Kiss an Angel(90)

“I don’t nag.”

He slid his eyes over her body and gave her a lascivious look “That’s like saying you don’t—”

“Stop right there. If you say the f-word, you’ll be very sorry.”

“What word is that? Whisper it in my ear so I know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not whispering it in your ear.”

“Spell it.”

“I’m not spelling it.”

He teased her all the way to the lot, but he still couldn’t make her say it.



By early afternoon, the rain had turned into a deluge. Although the slicker Daisy’d borrowed from Alex kept the top part of her dry, by the time she’d finished checking on the menagerie and visited Tater, mud covered her jeans from her knees to her ankles, and her sneakers were so caked they felt like concrete weights.

That evening, before the first performance, all the performers came up to talk to her. Brady apologized for his rudeness the day before, and Jill invited her on a shopping trip later that week. The Toleas and Lipscombs made a point of congratulating her on her bravery, and the clowns gave her a paper flower bouquet.

Despite the foul weather, the publicity surrounding Sinjun’s escape had generated a decent audience, and the two o’clock matinee went well. Jack played the story of Daisy’s heroism to the hilt, but she spoiled the effect somewhat by yelping when Alex wrapped her wrists with the whip.

When the performance was over, she changed back into her muddy jeans in a makeshift dressing area set up for the performers by the back door so they wouldn’t get their costumes wet. Fastening her slicker around her, she ducked her head and plunged out into sheets of driving rain. Although it wasn’t even four o’clock, the temperature had dropped rapidly, and her teeth were chattering by the time she reached the trailer. She stripped out of her jeans, turned on a small space heater, and switched on all the lights because it was so dreary.

As the trailer warmed up and the soft light fell on her decorating treasures, the interior had never seemed cozier. She pulled on a fuzzy peach-colored sweat suit and some woolly socks, then set to work in the small kitchen. They usually ate before the last performance, and for the past few weeks she’d taken over most of the cooking, something she enjoyed as long as she didn’t have to follow a recipe.

She hummed as she sliced an onion along with several limp pieces of celery and began sautéing them in a small skillet, adding garlic and a touch of rosemary. She found a boxed mixture of wild and white rice but threw away the seasoning packet and added her own herbs. A portable radio sat on the counter, and she turned it to a classical station. Homey cooking smells filled the trailer, along with the lush strains of Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C-Sharp Minor. She made a salad, placed chicken breasts on top of the onion and celery mixture, and splashed in some white wine from a bottle they’d opened several days ago.

The insides of the windows began to steam, and condensation trickled along the panes. The rain drove against the metal shell, while the soft music and cozy cooking smells enclosed her in a warm cocoon. She set the table with her chipped blue willow china, earthenware mugs, mismatched crystal goblets, and an old honey jar containing some red clover she’d picked in the field yesterday before everything had happened. As she gazed around at what she’d done, she found herself thinking that none of the beautiful homes she’d lived in were as perfect as this battered little trailer.

The door swung open and Alex entered. Water streamed from his yellow slicker, and his hair was plastered to his head. She grabbed a towel as he closed the door and handed it to him. A clap of distant thunder rocked the trailer.

“It smells good in here.” He gazed around at the warmly lit interior, and she saw something that seemed like yearning in his expression. Had he ever had a home? Not when he was a child, certainly, but as an adult?

“Dinner’s nearly ready,” she said. “Why don’t you get changed.”

While he put on dry clothes, she filled each of their wine goblets halfway and tossed the salad. The music on the radio switched to Debussy. By the time he returned to the table in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, she’d ladled out the chicken and rice.

He waited until she was seated before he took his own chair, then he picked up his wine glass and raised it to her in a silent toast.

“I don’t know if the meal’s any good,” she said. “I just used what we had.”

He took a bite. “It tastes great.”

For a while they ate in companionable silence, lulled by the food, the music, and the snugness of the trailer in the rain. “I’m going to buy you a pepper mill when I get my next paycheck,” she said. “That way you’ll have something better to use than that awful stuff from a tin.”

“I don’t want you spending your money on a pepper mill for me.”

“But you like pepper.”

“That’s not the point. The point is—”

“If I was the one who liked pepper, would you buy me a nice pepper mill?”

“If you wanted one.”

She smiled.

He seemed puzzled. “Is that what you want me to do? Buy you a pepper mill?”

“Oh, no. I’m not much of a pepper fan.”

His mouth curved. “I’m ashamed to admit this, Daisy, but I’m actually starting to follow these convoluted conversations of yours.”