A Rush of Wings

by Kristen Heitzmann

  William watched his daughter across the table as she conversed with the guests he had asked to dinner.

  “Yes, Julliard is a fine school. I enjoyed my studies there.” The turn of her shoulder, the direction of her gaze completely excluded the young man he had invited. She acted as though the Palmers were the only guests present.

  Adam Palmer nodded. “I understand you’re quite talented.”

  “You’ve been talking to Daddy.” She delivered that with just the right tone, and the Palmers laughed. Young Martin Sternham joined in, for all the good it would do him.

  “Would you play for us?” Celeste Palmer fingered the silk scarf she wore to hide the wrinkles at her neck, and her four-carat diamond shimmered.

  Noelle folded her napkin beside her plate. “All right.” She stood, and they followed her into the drawing room. As she played, her fingers danced lightly one minute and rose in crescendo to snapping power the next.

  William’s chest swelled with pride. She played with precision, striking each note without error. Of course, she practiced hour after hour to perfect her skill. Every day he came home from the office to hear her working at the keyboard, and it reminded him of her lessons when she was a child. He’d procured the finest instructor, a woman trained at the Rimsky-Korsakov Conservatory in St. Petersburg.

  Noelle finished and Celeste clapped her fingertips together. “Oh, darling, that was marvelous. You could play professionally.”

  “But why would she?” Adam tapped his wife’s knee. “That’s a grueling schedule.”

  No more grueling than Noelle pushed herself, William thought. He wished Martin would find his tongue. Though an associate at the firm—Harvard graduate no less—he was reduced to idiocy by Noelle. She stood up and excused herself, leaving him to his guests. William hoped they wouldn’t linger.

  Noelle closed herself into the library and picked up Anne Tyler’s Patchwork Planet. Right now she could identify with the protagonist’s rejection of his wealthy heritage. Yes, Mr. Palmer. No, Mrs. Palmer. Of course, Daddy. She flounced onto the couch and opened the book.

  Her father found her there. “You were enchanting tonight.”

  “Was I?” She didn’t look up from her book. The son had just set fire to the dining room curtains.

  “What did you think of Martin Sternham?” He took the book from her hands and set it on the table.

  “I thought nothing of him.” Noelle rubbed a spot on her index fingernail.

  “You were cruel, and I think you enjoyed it.”

  She sat up. “Daddy, I want you to stop inviting every eligible bachelor to dinner and disguising them with old people.”

  He laughed but it was forced. “Then, what am I to do?”

  She stood up and walked to the diamond-paned window. “Let me lead my life the way I want to.”

  “Noelle…”

  She looked back over her shoulder. “I’m considering an apartment. Something in Manhattan.” She said it to jerk his cord. She could hardly leave the house these days. But Daddy wouldn’t know that. He’d resumed his normal hours, and they saw little of each other, except on these evenings where he tried to auction her off.

  “An apartment would only seclude you more.”

  Maybe Daddy was more aware than she thought.

  “I think you should see a psychiatrist.”

  She smiled. “To learn what’s wrong with me?”

  He sat down on the end of the conversation couch, crossed his leg over his knee, no doubt hoping she’d complete the semicircle so they could chat. “Not what’s wrong, Noelle, but how to make it right.”

  She picked up the Venetian-glass paperweight from the windowsill. It always amazed her how heavy glass could be when it broke so easily. “We’ve discussed this already. I don’t need a shrink.”

  “Shrink.” He snorted. “A counselor, Noelle. A therapist … a priest!”

  She slammed down the glass dome. “A priest, Daddy?” She started toward him. “What priest? Perhaps you’d have one to recommend?”

  He squirmed. “Maybe I would if I thought it would do any good.”

  “Who, for instance?” She waved her hand. “In your vast experience?”

  “You could start with your mother’s priest, who baptized you, Father Matthis at the cathedral.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She couldn’t hide her surprise. “What?”

  He waved a hand. “It was your mother’s foolishness.” He looked as though he regretted his words.

