggled down into the feather duvet.
The yearning piano notes started to play again, and she had the presence of mind to hit the off button rather than the snooze, but she had to open one eye to do it. That was the only reason she discovered Alexander sitting in the small, overstuffed peach chair in the corner. She went through shock and anger at breakneck speed, and then the mortification set in. He’d apparently moved the jeans, blouse, bra and panties she’d slung on the chair the night before. She lay back and stared at the ceiling.
“Alexander,” she said, trying to maintain her calm. “Out.”
“Out?” He looked adorable. She had noticed that much. Why, oh why did he have to be completely deficient in some areas, like common sense, while being utterly appealing in others? He looked innocent and like raw sex at the same time.
She sat up, taking care to discreetly ensure her naked body didn’t show from under the huge mound of crumpled duvet. She pointed to her bedroom door. “Out. I’m going to get up, and I want some privacy. Make some coffee or something.”
“But—”
“There’s coffee beans in the left-hand cabinet. Now, out.” She left no room for discussion or argument. He stood and walked out the door, closing it quietly behind him, a forlorn expression on his face. She wondered if he really had to use doors, or if he was being polite. She reached out with her senses, scanning the house. Gran wasn’t home. Relief washed over her. Zoë genuinely hoped Alexander would never waltz into the house with Gran in it, because who knew what might happen. “Alexander, Alexander. The things I don’t know about you and the things you don’t know about anything could fill…well, an entire library.”
It surprised her that she could sense Alexander. He had a presence unlike a spirit’s, and she couldn’t think of a way to put it into words. At least this strange, newfound ability told her he was in the kitchen as she’d asked, and not waiting outside her door.
With regret at being denied a languid sprawl among the sheets, she slipped out of bed and put on some clean undies and a bra. She tossed the ones Alexander had folded into the wicker laundry basket. Padding to her closet, she threw on a pair of jeans and a sleeveless emerald shirt.
Although she could still sense his presence in the kitchen, Zoë looked both ways outsid
e her bedroom door before tiptoeing to the bathroom. She felt like an idiot. Why should she sneak? It was her house. Technically, Gran had owned it long before she had, but it was Zoë’s name on the paperwork, and meant something. Zoë sighed. It didn’t mean anything. Only living humans seemed to care about things such as whose name was on a piece of paper. All the other citizens of time and space didn’t give a crap.
Her curly hair stuck in wild directions, and refused to behave until she got it damp and applied some miracle goop she’d gotten from her hairdresser. She couldn’t really afford the expensive stuff from salons, but it was either that or look like a startled poodle.
When Zoë arrived in the kitchen, she saw that Alexander had found the coffee beans and poured them into her cup-sized mortar. He began to grind them with a pestle. She leaned in the doorway and laughed, her reaction ranging from delight to dismay. The whole morning was so strange, and she should be annoyed and confused, but instead a warm happiness spread over her.
Alexander turned and said, “How many do I need to do?”
She was tempted to leave him to it for the perverse pleasure of seeing what he would come up with, but in the end, sparing herself the task of cleaning up whatever mess he might make conquered curiosity. “Umm, let’s do them in the grinder. It’s faster.”
She slid up beside him, took the beans from the mortar and poured them and a few more into the compact grinder on her counter top. Alexander watched with dedicated interest. “So, Alexander,” she said after the whirring machine had finished. “I should say it’s not particularly polite to show up in a girl’s bedroom. You might have frightened me, or caught me, erm, indisposed or with someone.” She blushed. Why had she said that? She didn’t want him thinking she might at any moment have a man in her bed, but still the point needed making.
“I checked before I came in,” Alexander said. “I like seeing you sleeping. You looked happy.”
Ordinary Angels Page 4
