Falling Angel Read online

  She looked the same, and yet different, somehow. She'd always been thin, a dancer, he thought he remembered. But now she was even leaner, almost skinny, and there were faint shadows behind her smiling eyes. And then she was no longer smiling, as a frown washed over her face, and he wondered for a moment whether she'd recognized him.

  "You've been hurt," she said, reaching up, way up, to push his hair away from his face. He tried to jerk back, but she wouldn't let him, and her fingers on his chilled skin were warm and incredibly gentle. "You must have hit your head when you went off the road. Let me do something about that while Maggie gets you a cup of coffee to warm you up."

  "Please…" he said, and wondered where that word came from. He'd never considered it an essential part of his vocabulary. "I just need to get my truck out of the ditch."

  " Jeffie and I will help you."

  A man stepped forward, a huge, lumbering bear of a man, except that for some reason his eyes weren't quite on a level with Emerson's. Once again he felt that dizzy, disoriented feeling, trapped in a strange body that was so unlike his own.

  "I'm Lars Swensen, and this is my wife, Maggie." A plain, careworn-looking woman flashed him a friendly smile as she handed him a mug of coffee.

  Emerson hated coffee. He drank Earl Grey tea exclusively. It must be the cold that made the coffee smell so good. He took a tentative sip, and his entire body vibrated with pleasure.

  "That's it," Carrie said in a soothing voice. "Just come into the bathroom and sit down and I'll clean up that cut on your forehead. As soon as you have a nice hot meal inside you, you can deal with your truck."

  For some reason he wasn't in the mood to argue. If it wasn't for the fact that he'd somehow managed to stumble onto one of the very people he was supposed to save, he'd be out of there before anyone realized what was happening. He didn't like accepting the kindness of strangers, and it was only when he convinced himself that he had something important to gain that he gave in and followed Carrie Alexander's slender, graceful figure out of the warm, crowded kitchen.

  He had another startled glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror before she gently pushed him down onto the edge of the old claw-footed bathtub. He had plenty of opportunity to watch her as she rummaged through the medicine cabinet, pulling out hydrogen peroxide, gauze bandages, swabs and pills. She'd gotten thinner, he was sure of it. He was a firm believer in the fact that no woman could ever be too thin or too rich. Carrie certainly had a problem with the latter. Anywhere he looked carefully, he could see signs of decay. The house was falling down around her ears, a fact she seemed cheerfully oblivious to.

  And she was no thinner than Margot, the dancer from the Joffrey Ballet he'd been involved with for a few months. Carrie had been a dancer, too, hadn't she? He recalled something of that sort. She certainly moved with the same sort of innate grace Margot had had. And something more. The elegance of her movements in no way conveyed the sense of self-absorption Margot's gestures had. Carrie simply seemed to be someone at ease with her slender, fluid body.

  She turned back to him, and once again there was that startled expression in her blue eyes. She began dabbing peroxide on his forehead, pushing his ridiculously long hair out of the way, and she bit her lip as she concentrated.

  "What's wrong?" he found himself asking, wondering again whether she knew him.

  She was eye level with him, and she managed a rueful smile. "It's just that you're so beautiful."

  She'd managed to startle him. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Like a Renaissance sculpture. A Botticelli angel, maybe." She shook her head, laughing at herself. "You must have heard that before."

  "Not recently," he said, his voice dry.

  Her fingers were cool now against his flushed skin. "Well, it can't be a novel experience. You must have spent…what is it, thirty years…with that face. Surely you must be used to people's reactions by now."

  "Not exactly."

  She glanced at him, startled, then obviously decided to drop it. She stood up, surveying her handiwork with satisfaction. "I think you'll live," she pronounced, and it was all he could do not to snort in derision.

  "I'm Carrie Alexander, by the way. And you're…"

  Inspiration failed him. He reached for the first name he could think of, then shuddered when it came about. "Gabriel," he said. He thought about that strange reflection in the mirror. "Gabriel Falconi," he said, wondering why it sounded right.

