by Opal Carew
So Jolie did a bit of searching among the throng to find her car and caravanned behind Todd’s be-all/end-all of cars to his house, her new home.
Home—oh Lord, her apartment.
I will hold it together. She would. No big deal. It was just a few things. Things. Things shouldn’t mean so much.
But in the confines of her little car, she could admit to herself—only—that they did mean something.
A lot.
All her books, her clothing, her shoes—goodbye kicky yellow flats—meant something. Things she’d bought, worked for. Earned. Owned. All gone in the blink of a planetary eye. All because of someone’s momentary carelessness.
She refused to consider arson. Yeah, it was kind of suspicious that someone emptied the building before it went up in flames, but she was going with coincidence. That someone could have done it on purpose hurt more than she could bear. So she just wouldn’t think about it. What was it Scarlett O’Hara said? She’d think about it tomorrow.
Or never. What good would it do anyway? This was the hand she’d been dealt. Same as any other event in her life. She would, however, like to discuss with the Dealer the extraordinarily bad hands being dealt her.
She pulled into Todd’s driveway and drove into the bay beside his while he unlocked the door to the covered walkway between the garage and the house and held it open for her. Still chivalrous in the face of tragedy. Gotta love this guy.
Whoa. That was just an expression and her subconscious—or Naughty Girl—better ban it from their collective thoughts. Pronto.
“Top of the stairs to the left,” Todd said with a nod up the back staircase once they were in the mudroom. “Take any room you’d like. I’ve got a t-shirt you can borrow to sleep in. I donated my wife’s clothes before the move, so unfortunately I don’t have anything feminine for you.”
She pshaw-ed him with her hand while her brain played catch-up. He mentioned his wife so calmly. She was impressed.
“A t-shirt is fine. Really.” They hit the top landing and she hung a left while he went right.
“I’ll be right back. Any preference on color?” He smiled and she couldn’t help but return it. The guy could be quite charming when he wanted to be.
And even if his charming-ness was just to pick up her spirits after losing all her worldly possessions, she’d take it. Her nerves were a bit frazzled from the whole trying-to-keep-it-together thing. “Whatever color you’ve got, though pink is my favorite.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I’d like to see what he can d—
Enough, Naughty Girl.
Jolie spun around and entered the room. Soft sage walls with crown molding. White-washed furniture. Big ol’ four-poster with mounds of pillows. Comfy chair in the corner, window seat with a cushion that matched the muted slate-and-sage plaid bedspread. Understated elegance. Probably came from a decorator because Todd was known for the vibrant colors in his paintings. She doubted he’d had anything to do with decorating this place since he had yet to hang anything on the walls except a flat screen TV.
But the quality was there. The pillows were down, the intricacies of the trim meant it wasn’t off the rack, and the carpet was the plushest she’d ever felt. She stifled the groan. It was one thing to work in the kitchen then go home to her world. She could appreciate the luxury, but leave it behind. Because she had to. If she weren’t able to leave it behind, she’d end up coveting it, and that was just so not healthy for her—or anyone’s—self-esteem.
But to stay here, living in this luxury—even for one night—was going to make it pretty tough to leave. But she’d do it. She’d manage.
It was what she did.
Todd returned, and, yep, the t-shirt was pink. Okay, it might have once been red and gone through too many washings, but it was pretty darn near pink. Honest to God, the man should come with a suit of armor.
For more reasons than one.
“Here you go. It’s the best I can do.” He offered it to her and she put her pesky little hormones on inactive duty. She was not going to brush his fingertips with hers when she took it. She wasn’t.
Really.
Of course Naughty Girl overrode that directive and “just happened” to slide her fingers over his.
“Well, goodnight,” he said as if a lick of fire didn’t traverse his entire nervous system from their “accidental” touch as it did hers.
“Goodnight. See you tomorrow. We aren’t going to have a repeat of this morning, are we?” She couldn’t resist the dig.
