Eleanor's Hero

by Jill Barnett

She poked her finger into a thigh and watched her nail sink, before she turned and glanced over a shoulder in the mirror, then closed her eyes and groaned. She would have to spend her entire married life walking backwards. She propped her foot on the edge of the claw-foot tub. Her feet were fine. Of course compared to the iron claw feet on the bathtub a chicken foot would look passable.

  She did have nice ankles. But she knew that. She raised one arm up in the air. Turned this way and that. How strange. She'd grown more skin. It also looked as if she had inherited her grandmother's arms. She straightened and moved her face close to the mirror. Her breath fogged it up so she inched back a bit. She parted her hair in a few places. She couldn't see any gray hair, so she supposed that was a good thing.

  Her hair was long, really long and full. It covered her behind. She smiled, then tried to spread it out so it also covered her arms and her breasts. It wasn't that thick. No one's hair was that thick.

  Finally she stepped back, stood directly in front of the mirror, hoping the whole would be better than the parts. She tried to picture how she would look to Conn.

  Conn, who had a hard-muscled torso and powerful legs. A rippled stomach.

  Conn. A man without an ounce of flab anywhere on him.

  Conn, who was thirty-two.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God . . . She buried her face in her hands.

  What had she done?

  * * *

  What the hell was she doing?

  Conn stared at the water closet door. He knew she was in there. He'd heard the water run. And run. And run. He'd pressed his ear to the door after an hour and a half and heard her muttering something that sounded like a religious chant: Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

  He didn't know that much about Methodists. He was Irish Catholic, though he hadn't been in a Catholic church in years. After giving it some thought, he figured what she was doing was penance, like Our Fathers and Hail Marys. Perhaps she was too embarrassed to do it in front of him. He sat back on the bed, happy that he was Catholic. Even if he hadn't been to confession in over ten randy years, his penance wouldn't take this long. He stared at the door, then muttered, "Hell, the devil's penance wouldn't take this long."

  The door cracked slightly.

  Thank you, God. He shot to his feet.

  "Conn?" She was whispering.

  He frowned. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  Nothing? he thought. She'd been in there since ten. It was after midnight. His patience had disappeared forty-five minutes ago.

  "Would you mind turning down the lamp. I'm well . . . uh . . ."

  "Sure! Yeah! Okay!" He leapt across the bed and snapped down the gas key. The lamplight turned dim and golden. He had to admit it was more romantic and kind of nice. Made him feel like slowing down a little.

  He turned back, his mind on what was to come, in more ways than one.

  She was still hiding behind the door.

  "How's the light?"

  She poked her head out. Just her head.

  Her hair was down. Long and straight and thick. The kind of hair he could bury his fists in while he was loving her all night long.

  "Don't you think it's still a little too bright?"

  He looked from her to the light, then back to her. "You want it off."

  She nodded.

  He turned the light off. Anything to get her out of that room and into the bed. He sat back against the headboard. She shuffled across the room. He felt the mattress dip from her weight. He resisted the urge to rub his hands together.

  He lay there waiting.

  She sat there not moving.

  He sat up and gently cupped her shoulders with his hands, which felt twice as big as usual. He slowly pulled her back down on the bed. She was so stiff, she felt like she had been starched.

  He leaned over and gently kissed her. He took his time, moving real slow. He didn't deepen the kiss, just tasted her lips over and over. Her hands slid around his neck. He pulled her into his lap.

  Her robe was so thick he couldn't feel her body. He deepened the kiss and moved his hand lower, untying the belt to the robe and slipping it off. He slid his hand to her breast.

  What the hell was she wearing? He rubbed his broad palms over the cloth.

  Flannel pajamas. She was wearing flannel pajamas on their wedding night. He took a deep breath and said, "Sit up, sweetheart."

  She popped up so fast, she almost knocked him in the chin with her head. He kissed her some more, deeply with his tongue and lips. He kissed her neck and ears and brow, and then returned to her mouth. He could die in that sweet mouth.

