Weeping Angel by Stef Ann Holm

clean water glass from her shelf and went to her icebox. She opened one of the upper doors and picked up the ice scraper. She ran it over the block of ice, all the while casting furtive glances out the door. All she could see at this angle was Frank’s left leg. As soon as she’d shaved enough ice, she closed the door and set the glass on the counter. She’d just poured the syrup and water over the ice when the screen door opened.
    Turning with a start, she said nothing as Frank entered her kitchen. No man had ever seen this part of the house. Not even Reverend Thorpe. The farthest a person of the opposite sex had ever gotten was her dining room and front parlor. But never her kitchen.
    â€œWhich way is the bathroom?” Frank asked as calmly as if he were inquiring for the time.
    The teaspoon fell from her grasp and clattered to the counter. “I . . . that is . . . my . . .” What she really wanted to say was, “Are you sure?” but didn’t. If a man had never been in her kitchen, there may as well have been a moat around her bathroom, for that space had never been occupied by any caller. “Thr-Through,” she cleared her throat, “through the doorway and to your left. Down the hall and up . . . up the stairs. The first room on the right.”
    â€œThanks.”
    Frank strode under the doorway casement, his athletic build filling up the narrow opening. AllAmelia could do was stare after him, her mind whirling in the tense silence. She heard his footfalls over the floorboards, then the muffled clomp of his boots over her tapestry carpet in the hallway. The house seemed to creak in protest when he ascended the staircase. And finally the bathroom door latched into place.
    Amelia let out her breath and remained rooted to the spot. The ensuing quiet was deafening. She absently picked up the spoon and stirred the strawberry shrub, lifting her gaze to watch the ceiling. He was up there. Not ten feet from her bedroom. Using her water closet to . . . to do whatever.
    Suddenly, a warning voice whispered inside her head as she remembered what she had hanging in plain view on her adjustable clothes bar.
    Snatching up the glass, she took off for the parlor. Once at the base of the stairs, she clutched the oak banister in her free hand and started climbing the risers. When her foot hit the fifth tread, the wooden joints beneath her shoe moaned, and she froze. Her eyes darted to the landing, and she gasped softly, “Mr. Brody. You’re out.” Her heart beat faster than a bird’s, and she made a quick recovery by extending her arm. “I have your strawberry shrub ready.” The cold glass in her hand was sweating, and the surface began to feel slippery.
    Frank sauntered down the stairs to meet her, his fingers brushing the balustrade. “Did you want me to drink it in the bathroom, Miss Marshall?”
    â€œHeavens no!” she cried. “I was just . . . just.” She was floundering like a fish. “I just . . .”
    â€œJust wanted to make sure I hadn’t seen anything I wasn’t supposed to,” he supplied, and she felt her face flame. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Nothing inside your bathroom shocked me. I’ve seen it all before. You women have a lot of doodads.” He took the glass from her. A good thing, too. She was on the verge of lettingit slip through her fingers with humiliation. “I’m glad I don’t have to use all that stuff.”
    Amelia wanted to crawl in a hole. He’d seen them. How could he not? He’d probably had to swing the clothes bar toward the window in order to . . . to . . . do whatever. She backed down the stairs, settled her footing on the floor, and held on to the newel post as if her life depended on it. Frank joined her and strode into her light and cheerful parlor.
    Both she and her aunt Clara had chosen