by Anne Stuart
Gabriel just looked at her, and there was no judgment, no censure, only sorrow and understanding. "Life is too precious to throw away," he said. "Love is too precious to waste. Even for a moment." And putting his arms around Carrie's shoulder, he led her out of the hospital into the chill midnight air.
Carrie didn't say a word when they left the hospital, and for that Gabriel could be profoundly grateful. The past few hours had been the most harrowing of any lifetime. He could accept responsibility for a woman's broken heart and shattered life. He could accept responsibility for the economic collapse of an entire town. But the fate of one teenage boy was more than he could bear.
She simply fastened the seat belt around her, waiting for him to make the first move. When he tugged at her she went silently, willingly, resting her head on his lap as he made the long, slow drive back to the Swensens.
This time there was no tossing of clothes as they made their way upstairs. This time, when they made love, they did it in the narrow bed, sweetly, slowly, letting the pleasure stretch and grow, taking their time, savoring each other. And when they finished he looked down at her, cradling her head in his arms, and kissed her eyelids. "Carrie, I…"
"No," she whispered. "Don't say it. We have a little more than a week. Let's not talk about it. Let's just live it. No promises, no regrets."
And instead of telling her all the things he wanted to and couldn't, he told her with his lips and his body, arousing her all over again, until the night slid into daylight, and together they slept.
It was a week of heaven, and a week of hell. A week of lovemaking, cookie-making, a week spent feeding Carrie, body and soul. And a week spent feeding himself.
Two out of three ain't bad, he told himself, knowing Augusta wouldn't agree. Lars had already begun setting up shop in the old mill, Jeffie was going to AA meetings and family counseling and beginning to lose that sullen, haunted look. Only Carrie was going to suffer, and there was nothing he could do about it.
She steadfastly refused to talk about it. She knew he was leaving, knew nothing would change that. And yet she took each day, each hour, each minute with a delight that moved him, as well.
"Welcome, stranger," Lars greeted him when he walked into the kitchen. "It's Christmas Eve, my boy. You'll be coming to church with us, won't you?"
"Of course, he will," Maggie piped up, looking downright cheerful as she nursed the baby. "Carrie wouldn't let him miss it. And don't tease the man about making himself scarce. He's had better things to do."
"Am I complaining?" Lars said plaintively, his blue eyes twinkling. "He's been at the mill every day, and I can't imagine what I'd do without him. It's a rare gift you have, my boy."
He heard the words with numb despair. "It's Christmas Eve," he agreed. "And I have another job to go to."
The silence in the kitchen was palpable. "I thought you'd changed your mind about that," Maggie said softly.
Gabriel shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm committed. I just wanted to settle up my rent, and say goodbye."
"Don't be ridiculous!" Lars said gruffly. "It's me who owes you money, after all that hard work you've put in at the mill…"
Gabriel shook his head. "We agreed that would wait until you got your advance from Borodin. You can send it to me."
"But…"
"We agreed," Gabriel said sternly, counting out some money and dropping it onto the table. "And I'm a man of my word." He managed a faint grin. "Look at it this way, you'll still have time to get that train set Nils is longing for."
He was still good at manipulating people, he thought absently. That much of Emerson MacVey remained. The Swensens wouldn't accept the money for themselves, but they would for their children.
"My things are already in the car," he said. "I just wanted to say goodbye."
Lars looked shocked. "You can't be leaving already! No one expects you to be on a job site on Christmas Eve."
Gabriel's smile was wry. "You don't know my future boss. I'll miss you."
"You'll come back?"
He wondered whether he ought to lie. If he ended up where he expected, there'd be no way he'd ever see any of the Swensens again. They were good people—there'd be no question where they'd end up come Judgment Day. No sending the likes of them back for extra credit.
"If I can," he temporized.
"Have you already said goodbye to Carrie?" Maggie asked softly.
"I'm on my way there."
"She knows you're going?"
"She's always known I had to go," Gabriel said. "I never lied to her." At least, not in this lifetime.
Lars rose and shook his band, and the Christmas cheer in his ruddy face had vanished. "We'll miss you, boy. Come back when you can."
"Is Gabriel leaving?" Nils wandered into the room, munching on a sugar cookie.
"Remember, he said he could only stay till Christmas," Maggie said.
"Oh, yeah," said Harald. "By the way, Gertrude told me to tell you she wants to see you. This afternoon. Four-thirty sharp."
He must have arrived in Minnesota around four-thirty, on Thanksgiving. It was such a short while ago, and yet it was a lifetime. He'd crammed more into those weeks than he had into his previous thirty-two years of living.
But he had no intention of going quietly to his doom, or trying to plead his case. Augusta had made up her mind long before he'd come back, she'd even conspired to make it harder for him. He wasn't going to make it easier for her. When she was ready to take him back she could damned well come and find him.
