Guardian
Authors: Valerie King
Guardian
Valerie King
Copyright © 2012, Valerie King
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.
This is a work for fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Knowing
Induction
Namesake
Passion
Introduction
Encounter
Plea
Praise
Secrets
Summon
Convene
Warning
Departure
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my three angels, and two families who stepped into my imaginary world willingly…
And for A.C.R. You are a bright and beautiful light in a dark and mysterious land. An inspiration for an angel found within the pages of this magical tale; a blessing worth waiting for.
Chapter One
Knowing
June 13
th
, 2001
“Macy, would you like to help me bake cherry tarts?”
I looked up at my mother and smiled. “Sure, Mommy, I would love to help. Will you let me come to dinner tonight, too?”
Mom’s iridescent blue eyes smiled back at me as she shook her head. “Macy, honey, you know that tonight’s dinner party is only for grown-ups.”
I pouted my lip as best I could before answering her. “I’m seven years old…seven and a half, actually. I’m more grown-up than Lily Myers across the hall. She’s eight years old and still plays with dolls. I find dolls sooo boring,” I howled.
Mom placed an unopened bag of flour and sugar on the counter without answering.
Perhaps pleading my case would sway her decision. “I could wear my new yellow dress that Daddy bought me last month in Paris. I promise to mind my manners and help with the dishes. Please, please, please, Mommy?”
I laid my pink crayon down on the table beside my half-drawn fairy, whose eyes were too large and whose hair was too yellow. I was absolutely terrible at drawing, but living in an apartment in New York City left little to do outside and a lot of imagination and activities to invent indoors. Pieces of my artwork covered every square inch of our refrigerator. Nearly every single piece portrayed the beauty of a fairy, a princess…or an angel.
“I’m sorry, honey, but you just can’t tonight. I agree, you are a very grown-up little girl, but this is a very special dinner for Daddy. It will just be a bunch of adults talking business. You wouldn’t have much fun anyway.”
Mom walked over to the kitchen table and sat down next to me. My eyes fell from hers as I summoned up a tear, allowing it to trickle down my pink cheek. It seemed like my parents had an awful lot of dinner parties. Parties that drew crowds of curious individuals dressed in extravagant clothing and dripping with jewels of enormous size. I didn’t really understand exactly what my father did for a living, but based on the people who swirled around us, it must be an incredibly important job…with a load of wealth.
The few times I had asked my father what he did for a living, he would rustle my hair, tilt my chin up, and reply, “What every other daddy does…takes care of his children and loves their mother.” The conversation normally ended with a tickle fight, or my father sweeping me off my feet and throwing me over his shoulder, spinning in circles until my stomach hurt from deep belly laughs.
Mom’s words broke through my daydream. “Tell you what, you help me with the tarts, and then I’ll take you out for ice cream afterwards before the party. How does that sound?”
“Fine,” I replied, giving a sigh.
Mom kissed me on the cheek. “Now let’s get these cherry tarts started. I’ll even let you lick the bowl when we’re done.” Mom stood up, pushing her chair in and strolling over to the granite kitchen counter. She carefully placed measuring cups, spoons, spatulas and other utensils on top of its surface.
I watched intently as she stood on her brown step stool, pulling down a large, brown recipe book from the cabinet over the oven. It was stuffed full of unorganized recipes; recipes that she had found in the newspaper, magazines or even jotted down on pieces of torn, yellowed notebook paper.
“Here it is! Grandma Morgan’s recipe for cherry tarts.”
I watched as my mother bit her bottom lip, running her hand over the stained, frayed, yellow recipe card. She always got a little choked up when Grandma Morgan was mentioned, or a picture of her fell from the photo box we often reminisced through.
Grandma Morgan was my mother’s mom. She had passed away several years before I was born. The smiling pictures of her standing in front of her tiny bakery in downtown Philadelphia in the early 1960s portrayed a picture of passion and love. She looked a lot like my mother. There always seemed to be a spark in her eyes and a smile on her face. It was obvious where my mother had gotten her love of cooking from, as well as her astounding natural beauty.
Taking a deep breath, I watched as my mother smoothed out her apron and held a smaller apron out to me to put on. I stood up from the table, walking over to her, and stuck my head through its opening. I pulled my long brown hair out from underneath it as Mom tied a bow around my waist.
“Okay, Macy, grab the stool in front of the oven, and let’s get to work. I’ll measure the ingredients, and you stir the bowl. Sound okay, sweet little helper?” She pinched my cheeks and kissed the tip of my nose, making me giggle out loud.
