by Fleur Smith
As she thought about the boxes, her afternoon, her photos, and everything else her life contained, the notion that miles and miles away a man existed who was about to have a vested interested in her love-life never even came close to entering her mind.
Evan stood, still trying to process the image he’d called up of Becca. There was something far too familiar about the bounce of raven-black curls on her head, about the emerald eyes rimmed with long, dark lashes, and about the full, red lips curved into a smile. The last time he’d seen all those features put together just like that was over fifty years ago, and back then it had all belonged to a woman named Rose.
Rose.
He closed his eyes as he thought about her. His Gypsy Rose, he used to call her, even though she’d hated the term. Usually he remembered very little about his former, human life. All the insignificant things like thirst, hunger, ambition, and lust, had been driven out of him; replaced by his new craving for the emotion of others. When he thought of Rose though, he could remember every little detail. He could remember her fire and passion, the way music meant more to her than almost anything else and he could recall exactly what it was like to live—to love. But also what it felt like to lose everything.
Trying to calm his racing mind, he began to doubt the image he’d seen. Even though he knew that souls were sometimes recycled—sent back to Earth to be reborn and live an actual life again, not the half-life he himself had to endure—he’d never expected that outcome for Rose. Not after the promises he’d been given. Besides, it had been too many years since her death, and he’d been certain she’d moved on to a better place after what she’d suffered.
He’d been so absolutely certain of it in fact that he grew more positive by the second that there was no possible way that face could now belong to Becca. Some cosmic wires had to have been crossed somewhere across time and space. He almost laughed at his earlier reaction, telling himself that the similarities were nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him.
Once more, he closed his eyes and focused. This time, he was intent on covering the distance that separated him from Becca. He saw the familiar features in his mind again and, although the desire to pull away was still just as strong, he focused on finding the connection between them.
One he’d located the link, the steady thump-thump of her lonely heart called him home and he opened his own heart to follow it. A second later, he ceased to exist in Hoboken, New Jersey, and appeared in Flint, Michigan.
CHAPTER TWO
Upon arrival, it took Evan all of two seconds to realize that there hadn’t been any mistake. No cosmic wires had crossed to show him the face he longed to see rather than the one his latest assignment actually wore.
It took him two seconds more to threaten physical violence against the entities that had set him up for the massive disappointment that came with the realization that his love hadn’t made it past the pearly gates. Or if she had, that she’d been snatched back out and sent back to earth.
With clenched fists, he watched the woman who bore a too-striking resemblance to the one he’d lost. On closer inspection, Evan saw a number of small differences in the actual features: a slightly bigger nose, eyes a little more round than almond, and lips a shade or two darker than Rose’s had been. Regardless of those small changes, it was clear that Rose’s soul shone out at him through Becca’s face.
The reminder of the woman he’d loved with everything he’d had was enough to propel him back to the last time he’d seen those emerald eyes. Only then, it had been hard to tell exactly what color her irises were. They’d been frozen open by the grip of death and dark ligature marks had circled her neck. She’d been snatched from him by a cruel fate and a crueler man. The months that had followed had been spent trying to cope with an emptiness that was more painful than even a loveless cupid’s life. In the end, it was too much for him to handle. On the first anniversary of that hideous day, he’d hurled himself from the closest cliff thinking that it was the only way to dislodge the monster choking him from within.
An unknown time later, he’d awoken in a vacant space. If waking was what it could be called when someone’s consciousness becomes suddenly aware again despite the last memory being a too-fast meeting between his head and a flat rock. His first thought had been that it wasn’t an empty room, because the word room implied that there was something. There were no walls. No floor either. No, well, no . . . anything. It was the complete lack of things—the absence of even his own body—that left Evan with no doubt that he was dead.
In that moment, he’d been offered a choice. He could return to Earth as a cupid in an attempt to earn his redemption for the sin of taking his own life—and join his love in the afterlife thereafter—or he could go straight to . . . the other place.
Even if he hadn’t been promised a place alongside his Rose, the mere thought of eternity in Hell had made his entire consciousness ache. If he’d actually still had a body—and a heart—at that time, he was positive that the pain would have been unbearable. Thinking it was a choice between the lesser of two evils—between Hell and Hell on Earth—he’d agreed to the tour of cupid duty.
Despite agreeing to the task, he was reluctant to do it. For the first month, he’d been determined not to follow through. He put almost no effort into matching people up. Instead, he just randomly forced together two strangers who had no commonality. It wasn’t long before he realized that even his half-assed attempts made people happier than he thought anyone had a right to be.
After that, he’d refused to do it at all. He steadfastly ignored the name at the top of his list. Her name would be burned into Evan’s mind forever: Cynthia Dean. He’d ignored it for a solid six weeks until it had gone away. He’d heard about her suicide a few days later.
Knowing that his unwillingness to help her find happiness could have been a contributing factor in her death, combined with the agony of heartache multiplied over and over through his body without any positive emotions to blunt the pain, he’d finally given in.
