A Rush of Wings

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “About what?”

  “No-elle.” Morgan drew out her name in two long syllables.

  Rick stared at him. “What’s there to do? She wants no part of me.”

  “Yeah. Her shell’s probably Faberge by now.”

  Whatever that meant. Rick swigged the rest of the fizzy brown drink. It did settle his stomach. He stretched his arms. They seemed functional. He was less sure of his legs. “Did you do this on purpose?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why?” Did Morgan hope to destroy whatever fiber he had left?

  Morgan sat back and crossed his ankles. “Wanted you to see where self-pity could land you.”

  “You’re a good one to talk.”

  “I’m speaking from experience.” Morgan looked down at his hands. “If I’d had the guts thirteen years ago, I might have Jill with me now. My kid wouldn’t be dead. And I sure wouldn’t greet each morning with that.” He nodded toward the empty bitters glass.

  Rick looked at his brother. He’d never heard Morgan mention his baby. Not since it all happened. He had no proof that incident still ate him. He must be seriously concerned to bring it up now.

  Morgan leaned forward. “First it’s pride. You think she ought to come to you, only she doesn’t. And then you think you can do without her. And you can, but there’s a hole growing inside. Pretty soon it takes all your energy just filling that hole.”

  Rick swallowed hard. He was waking up now, or maybe Morgan’s morning-after draft was working. He rested his forearms on his knees. “I don’t know, Morgan. I’ve thought it through so many times, so many ways. But the first and only thing she wanted was away from me. She never wavered.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t reach her, couldn’t touch her. She was … stone.”

  “Have you tried since?”

  “No.”

  “Then take it from me.” Morgan stood up. “Don’t wait too long.” He reached down.

  Rick gripped Morgan’s wrist and got to his feet. Blood pounded to his head. Morgan might have chosen a less painful object lesson. But this one was pretty effective. He scrunched his eyes, then stretched his face. By the slant of the sunlight, the horses were probably frantic. They never waited so long for food and freedom. But the thought of his daily routine depressed him. “You hanging around?”

  Morgan pulled his keys from his pocket. “Like to, but I’ve got other problems to solve.”

  Rick looked at his brother again. He hadn’t thought about that lately, how Morgan made a living cleaning up other people’s messes. Maybe it was that hole inside he kept trying to fill. “I’ll walk you out. The stock probably thinks I died.”

  Morgan laughed. “I wondered for a while myself.”

  “No thanks to you.”

  “You will.” Morgan slapped his back. It sent a jolt straight to Rick’s head.

  They shook hands at the car and Rick watched Morgan drive away. Even the sound of the car made his head throb. One thing was certain. He would not turn to the bottle. But he knew Morgan’s message had been more symbolic. Maybe he was sinking into self-pity. So far it had just felt like preservation.

  He let the horses out to pasture. He’d been keeping them in at night with the mountain lions repopulating. Should I call Noelle? He closed the stable door and went to the barn. The roof leak was molding the hay. That was first on his agenda. But before I call Noelle?

  Rick leaned his arm on the post. Lord? Nothing. Naturally. You had to listen to hear. And he just wasn’t ready. He turned and strode to the house. Maybe Morgan was right. He paused with his hand over the receiver, then took the phone and punched the number. He’d dialed it so many times in his mind he knew it from memory.

  “St. Claire.”

  “Mr. St. Claire, this is Rick Spencer. I’m calling for Noelle.”

  The pause was expected. But he said, “One moment, Rick. I’ll get her.”

  Rick waited, anticipated the sound of her voice, steeled himself for its impact. No matter what she said, he would have the sound of her voice.

  “Rick?” It wasn’t Noelle. William cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. She’s not available.”

  Why? How is she? Make her talk to me. Rick didn’t say any of it, just thanked William St. Claire and hung up. He went out, pulled on his gloves, and hung his tool belt over his hips. The ladder reached the lower end of the barn roof.

  Before he climbed, he tied a rope around his waist. When he reached the top of the ladder, he tossed and tightened the rope to the cupola, then pulled himself up. The sun came off the steel like an oven. It was going to be hot work. Rick tugged the hat lower on his forehead and prepared to roast.

