The bell by the door jingles and she looks over to see a small man in a thin beige jacket step out of the restaurant and look up at the sky for a moment. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and hurries away. It suddenly strikes her as odd that he’s wearing a jacket on a warm sunny day. Another slip in his disguise, a small detail that doesn’t quite fit.
“Miriam,” Emmett says. Something in his tone implies this isn’t the first time he’s called her name. “Hello?” He waves in front of her face. She looks at him and knows she must be pale. “Are you okay? Is it your stomach?”
She starts to shake her head, but then realizes this is a perfectly fine excuse to be the total wreck that she is.
“We should go,” she says, fighting to sound normal and probably failing. “I want to go home.”
“Okay,” he says. And in that no-fuss way she adores, he quickly arranges for two containers to pack up their uneaten lunch, pays the bill and steers her outside. When you’re a tall, tattooed man with a shaved head and broad shoulders, you tend to get great table service.
Miriam stands in front of the café, at the exact spot where an archangel stood less than ten minutes ago. Mimicking his actions, she stops, shoves her hands in her pockets and looks up at the sky.
It’s a pretty day, one of the few left of the summer. The smell of exhaust from a truck past its prime lingers in the air, though the truck is already out of sight. She wonders what Gabriel saw up there. Perhaps something more than clouds drifting across a bright blue sky. Perhaps not. They’re trying to make it simple for her, he said. She sighs. Three little sparrows peck at crumbs by one of the café’s outdoor tables. A car honks at a driver who hasn’t noticed the light turned green. Emmett stands a few feet away, looking at her curiously and waiting for her to walk with him to his car.
So she’s not finished. Time to figure out how to fix her mistakes, right the wrongs. She squares her shoulders and hurries to catch up with Emmett.
Time to get to work.
Chapter Three
Emmett drops Miriam off at her apartment and drives back to the shop. He yanks off the handwritten note saying the shop is closed for lunch and then trudges to the back, where he can sit and figure out what the hell he should do about the phone call. There are many things he should do now, like file payments, check on orders, pull out the ledgers and have them ready for the unpleasantness to come at one o’clock. He could flip through his art books for inspiration and ideas for flash. He could post more pics on his blog—there were a couple of tattoos yesterday that really rocked and would get a lot of clicks. But he sits there, head in his hands, rubbing his scalp as if he could push an idea in or at least dislodge one that might be lurking in the depths.
That stricken look on Miriam’s face when he reentered the café disturbs him. Her eyes, always large and dark, were filled with some murky emotion. It couldn’t be about the call—there’s no way she could know—though Miriam does have a strange habit of knowing things she shouldn’t have any way of knowing.
He reaches for his phone and then sets it down again. He drums his fingers, twitchy and unusually irresolute. The blinds are always kept drawn to give privacy to the customers getting tattoos and to create a certain intimate atmosphere in the shop. But he suddenly feels an intense need for natural light, so he strides forward and yanks on the cord. The blinds fly up in surprise. He leans a forearm against the sun-warmed sill and looks unseeingly at the brick siding of the building next door.
Miriam didn’t ask who called, which he was certain she would as soon as he returned totheir table. He was ready to tell her, to confess everything. Instead, she looked shattered, frightened and curiously determined. All his protective instincts went into overdrive. He hustled her out of the café and into the car and
“Miriam,” Emmett says. Something in his tone implies this isn’t the first time he’s called her name. “Hello?” He waves in front of her face. She looks at him and knows she must be pale. “Are you okay? Is it your stomach?”
She starts to shake her head, but then realizes this is a perfectly fine excuse to be the total wreck that she is.
“We should go,” she says, fighting to sound normal and probably failing. “I want to go home.”
“Okay,” he says. And in that no-fuss way she adores, he quickly arranges for two containers to pack up their uneaten lunch, pays the bill and steers her outside. When you’re a tall, tattooed man with a shaved head and broad shoulders, you tend to get great table service.
Miriam stands in front of the café, at the exact spot where an archangel stood less than ten minutes ago. Mimicking his actions, she stops, shoves her hands in her pockets and looks up at the sky.
It’s a pretty day, one of the few left of the summer. The smell of exhaust from a truck past its prime lingers in the air, though the truck is already out of sight. She wonders what Gabriel saw up there. Perhaps something more than clouds drifting across a bright blue sky. Perhaps not. They’re trying to make it simple for her, he said. She sighs. Three little sparrows peck at crumbs by one of the café’s outdoor tables. A car honks at a driver who hasn’t noticed the light turned green. Emmett stands a few feet away, looking at her curiously and waiting for her to walk with him to his car.
So she’s not finished. Time to figure out how to fix her mistakes, right the wrongs. She squares her shoulders and hurries to catch up with Emmett.
Time to get to work.
Chapter Three
Emmett drops Miriam off at her apartment and drives back to the shop. He yanks off the handwritten note saying the shop is closed for lunch and then trudges to the back, where he can sit and figure out what the hell he should do about the phone call. There are many things he should do now, like file payments, check on orders, pull out the ledgers and have them ready for the unpleasantness to come at one o’clock. He could flip through his art books for inspiration and ideas for flash. He could post more pics on his blog—there were a couple of tattoos yesterday that really rocked and would get a lot of clicks. But he sits there, head in his hands, rubbing his scalp as if he could push an idea in or at least dislodge one that might be lurking in the depths.
That stricken look on Miriam’s face when he reentered the café disturbs him. Her eyes, always large and dark, were filled with some murky emotion. It couldn’t be about the call—there’s no way she could know—though Miriam does have a strange habit of knowing things she shouldn’t have any way of knowing.
He reaches for his phone and then sets it down again. He drums his fingers, twitchy and unusually irresolute. The blinds are always kept drawn to give privacy to the customers getting tattoos and to create a certain intimate atmosphere in the shop. But he suddenly feels an intense need for natural light, so he strides forward and yanks on the cord. The blinds fly up in surprise. He leans a forearm against the sun-warmed sill and looks unseeingly at the brick siding of the building next door.
Miriam didn’t ask who called, which he was certain she would as soon as he returned totheir table. He was ready to tell her, to confess everything. Instead, she looked shattered, frightened and curiously determined. All his protective instincts went into overdrive. He hustled her out of the café and into the car and
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