Sunday, January 1 #4
After joyful, if not off-key, songs, the man of the cloth approached the podium with contrived reverence.
With slicked-back black hair and an arrogant air, he more resembled a slick used-car salesman than a minister.
He pulled out his Bible and cleared his throat.
That was their cue to march down the aisle.
Placing his hand on the pastor’s sleeve, Bickney announced, “You are under arrest for the murder of Matthew Jenkins.”
Officer Stamas clicked the cuffs shut, which didn’t match Giller’s gold-and-diamond cufflinks, before the man could utter a word. The ladies in hats in the front row gasped. Garrett read the suspect his Miranda rights as the ashen-faced, weak-kneed Pastor Giller was escorted to the patrol car.
It took less than two minutes, and Charlie got a year’s worth of laughs from it. Filling out the paperwork at the police department took longer. But it didn’t matter to Garrett; his conflict of interest had been hauled away.
He glanced at his wall clock from his couch.
It was approaching six. They typically connected at eight p.m. He planned to call Angelica then, but a heavy feeling overcame him.
He was convinced something was wrong with her.
He tried to dismiss it, but it gnawed at him, festered.
It wasn’t her absence from his life; an overwhelming sense of foreboding settled deep in his gut, tormenting him.
Unable to stand another second, Garrett ran to the garage. With his left hand, he shifted his truck into reverse and backed out. It was snowing. He grunted. He left his jacket in the coat closet.
One way or another, he’ll tell Angelica how he feels. He’ll never get anywhere if he doesn’t, and he might end up getting nowhere. Being in limbo kept him stuck in limbo.
Heavy snowflakes blanketed his truck, iced over his wipers, and glazed his windshield, cutting his visibility.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled into her driveway and slammed on the brakes.
Her car sat in its usual spot, but her front door stood wide open.
Panic-stricken, Garrett leaped out and bolted toward the house.
He had sensed something was wrong. His soul was connected to hers like an unbreakable cable spanning endless miles.
He should have left earlier. Why the hell hadn’t he left the moment his “heart alarm” went off?
He knew she needed him—just as he knew when he held her on the side of the road.
Maybe even when he first saw her in the diner.
“Angelica!” His urgent cry met the stormy night as he vaulted up the wooden stairs. “Angelica!”
Garrett’s hiking boots came to an abrupt stop as he stepped into the cabin and onto the pine floor; his eyes darted from side to side, scanning the room. Desk lamp on, hearth cold as the night air, dark kitchen, and dark hall.
“Angelica!” His voice echoed through the eerily still house. His heart raced as fast as his feet down the hallway toward the pitch of her bedroom. He switched on the bedside lamp. Bed slept in, rumpled sheets and comforter, Daisy curled up by the pillow, eyeing him with suspicion.
“Where’s your mommy?” He charged out of the bedroom, not expecting a reply from the lounging pet.
Stepping into the biting cold, he was pummeled by the Westerly blizzard winds, whipped by stinging, ice-encased snowflakes. His eyes scanned the pristine landscape. No footprints but his.
“Angelica! Where are you?!” Garrett yelled, cupping his hand around his mouth as gusts from the snowstorm slammed his hoarse words back into his face, and his boots sank into the snow-covered driveway.
With his head and heart pounding in sync, he sprinted toward the woods, using the flashlight on his phone as his guide.
Clouds escaped from his mouth into the frigid night with every massive breath his lungs spat out.
The howling storm drowned out the sound of his heavy, thudding feet crunching through inches of snow.
Panning the ground, his light swept from right to left. Beneath the snow ahead lay an unnatural mound. Garrett dashed across the frozen ground and scooped up Angelica’s motionless body.
Before reaching the house, images of Juliet, Ophelia, and his dream of Angelica, dead in Cooper’s cabin, flashed through his mind.
Was it a premonition? How could he help but think such grim, doom-filled thoughts?
She was as white as the snow cloaking her hair and clothes. He took the steps two at a time.
He laid her on the sofa and dropped to his knees, his chest heaving. “Don’t die on me, woman … Please don’t leave me now, sweetheart,” he pleaded, breathless.
Garrett pushed up her soaked sleeve to check her pulse. Nothing. “Come on, honey,” he wailed. “Don’t check out now … Not now. Don’t do this to us.” His fingers gently pressed the base of her neck.
This was it. If it ended, he hadn’t imagined it like this. Anything was better than this. Not with Angelica cold and still. She was too young. Barely lived. Never married. Never had a child. Never heard a child’s laughter.