  Noelle looked at her father. He’d hung up the phone and stood there behind his desk, staring as though he couldn’t quite place her. What did he expect? What did he want from her? She started to turn.

  “Noelle.”

  She waited.

  “I want you to see a counselor.”

  She turned back. “Because I didn’t take Rick’s call?”

  “You won’t take anyone’s. You won’t go out. You’re a recluse.”

  That wasn’t true. She’d gone to the library, stood on the steps, and looked at the lions. “What are you doing up there, honey? Are you lost?” And she’d gone shopping, bought clothes to replace her others.

  “I’ve gone out, Daddy. Ask John.”

  “Not socially. You’ve refused every invitation. It’s not healthy.”

  She looked away.

  “I know you’ve been hurt.” He walked around his desk where he’d been working. Even at home he worked. That’s how Rick had reached him on the phone. If Donita had picked up, or any of the other staff, Noelle’s refusal would hardly be noted. But Daddy had answered personally.

  “There are professionals who can help you through this.”

  “Like the last time?” She raised her eyebrow.

  Daddy yelling, “What do you know?” The woman knew nothing. Noelle drew a line with her crayon, drew another, harder. “Draw what God looks like.” A line of red off the edge of the page onto the table. Her back pressed to the wall. Red crayon on the table harder, harder until it broke.

  “I’ll find you the best—”

  “I’m going to a show tonight. Will that make you happy?”

  He looked down at his desk. “Why won’t you talk to Rick?”

  “Les Mis. Paige and Sybil invited me, and believe it or not, I didn’t turn them down. So you see, your concerns are needless.”

  “You could at least have taken his call.”

  She raised her chin. “I thought you didn’t want me with that cowboy.”

  He slammed his fist on the stack of books. “I don’t want you like this!” He waved his arm. “This automaton—Get help, Noelle!”

  “There is no help, Daddy.”

  He dropped his face to his hand. “I watched your mother die. I don’t want to watch you.”

  She stood very still. “I’m sorry. I’m already dead.”

  Noelle walked with her companions out of the theater. She should not have gone. It was a poor portrayal of one of her favorite works, and Paige’s chatter was getting on her nerves. “I’m just so glad you came with us, Noelle. Jerry couldn’t believe it when I told him you were coming. The whole firm has this idea that you’re … not the same. I told him of course you’re not, not after Michael Fallon. I never liked him; he was so above it all—made Jerry feel like a peon when everyone knows it’s the associates who do all the work. But Michael Fallon thought he was God.”

  Noelle’s breath seized. “Are you God?” Why did the images keep overlapping? She knew now they were two separate incidents. Two nightmares she’d rather forget once and for all.

  “Does it bother you to talk about it? I’m mean, you’re so lucky to be through with all that. Jerry has a friend who’d really like to meet you.” She waved her hand. “Don’t worry. He’s not with the firm.”

  Noelle shook her head. “No thanks.”

 
Sybil said, “I didn’t think much of Jean Valjean. He wasn’t as sexy as Javert.”

  Paige snorted. “That one? He had a turned-up nose.”

  “Great thighs, though. In those tight pants?”

  Paige asked, “What did you think, Noelle?”

  Noelle shrugged. “I wasn’t impressed with any of it. It’s a shame to ruin Les Mis.”

  Paige waved her hand. “Jerry thinks Les Mis is depressing. And he won’t see anything off Broadway. He says co-op theater is like one-ply toilet paper. Only Broadway will do. Jerry proposed after Cats. But we haven’t been to a show in months. He’s too busy. I shouldn’t say it, Noelle, but your father works my husband like a slave. I’m afraid he’ll have a heart attack and I’ll be a widow at twenty-five.”

  “The music was good,” Sybil said. “It’s so haunting. Especially Fantine’s song to her daughter when she knows she’s dying. It breaks my heart.”

  Noelle felt a tremor. The first time she’d seen the musical, she’d wept when Fantine sang, feeling the mother’s pain but also her own loss. Tonight, well, Daddy was right. She was an automaton. She didn’t want to feel anything.

