Chapter THREE
My parents had never had a telephone installed upstairs. The one we have is one too many, Dad had said during my chatty high school years. And naturally I’d left my cell phone in the car. Whoever was downstairs apparently planned to take advantage of my parents’ absence and help themselves to the family silver—and anything else they could carry away.
But not if I could help it! Anger surged inside me as I slipped shoeless into the hallway, hugging the wall like a shadow. I was almost sure the sound of broken glass had come from the living room, but there was nothing there of much value. If I waited quietly until they moved to the other part of the house, I could slip out the front door before they suspected my presence. Unless they decided to try their luck upstairs.
I crept to the landing and listened, glad of the huge potted fern my mother kept there. Not only did it partially screen me from view, but if anyone approached, I could shove it down the stairs like a great bowling ball with fronds. And for the second time that day, I was relieved that Josie had chosen to stay at Marge’s.
Unless the burglar was in the habit of talking to himself, I was almost certain there were two of them, as I could hear muted fragments of conversation, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Probably just as well. I would risk being seen if I tried to make it to my car, but if I could dash across the street to Miss Julia’s and call the police, they might be able to nab them before they got away.
Now I heard soft footsteps in the kitchen, a lightweight by the sound of it, but even a lightweight can fire a gun. My former bravado immediately turned to mush. Maybe I would crawl back upstairs—hide in the closet, under the bed. But what if they found me? And what if they made off with the pocket watch that had been my great-grandfather’s, the fragile sapphire pendant Dad had given Mama on their last anniversary. Treasured things.
I stiffened and strained to hear: nothing, then drew in my breath and bolted downstairs.
A centipede in wooden shoes couldn’t have made more noise.
A girl who looked to be about thirteen greeted me in the front hall. “Oh, goodness!” she said. Her large gray eyes were fringed by the longest lashes I’d ever seen, and even as terrified and outraged as I was, I couldn’t help thinking there were people who would give up chocolate for eyes like that.
“Goodness has nothing to do with it,” I told her. The girl wore her dark brown hair in a shaggy elfin cut that accentuated her huge eyes and dainty features, and a gray feathered creature that looked like a small bird—dear God, it was a bird—perched on her shoulder. She wore no makeup and no jewelry and looked so innocent standing there I almost began to feel sorry for her. But not quite.
“Oh . . . I’m sorry! I didn’t mean . . .” The dustpan she held clattered to the floor, and the girl leaned over to pick it up, the jagged hem of her skirt brushing bare feet. The bird—a sparrow, I think—fluttered its wings but hung on. There was something vaguely familiar about the girl, I thought, then I knew I’d seen her before—that same afternoon at the peach stand. But there was something else about her, like a fragment of a dream that wouldn’t go away, but I couldn’t bring it into focus. That was when I noticed the broom in her other hand.
“I was trying . . . was going to . . .” she continued, backing away from me, and I’ll be darned if she wasn’t crying!
“Penelope didn’t mean to break the dish. It was an accident, and one we sincerely regret. This kind of thing doesn’t usually happen.” The woman who spoke stood behind me, and I suppose I must’ve jumped because she smiled and touched my arm with slender, shell-pink fingers. “Please don’t be afraid. We aren’t here to harm you.”
Well, that’s a relief! You’re only here to take anything that isn’t nailed down. “Then what are you here for?” I asked. I was sure she was the same person I’d seen shopping for produce.
The woman wore her silken gold hair like a crown and her face reminded me of something you might see on the front of a Christmas card. She didn’t look like a criminal. What she did look was slightly annoyed, although I could see she was trying to hide it. The nerve!
“Why, to help you, of course,” she said, with just the hint of a sigh. “Although I do believe you might be one of my tougher assignments—except maybe for that Roosevelt fellow.”
“Roosevelt? You mean FDR?” This woman was a babbling psychopath. Humor her.
