Chapter 4 The Angel
THE ANGEL
ANASTASIA
I’m an angel. I tilt my head left, then right, eyeing the costume in the mirror hung behind my bedroom door. “Are you positive this isn’t too over the top? It’s so…revealing. What if Saint doesn’t like it?”
“Anastasia, stop.” Misty steps between me and my reflection, placing her hands on my shoulders. “You look gorgeous. Wear this costume for you, not him. It’s absolutely perfect for a Halloween masquerade ball at the Ritz. I hardly recognize you myself.”
I’m grateful to her and I know, as she’s been my bestie since college, that I can trust her to give it to me straight. As soon as she heard about the event Saint asked me to attend with him, she was so excited, and offered to make our costumes.
She flew in to personally fit us into them and add the final touches.
It just so happens that her professional hockey goalie fiancé, Storm, and the Denver Aspens are in town playing against the Los Angeles Vipers tomorrow night, so we’ll all attend the game together, too.
That assumes I survive tonight with Saint.
“If Saint had mentioned the event would be a costume ball when he asked me out, I might have declined,” I say.
“But it’s for a great cause, and you are going to be the best angel there. In fact, I hope you’re the only angel.”
“I’ll be the only one wearing a Misty Costume Original. I’m so proud of how well your business has taken off.”
“I know. Can you believe it?” She grins and fusses with the white feather and lace piece in my hair.
“Of course, I feel like I owe Storm a commission. He’s made it his life’s mission to tell every national league player and their girlfriends and wives and sisters all about my services.
I’m over booked for Halloween costumes next week. ”
“And yet you found time to come here today? You could have shipped this and stayed home to work.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for you and Saint for the world. I’m holding my breath hoping something happens between you two tonight. A little spark of magic, maybe?” She winks, and expertly applies a silver streak in my hair with special temporary tint.
“Go ahead and breathe. This is Saint we’re talking about remember? I’m simply helping him as a friend tonight, that’s all. About the only magic I’m hoping for is I don’t split a seam in this outfit.”
“You have my personal guarantee all seams are iron-clad. Unless of course a strong hockey player like Saint strips the costume off of you after the ball. I don’t think my seams could withstand that.”
“Nice try. That is definitely not happening.”
“I’ve seen the way you look at him, Anastasia.”
“I know you have, Misty. But tonight is just a one-off. There’s nothing more there. Believe me, Saint is not my forever-man.”
“But what if—”
“Nope.”
“But he could—” I shush her with two fingers to her lips.
“Zip it. Not going there.” I move away from the mirror, my mouth dry suddenly, as if Saint were here now ripping away at my seams with his smoldering stare. The image of it won’t leave my mind. I fill a glass of water from the decanter on my bed stand.
“He could be your Prince Charming, Anastasia. He’d be a perfect hero for one of your scripts since he’s a brooding playboy who doesn’t think he’s worthy of love.”
I turn, almost choking on my water. “What do you mean, brooding?”
“Oh. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She reaches into her bag for her camera, her hair like spun gold falling into her face.
“Misty, what do you know? Tell me.”
She sighs and sinks onto the edge of my mattress.
“Storm told me something Big D mentioned to him when he moved out of that apartment above Saint’s garage.
While packing, he’d gone looking for a shirt he’d loaned Saint.
I guess in one of his bedroom drawers he found a photo of Saint, only younger, with his arm around a young woman.
Next to it was one of those 3D sonogram images of a baby in the womb. ”
This news unnerves me, my forehead wrinkling under the Angel mask. A younger Saint with a woman? A baby? I try to speak, but don’t have a voice, and chug the rest of the water. Only now another worry sprouts. I can’t drink too much because if I have to pee I might not get this costume back on.
She continues, “Big D doesn’t know for sure because Saint will never talk about it. But we think we can read between the lines. Something must have happened in the past.”
“And now he wanders through life refusing to love again? Dating loose women because he can’t handle anything more? Sounds like the plot of the first movie I co-wrote at the studio—”
“The Count of Holiday Hall? I thought the exact same thing when he told me. And look how your heroine was able to make him see that he was worthy of love by the end of the ball.” She glances up at me with the most innocent eyes, full of hope and romance.
“Oh, Misty, stop, okay? I’m nothing like the heroine Maureen DuPree, and Saint’s not the count.” I snort. “Far from it. Let’s get back to reality now.”
There’s no way Saint would change his wily ways. And I certainly don’t think I’m the woman who could convince him to settle down. Why not you? The words he said to me on the rooftop float back to me as I stifle a yawn. Then hammering starts up above us.
“What is that?” Misty scrunches her face looking up at the ceiling.
“The condo above me must be getting gutted and completely redone. It’s been noisy nonstop all week.
The workers start at five in the morning, waking me up.
They don’t finish until late at night, a few breaks in between.
