When Angels Cry

by Jennifer Edwards

  The sound of thunderous steps pounded into the sand behind her. She didn’t look back for fear the entire town was chasing her. She had made a spectacle of herself at the restaurant. Thinking that Paul had betrayed her with another woman, she had smashed her glass to the floor and screamed as she ran out the doors onto the beach. She knew people came out after her, calling her name in the night. She felt like Joan of Arc before her capture. As hard and fast as she ran, the steps behind her got closer, until she heard deep, heavy breathing, like a dragon bearing down on her. She felt the hot, fiery breath at the base of her neck. She turned around just as the giant stallion caught up to her.

  Before she knew it, she was swept up with tremendous force and placed atop the powerful, bellowing beast. The man behind her was Paul Rodriguez.

  “You cannot leave me,” the sexy Spaniard breathed into her ear. Pulling back the reins of his horse, he forced her to look at him. She stared at him through her tears, and he gently kissed them away.

  “I love you,” he declared in a seductive voice. “I will take care of you and love you. We shall be forever one . . . together.”

  He jumped off the horse and stared up at her. He extended his hand toward her, and she took it. Back on the sand, she faced her biggest challenge. Though the man of her dreams stood before her, she could never allow love into her life. She had always resisted hoping for true happiness. She never felt she deserved it. But here was her white knight, someone who had eyes for her alone . . .

  The waves lapped at their feet, the gentle wind kissed their skin. He took her face in his hands and parted her lips with his tongue. Her knees went weak. A longing grew between her legs as she pressed her body into his. Falling into each other, they collapsed onto the sand. They breathed as one. Her heart beat in her ears, matching the rhythm of the tide. When Paul ripped off his shirt, she tasted the salt on his skin. He couldn’t wait any longer. He reached under her damp skirt to pull away her panties. He was inside her before she knew it. She moaned, as loud as the roar of the waves. In that moment, they created a symphony all their own. They lay together watching the beginnings of the sun peeking over the horizon in the warm, tequila sunrise night.

  THE END

  I closed the laptop and thanked God I had finally finished the book from hell. Exhausted, I had to have a look at Dwight on my phone. I stared at his impressive cock and decided the photo deserved a more appropriate response. I was not up to speed with modern technology. I wasn’t that great with a regular camera either, let alone the one that existed on my cell phone, but I thought I’d give it a whirl. If nothing else I could chalk it up to research. I could call my next book Textual Healing.

  I stripped, leaving on my fuchsia panties. I looked around the room for inspiration as to what to do next. Nothing original came to mind, so I positioned myself on the sofa bed in what I thought a sexy position without being too pornographic. I held my cell phone at arm’s length above me, trying to capture the full effect without being close enough to show any flaws. I closed my eyes, feigning tranquil bliss and pushed the little button. Click. I was excited to view my masterpiece. I had a look only to discover I had taken a perfectly lovely photo of the ceiling.

  I decided to try again. Maybe I should touch myself, be more provocative. I slipped my left hand into my bra cupping my breast and held the camera in my right hand. Okay. I set up the shot, then fumbled around trying to locate the button with my left hand. I needed two hands! Click. The phone leapt out of my hands like a bar of wet soap. It skidded across the hardwood floor. I crawled around on my hands and knees in my sexy underwear groping for the phone. I finally located it under the Lazy- boy recliner.

  Okay. One more time. I took the shot standing up. I could hold the phone in both hands stretched out in front of me. I stuck the typical Marilyn Monroe pose with one leg crossed in front of the other and gave a sexy, come hither smile . . . Click. I was sure I had it this time. And I did. The only problem was the shot only captured my breasts. I was a torso totally headless and legless. I gave up and wrote the message “this is 4 u” and pushed send.

  I waited and waited. Maybe it was too late. He had texted me his penis more than an hour earlier. He’s probably long gone. I went to the bathroom to do my nighttime ritual. Then I heard the little beep beep of my phone. What a lovely sound. I was giddy when I saw it was from Dwight. His message read, “Really hot, Sarah!!!”

  Whoa, this was fun. I was actually turned on that he was turned on by my photo. I texted back “Now it’s ur turn!!” And I pushed send.

