Heaven Sent (19 page)

I let loose with a burst of laughter as I remembered. “We both wanted to be Blossom because she was the smart one.”

Smart girls rule.

The wave of nostalgia did nothing to hide my concern over the coincidence.

“Have you seen her?” Mrs. Chambers suddenly asked. There was a plea buried beneath the words that told me if I was looking for Erin, I’d come to the wrong place.

“Erin? Umm… no. I haven’t seen her for a while. That’s why I stopped by.”

“Did you know she was getting married?”

“Umm. I heard, but—”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know. Have you tried talking to her?”

“That’s your job! You’re her best friend!” Her eyes had turned dark and accusatory. Her lips curled into a sneer.

I took a giant step backwards, my foot banging into an old cardboard box. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t mean that.” She got up and resumed her search, aimlessly throwing things around. “I haven’t seen Erin in two weeks. I don’t know how to reach her.” A box of old knick knacks went spilling onto the floor. She didn’t stop to pick them up.

“She’s sixteen. She can’t get married without your permission,” I said, hoping to ease her worry.

She looked at me with a forced smile. “You’re right.” I could tell she didn’t believe it. Neither did I. Erin was getting married whether she had parents’ permission or not. “You better go. I want to find this thing before her father gets home.”

“Umm, yeah. Right.”

As I moved away, the sound of things being thrown around in frustration scorched my ears. She was searching for that for the old dream house as if finding it would make all the troubles go away. I knew how bad I was feeling. Erin was her daughter, her baby. She had to be feeling a hundred times worse. I wondered what she’d do when she found the dream house and discovered her troubles were still piled up on her doorstep. It was then I thought about the invitation Monsieur Perez had handed me an hour earlier, and sighed resignedly.

Looks like I’m going to need a new outfit.

It didn’t matter whether there was a demon inside Erin or not; it was clear to me I had to attend the wedding. Going to the wedding was my only hope of reaching her. I had to warn her about the horrible fate Danny and the Satanists had planned, or at least try.

My first hurdle was the guest list. I was certain I wasn’t on it. I figured there wouldn’t be anyone guarding the door. It was a wedding, after all, not a velvet rope event. But what would I do once I was on the inside and people recognized me? What if Danny’s crew were there? Surely they’d recognize me.

It was just after nine when I got home. As I came up the walk to my house, I could see light burning in the living room window. I entered and found Suze at home alone without Tony for a change. She was curled up on the sofa, Amanda on her lap, watching TV.

“How was work?” she called.

Angel Eyes
, I thought. I don’t know how the idea came to me. I recalled when Harrison had used the glamour ability on Suze; she let him, a stranger, into my bedroom, no questions asked, and didn’t remember a thing afterwards.

“Work was fine. I stopped off after,” I replied.

My power had come from Satan and not the angels, but if I did possess some kind of glamour, I figured if Mert or Danny recognized me at the party, I’d just zap it from their memories.

“I’m watching one of our favorites,” Suze said as I entered the room. There was half a wine glass of Chablis on the coffee table. “
Sense And Sensibility
. And it just started. Why don’t you pop some popcorn, grab a box of Kleenex and join me?” She picked up the remote, pausing the DVR.

I moved closer and sat on the edge of the sofa. I looked deep into her eyes. Now was as good a time as any to find out if I possessed the glamour ability. “You don’t want me to join you. You want to watch the movie by yourself,” I said, trying to match the tone Harrison had used on her several weeks ago when he had used Angel Eyes on her.

I looked deeper into her eyes.
You do not want me to watch the movie with you … you do not want me to watch the movie with you… you do not want me to watch the movie with you
… She stared back, a blank expression clouding her eyes, like a shade gone down.

It’s working.

“Why are you sounding like that?” she asked, screwing up her face.

“Umm. Like what?”
Okay, maybe it’s not working.

“Like you’re Bela Lugosi in an old Dracula movie. And what’s with that face?”

“Face? What face?” I replied in a withering tone.

She gave what I’m sure was a poor example of how I was looking into her eyes. “Megan look, I understand if you have other plans—”

“I don’t have other plans, Mom,” I said, my voice filling with annoyance and defeat.

