Christmas Angel

by Amanda McIntyre

  He straightened as though he’d been swatted and looked over his shoulder.

  “Around here they aren’t called trousers. They’re sweatpants, or sweats for short.” He raised his brow. “Never worn a pair?” He turned to face her, broom in one hand, dustpan in the other.

  “Sweatpants,” she reiterated, her gaze dropping to the where the strings tied together in the front. Her palms did feel moist, if that was indeed their purpose. “Nope. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” He cleared his throat and her eyes shot to his. A high-pitched whistle from the next room escalated to a feverish decibel, breaking the spell.

  “Water’s ready. I’ll be right back.”

  She watched him walk away and found his swagger as appealing from behind as it was from the front. Pressing her lips together, she determined, if she was to be his guest for a number of days, she’d do well to keep her emotions, no matter how handsome he was, in check.

  He possessed some fascinating objects. One large apparatus made of metal and ropes stood in the corner. It had the word Bowflex emblazoned across one side in bold red letters. Another strange piece was a large silver rectangle. One side was black and when she peeked over the top she was startled to find cords protruding from the back. It was like no picture frame she could recall, but the mere size of it would hold the painting which appeared without warning in her mind.

  She stared at the large, darkened space inside the silver frame and in her mind saw the watery image of a woman reclining on a tufted lounge chair. She wore a tightly fitted corset, black pantaloons, and stockings beneath a whisper thin gown that did little to cover her. She fought to harness the memory, hoping to identify the place or the face of the woman to see if either had any bearing on who she was, where she was from, but it disappeared as quickly, leaving nothing familiar in its wake.

  A shelf filled with books and framed photographs caught her attention. She held the arm of the settee to gauge her balance and then walked to the shelf, perusing the titles, but didn’t recognize any of the authors’ names. The photographs were fascinating, splashed with vivid colors. By her own recollection, she’d only ever seen such things in shades of black and white, most with a brownish tint to them. She lifted one and studied the picture, seeing a man with a little boy sitting atop a horse corral. They were smiling, which for some reason seemed odd to her, but she couldn’t say why.

  She heard a noise behind her and turned to find Detective Jackson staring at her with a strange expression etched on his face. Perhaps he didn’t like her touching his things. “Is this you?” she asked, gingerly returning the frame to the shelf, which was in serious need of a good dusting.

  He placed a tray with two cups on the table. On a small plate were arranged a handful of small black crackers. He patted the settee. Once she’d settled, he sat down beside her then handed her a lovely cup with a sunrise painted on its side. A string hung over the rim, and she drew it from the cup, marveling at the tiny pouch stuffed with tea. So unusual was the sight she was certain she’d never seen anything like it before.

  “It’s a picture of my brother and his boy. We’d taken a trip to Cheyenne to see the rodeo.”

  She let the small bag plop into the hot water, grabbing the string at the last minute to keep it from falling in. “Rodeo? Like a roundup?”

  He glanced at her after taking a sip. “More like barrel racing, calf-roping…bull riding. Ever been to one?” He studied her as he dipped the teabag into the cup several times. She watched, mimicking his actions. Little by little, it seemed with each new aspect she learned about Shado Jackson’s life, one or more contrasting pieces of her disrupted memory emerged.

  “Rodeo. I can’t say, but it sounds exciting.” The more she tried to force herself to remember events, the more frustrated she became. “It’s not easy, you know,” she said finally, speaking aloud her thoughts. “Not being able to remember.”

  He nodded and took another drink. “Yeah, and some people live their entire lives trying to forget some things.” He focused on his cup.

  Though curious to know more about the picture and about his family, it was clear he was not interested in pursuing the conversation. She took a sip and quietly sighed. “By the way, your mother is a wise woman. This,” she nodded toward the tea, “really hits the spot.”

  He nodded, smiling to himself before he glanced at her. There was an awkward silence as she was drawn into his steady appraisal. Had this been another place, another time, they might be sharing much more than a warm beverage at this precise moment. Her cheeks warmed at the thought, and she turned away, searching for a diversion. She found it on the plate. “What are these?”

