Saving Evangeline

by Nancee Cain

  Remi laughs. “You’re nuts, you know that, right?”

  “So they say.”

  I mop up the mess while Remi quickly handles lighting the pilot light. I rub my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off the absurd idea he just started it with his fingertips. A quick glance at the counter confirms the matches are still there. No! He must have retrieved one from the box while I was cleaning up the mess. I slide the pan of brownies in the oven, and we sit to eat our biscuits with water instead of coffee. This time he gives a respectful, but quick, blessing over the food.

  Curiosity makes me ask, “So what will you be doing at the church?”

  “Um, well, I’m not working with the church. I’m on a special assignment.”

  “What, like a secret agent priest? Instead of CIA or FBI are you SAP?” I tease, causing him to raise his eyebrows as a surprised smile lights up his face.

  “Did Miss Sourpuss just make another joke?”

  I mutter the phrase du jour, “Smart ass.” But, I hide my pleased smirk by looking away.

  “It’s something like that. What are your plans for the day? Aside from contemplating death, of course.”

  This time I laugh outright. “Oh I dunno, maybe murdering a certain priest?”

  He snickers. “Excellent.” His eyes crinkle and that devilish smile prepares me for more teasing. “From what I’ve heard about Father Ashton’s homilies, you’d be doing the parish a service.”

  “You know I wasn’t talking about him, Father.” I giggle like a young girl and cover my mouth, startled by my own reaction. It feels surprisingly good.

  We finish the meal in a companionable silence. As we sit there, his fingers trail back and forth over the pack of cigarettes on the table. I imagine those long fingers caressing my skin and my breathing hitches. I don’t wear makeup any more, but even if I did, I wouldn’t need any blush around Remi.

  “In all seriousness, Evangeline, what are your plans?”

  I hop up from my seat to hide my embarrassment over my wandering thoughts. After searching through my almost bare cupboards, I find an ashtray hidden in the back and wipe the dust off with a dishtowel. The ashtray reminds me of my daddy sitting at this very table and smoking after a meal. I can almost hear the sound of his lighter flicking and snapping shut, and smell the acrid tobacco. He always said the after-meal cigarette was his second favorite, and Mama would blush, telling him to hush. As an adult, I can now surmise what his favorite cigarette was, and it makes me wonder what this priest’s favorite would be…

  Reigning in my thoughts, I slide the ashtray to him across the table before sitting and retrieving my napkin from the floor. “Oh, I dunno, maybe I’ll die today…” His sharp intake of breath and that bristled sound of flapping feathers has me pulling up sharply from under the table. I continue with a smirk, “Of second-hand smoke.”

  He laughs and with an exaggerated sigh, stuffs the cigarettes back in his pocket, and leans back in his chair. “Not on my watch, you don’t, but I’m pretty sure that would take years.” A beep from my phone indicates another voice mail. “Don’t you need to get that? It could be your job or something.”

  “I quit my job. I wasn’t planning on being here, remember?” I grab the phone with annoyance. It’s my mother again, calling to check on me. She couldn’t handle living in the same town as her lunatic daughter, so instead, she phones at least six times a day. Like her phone calls don’t drive me nuts.

  I listen to the two voice mails and frown. Something isn’t right. Mama’s voice usually sounds strained with a touch of forced cheerfulness as she tiptoes around my mental health, or lack thereof. Today, her voice sounds sad and small as she inquires whether I’m taking my meds and keeping my appointments with the head peeper. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I push redial and wait, glancing across the table at Remi. The intensity of his gaze forces me to look away as I chew on my lower lip waiting for Mama to answer the phone. I wrap and unwrap a curl around my finger, my leg bouncing with nervous energy.

  “Hello?” My mother’s voice sounds weak and a little breathless, as if she ran to grab the phone.

  “Hi, Mama.”

  “Evie, how are you? Are you taking your medications and seeing Dr. Knowles?”

  I look across the table at Remi and lie through my teeth. “Sure. Everything’s great. How are you?”

  An uncomfortable silence ensues followed by an almost inaudible sob. My back straightens, and I clench my fist. “Mama? What’s wrong?”

