Part 17 (1/2)

aShe broke her hip a while ago,a Angel said. aIam bringing her groceries and taking her to the doctor until she can drive herself again.a Black brows came together as Hawk turned the name over in his mind.

aMrs. Carey,a he muttered. aIave heard that name.a aJams and jellies,a said Angel, opening her door.

Hawk got out and joined her at the trunk.

aAs in this gla.s.s?a he asked, lifting the quilt-wrapped panel out of the trunk.

aAs on our breakfast croissants.a Hawk made an appreciative sound and licked his lips.

aNow I remember the name,a he said. aAre we going to buy some more jam today?a aMrs. Carey would sic her cat on me if I even suggested it. Iave eaten her wonderful jams all my life. Gifts. Every last bite.a aAnd all the sweeter because of it,a Hawk said.

Again Hawk had surprised Angel. She hadnat expected him to understand.

aYes,a she said simply.

aDonat look so shocked, Angel. I know what gifts mean. I used to wait in an agony of hope every birthday, every Christmas. I learned not to hope after a while.a Angel closed her eyes, trying not to feel Hawkas pain.

aAnd then my third-grade teacher gave me a small candy cane with a green ribbon on it,a Hawk said. aI kept that candy cane until Christmas morning, when I knew other kids would be opening their presents.a Angelas hands clenched in helpless sympathy.

aThen I walked out into the fields until I was alone,a Hawk said. aI can still feel the wrapping crinkle beneath my fingers, smell the freshness of the mint, see the bright green ribbon and the clean red and white of the cane. It was the sweetest, most beautiful thing Iave ever tasted. I carried the ribbon in my pocket until nothing was left but a few green threads.a Hawk shook his head, almost baffled by the bittersweet shaft of memory.

aI havenat thought about that for a long, long time,a he said.

Angel fought tears as she compared her own Christmases and birthdays heaped with gifts and laughter and love. She had lost so much four years ago, but at least she had something to lose.

Years of memories, years of love.

Hawk had nothing but rare moments, the fading taste of mint, and a ribbon worn to shreds in a boyas pocket.

18.

Quietly Angel shut the trunk and followed Hawk to the front door of Mrs. Careyas house. She rang the bell and waited, knowing it might take a while for Mrs. Carey to reach the front door.

Hawk noted Angelas silence and drawn face, saw the tiny indentations where she had bitten her lower lip. He didnat know what had upset her. All he knew was that he wanted to soothe the marks away with the tip of his tongue.

Like the memory of mint, the impulse surprised Hawk. He realized that he wanted to comfort rather than seduce Angel. He wanted to see her smile because he had brought pleasure to her. He wanteda”

Mrs. Carey opened the door. Her gray head barely came to Hawkas breastbone. She adjusted her gla.s.ses as she looked up at the tall, dark man who stood so unexpectedly on her doorstep.

aGood morning, Mrs. Carey,a Angel said, her voice soft, still shaken by Hawkas sad memories. aIad like you to meet Miles Hawkins. Hawk, this is Mrs. Carey.a aMr. Hawkins,a said the old woman, nodding her head.

aCall me Hawk. Everyone else in Canada does.a He slanted a sideways look at Angel. Then he s.h.i.+fted the quilt-wrapped stained gla.s.s panel to his other arm as he took the old womanas cool, dry hand in his.

aA pleasure, Mrs. Carey.a The old womanas shrewd black eyes measured the man in front of her. Then she nodded once, abruptly.

aNot many men could carry that nickname. You can. Come in, Hawk.a Then, dryly, aYou too, Angie. Teaas brewing.a A big orange tomcat wove in and out of Mrs. Careyas walker with breathtaking disregard for safety as she led the way to the kitchen. Finally Angel could stand the suspense no longer. She bent down and lifted the heavy cat into her arms.

aTiger, you have no sense,a she scolded softly.