“Then what was that all about?”

What was it about? I thought I had Angel Eyes, but now you’ve made it abundantly clear that I don’t.

“It was a joke, Mom. Okay? I made a joke.” My annoyance was overtaking my defeat.

“I don’t get it.”

I scooped Amanda from her arms and headed for the kitchen. “You want butter on it or don’t you?” I snapped, trying to cover my embarrassment.

“Yes, please,” she called back. “You can explain the joke to me later.”

Right.

Okay, so I don’t possess Angel Eyes or some form of glamour. Now I know.

We settled in to watch the rest of the film and the popcorn was buttery and delicious. Midway through, just at the part where Willoughby breaks Marianne’s heart by returning all of her letters and love tokens, something came to me. I was admiring all the beautiful costumes of the period, wondering what I would do if Guy turned out to be a dastardly Willoughby and broke my heart, when a single word drifted into my thoughts.
Disguise.

I shifted to the edge of my seat, skin tingling, my mind no longer on the Dashwood sisters. With that one word slipping into my thoughts, I had been transported from eighteenth Century England and onto a plan for devising the perfect disguise for my entry into Erin’s wedding party. Reason 1001 why you’ve gotta love
Sense And Sensibility
.

*

The following week passed quickly. Most days I worked mornings at Insomniacs’, freeing up my afternoons to hunt for the items I would use to transform myself. On Monday afternoon, I went shopping at the Western Barn where I lucked into a used short black leather jacket with fringe on the sleeves. As an added bonus, the lapels were studded. It was really cute and perfect for a cowboy biker wedding.

It cost a hundred and sixty-nine dollars. My first week’s paycheck would be long gone by the time I was done shopping, but I was doing it for Erin. I didn’t mind. In fact, it felt good spending the money. It helped erase the guilt I’d had for sending her off the deep end in the first place.

On Tuesday, I went wig shopping and found a cheap black wig with bangs, cheap being the operative word. It was really snug when I tried it on, but it was the only one they had, and I loved the look. A pageboy style. As I glanced in the mirror, I was reminded of Uma Thurman in
Pulp Fiction
. Her wig had transformed her look in the movie, and I was counting on mine doing the same for me. I could deal with it pinching my scalp for a few hours if the disguise worked.

Thursday, after my shift at the café, Guy came to pick me up. He had been distant and surly all week. He hated the idea of the disguise, but then again, he hated the idea of me going to the wedding in the first place, so of course he hated my disguise. On Thursday, however, the gloomy Gus who I’d seen all week was gone, replaced by his old, charming self.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. He was leaning against his motorcycle parked in front of the café. His arms, folded casually across his chest, seemed more muscular, his face more chiseled than I remembered. His dark eyes softened with apology when he looked at me. He was smiling his smile, but today it was sheepish rather than arrogant.

“Yes, you do owe me an apology,” I replied, pecking him lightly on the cheek. I wasn’t going to cave in that easily.

“I don’t know what got into me… Yes, I do. I love you. But that’s no excuse for my horrible behavior.”

I didn’t respond because he was right. His love for me was no excuse for the way he’d been acting.

“Let me make it up to you.”

“How?” The response leapt from my lips. I was disappointed in myself for sounding so eager.

“A surprise.” He turned up the light in his eyes and the sparkle in his smile.

“What kind of a surprise?” I said with a hint of skepticism. His smile broadened. “I know, if you told me it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

“Megan, in case you haven’t realized it, I’m trying to make up to you.”

“I know you are. And I’m sorry I’m being so hard on you, but you deserve it.”

“I know I do. So… are you coming with me, or will you leave me hanging and embarrass me in front of all your coworkers?”

I turned and looked through the plate glass window of the café. The afternoon shift was pretending not to stare at us.

“Yes, yes, take me away from here,” I said, starting to smile, “before I’m the source of gossip all next week.”

“As you wish.”

The old, arrogant smile was back as he handed me my helmet. I strapped it on and we climbed onto the bike.

“I can’t believe you’re worried about being embarrassed. Some angel you are,” I said in a teasing tone.