  Again, I waited. And waited a lot longer this time. I clicked on the television and watched a few minutes of the depressing news. I clicked it off and found myself staring at the phone, willing it to beep. My heart raced when it finally did. I couldn’t wait to see how he had responded. I opened the message, and there was Dwight’s cock in what could only be described as a cum shot. There his magnificent penis rested, on top of his waxed stomach with the gift of life next to it. His message read, “THANX . . . That was great.”

  I sat bewildered staring at the phone, not sure what my next move should be. I texted back the only thing I could think of . . . “Ur Welcome.”

  Maybe this is how lovers communicate these days. It did feel incredibly intimate. But I did miss the moaning and groaning that happens when you’re at least in the same room with your lover. I was wiped out even though I hadn’t had an orgasm. My co-dependent self was happy that someone did. I put my hair up on top of my head, smeared on an evening face masque and slipped into my flannel pj’s. How un-sexy could I be? I climbed into my bed, decided to delete the sexy texts, just in case. Wouldn’t you know it . . . ? I had the best night’s sleep in a really long time.

  As the light squeezed through the tiny slats of my blinds the next morning, I could hear Manuel and my mother talking in the driveway. I peered out the window and saw mother in the new staple of her wardrobe, another florescent jogging suit. She looked like a Muppet. Manuel was next to her, holding a stopwatch.

  “Oh, Lord, she’s gonna race herself to death,” I thought. I threw on my sweats and raced downstairs. I opened the front door just as Manuel yelled “GO!” My mother took off.

  More than upset by what I had just seen, I blurted out, “What are you doing Manuel? She can’t race!”

  “No, no, Miss Sarah it’s not that. She doesn’t run . . . not really. Just in her head.”

  “What do you mean she doesn’t run? She jogs all the time! And the idea of her trying to pick up speed . . . !”

  “She goes to the road and sits on the bench at the end of the road,” he explained.

  “She doesn’t jog?” I thought maybe I hadn’t heard correctly.

  “No, Miss Sarah, she doesn’t do much of anything she says anymore. Just in her mind.”

  “Wow . . .” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Manuel. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  “It’s okay, Miss Sarah. I understand.”

  I had to question all the other things I assumed my mother was doing. I had to ask. “Manuel . . . You and my mother? . . . Do you have intimate relations?”

  “Oh my . . . I mean we are both older now . . . that was all a very long time ago,” he responded, looking at his feet.

  “So, those letters you gave me to read? Are you the Father Manuel my mother was writing to?”

  “Yes, Miss Sarah. I have loved Miss Olivia since the day I saw her. We were like children, fifteen and sixteen, but we shared a big love.”

  “Oh, Manuel . . . I don’t know what to say. We have to talk about all of this. I need to understand what went on between the two of you, and I know I won’t get it out of my mother.”

  Manuel nodded. “I think we should speak, too.”

  I felt tears threatening behind my eyes. “How long does she sit on the bench Manuel?”

  He looked at his watch. “Sometimes a few minutes, sometimes an hour,” he shrugged.

  I told him I wanted to go to her, and he understood.
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br />   I rounded the corner from our driveway and, sure enough, there was Mother at the end of the cul de sac, sitting alone on the old, wooden bench. I approached quietly and sat.

  She was staring straight out in front of her. “If you look very closely, you can see Rachel in the tree,” she said, pointing to an old oak. “When I come here, she visits me.”

  I sat staring at the same tree almost hopeful, but I could only see the familiar oak tree I climbed as a kid. We sat in silence. I gazed at the neighborhood and the different types of trees. The old oak now resembled the one in The Giving Tree. Her branches hung much lower than I remembered, but her stature was still proud. There had been a sweet blue and white ranch style home, across the street, where a woman bred Yorkshire Terriers. She invited us to visit any time a new litter of puppies were born. They were so tiny. I loved their sweet puppy milk breath. Where the sweet house once stood was a much too large Spanish style home. Most of the other homes in the neighborhood had stayed the same, which was reassuring somehow.

  “I think Rachel has been calling me more lately,” my mother explained.

  “Do you ever see Dad?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “My father. Your husband?”

  “He was a teacher, right? A handsome teacher . . . yes, I remember.” Her voice trailed off. “He doesn’t visit anymore. He broke my heart!”

