by Eden Bradley
“It looks just like a picture in a book,” Angel said as he helped her from the car. “It looks friendly.”
“The food is nothing fancy, but it’s good.”
He led her inside, held the door for her, helped her slide into one of the blue vinyl booths. Angel was a little wide-eyed, her gaze darting from the counter where several people sat drinking coffee, to the shiny register at the front, to the few occupied tables. He remained quiet, letting her soak it in.
A waitress approached. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Angel?” he asked.
“I don’t know. What can I have?”
“Anything. Whatever you want.”
“Truly?”
He smiled, nodded.
She turned to the waitress. “May I have water, please?”
“That’s all you want?” he asked her.
She nodded her head, and he ordered a cup of coffee.
She took a piece of her hair, twining it around her fingers, her cheeks coloring. “Declan, I do not know what anything means. I feel…embarrassed. This woman obviously assumed I knew what to ask for.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. You’ll figure it all out. You don’t have any cultural context for this kind of stuff, but you will, eventually. You’ll build up the knowledge a little at a time. I’ll help.”
“Okay.”
“Do you like chocolate? Maybe we should order a cup of hot chocolate for you.”
“I do not know chocolate.”
“Ah, you have to try it, then. I think you’ll like it. It was my favorite when I was a kid.”
He turned to ask the waitress for the hot chocolate, then back to her, a small smile playing at his mouth. He seemed pleased with himself.
Angel felt warmed by Declan’s reassurance. This was all so new—she didn’t know how to take it in, to make her brain function while it was so busy simply absorbing.
The café was pretty, with its blue bench seats—booths, she remembered having read somewhere—the shining utensils, the long white counter, where pies were lined up under glass domes.
No one seemed to think it strange that she was there, but it felt strange to her. She wrapped her sweater tighter around her body. It was one that Liz had given her, a soft, pretty gray she thought looked nice with her pink cotton dress. She ran her fingers over the weave of the sweater, letting her fingertips help to lose herself a little in the texture.
“Are you okay, Angel?”
She glanced up to find Declan’s dark blue eyes on her. “Everything is just so wide-open. But shining and clean. It’ll take some time to get used to. It’s like reading ten books at once. And, Declan, I wanted to ask you, what is internet? And online?”
He groaned. How to explain? He barely understood it himself sometimes.
“Where did you hear about it?”
“The other day I was listening to music on the radio, the way you showed me, and they said the radio station could be found on the internet. And each day I have heard of internet and online on commercials.”
“I’m not sure I know how to tell you about it. It’s a way for people all over the world to connect. To get information. I think I have to just show you.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll show you when we get home, if you want. But be prepared. This is going to be a lot to take in, and I’m no expert.”
“It sounds…inexplicable. Is it some sort of abstract concept?”
The corners of his mouth quirked, and she wasn’t sure if he was happy or amused. “Sort of. You going to ask me how the moon circles the earth next?”
“Oh, no. I’ve read all about astronomy. Isaac Newton, Ptolemy.”
Declan grinned then, his lush lips parting over his strong white teeth. So beautiful to her, as always.
“You are a strange and amazing creature, Angel,” he told her. His comment would have made her doubtful, except that he was still smiling at her, looking more pleased than ever.
The waitress returned and set down Angel’s glass of water, brimming with ice, her cup of hot chocolate, which smelled wonderful, and Declan’s coffee. Declan pulled a small, white container from a bowl and she was surprised to see milk pour out of it into his coffee. A drop spilled onto the edge of the cup, and he wiped it with one finger.
She shivered, remembering his hands hard on her shoulders when she’d come into his bed the other night. His hands were warm, strong…
The waitress laid down what looked like two large books, with only a few pages. They said Lunch Menu on the front.
“Declan?”
“Here, you read it to see what kind of food they have. This is how you choose what to eat.”
She shook her head. “So many things. I don’t know where to begin.”
“What do you like to eat?”
“Soup?”
“You don’t want something heartier than soup?”
“I don’t know. What else should I have?”
“Sorry, Angel. I’m not helping enough. It’s hard to remember sometimes that this is really all alien to you.”
“It is hard for me, too. Will you decide for me, Declan?”
“Sure. Uh…the chicken pot pie is great. I think you’ll like it.”
She nodded, picked up her water glass and sipped while he told the waitress what they wanted.
The world was always a bit of a shock to her, no matter how much she enjoyed it. She’d dreamed of seeing places and people, especially when she was reading. Books had been her only tie to any world other than the one she lived in: The Grandmother’s house and garden. The other places she was sometimes taken to at night. But she always had the dream herbs, then, so that was always blurred. The only other place she’d known was the darkness where she met Asmodeus.
She had not called to him for a number of days, and he had not come to her. She was trying not to think of his anger. She was trying not to think of her old desire for him. Her desire was only for Declan now.
Declan. Everything about him amazed her, gave her pleasure. She had never known a man would be like him. Hard and soft all at the same time. The warmth of his body, of his smile. Of his protectiveness.
