Angelic Beauty

by Lisa-Ann Carey

  She reached for her five year diary unlocked it and filled three pages with the awesome events that took place that day especially its dramatic romantic close and Malachi’s surprise visit to Lisbeth’s Boutique, deliberately leaving out the raid of the old wild boar. For a full half-hour deer Malachi’s pretty young doe toyed with the idea he was dating another on the side. “Lustrous ol’ Evening Sunshine so that’s where you go to steal a wardrobe for your south end date. For all I know you could be dating a fella, anything goes in this part of the world in this day and age,” she mumbled.

  Too tired to lock the book of secrets, she simply left it closed with the tassel marking the latest entry and left it on the round glass table that stood in the corner of the room beside her bed, turned off the bed lamp and tossed over and over all night long, reliving in her dreams Mr. Castle and herself frolicking in scented lavender meadows one minute and locked away with Father Superior in the finest of the fortified churches of the Pyrenees, rising on a superb defensive site dominating the valley of the Garonne the next minute. Hardly a haven of peace embellished with delicate twin columns that resemble the freak of nature she’d rather forget about, three Romanesque galleries built during Romanized Europe’s state of confusion, a popular pastime between the classical and Gothic periods and a fourth one, Gothic, reeking with barbarism from the evil stenching mouths of uncouth ghosts that resembled Malachi and ol’ poppoff (she wished he would).

  Then…romance reared its pretty head once again and lucky Angea-Lea baby discovered the sweetest thing for the very first time. She just so happened to be the only young lady who was able to ejaculate unaided. Just one reminder of Malachi’s masterpiece with the help of the Eiffel Tower in the distance enticed her to raise her legs over her head and spray all over the nice clean sheets calling out the vet’s other pet-name: ‘Evening Sunshine!’, the moment her flaps shudded all by themselves as her little monster spat out its creamy semen.

  * * * * * *

  Malachi too, dreamt of tip-toeing naked through tantalising tulips with his new found love and sliding his stiffened, humungous dowel rod through her top and bottom pockets, securing both the entry and exit with a spurt and a squirt. He too, sprayed like a hotshot Tom Cat killing the tantalising tulips embroided on the sheets. They both, in their own separate places awoke in beads of perspiration at the very same moment. Self-motivation was difficult that morn, you’d think it would be the opposite but the temptation to repeat the erotic dreams lured them back into slumberland, exhaustion overcoming them completely and oddly enough, they both just happened to be singing that number one hit “HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT!” before dozing under the covers for a further twenty minutes.

  The twisted trees outside her window announced “Tis the dawn of Noëlle!,” waking her. She knew her father’s florist shop closed for the holiday. No longer must she suffer midst the rugged and barren terrain of the tormented Pyrenees her wild nightmares took her to. Saturated in a sense of history, hungover from an overdose of almighty Mal’s overhang she felt ready to cross a new river, climb a different mountain all because of a jealous judgement all too soon. Prepared to put the recent past far, far, behind her she kickstarted her day on a gentler note, charmed only by the size of his inspirational pee-shooter egging her to carol crisp alpine-style psalms to the son in the sun in that cute little number she was born in. Her nightie she had thrown off in the night it now draped over the bed end.

  Back on the river Malachi stared into the artificial bouquet that stole centre place at the round white kitchen table reflecting on the night before, scared shitless that his young lover may not have thought to pop a contraceptive pill, and suggested to himself to ring her and remind her to take the morning after pill just in case. “Thank God we live in a modern world,” he breathed a sigh of relief and tucked into fried eggs and lightly fried crispy potato slices he had prepared in his stainless steel kitchen earlier. He waited a while till his breakky hit the pit then juiced two carrots and two stalks of celery and downed it before washing the breakfast dishes.

  Dressed for warmth in a green suit the colour of malachite, cream shirt and space shuttle red, white and black checkered tie, his desire, more than anything was to spend christmas day with Angea-Lea and her nuclear family.

  He made sure the cheque was safely locked away in a drawer, he grabbed the gifts and the bouquet and headed for the Siffleurs as brave as a gladiator, forgetting about calling his girl.