  He looked at her as though she’d grown a wart on her nose. “Seriously? You’ve never seen an Oreo? What planet are you from?” He grinned.

  She bit her lip. In many ways, she felt removed from his way of life. Everything around her was a reminder she didn’t belong, and yet she had no idea where she did belong. A hard lump formed in her throat, and she stared at the sun on her cup, not wanting to appear any more vulnerable than she was.

  “Sorry, that was meant to be funny. Listen, don’t worry. Your memory will come back and everything will begin to make sense.” He held up one of the crackers and smiled, easing her concerns a bit. “Now, what I’m about to teach you is the secret of getting the most enjoyment out of one of these.”

  She smiled. “Just popping one in your mouth isn’t good enough?”

  His brows lifted in mock surprise. “There are some things in this world worth taking the time to enjoy fully.” He held her gaze and blood warmed her face. He handed her a cracker. “Follow my lead.”

  She nodded, licking her lips from the dryness in her throat.

  “Watch carefully.” He held the cracker between his fingers. “You slowly take off the top, like this.” With one calculated twist, he’d created two halves, revealing a creamy white center.

  With fumbling fingers, it took her a couple of tries, but she managed to get the halves apart without having them crumble in her hands. His approving grin melted her fears as it had from the moment they’d first met. She couldn’t remember ever meeting him before, sure she’d never forget his kind smile. “Now what?” she asked, grateful for a little mindless play to divert her concerns.

  He lifted the cream side to his mouth and scraped it off with his teeth, licking the residue with his tongue.

  She swallowed and her body reacted unexpectedly with a delicious shiver of delight. She picked up another cracker and handed it to him. “Could you show me once more?” He repeated the performance, slower this time, and she swore it was on purpose.

  “Now your turn.” He nodded toward her.

  Her face felt flushed. Perhaps it was a reaction to the tea, but her gut cautioned it was much more. She offered a shy smile and did as he’d instructed. Her eyes lifted to his and locked into his heated gaze. Licking the soft cream from her lips, savoring the sugary sweetness on the tip of her tongue, she fantasized whether his mouth would taste the same. His expression remained a bit dazed for a moment longer, and then he blinked.

  “You must be exhausted. I’ll go get some sheets for the bed.” He grabbed her cup, shoving it in her hands. “You can finish this.” He took the tray and was gone.

  She returned her uneaten, frosting-less cracker to the plate and finished her tea. Regardless of her lack of memory, her body’s reaction to him was unplanned and indicated whatever else might be happening, the attraction that had sparked between them was far from finished.

  ***

  Two days, he thought as he trudged up the steps to his apartment. Miss Brisbee, Shado’s elderly neighbor, opened her door when he stuck the key in his lock. She’d lived in the building long before him, her claim to fame being she and her husband were its very first tenants. She loved her soap operas, her romance novels, her cat Louis—after the western writer—and doting on him.

  “Happy holidays, Detective Jackson.” She shuffled toward him holdin
g out a plate of frosted sugar cookies cut in the shapes of trees and wreaths.

  “Miss Brisbee, you’re going to make me fat,” he teased, taking the plate from her with a smile. She was nice little old lady. A little spunky, but the quintessential grandmother type who had no grandchildren, at least none he knew about. Yet, there were times when her solitary life served as a wakeup call to what might be ahead for him.

  “I saw your new girlfriend.” She winked. “She’s a looker.”

  He wanted to ask if she’d seen her leaving the apartment while he was away, but to do so would open a whole can of worms he wasn’t prepared to deal with. Instead he went along with what she’d already determined was the scenario, at least in her mind.

  “I’d have to agree.” He kept his response purposely generic. “And these look delicious.” He held the plate up to his nose, breathing deep the sweet fresh-baked aroma. “Did you bake them yourself?”