  She wasn't so stiff, so he took a chance and rolled over with her so she was lying on top of him. When she finally moaned against his mouth, he slid his hands slowly up her back, rolling the pajama top up with it.

  He had it off of her so quickly, he almost shouted with triumph. He put his hands on her back again, seeking her warm soft skin.

  She had on long woolen underwear. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair. She was watching him as if she were a cornered animal waiting for him to pounce. "You're nervous."

  "How could you tell?"

  "Sweetheart?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Please tell me what are you wearing?"

  "Clothes."

  "Layers of clothes, right?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "How many layers?"

  "Just a few more."

  "If I promise to go slowly and be gentle will you take off the long underwear?"

  She unbuttoned it, and he felt her squirming out of it.

  "Anything else?" he asked calmly.

  "A cotton shirt. Should I take it off, too?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay, I'm done."

  "Anything else?"

  "A corset cover."

  "Is that the thing with all the tiny buttons?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Will you take it off, too?"

  She did.

  "Anything else?"

  "An undershirt."

  "And?"

  "A shift."

  "And?"

  "A camisole."

  He watched her for a long time. Then kissed her. He raised his head. "Nellie, I can't love you with all those clothes on. Don't be frightened. It's a beautiful way of loving. I promise."

  She stood then, and he heard clothes falling to the floor. He wondered what else she had been wearing.

  Then she was in his arms and kissing him, holding him. His wife.

  She was so beautiful. He told her over and over. He touched her whole body, and loved her with his hands and mouth and his body. She was everything he'd ever fought for and the one thing he would never lose. Her name was a prayer on his lips, his name a whisper of love from her.

  And when he was deep inside her, loving her tenderly and gently, it was good,—so very, very good. He cried when he felt her passion explode, because he was so in awe that she loved him and was his.

  They loved all night and most of the morning. It was late Christmas afternoon before they got up. She tried to hide her body in the bright daylight. He chased her, pulling off her clothes until she stood naked before him.

  She had trouble looking at him. "My body is old," she mumbled, looking embarrassed and ashamed.

  "Not to me. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

  "But I'm not perfect. I'm not young."

  He walked over to her and placed his knuckle on her chin and tilted her face up. Her eyes met his. "No, but your body's got something else that's better than perfection, my beautiful wife."

  "What?"

  "It's got character."

  And she burst out laughing.

  Epilogue

  New York City, Christmas Eve, 1905

  * * *

  Giant Gymnasium still sat in the belly of New York, except now there were two entrances—one for the gentlemen and one for the ladies. There was also a separate smoking room. This Christmas, like the last seven, there were holly wreat
hs on the doors, one with red ribbons and one with green, and garland was draped on the fire escapes.

  In the rear alley where carriages used to park there was now a brand spanking new Pierce Arrow sedan that still had pine needles scattered in the back from this year's Christmas tree. Inside, the lobby was still huge, but there was a homey wood stove with a basket of pine cones next to it, and Christmas music played on a Victrola with the RCA dog painted on the horn.

  The message board was no longer there, because a large black telephone switchboard sat in its place. Behind the lobby was a small office, where Mrs. Nell Donoughue took care of the gymnasium books.

  Up the stairs, the family home was now both the third and fourth floors, with an inside staircase that connected the floors. High above the fourth floor, the ceiling was still glass and two telescopes sat on their bases in the center of the main room.

  Conn Donoughue stomped up the stairs, his huge arms filled with brightly wrapped packages. He shook the light snow from his shoulders and walked through the front door, stepping around cat toys and a scattering of children's mittens.

  He set the packages down by the crooked tree and turned around just as his five-year-old son hollered, "Catch me, Daddy!"

  Adam Donoughue leapt off the tall oak cabinet, bounced on his mother's new brocade sofa, and flew toward his father with his arms spread like an eagle.