“No, no! That other one . . . Teddy. Always charging around on horses, putting himself in danger. Kept me on my toes, as they say. I’ll have to admit I was relieved to pass him along to somebody else. It was one of those times I was truly grateful it was only a temporary assignment.”
The whole time she spoke the stranger was scooping up shards of glass with the broom and dustpan Penelope had dropped, and tossing them into a trash can as if she had every right to be there. She wore a crinkly, free-flowing dress she might have lifted from Cousin Violet’s closet. The skirt cascaded in tiers of green, blue and purple, scattered with tiny pink flowers, and it seemed to float when she walked. A long strand of dazzling crystal-like stones the colors of a sunset swung from her long, graceful neck. They looked expensive. I wondered where she’d stolen them.
She didn’t seem to have a weapon, or at least I didn’t see one, and the young girl, who had obviously broken the dish, had withdrawn, solemn-faced, to stand nearby. She had stopped crying now but looked as if she might begin anew at any moment. The little bird had now ventured to her wrist and she stroked it with one finger.
“You’ve yet to explain what you’re doing in this house,” I told the broom wielder who seemed to be making one final sweep. “Did you think you could just help yourselves to whatever took your fancy? The police here take a dim view of breaking and entering.”
The broom stopped in midarc. “As I explained, the broken dish was an accident, but entering . . .? Entering what?”
“Entering this house, of course! This is a private residence in case you haven’t noticed, and just because my parents are out of town doesn’t mean it’s an invitation to open house. And that bird—well, we just can’t have a bird flying about in here. It might—”
“The fledgling was lonely,” the woman explained in a matter-of-fact voice. “Recently left its nest, you see, and isn’t yet accustomed to being alone. Penelope’s only helping it along a bit. It should soon be ready to leave.”
“And speaking of leaving,” I began. “I think it’s time—” I broke off in exasperation.
“I can see you’re upset. You’ll feel much better after a cup of tea, and maybe some of my cranberry scones.”
In one smooth movement, the intruder picked up the trash can and presented the cleaning accessories to her young accomplice. “Penelope dear, would you like to put the kettle on?”
“Oh, yes!” The girl nodded and smiled as if she’d been given a rare gift, and waltzed nimbly toward the kitchen.
“Do watch out for the—” her friend called out.
The fragile hurricane lamp on the hall table tottered as Penelope swept past—literally—when the broom caught one of the table legs. Oh, no! Not again! Was this a demolition crew? I closed my eyes and braced myself for the crash.
None came. When I opened them, the golden-haired woman stood with the lamp in her hands. “That was a bit of a close call,” she said, setting it back on the table.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
“Do what?” She preceded me into the kitchen.
“Move like that. You were all the way across the room. How did you manage to catch that lamp before it hit the floor?”
The woman removed a dainty embroidered tea towel from a plate of something on the kitchen counter. It smelled like heaven. I was sure it hadn’t been there when I came in. “You’ve heard perhaps of Connie Mack?” she said.
“Had something to do with baseball, didn’t he?” Forget the phone, I thought, edging for the back door. Just run for it, Kate old girl.
She smiled and whisked plates and cups from my mother’s cabinet . . . and she seemed to know just where they were kept!
“The greatest baseball manager of all times, and a catcher, as well. Led the Philadelphia Athletics in nine World Series.”
I had never heard of the Philadelphia Athletics. “And?” I said, hoping I hadn’t locked the back door when I came in. I estimated the number of steps it would take to reach it. Six maybe; five if I sprinted.
“He was kind enough to teach me some of the stunts of the craft.” She stood between me and the door with a kettle of boiling water. “Do sit,” she said, pulling out a chair.
I sat. “Stunts?” I repeated numbly.
“Yes, tricks, I believe they call it.”
She must mean tricks of the trade, I thought, watching her pour steaming water into a pot. The essence of something sweet and summery wafted past.
“Strawberry mint,” the woman said. “My own blend. Penelope, would you please pass the scones?”