  Tears came rolling down my face at record speed. I wanted to tell my mother all that I had felt. Tell her how my heart had also been broken. Not only did I lose Rachel, but I lost who my mother had been before my sister’s death. And now I was losing her again. I didn’t say a word.

  My mother began to cough, and I heard a slight rattle deep in her chest.

  “I think we should go, Mom,” I suggested, using the back of my sleeve to wipe my face.

  “Ah, yes,” she said and stood. “Burt Lancaster is on at three. Elmer Gantry I think. I love that Burt Lancaster.” She turned to face me. “Oh, Sarah. Hello. When did you get here?”

  “Just now, Mom. Just now.” I looped my arm through hers and walked slowly back to the house. Manuel was standing in the exact spot waiting for our return.

  Realizing that every moment, every breath, must be savored to the fullest, I decided to throw the best Thanksgiving this family had ever seen. Or at least try.

  Chapter Seven

  Karmic Relief

  The next couple of days were hectic. E-mails flew back and forth between various family members. My agent had invited herself to the holiday as well. Lily was coming with a new boyfriend, and Phoebe finally shared her deep secret. To my great relief she had decided to go to culinary school to become a chef. To my even greater relief she announced that she wanted to do most of the cooking. Henry would be coming alone. My brother’s wife, Lucy, is pregnant again and throwing up 24/7.

  Manuel helped me locate the fine china my mother had put away years ago and the leaves to expand the cherry wood dining table. After my parents made the decision not to entertain any longer, everything had been packed up and stored somewhere in the basement. The leaves had actually retained a rich, dark color, while the rest of the table was at least two shades lighter. A table cloth could take care of that. Mother seemed delighted that the house would be filled with people, but she still asked Manuel what Thanksgiving was.

  I took myself into town in search of some festive decorations. As I was browsing the shelves of the local gift store, I heard a low voice call my name. It was Robert Beckett. “Mister Bec . . . I mean Robert .

  I thought you would be with Marie and her family by now.” A flash in his eyes and a grimace indicated something wasn’t right.

  “Is everything okay? Is Marie alright?”

  “I s’pose she is,” he responded with sadness in his voice. “She is here with me. Just arrived. She left her husband!”

  He was evidently upset by the news, and I worried that my relief would show through.

  I did the only thing I thought appropriate. I invited Robert and Marie to join us for Thanksgiving. I counted in my head, myself, Mother, Manuel, Lily, Phoebe, Lily’s boyfriend, my crazy agent Sybil, Henry, Marie, and Robert. That put the count at ten people now. The more the merrier. I was excited at the prospect of everyone being together to celebrate a holiday, rather than a sad event. I bought a perfect table cloth in a warm pumpkin color and matching napkins. I found tapered candles with maple leaves pressed into the wax to put in Grandma’s silver candelabras. Martha Stewart would have been proud.

  When I returned home, I saw that I had a couple of e-mails. One was from Phoebe with the menu she planned to prepare: A creamy butternut squash soup or pureed chestnut soup, a mixed green salad with a Meyer lemon vinaigrette, followed by a traditional roasted turkey, roasted root vegetables, and vanilla bean mashed potatoes. Dessert would consist of a mixed berry crumble, pumpkin pie, and pear tart.

  I was impressed, especially since I wasn’t aware that she even knew how to crack an egg! In the P.S she asked if I could do all the shopping and promised another e-mail with the shopping list. I was pleased that Phoebe finally was trying to make a go out of being responsible instead of getting another tattoo or piercing. Our relationship has been better lately. I think she has forgiven me for leaving her father, even though he was the one who screwed everything up.

  Hunger pangs drove me toward the kitchen. My cell phone rang. I was hoping it was Dwight. The phone episodes the previous nights, had left me feeling vulnerable and wanting more at the same time. As I looked at the caller ID, I saw Marie was calling.

  “Hey, Sarah . . . it’s me,” she said in a small voice. I immediately heard the pain.

  “Hi, Marie. Yeah, I saw it was you! How are you?”

  “I’m hangin’, you know? Actually I’m pretty good . . .” She paused. “I heard you saw my dad and you invited us for Thanksgiving. That’s really sweet of you, Sarah.”

