Angel Baby (Heaven Can Wait)

by Laura Marie Altom

  Kneeling beside her, he brushed her hair back from her face and drew a swift breath. Damn. A nasty bruise marred her equally dirty forehead.

  Was she sleeping? Or like really unconscious? How did he tell the difference?

  “Ma’am?” He put his hand on her shoulder for a gentle shake. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

  From behind lips so full and red they looked pursed for a kiss spilled a moan.

  “That’s it. Wake up.” Tell me your story.

  Her eyes opened in slow increments.

  “W-where am I?” she asked, treating him to an aquamarine gaze of the sort he’d only seen in one of Geneva’s Cosmos.

  Relief turned his already aching legs rubbery. If she could talk, she could walk, which meant he was off the hook. “You’re in Blue Moon, Arkansas.”

  “Oh…” Her wobbly soft tone faded around the same time her eyes drifted closed.

  Great. So, she couldn’t talk? But then, judging by the sweet-liquor scent of her one word, at least now there was a logical reason for her lethargy. As to how she’d gotten that nasty bruise and all that dirt, probably the same place she’d gotten soused.

  He gave her another gentle shake, but she wouldn’t budge. Damnit. Couldn’t she see he had enough woman problems on his plate?

  Despite the self-preserving voice at the back of his head telling him to set her on the front porch bench and call the town’s only cab, he slid his arms beneath her slight form, planning on carrying her to the piece-of-shit sofa in his office. Problem was, scooping her gracefully out of that alcove wasn’t going to happen so, in the end, he half-tugged, half-lifted, half-broke his back trying to lug her out of there and, even through all that commotion, her eyes stayed glued shut.

  Limp as she was, she made for an awkward package. But, luckily, in preparation for mopping, he’d used a chair to prop open the bathroom door, so once he shimmied past, it was no big deal to use her feet to kick through the swinging kitchen door.

  Finally, in the office, he settled her on the couch, then rubbed his aching arms.

  After checking that Katie was still asleep, Jonah slipped into the kitchen to wet a cloth.

  As best he could, he cleaned the woman’s face and hands, then used his fingers to comb the crumpled leaves from her hair, before covering her with another butt-ugly afghan—this one red, black, yellow and brown. God help her if she woke with a hangover and the first thing she caught sight of was that old thing. At least it smelled clean from the Tide and Downy he’d only recently learned to use.

  Funny how things changed.

  Back when his mom had been alive, he’d have paid good money for her to spout cleaning tips to someone other than him. Now, he’d have paid to have her here. She’d know what to do.

  As for him knowing what to do…

  He scratched his head.

  He eyed Katie, then the mystery woman, then the yellow smiley-face clock Geneva had given him for his thirty-third birthday. He hated that clock and had been meaning to get rid of it but, at the moment, it was the least of his problems.

  Hell, here it was, almost ten, and instead of taking the hot shower he’d been craving, he was standing around eyeballing two snoozing blonds while he still had a bathroom floor to mop.

  Sighing, he headed off to get his work done, and had just about finished when from the office came one of Katie’s banshee wails.

  With a small splash, he dropped the mop into the bucket and washed his hands. Time for the munchkin’s bottle.

  Katie’s cries intensified.

  “Hold on, squirt…” He hustled for the office, but her squalling stopped.

  Old Doc Penbrook’s voice echoed in Jonah’s head. Failure to thrive is serious business. …This little lady’s deteriorating condition is giving me a real scare.

  Knowing he couldn’t take it if something were to happen to the only thing in his life worth living for, Jonah flat out ran though the sea of dining room tables, sending a wooden chair clattering to the floor before entering the stainless steel kitchen maze.

  Bursting through the office door, he’d imagined, then readied, for the worst, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight truly unfolding.

  The stranger he’d only a short while earlier tucked to sleep on the sofa was now seated in the big oak rocker that’d been in his family for over a hundred years—with Katie contentedly suckling her left breast.

