Touched by Angels

by Peggy Webb

  "I see you covered the furniture." Her voice was soft and musical.

  "Yes. I found sheets in the closet. I hope you don't mind." He didn't turn around. Her furniture consisted of an old dressing table with a cracked mirror, a rocking chair with a patchwork cushion, and the bed. The bed was somewhere behind him and Sarah, an old four-poster with one pillow, soft and dented looking. He had noticed. He imagined Sarah's hair spread bright upon that pillow. Depraved as he was, he even imagined himself touching her hair, stealing precious golden moments with her, pretending to be someone he was not.

  "How could I mind, Jake? You've been absolutely wonderful to Jenny and me."

  She brushed against his arm as she reached toward the paint can. Both of them pulled back, staring at each other. Her color was high and her eyes were a vivid blue, as if part of the morning sky had been spilled there.

  An ache started deep in Jake's gut. Tears he had never shed gathered in his soul. All because of Sarah's blue eyes.

  "Excuse me," she whispered.

  "No problem."

  "I thought I would help you finish this wall," she added.

  "The work will go faster with two."

  While they occupied themselves with paintbrushes Jake stole glances her way. Sometimes he caught her gaze upon him. In those shimmering moments, she would wet her lower lip with her tongue, then glance quickly away.

  Jake wanted to taste her mouth, to feel her tongue seek his. Need rose in him, majestic and overpowering. He had to get out of her bedroom, out of her presence. And yet he couldn't. He had promised to paint.

  "Jenny's sleeping."

  "What?" He turned to her. disconnected to anything except his overwhelming need.

  Sarah's eyes widened. She knew.

  "I said, 'Jenny's sleeping.'"

  "That's good."

  The child was asleep and they were alone in the bedroom with passion scenting the air and Sarah's eyes so bright, they burned. Jake carefully laid the brush across the paint can and stepped closer to her.

  Her hand tightened on her paintbrush, but she didn't move. He stepped closer, ever closer. Time stretched out, so that he seemed to be approaching her across a giant obstacle course.

  He lifted one hand and carefully brushed back the curl that loved to caress her cheek. Her skin was soft, so very soft.

  "Sarah," he whispered. With his hand still on her cheek, he lingered, caught in the heady passions that coursed through him and the knowledge that they were alone.

  "Yes?"

  "Sarah," he whispered once more, moving his hand over her cheek, exulting in the feel of her silky skin against his fingertips. In a moment of revelation he understood that mere passion would not be enough with Sarah. She was the kind of woman a man longed to possess.

  She was so close, so sweet, so receptive. All he had to do was ease his arms around her, then bend down and cover her lips with his. He wondered if he would be able to taste their heart shape. Her warm breath fanned his cheek.

  "Jake . . ."Was she asking him whether he meant to kiss her? Or was she giving him permission to do so?

  He knew how precious her arms would feel around him. On the motorcycle with the evening wind in their hair, he had felt her caress. He edged closer. Sarah tipped her face upward.

  Her eyes looked directly into his, and he saw blue for time without end, blue as the ocean under sunlight, blue as the pansies that bloomed beside his front door, blue as . . . death.

  With a sound that was half moan, half curse, he backed away.

  "Jake?" Sarah put her hand on his arm. "Is anything wrong?"

  "Nothing." He picked up his paintbrush, then feeling guilty for his behavior, he offered explanation. "Forgive me, Sarah. For a moment I thought you were someone else."

  "Oh." She looked crestfallen. He had only made matters worse.

  His entire body was stiff as he turned back to his painting. Sarah's hand was still on his arm, scorching the skin.

  "Is there anything I can do to help, Jake?"

  "No . . . thank you."

  "Sometimes you seem so tense, almost haunted." He jerked as if someone had socked him in the stomach. "Friendship works both ways, you know," Sarah added. She was patting his arm now, little butterfly taps that set his nerve endings a-tingle. "I don't have much chance for real adult relationships, but in my little shop, customers sometimes tell me their problems." She stepped closer and smiled directly into his face.”I’m a good listener, Jake."

  "I'm sure you are, Sarah."