The roads were in decent shape—it hadn't snowed for several days, and the road crew had managed to clear up the mess from the ice storm. It was supposed to snow that night, a white Christmas, Carrie had said, managing to smile. He wouldn't be there to see it.
She was waiting for him. She'd dressed in something lively and red, and she was wearing jingle-bell earrings that rang when she turned her head. She was relentlessly, infuriatingly cheerful, handing him a mug of hazelnut coffee, chattering about the Christmas Eve service.
"I suppose you have to leave before then," she chattered onward, bustling around the kitchen.
"I suppose," he said, sitting and watching her, storing up the sight of her for the eternity to come.
"By the way, Gertrude called. She said to tell you she wants you to stop by on your way out of town."
" I got the message," he said lazily. "Are you going to keep running away from me or are you going to perch for a moment?"
She turned, startled, and gave him a wary smile. "I'll perch," she said, coming over and sitting on his lap, her arms around his neck. She was smiling very, very brightly, and he wanted to kiss that phony smile off her face. But somehow he knew she needed it. She needed the energy, the smile, the careless bravery. The only thing he could do was give it to her.
"I'm glad you're taking this so well," he said.
He heard the faint shudder of swallowed tears. "Of course I am," she said cheerfully. "I've always known you've had to leave. It's not as if you ever lied to me about it. I'll miss you, of course. But I expect that sooner or later you'll be back…"
"No."
The smile on her face faded for a moment. "No?"
"Damn it, Carrie, I told you… !"
"All right," she said firmly. "You won't be back. So I'll marry Steve, have half-a-dozen children who'll all be bald by the time they're twenty, and I'll think of you every Christmas Eve with a tear or two when I've had too much brandied eggnog. I'll be perfectly fine."
He rose, setting her on her feet, his hands lingering on her narrow waist. "I've already hurt you enough."
"Never," she said flatly. "Name one thing you've done."
He knew that he couldn't. Instead, he kissed her, long and deep and hard, kissed the lying smile off her face, kissed the brave eyelids that blinked back tears.
And then the bravery and tears vanished, and she began to sob deep shuddering tears that she cursed as she wept. "Pay no attention to me," she sobbed against his shoulder
as he held her with tender hands. "I always cry at Christmastime. And I'll miss you—I'm allowed to say that, aren't I?"
"Of course," he murmured into her hair.
"Couldn't you lie to me?" She tilted her face up, and she looked very vulnerable, very sweet. "Tell me you'll try to get back to me? Even if you don't really want to, a little lie won't hurt you."
He looked at her, and the pain in his heart was worse than anything he'd ever endured. Massive cardiac arrest was a piece of cake compared to a simple, permanent break. "Damn it, Carrie…" he said.
"All right then, don't lie," she said. "Don't say anything at all." And her mouth stopped his protest.
He left her sleeping. She was curled up on the living room sofa, the bright red dress flowing around her, the salty path of her tears drying on her pale cheeks. It was four-thirty, but already pitch-black outside, and he knew there was no escape. He knelt down beside her, stroking her hair, touching her so lightly he knew she wouldn't awake. And then he rose, carrying the sight and the scent and the feel of her with him, into eternity.
He recognized the ancient Dodge Dart that squatted at the end of Carrie's driveway like a malevolent blue bug. His truck was still parked there, and he wondered what would happen if he got in, started it and tried to ram Gertrude. It was an idle thought, enough to summon a wry amusement from him, and he strolled down the long, winding driveway toward the waiting car.
"Get in," Gertrude said, rolling down the window.
He got in. He didn't bother with the seat belt—it wouldn't make much of a difference where he was going. "I must say, I wouldn't have thought it would be a GM product that would carry me across the river Styx."
"I'm glad you can still find something amusing about your situation, Mr. MacVey." There was no longer any sign of Gertrude in the old car. Augusta drove with her customary arrogance, and the slippery roads had no choice but to obey her.
He glanced out the window and realized they weren't driving on the roads. He leaned back against the seat with a weary sigh. "You've got your wish, Augusta. I did my best, and I failed."
"Indeed, Mr. MacVey."
"Don't call me that," he said mildly enough, determined not to let her get to him.
"Why not? It's your name. And there is no river Styx, and I am hardly Charon, the evil boatman. You're going back for the trial. I have my own opinion as to where you belong, and the answer might surprise you. But it's not my decision alone."
He glanced at her. She was glowing in the darkness, and he realized with a sense of shock that he was glowing, as well. "You mean there's hope for me?"
"Oh, there's always been hope for you," she said. "Mind your manners, and we'll see what happens."
