Angela’s face brightened again. “Do you mean it? You really don’t think I’m ugly? How about homely?”
“Ordinary,” Charlie said firmly as he held out his coffee cup. “Which is a lot better than being awkward like me.”
“You’re just big,” Angela said, leaning her elbows on the table. “Big people are always awkward. It comes with the territory. What really matters is that you have a likeable face. A pleasant face actually,” she said, leaning closer. “And you have a great smile.”
Charlie felt a surge of something, and it had nothing to do with his libido. Protectiveness—that was it. He wanted to wrap himself around her and hold her tight. The feeling startled him. “You mean that?”
Angela stared at Charlie for a full minute before she replied. “You’d better know something about me, Charlie Roman. If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a liar. What you see is what you get.”
Another strange surge coursed through Charlie. He would figure out what it was later. Now he had to leave, or he would be late and Dolph Richards would have his head. He nodded. “Works for me. Hey, I gotta go. I’ll see you later. That was the best dinner I’ve had in years. Thank you,” he said shyly.
Angela blushed. “Hurry up or you’ll be late. When you get home I’ll make some popcorn and we’ll sit on the couch and watch television together.”
Charlie beamed and nodded as he closed the door behind him. God, was he ever lucky that she’d landed on his doorstep. And to think he’d almost blown it. He shook his head and laughed silently.
Charlie returned from work anticipating a relaxed hour or two with Angela. She was as good as her word. A large bowl of hot, buttery popcorn rested on the table. Frosty glasses of beer were set on napkins on the end tables. For over an hour she sat next to him on the sofa in companionable silence, munching, sipping, and watching TV. Reluctantly, Charlie finally had to call it a night. He needed his sleep. Angela yawned and agreed.
“You can have the bathroom first,” Charlie said gallantly.
“Okay, I’ll see you in the morning then. Good night, Charlie,” Angela said quietly. “Oh, I forgot about the dishes. I’ll do them before I use the bathroom. You go ahead.”
“Oh no. You cooked dinner and made the popcorn. I’ll clean up. You go to bed. You look tired. Go on, now,” Charlie said sternly as though he were talking to a child. “Angela,” he added thoughtfully, “if you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”
She turned to face him. “Is it important? Age is just a number, after all. It’s what’s in here and here that counts.” She tapped her heart and head.
Charlie nodded. If she didn’t want to tell him, he wasn’t going to pry. She hadn’t quizzed him and she hadn’t made any unkind remarks. He would show her the same courtesy. He knew he was older by a good many years and thought maybe that was what made him feel so protective of her. He bent over to pick up the bowl and the glasses.
“Angela,” he said quietly, “you aren’t just ordinary. You’re special ordinary.”
Angela was stunned. She stopped in midstride. She knew—she didn’t know just how she knew, but she did—that Charlie Roman had never said that to another human being. She was touched. Really touched.
“Thank you, Charlie,” she said with all sincerity. “I know you mean it. Good night.” She turned to go up the stairs.
Charlie followed her over to the foot of the stairs and watched her as she climbed the steps. She stopped on the fourth step and looked back at him over her shoulder. “You know, Charlie. That was probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” She sighed wistfully.
Charlie felt something burning inside him. “Listen,” he said impulsively, “I’m off on Sunday. How would you like to do something? Go somewhere?” He waited, hardly daring to breathe, for her answer. The invitation was the only way he could think of to find out if she was going to stay with him beyond tonight. He had learned the hard way from past experiences that when something was especially good, things started to go wrong. He willed her to say yes with every fiber in his body.
Angela smiled. “I’d like that, Charlie. Hey,” she said excitedly, “we never discussed me paying you rent. I meant to bring it up at dinnertime, but we were so busy talking and eating that I forgot.”
Charlie’s face went blank and then he flushed. “I don’t want any money from you. I thought we were friends. You said we were friends.” His voice stopped just short of being accusing.
“Okay, okay, don’t get upset. I just like to pay my way, that’s all. I’m not a freeloader.” Angela could sense him drifting away from her suddenly. He had done the same thing at dinner and then again when they were watching TV. It was almost as if he went to some other world for a few moments—a world he didn’t particularly like. She thought he must have something on his mind, something he had to work out.
That made two of them.
“Charlie,” she said hesitantly, “whatever it is that’s bothering you, do you want to talk about it?”
“It?” Charlie pretended he didn’t understand.
“Yeah, it. From time to time you sort of fade off into the distance, if you know what I mean. Like you have something heavy on your mind. Do you want to talk about it? If you do, I’m a good listener and I don’t flap my mouth. What I’m saying is, if it’s a secret, you don’t have to worry about me blabbing it.” She could see that he was getting agitated. “Never mind. It was only a suggestion,” she said hastily.
“No, it’s okay.” And it was. Relief washed over him, even though she didn’t realize it. “Some other time, though. Sorry if that sounds rude,” he added. “I don’t mean to be.”
“You weren’t rude,” Angela said, towering over him from her position on the fourth step. “Everybody has his private moments. I just wanted you to know you could bend my ear if it would help. And,” she cried excitedly, “I’m really looking forward to Sunday.”