  But it struck a chord. “She took me to church?” “We’re going to God’s house, Noelle.”

  Daddy dropped his hands to his knees. “Your mother was pious. We had a ceremony. Dribbled water on your head. So what?”

  “And that’s the only time I went?”

  “She took you on Sundays. You were too little to remember.”

  But she did remember. The windows … bright, colorful stained-glass windows. Noelle started to shake. Why? Michael was gone. There was nothing to fear.

  “But after—” He caught himself and cleared his throat.

  “After what?”

  He gripped his hands together. “Sit down, Noelle.”

  “I don’t want to sit. I want to know what else you haven’t told me.”

  He removed his dinner coat and hung it over the back of the couch. “It’s not what I haven’t told you. It’s what you don’t remember.”

  She felt her throat closing in. What didn’t she remember? A redrobed man, giant wings, someone grabbing her from behind. A hand clamped to her mouth. “Mama!”

  “There was an incident.”

  She wanted to slap him. Stop talking jargon! “What happened to me, Daddy?”

  “You were abducted when you were five years old. From the church while your mother was distracted.”

  Her legs felt like gauze. “Why?” She dropped to the end of the halfcircle couch. “Why did they take me?” He waited so long to answer, she turned to him. “Daddy?”

  “They wanted me off a case.”

  It felt like a knife inside her. She’d been taken, terrified, and—A door slammed in her mind. “What case?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Doesn’t matter? They took me because of you, and it doesn’t matter?” Her words pierced his control, brought pain to his eyes.

  “It was a federal case I was prosecuting. We had broken a ring of Russian-Mafia drug smugglers. Our man had deep connections.”

  The strange accent. She shuddered. No wonder she hated anything close to a Russian accent. Frustration welled up. How much of herlife—her likes and dislikes, her fears and aversions—were based on this “incident”? She stood up, arms shaking at her sides. “What did you do?”

  His eyes came up, met hers. “I removed myself.” He folded and unfolded his hands.

  “Compromised your principles?”

  “They—had—my—daughter.” His voice shook.

  Images flashed. Stone walls, towering pillars. She tried to focus on what Daddy had said. It was his fault she’d been taken. She forked her fingers into her hair, walked to the window. Her mother’s portrait was reflected in the cold glass, black with night. “Whisper in God’s house, Noelle.” Mama’s hand holding hers as they knelt one knee, then stood. Mama told her to wait in the seat, but Noelle wandered over to see the window.

  She pressed her eyes shut. It was Michael the Archangel fighting the devil. The devil was black and looked like a lizard with a man’s head and bat wings. But the angel was all in red, with a thick muscular leg showing through the cut in his robe. His foot was pressed to the devil’s neck and he held a sword upraised. Michael the Archangel. Michael.

  She’d been standing under the window while Mama talked to someone behind a curtain. The angel was supposed to be good. But he looked so fierce. And then someone had grabbed her. But the hand was so tight on her mouth she couldn’t breathe. She kicked, but he was too big. He lifted her, carried her. He was bigger than Daddy, bigger than anyone she knew
. “Are you God?” He shoved her into the car. “Yeah, kid. I’m God.”

  His accent. Her whole being shuddered as she glimpsed the face in her memory. Not Michael’s, another. She put a hand over her mouth and fought waves of nausea.

  Daddy stood and came to her. “They said you had blocked it out, a protective amnesia. You seemed … after a while you seemed all right. You smiled, you played, you … Only your sessions with the psychiatrist upset you. What point was there in continuing? What point in making you remember?”

  Her mind slammed shut again. “You were right, Daddy. What point was there?”

  CHAPTER

  30

  Rick walked to the upstairs landing, stopped, and looked around him. It was amazing what reconfiguring shape and dimension could do. Instead of independent rooms along a hall, it was a gathering of interconnected spaces. Instead of the linear motel feel, his house now felt like a home. He had built the house practically but now altered it for beauty, imagining it as Noelle would see it with her artist’s eye.

