The Porsche slowed as Angela looked over her shoulder, not trusting the rearview mirror. The street was quiet, deserted at this late hour. A blue bulb burned high on a telephone pole at the end of the street, casting a kind of graveyard light over everything.
Angela cut the engine and coasted to the curb. Thank God he had a garage. It looked like a nice house. She slid from behind the wheel and ran up to the door. She jabbed her finger against the bell and waited, all the while casting quick looks over her shoulder. The street remained quiet, its occupants asleep.
A light went on inside the house and a few moments later Angela heard the soft click of a deadbolt being eased. The door was opened a crack, the chain clearly visible. A single eye peered at her and then the chain was removed.
“Hi,” Angela said. “I, uh, was in the neighborhood and . . . well, here I am. I really do need a place to stay. Like now. Can I put my car in your garage?”
He didn’t seem surprised, for some unknown reason. “Okay, go ahead. Wait a minute and I’ll open the door for you. Be careful because the overhead light is burned out. Stay in the car till I come and get you.”
Angela raced back to the Porsche and turned on the ignition.
Charlie closed and locked the front door then put the chain back in place. He padded to the garage and opened the door, his pajama bottoms starting to slip down his hips as he reached up. He stood back, holding up his pajamas, as Angela guided the luxurious sports car into the space next to his old Chevy. Quickly he lowered the garage door and locked it. He helped Angela from the cramped driver’s side and guided her into the kitchen, then excused himself for a moment and left her sitting at the butcher-block table while he went upstairs for his robe and slippers.
When he returned, Angela had a pan of milk warming on the stove and was about to pour cocoa into it. “I’m making us some hot chocolate.”
How about that. Charlie sucked in air. Now she was making “us” hot chocolate.
“Great.” He didn’t know what the hell else to say as he sat down at the table and waited for Angela to place the heavy mug in front of him. He hated hot chocolate almost as much as he hated lukewarm black coffee. He didn’t remember where the tin had come from in the first place or why he still had it.
Why was he doing this? Why didn’t he just tell her to shut up and leave? Why had he let her put her car in the garage? Why was he letting her get to him like she was? Something about her that made him feel like trusting her. Charlie couldn’t afford to trust anyone.
“Here you go.” She handed him a mug of steaming cocoa. “I’m really sorry I woke you up, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
“It’s okay,” Charlie answered without thinking.
“In case you had insomnia, instead of just me waking you up, you will now sleep like a baby.” She turned around and gave the kitchen a final once-over. “I’ve been looking around and you keep this place pretty neat for a guy,” she commented.
Now she was complimenting him. She wanted him to sleep like a baby. He didn’t have a clue. Charlie brought the mug to his lips and sipped at the hot chocolate.
“Not too bad.” Angela drained her own cup. “Okay, point me in the right direction. Where do I bunk down? We’ll work out the money details tomorrow. Right now, I’m so tired I could sleep standing up.”
“Uh—upstairs. Second door on the left. The bathroom is across the hall,” Charlie said testily.
“Okay, see you in the morning.” Angela bent over and dropped a light kiss on Charlie’s forehead. “Thanks again,” she said softly before she fled the kitchen.
Charlie watched her go. He felt a strange glow encompass him. He rinsed the mugs and put them on the draining board, then sat back down on the kitchen chair. He fingered the kissed spot on his forehead. The strange glow stayed with him for a long time. When he looked at the kitchen clock it read 4:30. He finally climbed the stairs to go to bed.
Angela was right. He slept like a contented baby.
Angela dozed fitfully as dawn broke over the quiet street outside her window. She rolled over and assumed the fetal position. She heard a noise and burrowed deeper into the covers. She half felt and half heard Charlie creep into the room. A deep sigh escaped her. She wasn’t the least bit alarmed; Charlie would never hurt her. She didn’t know how she knew that, she just knew. She was safe with him, until her sixth sense told her otherwise. It had a way of fading in and out. But right now, in this bed in this house, she felt safe. One sleepy eye opened when she felt a feathery touch on her cheek. In the twilight of her sleep, she smiled.
