Angel Eyes (23 page)
“The Father gives without regret.”
I’m antsy. I want to look away, but his magnetic eyes are locked on mine. I don’t know what to do with this information— information I knew was coming. It means Dad is wrong about God being a fairy tale, and it means he’s right about God being cruel. It means God really exists, and it means He allowed my mother to die. He allowed Ali to die.
“So what’s the deal with the chest, then? This is it, right? The one you asked Canaan about earlier.” I run my hand across the top of it. It seems to be fashioned from some sort of marble or granite. Onyx, maybe? But it’s not natural. Not entirely. Its stone surface has the same liquid look to it as the halo, the blackness eddying like shifting steam.
“It is.” He places his hand next to mine, our fingers inches apart. “This is how the Throne Room communicates with Canaan.”
I clear my throat. “The chest?”
“Yes,” Jake says. “Occasionally items are placed inside by the Throne Room—things to indicate our next move: deeds to land, rental agreements, adoption papers, keys, employment offers, pictures. There’s a reason angels are required to spend time in the Throne Room before assuming the rank of Shield. Their time there helps them understand and interpret. More time in His presence means more insight into His ways. Less time, less insight.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Okay. What exactly?”
“Why you are terrifed . . .”
“I’m getting there,” he says. “You’ll know all my deep dark secrets soon.”
“I don’t need all of them.”
“In the spirit of fairness, right? Anyway, I told you we lived in Chicago. Canaan managed an inner-city orphanage there. It had been months since he’d received any new direction, and then an employment application appeared in the chest. Understanding his instructions, he arranged an interview. By the time it was over he knew that the woman, a Mary Borst, was fully qualified to take control of the orphanage. He’d found his replacement. That evening, a page from the classified section of the Stratus
Herald
appeared in the chest. Most of the page had been smudged, but one ad was legible—a For Rent ad with this address listed. Within the week he had hired Mrs. Borst to run the orphanage and we’d signed the Millers’ rental agreement.”
He’s talking faster now, and keeping up is difficult. Still, he looks at me like I’m supposed to respond.
“Wow. That’s . . . just . . . I . . . that’s amazing.”
I watch as he slides the lid off the chest and props it against the bed. A woodsy, earthy smell is released. Jake reaches inside and pulls out a silver jewelry box. There’s something engraved on the top, but I’m captivated by his hand.
Which is trembling.
Again.
“The Saturday before we arrived in Stratus,” he says, “this appeared in the chest.”
He releases a pearl clasp, and there, shining back at me, is a diamond wedding ring.
I’m bewildered. “It’s beautiful, Jake. Whose is it?”
“It’s yours,” he says. “I think.”
There’s a hint of the wildness I’d seen in the graveyard burning in his eyes, but it’s controlled.
He’s serious.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Read the engraving.”
I take the platinum ring from his blistering hand and hold it up to the light. The perfectly round diamond sparkles as I tilt the ring and read the eight tiny words etched into the band.
From hands that heal to eyes that see
.
I squint at it, confused. Conflicted.
“Say something,” Jake says. A glance at him and I realize I’m not the only one conflicted.
“It’s just . . . I’m not seeing it, Jake. I mean,
Hands that heal
, I get that. But
eyes that see
? Really, that could be anyone.”
Jake is shaking his head. “The halo, Elle. It doesn’t let me see into the Celestial. It never has. The only way I can see into that realm is from the safety of an angel’s wings.”
“But . . .”
“Canaan’s halo gave me healing hands. It’s given you eyes to see. My guess is you won’t always need the halo either. One day you’ll see the Celestial without it.”
My heart hammers against my windpipe, and my throat makes strange squeaky noises. It’s just ridiculous. A chest. A ring. And a halo.
It’s a fairy tale, right? Dress-up and make-believe.
“So this means . . .”
“It means you have a choice,” Jake says quietly. “It means one day when I offer you this ring, you can decide if you want to accept it or not.” He is adamant, intense—emphasizing each word like it belongs in its own universe. “It just means one day
I’ll
want to marry you. That’s it, Brielle. That’s all it means.”
“But that’s . . . that’s stupid. You’ve barely known me a week. What if you change your mind?” I’m beginning to understand the fear he struggles to bury. “Don’t
you
have a choice? If, and I mean
if
you and I . . . and if you ask that . . . question, I want . . . any girl would want . . . you to do it because you
want
to, not because some box thought you should!”
I’m escalating quickly, but I can’t seem to find the off switch. Jake places his hands on my shoulders, sending a firestorm surging through my body. I relax, and my breathing returns to normal.
With a shaky hand I give the ring back. He takes it and tucks it into a small velvet pillow, and then he closes the jewelry box. There, engraved on the lid, in elegant gothic script, are my initials: GM.
He sets the box on the bottom of the chest and slides the top in place. I like it better that way. Closed. The future hidden. Unknown.
My hands are cold again. I want to bury them in Jake’s, but I’m afraid of the message that’ll send. So I lock them together and shove them between my knees.
“I don’t have to believe you,” I say.