I didn’t know much about baseball, but I knew Connie Mack was dead. Long dead. And Teddy Roosevelt hadn’t been around for a while, either. Why was I allowing this strange woman to play hostess in my own mother’s kitchen? It was dark out now and most of the neighbors had probably gone to bed. I could yell my head off and none of them would hear me, yet for some reason I wasn’t afraid. In fact, I felt just the opposite, as if I’d been wrapped in that bedraggled old blanket I used to carry around as a child. Nubbins. I’d called my security blanket Nubbins. Now, what made me think of that?
It was almost as if this odd person had cast a spell over me. But it was a nice spell. A scone was placed in front of me along with butter molded in the shape of a strawberry and a small pot of orange marmalade with an enticing ginger smell. The scone was warm to the touch and steamed when I broke it open. Penelope, I noticed, had already eaten one and started on another. She ate in dainty little cat bites, but quickly, as if she were in a great hurry.
Probably because the law was on their trail.
How long had these two been staying in my parents’ house? They hadn’t been gone quite a week, so it couldn’t have been longer than that. I shoved my scone aside. “You don’t seem to understand.” I spoke calmly to the one with the twinkling necklace. She seemed to be in charge. “It’s illegal to stay in someone’s home without permission. You could get in a lot of trouble. If you need help, a place to stay until you get back on your feet, there are agencies, churches . . .” I thought of Burdette, who would carry the troubles of the world if he could. “My cousin is a minister; he knows about these things. I’m sure he’d be glad to find a place for you, might even know of a job.”
“She already has a job,” Penelope said, reaching for another scone. The bird hopped to the back of her chair and twittered at me.
“You mustn’t talk with your mouth full, Penelope, and I believe you’ve eaten enough. Remember what I taught you about greed.”
The woman brought her cup and sat beside me, then dribbled marmalade on a scone. “Penelope’s an apprentice,” she said with a smile—as if that explained everything.
“Oh,” I said. If she said she was a sorcerer, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
“And she’s right about my job. I do have one. It’s you.”
“Me?”
“I believe you did wish for an angel. Actually, though, I’d already been assigned to you—on a temporary basis, of course. Lucretia thought I might be better qualified in your particular situation.” She smiled at me over her teacup.
“What situation? And who’s Lucretia?”
Her necklace winked in amethyst and indigo as she refilled my cup. I had drunk the tea and found it soothing, as well as delicious. Now I nibbled on the scone—or I meant to nibble, but it was still hot and tasted of nutmeg, so I added a dollop of marmalade and scarfed down the whole thing.
“Lucretia wasn’t quite sure about that; it was just a feeling she had. Nothing to worry about.” She smiled, but something in her ocean-depth eyes told me there was. “Lucretia’s your guardian angel.” The woman spoke as casually as if she were telling me the time of day. “She asked me to step in for a while.”
“Lucretia? I thought she went around poisoning people,” I said, glancing at Penelope to see how she reacted to that bit about the angel, but she seemed unconcerned. In fact, she looked downright bored, with a yawn as large as it was loud.
“That was another Lucretia. I’m afraid I’ve never made her acquaintance; she’s assigned to that other neighborhood—if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t know what you mean,” I told her, “but I do know it’s time for you to leave.” I didn’t think the pair was dangerous, but all this talk about angels was making me leery. “If there’s somebody you’d like me to call, just say the word. Otherwise, you and your friend Penelope are going to have to find another place to light—that is if you can get her to stay awake that long. This has gone on far too long.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t make myself clear. How remiss of me! I hope you’ll forgive the oversight. I’m Augusta Goodnight, Kathryn, your guardian angel.”
She took my hands in both of hers, and the tenseness and doubt, the anger I’d felt toward my husband and grandmother, even my daughter, sort of oozed away. I sensed a warm spot in the middle of my stomach not unlike the feeling you get from drinking hot mulled wine. “Kate,” I said. “You can call me Kate.”