“Sounds good, Mommy,” I replied, grabbing the wooden spoon on the counter and holding it with anticipation.
Mom carefully measured each individual ingredient for the tarts. First the flour, then the sugar…I watched her as she buzzed around the kitchen, searching through cabinets for bottles of various spices and pulling ingredients from canisters on the kitchen counter.
I stirred the filling in a large, blue-enamel mixing bowl with my wooden spoon, trying not to allow any of the contents to sneak over the edge. The more grown-up I was at mastering a recipe, perhaps the more likely I would be able to be a part of a dinner party with my parents.
While my mother was busy rolling the dough for the tart crusts, I snuck a taste of the delicious cherry filling. Something was missing, though. I could taste the cloves and sweet, sugary cherries, but the filling was lacking an important ingredient. I placed my hand on top of the yellow recipe card on the counter. Without reading a single ingredient, I knew instantly what was missing. Ground cinnamon. My mind was great at telling me things.
“Mommy, you forgot to put the cinnamon in the cherry filling,” I said aloud.
“No, I didn’t, honey, I put the cinnamon in along with the cloves.” She turned to smile at me, placing her hands on her hips, then spun around to finish rolling the dough. “No sneaking tastes, Macy, or no licking the bowl when we’re finished,” she said without removing her eyes from the rolling pin.
I disagreed with her, but decided not to push the issue of the missing cinnamon. I shrugged my shoulders and continued stirring in a clockwise motion.
“Let’s get these tart shells filled.”
I let go of my spoon and stepped down from my stool. Mom filled each one precisely, the sweet liquid bubbling up to the rim of each shell. Mom placed the tarts on a baking sheet before slipping them in our tiny oven.
“Okay, sweetie, now you can lick the bowl.”
A grin spread across my face as I licked my lips. I spent the next five minutes cleaning the bowl, careful not to leave a single remnant of the luscious filling. The sweet, saturated aroma from the cherry tarts baking filled every square inch of our home.
“Thank you for being such a great helper. How about a few gingersnaps and a glass of lemonade while we wait for the tarts to finish cooking?”
Jumping down from my stool, I skipped over to the kitchen table and sat down. “Yes, please!” I drummed my fingers on the dark surface of our antique table while I waited.
“Do I have to go to Ms. Lennox’s house tonight?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“We already talked about this, Macy. Yes, you have to stay with Ms. Lennox tonight. I’ll be over first thing in the morning to pick you up, okay?”
Ms. Lennox…she was a nice lady. A lonely widow who treated her Siamese cat, Meadow, like a child. I actually didn’t mind Ms. Lennox’s company. She had a shelf full of fairytales and a large collection of board games that we played together often. Her chocolate chip cookies were delicious, and when I spent the night with her, she always allowed me to stay up an hour past my regular bedtime as long as I didn’t tell my mother. I agreed to our little secret. Despite the fact that I liked spending time with her, I still wanted to stay with my mother and father for a dinner party. Just once. I was beginning to believe that I would never be able to convince them. And the older I got, the more curious I became.
The buzz of the timer pulled me from my thoughts, as Mom jumped from her chair and pulled the piping hot tarts out of the oven. I looked up from my half-eaten ginger snap cookie. Beautiful sparkles outlined my mother’s shape. They were tiny golden flecks resembling a silent snowfall. I cocked my head to the side and watched them float effortlessly. Everywhere she walked, they danced along with her.
I shut my eyes and rubbed them with my fingertips. I slowly peeked out of the corner of my right eye, the sparkles still present, but this time they were even brighter than before. The light had intensified, brighter than the sun’s rays, as the tiny specks of dazzling light spun faster. I cupped my hands around my eyes as I tried to keep them open; they stung wildly from the intense glow.
“Mom-my,” I slurred, my mind growing clouded, as I summoned her attention.
My mother spun around, sweat running down her brow from the excessive heat of the oven.
“Macy, honey!” she screamed aloud.
My mother dropped the tarts on the kitchen counter. One tart went rolling to the floor, leaving a bloodstained puddle where it fell. She flew to my side as I toppled off of my chair, my body limp.
At first I couldn’t see anything. Blackness engulfed my world as I let go. A faint light began to grow, slowly at first, and then spreading itself out into familiarity. I caught a glimpse of myself standing alone in our family room. Everything was neatly in its place. A gentle summer breeze swept through the open window; a simple classical lullaby played sweetly as I tiptoed lightly across the hardwood floor.