“Declan, thank you for all of this.”
“For lunch? You’re welcome.”
“For that, yes. But for everything. Finding me. Saving me. Helping me find my way now.”
She reached across the table and took his hand in hers, saw his cheeks flush.
“You’re welcome.”
“Why do you do it?”
“What?”
“Why are you willing to do these things for me?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I have gathered that people are not always willing to help others. That some people come to it more naturally than others do. Why do you think you are such a person?”
He paused, shook his head, lifted his cup and drank. “You like to get right to the heart of things, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
He laughed a little. The second time she had heard his laughter. She liked it very much.
“Try your hot chocolate, then I’ll tell you.”
She smiled, lifted the steaming cup, held it to her lips and sipped.
Such goodness on her tongue, she could barely believe it.
“Oh, this is lovely. I don’t know how to explain how good it is.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
He had a big smile on his face. She loved that they could both be happy at the same time. That her being happy made him happy. She sipped once more, savoring the sweet, earthy flavor on her tongue.
“Tell me now, Declan.”
He nodded, sipping his coffee before setting the cup down. “I think my mother had a lot to do with it. That was just her. She was always doing work in the community. Volunteering at the hospital, knitting blanket squares for the military.”
“I can knit, but I’m not very good at it. The Grandmother often told me I drop my stitches. What about your
father?”
He shrugged. “I guess he did his share of that kind of thing, too.”
“Yet it’s hard for you to give him the same credit.”
Declan looked down at his cup, wrapping both hands around it. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
“I’m sorry, Declan. That you are angry with your father.”
He raised his face to look at her. “I’m not angry.” He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers sliding between the dark strands. His eyes were blazing blue. He was so beautiful. So hurt. “My father is a good person.”
She nodded, even though he’d said the words through a clenched jaw.
“Look, Angel, you don’t have to clam up. I don’t mean to be defensive with you. But I don’t talk about my dad.”
“It seems there is a lot you don’t talk about, Declan.”
He let out a long breath of air. “You’re right. I don’t. I guess I haven’t had anyone to talk to in a long time.”
“Why have you had no one to talk to?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” he said, more to himself than to her.
She paused, thinking. He was so alone, even though he didn’t need to be. He had access to the whole world. Perhaps that idea was as daunting to him as it was to her. “I don’t understand you, Declan. But I want to. I want to help, as you’ve helped me.”
“It’s okay. There’s nothing to understand. I’m fine.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” she asked, smiling to soften her words.
He smiled back. “Because you’re wise beyond your years in some strange way, Angel. It can be a little scary sometimes.”
She laughed. She could tell he was teasing her.
“So, Ruth showed me some of your drawings today,” he told her, changing the subject. “They’re good. More than good.”
“I enjoy drawing.”
“I think you could really do something with it.”
“Do something?” She didn’t know what he meant.
“Sell them. There are a ton of small art galleries all around Mendocino. They sell stuff from local artists. We should take your work to a few of these places, see if they’ll take them.”
“Sell them?”
“You could make some money, I’d bet. It’d be good for you to have some income of your own. Not that I mind paying for stuff for you. But it would give you some independence.”
“I’m not sure I understand. People would give me money for my drawings?”
“I think so. I like art, know a little about it. I’m not an expert, or anything. I make stuff, too. All the wood carvings around the house.”
“I thought perhaps you had made those. They’re very beautiful.”
“I don’t know about that. I just like to do it. It makes me…calm, I guess. But your stuff is amazing. It really is. It would sell.”
“Declan, I don’t know what to think.”
“We’ll figure it out. I’ll help,” he told her.
“So this is Angel.”
She looked up to find a man standing next to the table, and knew immediately who he was. He looked just like Declan, if not quite as tall, with a thick head of silvery-gray hair and gray eyes. Kind eyes, but there was a bit of wariness in them, as well.
“Dad.” Declan seemed momentarily shocked, then he stood up. “Angel, this is my father, Oran Byrne. Dad, Angel.”
Oran shook her hand, smiling at her. “I’m glad to see you somewhere other than at the hospital.”
“You saw me there?”
“Yep. The day you were taken in.”
“Dad was with me when they first admitted you,” Declan said, still seeming tense.
“It’s nice to see you up and around,” Oran said. “You look like you’re doing well.”
“I am doing very well. Declan has been helping me.”
Oran nodded. “He’s good at that.”
“Will you eat with us, Oran?” Angel asked. She saw a brief flash of something dark and unsure in Declan’s eyes. But so many small things Declan had said told her there was a rift between him and his father, one she hoped they would heal. She couldn’t imagine having a real family and rejecting them.
Oran smiled, and it was Declan’s same smile. “Sure. Why not?”
He slid into the booth next to his son. Angel thought she saw Declan flinch. But she believed this was the right thing to do.
Oran lifted his hand and the waitress came with a cup of coffee for him, greeting him by name. Angel noticed he used one of the small plastic containers of milk, just as Declan did.