Before long, he’d found that the task wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d imagined it might be. Sure, the first hundred couples or so which he’d paired had caused him to wonder whether he’d selected wrong, accidentally stumbling into the real eternal damnation option. Watching the joy on the faces of those first two hundred odd people when they’d realized how they were perfect for each other had initially made Evan want to scoop out his eyeballs with a spoon.
Eventually though, he’d begun to stop seeing all of the things he’d lost, the things he’d never really had in the first place, and started to recognize in the couples he matched all of the things he’d shared with Rose, as limited as they’d been. Things like the rush of new love, the yearning of lust, and the absolute, unwavering desire to live and die for someone other than oneself. It had almost made it worthwhile, especially with the promised paradise at the end.
Now none of his reasons for making the choice or following his lists mattered, because Rose had been recycled. Fifty years of pairing up his assignments, thousands of couples out in the world at that precise moment, were meaningless to him in the face of that fact. All of the happiness he’d caused was based on a lie. A big, fat, horrifying lie. He’d been duped into thinking something better awaited him. Seeing Rose’s soul back on Earth confirmed that there was nothing. Nothing but an eternity of servitude, of constantly finding partners for people who, for the most part, were simply too preoccupied to just stop and simply say hello to one another.
A small giggle of delight issued from Becca, pulling Evan back from his thoughts and reminding him that he wasn’t alone. That he was on a case—the worst flipping case of his existence maybe, but a case nonetheless. It wasn’t Becca’s fault that her soul wasn’t originally hers. It didn’t mean she was less deserving of love or happiness—both of which were now under his custody.
He watched her move between the two long mottled gray Formica counters that were set up in her basement. Her olive skin w
as warm, even though the only light in the room was a soft red glow from a bulb screwed to the wall beside her. Her curls were bundled up high on her head in a messy bun, with a few loose strands curling around her ears and falling around her round face. Before long he found himself watching her actions in fascination, all thoughts of anger forgotten.
When she bent to grab a bottle out of one of the low cupboards underneath the counter opposite to Evan, he stepped forward so that he wouldn’t lose sight of her. Her black pants pulled low as she leaned forward and a hint of lacy underwear poked out the top. The sight of that small hint of material caused something to writhe uncomfortably in the pit of Evan’s stomach, and he was almost relieved when she stood again.
She navigated around the space with the confidence of someone completely in their element—someone who was certain they were alone—twisting between the two counters, and using all of the equipment and liquids that Evan was completely clueless about.
For a moment, Evan felt guilty for cloaking himself with the intention of watching her work. It was all in her best interest, he justified. After all, although no one needed a partner for their happiness, having a caring partner made life just a little sweeter. If Rose had been granted another chance at life, surely she deserved a chance at the happiness that had eluded her the first time around. The happiness he himself had been so desperate to give her before he’d failed her.
Evan didn’t have to be happy about what he had to do next; he just had to do it.
After a few minutes, Becca began humming to herself and Evan was surprised to recognize the tune. It was an old Ella Fitzgerald song, which he thought was a little strange given that it was popular in his youth, when he was alive the first time. Although of course he couldn’t guarantee that it hadn’t been re-recorded at some point over the years, he couldn’t specifically remember hearing it in recent years, not since he found himself assigned to his cupid tasks.
As she hummed a few bars, Becca closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the melody. Her humming melted into the lyrics that must have been running through her mind. In the brief pause between the first word and the second, Evan had expected her to continue with a voice that would be at home among a chorus of angels, like the one he’d heard often enough. Instead, he was treated to the sort of baleful wail that wouldn’t have been out of place coming from two alley-cats fighting at night. At the sound, he’d almost chuckled in spite of himself. It was just the reminder that he’d needed that the woman in front of him wasn’t the one he’d wanted to marry fifty years ago. Rose possessed a beautiful voice. He’d always assumed it was because her music had come from her very soul, he could now see he’d been mistaken. Regardless, the memory of the way she’d serenaded him as they danced together during a stolen moment filled his mind.
Evan shook his head, trying to dislodge the reminders of Rose that had taken up residence inside. They were from another time, literally from another life. He’d been human then and able to fall in love with anyone he chose. Now he wasn’t human and falling in love was forbidden.
He took a moment to center himself and then began to move around the space in which Becca seemed utterly comfortable, to get a better view of her actions. Moving carefully, he watched as she dipped a piece of paper into a tray of clear liquid. He was utterly captivated by her tasks, wondering exactly what she was doing.
A small smile played on her lips as she watched a picture blossoming on the bit of paper she’d been handling. At the magic she’d performed, Evan moved in for an even closer look, taking care that his footsteps didn’t make noise and being careful to remain cloaked.
After spending time working with the film from the day’s shoot, getting it ready to print once the negatives dried, Becca turned her attention onto the negatives she’d developed the day before. Because of how long it took to work through the process of setting the film, and then waiting for it to dry, she generally never had the time to process the prints on the same day. For her, the process of actually making prints from her film was like discovering a new friend. There was a particular photo she’d taken yesterday which she was desperate to see in print.