Charlie grinned broadly. His world was right side up again. “Good night, Angela,” he said, walking out to the kitchen. He was happy and content. He did not feel sexually aroused; he felt friendly. It was a new experience. All the anger and hostility of the last few days evaporated and was replaced with a kind of contentment. He felt slightly puzzled about his lack of sexual excitement, but he had no desire to tamper with this strange new relationship. He hummed as he washed and rinsed the dishes and set them in the dish drainer to dry. He filled the coffee filter with coffee for the morning and set a pitcher of water next to it.
He was asleep the minute his head touched the pillow. His sleep was deep and peaceful and in the morning his covers were barely disturbed. Usually he slept fitfully and his bed had to be made from scratch.
Two cups of coffee and three English muffins later, Charlie tiptoed back upstairs to Angela’s room. She looked small and fragile in the big double bed and she had kicked off the covers. One skinny leg was actually dangling over the side of the bed. Gently, so as not to wake her, Charlie pulled up the coverlet and stood staring down at her. Her curly hair was sticking up around her face in cute spikes. His eyes went to her hands and for the second time he noticed her fingernails, or lack of them. They looked raw and painful. She must be really nervous to chew the nails down as far as she had. It bothered him, those chewed-down nails, and he didn’t know why. Maybe he should rub healing ointment or something on them. But if he did that, she would wake up and think he was taking liberties with her.
Immediately he backed off a step. He would mention it later in the day when they were talking. That’s what he would do. He’d buy her a tube of something while he was on his break, make it a gift to her. An overpowering urge to touch the spiky curls came over him. Before he could think about it, he moved closer to the bed and reached down. Gently he tried to brush them from her cheeks. Maybe she needed a hairbrush. He turned and went to his room, fetched a brush, and placed it on the night table next to her bed. He wanted to kiss her nose. He bent over and stared at her a second longer before he gav
e her a quick peck. It was a strange nose, just like the rest of her. He frowned. She didn’t look like she was put together right. In the end, he decided it didn’t matter how she was put together. He liked her just the way she was. And the best part of all was that she liked him; he could tell. Looks weren’t all that important; not to him, anyway.
Charlie went through his day in a state bordering on euphoria. He called Angela on his break, then managed to buy the right ointment for her fingers and get back to work to provide backup for Santa as needed.
Dinner was the same as Wednesday night, only this time Angela had made spaghetti and meatballs. All evening long he prayed silently, as the line of children dwindled, that she wouldn’t bolt out of his life as suddenly as she’d arrived in it. Please, he pleaded silently, don’t let things change. Let me have this. I never asked you for anything before. Just this. Please, let me keep her.
That evening Angela suggested they watch an old movie called Back Street with Irene Dunne. She said she liked old movies better than the new ones, that the actors and actresses were better and the plots more interesting. Charlie agreed. All of today’s movies were about drugs and crime. He hated them.
Angela made a huge batch of fried onion rings and they drank beer from the bottles. She might be an oddball, and she might not be pretty, but she was a great companion. Charlie couldn’t remember being so happy in his entire life. He hadn’t really been happy since the year he got an electric train set. His father had given it to him and then said he was too young to play with it, that he might get electrocuted, but that if Charlie was a good boy he could watch Mommy and Daddy play with it. Damn, now what made him think of that?
He smiled inwardly. He would get it down out of the attic and he and Angela would put it together and play with it. He’d even let her turn the switch on and off. She’d like that.
He’d get a Christmas tree, too. A live tree in a pot, which you could plant in the yard later. A big one with strong branches so it could hold all the ornaments packed away in the attic. He and Angela would decorate it together, hang lights on it, glittering red balls, popcorn, and tinsel. He would put on some Christmas music, choir music. And they would drink apple cider.
How had he gotten so lucky?
It was early according to the small clock on the night table. Angela stared at the luminous dial, not believing her eyes. Why had she woken up at 5:10 in the morning? She lay back and listened to the driving rain—or was it sleet?—that rattled the windows. She snuggled deeper under the covers, willing sleep to overtake her again. It didn’t work. She was wide awake. She might as well get up and go downstairs. At least she could turn on the TV in the living room and get the weather report off the local news station. Was this the storm the weatherman had touted the night before? He’d predicted six inches of snow by morning, but, as usual, they were getting rain.
Quietly, so as not to disturb Charlie, Angela dressed and crept downstairs. She reached for the aluminum coffee percolator and filled it with the water Charlie had left out. Within minutes she had bacon frying on low and was mixing a batch of pancakes.
Playing house, which she knew was what she was doing, was a comforting obsession that kept much less pleasant things at bay. For this brief time, no dreams had haunted her sleep. She had almost forgotten about her visions.
Almost.
Her mind whirled as she stirred the pancake batter. What would she do with herself all day? Dust. Punch cushions to plumpness. Water the plants and clean the already clean bathroom. She could strip both beds and put on fresh sheets. The towels needed to be washed. She could dust and vacuum and read the paper. After that, television, and then time to make dinner. Normal as could be.