Charlie returned her smile. He didn’t know why he’d felt the need to check on her. But he was glad he had. Real glad. Damn, he felt good, and it had nothing to do with sex. It was going to be a hell of a good day; he could feel it in his bones.
Angela rolled over onto her stomach, another sleepy sigh escaping her as Charlie tiptoed from the room. He turned and stared at the sleeping girl. Tonight he would have something more than an empty house to come home to. He would have a friend. He promised himself that he would try to be more talkative. Now that he had decided he liked her, that she could be trusted, he could let his defenses down a little. Relaxed in sleep, she was almost cute.
It was five minutes before noon when Angela awakened and became aware of her surroundings. She lay for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Strangely enough, she felt better than she had in months, maybe years. The episode of mania triggered by her anger at her mother seemed to be ebbing. The very last shrink she’d seen had explained that her extreme moods were cyclical. He’d diagnosed her as bipolar, but at least he’d encouraged her creative talent, prescribing art as therapy. As far as her visions, he was the one who’d pegged them as the product of a psychological fugue. Meaning a state of mind that came and went. Nothing she could control.
To hell with that and every other diagnosis, she thought. Right now she only wanted to be utterly ordinary, an average person that no one noticed, following a safe routine. At peace. She was glad she had escaped from the world and all her problems, if only temporarily.
Her eyes scanned the small bedroom. The furniture was old maple and held a high gloss, as though it had just been polished with lemon oil. The tiny floral print of the wallpaper, though faded, was pleasing to the eye. The maple rocking chair with the green velvet cushions looked so inviting that Angela hopped from bed and raced over to it. It creaked, but the steady motion soothed her. She rocked a few moments, savoring the feeling, realizing that it reminded her of sitting in her grandmother’s lap. She’d been cared for then. Angela wished suddenly that she could go back to that long-ago time. Playing house had been her favorite game.
Charlie didn’t seem to mind her being here. She remembered that he’d come into her room earlier, thinking that it was the first time she’d seen him smile. He wasn’t a handsome man by any stretch of the imagination, but he had a nice smile, a warm smile. And she would be willing to bet that not too many people had ever seen it. He struck her as being a generally unhappy man and a loner, much like herself. She wondered what had happened to make him that way. Maybe one of these days he would tell her.
She looked around again, wanting something to do. All her art materials had been left behind in her studio—she didn’t even have a sketch pad to doodle in or the colored pencils that she took everywhere. Being without them made her feel oddly free. If she needed something to do, she could make herself useful around Charlie’s place. After she’d showered.
Rubbing her wet hair with a towel, Angela came out of the bathroom, dressed, and then carefully made her bed. She smoothed the rumpled chenille till there was no sign of a wrinkle. Then she went into Charlie’s room and made his bed. She looked around at the room, noticing how spartan it was. He hadn’t struck her as a collector of anything. His dresser was bare except for a brush and comb. She lined up his scuffed slippers and hung his robe on the back of the door. She took a quick peek into the closet and took inventory.
One
suit and one sports jacket. Two pairs of pants on separate hangers. One heavy sweater with leather patches on the elbows—these were all that were hanging on the long rod. A pair of dress shoes, a pair of work boots, and a tattered pair of sneakers were the only things on the floor. The overhead shelf was bare. No sign of a carton or box and no suitcases. All of which told her he didn’t do much socializing or go on vacations. How lonely this man must be. Even lonelier than her.
Making her way down the stairs, Angela sniffed at the aroma of coffee. Charlie had left her some; the machine was on warm. It would be bitter by now, but it was a nice thought. A note rested next to the machine. Angela stared at it, trying to make out the squiggly handwriting.
I’ll call you on my break. There’s plenty of food in the refrigerator.
It was signed with a large scrawled C.