  On the way, deep within his annalytical mind, a belief box rich with the best of his past and present neatly welded old and new memories together to create futurisitic goals that were not only achievable but rewarding, and he was willfuly determined not to let any man or woman butt him off his ski-slope, whether in hot pursuit of landing the ripest job or winning the sweetest heart.

  Lucky for him when he arrived Antaeus was sleeping soundly in his bed. Junré greeted him ‘happy holidays’ and led him up the stairwell to her daughter’s room, Junré had not heard the latest as she was out to it when Antaeus arrived back home in the wee hours of the morning.

  “I shall leave you both alone for a while,” she muttered to him.

  “Thank you Mrs. Siffleur.”

  Angea-Lea had dragged her weary body back to bed. There she lay, his gentle maiden as pretty as a picture in the dreamiest setting he had ever laid eyes on. Her mind drifted back to the fairytale finalé quite by accident. Malachi woke her to the romantic rhythm of Celine Dion’s – When I Need You. He had secretly hoped some fine day it would be their wedding theme. He blessed her with his kiss and placed the bouquet on the table beside her bed next to the diary. He would give anything to know what precious thoughts she’d recorded on its pages.

  Her eyes shut again, then fluttered open like a beautiful new butterfly from its pupa. She gazed up at him completely forgetting about his trip to the boutique.

  He pointed to the bouquet then told her, “Angea sweetheart see the varigated soft pink tulips I brought you?”

  “Yes, they are so pretty,” her sparkling smile played ‘Love Is In The Air,’ he could feel the vibrations though no words escaped from her glittering lips.

  “They are called Angelique Tulips and those bright blue flowers are called Hyacinths. They aren’t real, they’ll last forever and a day. Every time you look at them they will remind you of me and that special first moment we shared at my apartment and last night’s eve of Noëlle celebrations.”

  Now she really felt she was in Paradise, not just a fabled fairytale she’d feared through the night. “The tulips share my name, how sweet and thoughtful of you to take so much care in choosing just the right flowers.”

  “I bought them from a florist called Blooming Bouquets.”

  She didn’t think to tell him her father had a florist shop.

  He gently placed a delightful kiss on her succulent lips, their unique flavour resembling fondue savoyade.

  “Cheery Noëlle darlin’ here is a gift and a ticket for you to join me at a concert tonight at the Caffé-Latté theatre to listen to an Australian Swing Quartet called Swinglegum. They are a hit back in my land.”

  “Are they? You Australians are a clever bunch, no?”

  His eyes lit up like lanterns, “They are, I mean, we are.”

  She twirled tightly the silky golden strands of her shiny blond bob as he lifted up the bright gift box to her eye-level. Tears streamed from her eyes as she read the name Lisbeth’s Boutique above the warm greeting. “Old traditions die slowly in France, knowing you is like a laze on a beach beside the Mediterranean Coast and a swim in its welcoming waters to follow.”

  “Your words melt my heart like butter. Take a look inside.”

  She lifted the lid and gently lifted the gorgeous frock from the light paper. He helped her out of bed and placed it against her body then cast it with care on his right shoulder. Every inch of her throbbed as he took in the sexy sight of her supple body. His eyes rolled every which way but loose as he tried in desperation to take i
n the whole picture of Angelic Beauty before him. A few minutes later he slipped the dress over her very pretty frame.

  “You really are a sight for sore eyes.”

  She misunderstood the meaning. “Why are your eyes so sore, am I that ugly?”

  “Ugly? Definitely not. Sight for sore eyes simply translates – it is a joy to see you. Let me steal you away on a joy-ride with such joi de vivre my jubilant automatic joystick will be permanently stuck in overdrive.”

  She fumbled helplessly with his zipper, his whiz-bang Aussie import garnished with gold-tipped short and curlys suddenly gushed its vanilla malted thickshake all over her swivelling hips. “O my Great God, how great thou art! What a great work of art!” she shouted to the skies. Fortunately he had remembered to slip the frill of her dress up to hug her waist.

