Sunday, December 25 #3
Angelica’s genuine sympathy touched him.
Despite her struggles, she showed gratitude and compassion toward others.
He didn’t think she was a heartless rich girl, but her comments revealed humility.
Because he didn’t often see this trait in women, he had another reason to admire her. Without a doubt, he was admiring much.
Garrett swallowed, certain he was about to deliver news that would either destroy or deflate Angelica’s holiday spirit. Popping in with joyful presents like Santa Claus, he wasn’t. Nobody was writing him a list and checking it twice. No one wanted what he delivered!
He stepped back into his role as a law enforcement officer as water spluttered over the grounds and dripped into the pot below.
“I’m sorry to tell you, Angelica, but we haven’t been able to contact or locate Matthew Jenkins.”
Angelica spun around, her shoulders drooping. Her rosy glow faded, and her brown eyes pleaded, as did her words, “What am I going to do now, Detective?”
Yep, he spoiled her holiday cheer and more. Along with that, she shifted from seeing him as a friend to seeing him as a mere police officer, addressing him by his title. Was he ever a friend? Or did Angelica only want him around for protection?
Hopeful, he reminded her, “Garrett …”
Angelica’s white-knuckled hands grasped the edge of the island’s countertop. “Garrett, what am I going to do?”
“You need to go to the police station tomorrow to file an assault charge against him. We can’t prove that Matthew Jenkins broke into your house; that’s just an assumption. But we can prove he assaulted you. I witnessed it.”
“I should have listened to you …” Angelica trailed off on the waves of a heavy sigh.
Garrett leaned across the island, clasping his hands, and had a strong suspicion about what her answer would be when he asked, “Has this happened before, Angelica?”
Angelica shook her head vigorously. “Not before the restaurant. However, he had a huge fight with me a few weeks ago. I was so scared he might hit me that I stepped back and fell into my coffee table, injuring myself. That’s why I was breaking up with him.”
The coffee stopped boiling. Garrett’s boiling anger took its place.
What kind of lowlife would yell at her? Angelica’s small stature—4'11" or maybe a tall 5' and 90 pounds at most—left her defenseless. If Jenkins’s body were found in an alley, riddled with bullet holes, wouldn’t that be just too bad?
He wanted to rush over, hold her in his arms, tell her it was all over, and that he would stay by her side forever. All of that was a fantasy and delusional.
Garrett reached out and touched her hand, regaining his composure. “I’ll help you through this, Angelica. Come down to the police station in the morning. Call me when you arrive, and I’ll guide you to the right officer,” he said.
She wiped the corner of her watery eye with her index finger. “Thanks, Garrett. I’ll be there.”
“By the way, did you arrange for an alarm system to be installed?” he asked, thinking that a little late is better than never.
“They’re coming Tuesday afternoon.” Angelica sounded more upbeat.
“Make sure you keep your doors and windows locked.” Garrett eyed the plywood-covered kitchen door. “And don’t bother with the repair. I’ll get it fixed for you.”
Wayward strands fell onto her face as she shook her head again. After blowing them away, she said, “No, I can take care of it.”
“Let me handle it. I think this falls under the category of a man’s job,” he said, flicking her a smile.
Angelica’s smile reappeared.
They sat by the fire, drinking their coffee. She chose the sofa, and he took the wing chair next to the fireplace.
Comfortable in her presence, Garrett imagined what it would be like to do this on a regular basis. Right! Angelica didn’t even see him as a friend, much less as a man. He was just the detective who promised to protect her. It was a far cry from his usual job, but it was worth it all the same.
After a few awkward exchanges, he made a personal observation. “You don’t strike me as a local.”
“I’m not,” Angelica said.
“You’re from the capital, aren’t you?” Garrett bragged, thinking he had Angelica pegged from the start. Too refined for this wilderness town.
Angelica’s raised mug paused at her lips as she laughed. “Heavens, no! I’m from Blankville, the state’s capital of defunct manufacturing plants.”
He totally missed that one. Let’s give him a round of applause for his detective instincts.
What else did he get wrong? Is she younger than twenty?
Here he is, having inappropriate thoughts about a recent high school graduate.
Hell, he’s forty-two and a stone’s throw from collecting Social Security.
The heat of embarrassment rose on his face.
Time to put his raging hormones to rest and talk about hometowns. “Er, it’s not your fault you came from there.”
“At least I left,” Angelica boasted with a snicker, her hands hugging her mug. “How about you?”
A blazing fire, coffee for two, a girl, and an old man—what an evening! Hometowns and geography. Just perfect. He sipped the steaming brew, wishing for a cold alcoholic drink.
“I’m from Wrightstown.”
“That’s an improvement over Blankville.”
“Right. Instead of a zero, I give it a zero plus.” The same place he would end up this evening. Garrett eased back into the winged chair and fixed his gaze on the furnishings—the stacked bookshelf and a floor lamp with the shade askew—instead of on the teenager.
“Did you come here with your family, or were you looking for a change of scenery?” he asked, staying within the safe conversation zone.
Angelica leaned over and set her mug on the coffee table. “I came alone, but my hometown wasn’t the issue.”
She yanked off her high heels, tossed them to the floor, and tucked her leg under her thigh.
In a flat, detached tone, she shared, “Five years ago, on my twenty-fifth birthday, I was the victim of a hit-and-run by a 4x4 truck. I was in a coma for months, followed by years of grueling recovery.
“The worst part is that I suffered trauma to my brain. That injury erased not only my memory of that day but also the seven years leading up to it.”
Oh, my God! Garrett didn’t see this coming. Engrossed in her story, he slid toward the edge of his chair. This was unfathomable. No wonder she was so withdrawn and meek. For someone so young, Angelica had been literally mowed down by the challenges in her life.
That explained the limp and the scar on her face. He wouldn’t be sitting with her now if the worst outcome had occurred, a grim thought. Plus, the bastard who almost killed her likely hadn’t been caught.
“The neurologist told me I have retrograde amnesia, which is a fancy term for what I call my ‘blanks.’” Angelica shrugged, as if she accepted it and moved on, because it is what it is, and this is as good as it gets.