“How are you feeling, Angel?” Oran asked her. “Is the leg hurting much?”
“Not too much. But I am anxious for the cast to be off so I can move around normally again. There are so many things I want to do that I’m unable to do now.”
“You seem to be healing pretty fast. I’m sure it won’t be long,” Oran assured her. “You look great.”
“Thank you. I feel good.”
“Liam keeping you company?”
“Oh, yes. He’s always with me. When I have napped he stays on the floor right by my bed. And if I go onto the porch, he follows me. He’s the most beautiful dog.”
Oran smiled. “He is pretty good-looking. And smart. I found that out when you were in the hospital and he stayed at my place. Makes me think maybe it’s time for me to have a dog again.”
“Then Liam would have another dog to play with and bond with. It would be good for him. And for you. Being too much alone is not a good thing.”
“No, it’s not. I was alone for a very long time.”
She caught a shadow crossing Declan’s features. He was fidgeting with his spoon, turning it over in his hand, rubbing the bowl of it between his fingers. Looking as though he wasn’t listening to the conversation, even though it was apparent to her that he was listening very closely.
“I’m sorry, Oran,” she told him.
“Ah, it’s all right. I’ve been less alone recently.”
Angel smiled. “Because you are with Ruth.”
“Yeah.” Oran grinned, just a small quirking at the corners of his mouth as he glanced sideways at Declan. “How did you know about Ruth and me?”
“There is a photograph of the two of you in her office. She explained it to me when she was talking about confidentiality and conflict of interest. I do not see it as a conflict.”
Declan shifted, looked out the window.
“Dec? Do you have a problem with Angel seeing Ruth?”
“No, of course not.” Declan shrugged. “Seems she’s the most qualified.”
“That wasn’t what I was asking, son.”
Declan turned to his father. They looked almost like mirror images of each other in profile, other than the color of their hair, and the texture of Oran’s skin was a little rougher with age.
“Yeah, I know.”
There was bitterness in his tone, which surprised her. Oran had caught it, too. The two men were staring at each other, each with eyes that had narrowed a little. She sensed there was some sort of power struggle she couldn’t quite understand going on between them.
“So?” Oran asked. “Is it okay or isn’t it?”
Another pause before Declan finally answered, “Yeah, it’s fine. Fine.”
“Okay. It’s good to air this stuff. Ruth has been teaching me that.”
Declan nodded, picked up his coffee cup, his gaze going to the window once more.
Declan had healing to do, just as she did. And just as he was helping her, perhaps she could help him. His obviously damaged relationship with his father might be a good place to start. She would do what she could to encourage him in that direction. It would feel good to help Declan. And Oran.
She liked Declan’s father. He was a good man; she knew that much right away. She understood he was part of the reason Declan had grown to be such a wonderful man, whether Declan wanted to admit it or not.
She also understood love was not always unconditional. That was
something she had come to on her own. A decision she had made very early in life: to love those she had in her life, no matter who or what they were. Even in the books she read, she had come to see that in each person was some kernel of something to love. Even when they did things that were hurtful, it was still possible to love them.
She could teach that to Declan. She wanted to.
She had found a great deal in him to love already. And she would discover more, day by day. It didn’t have to take away from her love for The Grandmother. For Asmodeus. Love was something that multiplied. Love was limitless. She believed that in her very soul.
The idea struck her that perhaps this meant she didn’t have to give up Asmodeus. That she could love him and Declan equally, without measure or a need to balance or choose.
She had so much to give. She felt as if her heart was an overflowing well she’d never had an outlet for. But she did now. Liam helped with that; he accepted her affection easily, and loved her back. But people were more complicated than dogs.
If only Declan would accept her love. If only he would return it.
And meanwhile, tonight, when she was alone in her bed in the dark, she would call to Asmodeus. She would give him her pleasure once more, since Declan would not take it. Perhaps Asmodeus would teach her what she needed to know to please Declan so that he would no longer refuse her.
Yes, she would call her demon lover to her, her lord of lust. She would seduce him with her body, her beauty, her words. And someday, she would seduce Declan, as well.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DECLAN HAD BEEN QUIET ever since seeing his father at lunch, and Angel hadn’t tried to get him to talk. They’d come back to the house, and he’d gone for a long walk, leaving Liam with her. She’d spent her time reading through an old book of poetry—lovely, silly pieces by Edward Lear. The pages were yellow with age, fragile, and the leather cover was worn. In the front of the book was a bookplate: Mary O’Connell. Declan’s mother, she guessed, and when Declan returned from his walk, he told her that had been his mother’s name before she’d married, but it had been obvious he hadn’t wanted to talk more.
He was still a little withdrawn after his walk, if not as much so. The walk had healed him, at least in part. She understood the power of solitude, and was happy enough to let him be. They’d had a quiet dinner, then had listened to an opera together, Declan explaining the story. She had found the tale of Lakmé, a tragic fable of forbidden love, sad and sweet, the music itself exotic and beautiful. Exquisite.