  Chapter Two

  “What the hell does she think she’s doing?” Geneva hopped up from her invisible bench-thingee, yanked off her black spiked heel and threw it at the giant flat-screen. “Stop it!” she hollered. “That’s my baby! And my husband! I’ve been around the block a time or two. Don’t think you can just waltz in there with your big blond hair and those baby blues and—”

  Some toga-wearing dude clasped his hand over her right shoulder.

  “Back off!” She turned from the screen to scowl. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m on a roll. And . . .” Her eyes narrowed, taking in her seriously bizarre surroundings. Swirling fog, a sticky-sweet smell landing somewhere between jelly beans and carnations and the dude who looked like a cross between Nathan Lane and Jesus. Was she on a bad trip?

  She wiggled her fingers in front of her face. When was the last time she’d done a line?

  Eyes narrowed, she asked the dude standing alongside her, “Where the hell am I, and who the hell are you?”

  “All questions will be answered in good time, my dear.” His bow was so proper it could’ve only been sarcastic. When he straightened, sure enough, his serene smile looked more like a smirk. “The main thing you should know is that you’re dead.”

  “Dead?” Her eyes widened. “As in, six feet under? Bit the big one? Gone-to-meet-my-maker-dead?”

  “That’d be the one. Though to you, only moments have passed, in Earth time, it’s been three months since your demise.”

  She took a sec for that to sink in, then shook her head and smiled. “Good one. For a moment, you almost had me. But, really, where are we? Because first thing in the morning, I’ve got a call-back audition on a student zombie film.” She glanced down at her nuclear green Puke & Die concert T-shirt just in time to see a seagull dive through her left boob. “Whoa!” She shivered, in spite of the sauna-like heat. “What was that?”

  Her companion merely smiled. “You’ll get used to it. In your current state, your body consists solely of light. Actually, you have no body, but since that’s a tough subject for unruly first-timers like yourself, I’ll go ahead and let you keep your past form a while longer—though you might at least try doing something with your hair.”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” She fingered the long, neon green and black strands. “At Puke and Die’s concert tonight, Talon told me I looked hot.”

  “Ah, yes,” the being said in his uptight accent that sounded more like he hailed from London than a cloud. “Master Talon. How could I forget the chap who gave you the complimentary dose of X that proved to be the cause of your untimely passing?”

  Deep into her personal space, the guy face-planted his palm to her forehead—and that’s when things got really screwy. Psychedelic flashes accosted her from all angles. Images of Katie and Jonah. Leaving Blue Moon for Little Rock. Her crappy apartment and, even worse, the stripping gig. The guys she’d met who’d given her free concert tickets. The hand job she’d given a roadie to get backstage after the show. It all moved faster and faster, until she was dancing and laughing and drinking, and doing line after line and downing a pill and then—swoosh . . .

  As if she was hang-gliding and then running off a cliff, the world fell out from under her. There was light, so much light. And then, shame. The kind of soul-deep agony stemming from the certain knowledge that her whole life had amounted to little more than a series of continuous screw-ups—except for one.

  Her heart squeezed when she thought about her baby girl—not to mention Katie’s daddy. But no matter what anyone else thought about her leaving, Geneva knew she’
d done the right thing. Katie deserved better than her for a mother. Everyone in town knew Jonah deserved better for a wife.

  No, no, no… She swallowed even harder.

  I can’t be dead, and I am not going to cry. Not in front of this sheet-wearing snob who looks straight off the set of a Hercules flick.

  “You’re not really going to cry, you know?” The guy’s voice was surprisingly soothing. “You’re merely experiencing the memory of previous tears.”

  Geneva snapped her gaze to his. “How’d you do that?”

  “What?”

  “You know what. Read my mind. I don’t know how you did it, but I’d appreciate it if, from now on, you stayed out of my private thoughts.”

  “As you wish.” He steepled his hands in a prayer-like position, then bowed his head. Beady brown gaze back on her, he said, “Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, shall we get down to business?”

