A Touch of Heaven (6 page)

Time doesn’t pass the way it normally would. Breaths take an hour to draw in. The circle of his finger around my clit seems to last a day. When I have an orgasm, the pleasure builds over what seems like a millennium, intensity spiraling and soaring as do we, swooping and rolling as if we were diving through waves of bliss.

“I love you,” I sob as all goes soft and dark.

Just as we’re extinguished, Patrick answers, “I love you too.”

I wake a while later to gilded twilight, the dying sun creating a skyscape that echoes my dream. If that’s what it was.

My body feels heavy, replete with pleasure. As if I really did swoop and fly with Patrick, turning and barrel-rolling into ecstasy. It’s hard to sit up, as if I’m pinned to the mattress by complete relaxation, but I manage to haul myself up, gritting my teeth at a few little twinges as I straighten.

We’re supposed to be having a talk. Did I say I’d go over and see him, or did he say he’d come here? I can’t remember. I only know I want to see him. I want to
know
. I want to hear whatever he has to say. Although after that strange dream, I’m not sure what I believe.

Yesterday, I could swear I saw wings. And just now, I can almost imagine I felt them too.

But they’re not there now, even though Patrick is.

What on earth is he doing? He’s on his knees, beneath the tree in the garden next door, head bowed. Crikey, is he
praying
?

Suspicion and cynicism flare, even though I’m disappointed in myself for it. But still, I wonder if he knows I’m here, and the penitent posture is an act.

He looks hazy and indistinct in the golden evening light, his hair gleaming where the last rays of the sinking sun dapple upon his bowed head through the gaps between the leaves and the branches.

You’re a strange man, Patrick. A very strange man indeed. That is if you are a man at all.

As if he’s heard my thought, he looks up. He doesn’t smile, but gives me a strange, complex look. Then he closes his eyes, nods and makes a little pass with his hand as if he’s crossing himself. A heartbeat later, he’s on his feet, brushing the dust from the knees of his trousers and then tugging his waistcoat back into place.

As he walks in my direction, skipping over the little hedge, I imagine how his naked body looks, and how it felt in my dream.

He can’t be an angel. I don’t think they even exist. And even if they do, why would one be prancing around my next door neighbor’s house and garden, apparently with nothing to do but chat up middle-aged women and romance them and make free with them?

That’s not what angels do, is it?

He swoops up the wrought iron stairs as if wing-assisted, and when I make as if to stand up, he sinks gracefully down onto the mattress with me. But down at the bottom, keeping a safe distance of propriety between us.

“I still don’t quite believe you are what you say you are.” No use beating about the bush, eh? “I’m not a religious person. Although I sort of believe in some greater power for good. Angels have always been a metaphorical concept for me, not an actual…um…thing.”

He’s sitting cross-legged, and he props his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingertips. “Well, yes, I get that. It’s a perfectly reasonable belief system.” He shrugs and quirks his plush, gorgeous mouth in a way that’s far from innocently pure. Well, at least that’s the way it looks to me. “But by the same token, I can’t deny the truth of what I am.”

“But how on earth can you be here? I mean, shouldn’t you be up there…um…glorifying or something?” I’m talking about the incomprehensible, the unbelievable, matters of faith. And I don’t think I’m really qualified to do so. “What are you doing just hanging about here, sunbathing and eating junk food and reading romantic novels?” Not to mention giving pleasure to needy, sex-starved divorcees?

“Well, we get sent on missions, to perform tasks, to deliver messages, and because some of us quite like it here, we get a chance to stay a little while and hang out.”

Angels just hang out? How very bizarre.

“Right. Yes. Okay. I sort of buy that, even though it still seems totally out there.” I stare at him, entranced by his winsome little smile, this angel on holiday. “Er, are there usually many of you around down here? Hanging out?”

He waggles his brows at me. “Oh, about a pinhead’s worth, at any one time, give or take.”

We both laugh, despite the fact that I feel sort of woozy, as if I’ve wandered into
The Twilight Zone
.

“And is it very different here? I mean, to the other place?” I can’t bring myself to say the word Heaven.

He looks more sober all of a sudden. “More different than you can possibly understand. In fact, while I’m in human form, I find it quite difficult to comprehend it myself.”