  She batted his arm with her wrinkled hand. “You tease. You know I did. You’re the only one on this floor who appreciates my baking. Those two,” she tipped her head toward 3-C, situated between their apartments. “I don’t think they ever eat. Such a commotion all of the time with their screaming and panting…. ‘oh baby, oh baby.’ I find it rude, particularly at two in the morning.”

  “Uh, yeah.” Shado scratched his chin and turned his face to hide his smile. The couple hadn’t lived there too long, and he wasn’t sure if they were newly married or just—

  “They’re shackin’ up, I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts.” She eyed him. “That’s not the way it used to be, you know.” She pointed her finger at him. “You don’t wait too long to ask this one to marry you. A good-lookin’ boy like you needs a good wife.”

  He backed away, holding the plate up, not wishing to launch into a dissertation on his needing a wife again “Thanks for the cookies.”

  “Tell your girlfriend she can visit anytime. We’ll have a nice cup of tea.”

  He fumbled to unlock his apartment, carefully balancing the plate of cookies and the books he’d brought home. “Will do, and you don’t forget to lock your door behind you.” He stepped inside, waited until her door closed and he heard the lock click into place. He dropped a stack of mug shot books on the coffee table and looked around. His living room was in pristine shape. More so than it’d had been since he moved in. She’d been cleaning again. A citrusy mix of lemon wood polish and oranges permeated the air. He snuck another cookie as he shrugged off his coat and chuckled at how predictably nosy his neighbor was. But her heart was in the right place and hands down, the woman could bake like nobody’s business. Her cautionary concern reminded him he needed to keep things professional with his houseguest—he scanned the apartment—who was nowhere in sight.

  To his surprise, they’d settled into an amiable routine. She’d had a few glimpses of memory, but nothing yet made much sense. She loved to clean, not a hardship really, and the visit one evening to the basement laundry room was the highlight of her week, opening a proverbial floodgate of questions about the machines. He found her curiosity refreshing to a point, not minding the need to satisfy her questions, but he was beginning to wonder where she’d come from that she knew so little about the modern conveniences most people took for granted. Sometimes her words and a few phrases she used seemed out of place, but he attributed her speech patterns to her love of watching old westerns like Gunsmoke reruns on television.

  His friend, Jack Gleason, had been at his desk earlier when he went into to pick up some books. He’d offered his two cents on the strange case of the Sweet Magnolia woman.

  ***

  “Maybe she’s from one of those Amish communities you hear about in the midsection of the country. Or maybe she’s run away from one of those religious mountain compounds.” He sat at his desk, peeling an orange.

  Shado had given both thoughts substantial consideration. He rested his hip on the edge of the desk, thinking of how she’d confiscated his entire bag of oranges, studding them with his whole cloves and placed them in a bowl because they reminded her of Christmas where she came from. She couldn’t remember who taught her the craft, only that it smelled like Christmas, which then brought up the subject of trees and why he didn’t have one. His quick thinking led to a rematch of a game of checkers, which as it turned out, she was very good at.

  Luckily however, it had diverted her attention off said topic.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he responded, tapping a number two wooden pencil against his knee. His superior liked to keep them at his desk. Never used them, just liked the look of a can full of number two pencils. “How long did Doc say it’d be before she’d start getting her memory back?” Shado absentmindedly watched Gleason section the juicy fruit and pop a slice in his mouth.

  “He didn’t give us a definitive time frame.” He glanced up. “Some things take time. I get the feeling things aren’t working out as well as you thought they might?”

  He shrugged. “No, things are okay. I’m fine. She’s fine.”

  “Okay, well then—good. Now tell me what’s really bugging you.” Gleason straightened in his chair and shot Shado a somber look. “Oh, brother, tell me it’s not that.”

  He dropped the unsharpened pencil back in its holder. “Not what?”

  “You’ve developed feelings for this girl.”

  “For starters, she’s a woman. And secondly, get serious.”

  “Be careful, Shado. You know it’s not wise to get involved with her. Hell, you don’t even know if she’s married or even old enough to be married.”

  “She’s old enough,” he reprimanded, then added quickly, “but it’s not an issue, anyway.”

