The streets of Prominence glistened, the macadam slick and glittering, reflecting the amber lights of shops, the red, yellow, and green of a stoplight in her rearview. The power was back, but that did nothing to lift the isolation that hung in the dark rain-misted air. There was no sign of the flood except the dirty water that washed along the gutters and clogged drainage grids. At nearly two in the morning, the roads were empty.
At the final intersection before the town gave way to the lonesome highway that stretched toward her apartment twenty miles south in Bourbon Creek, Dette turned on her high beams and increased the speed of her wipers. It was raining a little harder now, which still wasn’t much, but a gauzy fog had settled in.
Despite the seventy mile per hour speed limit, she let the speedometer idle between thirty-five and forty as tall trees rose on either side of the road. It was a pretty drive, the trees shrouded in fog and glistening with rain. A poor man’s forest. That’s how she thought of it. Neither lush nor particularly green, it was the closest thing the high desert had to woodlands, and that - along with the lower rent - was why she’d moved to Bourbon Creek.
She was fiddling with the radio when a tall figure stepped out from between the trees, directly in the path of the red Mustang.
“Son of a bitch!” She rammed her foot on the brake hard enough that she rose from the seat.
The man glanced up and braced himself in a wide-legged stance, but his eyes were curiously serene, as if he were not only awaiting impact, but also welcoming it.
The brakes squealed and the tires bit into the pavement and skidded.
Jesus, no!
The Mustang struck, lifted the man off the ground and tossed him onto the hood, the rear of the car fishtailing. As he rolled off, the Mustang halted just a few feet in front of a tree and rocked on springs Dette didn’t know it had.
For several moments, she sat there, blinking, clenching the steering wheel in a death grip.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod!” She yanked her seatbelt off and threw the door open, slipping in mud as she scrambled to her feet and rushed toward the man. He was flat on his back at the side of the road, one arm over his head, the other draped across his torso. His short platinum hair was caked with mud and his head rested in an inch-deep puddle.
Dette knelt beside him. He was exceedingly handsome, with male-model features, though at the moment, he was ghastly pale.
Trembling, Dette lifted his left arm and found his pulse, strong and sure. “Oh, thank you, God, thank you, God.”
She saw no signs of major blood loss, just some cuts and abrasions, none of them deep. She pulled his red-and-black leather jacket open, inspecting him for signs of damage. Aside from mud, rain, and streaks that had probably come from the road, it was clear. Unless his bleeding is internal.
“Please don’t die, please don’t die.” She pulled down on the man’s chin and his mouth came easily open, the jaw slack. There were no obstructions and no blood. Next, she peeled his eyelid back with the pad of her thumb - and froze. His eyes were the impractical blue of sapphires, as stunning as the stones themselves, and Dette found herself frozen, wrapped in the jewel-like luster of that rich, mesmerizing shade.
That royal blue eye shifted, locking on her.
She shrieked, jerked back, and slipped in the mud. “Jesus!” She scrambled, crab-walking away from him, her hands squishing in the damp earth and cold hard pine needles.
The man sat up, a simple bend at the waist, rising as fluidly as if he were pulled by strings. Fully upright, he cocked his head to one side, then the other, his bones popping. Then he swiveled his head to face her and blinked. In an easy genial voice, he said, “Sorry about all that.”
Part Two
Let There Be Light
“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.”
-Shirley Jackson
“Destiny has two ways of crushing us … by refusing our wishes … and by fulfilling them.”
-Henri Frederic Amiel
The Days that Followed: At Vang’s Bangs
“Well, that certainly isn’t what I heard,” bellowed Cloris Riddley from beneath a hooded hair dryer. “I heard he’s a distant cousin to that O’Riley girl he’s staying with.”
Lena Harding shot Cloris a look in the long mirror that dominated the west wall of Vang’s Bangs Beauty Salon. “I think we all know they aren’t cousins, Cloris.” She returned her gaze to the reflection of her hair. “A little shorter, dear.”
