Chapter Eight

Going home for Angel Rose meant a short drive across town. Her street was almost picturesque in its simplicity, with twin rows of colorful, cottage-style houses fronted by white picket fences. The third one on the left was hers, painted a bold red with black trim and shutters. She loved her little cottage-house, and wouldn’t trade it for anything.

She smiled as she walked up the path to the front door. The fuchsia and yellow chrysanthemums were in bloom, their fragrant blossoms waving to her in the slight summer breeze that rippled through them. The trellis of roses under her bay window released their fragrance into the evening, and she stopped for a moment to inhale their bouquet deep into her lungs before fitting her key into the lock. When the door was safely bolted behind her, she stowed her bag in its customary spot under the hall table, and dropped her keys onto its surface.

Kicking off her shoes and listening to the utter quiet of her home, she sighed peacefully. She padded down the short hallway to the kitchen, which was done in blue and white gingham. Light curtains fluttered gently at the window over the sink, and the small table in the corner was set with matching placemats. She pulled a bottle of pinot from the wire rack on the counter and opened it, setting it on the Formica countertop to breathe.

Humming to herself, she set about prepping a short loaf of garlic bread to go with her dinner. As she melted the butter and grated garlic and fresh parmesan into the pan, her thoughts wandered irritatingly back to the Thompson project. “Stop it,” she scolded herself, and poured her first glass of wine before turning her full attention to the pan on the stove.

She used a basting brush to paint the butter mixture onto a loaf of Italian bread which had been sliced lengthwise. When the white surfaces were sufficiently slick, she wrapped the loaf in foil and set it into the oven to heat. She set a pot of water, complete with a drizzle of olive oil, on the back burner to boil. Then she turned to take salad fixings from the fridge. She caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned, there was nothing there – nothing except for long-clawed talons pulling at the carefully constructed wall she’d built in her mind.

“NO,” she said loudly to herself. “Absolutely not. You will stop that right now, Angel Rose Summerlin.” She drained her wine glass and poured a refill; leaving it on the counter while she stepped out onto the back deck. Angel Rose leaned on the railing and looked out over the lush green lawn. A sun-catcher staked in the middle of the yard did its job with help from the slowly setting orb; sending a colorful shower of light over the grass.

She concentrated on the smell of the garlic bread and the colors dancing cross the lawn and was able to push the claws back over the wall. She breathed deeply through her nose, taking in as much air as she could, and held her breath. She closed her eyes and “sipped the air” like swimmers do before long underwater races, taking as many microns of air into her lungs as she could. She sat on the deck, crossing her legs in a classic Lotus position, and concentrated on centering herself.

Slowly, she let out the air. It hissed through her lips, sounding like a slowly leaking balloon. When her lungs were empty, she repeated the process, sipping a little more air this time. By the third time through the exercise, she was thoroughly relaxed, and there was no more scrabbling coming from behind the wall.

She finished her second glass of wine with the dinner she brought to the deck for a little springtime al fresco dining. A radio tuned to a local station played softly in the background while she made quick work of her meal. She thought a third glass of wine while she watched her movie was a great idea. She settled onto the end of her couch, placing her wine glass carefully onto the low table in front of her. She clutched a butter-yellow over-stuffed pillow to her chest, tucked her feet up under her, and settled in.

The movie she had selected from Blockbuster yesterday, turned out to be a terrible selection for tonight – especially given what had happened during the day. Still, the wine was doing its job, and she was lost in the story of Sam Wheat and Molly Jensen, and when the heartstring-tugging pottery wheel scene came on, Angel Rose was chagrinned to find she had tears streaming down her face.

“No more wine,” she told herself, and wiped the moisture from her cheeks. At the end of the movie, she took a light afghan and headed back to the deck to watch the stars.

* * * * *

Richie sat at the diner, enjoying that evening’s “Dinner”. It was meatloaf and mashed potatoes, smothered in the most delicious gravy he’d ever tasted, served along with a deep bowl of string beans. A rib-sticking meal to be sure – comfort food at its finest. As he munched happily through the heaping plates in front of him, Richie thought about what he’d learned about his house today. He had to admit he was excited to be doing some of his own research. He thought he’d be getting some sort of report from the historical society with everything all spelled out, but going through the stacks and pulling the records, then putting them into some semblance of order by himself was exhilarating. Well, not exactly by himself; he did have help from Angel Rose.

Angel Rose.

He’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t attracted to her. When she had taken his arm to examine the scratches, he thought he’d jump right out of his skin. Her touch was electrifying, and he was fairly certain she felt something too. But in the first few hours they’d spent together, she felt like a long-lost friend he was reacquainting himself with rather than a potential romantic interest. Still, she was a beautiful woman, and he remembered the little shock he felt when they first shook hands, and how it was repeated whenever her arm would brush his as they sorted documents side-by-side.