  Obviously she thought so, too. "It suits you. Come and meet the rest of my Thanksgiving guests. If we wait much longer my turkey will dry out." She was out of the tiny bathroom, her long skirts swirling around her ankles, and he had no choice but to follow her, protesting.

  "But my truck…"

  "Your truck can wait. I'm not serving cold, dried-out turkey and congealed gravy to all these people. And you look like you're in need of a good hot meal yourself. Come along. Someone will have set an extra place for you by now."

  "But…"

  "Come along," she repeated firmly, sounding like a cross between Augusta and Mary Poppins. She was six inches shorter than his new self, and if his age was still relevant, about four years younger, and she was acting like his mother. He didn't like it.

  He was, however, interested in having his first real meal in seventeen months. If he could smell things he could probably taste them, too. And the thought of turkey and gravy, and what was almost definitely apple pie for dessert, was too much for him to resist. He didn't even have to worry about cholesterol anymore.

  He was amazed that there were only eleven people at dinner. Twelve, if you counted the small scrap of humanity that slept peacefully in an old wicker basket in the corner. He'd met Lars and his wife, briefly, at least, and he was introduced to their other three children, Kirsten, with thick blond braids and an adolescent shyness, Nils, a sturdy boy in his teens, and Harald, who was just a little younger.

  There were the Milsoms, a middle-aged couple who seemed clearly devoted to each other, Jeffie Baker, a sullen-looking teenager, and Gertrude Hansen, a bent-over, white-haired old lady with thick, impenetrable glasses and a sweet, gentle manner. They all welcomed him like the prodigal son, and he found himself ensconced in the middle of the huge old table, surrounded by Hansens, Swensens and their ilk. And too far away from Carrie Alexander.

  Without his asking, a plate arrived in front of him, piled high with turkey, rice, gravy and biscuits. His mug of coffee had appeared by his plate, refilled, and a glass of jug wine accompanied it. He reached for his stainless steel fork, when a sudden silence fell over the chattering party.

  "Would you ask the blessing, Lars?" Carrie asked, and Lars nodded.

  Oh, God, he thought, writhing in embarrassment. He was going to have to sit there and listen while they prayed, for heaven's sake. He'd fallen into a bunch of religious fanatics.

  Lars, however, was simple and to the point. "Bless this food which you have given to us so abundantly. Bless our friends and family, and welcome the stranger to our midst. Amen."

  "Amen," the others muttered, heads bowed, and Gabriel cast a worried glance around at them. But then, the uncomfortable moment passed. People began digging into their food, and conversation was once again at fever pitch, interspersed with the occasional moment of silence as people paused to chew their food.

  He kept his head down, concentrating on the meal with an almost religious fervor, hoping no one would decide to cross-examine him. Particularly when he wasn't certain what his story would be. He'd come up with a name, thank God, though it was an absurd name. He was just lucky he hadn't hit upon something worse, like Angelo. Gabriel was bad enough. A fallen angel, all right. He only wondered how much further he was going to fall before all this was through. Whether he'd be able to accomplish the overwhelming task Augusta had set before him. Or whether he'd end up in the other place.

  He didn't want to go there. Bottom line, he wanted heaven, eternal happiness, wings and all that crap. At least he had a head start. Carrie Alexander
was only a few feet away. He wouldn't have to hunt her down to solve whatever crisis his life had precipitated.

  Though right now she didn't look very troubled. If only Augusta had been more specific. The woman sitting at the head of the table didn't look as if her life had been a series of disasters. She looked calm, happy, at peace with the world. What in the world could she want that he could possibly give her?

  Three people, Augusta had said. Three people whose lives he'd destroyed. Carrie didn't look destroyed, but looks could be deceiving. And where the hell was he going to find the other two? They couldn't all be in this tiny little backwater…

  He realized then that he didn't even know where he was. It might be Upstate New York or Alaska or Siberia, for all he knew. Somewhere cold and snowy. The happy din had quieted somewhat, and he drained his cup of coffee with automatic appreciation and caught Lars's eye.

  "What's the name of this town?" he asked, hoping he sounded natural. He didn't dare ask what state he was in, besides the obvious state of confusion.