  She held his gaze for a long time, as if she were trying to discover his secrets by looking into his eyes. He had heard they were the windows to the soul, but he hoped that wasn't true. If Sarah was seeing his soul, she was staring directly into torment.

  "Forgive me for prying," she finally said, pulling her hand away.

  "No." He caught her wrist, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes grew wide and startled. Letting go, he silently cursed himself for being a fool. "It's not you, Sarah; it's me. I'm a private man." A lonely man.

  "I understand." She smiled. "Not everybody is like me." She picked up her own paintbrush and, squaring her shoulders, set to work.

  For a while there was no sound in the room except the swish of paintbrushes against the wall and the rise and fall of their breathing. Then Sarah broke the silence.

  "Remember the first day we met . . . the day you brought a yellow rose to Jenny in the backyard?" Without waiting for a reply, she hurried on. "I confided in you, all in a rush. I don't usually do that with strangers, Jake. It's just that there is something so good in you, so caring, so decent. ..."

  Her praise was balm to his soul. He could have listened to it forever.

  "Don't paint me a saint, Sarah."

  "Can I paint you a good friend?" She turned suddenly, smiling. A small glob of blue paint flew off her brush and landed on the tip of his nose.

  "Oh dear," she said, covering her mouth to hold back the laughter. "I'm so sorry."

  "Did you just paint my nose?" He was so relieved with a change of topic, he had a hard time pretending outrage.

  "I'm afraid I did." One giggle escaped her, then another, until Sarah was caught in a full-blown fit of mirth.

  "Lady, when you asked if you could paint me a friend I didn’t think you meant it literally."

  "I'm a very literal woman." She was laughing so hard, she could hardly talk. She set her paintbrush down and wiped tears from her eyes. "Blue happens to be your color."

  "It is, is it?" Jake touched his nose and his finger came away blue. Caught in the joy of the moment, he became playful. "I wonder what your color is?" With one swipe he painted a blue streak on her nose. "Now we match."

  "Not quite." Sarah bent over the can and came back with blue fingers. Jake knew what was coming, but he didn't try to dodge. In fact, he bent down so she could reach him.

  Laughing, she put both hands on his cheeks. "Let's see how you look with a blue nose and blue cheeks."

  First Jake felt the paint, sticky and wet. Both of them were laughing. Then Sarah stood on tiptoe and he leaned down. Her hands stilled, and awareness sparked in her eyes. Their laughter died.

  Jake didn’t take time to think, to reason. He acted on instinct. Sarah's mouth was warm under his, warm and sweet and inviting. He could taste the heart shape, just as he had imagined. And it was wonderful.

  He drew her close with one arm, never taking his lips from hers. She sighed, and it was the sweetest sound Jake had ever heard. A woman sighing for him. A sweet brave woman with the heart of a saint and the spirit of a soldier.

  Tender feelings pushed up from the darkness of his heart, and a joy that had long lain dormant tried to be reborn. If Jake had believed in second chances, he would have thought Sarah was his. But he knew better. There was no such thing as a second chance.

  What had been done couldn't be undone, not even with the magic balm of Sarah's kiss.

  There was no redemption for him, but there was solace. And he took it, there in S
arah's arms, in her bedroom with the scent of fresh paint around them. Just this moment, he told himself, holding on to Sarah. A selfish beast reared its ugly head in him and demanded more.

  He fitted her to his body, gloating at how perfect they were together, as if heaven had fashioned her just for him. Heaven ... or hell. The kiss became sweet torment. Jake wanted more. His body demanded more.

  Sarah sighed once again, melting into him. He had to let her go. Already he had stolen too much from her. He couldn't risk more; he couldn't consign them both to hell.

  Letting go was sweet torture, but better sweet torture than eternal agony. He released her and stepped back. She caught the windowsill for balance. Her lips were puffy where he had kissed them. She looked disheveled and delicious . . . and stunned.

  "Forgive me, Sarah. I had no right to do that." It was a first for him, apologizing for kissing a woman.

  "Oh." She touched her lips and studied him with wise eyes.

  "I didn't mean to take advantage of you." He picked up his paintbrush.

  "No ... no. You didn't." She picked up her own paintbrush. "What I mean is ... I'm a grown woman, Jake."