  Except none of it mattered. He stood there as if he’d woken up in someone else’s house by accident. He’d never felt that way before, as though he didn’t belong in the very house he’d built log by log. Standing there, he felt like a stranger. He’d never minded being alone, hadn’t really felt alone when he was. He’d felt complete and satisfied, and time didn’t come at him like some enemy he had to battle off.

  He knew his place, his routine. Knew what he needed to do, and he did it. He’d made his ranch a place folks could relax and enjoy themselves in the beauty of nature. He’d protected it from fire and storm, giving both the land and the animals the care required. Now, looking around, he felt as though it had all been a dream. This was reality, this aching loneliness.

  He tugged on the jeans that had slipped down his hips, then realized he needed to tighten the belt. It had slid into its well-worn notch when he dressed. Now he moved it one hole tighter. Then Rick rubbed the back of his neck, working out the crick that had formed, and started down the staircase he had widened and curved into the main room. He slid his hand down over the maple banister he’d built, stained, and oiled to replace the straight pine railing. It deposited him into the one room that had hardly changed.

  Bright summer sunlight spilled through the front window in a golden splash over the coffee table. Dust motes rode the beam to his Bible and collected on its cover. Rick crossed the room and picked it up, then wiped the dust with the roll of his sleeve. He flipped the Bible open and felt the urging. He could read it, he could study it, he could even believe it. He just couldn’t understand it. And besides, there was a bigger issue. Whatever else, he was no hypocrite. With his heart so hard, how could he seek God’s presence?

  He laid the book down, went to the kitchen and swigged a cup of reheated coffee, then headed outside. He saddled Destiny and rode up to the high corral where he had started installing the metal gate before he ran out of daylight the night before. He tethered the horse to graze and set to work.

  Sweat dampened his brow. He raised his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. He tightened the bolt one final tug, then stood and swung the gate. It moved smoothly, and he stuck the wrench into the saddlebag, then turned and saw Pastor Tom puffing up the meadow on his stocky, rheumatic legs.

  Rick considered meeting him halfway to save him the climb but remained where he was. It was the pastor’s idea to come. Rick hadn’t asked him. Tom waved, too breathless to greet him, and swiped a handkerchief over his forehead. The July sun was hot. He ran a hand through his thinning gray thatch and looked around. “Sure is beautiful up here so close to God.”

  Rick didn’t respond.

  Pastor Tom knew better than to hedge this issue. “I guess you know why I’ve come.”

  Rick jerked one side of his mouth. “You’re drumming up business?”

  The pastor smiled, but it was halfhearted. “It’s been months, Rick.”

  Rick gathered the hammer and lever and slid those into the saddlebag as well. Months. He tried not to think of time in chunks, measured amounts.

  “What’s keeping you away?”

  Rick cinched the bag.

  Pastor Tom wiped the back of his neck, then shoved the handkerchief into his pocket. “Now is when you need your faith.”

  Rick leaned on the corral and looked up the slope. “It’s not faith, Tom. It’s forgiveness.”

  “Of whom?”

  Rick frowned. “You need to ask?”

  “There are several possibilities. God? Noelle? Her assailant, yourself …”

  “Myself?” Rick turned.

  The pastor sat down on an upturned stump. “Ah, Rick. Nothing’s as simple as it seems. When the fabric of life frays, not just one thread is affected, but many. When Noelle was hurt, you were all hurt. Perhaps her attacker most of all.”

  Rick gripped the board. “Michael Fallon?”

  “You have no window to his soul.”

  “I don’t care.”

  The pastor gripped his knees. “Judgment is a dangerous thing. Brings out our own darkness.”

  Rick slammed the top board of the corral. “Are you suggesting I’d hurt Noelle as he did?”

  Tom stood up. “I’m suggesting that sin is sin, and unless you are sinless, you’d do well to forgive.”