  Jack smiled and leaned back with a sigh. “I have to be honest. It would be for me. She’s a beautiful woman. Not glamorous, but wholesome, earthy—like a throwback to the sixties.”

  He tossed him a side look. “I’m not into the Grateful Dead.”

  His boss shrugged. “It was a turbulent time, but love ruled the universe, man.”

  “Spoken like a true child of the times.” Shado chuckled. “Right up to the little episode in Vietnam, right?”

  Gleason’s bushy brows drew down. “Did my time there, too, and given the choice, I’ll take the Grateful Dead.”

  He nodded then stood. “It’s all this holiday shit that’s bugging me. Penny and Danny Jr. want me to commit to Christmas dinner.” He shook his head. “I can’t stand seeing that empty chair, you know?”

  “Yeah.” His friend nodded.

  “I just didn’t anticipate she would care one red hot damn about the holidays. I figured the woman would want to get back to wherever she once lived, to her family—have there been any calls for missing persons?”

  “Well, yeah, but no one fitting her description.” Gleason eyed him. “It wouldn’t kill you to allow yourself a little Christmas spirit, if only for her benefit. Who knows? Maybe it’ll jar something in her memory. You never know.”

  Shado heaved a sigh. As if having her there every time he turned around, looking up at him with those big blue eyes and making him test some new concoction she’d tried in the kitchen wasn’t bad enough. Now he had to succumb to being jolly as well? “I handle the holidays in my own way.”

  “Indeed you do. What’s happened to you shouldn’t happen to anyone, but the

  fact is it’s been like…seven years, Shado. You need to accept it wasn’t your fault.

  Danny wouldn’t want—”

  He put up his hand to stop his friend. “Don’t…try to tell me what my brother would and wouldn’t want.”

  Jack shook his head. “Not my aim, son. But I knew your brother for years and don’t think I haven’t said to myself more than enough times, what if I’d been there a minute sooner?” He eyed him, concern etched on his rugged face. “At some point, you have to start living again, and you tell yourself it wasn’t your fault.”

  He scooped up two of the thick, bound criminal photo books. “I’m not in the mood to get into
this.”

  Gleason bound from his chair and grabbed Shado’s arm. “Maybe not. But, here’s the deal. I need your head clear if you’re going to stay on this case. You understand what I’m saying?”

  His jaw clenched. He knew he was lucky to be included. The captain had fought against it for the very reason Gleason cited, and it was his mentor who’d finally convinced the man Shado had a stake in being part of the team. He couldn’t screw up.

  Shado nodded. “I got it. But don’t expect me to get all Saint Nick on everyone.”

  Gleason chuckled. “God forbid.” He nodded toward the books. “Good luck with those and cut the girl some slack. Get a wreath or something, so she doesn’t think you’re a total loser.”

  Shado flipped him the finger.

  ***

  His thoughts were brought back to the present as he realized how unusually quiet it was in the apartment. Dropping his coat on the hook, he popped the other half of Miss Brisbee’s cookie in his mouth and looked around. There was the faint sound of holiday music coming from down the hall. Investigating further, he checked the kitchen to find it empty and the radio, which normally sat on the windowsill, gone. It registered then that the music came from inside the bathroom. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Surely, she understood the perils of water and electricity. He tamped down the odd feeling in his stomach, swallowed the cookie, and tapped his knuckles on the door.

  A sickening thud followed by a loud splash came from inside. A vision of the radio landing in the tub and his only witness frying to a crackly crisp was all the incentive he needed. He wrenched open the door and burst into the bathroom, skidding to a halt at the sight before him. His heart stopped. Frothy bubbles, like poufy clouds, glided down her pale, wet flesh. He tore his gaze from the ethereal beauty and followed her outstretched arm, poised to reach the dial on the radio perched on the back of the toilet.

  Somehow, he forced his tongue from the roof of his mouth, breaking through a bevy of lusty images swimming in his brain and spoke, calmly and collectedly, neither of which described what was going on inside him. “Don’t touch it.”