  "You're a wonderful woman with great responsibilities." His hand was tight on the paintbrush as he made vicious swipes at the wall. The damned thing seemed to have grown bigger. "I have no intention of using you for my own selfish needs. I hope you understand."

  "I do." Her voice was small. He dared not look at her.

  They busied themselves with painting, never taking their eyes off the wall. The silence stretched and stretched until it grew uncomfortable.

  "Jake?"

  Finally he looked at her. She was as serenely beautiful as ever, even with the blue paint on her nose. He felt the paint drying on his own face. He had forgotten the damned stuff.

  "I don't want you to let this change things," she said, her cheeks rosy. "I mean ..." She wet her lips with her tongue. Jake wanted to feel it on his own lips. He got a grip on his paintbrush and his passions.". . . the kiss . . ."Her voice trailed off again.

  "It's all right, Sarah." He dared not touch her, even to pat her hand. "Nothing has changed." He added lying to his list of sins.

  "What I meant to say was, when Jenny forms a friendship, she doesn't understand if it's broken." Sarah held the paintbrush upright with both hands, almost as if she were praying. "I don't want to be the cause of driving away a friend of Jenny's."

  "Sarah, I promise you that I will always be Jenny's friend." She still looked troubled. "No matter what," he added. That seemed to settle matters in Sarah's mind.

  "Thank you," she said, smiling at him. "That's done, then. We'll think no more about it."

  Sarah with her beautiful soul had neatly extricated him from a dangerous situation. With a few brave words she had put the kiss and all the feelings it had inspired into a box and nailed the lid shut. Jake was spared the need to run. Not only had Sarah given him

  permission, she had almost begged him to stick around. He would. But in the future he would be more careful. He would look but not touch.

  He smiled at Sarah, loving the radiance that shone in her face. Even looking brought joy. He guessed he was entitled to that much . . . occasionally. If he didn't get used to it. If he didn't start thinking he couldn’t live without it.

  o0o

  They worked until the room was complete. If Sarah was suffering any pangs of fear or remorse for having kissed him, she gave no outward sign.

  "To show my appreciation," Sarah said as they scrubbed paintbrushes, "I’ll fry chicken tomorrow for a picnic."

  Jake hesitated. It was late. Tomorrow was only a few hours away. Could he recover sufficiently from the night's encounter? Could he put it far enough behind him so he wasn't tempted to do it again?

  "Of course, if you're busy, I’ll certainly understand." She fussed with her hair. "It's just ... I thought a picnic might be nice . . . Jenny loves them so."

  He had hurt her. He could see the feeling of being rejected in her eyes. He didn't ever want to hurt Sarah Love.

  "I’ll be here." He made his tone jovial. "You provide the fried chicken, and I’ll provide the horse."

  "The horse?"

  "Yes. At my place. I have horses."

  "Jenny will love that." Sarah clapped her hands with delight.

  Will you love it too? Will you love sitting in front of me with your warm back pressed against my chest?

  Jake put such thoughts from his mind. Surely there was enough humanity left in him to be a friend.

  "Good," he said. "I'll pick you up around eleven."

  They bade each other a polite good night. He was home before he remembered the blue paint on his face. He was solemn as he studied the stripes in the bathroom mirror. Sarah had left her mark on him.

  o0o

  Sarah couldn't sleep in her bedroom because of the fresh paint smells. She dragged an old sleeping bag out of the closet and made her bed in the hall. Then she blamed the hard floor for ruining her sleep. But she knew that wasn't so. Deep down she knew Jake was the reason she wasn't sleeping. He had kissed her, and she had loved it.

  Wonder and terror mixed together in her mind until she could hardly tell one from the other. What if she fell in love? What if, miracle of miracles, Jake fell in love with her? What if they got married? He was a vital, powerful man. He would want children. What if Sarah's time were divided with another child? What if the other child were special?

  Sarah groaned and covered her head with the sheet.

  "Stop it," she said aloud. "Stop this nonsense right now."

  She supposed she was the silliest woman alive, worrying about having children with a man who had sworn never to kiss her again. Well, he hadn't said that, exactly. But he had apologized profusely. Why? Because he hadn't liked the kiss? He had seemed to like it.