  "Town?" Lars laughed. "I don't know if I'd call Angel Falls a town, exactly. More a dot on the map."

  Gabriel's empty mug slipped out of his hand. "Angel Falls?" he echoed, getting used to the faint harshness in his new voice. This time, at least, it was justified.

  "High-flown kind of name for such an unpretentious little town, isn't it?" murmured Milsom, the man next to him. "Named after the falls, of course, and they were named after the lake, and I think it was probably missionaries who named the lake some two, three hundred years ago. So we're stuck with the name, and it's gotten so most of us sort of like it."

  "Especially during the Christmas season," Carrie said. She wasn't eating much, Gabriel noticed. She hadn't put much on her plate to begin with, and most of it was still there, just slightly rearranged.

  "So what are you doing driving through this part of Minnesota during a snowstorm?" Lars asked. "Shouldn't you be with your family on Thanksgiving?"

  "Minnesota?" he echoed, momentarily shocked.

  "Where'd you think you were? Hawaii?" Jeffie Baker spoke up, breaking the sullen silence he'd maintained through most of the meal. Gabriel wished he'd continued to shut up.

  "Guess I must have crossed the border without realizing it," Gabriel said.

  "The border's about two hours in any direction," Lars pointed out, not unkindly. At least he let the question of family go. "What do you do for a living, Gabriel?"

  "A living?" Instinctively he looked at his hands. Big hands, work worn. He hadn't the faintest idea what they were used to doing.

  "Don't tell me," Lars said, and Gabriel breathed a sigh of relief. "I can tell just by looking at your hands. You're a carpenter, like me."

  "Am I?" he muttered. "I mean, of course." He'd never touched a woodworking tool in his life, but at least he wouldn't be forced to prove it.

  Lars held up his own hands. They were squarer, broader, but they had the same look to them. "Takes one to know one. Were you looking for work around here? Because I have to tell you, there's not much. We're a poor community since the factory closed down, and it doesn't look like things are about to improve."

  "I'm not planning to take any work away from you…" Gabriel said automatically, not even wondering why he'd say such an uncharacteristic thing. Emerson would take anything he could get in his quest for success.

  "You'd be welcome to it if there were any," Lars said flatly. "We've just been scraping by. There's some logging work that might be opening up before long, but I don't know if they need more than one."

  "I'm not looking for work."

  As if on cue, everyone looked at him, at his threadbare flannel shirt, his obvious air of less than notable prosperity. "I've got work after Christmas," he explained. "Due on the job Christmas Day, as a matter of fact. I'm just passing through, looking for a way to kill some time until the job comes up."

  They seemed to swallow that. After all, it was nothing more than the truth. "Well, you're welcome to spend your time in Angel Falls. Unless you've got family…?"

  There was that question again. He didn't know about Gabriel Falconi, but Emerson MacVey didn't have a relative to call his own. "No family," he said.

  "We have something in common then," Carrie said, her face smooth and unlined, her voice casual. And yet he felt her pain, as sharply as he'd ever felt his own. "Orphans of the storm. Stay and spend Christmas with us, Gabriel. We're a friendly town. We share what we have, no matter how little it is."

  He wished he could tell her no. He wanted to get out of this warm, friendly community, away from the concern of strangers, the gentle prying. But Carrie Alexander was one-third of his ticket to heaven.

  Gertrude Hansen was seated on his other side. She put a gnarled hand on his, and her eyes behind the thick bottle-lens glasses blinked sincerely. "Stay with us, Gabriel," she said, and he was suddenly, forcibly, reminded of Augusta.

  Ridiculous, of course. This stooped-over, gentle creature had nothing to do with the harridan of heaven. He tried to move his hand, but her grip was surprisingly strong. "Stay," she said again, and her sweet, soft voice was joined by a chorus of others.

  "Stay," Carrie said. "You've never experienced anything until you've experienced a real Scandinavian Christmas. We're all of Norse descent around here—Swedes and Danes and Norwegians. We know how to celebrate Christmas."

  "And you wouldn't believe the food," Mrs. Milsom leaned across the table to inform him.