The small bird flew to the top of my mother’s kitchen curtains—the ones with the stenciled flowers that took her hours to finish—and twitched its tail feathers in an alarming way.
“Oh, no!” I sighed aloud, and was relieved when Augusta opened the back door and waved it outside. “Time to make your way in the world,” she said, watching it fly away.
“Penelope, do go and curl up somewhere, dear,” Augusta said to the girl, who now dozed with her chin on her chest.
“It’s her first day, you see,” she told me, “and there’s so very much to learn.”
“She was on the beach this morning, wasn’t she?” I asked. That was another reason why the girl had seemed familiar. Josie had described her to me earlier. “My daughter said she saw an angel in the ocean.”
“A little slipup on Penelope’s part, I’m afraid,” Augusta whispered after her young charge had disappeared into the living room. I didn’t hear any crashes so I assumed she was asleep.
“You mean she wasn’t supposed to see her?”
“Most people don’t. It shouldn’t happen again.”
I stood and went to the window. Could this really be happening? If this strange woman wasn’t crazy, then I must be! “Then why do I see you?” I said.
Augusta came to stand beside me. “Because I think you need someone you can talk to.”
Was it that obvious? Could she see how much I hurt? “Then I guess you know about Ned.” I waited for her answer, and when it didn’t come right away, I thought my doubts were justified.
Augusta spoke softly. “Of course I do, Kate. And the baby, as well.”
How could she know? Just then I didn’t care how. What mattered was, she was there. “I lost the baby,” I said, feeling the familiar wetness seeping into my eyes. “We waited so long, and I lost the baby. I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl . . . Augusta, it wasn’t my fault.”
She put her arms around me and the smell of strawberries was like a faint perfume. “Of course, it wasn’t your fault. I don’t believe your husband blamed you, did he? That wasn’t in my notes . . .”
I wiped away tears with the dainty, lace-edged hankie she pressed into my hand. “No, he didn’t blame me, but he grieved alone. For years after having Josie we tried to have another child, and when we found I was expecting, Ned was ecstatic. He had lost his job and hadn’t yet found another, but this was such a happy thing, it made the other seem unimportant. Then, when I was less than three months along, I had a miscarriage.”
A defective sperm or egg, my doctor had said. It was nature’s way of cleaning house. Nobody’s fault. We could try again.
“He shut me out,” I told Augusta. “I felt empty to the bone, but he had no room in his heart for me—only his own grief.” I blew my nose as I paced the kitchen. “Self-pity, that’s all it was. He lost his job, he lost his baby. Well, I was hurting, too!” I didn’t have the nerve to tell her Ned and I hadn’t been intimate in months.
The handkerchief was soggy and Augusta passed me another. “Have you tried talking about this?” she said.
“When? He’s never home, and when he is, he’s tired or he doesn’t want to discuss it. Frankly, I’m tired of trying. I begged him to see a counselor with me, but it was like talking to a wall.” I shrugged. “Finally, I just went by myself.”
“And did that help?” she asked.
“I think it helped me to become stronger, to learn to face things by myself. But Ned resented it, you know. Said he didn’t like our problems being flaunted in front of perfect strangers.” I blew my nose. “He’s the one who’s a stranger!”
Augusta Goodnight stood by the window and the moonlight caught her hair so that we needed no other light. “Just try and be patient, Kate,” she said, “it’s not over . . .”
I waited for the angelic announcement that would bring purpose to my life.
“It’s not over,” the angel continued, “until the plump lady performs.”
At the risk of offending my otherworldly guest, I laughed all the way upstairs, then giggled in my sleep. If she had done nothing else, Augusta had brought a respite of amusement into my bleak existence. But I didn’t think that was the main reason for her being here. Even though she hadn’t said so, I had a strong feeling the angel was sent to warn me. But warn me of what?