She selected the negative she wanted and set it into the enlarger, letting the image project onto the light-sensitive paper. The small glimpse that process offered her was enough to make her smile.
What she’d seen through the viewfinder, what she’d desperately tried to capture, was the play of light through the Roman arches in the memorial gardens. At the time, she’d used her film camera, which had restricted her to black and white. She didn’t have the time or equipment to develop color photographs, so she only took those with her digital camera. Where it was an option, film, and therefore black and white, was always her first choice. She’d been hopeful that the simplicity of the black and white might have captured the contrast in the shadows better than color could. It had been a gamble of sorts, but from what she’d seen, she wouldn’t be disappointed.
When she dropped the paper into the developer, a little grin lit her face as she saw the exact image she’d been hoping for blossom across the page. It was the picture she’d seen in her mind’s eye as she’d pressed the shutter release. In fact, it couldn’t have been more perfect.
She agitated the solution, letting it continue to work its magic on the print, deepening the contrast and bringing the image to life. The image darkened, and once more she was awed by the magic of the print appearing before her eyes. It never failed to amaze her. Once she was satisfied with the picture, she lifted it from the developer, ready to move on with the rest of the process. Twisting with the image secured by a pair of small tongs in her hand, she smacked into something, loosened her grip and dropped the print.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered under her breath as she knelt to retrieve the paper from the darkness underneath the counter. Once she had it in hand again, she swore. Without being plunged into the stop bath soon enough, the perfect image had continued to darken and now it was just a blackened mess on the page. It would have to be a complete do-over because there was no hope of rescuing the image. She rinsed off the chemicals before screwing up the piece of paper and throwing it in the bin.
She looked around to see what she’d hit, but there was nothing but empty space around her. In fact, it struck her as odd that she’d encountered any obstacle at all because she was fastidiously neat whenever she used her dark room. Her caution was deserved because the red light she used was always dimmed to the lowest setting and only provided just enough light to work with. If things weren’t neat, she was likely to end up tripping over something stupid and landing face first in chemicals. After checking the area thoroughly, she was certain that there was nothing to impede her movement again, and feeling more than a little clumsy for tripping over thin air, she moved to start work on the negative again.
Just as she was about to restart the process, she glanced up and noticed the time.
“Crap, I’m going to be late,” she growled, hastily tidying everything away and pulling off her apron. The print would have to wait until after work, because her bosses wouldn’t wait for her. Not again.
She raced up the basement stairs, taking them two at a time, pulling the door shut behind her. The race to get ready for work occupied her so completely that she didn’t notice the door didn’t catch behind her. Neither did she notice the light that she’d left on had turned off or that the door finally pulled completely closed seconds later.
Evan cursed his stupidity. For a moment, he’d been so captivated by the breathtaking beauty of the photo Becca had been tending to that he hadn’t noticed her start to move. Although he was cloaked from her sight and she wouldn’t have noticed his feather-light touches if he’d reached out to test her emotions, he was still a solid mass which could be hit.
The moment her body had smacked against his, he’d come back to himself and stepped away from the area, leaving her to clean up. It was a rookie mistake, one he hadn’t made since back in the very beginning wh
en he’d had to try to figure it all out on his own with minimal guidance from above. He’d naturally assumed that if people couldn’t see him, they couldn’t touch him either. Three people had almost got into a street brawl because of that mistaken belief. Each of them thought the other had tripped them up and were ready to retaliate. After doing what he could to break up the brawl without further revealing himself, Evan had learned his lesson and was usually more careful.
Obviously not careful enough, he thought as a scowl overtook his features.
He followed Becca from the room as she fled from the basement with complaints about being late still flowing from her lips. When he heard a shower start somewhere in the house, he hovered around the kitchen area. Although he could move unseen, he tended to draw the line at using that ability to watch people shower. It seemed a little too perverse—like he was doing it for his own pleasure. Not that there was pleasure; his bits downstairs hadn’t worked since he’d awoken from death. He assumed it was part of the whole cupid deal, with the bosses not wanting servants of a higher purpose to be distracted by the pursuit of personal love and lust. It hadn’t bothered him before; he’d never had a need for it. Now though, at the precise moment when an image of Becca’s lacy panties flashed in his mind, the thought pissed him off. He wasn’t entirely ready to admit why it angered him, but he knew it had something to do with seeing Rose—Becca.
With cautious quiet, he moved around her kitchen. It was almost impossible to ignore his growing annoyance over the fact that a simple erection was beyond his reach anymore, but he tried anyway as he pulled open the wood-veneered drawers and cupboards in the small space. It wasn’t pure curiosity driving him; he was simply trying to ascertain what he could about the type of person he was dealing with. He was hoping the cramped space might reveal some small insight into the internal workings of the familiar-but-different woman who lived in the small house with a darkroom for a basement. A few words came to mind fairly fast: fastidious, neat, lonely. Chef certainly wasn’t one though.