“I don’t understand, you
are
still an angel, aren’t you? I saw wings.”

“Yes and no.” He frowns very hard. As if he is trying to understand and describe the unknowable. “To be here I have to take a temporary human form. When I’m there—” he looks up, but somehow I don’t quite think that’s where he means “—I’m a different kind of being entirely, existing in a different state.”

My head’s starting to ache. “But what are the wings? They looked like wings would look…down here. There must be some similarity.”

“They’re a metaphorical representation of something beyond your imagination.” He shrugs again. “Like I said, something the human mind has no conception of.”

I struggle and struggle, despite this, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. I always have been a stubborn cuss. And I when I fail, I start to shake, feeling scared and filled with wonder in equal parts.

This is so big.

In a move so fast that it too may be incomprehensible, Patrick is close to me, holding me against his warm and very human-feeling chest. It dawns on me that my shaking must have been visible. Just like the pallor in my face. I’m in shock.

“Don’t be afraid,” he croons. “I won’t hurt you. I’ll never let anything hurt you.”

And in that moment, I believe him and wind my arms around him.

“I could do with a drink. I had a couple of glasses at lunchtime, and I don’t normally do that. But if ever there was a special circumstance, this is it.”

“Do you want me to fetch you something?” He strokes my hair lightly, the soothing action making me feel better by the moment.

“No, it’s all right.” I edge away, looking into his blue eyes. “I’ll get it. Better still, let’s go inside and have a drink across the kitchen table. I always feel more sensible and in control when I’m in my kitchen”

“Good idea.”

Together we make our way through my bedroom and along the landing and down the steps. Patrick leads, unerringly locating the kitchen.

“I suppose you know everything, that is, including the exact layout of my house?”

Patrick smiles as he draws out my chair then grabs two glasses from the drainer and the already opened bottle of red wine. “No, I don’t know everything. Only my Boss knows everything. We angels just have very sure instincts. Coupled with which, the layout of the Johnsons’s house is exactly like yours.”

We laugh again. How prosaic is that? I’m attributing him divine powers that he doesn’t actually have. Although I’m trying not to think about that other unknowable concept, the one he calls the Boss.

The wine is rich and warming, an easy-drinking California blend, full of fruit. It hits the spot and I start to feel calmer, as if everything that’s happened, and that I’ve learned in the last few days, isn’t quite so preposterous.

“So how did you end up here?”

Sitting across from me, Patrick sips his wine with obvious enjoyment, and I wonder what he drinks wherever it is he usually hangs out. No, silly, he probably doesn’t drink at all.

“I had a little job in the neighborhood, talking to someone who needed a bit of reassurance.” His long fingers play over the stem of the glass. “He won’t remember my visit, but he won’t be so scared now.”

Ah, Mr. Grey at Number 24. He’s very, very old, and he’s just had a heart scare. I don’t know him very well. His family mostly takes care of him very nicely. But I once helped him tune his television when he called out to me when I was passing.

How wonderful that an angel helped him out in a time of need too.

“How long can you stay?”

Suddenly, I feel very, very afraid. I’m scared of his answer. It dawns on me that no matter how foolish it is, after just a few days, I’ve fallen hard for him. I don’t want him to go. I want more time. I want more of him. I want it all.

This new revelation makes me shake again, and I swig down more wine, only just avoiding a major coughing fit. My eyes water a bit, but when they clear, Patrick’s by my side, stroking my back.

“Better?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Do sit down. I’m all right.” Tension makes me tetchy. I don’t want to know, but I have to have an answer. “When do you have to go?”

Patrick pulls up a chair at my side of the table and sits in it, facing me. Our knees touch and just the slight contact of it makes me weak with lust. It seems my libido isn’t subject to the slings and arrows of stress and angst and bizarre revelations. It just goes on and on wanting and wanting.

“I should be gone now. I’ve already overstayed my allotted time for this visit.” He reaches for his glass but doesn’t drink. Instead, he pushes it around, sloshing the wine in precarious circles. “But I don’t want to go.”

Because of me, he’s stayed because of me? I don’t dare ask. I start to fidget with my wine glass too.