She’d said that each time Rebecca McNair had almost finished the job, no doubt to prolong her appointment as she gathered new gossip. Rebecca snipped a good half-inch off the blunt edge of the woman’s over-bleached bob.
“What do you think, Rebecca?” Lena blinked at her in the mirror. “Have you heard anything about this mysterious stranger?”
Rebecca shook her head, keeping her focus on the job. It had been several days since the notorious nearly nude stranger had rescued Abby Strane from the flood, and since, Rebecca had heard about little else. The entire community was in a rabid state of speculation. She would have thought the flood or the quakes would have taken precedence, but instead, everyone wanted to know who the guy was, where he’d come from, and why he was in Prominence. And what he had to do with Madison O’Riley.
“What?” hollered Cloris.
“You know what I think,” said Rosemary Hess. “I think she met him on one of those shady interweb sites.” She sat near the salon’s entrance in the small waiting area that consisted of three plastic, stackable chairs and a mocha brown end table sporting a fan of magazines. Her appointment wasn’t for another forty-five minutes.
Several heads swiveled to stare at her. Rosemary turned a page of her magazine with a casual flick, her mouth a self-satisfied line. Rosemary Hess, easily the wealthiest woman in Prominence, dressed in jewel tones and severe satiny suits that she thought reinforced her status as town matriarch. The color she’d chosen today was emerald: an emerald skirted suit with a matching silk blouse. and emerald earrings, pendant, and rings. The auburn of her last dye job hadn’t had a chance to dull, and this, along with the flawless curlicues of her glossy finger wave, told Rebecca she was really just here for the gossip. “Think about it.” Rosemary crossed her legs, her bony knees threatening to split her opaque pantyhose. “We all know Madison O’Riley isn’t going to win the hearts of any of the locals, not after those dreadful books her father wrote. Where else is she going to turn but to an online dating forum?”
“Why shouldn’t she be able to find a local man?” asked Diana Stout, who lived up to her name by falling just shy of the five-foot mark and weighing in at an easy two hundred pounds. “She’s a pretty enough girl.” She sat in a stylist’s chair next to Lena, her perpetually sweating face glistening.
Lena Harding snicked her tongue.
Diana inspected her reflection. No one but Evelyn Vang was allowed to work on Diana Stout and presently, Evelyn sculpted the woman’s thinning white hair with the concentrated precision of a critical care surgeon. When she was finished, Rebecca knew, it would look like a bulletproof globe, a puff of cotton candy through which little or no scalp could be seen.
“Well,” said Rosemary from the waiting area. “At least that crazy, bible-thumping mother of hers left town.”
“What?” hollered Cloris from her helmet of heat. “I can’t hear a damned thing any of you are saying!”
Rosemary Hess patted her red hair. “The whole thing is just too theatrical for my tastes. Some young man shows up from nowhere and gets famous for running around in the rain in his underwear. It’s a testament to how low our standards for entertainment have become.” She shook her magazine and returned her gaze to the pages. “He’s like one of those Kardashian girls with the big rear ends. Famous for nothing, and I, for one, think they should ship him back to wherever he came from.”
Evelyn Vang looked up from Diana Stou
t’s hair and frowned at Rosemary. “Now, now. He did save Abigail Strane’s life. I think that counts for something, don’t you?” Evelyn ran her salon like a referee, only blowing the whistle when things went out of bounds. Otherwise, she let the women gossip, though never participated herself. Rebecca had a firm respect for her boss’ ethics.
Rosemary rolled her eyes. “And no one has seen hide nor hair of him since.”
“But it was some damned fine hide, you’ve got to admit.” Lena Harding giggled. Diana Stout went pinker than usual and Evelyn Vang shook her head, a little smile on her full, pretty lips.
Rosemary Hess rolled her eyes and straightened her magazine again, with more vigor this time.
“Have you guys seen the construction they’re doing over at St. Agatha’s?” It was clear that Evelyn wanted to steer the conversation into polite territory.
“What?” called Cloris. “I can’t hear!”