  He smacked into his father's chest with a thud. But his father would catch him; he always did.

  Conn carried his son into the kitchen, where there were small hand prints of fudge on the table, the icebox, the walls, and his wife's face, and where nine cats with Christmas bows tied around their scrawny necks played under the work table.

  Three-year-old Julia sat in her mother's lap, her small hands cupping Nell's cheek while she gave her a kiss. "Happy Chrith-muth, Mama."

  "What's this? No happy Chrith—muth for your father?" Conn gave her a mock frown.

  Julie looked up with a very serious face that looked exactly like her mother's. She planted her fudgy hands on her waist and frowned at him, scolding, "Not Chrith—muth, Daddy! It'th called Chrith-muthl"

  He leaned down and planted a loud smooch on her small face, then bent toward his wife. "I believe it's not only Christmas, now, is it?" He kissed Nell and tasted chocolate and love and everything that was important in his life. "Happy Anniversary, Nellibelle."

  "Ah, mush!" Adam screwed up his face. "Yuk! I'll never kiss a girl!"

  Conn looked at him. "I'll remind you of that someday, son."

  And later that night, when the children had been tucked into their beds in their rooms on the fourth floor, Conn stood one floor below, in the their bedroom and pulled his wife into his arms. "Happy Christmas, Nellibelle."

  Then he started to kiss her.

  Above him, someone whispered, "Ah, mush!" Then a small giggle that sounded like his Julibelle sounded from the ceiling. He snapped his head up and saw one small eyeball, just like his son's, peering down at them from a small hole he'd never seen before. There was some whispering, and second later, he saw his daughter's eye staring down at him.

  "Go to bed! Now!"

  Two pairs of feet scampered over the floor above. - He looked back down at Nellibelle. "Just how long has that hole been there?"

  "Oh, let's see . . . Not too long," she said.

  "How long?"

  "About eight years."

  Then she slid her arms around his neck and laughed, that joyous, wonderful laugh. And once again, Conn Donoughue saw the Christmas gift he'd always loved the best. He looked into his wife's smiling face and saw how truly beautiful a woman could be.

  About the Author

  JILL BARNETT enchants readers with her signature blend of love and laughter. Publishers Weekly gave her book, Dreaming, a starred review, calling it "hilarious… Her characters are joyously fresh and her style is a delight to read—a ray of summer sun." The Detroit Free Press named Bewitching one of the Best Books of the Year, cheering, "Barnett has a wicked way with a one-liner and she makes the romance sizzle." Her other books have all won critical acclaim and have since gone on to appear on such bestseller lists as the New York Times, USA Today, Publishers’ Weekly, the Washington Post, Barnes and Noble and Waldenbooks, who presented Jill with a National Waldenbooks Award. She has over 7 million books in print and her work has been published in 21 languages. Jill lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest.

  To hear the latest about Jill Barnett’s books please visit these sites

  * * *

  www.jillbarnettbooks.com

  Also by Jill Barnett

  Christmas in the City Series

  * * *

  DANiEL AND THE ANGEL

  by

  Jill Barnett

  * * *

  Book One

  Daniel and the Angel

  When wealthy financier D. L. Stewart's finds an injured woman in the snow in front of his New York City mansion, he has no idea she is the fair Lillian, a big-hearted and somewhat inept fallen angel, sent back to teach him what Christmas is really about. But Lilli has her work cut out for her. D.L. is a wounded and cynical soul, a man who is an expert at not feeling anything, and who believes he can buy anything and anyone. Can one loving, soft-hearted angel really change this damaged man who has a heart of solid stone?

  Chapter One

  * * *

  It was the perfect day for a miracle.

  The shimmering sky above Heaven was as gold as Gabriel's trumpet, and the distant sound of canticles filled the celestial air. Clouds, puffy and white as spring goosedown, created the holiest of firmaments —a place where no angel feared to tread.