“Nope. Promise. No nudity from here on out.”
She could honestly say that was a bummer.
***
Todd closed his bedroom door, crossed to the bed, and sat. He toed off his shoes, then rested his elbows on his knees.
A woman. In his house. Overnight.
He scrubbed his face. Yeah, she was in a separate room, but it didn’t matter. Her presence filled his house.
It wasn’t her perfume, though he’d caught a whiff of something flowery when he’d held the door for her earlier. It wasn’t her things, because, let’s face it, she had nothing.
God, he knew what that felt like.
Todd pushed his hands off his thighs and headed to the bathroom, stripping his shirt off as he went. He hurled it into the heap in the corner behind the door with the last three days’ worth of laundry, walking out of his pants as he went. He should probably pick up the mess.
In the doorway he turned around. At least the mess made the room look lived in.
Lived in.
His stomach clenched. What did it say when his room wouldn’t look lived in if it weren’t for dirty laundry? There wasn’t a stitch of anything personal in the room—no pictures, no newspaper, no magazines, not a knick-knack anywhere. Just a bed, two nightstands, a dresser and a television. Even the remote was tucked into a drawer. Probably next to a Bible and the Yellow Pages.
He snorted. He didn’t think he’d put anything in the drawers.
For the first time, he really looked at his room, the place where he spent roughly a third of his life. The decorator had gone minimalist here. Pine furniture with hidden hardware. Straight curtains hung beneath a rectangular valance, beige-on-brown pattern. Tan paint on the walls, muted earth tones on the bed.
He recognized the signs: Soothing. Comforting. Cocooning.
Barren.
He grabbed the doorframe above his head. Where was the color? The brilliant blue of an ocean sky that had filled his and Trista’s bedroom with the memories of rolling waves crashing on the beach during their third anniversary trip—the first time they’d been able to afford a real honeymoon. They’d captured those memories with hokey tropical souvenirs and Trista had invaded his supplies to pick paint colors. They’d chosen yacht-white for the crown molding and furniture, hibiscus-red, bird-of-paradise blue, orchid-orange, every color of the tropical flora that had been around their bungalow, reminding them of how much they’d enjoyed the trip and each other—
He gripped the molding. Trista was gone. Had been for two years.
And now there was another woman in his house.
Todd shook his head and turned to the sink. It wasn’t as if Jolie were in his house to stay. He was just helping her out. Over a hard patch.
He grabbed his toothbrush. Jolie had looked so devastated. Her perpetual smile had disappeared and the sparkle in her violet eyes had shriveled up and died in the flames. Then she’d screamed…
It’d been gut-wrenching to hear.
Gut-wrenching to remember what that much pain felt like.
He stopped brushing, meeting his own eyes in the mirror above the sink. Remembered the pain. Not felt it.
He set the brush down and swiped a hand across his mouth, his fingers finding that spot he’d missed shaving. The one Jolie had pointed out.
His eyes widened. He could remember the pain without reliving it.
Did that mean he was forgetting? Forgetting Trista?
He clo
sed his eyes. There she was. The first time he’d seen her. The day she’d said yes to his proposal. The first time they’d made love. The happiness in her smile when he’d shown her that first painting…
His legs buckled for a few wobbly seconds and he sat on the toilet lid. He remembered everything, but it hadn’t speared him in the gut.
The hurt was replaced with…
Acceptance? Comfort? What was it?
Todd pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t put his memories away. Not tonight. He couldn’t deal with this tonight.
Because he now had to forget that there was another woman in his house.
***
Jonathan paced outside the archangel’s office, clutching his tweed beret, wringing the shape out of it, and wishing his eye twitch would slow it down to a snare drum pace. It always flared up when he was nervous and, oh, Boss, was he in for it now.
How did these things happen? One minute he’d been trying to sneak into Jolie’s apartment, and the next, poof! the whole thing went up in flames.