  Eyes narrowed, Geneva asked, “What kind of con are you pulling? Is this the part where you tell me, thanks but no thanks, God doesn’t want my type? ’Cause, believe you me, if I am dead, I already know I’m going to hell and that’s okay. I’ll be first to admit I deserve it.”

  “Why?”

  She laughed. “Are you deaf? I’m going to hell because I’m bad. You know, just like the song, Bad to the Bone.”

  He sighed, gazed at a passing flock of big gray birds that looked like they could really mess up the hood of that hot red Mustang she’d always wanted, but now would never have. Turning back to her, he said, “I’m afraid you don’t understand what it is I’ve asked.”

  “Then maybe you’d better explain.”

  “No, that’d take too much time. I’d rather just show you a little later. You, Ms. Geneva Kowalski-McBride, have indeed done some downright foul things, but that’s the upside of Heaven. My boss picks up on the intricacies of the soul and, while it’s a longshot, Mr. Big believes you may be redeemable.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She couldn’t help but lean forward. “What’s the catch?”

  “Ah, yes.” He smiled. “The catch. There’s always a catch with creatures like you.”

  “Well, I know you’re not about to give me this redemption of yours scot-free.”

  “Nope. ’Fraid not. Tell you what I am going to do, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you like games, Geneva?”

  “Depends on what kind—nothing too kinky.”

  “Great, then we’re in luck. I don’t do kink, either. What I do like, however, are games of the heart…”

  Chapter Three

  Jonah drew in a sharp breath.

  During the short time Geneva had nursed their child, Katie had thrived. But she’d never taken to the formula Jonah fed her like she’d taken to her mother’s breast. And wasn’t that how it should be? He couldn’t blame his daughter for preferring nature to a plastic bottle—but how could what he was seeing be true?

  He hovered in the room’s shadows, fascinated by the woman’s softly-crooned, nonsensical lullaby. Her voice was ethereal—deep into the realm of harps and airy wind chimes. An expression of unspeakable love transformed her features, illuminating aquamarine eyes that shone wet with unshed tears.

  The sight of dangerously thin Katie greedily suckling made Jonah’s throat thick with tears of relief and gratitude. Who could this woman be? Where had she come from, and how much would he have to withdraw from his meager savings to make her stay?

  A long time ago, he used to go to church. Back in those days, he might have toyed with the possibility that this angel was heaven-sent, but since he no longer believed in God, he sure as hell didn’t believe in angels.

  She looked up and their gazes locked. Tears that’d clung the corners of her eyes spilled. “I’m home,” she said, her voice raspy. “I’m finally home. It’s been so long.”

  Home? So long?

  Jonah stepped into the weak light pooling from the desk lamp onto worn beige carpet. Eyes narrowed, he moved closer to her, to his insatiable child.

  “F-first there was the accident,” she said. “And then I couldn’t find anyone to help.” With her free right hand, she pushed the hair back from her forehead, revealing a purple bruise. “I walked such a long way…” With the same hand she’d used to smooth back her own hair, she now stroked Katie’s golden goose-down fluff. “I missed you both so much, but…”

  “But what?”

  “But…” She grinned, an adorable lopsided affair that made his ever-growing urge to protect her that much stronger. “It’s the funniest thing. I remember Lizzy, but I can’t remember you or this place. I can’t even remember my name, favorite color or birthday. Please forgive me, sweetheart.” Again, she touched the bruise. “I’m sure once I start feeling better everything will come back. The important thing is that I’ve found you and our baby. Now I know everything will be all right. You’ll take care of me, won’t you? You’ve always taken such good care of me.”

  Just as Jonah had first been grateful, now his stomach churned. When had he become so selfish? This woman thought his baby was hers because she’d obviously lost her own. Somewhere out there she had a child and husband no doubt desperately searching for her, and here he’d stood happy as a June bug that she was feeding Katie.

