I promised to post this yesterday, but time got away from me last night. My computer is back! Yay! Please enjoy this little snippet from Chapter Two of
. Raw text, as usual, so apologies for typos.
From
Price of Angels
Copyright
© 2015 by Lauren Gilley
I want to understand,
Holly wrote, because she couldn’t settle down and relax. I didn’t know a man had it in him to refuse. Deny himself? Or else he
doesn’t like me. Yes, that has to be it. He doesn’t like me. Then I won’t have
another shot with him. No means no. What will I do? He was my best hope…
The telephone on the end table rang
beside her, startling her, sending her leaping from her spot on the couch.
“Damn,” she murmured, pressing a
hand to her stuttering heart. The journal had flown out of her hands and landed
with a smack on the boards. She bent to retrieve it, closing it up tight and
holding it to her chest, before she answered the old curly-corded landline.
“Hello?”
“Holly, dear,” Mrs. Chalmers’ voice
filled her ear. “Are you alright? You sound out of breath.”
“Fine, ma’am.” She took a deep
breath and forced herself to smile, knowing the expression would work its way
into her voice. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” the kindly old widow
assured. “But someone rang the doorbell in front.”
Holly hadn’t heard it, above the
rumble of her TV. She felt something like panic twirl through her. She couldn’t
afford to be so lax. Couldn’t miss a single sound, couldn’t let herself be
surprised.
“There’s a young man down here,”
Mrs. Chalmers continued, “who’s here to see you.”
“Oh,” Holly said, and all the breath
left her, the panic heightening, closing around her windpipe with a relentless
squeeze. So this was it, then. They’d found her, finally. It had taken longer
than she’d expected, but it had to be them. She had no friends; she didn’t go
on dates. There were only three possibilities as to who might have come ringing
doorbells in the dead of night looking for her…
“He said to tell you,” Mrs. Chalmers
said, “that his name is Michael, and that he wants to ‘pick up where you left
off.’ ”
Holly released a deep breath,
shoulders slumping, the terror turning loose in a rush that left her
light-headed. “It’s Michael?”
“That’s what he says, dear. Very
stern-looking fellow.” Mrs. Chalmers lowered her voice to a whisper.
“Unpleasant, really. But I told him I’d ring you and I told him he could wait
in the parlor for you to come down.”
Her relief was so great, she could
have done cartwheels across her loft. Instead, she said, in a too-bright voice,
“I’ll be right down to see him, Mrs. Chalmers, thank you so much.” As an
afterthought: “I hope the doorbell didn’t wake you.”
“Oh no.” The old woman made a
dismissive sound. “I couldn’t sleep. I was doing my night baking again.”
Holly thanked her once more, then
hung up.
And went straight to the bathroom
mirror.
She hadn’t showered yet, so her
careful makeup was still intact. Her hair she’d tied up, though, and she’d
changed into baggy gray sweatpants and a shapeless black long-sleeved shirt. It
would have to do. She didn’t want to keep him waiting, especially if he wanted
to “pick things up.” She didn’t know a man to care what covered her body. She
pulled the elastic from her hair, shook it out so it fell in dark waves down
her back, and stepped into her slippers before she disengaged all the locks and
let herself out.
She loved her slippers. About three
bucks at Target, they were lined with fluffy fake Sherpa, and looked almost
like real leather, if you squinted. They were soft. Comfy. She’d never owned a
pair of slippers before, and she hadn’t been able to resist them, an impulse
purchase when she was shopping for milk and detergent.
Light, silent steps down both
staircases, and her heart was hammering by the time she swung around the post
at the foot on the main floor. The house was mostly quiet and dark around her,
save Eric’s record-cutting noise and Mrs. Chalmers’ soft business in her back
rooms. The foyer was illuminated by a series of table lamps, set on antique
pieces flanking the walls. By their light, she had a view into the parlor, the
front-most room of the house, one that had been kept as a public space where
residents could meet with guests.
It was a dainty, feminine room.
Long, tufted white sofa against the far wall, bracketed by ornate rosewood
tables, lamps with belled, beaded shades. A sequence of old portraits marched
along the wall above; Mrs. Chalmers had no idea who any of the subjects were,
just dead people, she’d said. In the bay window, two French-style chairs of
pale blue velvet framed another rosewood table, another lamp. The floor-length
drapes filtered the light from the streetlamps outside.
This was where Michael was sitting,
in one of the chairs in the bay window, one ankle propped on the opposite knee,
so his jeans rode up and the spur strap of his heavy black boot was visible. He
had his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, hands draped loosely over the
ornate curves of wood. His head cocked a fraction at her appearance, eyes
narrowing even more as he studied her with unself-conscious intensity. People don’t look at other people like that,
she wanted to point out to him. It seems
rude. He didn’t seem to care, though, just stared at her a long moment
before he finally turned to glance at the chair beside him, and then back at
her, a silent request for her to come sit down.
