Ground Rules Page 4

  Despite flying through the air on a vehicle with no wings, she wanted to be nowhere else. The feel of his body against hers made her wonder if she hadn’t died and gone to heaven.

  Resting her chin against his shoulder, she sighed. “Where are we going?”

  In answer, he shifted into high gear, steering the bike higher into the clouds.

  Arguing with him obviously would prove useless. What sort of angel had he claimed to be? Watchers—not a sort familiar to her. Archangels, seraphim and cherubim… what other types existed? On Christmas of all days, she should remember, but it momentarily escaped her.

  Over his shoulder, he said, “You have work to do. I’m merely the guide.”

  “But isn’t that why they sent you here? And where are we going?”

  “To a concert, but be forewarned—you won’t like it.”

  Brightening, she hugged tighter. “I love concerts.”

  “Not this one.” He steered the Harley downward. Her stomach flip-flopped on the descent. Then the bike evened out and touched down on the street outside a pretentious-looking three-story home. Dreadful, how they constructed houses these days.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, whose McMansion?”

  *~*~*

  Luke simply pointed the way. Alice would find out soon enough. And not like it one bit.

  The strains of a piano echoed through the otherwise quiet house, and a strange duet, two male voices but both from the same singer: one robust, the other weak. Luke led her to the wide front window. In the expansive room within, a brown-haired figure slumped on the sofa in front of a television. On its oversized screen, a little girl danced in a red velvet dress trimmed in white lace.

  Then recognition lit Alice’s eyes. “That’s Michael Goodman. The author whose book I was hired to illustrate.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Are you crazy, bringing me here? He’s the last man on earth I want to visit, deadline or not.”

  “Why, Alice?”

  Though she couldn’t feel the cold, she hugged herself. “He’s the Ice King personified. Oh, he’s nice enough to his young readers, but horrible to adults.”

  From her sour expression, he had no difficulty believing her. “Why did you take the job, then?”

  “I almost didn’t, after meeting him.”

  “But you did,” Luke prompted.

  “Yes.” Her features softened. “The story wouldn’t let me go. It’s wonderful. It tingled in my brain, churned up image after image, ideas bubbling to the surface from my mind’s recesses like effervescence….” Her enthusiasm waned. “Then fizzled out as soon as I stood at the drawing board. Can we please leave?” She turned to him.

  Luke should have stood farther from her. The way she gazed up at him could prove trouble. Those sparkling green eyes bedazzled him.

  “Soon.” He held a finger to his lips, then pointed at Goodman, who sat watching a home video.

  Onscreen, a younger version of himself sat at the piano, laughing as he played Jingle Bells, singing in the stronger voice. The real Michael Goodman rose from the sofa, hunched over like an elderly man, his song a weak echo of the other. He shuffled to a table, lifted a decanter, and its amber liquid fell like liquid gold into his glass.

  Alice stood on tiptoe to watch. “He’s drunk.” Her proclamation came from wonder, not disgust.

  “Such keen powers of observation you have.” Luke cocked his jaw to hold his sympathy in check, though his barb seemed to have no effect on her. She focused on the picture wavering across the television. Happier times, to be sure.

  When Michael’s eyes welled with tears as he stared at the video, she turned to Luke. “Why is an acclaimed children’s author alone on Christmas, drinking himself into oblivion?”

  Luke steeled himself against the urge to embrace her. Comforting her would only distract her from what she had to see. He couldn’t inject himself into this, or Alice would never help herself.

  Movement inside the house captured their attention again.

  Grumbling curses, Michael lurched ahead, his drink sloshing over the rim. Banging on the top of the DVD box, he crouched, grabbing the side as if to steady it. Amazingly, it worked. “That’s right.” Delight replaced Michael’s frustration. “I’ve got you, Noelle.” Edging his way backward, he perched on the edge of the sofa watching the screen, where his younger self handed a present to the little girl to open.

  “Who’s Noelle?” Alice whispered.

  Here was where it got dicey. “His daughter.”

  She studied him. “I didn’t know he had a daughter.”

  Quashing the rising emotion, Luke muttered, “’Had’ being the operative word.”

  Her sharp glance pierced him. “Is he divorced?”

  No doubt, Goodman would have preferred it. “Widowed.”

  She stilled, but her eyes burned bright. “Where’s his daughter?”

  The simpler he stated it, the better. “Buried next to her mother.” So tragic.

  “Oh no.” She clutched his arm and turned to the scene inside. “I feel terrible for him. What happened to his wife and daughter?”

  Somehow, her touch brought the tragedy into sharper relief. Dredged up his own pain up from the deepest depths where he’d buried them to sting his heart.

  Luke steadied himself. “A man who’d drunk too much at a Christmas party passed out behind the wheel of his pickup. He never saw the red traffic light. The emergency crews could do nothing to save them.” So much heartbreak for one man to bear.

  Her lip quivered. “They were killed just before Christmas?”

  He gave a single, solemn nod. “It’s amazing he acknowledges the holiday at all.”

  “He does, though. How else would he honor the memory of his wife and child?” The way she said it, some realization hit her.

  Maybe more of the story would provoke a similar insight. “Each year, he puts out the presents he’d bought for them that have remained unopened for the past seven years.” Maybe seven would prove lucky for Goodman as well.

  “How heartbreaking. Doesn’t he have any other family?”

  “A brother, but they’re estranged.” He wouldn’t add that was by Michael’s choice. In losing his wife and daughter, he’d sacrificed a brother too.

  Her eyes searched his. “What can we do to help him?”

  “We? Nothing. You’re my charge, not him.” Even if he wanted to, he had no authority over Michael Goodman.