  They reached the street. Noelle glanced at a young woman standing on the corner. Between her knee-high boots and miniskirt her thighs were whipped pink by the wind and her midriff was bare between her hips and the black vinyl jacket. There was something familiar …

  Noelle stopped when the woman looked her way. “Jan?”

  The stare hardened.

  Noelle trembled. Michael’s sister. Her platinum hair and burgundy lips made her face spectral, and there was a sheen to her skin.

  Paige elbowed her. “Let’s go.”

  Jan thrust out her chin and lit a cigarette. What was she doing there? Working the streets? Again the tremor. Had Michael’s death…

  “Come on, Noelle. Jerry’s here with the car.”

  Noelle left her friends, walked over to Michael’s sister. “Hello, Jan.”

  Jan only glared.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  Sadness. She actually felt sadness. Michael had been so afraid Jan would come to that. He’d tried … Noelle’s hand shook as she stroked it through her hair. She’d had it trimmed that afternoon. Jan’s looked like someone’s dog had chewed it at the ends.

  “Do you want to go somewhere for coffee?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “There’s an espresso bar just around the corner. It would feel good to get out of the wind.” A light rain had started as well and blew into her face like spray.

  “I’m working.”

  Noelle looked back at Sybil and Paige. They stood on the curb with the car doors open, waiting for her. Jerry was saying something, probably that he didn’t want his leather seats getting wet. Noelle shook herself. What was she doing, talking to Michael’s sister? To Jan, who couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds—dressed—who sucked her cigarette and French-exhaled with a withering sneer. She started to turn away.

  “So I guess you hate Michael real bad.”

  Noelle felt her throat constrict. Did she? She was so far from any emotion, she couldn’t say yes or no.

  “Well, I wish he’d never met you.”

  Noelle looked into eyes as bitter as hers had ever been. “Jan…”

  “He’d be alive now if it weren’t for you.”

  Blood rushed in her ears. She wanted to turn and run.

  Jan leaned forward. “I wish you’d been there when they buried him.”

  “Stop it, Jan.”

  “He loved you.”

  Loved her? Enough to beat and bruise and … If that was love she wanted no part of it. But tears stung her eyes. What right did Jan have to attack her? “How long have you been selling yourself?”

  “Since I was born. One way or another.” She took a drag and sent smoke out her nostrils. “How long have you?”

  Noelle stepped back. She turned, walked to the car, and slid into the backseat with Sybil. As Jerry pulled away from the curb, she saw Jan staring.

  CHAPTER

  31

  Rick gave the connector one final twist and climbed out from under the sink. “That should hold it, Mary.” He stood up and wiped his hands on a paper towel that tore with the first rub. Mary Slague was frugal. Generic towels cost less. He dropped the shreds into her wastebasket. “But if it leaks again, we’ll replace the pipes.”

  “The squeak was the faucet, not the pipes?”

  He leaned into her ear. “Leaks, Mary. If it leaks.”

  “Oh yes. I can’t have any leaks.” She hobbled into her living room, one nylon stocking bunched around her ankle beneath the hem of her paisley dress. She picked up her pocketbook. “What do I owe you?”

  “Not a thing.”

  She turned, her lips gathered into a circle. “Nothing?”

  He headed for her front door. “Just call me if it doesn’t hold.”

  “No, I don’t want mold. Not in a cabinet. But you’re too nice.” She hobbled to the door. A linen calendar from 1987 swung toward him as he opened it. She put a hand on his arm. “I liked you better without the beard.”

  Rick rubbed the shaggy growth. He’d thought of taking it off all summer, but it was too much trouble. Now that fall was coming, he guessed he’d leave it. He didn’t care how he looked.

  He patted Mary’s fingers. “You take care.”

  As he walked to the truck he noticed the aspens were starting to turn. It was that day or so of succotash before the whole trees burst yellow. He’d carried Noelle outside and seated her underneath such golden splendor. He got into the truck. Did everything have to remind him?