I’ve lost sleep. Lucky for me I use the thickest concealer on the market under my eyes. ”
“Your walls and floors here must be razor-thin. Have you complained to the association?”
“I have, demanding they work only during working hours and not on the weekends. No word back yet.”
She shakes her head and stands and puts the strap of the camera with a nice lens around her neck. At least she’s distracted enough now that should be the end of this nonsense about me saving Saint.
“Well, I can’t thank you enough for being willing to be photographed for my new website. Now, let me see. What would make the perfect backdrop?” She peers about while I fuss with myself in the mirror one last time.
The sheer white lace of the dress skims my full-figured body, neck to thigh, cascading in an asymmetrical hem down below my knee.
A white satin mini dress under the lace—and a very constricting bodysuit that is supposed to make twenty-five pounds vanish instantaneously—cover my ample assets.
Leaves little to the imagination, though.
With my curves, I typically shy away from something so revealing.
The feathered wings are a little heavy on my back, but so realistic. This mask is perfection. White lace dotted with tiny crystals covers most my face, leaving my eyes and my red lips in view. I’m a walking Victoria’s lingerie angel model if they made angel stuff for plus size women like me.
I feel like I’m not me, but a glamorous other version of me.
Can I pull this off? I’ve worked hard all year, starting with the high of achieving the coveted head screenwriter spot at the studio at last, and culminating in seeing my first solely-written script made into a new holiday movie, A Little Luck at Christmas, premiering the week of Thanksgiving. I deserve to hold my head high.
“Look at you,” Misty gasps, snapping a few photos of me there. I smile, determined from this point on, not to ruin this night. “As Saint’s date-only-as-a-friend, I don’t think he’ll notice any other woman in the room.”
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
She takes my hand and leads me out onto the balcony where the sun is setting. The soft purples and oranges of the dimming sky are the perfect backdrop to my costume. She snaps away.
“You’re more than an angel, Anastasia, but a temptress. The camera loves you,” she says.
Temptress? That’s something I haven’t been called before, what with my thick thighs and backside?
But I like it, and it fills me with insane confidence, enough to keep posing for several more until my cheeks ache from smiling and giggling with her so much.
This is exactly the break from my real life I need.
Back inside, Misty and I scan through the photos on her laptop as they load from the camera. She sends me a few of our favorites to share on my social media for fun.
“These photos are perfect for my website. I cannot thank you enough. Anyway, the costume is gorgeous. You’re all set here, and I’m off to meet Storm and Nana. We’re taking her out to eat at a fancy seafood restaurant over in Malibu.” She packs her camera bag and computer.
“Ooh-la-la, must be nice dating a rich professional hockey player,” I tease her, but I couldn’t be more happy for her.
“If only you lived in Denver, I’d introduce you to some of the single guys on the Aspens team.”
“Unless California falls into the ocean after an earthquake someday and Hollywood relocates to Denver, I don’t see myself moving there any time soon, but thanks. Anyway, tell Nana I can’t wait to take her with me to the movie premiere.”
My studio hosts a red-carpet private showing event for each new movie. A Little Luck at Christmas will forever be special to me as my first solo script, some of it inspired by old movies Misty and I would watch with Nana now and then.
To see my words and vision come to life at the studio all year, from the actors on set to the editing and production, it has been a special treat.
I even played a cameo role in one scene as a barista handing the stars of the show their coffees.
To have Nana with me attending the big premiere night will be so special.
“I wish I could go with you to the premiere, but since it’s on Storm’s birthday…”
“I get it. You’ve traded me in for the love of your life.” I joke and bump her with my hip.
“Of course, if you and Saint would get together we could have all kinds of double dates.” Her brows wiggle up and down.
“Oh, Misty, hush about that. Come here.” We hug again, close like sisters. “I know we’ll see each other tomorrow night for Storm’s game, but I miss you already.”
“Me, too.” We part, both of us dabbing our eyes. “And I’m sorry if I pressed too hard about Saint. Now that I’ve found Storm, I just want you to find your forever-man, too. It seems like every time we get together, you’re the um…”
“The lovable side character who never finds love but is always there for the heroine? Thanks for reminding me.” I smirk, but then chuckle. “It is what it is. I’m not compromising on quality. Someday I’ll find the guy that deserves me. He’s just playing hard to get.”
After she leaves, I still have a little time until the car arrives that Saint is sending to pick me up.
My thoughts wander, thinking over the news about him with someone in his past. The photos of the woman and the baby.
What happened to them? Are they the cause of the undercurrent of sadness I think his cocky disposition constantly tries to overcompensate for?
Suddenly, I race for my laptop and type in some notes in my idea file as the hammering and noise continues overhead. As a writer I find inspiration everywhere, and questions surrounding Saint’s life feeds my imagination like crazy.
“Maybe Saint is a muse?” That’s all he would ever be for me. No sense getting my hopes up about our time together at the event tonight.