  “I shouldn’t burden you with this. Not with your condition…”

  Mama always refers to my mental state as my problem, condition, or issue. Personally, I wish she’d just call it like it is and tell me I’m fucking looney tunes. Why is mental illness still taboo to talk about?

  “I-I’m scared, honey. I’ve been having some chest pain. The doctor wants to schedule me for some tests. He says I may need stents or surgery.”

  My world tilts off its axis and overwhelming guilt engulfs me. Sure, we argue, and she drives me nuts with her worrying, but I love her. This is my fault. My mother has been a good mom, despite her inability to deal with my issues. It isn’t her fault I’m on the fast track to hell. I can’t bear the thought of losing her, too.

  I take a deep breath to steady my voice. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. When are you having the tests done?”

  “I’ll schedule it for next week. To give you time to get here. I can send you a little money.”

  “No! No, I don’t need your money.” She’s spent most of her life savings on my ‘problems’ and her move to Seattle. “But, Mama, don’t risk your health, if you need it sooner…” Shit, I don’t have any money, either. I’ll have to take the bus, or I’ll beg, borrow, steal or sell my body. I’ll do anything to get to my mother. The thought of losing my mom fills me with such inexplicable fear, I’m afraid I’m about to implode.

  “I’ll be okay, Evie. I don’t want you to stress about this, you know how stress exacerbates your problems.”

  Tears stream unchecked down my face. “Please don’t worry about me. Concentrate on you for a change. I love you, Mama…” My voices breaks and I repeat, “I love you.”

  “I know you do. I can’t help but worry about you, that’s what mamas do.” Her voice sounds hoarse with emotion. “I miss you and love you, too. Call me when you have your travel plans arranged.”

  I hang up the phone and can’t move, still stunned by the news. For weeks I’ve selfishly contemplated death. My death. Never once have I thought about anything happening to my mom.

  “Are you okay? What’s going on? Talk to me.” Remi leans forward and captures both of my hands in his, and I clutch them like a lifeline.

  Please don’t let me go. Still numb from the revelation of my mother’s illness, I stare at him. Present in body only, my mind races over the things I have to do to get to my mom as soon as possible.

  Frowning, he looks up, sniffing the air. “Is that your soul burning?”

  The smell of burnt brownies permeates the air, followed by smoke pouring from the closed oven door. Remi springs to his feet and turns off the oven. Using a dishtowel, he pulls out the pan of charred brownies. The smoke alarm screeches its ear-piercing signal, breaking through my inertia. I catapult to the top of the table to remove the battery while Remi opens the back door to let the smoke out. His strong hands grip my waist as he helps me down. I know it’s wrong, but I enjoy the feel of sliding down his hard body. He tugs me by the hand to the back step for some fresh air where we sit in silence, staring at the backyard.

  Needing his strength, I take his hand in mine but immediately regret showing my weakness. Trying to fake him off, I pretend to study his hand, rubbing a finger over his smooth palm. “I’m glad you didn’t burn yourself.”

  “I’m fine. Want to talk about whatever your mom said?”

  Putting down my guard, I allow myself to take comfort in his presence. “She’s sick.” Wrapping my arms around my legs, I
pull my knees to my chest and watch the row of industrious ants marching across the concrete. Do ants ever feel overwhelmed with life? Or, are they like most people, too busy just surviving to notice that life is just a series of small steps toward death?

  “How bad?” He helps an ant that’s struggling to get up the step and places it back in line. My heart softens even more toward this man.

  “I don’t know. It’s her heart.” I swallow the lump lodged in my throat. “I guess I broke it…” Blinking away my tears, I look out at the rose bushes my mother used to tend with loving care. Weeds have overtaken the beds, and the bushes are long and straggly. Mama would be saddened by the way I’ve neglected them. My father gave some of those bushes to her. In a trance-like state I walk over to the rose bed and begin pulling the weeds that are choking the life out of the poor, neglected flowers. The analogy isn’t lost on me. I’m a weed and my mother is a dying rose. Weeds don’t die, beautiful flowers do.