If her mother knew where Angela was and what she was doing, she would totally disapprove. Who the hell is Charlie Roman? And what do you think you’re doing with him? But . . . you don’t have to come home. There’s nothing here for you. Or me.
Sylvia Steinhart wasn’t wrong about that. Her parents’ marriage had been rocky for years. Some day, Angela thought, she herself would make someone a good wife. She liked to potter around the house and take her time doing small things. She liked clean things and everything neatly in its place. She particularly liked watering Charlie’s plants with the yellow watering can with the orange flowers painted on the side. It made her feel very domestic. She was enjoying every unreal minute of her stay here. But it wasn’t going to last indefinitely. Sooner or later she was going to have to confess all to Charlie Roman. If good old Mummy ever found out where she was, poor Charlie would be dragged into court for attempted kidnapping or some other trumpedup charge.
She couldn’t allow that to happen to him. He was just too nice. Her face was fierce as she stirred the batter with a vengeance.
“What’s wrong?” Charlie asked. She jumped, startled by his sudden appearance. He was alarmed at her strange look.
Angela looked up. “Nothing,” she said calmly. “I was just thinking of something unpleasant there for a minute. Sit down. I’m making you pancakes and eggs and bacon. You need something besides coffee before you go out on a day like this. Didn’t I tell you that weatherman was all wet last night?” She giggled.
Charlie laughed. “Those were your exact words, all right. Do you know what woke me up?”
“Perking coffee?”
He nodded. “From here all the way upstairs. It’s a great smell.”
Angela poured the batter onto the square grill pan. “Yes, it is.”
“And . . . I like the smell of pine, too. Especially at Christmastime.” Charlie paused. “I was thinking, Angela, would you like to take a ride to Cranbury soon and buy a real Christmas tree? We’ll bring it home and decorate it together. There are boxes and boxes of decorations in the attic.”
“Oh, Charlie! Really? Oh, I would love that!” Angela cried, her eyes shining. “I’ve never decorated a tree before. My mother always did it all. I wasn’t allowed. That way it came out perfect,” she added with a touch of bitterness.
“You’ve never decorated a tree before?” Charlie asked incredulously.
“No, but I’ve always wanted to. So do you have a star for the top?”
“Better than that. A gossamer angel!”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Angela said, sliding a stack of pancakes onto his plate. “Your eggs are coming right up.”
Charlie ate like there was never going to be another ounce of food put before him. He savored each and every mouthful, not because he was that hungry but because Angela had made it especially for him. He knew she would be pleased if he ate it all. When he’d finished, he leaned back in the stout wooden chair. “I hate to eat and run, but I’d better get an early start. The weatherman said the roads were freezing over and there were traffic jams. I’ll call you on my break and, if I get a chance, I’ll stop at the grocery store on my lunch hour. Jot down a list of things we need and you can read it to me on my break.”
“Okay, Charlie. Drive carefully.”
He grabbed his heavy jacket and left, musing over her parting words. Drive carefully. No one had ever told him that before. Did that mean she cared if something happened to him? Charlie wished he had more experience with women. But then women were supposed to be a mystery to men.
He frowned as he steered his car through the streets at a crawl, watching any and all traffic. This was no time to get himself in an accident.
Angela was different, though. When a girl said, “What you see is what you get,” how could there be a mystery? He had never liked mysteries, anyway—they always had unhappy endings, and the characters always got found out on the next-to-last page. But he didn’t have to worry about that now.
Chapter 9
Eric Summers’s head pounded as he clenched and unclenched his brown fists. His stomach was in one big knot. He watched Heather Andrews walk by, glancing over her shoulder every so often, her steps short and jerky.
Fear. It was a living thing touching all their lives. How could the new, en
dless waves of oblivious shoppers below not sense what was going on? And the damn merchants were so greedy for their holiday haul that they were willing to discount their own lives as well as those of everyone else walking through the giant mall. It was true: the love of money was the root of all evil.
And there was no escaping the brooding sense of menace in the atmosphere. He didn’t have the luxury of not noticing.
Lex came into his line of vision, his face grim and tight. Business as usual. You got paid for eight hours, had to argue for overtime, or you could kiss your job good-bye in this economy.
Bomb threats came under the heading of everyday nuisances. Just something you took in your stride while you hoped you survived the real deal, if it came to that.
Dedicated public servant—that was him. Yeah, right. Eric was edgy and he had every right to be. Downright frightened, if he wanted to be honest. How many hours were left of the seventy-two that the bomb threat referred to? Not many. He hated the absolute helplessness he felt. He should be doing something instead of this aimless wandering around. Another half hour and the Christmas parade would start. Was that when it would happen? When all the people were clustered in one area?
He turned at the touch on his shoulder.
“No, I don’t know anything and no, we didn’t find anything,” he said curtly to Dolph Richards.
“That’s because nothing is going to happen and there’s nothing to find. When are you paragons of law and order going to get that through your heads? The fool hasn’t been born who would have the nerve to blow up my mall. Relax, Summers, and enjoy the parade,” Richards responded urbanely.
“You know, Richards, you’re the fool. A first-class, grade-A, number-one fool,” Eric said, stomping away. He couldn’t look at the man’s face another second.
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