“No,” he says. “No, you don’t.”
“Will it change anything? If I choose not to believe?”
Jake’s hands are taut against his jeans, white with the strain of whatever he’s thinking.
“I don’t know.”
We stare at the chest for a long time—its blackness curving gracefully this way and that, snaking onto itself over and over again.
“What were you doing out in the storm?” I ask.
He looks at me, confused.
“The night you healed my ankle. You had a flashlight. What were you looking for?”
“Ah.” He stands and walks to Canaan’s side table, pulling out one of the drawers. “I was looking for you.”
He removes a stack of papers and hands the top one to me. It’s a page torn from the Stratus
Herald
. I look at the date on the top. The paper is nearly a year old.
“What is this?”
“It took me awhile too,” he admits. “See the article at the bottom?”
Jake crouches and indicates a square of text taking up the bottom quarter of the page. A title sprawls above the article in big bold letters: B
RIAR
C
REEK
D
AM
C
ONSTRUCTION
P
OSTPONED
. The article is short, and I read it quickly. It indicates that the dam will not be built, due to conflicting environmental reports, and that further development is postponed indefinitely. There are a few quotes from local citizens on either side of the issue. Of note is an angry farmer claiming that each year the flooding creek causes a considerable amount of damage to his crops, and therefore to his family’s livelihood. I finish reading and look up at Jake.
“Okay,” I say, ready for the rest of the explanation.
“This page appeared in the chest along with the For Rent ad,” he explains, handing me the page from the classified section—a page we’ve already discussed. Above the Millers’ address it reads:
For Rent
Three-bedroom farmhouse
Right off the highway
Horse property / Briar Creek view
“So you learned your new home had a creek running through its property, and that same creek flooded every year.”
“Yes, and that led us to the Internet,” he says, “where we checked the forecast here in Stratus. The first storm of the season was expected to hit that week, the week after our arrival.”
“And that made you think what, exactly?”
“It made me think I should watch the creek! I didn’t know
what
to expect, really, but that first day, in calculus, I realized that the creek ran through your property as well. I realized we were neighbors.”
“How?”
“Your, um, mailbox has your last name written on it.”
“Oh, sheesh. My ‘mailbox.’ ”
“Anyway, after noticing your . . . fragile state, and knowing the creek has a tendency to flood . . .”
“So the night I broke my ankle, you were what? Waiting for me?”
The thought is overwhelming. He was looking out for me because of some random newspaper article? Because of some crazy supernatural chest?
He shrugs. “I didn’t really know
what
I was waiting for, but yeah, last week I spent my nights walking up and down the creek between your property and ours.”
I don’t know what to say. He’s done so much on my behalf. And he’d done much of it before we ever met. My heart’s a lost cause, so I press my hands into the carpet, hoping to steady them.
“You’re not going to kneel down when you propose, are you?”
He laughs. “Not a fan?”
“It’s overdone, is all.”
I let my eyes wander. They find the white dove on the wall— the one surrounded by all that darkness.
“What happens, Jake, if I choose not to believe any of this?”
“I don’t know. But after what you’ve seen, is that possible?”
In spite of all my misgivings, and a shaky hand to my chest, I can’t stop my heart from thrumming.
“You said it yourself, Jake. Anything’s possible.”
Y
ou need a maid, kid.” Marco sticks his head into Canaan’s room and slides down the door frame. “Nearly killed myself trying to get outta bed.”
The mood in the room changes. Jake’s words have left me unsettled and confused, but Marco unleashes a whole new brand of frustration.
The sight of him here, walking around, in Jake’s house, in a place that’s warm and safe, is like an invasion of something sacred. It’s pain. It’s an ache that starts in my chest and spreads to every other part of me.
I remind myself of the detective’s words. Of the bruises on Ali’s body.
He doesn’t belong here.
“What are you doing in Stratus, Marco? How did you get out of jail?”
“Elle . . . ,” Jake says, with a hand to my knee.
I shove it off and stand.
Marco looks like he has something to say, but whatever it is, he’s not fast enough.
“Speak, Marco. How did you get out of jail?”
“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know how I got out of jail.” He runs both hands through his hair. “Yesterday I was in the psych ward trying to convince some crazy shrink that I’m innocent. The next minute, he’s passed out cold and the door’s standing wide open.”
“You’re joking, right? That’s your story?”
“Then you explain it,” Marco demands. “Tell me, Elle. How’d I get out of jail?”
“Serena said you incapacitated the guards somehow. Said they couldn’t figure it out. They were still investigating.”
It’s weak. Even I know that.
He gives me a half smile. “They were asleep. All of them.”
I want to smack him. “Do you honestly expect me to believe—”
Jake interrupts. “It wouldn’t be the first time, Elle.”
I round on Jake. “You believe him?”
“I’d like to hear him out.”
Jake helps Marco to the couch where he can sit more comfortably, and then he starts a pot of coffee. I sit across from Marco in an armchair and scowl.
“I know you hate me, Elle. I hate me too, but I didn’t kill her. And the guy who did is still out there.”