A Cold Day In Hell

“You’re scaring me.”

“Do you believe I’ll look after you?”

What was he asking her to agree to? He knew nothing about Chuck or the problems he could present. Was Angel telling her he intended to be more than a friend? She was a fool. He was offering to take care of her and Aaron.

“Yes, Angel, I believe you will. It’s a good feeling. I never had that before, not that I’m such a slender-stemmed flower I have to be staked up all the time.”

“You can stake me up any time, my flower.” He laughed and the laugh was full of fun. “Let’s go.”

She had been inside the house before, a few months earlier when Aaron had first become fast friends with Sonny. At that time it resembled the set of a horror film with curtains of cobwebs festooned between sagging ceiling beams and rotting carpets on the floor. She remembered walking into a spider and feeling smug because she wasn’t afraid of it and had just brushed it aside.

Those months had made a huge difference. Gone were the old rugs and the cobwebs, the damp wallboard and broken windows. They walked to the right, through the large hall, passed a central staircase leading up to a gallery and went into what must have been the grand salon. From what she saw, the place had a long way to go but Angel had spent a lot of time, and money, on his pet project.

“What do you think?” Angel asked. He turned on the recessed lighting in the high ceilings. It shone softly down pale caramel walls. Refinished oak floors glowed. White canvas drops covered areas of the floor where decorating and building materials were stacked.

The only furniture in the room was an oversized circular ottoman, antique; its heavy pink brocade upholstery and fringe shabby and torn in places.

“It’s wonderful in here,” she said. “You’ve done so much. Congratulations.”

He smiled and looked as she’d never seen him look before, carefree and boyish. “Take a seat on the ottoman, my lady. Or, let me see—you could always sit on the ottoman. I decided to keep it because it seems to fit in.”

“Wait till it’s reupholstered,” she said. “It’ll be a knockout.”

“You think?” He frowned.

“I know. You’ve got great taste.”

“So have you, Eileen. I like you in red.”

She shrugged. “Thanks. It’s just an old sweat suit.”

He looked her over from head to toe—rapidly. Not rapidly enough for Eileen to miss the sexual appreciation in his narrowed eyes.

“I can’t put it off any longer,” he said. “I’ll have to show you the kitchen.”

Rubbing her hands together as if in anticipation, she caught up with him and followed through a long corridor framed with open studs, to the kitchen at the end. The lights were on and she could see a lot of umber color.

“Are you going to have a dining room?” she said.

“Sort of.”

“If it’s as far away from the kitchen as that salon is, you’ll never get a warm dish on the table.”

Angel didn’t respond. He bent to straighten some loose boards just in front of the kitchen door and stepped inside.

Eileen followed and hid a smile. “You’re enjoying this moment.” The kitchen was part of a great room with a huge, wooden-topped island delineating the two areas. Already Angel had an iron rack hung with pans immediately above the island, and a table and chairs stood in the as yet untouched—apart from newly sheet-rocked walls—dining and sitting room areas of the space.

In a corner, where an uncurtained window wrapped around, stood an undecorated Christmas tree.

Angel saw her looking at it and crossed the room to quickly push in a plug. A zillion tiny colored lights blossomed. “Voilà,” he said. “I haven’t got any ornaments for it, but I wanted Sonny to have a tree.”

From the way he looked at the lighted tree, Eileen decided Angel wanted it for himself, too.

“Now coffee,” Angel said. He returned to the kitchen and pulled forward a stainless steel coffeemaker on a stone-topped counter. The appliances were all stainless. The stove was gas, an Aga, and all business.

“Would you mind if I just had something cold?” Eileen said. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Sure. You want to go back to the other room?”

“I’ll sit at the table.”

The smell of fresh paint hung around and Eileen wrinkled her nose. She liked it, all clean and new. At the level of the high ceilings in the kitchen there were narrow plaster moldings of vegetables, fruit and loaves of bread in a lighter shade than the umber walls. She felt a twinge of envy. It would take time, but one day she’d be able to think about moving from the tiny house she’d shared with Chuck. At least with him gone, she and Aaron had enough space to spread out.

Chuck was a subject she wanted out of her mind.

Angel came around the island with a large glass of white wine in one hand and red in the other.

She smiled up at him. “I had water in mind.”

“Then you should have said so.” He put the white in front of her.

“I thought you were going to tell me to take my pick,” Eileen said.

“You prefer white.”

“Mmm.”

She sat at one end of the table. He pulled a chair close and dropped into it so that their legs touched under the table and their elbows touched on top. Eileen felt too aware of him but she wasn’t about to make a fool of herself by moving away.

“This is nice,” he said and sighed. He drank from his glass and watched as she sipped from hers. She passed the tip of her tongue over her upper lip, caught him following with rapt concentration and felt herself turn the color of the crimson sweat suit.

Eileen looked away. “Now you can tell me what you meant about feeling better because if someone shot at Aaron, they missed.”

“I could. Why spoil a nice moment?”

“For most men it takes a whole lot more than a drink at a kitchen table to…make…a nice…moment.” Careless chatter. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“I was afraid you didn’t. Sonny is with me under unusual circumstances. He is here because he’s had difficulties, but they weren’t anything to do with him getting into trouble.”

She frowned and moved the base of her glass back and forth. That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. “Could I taste the red?” she said, buying time.

Angel hesitated, then gave her his glass. She drank and made a face. “Cranberry juice. Ouch, that’s bitter after the wine.”

“The wine’s dry,” he said, sounding defensive.

“And you’re getting me drunk while you stay sober,” she said with mock annoyance.

“I have to drive,” he pointed out.