  It was true. No arguing that. Just humanly impossible. The main thing Rick felt these days was anger. He’d given Noelle his heart and soul…. And maybe that was it. Had he given her what should have been God’s? Or worse, become to her what God should have been? If he’d shared his faith instead of his love, could she have stood against the blow instead of shrinking into the voice that apologized but had nothing else to say?

  Rick turned away. “I’m sorry, Tom. I’m just not there.”

  “Then let me be there for you. All of us. Come to church tomorrow.”

  Rick shook his head. It would be false.

  “Then I’ll keep praying.”

  Rick took a shovel from the rifle case on Destiny’s saddle, unfolded the handle, and scooped a pile of manure onto the heap outside the corral. He kept shoveling while the pastor made his way back down. There was a time when Rick would have appreciated the prayers. Now it seemed so futile. When he finished mucking the corral, he rode Destiny down.

  Nearing the house, he was surprised to see Morgan leaning against his Corvette parked in the yard. Rick swung down from the stallion’s back and shook Morgan’s hand.

  “I see you tamed him.” Morgan nodded toward the horse.

  “Yeah.” But it was Noelle who had tamed them both.

  Morgan smiled. “How’s life?”

  “Ask Pastor Tom; he’s got all the answers.”

  Morgan sobered. “I’m sorry about Noelle.”

  Rick slapped the dust from his jeans. “So … what are you doing here?”

  “Just passing by.” Morgan tossed his car keys in his palm.

  “Mom sent you.”

  Morgan laughed. “No, I swear. Just thought I’d drop in for a while. You don’t have any beautiful guests we can fight over, do you?”

  “I don’t take guests anymore.”

  “Mmm.” Morgan nodded.

  “Well, I’m busy.” Rick tugged Destiny’s rein.

  “What’s with the beard?”

  Rick rubbed his jaw and shrugged.

  Morgan said, “Stable the horse and have a beer with me.”

  “I don’t have any beer.”

  Morgan reached behind his seat. “I do.”

  Rick studied his brother. What was his point? Was this some conciliatory gesture? But then, he shrugged, why not? He put Destiny into the small corral and followed Morgan inside.

  Morgan set the twelve-pack on the table beside the door and looked around him. “I guess you have been busy.” He climbed the stairs. “Wow. Done some major remodeling.” He walked across the landing and into the master suite. “Fireplace, Jacuzzi, deck.” He whistled softly. “Your room?”

>   “No.” Rick’s throat tightened. He felt like grabbing Morgan and removing him bodily. “I sleep down the hall.”

  Morgan turned. “You’re worse than I thought.” He gripped his shoulder. “But I know what you need.” He went back out to his car, opened the trunk, and returned with two bottles. “Cuervo Gold and my old friend Beam. Got any limes?”

  Rick shook his head.

  “Then we’ll have to drink it straight.”

  Rick woke with a head like a volcano and a mouth full of soot. He rolled over and groaned. His jaw was on something hard, and he squinted open his eyes. Tile. Half his body was wedged under the table, and his face lay on the tiles before the fireplace. He felt like he’d been thrown and trampled. Slowly he slid out from under the table and rose to one elbow.

  Morgan sat on the couch, fingers folded behind his head. “Now that you’ve done it my way, what do you think?”

  Rick scowled. His head throbbed, and his stomach felt like something had died there.

  Morgan reached for a glass on the table. “Here. This might help.”

  Rick looked at the glass. “What is it?”

  “Bitters and soda.”

  Rick took it. It couldn’t be worse than what he’d downed last night. What had Morgan given him? He took a drink and slouched against the hearth. “How’d I end up here?”

  “You just lay where you fell.”

  Rick rubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t remember. Morgan had poured, and they’d talked broken hearts. Rick had probably spilled more than he wanted to know. But he couldn’t remember ending up on the floor. “Is there a point?”

  Morgan leaned forward, elbows to his knees. “Thought you should see how bad it could get.”

  As if he didn’t know already. Rick hung his head into his hands. “Real considerate of you.”

  “The question is, what are you going to do now?”