Raquel's Abel (13 page)

I had gotten quite a few outfits that would be appropriate for the picnic, but I especially wanted to wear a pair of the capris with a matching cotton top. I’d even gotten a matching sunhat and sandals.

At twelve-thirty, I walked past the pool, then past the rose garden that now was nothing but a brown patch of sticks protruding out of the ground. That was another thing I couldn’t afford to maintain. I had fond memories of walking with my mother through what used to be a maze of rose bushes. We had stopped to sniff the roses on each bush that were white, pink, deep red, and even some miniature yellow roses my mother especially loved. She carried a basket and shears, cutting enough each week so we’d have fresh flowers in our rooms and as a centerpiece for dinner. I had few memories of my mother after Regina was born. She must have been very busy with my sister, because after she was born, I was usually accompanied by nannies.

Next, I came to the old tennis courts. The old metal fence was rusted and dipped in places, causing the sides to bow out like the side of a ship. Daddy and my uncles used to play tennis here. The concrete had cracked in places and weeds grew waist high.

I’d never even attempted to play tennis, but in the future, why couldn’t I play? I stopped and stared at the court. Of course I could. I’d be able to play. After losing a few more pounds, I’d get a racket and take lessons.

I walked around the tennis courts to see a white blanket, a brown wicker picnic basket, and Abel nowhere in sight. I sat down and was about to peak into the picnic basket when out of the dark green hollies, I saw him coming toward me. On his head he wore a cap with a short brim, white shirt, and baggy pants. He looked like he’d just hopped out of a Model A. I stood, glad I could now come to my feet gracefully.

“You are ravishing,” he said as he approached me.

My heart beat a little too hard, and I could imagine that my complexion flushed.

He grasped my fingers and held them tight while moving his head toward me. Our foreheads met. He smelled of fresh leather. His lips brushed mine and a thrill darted through me. He kicked off his shoes and pulled me down on the blanket.

“I have put together a light lunch for my dieting sweetheart.”

He lifted the lid of the basket and brought out two cups, then a pitcher of something cold. I’d feel so bad if he’d made me lemonade. I couldn’t have any kind of citrus after the operation.

“Not to worry.” He winked at me. “I know about your restrictions.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and felt so honored he’d gone to the trouble to check what I could and couldn’t eat. He poured me a cup of ice-cold water.

“It’s perfect,” I said and took a sip.

“My mother always loved to have a tall glass of ice cold water.” He took a sip and closed his eyes. “It was a long time ago, but I can almost see her getting the frosty glass out of the icebox.”

“I lost my mother when I was young, too.”

“Yes, I remember your mother well.”

A chill ran through me. “What was my mother like?” I barely recalled her.

“Before you were born, your mother and father used to throw wild parties out here. It was the sixties and there would be people out here strumming guitars and girls with long skirts dancing and swaying as if angels guided them.”

“I can hardly imagine my father at a Hippie party.”

“Well, his hair was a tad longer.”

“And then I came along.”

“You were a lovely little girl.”

“All little girls are lovely.”

“No, you had something special from the day you were born.”

“I’m surprised you were never under Regina’s spell.” Growing up was difficult, being fat, and on top of that I had the most beautiful and popular girl in Richmond as my sister.

“Poor Regina, she was only happy if she had a slew of admirers. You, however, were always complete. Even when you were a tiny girl, you had an aura about you, a kind of crown.”

“Now you sound like my grandmother.”

“Princess Raquel.” He grinned and I saw his dimples again. He took his cap off and leaned back on the blanket. “Can I interest you in some sushi?”

“Sushi,” I repeated. That was one of the things I was allowed to eat. I had been so afraid he would have made sandwiches, and I was unable to eat bread.

He lifted two plates of sushi rolls out of the picnic basket. Soon, he’d filled up two tiny bowls with black sauce and had handed me chopsticks.

“How did you know I loved sushi?” I ripped the wooden sticks apart.

“It was a lucky guess. When your father was a child, I heard a lot about the war with Japan, but now everything Japanese is in vogue.”

“You’ve seen a lot of history.” I clasped the chopsticks around a sushi roll and dipped it into the sauce.

“After seeing a war first hand, I was content to only concentrate on the positive side of life.”

I enjoyed the sushi roll, making sure to chew it slowly and deliberately. My tiny stomach could only handle small amounts.

“I’ve been seeing you working on that fancy typewriter of yours.”

I laughed. “It’s called a computer.”

“That sounds very complicated.”

“It’s not so bad.” I took a sip of the lemonade. “I’m starting a book on Teddy Roosevelt.”

“Hmmph.” He grabbed another piece of sushi and stuck it into his mouth.

I decided not to ask how a ghost could eat. “He was brought up in a family that did a great deal of charity work.”

“I’d say it’s easier to do charity work than to be in need of charity.”