He laughed high and loud. “I’m taking that as a compliment,” he replied before revving the bike and taking off down the street.

I knew better than to ask where we were headed. I was surprised when, after a short drive, we pulled onto a street of high-end shops. I knew the street well. Several of Suze’s favorite antique shops were in the neighborhood.

“Where are we going?” I finally asked.

“There,” he said, pointing across from where we had parked. The Rose Cottage Café was nestled between an old-fashioned milner’s shop and an antique store. I’d never seen it before, but it was the kind of place my mother and I would have visited in a heartbeat.

“I love it,” I said, my eyes shining with delight.

“Good. Let’s go inside and have some tea and a nice chat.”

As we crossed the street, all the defenses I’d been clinging to fell away. How could I not be happy? I had a boyfriend who was grown up enough to actually apologize. And not just apologize, but to bring me to a lovely place like the Rose Cottage Café to make his apology.

We entered and my smile widened. The entire interior of the café was furnished with old wooden furniture and interesting antiques. A rosy-cheeked hostess led us to a tiny round table in a quiet corner with mix-matched cherry wood chairs.

We passed a large mahogany chest on the way. It was the focal point of the room, featuring a beautiful porcelain tea service, laid out as if the queen might show up at any moment for high tea. The two high shelves of the chest were festooned with a wide variety of international teas. Aside from the chest, there were shelves and cubbies crammed with antique books and tea kettles and even a vintage flexible flyer sled.

“This place is wonderful,” I said as the hostess took off to find our waitress. “I can’t believe you found it.”

“What? I’m beginning to feel insulted.”

I smiled. “What I meant was, you’re a guy, Guy. This isn’t the typical kind of place a young guy like you would find to bring a girl.”

“Oh? And what is?”

“Hooters,” I said, and we both erupted in laughter.

“Don’t laugh. It was my second choice,” he chimed, his eyes sparkling.

I ordered a Ceylon, and Guy ordered English breakfast. “And four of those chocolate biscotti,” he told the waitress.

“Four?” I asked.

“I’ve heard chocolate is the best route to a girl’s heart.” He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head in that sexy way only he knew how to do.

He was wrong. His words were the best route, and with them my heart surrendered. He knew me so well. He knew exactly what it took to cheer me up and coax me out of a snippy mood.

As I sipped my tea, I noticed Guy hadn’t touched his. I caught him staring at me with pensive eyes.

“I’m not good at apologizing. It’s especially difficult when I know that I was acting like a jerk only because I care so much.” He picked up a biscotti and stirred his tea with it.

“I know,” I said. I could feel the emotion coming off him like heat from a blast furnace.

“Monsieur Perez doesn’t care about you. You are a means to an end for him. But for me, you are everything.” His eyes were smoldering as they looked deeply into mine.

“I know,” I said again, but this time the words got lodged in my throat and came out a hoarse whisper.

“I am very, very sorry for my behavior,” he said, and bit into the boscotti, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Apology accepted,” I mouthed, because in that moment, words were lost to me.

“I want to read you something,” he said after a while. “It’s a poem,” he added with a nervous smile.

“You wrote a poem for me?”

“No, no. I found a poem. The writing credit goes to Wallis A. Smith. But she must have been thinking of you when she wrote it because it’s the perfect poem.”

I was trying not to smile, but how could I not? My boyfriend was reading poetry to me.
Poetry.
It is every girl’s dream that her boyfriend will read her the perfect poem before she dies. I hadn’t yet turned sixteen and my dream was about to come true.

He cleared his throat as if he were about to give an important speech. “It’s called
I Wanted To Write A Love Song.
” He looked down at the paper and began to read:

I wanted to write a love song

I wanted to write that when I gaze into your eyes

I get so overcome with emotion I want to dive in for a swim

and bathe in the wondrous liquid of you

but that would be corny.

I wanted to write how when you rest your head on my shoulder

the tart fragrance of perspiration on your hair

gets me so intoxicated I can’t think

but that would be gross.

He looked up to make sure I was listening. I was. I found the words of the poem so captivating, and his reading so filled with emotion, that I was literally dizzy with delight.