  “You create a heavenly ambience of true love my soft-scented Angea-Lea.” Her beaming smile lit up the room as the gentle glow of morning sunshine peeped through the open window. She, like him, was briefless and breathless.

  Angea-Lea in raptures gazing at Malachi’s captivating gift

  Chapter Three

  Christmas morning, Junré carried an empty fawn coloured oval wicker vessel of plaited osier across the sitting room to a smoked glass star-shaped terrarium table. She lifted the basket and placed the star-shaped brightly coloured clothpiece made from silk dupion fabric neatly on the surface and repositioned the wicker vessel into its centre.

  She rushed, as fast as her legs could move her, towards the flower garden that occupied a small corner near the back dividing French door just off the kitchen. It was home to a terracotta French fairy on a log of spruce that bordered the snow-hardy floral display that allowed admirers to pause and ponder awhile before stepping into the unit.

  Shouting was heard coming from the floor above, through Angea-Lea’s open bedroom window. So much so, the nearby neighbours were startled and began to hurl abuse at the fighters. Although embarrassed at the conflict Junré continued on in fine effort to re-create a tradition, a custom that prevailed in Paris from generation to generation.

  The previous morning, whilst Antaeus and Angea-Lea marched in the parade, Junré had travelled to Soissons Plant Nursery, four townships away to the north of Paris in Soissons itself. A cone-bearing tree called Hemlock was purchased from Monsieur Soissons himself. The stately evergreen pine was introduced from Japan and was naturally decorated with small reddish-brown cones that protruded from the ends of each twig, he had grown a dwarf variety that was extremely popular. Junré had been careful to choose a cut christmas tree that had not wilted in the rather warm midday winter sun, knowing full well, if she had have made the wrong choice through a rushed decision, the tree might not have been able to perk up again. Consequently it had been bought in the early hours of the morning and had been thriving in a shady part of the nursery’s ornamental section. Under strict orders by the management of the nursery Junré had been warned to place it in a bucket of wet gravel as soon as she got it home.

  “Remember these tips,” Monsieur Soissons had instructed the housewife. “My potted plants prefer sunlight, but my miniature christmas trees last a long time, through the new year, if kept in the coolest, darkest corner of your home. Do not forget to clip off any wilted tips that unfortunately will occur every day, after the first day, to maintain the ‘fresh look’ for longer.”

  It had been positioned with care on the floor at the rear of the vehicle, the top of the tree jutting out slightly through the open window. A blue, white and red French flag had been tied to the top of the tree as a signal to other drivers to ensure her a safe trip back to her flatette, and through to the following day the tree had been standing in the corner of the garden.

  Overnight, the Bugatti had been temporarily parked just outside the garage below Angea-Lea’s bedroom.

  Antaeus rose from his bed and walked down the hallway to the bathroom. On the way he almost collided with his daughter who was exiting her bedroom, the strong smell of Malachi’s semen arousing suspicion in the old gent.

  That had been the reason for the shouting. “Why do you smell so, child?” asked Antaeus in a tone of fury.

  “Mama washed my whites in diluted bleach papa,” she hoped with all her might he would believe her.

  But, unfortunately, the boss had caught sight of Malachi climbing out of the window of his daughter’s boudoir. He had intended to climb down the trellis to a safe getaway, but had been startled by Antaeus and his screaming and had lost his footing, his huge frame falling headlong onto the roof of the highly prized Bugatti. The powerful impact of his headstrong hotty leaving a rather large dent in its roof, the resounding thud pounding the heart of Paris.

  “Malachi, are you alright? Did you break anything?” Angea-Lea yelled from above.

  “No, not even a bend, thank God,” he yelled in return, “my back aches a little though.”

  Antaeus charged down the steps like a wounded bull to inspect the damage. His blood pressure shot through the sky bellowing at Malachi, “You’ll pay for this,” as Malachi ran between the terraced gardens and hid behind a huge Poplar.

  “Please Antaeus, quit bellowing and complaining it is Noëlle, besides it is all my fault, I allowed them both to be alone together. I apologise, I shall pay for the repairs out of my christmas box I have received from my niece,” Junré pleaded.