  Remi squats down beside me. “You need to make plans. Weeding this garden isn’t going to get you to your mother.” Standing, he pulls me to my feet, and I melt against him, closing my eyes as his hand strokes my hair. His presence reassures me as he enfolds me in his wings. Once again I feel safe and cared for…Wings? What. The. Fuck?

  My eyes fly open and my heart pounds in my ears as I back away, staring at the priest. He stands before me in his black clericals, the cross on his chest glinting in the sunlight. His sun-kissed brown hair shimmers like a halo, yet he’s a man. I close my eyes and clench my fists, digging my nails into the palms of my hands as I suck in a deep breath, steadying my overwrought nerves. I have to keep my shit together. My mother needs me.

  Using my breathing exercises, I force myself to calm the fuck down. “I guess I need to pack and get to the bus station. How much do you think a ticket to Seattle will cost?”

  “You’re not riding a bus. It isn’t safe.” He folds his arms over his chest and pulls on that damn sexy lower lip.

  “I can’t afford to fly, I don’t own a car, and I have no idea where the nearest train station is. So what do you suggest? Teleportation? Riding an ass?”

  His upper lip quirks and his eyes seem to sparkle, as if he knows an inside joke. “Uh no, I don’t think that’s legit. I’ll drive you.”

  “But you’re a priest.”

  He chuckles. “Um, last time I checked, it’s the twenty-first century, priests can drive. Plus, I’m on sabbatical. I have nothing but time, and I have a car. You won’t literally have to ride my ass, although I’m sure you’ll do it figuratively. Now go pack. I’ll take you to your mother.”

  I’m not sure whether to be scandalized or grateful. I shove the naughty thought of riding his ass to the back of my dirty mind to save for later. We’ll be in a car, alone, for days. “What about your reputation? You’re a priest and I’m a home-wrecking whore. Ask anyone in this town.”

  “I really object to the way you speak about yourself, Evangeline. Don’t do it again.” Pulling a cigarette out of his pocket, he looks sexy as hell with it dangling from those kissable, but off-limits lips. Except for the white collar and cross, he could pose for a goddamned poster for the tobacco industry. He cups the cigarette and lights it, but I don’t hear the flick of a lighter. “As for my reputation, we’re leaving this town, so what does it matter? I have other clothes. I’ll wear jeans and a T-shirt.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  “Evangeline, go pack. We don’t have time to waste.”

  “I don’t think I have enough money, I’ll pay you back somehow, someday…” Shit, how?

  “I’m not worried about it. We’ll manage. Now go.” He nods toward the house, and I decide he’s right. My mother needs me. I don’t have time to argue with his more than generous offer.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, moved by his kindness. Without thinking, I embrace him in a quick hug, causing him to stumble a bit. I’m not sure who is more surprised by my action. I pull away before it can become awkward and run back in the house to pack. The lingering feeling of our bodies pressed against each other, and the memory of his warm baritone voice saying he hadn’t always been a priest teases me. A warm, tingly sensation creeps across my skin at the thought of being alone with him on the road, and I bite my lip with anticipation.

  Stop! He’s taken vows. Can there be a safer travel companion? Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Evie. Denial, it’s not just a river in Egypt. I throw a few clothes, some toiletries, a ring my Daddy had given my mother, and a locket from Jack into my suitcase. As I brush my teeth, I glance in the mirror and freeze. Spitting out the toothpaste and rinsing, I look again at my reflection.

  The pulse at the base of my neck visibly pounds and my breath hitches, strangling in the back of my throat. My hand trembles like an alcoholic in DTs as I reach into my hair and pluck out a single black feather. Clutching it to my chest, I sink to my knees staring at it. For years I’ve been told I’m mentally ill, but I never truly believed it deep down in my heart.

  I’ve always thought I was smarter than the professionals who claimed to know what’s wrong with me. I thought I’d been playing them. I’m not crazy. I only play crazy. But now, I’m not so sure. I open my hand and stare at the soft, black feather. All the dire warnings about stopping my medications cold turkey now haunt me. I’m used to the so-called visual and auditory hallucinations. But this is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never felt them before. This is as real as I am. Or is it?