  He'd cleared the mound of food on his plate, he, who seldom ate anything more filling than nouvelle cuisine. "You've convinced me," he said, glancing toward Carrie.

  It hit him, harder than the windshield of his truck, harder than the blows of the paramedics as they'd labored over his chest, harder than anything he'd felt in his short self-absorbed life. She smiled at him, her blue eyes filled with warmth and pleasure, and he was lost. The emotional pull was immediate and shocking, so intense that he felt mesmerized. It no longer mattered what his task was, what Augusta's orders were, what his observer, whoever he was, would tell him to do. It no longer mattered about the two other people he was going to save.

  He had no intention of leaving Carrie Alexander's side until he was forced to do so. Come hell or high water. And he doubted high water would have anything to do with it.

  Chapter Two

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  Carrie stood in front of the old iron sink, staring out into the windswept night as the four men trudged off into the darkness. Three men and a boy, she amended to herself, glancing at Jeffie's slight, childish frame. She was worried about him. His parents had taken off again, some joint business trip, and as far as she knew they hadn't even called to check in on him. They knew she'd have him over for Thanksgiving, and they figured their responsibility ended there.

  Carrie wasn't quite sure when responsibility to your children ended, but Jeffie was only seventeen. And a very troubled seventeen-year-old at that. He needed parents, he needed people to care about him, to concern themselves with his well-being. Instead he had two workaholics who'd washed their hands of him when he'd failed to live up to their exacting standards. They still loved him, all right. They just didn't have much use for him. And Jeffie knew it.

  "Let me take over," Maggie said, nudging Carrie out of the way with her comfortable bulk. "You've been on your feet all day and you look worn out. Kirsten and I can finish up these dishes."

  Carrie didn't even consider making a token protest. She was exhausted, so tired she wasn't certain if she could cover it up. And she wanted to sit in a quiet place and think about the stranger who'd shown up on her doorstep.

  The baby lay sleeping soundly in the old bassinet, not stirring as Carrie added more wood to the cast enamel stove. Sinking down in the shabby armchair that had once been her grandfather's favorite place in the world, she put her feet up, leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

  Why did he seem so familiar? She'd never seen him before in her life, of that she was absolutely certain. If she h
ad, she wouldn't have forgotten him. He looked like a Renaissance angel, with such classic, astonishing beauty that part of her wanted to just sit and stare at him. It had taken all her wavering concentration to keep up a normal front. She'd been working too hard, not taking proper care of herself. She knew it, and yet she couldn't change. Guilt was a powerful force in her life, one she didn't even try to combat.

  Would he still be around tomorrow? He hadn't been very talkative. He said he was just passing through, and it was more than possible that once they got him out of his ditch, he'd move on, touching their lives only briefly.

  But she didn't think so. She'd never been one for relying on her instincts—they'd failed her too many times. But she somehow knew that Gabriel Falconi had stumbled onto their Thanksgiving dinner for a reason. And he wasn't going to simply disappear without accomplishing whatever he'd come to do.

  She shook her head, marveling at her own sudden fancifulness. She was overtired, overfed, though she'd barely eaten a thing, worn out by the stress and excitement of the day.

  By the time tomorrow dawned and Gabriel Falconi drove away from Angel Falls, Minnesota, she'd see things more clearly.

  A tiny snuffling sound alerted her, and she was out of the chair, lifting the sturdy bundle that was Anna Caroline Swensen into her arms. Her goddaughter, little Carrie, smiled up at her, sleepy, not yet ready to demand a feeding, and Carrie sank back down into the chair, cradling the four-month-old in her arms. "No turkey for you, little one," she murmured in a low voice. "Next Thanksgiving, maybe. If any one of us is still here."

  "Is she all right?" Maggie, with the instinct of all mothers, stood in the door, her weary face momentarily lightening at the sight of her new daughter.

  "She'll be demanding food before too long. I'll take your place in the kitchen…"

  "I'll bring a bottle, if you wouldn't mind. She needs to get used to bottles, and to other people feeding her."

  "Why?" Carrie asked flatly. "Are you having trouble nursing?"