“Oh, yes!” Lena turned her head suddenly and Rebecca’s scissors missed her ear by half an inch. “They’ve been working twenty-four seven, non-stop.”
“You know what that means.” Rosemary rubbed her fingers together. “Lots of money.”
“I haven’t heard about it,” said Diana. “What are they doing with the church?”
“They’re converting it.” Evelyn stood back and eyeballed Diana’s hair, then returned to it, unsatisfied.
“Converting it?” asked Lena. “Into what?”
“I don’t know,” said Evelyn. “The man I spoke with the other day didn’t offer any information and I didn’t ask.”
“You know what I heard.” Cloris lifted the hood of her dryer, releasing the stink of a permanent wave. “It’s going to be a Catholic supplies shop.”
“Cloris,” said Evelyn, shaking a comb at her. “Keep your head under the dryer or your hair won’t set properly.” She spoke to her the way an adult chastises a guilty toddler.
Cloris shot her an annoyed glance, pulled the dryer over her head, and crossed her arms, sulking.
“A Catholic supplies shop?” asked Lena. “Whatever for?”
Diana Stout spoke low from one corner of her mouth. “Don’t listen to her, Lena. She gets her news from Marion Busby.”
The women made sounds of disapproval.
“So you’ve met the man who bought the property, Evelyn?” Lena asked.
Evelyn Vang shook her head, her black hair dazzling even beneath the salon’s tawny lighting. “No, but one of his associates called to make an appointment with me. He’s scheduled for Friday at two.”
“Two, you say?” asked Rosemary.
Lena swiveled her head to look at Evelyn and barely missed another ear stabbing. “One of his associates? What does that mean? There is more than one of them?”
Evelyn nodded, spritzed Diana’s head with extra-hold spray and smoothed an expert hand over the round ball of hair. “Seven of them - the owner and six employees - and they’re all living in the old rectory.”
“How unusual.” Lena faced forward again and Rebecca resumed trimming. “What was his name?”
Evelyn paused and thought for a moment. “Lombardo. Corson Lombardo.”
“That sounds Italian,” said Diana.
“And sexy as hell,” added Lena.
“What?” bellowed Cloris.
Rosemary Hess rattled her magazine. “Just what we need. More foreigners taking our jobs.”
Evelyn shot her a look, but it melted quickly, a gentle smile finding her lips. “He was very charming on the phone.”
“What?” asked Cloris. “I can’t hear anything!”
“And his appointment is Friday at two, you say?” asked Rosemary.
Lena Harding, Diana Stout, and Rosemary Hess all leaned toward Evelyn Vang, awaiting an answer.
Rebecca McNair sighed, knowing she’d be seeing the women again very soon. None of them would want to miss an opportunity to investigate the new guy, and that meant more redundant haircuts and dye jobs for Rebecca. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy her job as a stylist, she did. But she was growing tired of seeing the same old faces, hearing the same old voices, and working the same old hairdos week after week. She was glad to hear new people were moving to town. It might liven things up a little.
Sinking Into Oblivion
It was after one in the afternoon when Olivia LeBlatte opened her eyes and stared into the bright light breaking through the slatted blinds. She blinked, turned her gaze to the clock on the night table, and gasped.
“Shit!” Dizzy, she shot up, rubbing her eyes. She had an appointment to show a house in twenty minutes. She wouldn’t make it, and decided to give it to her. Throw a dog a bone. After the sale of the church, it wasn’t as if she needed the meager commission from some tiny house in a lower middle-class neighborhood, anyway. Trish can handle it.
Her head felt as if it were weighted down by a boulder and it was a struggle to hold it upright. She reached for her purse and pulled her phone out to make the call. Once finished, she browsed for messages, her eyes growing heavy. They closed, and in that brief moment, dream images flashed behind her lids. She’d never fallen asleep sitting up before and, realizing she had, she dug through her bag and found her cigarettes. She’d never been so tired as she had the past few days and her certainty that something was wrong, that some illness was upon her, was frightening.
I’m not going to the doctor. She was overworked, that was all.