  Chapter Six

  “EVANGELINE? ARE YOU OKAY?” A sharp rap on the door follows the query.

  Cold terror courses through my veins and I clench the feather tightly in my fist. Remi knocks again. Pulling my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs and hide my face, squeezing my eyes shut as I hold my fists over my ears. If I can’t see or hear, maybe whatever this is will go away.

  The door opens and a hand strokes my hair. It’s tempting to give in to the kindness, but I keep my eyes shut and hands over my ears.

  “Everything will be okay. Come on, sweetness, let’s go.”

  Ignore it. It will go away. I rock and begin to hum to drown out the sound of his muffled voice. Not real, not real, not real…

  Warm, strong hands lift me from the bathroom floor pulling my hands away from my ears. Startled by his touch, I look at him. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Evangeline, snap out of it. We don’t have time for your whack-a-doodle-do shtick.” His hair ruffles off his forehead with his deep breath and his fingers drum the countertop.

  I shake my head over and over. Not real, not real, not real…

  “Stop it!” His baritone roar echoes in the small bathroom and scares me shitless. If he is real, I’m in serious trouble. And just what is he?

  My throat constricts and the words come out in a hoarse gasp. “Go away.”

  “Look at me.” The concern in his voice sounds comforting, not scary. I grasp his solid biceps and cautiously peer up at him. Remi. Not a monster. Underneath my hands I feel skin, muscle and bones, there are no black feathers sprouting from his back. “You’re real, aren’t you?” I whisper, squeezing his biceps harder. My fear subsides, as his serene presence washes over my frazzled nerves.

  “I’m a real smart ass at times, remember?” He grins, placing me on the counter and with his index finger forces my chin up. “And so are you. Look at me.”

  I couldn’t have disobeyed even if I wanted to.

  “You’ve been under a tremendous amount of stress and you don’t sleep. The mind is a powerful thing. Whatever you think you saw or heard, it’s due to exhaustion. Now grab your things and finish packing. I’m going to take a quick shower and we’ll be ready to hit the road to get to your mom’s. Okay?”

  Almost believing him, I nod and hop off the counter hugging him tight. Just to reassure myself, I search his back, running my hands up and down his shirt. All I find is a man’s back. I’m not sure whether to be relieved, or terrified that my mind is slipping further down the fast track to bei
ng a total whack job. Prying himself from beneath my hands, he maneuvers me away from the bathroom door and shuts it.

  I hear the shower and my mind replays him taking off his shirt. There had been no wings. I look around for the black feather I’d held in my hands.

  It’s gone.

  Or perhaps it was never there.

  What a morning. My heart damn near stopped when I found Evie’s cute butt up in the air and her head stuffed inside the oven. How was I supposed to know gas stoves have safety features on them now? I’m sure He had quite a chuckle over my panic attack.

  I groan at the memory of her sensuous body sliding down mine when I helped her off the table during the burnt brownie fiasco. Everything about her unsettles me, and it’s causing me to be more careless than usual. I’ve had to stop myself at least six times from blurting the truth to her, the latest being when I found her cowering in the bathroom, afraid of me.

  I flush the feather I retrieved from the floor, sweating like a sinner in hell. I can’t read thoughts—not like He can—but I’m good at reading body language. It comes from playing cards with the best. Matthias is a downright cutthroat poker player and even Peter plays a mean game of Go Fish. By correcting the situation and stealing back my lost feather I’ve just nailed the coffin shut on what Evie thinks is her tenuous grasp on sanity. Guilt eats at my conscience, but I had to do it. I have my instructions to not reveal my true nature, and disobedience isn’t an option. Not unless I wanted to be Peter’s bitch for the rest of this century, or go shovel coal for Luc.

  Dammit. I shuck off my clothes and step into the shower. I know I’m in way over my head and should ask for help, but hey, although angelic I’m still a man. I don’t need no stinking directions. I can figure this out on my own. Deep in my heart, I know this is no longer just a job. The fact is, I care about her and don’t want her to get hurt. My growing feelings are wrong and doomed from the get go, but when I’m with her, it’s like she’s the missing piece to my puzzle.