  Standing just outside the Pearly Gates was a novice angel named Lillian. She glanced left, then right, and, just for good measure, she cast a quick peek above her.

  The coast was clear.

  With a look of pure determination, she shoved up the sleeves on her flowing white robe, flexed her fingers, and did exactly what she had been forbidden to do: she tried to create a miracle.

  The blast was loud enough to crack Heaven.

  A backdraft of near hurricane force sent clouds skittering and bumping every which way. Lilli landed flat on her back. For a stunned moment, she lay atop a bouncing cloud with her arms and legs out like a snow angel.

  Slowly, the dark smoke from the blast settled around her. She blew a hank of silver-blond hair out of her face and blinked a few times, then found herself

  staring up into the Heavenly sky. She wiggled her toes first, then moved her arms and legs.

  No ... Nothing broken.

  She sat up quickly and her halo slipped down over her eyes. She shoved it back into place, then quickly tugged down her robe so her bare legs were once again covered.

  Like falling snowflakes, three pearlescent wing feathers floated in front of her.

  She looked over her shoulder and frowned down at her crumpled wings, then rolled her shoulders, shimmied slightly, and fluttered her wings to get the kinks out of her feathers. From behind her she heard a muffled squeal and whipped around. "Florida?" she hissed. "Is that you?"

  There was another muffled grunt.

  "Where are you?" She looked around, then turned this way and that.

  Nearby, two bare feet suddenly popped out from within a dark cloud.

  "Oh. There you are."

  The feet kicked in the air a few times, before they disappeared in the motion of a somersault. Florie's dark head popped into view, and with Lilli's help she crawled out of the dark cloud, kneeling there for a second, her wings tilted downward while she coughed and wheezed.

  Lilli patted Florie's back gently until she stopped coughing and flung her head up, frowning, then she tared at Lilli from dazed eyes. "What happened?"

  "Nothing...really."

  Florida turned back around and froze, staring horrified toward the west. "Oh, no! Something did happen." She pointed. "Oh, Lilli, look what you've done now!"

  Lilli turned around and almost d
ied—again.

  "You've broken the Pearly Gates!"

  Lilli covered her eyes with both hands and groaned, then slowly opened her fingers and peeked through, hoping she would not see what she thought she had already seen.

  Her stomach dropped to somewhere near her bare toes.

  Slowly she stood and walked toward her latest disaster, with Florie "tching" and trailing along behind her. She stopped, unable to think, to speak. She could only stare.

  The entrance to the most hallowed place in the universe was in complete shambles. The gates to Heaven hung at cockeyed angles from their twenty-four karat gold hinges. The hinges had been shattered in half, their golden pins bent like boomerangs. Those precious gates, which were originally in the shape of an angel's wings, were meant to meet in the center, where a diamond-encrusted lock held them in perfect symmetry.

  "Where's the lock?" Florie whispered, eyes wide.

  Lilli stared down at her feet, where diamond dust winked back at her like bits of sand amidst cracked pieces of precious pearl. Chewing on her lower lip, she pointed. "I think it's there." She had a sick feeling. "Somewhere."

  Florie knelt down and scraped together the dust with her hands.

  Lilli gave the small pillar of white dust an uneasy glance. "Is that all that's left?"

  Florie nodded.

  Lilli winced, then said what she was thinking. "It looks like Lot's wife."

  "Saint Peter's going to be mad enough to spit lightning. And can you imagine"—Florie leaned closer and whispered—"His reaction? You'll get the worst punishment yet. It might even be worse than the time Saint Peter made you polish all those silver linings."

  "Well, He can't punish me if He doesn't know who did it." She spun around, gripping her long gown in her fists. "Come on! Follow me!" And she took off at a full run.

  "Wait!"

  "Hurry, Florie!" Lilli called out over her shoulder. "Or He'll think you did it!"

  All the color drained from Florida's face. Quick as a wink, she fluttered after Lilli.