Why’d that man have to set that oil on the window ledge? And over an open flame? Jonathan couldn’t be blamed for not seeing it in the form he’d been in, but his timing couldn’t have been more off.
He wasn’t cut out for this job. He knew it. He just didn’t know why Raphael didn’t know it. The archangel was always giving him another chance, encouraging him. Why, when he’d almost broken that time-travel device in Tudor England, then almost lost those gold coins…
Why couldn’t things go right for him? His Charges were the ones to suffer. Look at Jolie. Now she was homeless.
“Jonathan?” Raphael opened the door to his inner sanctum, gold light blazing through the opening. “What are you doing here?”
Jonathan gulped, smoothed a finger over his eyebrow to calm the twitch, then gave the beret one last twist before shoving it in his pocket. Time to face the celestial music.
“Sir, I’ve…well…I’ve bungled it. Again.”
Raphael smiled. As always. With light and love, and no vestige of sarcasm. Jonathan always felt guilty when he received those unearned smiles.
“Jonathan, it’s not possible for you to bungle an assignment. It’s merely a change in direction. Now, come in, and let’s see if we can steer this project back on course.” Raphael beckoned him inside. “When good intentions are at the basis of an angel’s actions, nothing bad will happen. Remember that, Jonathan.”
Sure, he remembered that. He remembered it from the first time he’d messed up, and the second, and the third…
He just had to get it right this time.
Chapter Eleven
Surprisingly, Jolie slept. She hadn’t really expected to, but apparently her itinerant childhood made her capable of far greater things than she knew.
She threw back the eight-bazillion count sheets and grabbed a quick shower. She would’ve loved to have taken the time to float in the swimming pool he called a bathtub, but she was not one to take advantage and she did have the guy’s breakfast to prepare. Luckily, she’d bought everything yesterday that she’d need to whip up a feast fit for a king. Or a good-Samaritan landlord.
But, surprise, surprise, she entered the kitchen to find Todd smiling away at the stove.
“Hey,” he said, all chipper and perky, his yellow polo matching the sunny disposition.
Wait a minute. That was her role. “What are you doing?”
He smiled. “I’m, how did you put it? ‘Burning the butter for your morning omelet.’”
That was her line. “But why? I’m supposed to be cooking your meals.”
He waved a hand toward the breakfast bar and she followed the silent instruction. It was his house after all and he was paying her salary.
“With what you went through last night, the last thing you need is to wait on me. Figured you could use some TLC.”
Good thing he turned away or he might’ve caught the tears that sprang to her eyes. No one had ever thought of her before.
And she needed to ignore the warm fuzzies his concern garnered. She could take care of herself, remember?
“I’m perfectly fine. Really. You were right, they were just things. I’ll get more.” She sat down. “Has there been any news on the cause?”
He slid a decently fluffy omelet onto a plate and added a piece of toast, then placed the whole thing before her where he’d already poured the o.j. and set out utensils. Had to love a guy who planned ahead.
“The reports say the cause is still under investigation, but nothing conclusive has been found. Luckily, no one was hurt.”
Thank goodness for that. As he’d said, things were replaceable.
Todd pulled a plate from the warming drawer and sat next to her. “So, is that the best omelet you’ve ever had or what?” he mimicked her once more.
She gave him a well-earned smile for the jest. “Second best,” she said, mouth full of something that truly was comparable to her own excellent omelet-making skills.
He laughed, getting her again. A bit of silence followed the shared joke, then Todd cleared his throat, glancing away and fiddling with his fork. “I’ve got to run downtown. Do you want me to drop you anywhere?”
The offer was tempting, but he hadn’t hired a new best friend and she had tons of errands to do, re-building her life and all. “That’s okay. I’ve got a zillion things to take care of. Melanie will get me there.”
“Melanie?”
Jolie felt her cheeks flame. “Um, yeah. My car.”
“You named your car Melanie?”