“We’re allowed a bit of latitude, but not as much as I’ve been wont to take. And this time I’ve stayed even longer than usual.”

“I see.” My heart’s thudding and my brain’s starting to tick, tick, tick, balancing and measuring ramifications. I’m trying to stay in control, even though there’s a banshee inside me ready to scream her loss.

I’ve only known Patrick a couple of days, but I cannot bear to say goodbye. I love him already, and even for someone with a risky habit of falling in love quickly, this is a record.

Does he love me?

He said so in my dream, but that might just have been my wishful thinking speaking. That sensual flight we shared was purest fantasy. Or was it? All this talk of states beyond comprehension makes me wonder.

Fear of the pain of loss forces me to practicalities.

“When will you come back?” I take a quick sip of wine, more carefully this time. “I mean, can you come back? Here, I mean, to this, um, vicinity?”

He closes his eyes, and his face is suddenly a taut mask. I see an intimation of the banshee, the formless shrieking anguish hidden beneath the handsome human features, and I know that the answer isn’t going to be a good one.

“Yes, I can come back.” He’s hesitant, as if the words are hard.

“Ah, but there’s a but, isn’t there?” From the expression on his face, I suspect it’s a big one.

“Where I come from time doesn’t pass the way it does here. I might come back in a week, but it could just as easily be a decade. Or a century. Or a millennium. There’s no way to know in advance.”

The shrieking anguish starts to stir and roil and get a real grip on me.

“But surely, you can be sent to specific times, like to comfort Mr. Grey?”

Patrick heaves a great sigh. “But I can’t be sent back for my own purposes.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “And I can’t be sent for yours either” He moves his thumb again, the action sweet and seductive and soothing as it skims the pulse point at my wrist. “The mind of my Boss is unknowable. It’s not for the likes of us to understand or question his choices.”

Anger surges inside of me, but Patrick’s grip on my hand tightens. “Don’t. It won’t help. It can’t.”

Concepts way beyond me whirl in my head, dancing and circling with more human emotions like loss, anguish…and love.

“So that’s it then.” I clench my teeth, fighting the urge to rage and, yes, to blaspheme. “It’s been nice, but now it’s over.”

Taking a deep breath, I try to stay calm and fix on Patrick’s face. He’s here now, perhaps for a few hours yet. There’s time, time to be with him in the deepest, closest way. I imagine that perfect body poised over mine, that beautiful cock pushing into me.

He gives me a wry, poignant, painful, beautiful smile.

“In a way, that might be the answer.”

I know he’s read my mind, but I can’t read his. “What do you mean?”

“As an angel, I am, by definition, celibate, beyond sex.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it softly. “But if I fuck you while I’m in human form, well, that might mean I’ll be cast out.” He turns his face, rubs it against the skin of my palm. “The trouble is though, I’m not quite sure to where.”

No, surely not? Does
that
place exist too? I think of evil and the Devil and Lucifer, another angel who was cast out of Heaven.

“Oh God, you can’t take that risk for me.”

I think about what I’ve just said, the actual words, and suddenly hysterical and inappropriate mirth bubbles up in me. It’s Patrick who’d be taking the risk, not his Boss.

As Patrick’s head pops up, I seem the same emotions in him, and first his lips twitch, then he starts smirking too, and within moments we’re both laughing uncontrollably. He wraps his arms around me as we rock and gasp and chortle, and in a way it’s almost as intimate an experience as if we really were fucking each other.

Eventually the gales of hilarity subside, and the knifepoint anguish of our dilemma reasserts itself. Patrick pours us both more wine and we sip it, swathed for the moment in thoughtful silence.

“But won’t he damn you forever just for
wanting
to fuck me? Even thinking about it, aren’t you putting yourself, and me, before
his
wishes?”

Patrick’s always seemed as if he knows so much more than me, but right now, his confusion and his doubt echoes mine, clear in his eyes.

“It doesn’t work like that. Unknowable, remember? He’s beyond comprehension, even by members of His heavenly host.” He laughs again, but more ironically now. “I don’t know why I’m calling Him a He… He’s beyond that too.”

I shrug. “Well, for want of a non-gender pronoun, I guess.”