Angela peeled a large orange and sat at the table to nibble on a segment. She really wasn’t hungry. A cup of not-great coffee finished off her meager meal. When she was through, she rinsed the glass coffeepot. Perhaps later she would make a fresh pot. She wondered what time Charlie’s break was. What would she say to him when he called? She hoped he would open up a little. Trying to make conversation with Charlie Roman was hard. She still didn’t want to tell him that she worked at the mall. He might be insulted if she told the truth, that she might have seen him before that time that she’d bumped into him, but just didn’t remember his face.
Maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe he didn’t have anything to say because he never did anything but work. What a shame. She smiled, remembering the light touch on her cheek when he thought she was asleep. He was probably just bashful around girls he didn’t know.
The kitchen floor was dirty. That was something she could tackle. She’d grown up with housekeepers and maids, but if she had to, she could run a house as efficiently as Martha Stewart. Call it domestic therapy. She would clean out the refrigerator, scrub the floor, and make a cake. And of course she would cook dinner for Charlie. Just the two of them. Real cozy. If she had it all ready he could come home for his supper break and still get back to the mall on time.
She wanted to return his kindness. He might trust her more if she did. She had no idea.
Angela had just finished mopping the kitchen floor when the phone in the hallway rang. Cautiously, she answered it. “Hello.”
“This is Charlie.”
“I know. I just scrubbed your kitchen floor,” Angela blurted.
“Thank you.” Charlie was nonplussed at Angela’s statement.
“Um, what time is your supper hour? I thought I would cook dinner and have it ready for you. That way you could come home, eat, and still get back on time for your evening shift.”
“That sounds good. Yes, that’s fine. Why don’t you do that? I can be home by six fifteen,” Charlie said happily. “What else did you do?”
“Not much,” Angela said, warming up to the voice on the other end of the phone. “I got up kind of late and then I rocked for a while in the rocking chair upstairs. I took a shower and made the beds and then I ate part of an orange and scrubbed the floor.”
“Oranges are good for you, especially if you have low blood sugar,” Charlie volunteered.
“I didn’t know that. Is there anything in particular you would like for dinner?”
“I’m not fussy, but I would like some hot coffee to go with whatever you make.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll see you later then. Good-bye, Charlie.”
“Good-bye, Angela,” Charlie said, a wide smile splitting his face. He’d been right. It was a good day and it was going to get better.
Angela danced her way around the kitchen as she set a package of chicken breasts out to thaw. She wiped down the stove and refrigerator with a solution of baking soda and vinegar and was pleased with the high shine her efforts produced. She wondered if Charlie would notice. She scrubbed two oversized yams and deftly cut up vegetables for a salad. She found some fresh string beans that were limp but still useable, cleaned them, and set them to soak in a bowl of ice water. They’d crisp up in an hour or so.
Now for the cake. She looked around, pushing jars and boxes to the back of the cabinet as she searched for the ingredients. Charlie looked like the chocolate type.
Everything in front of her, Angela dusted her hands together dramatically in preparation for her first homemade cake. The cake batter prepared and in the oven, she set the timer she’d found in a drawer and then settled herself to watch soap operas. An hour later she was disgusted. The scheming older heroine reminded her of someone she would rather forget.
The overheated daily drama gave way to the 4:30 movie. Before long Angela became engrossed in the story. She raced to the kitchen during the commercial break to set the table and mix the salad dressing. Since there wasn’t enough sugar in the house to make frosting for the cake, Angela made instant pudding and then poured it over the cake. Later she would add the whipped topping she had seen in the refrigerator. Charlie must like the creamy white stuff because there were six containers resting on the back shelf. She drained the string beans and tested one by snapping it to see if it had crisped.
It had. She added fresh water and set the pot on the stove. She peeked at the roasting chicken breasts and grinned. They were browning nicely and the dressing underneath would surely add to its flavor.
Boy, the kitchen smelled good. Charlie would be pleased. Men liked to come home to a goodsmelling house and know that all they had to do was sit down and eat. She was definitely channeling her grandma.