Carrie heard him leave. She knew he didn't want her to say goodbye, so she'd pretended to be asleep, holding herself relaxed and still as his hand brushed her face, his lips brushed her eyelids.
She listened to his footsteps in the kitchen as he headed for the door, and she stuffed her fist into her mouth to keep from calling out to him. A moment later the rumble of a car, and he drove away, out of her life, forever.
She closed her eyes, absorbing the pain. She would survive. She always did, no matter what kind of mess she got herself into, no matter what kind of blows life dealt her. She wasn't sure if this current situation was her own fault, and she didn't really care. No matter how long she ached for him, hurt for him, waited for him, the days spent with him were worth it.
She was so tired. She'd been running on nervous energy, unwilling to rest while her time with him was so limited. That time was over now. She could close her eyes and let sleep come. Sweet, drugging sleep, where she could find Gabriel again in her dreams.
He was wearing his Italian wool suit once more, and his silk tie was too tight around his neck. He was glad the Waystation didn't come equipped with mirrors. He didn't want to look at his reflection and see Emerson MacVey's blandly handsome face. He'd had no choice but to leave Gabriel behind, a fallen angel. But that didn't mean he had to like it.
He sat alone in one of the waiting rooms, wrapped in that vast cocoon of nothingness. The smells were gone, he realized, the smells of Christmas. No cinnamon and hazelnut, no fir trees and gingerbread and hot chocolate. He was back in the void, and for a brief, savage moment he thought even hell would be preferable.
And then he wasn't alone. Augusta was there, tall, disdainful, staring down at him out of her cool blue eyes. "The decision has been made," she said.
He found he didn't want to hope. Heaven or hell made no difference to him at that point. Any place without Carrie was eternal torment.
"It's been determined that you tried very hard. To be sure, you wasted your miracles. One was for your own self, one was for a phone call, and you could have found Jeffie without divine intervention. Nevertheless, in two of the three cases you have done very well, indeed, and we're pleased with you."
He barely glanced at her. "What's the punch line?"
"You've broken Carrie Alexander's heart."
He stared down at his fingers as they idly drummed the arm of the chair. Short fingers, well manicured. Soft hands. "So? That's nothing new, is it? Apparently I'd already done so."
"I'm sorry, but she's in more trouble this time. Before she was simply suffering from an infatuation. This time she's not going to recover. Broken lives and broken bones mend. Broken hearts do not. She'll never marry, and she'll think of you every day of her life."
"Don't!" he said furiously, lunging to his feet. "She's too strong for that. She won't waste her life for a worthless bastard like me."
Augusta smiled. "She knows how to love, Mr. Falconi."
"Of course she does. It's not fair that she…" His voice trailed off as he realized he was looking down at Augusta. Augusta, who had stood eye to eye with Emerson MacVey. "What did you call me?"
"Why, your name, Mr. Falconi," she said. "You haven't earned your place in heaven, I'm afraid, so we have no choice but to send you to the other place. But you've been under a misapprehension. There is no such place as hell. The other place is life."
"Life?" He knew that deep voice. It was Gabriel's. It was his. He looked down at his hands. Large, graceful, scarred with the nicks and scratches that came from working with wood.
"Angel Falls, Minnesota. You're going back to Carrie, Mr. Falconi. You're being given a second chance. See that you get it right this time."
The blue light exploded in his eyes, and he was falling, falling, the pain sharp and cold and clear, and he wanted to scream, but when he tried, nothing came, and he reached out, and his hand came in contact with something solid. He took a deep, shuddering breath, deep into his lungs, and looked around him.
He was standing on Carrie's porch. The moon had risen, and a light snow was falling. He glanced up at the sky, and for one brief, mad moment he thought he could hear sleigh bells.
The house was still and quiet when he let himself inside. Carrie lay sleeping on the sofa, a quilt tossed over her, and as he glanced at the old grandfather clock he noticed in shock that it was one minute to midnight. He thought he'd been gone a matter of minutes. Or a matter of years.
The hand moved, the clock began to chime, a low, stately chime, and Carrie opened her eyes. She looked at him in wondering disbelief.
"You get me instead of coal in your stocking," he said, his voice hoarse.
"For how long?"
He thought back to the past few hours. It was distant, fading, like an old forties movie that he could hardly remember. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the future.
"Eternity," he said, reaching for her.
She came into his arms with her dancer's grace, and he lifted her high, holding her tightly. She was everything that had ever mattered to him, his heart and soul, his very life, and for a moment he just held her, absorbing her heat. And then he reached for the quilt, wrapped it around her, and he carried her through the house, out onto the icy porch, just as the clock finished striking midnight. In the distance
they could hear the church bells ringing in Christmas, and he smiled at her.
"Merry Christmas, love," she said to him, her heart in her eyes.
And looking down at her, he knew he'd found his own heaven.
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