  She was being foolish again. What did it matter whether Jake Townsend had enjoyed the kiss? There would never be love, never be marriage, never be another child.

  "Sarah Love, you're turning into a dreamer."

  She tried to shut Jake out by closing her eyes.

  Nothing has changed, he had said. Hadn’t he felt the heavens move? Hadn't he felt the sky tip its load of stars into his heart?

  Sarah groaned, twisting herself and the sheets into a knot inside the sleeping bag. It would be wise to get at least a few hours' sleep. She had chicken to fry tomorrow. And she had Jenny.

  o0o

  At precisely eleven o'clock the next morning Jake was standing on Sarah's front porch, ringing her doorbell. Sarah and Jenny came to the door almost before the bell had finished ringing. They were scrubbed and shining, and the sight of them fairly took his breath away.

  "Hello." Sarah's smile was shy. He guessed memories of the previous night were as fresh to her as they were to him. He could still taste her lips.

  "Good morning," he said, equally restrained.

  Jenny was not so restrained. " ake!" she screamed, then threw her arms around his legs.

  "Hi, Jenny." He bent to pick Jenny up. "The nicest thing about children," he said, holding her in his arms, "is getting hugged around the knees."

  "She's quite affectionate. I hope you don't mind."

  "Mind?" With Jenny's little arms around him he felt whole once more, as if his past had never happened. "I love it. A hug from Jenny is just what I need today." And every day. A hug to remember Bonnie by. A hug without the responsibility. He felt selfish, but not enough to turn and walk away. Sarah and Jenny needed a friend. Surely he could allow himself a little emotion for a few hours each day. After six years of disuse, his cold heart could use the exercise.

  "Are you ready?" he asked Sarah.

  "Let me get the picnic basket."

  She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. While she was gone, Jenny patted Jake's face all over.

  "Nice man. Nice 'ake."

  "Sometimes you make me believe that, Jenny. Sometimes, when I lie awake in my bed, remembering all the ways I failed Bonnie,
I think of you and your mother, and somehow, the ghosts go away." He pressed his lips to Jenny's soft hair. "Jenny, sweet little Jenny. I'm glad you don't understand what I'm saying. I'm glad you think of me as nice."

  Jake was aware of being watched. He looked up to see Sarah standing just inside the screen door, the picnic basket in her hand and a smile on her face. He didn't know if she had been there long enough to hear. He hoped not. He had already shown too much of himself to Sarah.

  "Ready?" he said.

  "Ready."

  They loaded everything into his car and started across town to his house. The Townsend Mansion, everybody in Florence called it. To Jake it was just home. It was a classic structure of mortar and brick that had probably witnessed more tragedy than any other house in town.

  "It's beautiful," Sarah said as they got out of the car.

  Jenny ran ahead of them and began plucking the heads off the pansies that bordered his sidewalk.

  "Pretty. Pretty."

  "Oh, Jenny. No." Sarah started after her daughter.

  "Let her." Jake put his hand on her arm. "They're just flowers."

  "She loves them. I plan to make a flower bed at home." Sarah fussed at her hair. The sun got caught in her eyes. So blue. Jake couldn't look away. Jenny became a faraway voice chanting, "Pretty, pretty."

  Self-conscious, Sarah talked in a breathless rush, her voice spilling over his senses like a summer waterfall. He was refreshed, enchanted. And he wanted to kiss her all over again.

  "There are so many things I want to do with our new house," she said. "Get a porch swing, for one. I love a porch swing. They're so pleasant in the summer. And Jenny loves to swing." Her gaze held his, and the summer sun held them both in a warm sweet embrace.

  "Hmmm," he said, not capable of more.

  "Of course, I guess it's not practical to be thinking of porch swings and flower beds when there are so many other things my house needs . . . new porch steps, for starters." She lifted her bright hair again, and Jake remembered touching it. So soft. Her hair was so soft.

  "Oh dear, just listen to me, going on like this. I’ll bet Jenny has beheaded all your flowers by now."

  Still, she didn't turn away. Both of them were bewitched by the sun, the summer air, the stolen moment.