“I suppose living in an orphanage wasn’t the best way to grow up.” I felt guilty since I’d had everything I’d needed, except a mother.

“I can’t complain about the orphanage. I was treated just like all the other orphans.” He laid his chopsticks down. “While Teddy Roosevelt was conserving the land out West and building up our Navy, I was an orphan boy with no shoes on my feet.”

“He’s considered a hero for establishing so many of our national parks, and many say we won both world wars because of his foresight.”

“I suppose it’s hard to imagine our world if we had been unsuccessful in our European campaigns, but from what I see, every war starts out as a rich man’s issue that ends up being a poor man’s fight.”

“Are you trying to convince me not to write about Roosevelt?”

“No, no, it’s not that at all.” He hung his head and looked out at the line of pines across from us. “I was cut down in my prime and I was never allowed to live out my life nor try to accomplish what I’d dreamt about.”

How many boys had had their lives cut short by war? No one knew what they would have done if they had lived.

“I wanted to come back home, make a fortune, and build orphanages.” He pointed his eyes at mine. “Maybe you would have written a book about me.”

I looked down at the blanket, ashamed at how unjust the world can be.

“I’m so sorry. I’ve spent our precious time talking about politics and things that will never change.”

He moved next to me and took my fingers and gently crumpled them in his hands. He gazed into my eyes. “I miss you when you’re not with me.”

“Then don’t go.”

“I long for the day when I can hold my shape for more time.”

Then I realized. He had been with me today longer than he’d ever been. “Can’t you hold on?”

His eyebrows wrinkled and he pressed his lips together. “I’ll try, but I feel myself slipping.”

I planted my lips on his. He pulled me closer. I wrapped my arms around him determined to hold him here. His muscles were firm, then he felt soft like a pillow. Then nothing. He was gone and I was lying on the bare grass.

I looked out at the trees that surrounded me. “Why can’t he stay?” I shouted.

Chapter Eight

A month later, I was back to work and I’d become adjusted to consuming much less food than before. The pounds were falling off rapidly, a testament to how much I used to eat. For once I felt hopeful about the future. I’d always felt positive about my career, but now I knew that the future wouldn’t include constant criticism about my weight.

An email popped into my reader from my agent. She’d want to know how I was coming on the Teddy Roosevelt biography. The truth was, after Abel’s point of view, I had decided to revamp my ideas on how I’d structure the biography. I still believed he was a great man, but I would question his decisions more as I wrote about him.

The phone rang. I picked it up, assuming my agent had decided email wasn’t quite enough and had decided to call.

“Hey, it’s me,” Regina’s voice dragged into the receiver.

“What’s up with you?” I asked as if I couldn’t imagine.

“Oh, you know—men.”

“What’s happened this time?” So predictable—she did this to herself, but I hated to see her suffer.

“Barry. He calls when he wants to.” Knowing Regina, she hadn’t bathed or gotten out of bed since her problems with Barry started.

“Well, him not calling you isn’t the end of the world.” She needed a life, but I couldn’t give her one. In the past, my pep talks had never worked.

“He stood me up the other night,” she sniffed.

“He never called?”

“Yes, he called me right before he was supposed to be here.” I heard some rustling in the background and I imagined she was sitting up in bed. “I think he’s seeing his wife.”

“I thought they were divorced.”

“Not quite yet. He said he was going to sign the papers…” Her voice trailed off.

“Why don’t you come over here?” I didn’t really want to be around her, but I wanted her to know I cared.

“No, I want to be here if he calls so I can get dressed up.”

“Regina. Don’t.”

“I
knew
you wouldn’t understand.” Her voice had gone from a whiny violin to pieces of metal hitting each other.

“If you’d just listen…”

“I’ve got to go. Just wish my sister could have some compassion.”

I heard the receiver bang down on the phone. If she’d get an interest, or a hobby, or a job, or something, even go back to school, she’d be so much happier and have something to offer a man. What would she do if Carter took the house away from her? Would she come back home? She wouldn’t be happy here, but she’d love making me miserable.

I heard a knock at the door. It must be Maria Elena.

“Come in,” I said.

The door cracked and I saw Abel’s blond head, then one of his dark eyes. “May I have the pleasure of a beautiful lady’s company?”

My heart fluttered as I rose and walked to the door. I’d put on another one of my new outfits, hoping he’d make an appearance. “Do come in.”

He wore a white shirt with a thin collar buttoned to the top and a pair of black pants that fit snugly. My heart beat too quickly and I hoped I wasn’t blushing. He walked with his hands clasped in the back, perusing the room, admiring my posters. I had one for each of the subjects of my biographies. I especially loved the photo of Captain Sir Richard Burton taken supposedly at the time he was translating the Arabian Nights. He looked like quite the character with a dark bushy mustache, a tall cap, and silky robes.