She rubbed the cat with her chin as she followed Mrs. Carey into the kitchen. The tom watched Angel with wise orange eyes, touched his nose to hers, and flowed out of her arms. Angel didnat try to keep the cat. Mrs. Carey was sitting down now, no longer in danger of becoming tangled in her catas furry little feet.

aPour for me, would you?a Mrs. Carey asked. aI must have slept on my hands wrong last night. Theyare kind of slow waking up this morning.a Angel looked quickly at Mrs. Carey. aHave you called Dr. McKay?a The old woman laughed dryly.

aIam seventy-nine, Angie. Iave earned a few slow mornings, donat you think?a aIam driving Derry over to see Dr. McKay later this morning,a said Angel. aIall pick you up anda”a aNonsense,a Mrs. Carey interrupted firmly. aPour the tea, Angie. Thereas nothing the doctor can do for me that a cup of tea canat do better. Sit down, Hawk. You can put whatever youare carrying on the counter.a Angie poured tea and pa.s.sed the plate of shortbread biscuits around.

aAbout the doctor,a she began firmly. aI thinka”a aI remember a time a few years ago,a Mrs. Carey said, interrupting with equal firmness. aDerry came flying over here with his knickers in a twist because he found you asleep on your studio floor. Seems youad been working too long, or something. Dr. McKay went to the house, thumped and poked and listened, and you never woke up. He told Derry nothing was wrong with you that a lot of sleep wouldnat cure.a aYes, buta”a Mrs. Carey put her teacup down with a firm motion that cut off Angelas words.

aWell, thereas nothing wrong with me that being young again wouldnat cure,a Mrs. Carey said. aThe day the doctor can turn back time is the day Iall call him and tell him I feel tired in the morning.a Angel sighed and gave up.

The phone rang.

aIall get it,a Angel said, moving quickly toward the living room.

Mrs. Carey followed much more slowly.

Angel answered the phone, exchanged a few words with the person on the line, and then gave the phone to Mrs. Carey. The instant Angel walked back into the kitchen, she felt the intensity of Hawkas stare.

aDo you do that often?a he asked, watching her.

aAnswer the phone?a Angel asked, sitting down.

aWork yourself into exhaustion.a Angel shrugged, trying to dismiss the subject.

aNo,a she said calmly.

aJust when youare upset?a Hawk asked, his voice too soft for Mrs. Carey to hear.

Angel sipped her tea.

aHow long has it been?a said Hawk.

aSince what?a aSince you worked until you couldnat think, couldnat feel, until your body just shut down and dumped you on the floor.a For a moment Angel thought of refusing to answer. Then she realized that it didnat matter. Hawk would just ask Derry.

And then there was the fact she wanted to tell Hawk. There would be a certain almost cruel pleasure in revealing to him just how badly he had misjudged her.

aIt was more than three years ago,a Angel said, sipping her tea. aIt was the night Carlson finally convinced me that the man I loved was dead and I was alive and there wasnat one d.a.m.n thing I could do about it except crawl into the grave and die with him.a aBut you didnat.a aCarlson wouldnat let me.a Angelas eyes darkened, remembering Carlsonas cruelty. But it had been cruelty with purpose, cruelty that forced her to accept that she was alive and Grant was not.

Carlson had paid, too, more than she knew at the time. Angel hadnat forgiven him for a year, hadnat spoken to him, had refused even to look at him or the letters he sent. She hadnat known then that Carlson loved her as a man loved a woman.

By the time she understood, it was too late. Carlson was inextricably bound up in her mind with Grantas life and death. She could no more be Carlsonas lover than she could be Derryas.

aCarlson loved you,a Hawk said flatly.

aYes. Even before Grant did. But I never loved him, not that way.a aBecause heas Indian?a Angel smiled sadly. aBecause he wasnat Grant.a aBut after Grant was dead?a Hawk persisted.

With a weary gesture, Angel pushed tendrils of hair out of her eyes.