of Bael’s interjection.
“I promise. I’ll straighten it all out. No more admittance to spirits who act unwholesome.” I tried for light humor, hoping to relax her, to assure her.
—I am whole again. I have found you and you, me.— His intimate murmur acknowledged my determination and control, carte blanche, an equality between us that, nonetheless, championed me, allowing me to take the wheel firmly as we steered ahead into uncharted waters.
Mother stood up. “Good. I know you’ll keep your promise. Honesty is one of your better traits. Now I’m going upstairs to take a hot shower and calm down. Then we’ll all get dressed and go find Danny a crib.”
“Go ahead, Mom. I’ll wash up the dishes.”
“Thank you, dear.” She leaned over and pecked a soft kiss on my cheek.
“And Mother? Please stop worrying?”
She offered me a wan hint of a smile, nodded, and went upstairs.
As I soaped, rinsed, and dried the breakfast dishes, I thought about how hard it had been to answer her without lying. Lying horrified me. As a young girl I had been unjustly accused of lying and punished for it. That experience had molded me—my honesty both a blessing and a curse. I knew I could not break off all contact with Bael, but I could direct the inevitable journey of exploration, shape it to my will. Perhaps Quatama had given me my newfound strength and self-assurance. His brief message—to come to him as I slept—suddenly resurfaced in my mind. But how? Another dream?
I put away the dishes, glancing at Daniel, who had been remarkably well behaved all morning. “I guess I’ll figure it out when the time comes,” I told him.
He waved his hands and bobbed up and down in his swing.
I bent to pick him up and felt an invisible touch upon my shoulder. A shiver went through me, travelling down my arm and back.
—Tell Quatama I still love you. Tell him he must allow us to seek an answer, to heal the rift that once tore the angelfolk apart.—
A different kiss brushed my cheek, full of longing, an aching sorrow barely checked.
My breath caught in a tight band between the pit of my stomach and my throat. Then the sensation, the emotional connection, ceased. My chest heaved, releasing, relieving, the constricted air in my lungs.
I hefted Daniel up out of his swing and into my arms, carried the swing back to the living room with my free hand, then took him upstairs to dress us warmly.
CHAPTER 7
March, although nearly over, kicked up strong cold gusts at us as we locked up the car in the mall parking lot. I looked forward to the winter ending, to Spring’s new beginning. But the trees and shrubs on the streets of the Northeast still sported bare budless branches, and patches of remaining snow mounds still dotted sections of the mall.
Carrying Daniel, I followed Mother into Lit Brothers and rode the escalator up to the second floor. The children’s department contained an infants’ section which included furniture. We looked at the two cribs displayed, Mother sighing at the prices. “Thank God for charge cards,” she said as a burly balding salesman lumbered over to us. “Can I help you, ladies?”
“Yes, we’d like to purchase this crib.” Mother pointed to the less expensive of the two. “We’d also like it delivered today, if possible.”
“I’d have to check the delivery schedule, Madam. It normally takes at least two days to schedule a delivery. If we can accommodate you, there’ll be an extra charge.”
“Fine. Please see if you can do so.”
The salesman bristled at Mother’s clipped response. He wrote down the model number and price on his sales pad. “If you’ll come this way, please.”
We followed him to the sales counter. “Let’s see. Without delivery, that comes to $195.63. I’ll call downstairs to see if any of our truck drivers are available today.”
A rack of infant clothing caught my interest. I walked over, Daniel on my hip, to rummage through it.
“Excuse me, Mr. Thompson. How much are you selling that crib for?”
The new voice, eerily familiar, brought my head up sharply. I glanced toward the counter. Mother and the pompous Mr. Thompson stood on either side. A younger man, behind the salesman, now peered over his shoulder at the figures on the sales pad. “That crib has been reduced,” he said. “We’re discontinuing that model to make room for new inventory. It’s $99.95. We have two more left in the storeroom.”
“Nobody told me, sir.”
The new man’s back was turned to me, but my mouth hung open at his tall thin frame, his thick and luxuriant black hair. He moved sideways, affording me a better view of his face as he wrote a new slip with the sale price. I nearly choked at his uncanny resemblance to my dark spirit, to Bael.
“Will you need delivery, Madam, or be taking the crib now?”
Mother smiled prettily at him, not seeming to mark his appearance as a strange coincidence. Perhaps she hadn’t telepathically seen Bael as clearly as I’d thought that first night. “Actually,” she told his look-a-like brightly, “we need this crib today. My grandson’s original crib collapsed rather dangerously a day ago, and the poor child is sleeping in a makeshift cradle. I understand there’ll be an extra charge for same day delivery, but we’re willing to pay for it.”
“Nonsense. There’ll be no extra charge.” He picked up the phone with a sharp glance at Mr. Thompson. “Hello, Walt? This is Bill. Who do you have down there running deliveries today?”
Within minutes, delivery was set for four p.m. that afternoon—a last, previously unscheduled stop for their driver. Mother handed him her credit card.
Bill, our mysterious champion, assured her as he completed the paperwork. “This crib will be sturdy and safe. As you heard, I told our man to put it together for you, to make sure it’s properly assembled. I take it your grandson wasn’t hurt when the old crib collapsed?”
“No, thankfully. He wasn’t in it. This is so kind of you.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Well, thank you anyway. Leigh Ann,” she called. I turned and walked slowly toward them, afraid of facing this man, in voice and appearance so much like Bael. “This very nice gentleman has taken care of everything. Daniel will have his crib today.”
“Thank you, ” I said and looked him fully in the face. Up close, the similarity faded. The man had full cheeks and a rather round nose.
“You’re welcome, young lady,” he said. “If you have any problems, or if we can be of further service to you, please ask for me, Bill Withers. I’m the store manager.”
“My daughter,” Mother gestured, “and grandson.”
“So I gathered.”
“Well, thank you again. We’ll see your man at four.” She headed toward the down escalator, and I followed.
I