She stared at her phone, her vision blurring as sleep threatened to overtake her. She lit her cigarette, took a few long pulls on it, then slapped gently at her cheeks. Wake up, Olivia. Focusing her eyes, she returned to her phone, where she found a message from Mr. Jones asking her to call him back. Since their tryst at St. Agatha’s, Olivia had seen Mr. Jones twice more, and on each occasion, they’d reenacted the forbidden deed, adding new, animalistic twists with each rendezvous. Mr. Jones’ performance had only gotten better - not that it needed any improvement - but frankly, he was wearing her out.
Clearing her throat, she dialed his number and waited.
“Ms. LeBlatte.” His resonant voice sparked her to life, though she’d have thought that after three intimate encounters, they’d have dispensed with formalities and been on a first-name basis. But Mr. Jones liked it this way. So did Olivia. It was kind of kinky.
“I received your message, Mr. Jones. I do hope nothing’s amiss.” She was startled by the gruffness of her own voice. What had once been a throaty, smoky timbre now sounded raw and rough.
His rich, chocolaty chuckle thrust her sexual appetite into high gear. “Nothing is wrong, Ms. LeBlatte. I just wanted to formally extend you an invitation to opening night.”
“Opening night?” She took a hard pull on her smoke, wishing they made double-nicotine cigarettes for smokers the way they made double-shot espresso for coffee drinkers.
“The nightclub will be opening its doors this Friday. I’d like you to come see the show.”
“That was fast. I imagined you’d still be settling in.” She’d seen some of the construction, but Mr. Jones had been tight-lipped about his plans. Until now. A nightclub. She couldn’t picture St. Agatha’s as a nightclub.
“We didn’t want to waste any time, Ms. LeBlatte. We made good use of the contractors you referred us to.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She blew out smoke and for a moment could have sworn she smelled Mr. Jones’ own sulfur-scented cigarettes. “What kind of club is it, exactly?”
“I’d like it to be a surprise. You understand.”
“Of course.” Olivia stubbed her cigarette out and lit another. “I’ll be there. Friday night at what time?”
“The doors will open at eight p.m. Be sure and tell your friends.”
“I’ll do that.” Olivia ended the call. He hadn’t asked her to pay him another private visit and she wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. On one hand, she didn’t know if her body could endure any more of his savage lovemaking. On the other hand, she craved it. Profoundly
.
Her eyes became perilously heavy and she stubbed out her butt for fear of burning down the bed. Maybe if I just get another half-hour or forty-five minutes of sleep …
She sank into oblivion, neither knowing nor caring whether or not she had any other appointments for the day.
The Disrobed Daredevil
“Go in the back.” Madison stood in the gleaming new display window at O’Riley’s Rocks, on the lookout for gawkers. Eric Cooterman parked his red pickup on the street and sauntered toward the shop. “Hurry!”
Alejandro was engrossed in one of her father’s books about Mono Lake. Madison grabbed his sleeve and dragged him into the back office, then resumed her position behind the counter, polishing a piece of hematite.
Since the rescue of Abigail Strane, Madison had been bombarded by an influx of customers, townspeople who were eager to get a glimpse of the boxer-clad savior. She noticed that Beverly Simon of The Psychic Sidekick, was getting the same treatment. But it seemed to be slowing some. It’d been worse Monday and Tuesday.
It vexed her that everyone knew Alejandro was staying with her. She wished she hadn’t been so quick to parade him around town in search of his lost memories, but it wasn’t as if she could have guessed he’d become a local celebrity.
Her original plan was to leave Alejandro at home during the day but when she saw Eric Cooterman haunting the property like a camera-wielding phantom, she changed her mind. Left alone, Alejandro would undoubtedly make matters worse by inviting the man inside and answering his questions. This would only fan the flames and Madison thought it best to keep him out of sight and let time suffocate the town’s intrigue.
Eric Cooterman entered the shop with a smile on his thin lips and an eager gleam in his beady eyes. “Madison. How’ve you been?”
The Angel Alejandro Page 15