  “I know,” I said, laughing.

  “Well, I was hoping to see you before all of that so we can sit and talk. Tell you what’s going on.”

  “Of course. I thought the same thing.”

  “Great! How’s tonight at seven at Stone Manor? I made a reservation.”

  What was it with her family and that restaurant? I wanted to see Marie. And even better, it was Monday. Dwight would probably be there working, too. I love the “two birds with one stone” thing. I accepted maybe a little too enthusiastically.

  Manuel was cooking something wonderful when I stepped into the kitchen that evening. My mother was puttering around him trying to look efficient. Turning, she noticed me and asked where I was going. I was wearing a herringbone pencil skirt, a crisp white poplin shirt, bare legs, and a pair of high heels that I probably shouldn’t wear anymore, but my legs look pretty damn good in them. “I’m meeting Marie for dinner, Mom,” I replied.

  “Who’s Marie?” she asked.

  Instead of getting into it, I answered, “She’s just a friend, Ma.”

  “There will be a lot of food later, Miss Sarah, if you are hungry,” Manuel said. “Chile con carne, tamales . . .”

  “Smells amazing, Manuel. Next time?” I turned to leave. I was running a few minutes late. Since Marie was chronically late, I was hoping I’d have a moment alone with Dwight.

  When I got to the restaurant, Marie predictably wasn’t there yet. My heart was skipping as I anticipated seeing Dwight. I couldn’t believe I had feelings for a waiter so much younger than I. As I rounded the corner and stepped into the restaurant, I spotted him at a table. He saw me and flashed his huge, toothy smile, and my face instantly registered a wonderful shade of plum. Why would having wild sex with this man, and a texting escapade, embarrass me?

  The hostess recognized me and asked if I wanted a table. When I told her I was meeting Marie, she gushed, “Oh, Miss Beckett, yes. We have her favorite table ready.” She ushered me to a table in a cozy nook by the fireplace. I was thanking her just as Marie bounded in. She always walked with confidence. I hadn’t seen h
er in a few years and she looked stunning. Her hair had been highlighted and cut in a trendy shag. She had either been sitting in the sun on some tropical island or visiting a tanning booth somewhere, because her skin was a golden brown. I jumped to my feet, and the two of us hugged one another for a long time. I could tell that she was smelling my hair, breathing me in. We sat down across from one another. Grinning.

  At that point, Dwight approached our table. “Well, Sarah . . . it’s been way too long.” He smiled.

  Of course I blushed again. Marie’s expression made it clear she had immediately caught on that something was up between us. As a quick diversion, I ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir, a favorite of ours. Dwight winked at me before he walked away.

  Marie eyed Dwight’s rear. “Probably gay, right?”

  “Actually, no,” I defended my waiter.

  Marie raised her eyebrows. “You seem awfully confident about that, Sarah. Anything you want to tell me?”

  I brushed it off and told her that we were here to talk about her, not me. She looked at me for the longest time until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Marie? What the fuck?” I blurted. “Why didn’t you call me or something? Let me know what’s going on?”

  She shook her head. “It happened very quickly.”

  “Is David’s issue getting worse?” I asked.

  “No. It has nothing to do with David really. It had to do with Lifetime.”

  “Okay,” I said in disbelief. “Lifetime, as in movie channel?” I tried not to smile or giggle.

  She sat back in her chair, obviously trying to frame her response.

  “Look, I love those movies. Don’t get me wrong, Marie, but what are you talkin’ bout girl?”

  Dwight returned with the wine. Marie didn’t take her eyes off him as he opened the bottle and poured a taster in my glass and waited for me to taste it. I swirled the wine around in the bottom of my glass, then smelled its bouquet. As I went in for the first sip, I somehow missed my mouth completely and splattered my white shirt with the red wine. Instantly, Dwight had my napkin in my water and was trying to blot my left breast dry. The two of us fumbled for the napkin and a lot of “Oh dear’s” “God, how clumsy” “I’ll get soda water” were exchanged between us while Marie sat looking on. I finally wrestled the napkin from Dwight and said it wasn’t a big deal and would take care of it later. He finished pouring our wine, and touched my hand, and walked away.