After taking care of the bill, he sweet-talked the waitress into selling him a six-pack to take with him, and headed back to the house. It was a beautiful night, made for sitting under the stars. There was a light breeze, keeping all but the most blood-starved bugs away, and the sky was so clear, so inky black that the stars seemed extra bright. Richie sat on the back porch, beer in hand, leaning against a post. He stared into the vastness of “up there” and took a deep breath. A person could breathe out here.

He went in to fetch his guitar before popping the top off of the second beer. He downed the bottle in four swallows, all but moaning in pleasure as the cold liquid slicked his dry throat. He picked at a tune he’d been toying with, but set himself on autopilot, letting his fingers go where they wanted to without him giving it conscious thought. As he played, the bullfrogs and katydids hushed their own night songs to listen.

The third and fourth beers went down just as easy as the first two, and Richie was relaxed as he let the music take over. He lost all sense of time and space – there was only the music and the way it made him feel. He always thanked his lucky stars for the musical talent he’d been given, and looked up into a blanket of glittery spots, chagrinned to find they swam a little. “Lightweight,” he muttered to himself, chuckling.

He went inside to put his guitar away, and grabbed his bedroll. It was too pretty a night to turn in just yet; he wanted to lie on his back and gaze up at the stars, and ponder his own mortality – or some such shit, he thought.

* * * * *

Angel Rose was surprised to find herself on a thick plaid blanket spread next to a fountain, next to Richie. What the hell?

“And I have no idea if I’ll ever get the fountain working again,” Richie was saying, as he finished the last of his turkey sandwich. “But never say never, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, vaguely. I was just on my deck at night, not here in the day... I must be dreaming. Huh. Why do I know that I’m dreaming?

“Something wrong with your sandwich?” Richie asked. “You’ve only taken a few bites.”

Startled, Angel Rose looked down at her hands, which were inches away from her lap. Clasped in the fingers was a stuffed sandwich in danger of dropping to the ground. Hurriedly, she took a bite. That’s strange, she thought, I can taste the cranberry sauce on the bread. I don’t even like cranberry sauce. “No, nothing’s wrong.” She took another bite for good measure. “It’s delicious. I’m just not all that hungry.” She put the sandwich down on a plate and brushed her hands. “So now what?”

Richie laughed. “Oh, playing coy, are you? You know damned well what.” He closed the distance between them and settled his mouth on hers as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

Angel Rose struggled against the urge to push him away, but this dream started in the middle. Usually when that happened, she knew she had to be alert and try not to lead it or change it; it was her curse in action – if she was having a dream, and aware of it, she was having a premonition. Some of the premonition dreams she’d had in the past helped avoid injuries or heartache – others she’d never figured out. This one, she knew, had to do with Richie and the Thompson estate. In fact, she thought, I could be there now. This could be the center of the maze. Wasn’t there a fountain there? Anyway, pay attention, Angel Rose, she said to herself. And be warned – if Richie has a few beers he’ll probably try to kiss me, she thought, as she tasted the Bud on his breath.

She sighed, which Richie took as a cue to deepen the kiss. But damn, the man does have a way with a kiss, she thought.

“Mmm,” Richie said, breaking the kiss. “Let’s go for a little walk. Will you walk with me, Angel Rose?” He asked.

Dazed from the dream-kiss, Ang nodded, and waited for Richie to stand. He stretched out a hand to help her up, and they walked along the path until they came out of the maze and to the lakeshore. “It’s so pretty here,” Angel Rose said, looking at the way the sun played over the light ripples in the water. Something was familiar about this lake. It HAD to be the Thompson estate. “Where are we again?” Please don’t tell me we’re where I think we are. Please. Why was she so afraid of being here?

A rustling in the bushes had her spinning around. “What was that?” she asked.

“You’re being silly,” he said, laughing. “And you know damned well where you are. But you’re right; it sure is pretty,” Richie agreed. “C’mon, let’s go this way.”

He led them around to the rhododendron bushes, and Ang was suddenly terrified. She didn’t know why, but she did NOT want to follow that path through the beautiful purple blossoms. “Where are we going?” she asked, trying hard to keep the panic out of her voice. NO, no, no, no.

“Just going for a stroll,” Richie answered.

When they stepped onto the path, a foul stench overrode the sweetness of the blooms and roots from the nearby shrubs wound themselves around her ankles, paralyzing her. Oh my GOD!

“Come on, slowpoke,” Richie teased, calling back over his shoulder. “Let’s get it shakin’ bacon.” He frowned when he caught a glimpse of her standing there, unmoving. “Angel Rose? Is everything alright?”

Ang sat up with a start, a scream dying on her lips, and the afghan wrapped around her legs. Shaking, she pushed the hair out of her face and untangled the blanket. Her heart was racing, and a cold sweat covered her body. “Damn,” she said. It was one of THOSE dreams; the ones that wouldn’t let her alone. The ones that were in full-on Technicolor glory complete with sound, taste, and smellivision. “Why is it so damned important that I be at the Thompson estate with that man?”