What else? Oh, right. Coffee. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use an automatic coffeemaker. Old-fashioned perked coffee was the only kind she liked. Irma, her mother’s housekeeper, had taught her that. Angela stared at the coffeemaker and decided it must be fairly new since there were no stains on the white plastic. Charlie probably used it because it was quick and he didn’t have much time in the morning. She pulled out a stool, climbed up, and started to search the cabinets. Charlie looked like the type to save things if they weren’t worn out.
Angela finally found an aluminum percolator in the back of the third cabinet she searched. Industriously, she scoured the small pot till it gleamed. It was the kind that perked on the stove, and now not only would there be dinner aromas but also the fragrant smell of real brewed coffee to greet Charlie.
Gee whiz, she thought wryly. Look at me, morphing into a 1950s housewife. Everything but the gingham apron. Well, playing house made her feel calm. Almost normal. And it kept her from obsessing.
She measured out the coffee, added cold water, and set the pot behind the string beans. Both would be turned on at the same time.
Satisfied that everything was under control, Angela trotted back to the living room to the movie. She had missed too much of it and her interest waned. Oh well. Another half hour and Charlie would be home. They would sit down and eat and talk. It had been a long time since she had talked to anyone—really talked.
Tears stung Angela’s eyes; she impatiently wiped them away with her shirt sleeve. Crying like a baby wasn’t going to snap her out of this weird, drifting mood.
But she couldn’t stop herself. Something was wrong with her and always had been. If you were to believe her mother, she had been hatched from an egg. A rotten egg. The tears burned again. This time she let them gather on her lashes and then trickle down her cheeks.
Emotional cripple. She had heard her mother say those very words about her to her father, if not to her face. If she was, then it was because they had made her one. God knows she hadn’t become this way on her own.
Charlie walked into the house promptly at sixteen minutes after six. Angela’s eyes lit up as she watched him sniff the air. Her thin face brightened into a delightful grin that matched his when he said, “It smells just like Sunday dinner the way my mother used to make it. Roast chicken, chocolate cake, and all the works.”
“Right, right. And I found your old aluminum coffee pot and perked some real coffee for you. I
know you like coffee,” Angela said, suddenly shy.
“I love perked coffee,” Charlie said exuberantly. “Is it ready?” he asked hopefully.
“All you have to do is sit down and eat. Come on.” Angela took him by the arm. He didn’t pull away from her as she thought he might.
Quickly and deftly, she served him—a regular June Cleaver out of the old TV show. Charlie ate ravenously, making comments like “This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook? This is every bit as good as my mother used to make. More, one more helping.” And then, finally, “How did you know my mother used to pour pudding over the cake?”
“I didn’t know.” Angela could feel herself smiling from ear to ear. “There wasn’t enough sugar to make frosting, so I improvised. I’m so glad you like it and that I did it right. More coffee?”
“Sure, and another slice of cake. Aren’t you having any?”
“Charlie, I already had three pieces.” She giggled, rolling her eyes.
“Oh, I’ve been so busy eating, I didn’t notice.” Charlie leaned back and patted his stomach. “God, I ate too much. If I ate like this all the time, I’d be as fat as a pig. People shouldn’t eat so much. I know. I used to be fat, and people made fun of me, but I couldn’t seem to stop eating,” he said honestly.
“How would you like to be as skinny as I am and hear people say you look like a scarecrow or a skeleton? I can eat any kind of food I want, but I just can’t gain weight. It might not be so noticeable if I didn’t have such irregular features.”
Charlie stared at Angela. “I think you have interesting features, Angela. You’re no beauty queen, but most girls aren’t. You’re . . .” He searched for just the right word that wouldn’t hurt her feelings. For some reason he really cared about this odd-looking girl with the toobig teeth and strange nose. “You’re just ordinary,” he said sincerely, knowing he meant every word he was thinking and saying.
Christmas At Timberwoods Page 11