  After much deliberation, Junré had succeeded in calming her angry spouse, although he was still unhappy for the mistake he felt his wife had made, allowing their baby girl to inter-mingle with the stranger from down under.

  At Junré’s request Antaeus was about to carry in the infant tree when Malachi peeped out from behind the Poplar making his way towards them.

  “Ere, Sir, allow me to assist ya. I’ll carry it inside, it is the least I can do,” Malachi soon had Antaeus eating out of the palm of his hand after having admitted his sincere love for his daughter.

  After Angea-Lea washed away the evidence under a steaming shower, she slipped the dress over her supple body and slid her cute feet into a pair of charcoal pumps after drawing her step-ins on.

  Malachi could never really bring himself to apologise for the fiasco.

  “Just place the christmas tree in this pot, we shall fill it with these small rocks and some water then we’ll take it inside and put it in the basket in the corner of the living room,” Junré explained. Malachi did as he was told and soon after the tree was ready for decorating.

  Over the years the tradition had been that every lady born to the Siffleur family had their angelic busts in angel costume with halos and wings hand painted onto exquisitely handcrafted priceless Châteaux eggs of the finest porcelain once the age of eighteen had been reached. Their newborn faces graced the opposite sides of the eggs.

  It was the year Angea-Lea was to sit for the craftsman at the Château de Châteaux. This had already taken place and her own splendorous opulence created by legendary jeweller and goldsmith, Manuel Châteaux now hung with the others in the stunning Noëlle holiday ornament collection on the Tree Of Angelic Beauty. Little red ribbons, snowflakes, stars, bells, and gold harps were added to enhance the glorious display as well as tiny red and blue frosted beads.

  Before Malachi had come along single boy Manuel Châteaux had fallen head over heels for glamour girl Angea-Lea Siffleur. His father knew her father well, they had been best buddys at school. He’d had his eye on her since she was a little Miss in diapers.

  Manuel Châteaux now twenty-eight, was not your typical Frenchman. In fact, he was a peace-loving man whose inner strength came from a constantly reflective mind forever focused on the highlights of Angea-Lea Siffleur’s childhood and adolescent years. He regularly took himself on a secret journey through a journal and photograph album every night before retiring to bed. They were filled with every sweet and special moment of her glittering life.

  The two things he remembers most about that glorious day she’d sat for him a month ago were the shape of her twin breasts so
round and so full like the sun and the moon. One filled with sunshine and one filled with moonlight. There would be no greater pleasure than to bathe in their glow he’d pondered ever since.

  To him, she was like a breath of elegant air. Watching her grow was like sitting on the porch of a light and airy beachside resort watching the sea change colour day by sundrenched day, he would often say to himself.

  ….and all this time Angea-Lea never knew she was the frilly pillow he dreamed on. Should he discover she had found a lover, his ecstasy – Angea-Lea would soon become his agony – forever unfree!

  * * * * * *

  “Isn’t she gorgeous? Doesn’t Angea-Lea add a touch of magic to the festivities Mr and Mrs S?”

  “Oh yes our Angel is a charming beauty,” Junré said.

  Malachi studied the egg adoring her luscious silky golden bob. Her hair was straight, but curved under at the base. Her flattering flesh bestowed upon him a gallon of excitement. A touch of fuschia blush brought her plump risen bosoms into prominence as they snuggled affectionately from a stiffly frilled bodice of embroided snowdrop lace. A triple strand of genuine pearls with a ruby in the centre was tightly clasped around her dainty neck. Little red flowers were arranged in a delicate spray over a ribbon covered halo-shaped headband that graciously crowned her sweet head.

  Her bright eyes were naturally wide as if she were permanently gazing in total amazement, they seemed to peer right through to the soul of the one who happened to be captured by their romance. At times they danced and sparkled as she took in every detail of the world around her. It truly was a treasured picture on the Châteaux egg.

  “All Angea-Lea sees is beauty in everything,” Junré said in a saintly voice.