  “Dizzy Lizzy,” she crooned in a silly, sing-song tone, her smile lighting not just her face but the entire room. “I missed you so much, baby. You’ll never know how much.”

  Like out-of-tune strings on a guitar, guilt strummed through Jonah. He had to tell her that he’d never before seen her, but then what would happen to Katie?

  For once, his baby seemed at peace. What would it hurt to keep this mystery woman with her at least until morning? Because really, it was too late to try to find her rightful home now. He’d just take her to his place, see that she got a good night’s rest. Then, come first light, he’d call his friend, Sam Calder—Blue Moon’s police chief.

  For Jonah, the ten-mile drive from the diner to his house lasted an eternity. With Katie’s infant seat strapped into the passenger-side of the crotchety old Chevy pickup, that left only the center section for the stranger to sit in. With every bump, her thigh brushed his, quickening his pulse, deepening his unease. Her fancy red suit perfumed the tight space with the rich scent of leather, and whenever he lowered his hand to shift, his knuckles brushed her buttery-soft knee.

  Geneva would have killed for an outfit like that, and there had been a time when Jonah would have killed to give it to her. At the high point of their marriage, he’d have done anything for her, but then she’d changed—or had it been him who’d changed?

  Expecting more than great sex.

  Receiving little else.

  He’d shared his woes with his pal, Chevis. And Sam Lawson, high school misfit turned police chief. Both guys told Jonah to lay off the sauce—for the only explanation there could possibly be for his complaints about a surplus of sex was that he’d been spending too much time with Mr. Jack Daniels and not enough in the arms of his eternally-randy wife.

  Steeling his grip on the wheel, Jonah frowned.

  Never having been much of a drinker, he knew better.

  What he hadn’t told the guys was that, toward the end of their marriage, Geneva had wielded sex like a manipulative weapon. Just like she’d tried sleeping her way into making him buy her that Mustang, she’d repeated the process, sometimes successfully and sometimes not, for clothes, jewelry, perfume, and those pricey sunglasses. Then there were the big-ticket items she’d damn well known he could never have afforded but she’d nagged about anyway. Buying a party barge, installing a backyard pool, remodeling the diner. And his favorite—closing the diner altogether and moving lock, stock and barrel to some speck on the map where she’d said she had friends on the east coast of Mexico. With Geneva, there had always been a reason for sex—a need that went miles farther than plain old love. With Geneva, pretty much the only thing that had ever mattered was what she wanted—and how she’d planned to get
it.

  He glanced toward the stranger, hating himself for loving the way she’d sidled up beside him. Her right hand rested on Katie’s car seat and the infant reached for her index finger, cooing when she not only caught it but gripped it tight, drawing it into her puckered lips.

  The woman said, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? A masterpiece, even if I do say so myself.” She leaned right to kiss Katie on the forehead, then straightened to kiss him on the cheek.

  Jonah inwardly groaned. What was he getting himself into? The woman’s simple yet fervent kiss made him feel branded. Like her searing touch implanted her essence deep within him, filling his mind with bizarre what-ifs.

  What if she really was Katie’s mom? His wife? How would his life be different? Without constant worry for Katie, would the added time he could’ve spent at the diner made a difference? Or would it still be headed for failure?

  Who could say?

  That was the problem with what-ifs. There was no way to know any of those answers.

  Even though Geneva had left him—even though he’d emotionally left her the day she’d found out she was pregnant and had threatened to get an abortion, the realist in Jonah gave himself a swift, hard mental kick for even wondering such things. Granted, Katie needed a mom, but he sure as hell didn’t need—or even want—another wife. Another thing he didn’t need was the heat building in the quarter-inch between the stranger and his thighs.

  Just a little longer, he thought, consoling himself with the sensible words even as he shifted from an unwanted erection. A little longer and he’d never again have to hold his arms so tight to his chest. He wouldn’t have to worry about his elbow accidentally grazing the side swell of the woman’s breast. Or about the fact that she wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary about him touching any part of her. In her mind, he was her husband.