She nodded. Melanie was the first big purchase she’d made on her own and the car was like a best friend. They’d been through quite a lot together.
Mel was a VW bug—but not the new kind unfortunately. No, she was a classic—though not in quite the shape a classic classic should be in. She was classic in the very essence of the word. The first coat of paint was still on her (well, most of it anyway), and the dent on the driver’s side door was from the year she was bolted together. The spare tire still had its original air. Hopefully. But Mel was cheap, though she preferred “affordable,” and got Jolie where she needed to go.
“I would’ve figured you for a Scarlett,” Todd returned.
And there he went, getting her again. Almost.
“No. She can’t be Scarlett. Scarlett’s headstrong, unpredictable, gets things done in her own way. When I buy a used car, I need predictable, steadfast, and loyal.”
“Melanie Wilkes.”
Jolie nodded. “You got it.”
“So you and Melanie have plans then today?”
“We sure do. But don’t worry. I’ll run a few errands, come back for your lunch, then head out again. I’ll be out of your hair all day.”
Speaking of hair, he did that hand-raking thing through his again which was so utterly masculine and très sexy. Which she shouldn’t be noticing.
“Actually,” he said, oblivious, “take all the time you want. I probably won’t make it back for lunch and I’ve got dinner at Mike’s house tonight. My sister-in-law likes to have me over every so often. Just to make sure I still know how to interact with the human race and keep my manners up to par.” He put his fork down and grinned at her. It was nice to see the smile, given that yesterday he’d been just a teensy bit grumpy. And a big bit hung-over. What a difference a day made. “So, take your time. Don’t rush back on my account. You’ve got a key. Come and go as you please.”
She loved this job. Two days and she’d only cooked one meal, gotten really nice digs to stay in, and eye candy as a boss. She should probably be paying him.
She insisted on doing the dishes, and after a bit of exasperating reasoning (she was good at that) he gave in and went off to his day.
First order of business once the kitchen was back to its pristine-ness was to get some clothes. The turquoise dress was nice, but not for everyday wear. And she did mean every day unless she hightailed it to a store.
Jolie drove Mel to the outlet shops wh
ere she put her fashion sense in touch with her thrifty side, and they all ended up happy with their purchases. A few shorts and shirts, some capris, jeans, pjs, and a few unmentionables, plus go-with-everything shoes. No more every-color-kicky flats. Until the insurance money showed up, she was no longer Imelda Marcos. A quick trip to the drug store for those essentials a woman couldn’t live without, and she was ready to call it a day.
Except she could use a few more notebooks and number two pencils. That was how she wrote, longhand, in spiral-bound, three subject notebooks. She got the feel of the story more, and liked the connection of a sharp point as it rasped across the paper. Not to mention, before her current assignment, she simply couldn’t afford a laptop, so any research was done at the internet café on Main Street. With what Todd was paying her, however, she might be able to reconsider her technology options.
But, for now, notebooks in hand, she was set. Well, except for her little library of “keepers,” those books she loved to read over and over again. She had almost the entire Bridgerton collection in that apartment. It’d taken a while to amass and there was no way she could afford to re-do it overnight, but she was going to make a start.
A girl needed some avenue of escape when reality got too harsh. Plus, she did need the newspaper to check out the apartment listings, so she decided to head over to Mr. Griff’s new store.
A church bell chimed as she entered. He must like the sound to have it in two of his stores. The little man himself balanced atop a step ladder, stacking books.
“Hello, my dear,” he said as he climbed down, his black shoes clinking against the metal rungs. “I’m so sorry to hear about your home. Such a shame. I’m sure it was an accident, though. Perhaps someone knocked something over they didn’t see that wasn’t supposed to be there?” He coughed. “What can I get for you?”
“Thank you, Mr. Griff.” She tried to keep her eyes on him rather than straying around the room. He’d sure filled the place in a hurry. “I, um, lost my books in the fire. So, I need to re-stock. But only one or two until the insurance money comes in.”