He’d try CPR. The first and only time his lips would touch hers.
His solitary, heated breath, no match for a blizzard.
Then there’d be the 911 call. While waiting for the EMTs—utterly useless by the time they arrived—his head would rest against her chest. Of course, there’d be no heartbeat—no life, no faint whimper, no sound.
Instead, his sobs would be the symphony filling the room.
The police would arrive, the coroner close behind.
There would be a flurry of activity—too much coming and going, too many questions.
Amid the chaos, Angelica would lie pale and mute, far removed from his world.
Garrett would kiss her goodbye and watch as they zipped her into a body bag.
No! Don’t take her away! He’d sob even louder, more brokenly.
How could he explain any of this? How could he explain anything at all? How could he explain Angelica, the pixie who resides in his heart—the beautiful woman being wheeled out on a gurney?
His reflections tumbled helter-skelter as he searched for something to count, other than the pulse of time that had come to a halt. Then he found the beat of her blood beneath the collar of her saturated blouse. He counted. He let out a deep sigh of relief. Cancel the coroner.
Garrett dusted the melting flakes from Angelica’s face and hair. “Wake up, honey … Please wake up.” He gently tapped her cheek.
After what felt like an eternity, her eyelids fluttered. A few more random flickers. Angelica blinked. A moan escaped her lips as her large eyes greeted the world.
“I’m ... cold,” she slurred before closing her eyes again.
“I know, darling.” His hand ran down her sopping hair. “I’m going to get you warmed up real fast.”
Garrett cursed as he struggled to unbutton her blouse.
Hampered by his soft cast, he tore open the Velcro straps and threw the cast across the room.
Screw the damn pain. Luckily, the buttons on her blouse opened effortlessly.
He pulled her out of it, unzipped her slacks, slipped them off, and tossed them on the floor.
He dashed out of the room, started the shower, and tugged his shirt open as he ran back inside. He worked his feet out of his boots, yanked off his socks, and undid his blue jeans. The pile of clothes under the coffee table grew taller.
“We’re going to take a shower, Angelica.” He lifted the shivering woman into his arms as her hair dripped a trail of water.
The shower door slid shut with little effort. The easy part ended there. Carrying the lightest yet most meaningful part of his life in his arms and in his soul, Garrett’s head spun. He must wake her. Nothing else mattered if he couldn’t wake Angelica.
He held Angelica under the pulsing, heated flow as the regenerative water worked its magic, hopefully.
If he ever needed a miracle, this was it.
The spray stroked her hair, and droplets sprinkled her once-pink cheeks like an early-spring wake-up call.
A swirling river caressed her neck, massaged her shoulders, and flowed over her chest. It continued its steady course across her silky, flat abdomen before ending its journey by licking her legs.
“Come on, Angelica,” he called through the thickening mist. “I’m warming you up, sweetheart … you’re getting warmer.”
A slight twitch, a flicker across her face. “Um …”
“You can do this, honey.”
Angelica shook her head as water poured over her like an incoming tide. The sway of her soaked hair shed melting snowflakes and ice crystals, which, mixing with newly forming drops, splashed off the shower walls.
“You got this.” Garrett pulled her closer.
Angelica’s fingertips met his chest.
“That’s my girl. You’re doing great. Please talk to me,” he urged, brushing aside the waterlogged, limp tresses from her eyes with one hand.
A thicker-than-dew haze enveloped them as the minutes passed. Garrett never took his eyes off Angelica, even as the once-clear glass sliding doors grew opaque with steam and condensation coated the tiled walls.
“Garrett?” She raised her head. In his eyes, it was all good.
Garrett planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’m here … I’ve got you, honey.”
“Is it raining?” Angelica mumbled.
“It’s raining, sweetheart. It’s a tropical rain. Balmy ocean breezes are blowing over you, honey. You love the rain … love splashing in puddles … love spinning around … Please look at me, Angelica.”
She muttered little purring sounds as her arms inched around his neck.
Garrett sighed. Every sound, syllable, or movement Angelica made, whether slight, unintended, or insignificant, filled him with encouragement. His heart soared when her beautiful brown eyes met his.
“That’s a good girl. Keep looking at me … Look into my eyes, and I’ll look into yours, darling. It’s a sun shower … The sun is shining down as raindrops fall on you. It’s so warm and refreshing … We’re having the time of our lives.”
“Garrett.”
“Yes, Baby Girl.”
Angelica’s voice quivered. “No thunder …”