  He thought about what Morgan had said. The hole seemed to grow every day. He’d run out of chores at the ranch beyond the daily maintenance. Now he was reduced to doing everyone else’s chores. But since he hadn’t taken guests that summer, he was available and willing. The more work, the better.

  He drove up to the house and went inside. It hit him when he walked in the door, a feeling so bleak he almost staggered. He sagged against the doorframe, then sank down and sat on the floor. He dropped his face into his hands. It was time to stop running. No amount of kind deeds was going to change the fact that he was in rebellion.

  He folded his fingers and pressed his hands to the bridge of his nose. Lord, forgive me. He thought of what Pastor Tom had said. “Unless you are sinless, you’d do well to forgive.” Could he? Was it even possible?

  Rick sighed. Tom had been right about the rest too. It wasn’t just Michael he blamed. More than anything, he blamed himself. He had tried to be enough, when he knew what Noelle needed was God’s own love and healing and salvation. He’d captured her heart for himself when he should have won her soul for Christ. And now he’d lost it all.

  His brows drew together and he pinched the bunched skin. Jesus, I failed. And I don’t know how to make it right. He had willingly stepped outside God’s plan, let his own desires lead him away. He’d wanted her so much. He dropped his head back against the doorframe.

  There was only one way to fill the hole, one lasting way. Faith. Belief that God still had a plan. Rick stood up and got his Bible from the table. He opened to the book of Jeremiah and found the passage he wanted. “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.’”

  He pressed the Bible to his chest, then closed it carefully and set it down. He went to the closet, took out his guitar, and tuned it. Then he sat on the hearth, played, and sang as he hadn’t for too long. His fingers stopped. He dropped his face to his hand and wept.

  God’s mercy would be sufficient. Please, God … And then he prayed for Noelle. Prayer was the only thing he could give her.

  Noelle couldn’t stop thinking about Jan. She hadn’t ventured
out for two months since seeing Michael’s sister. Paige had tried three times to set her up with Jerry’s friend, though Daddy seemed to have given up matchmaking. She was twenty-four, living at home, and doing nothing with her life. No, that wasn’t true. She practiced the piano every day and read voraciously—she’d even read a French cookery book from cover to cover. She was sure if she tried, she could prepare … something. But what was the use?

  She sat up on the bed and threw her book across the room. Why had she seen Jan? Why hadn’t she looked away, walked away? “He’d be alive if it weren’t for you.” She didn’t want to think of Michael in any way except as her attacker, didn’t want to consider Jan’s loss, his mother’s … How was she living now? Michael had been her sole support. Insurance didn’t pay for suicide.

  Noelle pressed her palms to her temples. Why should she care about them? He deserved to be dead. “He’d be alive if it weren’t for you. He loved you.” Had he? She felt his fist crashing into her skull, his kick in her stomach, his slap across her face.

  That triggered the other memories, hands in the dark where no hands should be, her back against the wall. But was it Michael? Or the other face—the face of God? And then there was the window, Michael the Archangel crushing the devil’s throat. Why? Because he’d angered God. She stiffened her arms at her sides, clenched her fists. I never told!

  That thought stopped her short. Never told what? “Give us a kiss.” Memory rushed in. She had scratched and kicked until he stunned her with his slapping. Her whole body shuddered. “Spoiled little rich girls need a lesson.” And all she could picture was the window, God’s angel stomping the devil. Her mind shut the man out and filled with the picture instead. Had the same thing happened with the hawk?

  Had Michael’s blows triggered the same separation, disassociation? And did she really know what happened while she fixated on the picture on his wall? “You’re crazy! I never raped you.” And then she remembered that too. Michael staggering back, as stunned as she that he’d hit her, and scared. “Stop it, Noelle! What’s wrong with you?” And all she could do was stare.

  Michael hadn’t raped her. It was the other man’s hands. She bit her upper lip until she tasted blood. Michael’s fists had triggered the terror, the terror that had made her run. But he hadn’t instigated it. That had come much earlier, been buried far deeper. And it carried more horror than Michael’s violence ever could have.