  Gaze sharpening, she eased away. “But you brought me here for a reason.”

  When she released him, disappointment pricked his senses. “Yes, to show you others have problems far worse than your own. To my knowledge, he hasn’t asked for help.”

  This clearly confused her. “He hasn’t?”

  To avoid noticing how her pink lips reminded him of her toenail polish—and likewise invited him to taste them—Luke focused on the scene through the window. “Sometimes those who need it most remain silent.”

  “There must be some way to help Michael without him realizing it. Every utterance of his daughter’s name must come as a piercing reminder. What horrible irony, to name his daughter for the very holiday that robbed him of his life.” She squeezed his arm. “We have to act quickly.”

  “Stop saying ‘we’.” It had a ring of familiarity, which he knew too well would result in an intense hurt. For him.

  “Don’t you see? If something really wonderful happens to him on Christmas, it might erase some of the horror he must feel.”

  Maybe she was onto something. “Such as?”

  She seemed to struggle to think of something brilliant. In utter failure, she slumped. “I don’t know. I need your insight.”

  “My expertise?” He chuckled. “It’s severely limited. I’ve told you, I’m more adept at avoiding such assignments.”

  “What about other angels’ success stories? You must have heard something useful.”

  “Yes, we do have a few braggarts in the ranks. I can’t reveal their methods, t
hough. Definitely against the rules.” Yes, the Ground Rules he’d neglected to read.

  Dejectedly, she sighed. “Oh. Fine time for you to abide by them.”

  Stiffening at the insult, he grimaced. She hadn’t made him wait long for the expected lashing out in disappointment. He needed to guard himself against any attachment, however superficial.

  “Not even a hint? It wouldn’t be hurting anything to point me in the right direction.”

  “It’s not my purpose here.” Hopefully she wouldn’t ask for specifics. He had no clue.

  “But you’re supposed to be helping me,” she said.

  Inflated by anger, he grew taller, fuller. “That’s your problem. You have no real problem but you pity yourself so much, you have none left for others.”

  Her voice grew small. “I don’t see how I can help him, that’s all. Michael Goodman barely acknowledges my existence except through Penny.”

  “Your existence is irrelevant.” Hardly. She was already ingrained in his mind, fully occupying his thoughts, and not in any distant, professional manner. But right now, she also provided his sole purpose for being. If he failed, his existence might not only be irrelevant, but null and void.

  Flummoxed, she opened her mouth but emitted only a croak.

  “Obviously,” he ground out, as much to relieve his frustration as to put some distance between them, “you have a gift. Your art. If you’d stop wallowing long enough, you’d see it’s an instrument of communication, like all great art.”

  “I don’t wallow.” She sniffed. “How could my illustrations possibly help Michael?”

  Touching his finger to her temple, he pressed. “Think!”

  To his amazement, light zapped from his finger and erupted like tiny fireworks.

  *~*~*

  At Luke’s touch, a flash illuminated in her brain, thinning to a shimmering, gauzy haze on which an image appeared. Michael with his daughter. Together, they sang, heads inclined toward one another. Nothing like the Michael Goodman she’d met and read about, whose anger flared all too often around others. Maybe he’d always had a temper. But no, the video said otherwise. His beaming smile, his lovely song—he clearly had been a happy person at one point. When he’d had a wife and daughter. A family to love.

  The song finally registered, an improvised mash-up of Happy Birthday and the Carol of the Bells. Horror washed over her anew. “Her birthday is Christmas?”

  Luke arched a brow in answer.

  Of course. That’s why he’d named her Noelle. How awful. It certainly explained why Goodman acted so difficult and bitter, and why he became someone else entirely when around kids. The poor man.

  “No wonder this project made him so cranky.” Why did he want to do it, then?

  Luke winced. “Cranky? Is that the depth of your sympathy?”

  Speaking of sympathy, had Luke none for her? “No, I only meant—”

  “Ach.” Disgust showed plain on Luke’s face as he turned.

  Her illustrations. Of course. She had to find a way to reach Michael through her art. Maybe even reach Luke. What on Earth was his problem?

  Or could that be the crux of it, that Luke no longer lived on Earth? She stole a glance at his surly profile. How had his life ended? What—or who—had he left behind?

  “You’ve seen enough.” He strode away toward the motorcycle.

  With a final glance at Michael, she hurried after Luke. She could hardly wait to ride with him again, and needed no further encouragement to climb aboard.

  Nestling against him, she mulled over all he’d said. Use me, he’d said. Damn. She’d love to, in many ways, but his attitude left a lot to be desired. The rest of him almost made up for it.

  She luxuriated in the ride, wishing it could last forever. That she could hold him forever.

  Over the hum of the engine came the strains of a slide guitar. Then the insistent beat of drums. Unseen musicians played carols to a rock beat. Impossibly familiar voices sang the lyrics.

  In a luminous mist, Luke halted the Harley, cut the engine and leaned back, more relaxed as he nodded to the rhythm.

  Alice cared less that they hovered in midair than that some of her rock and roll heroes, long passed, played nearby. “Are you serious? You brought me to listen to them jam?”

  “From afar. But afterward, I expect you to immediately begin work on the illustrations.”

  His abrupt tone suggested she be quiet, but she couldn’t. “Can’t I meet them?” The phrase ‘so near, yet so far’ never seemed so apt.

  He shot a distressed scowl over his shoulder at her. “I’m risking punishment bringing you this far. Don’t complain.”

  Oh, the sheer torture of it all. “Will you at least let me see them?” When he turned in annoyance, she added, “I promise I won’t make a sound.”

  At his sigh of resignation, she knew she’d convinced him.

  *~*~*

  Luke would have to be careful. This woman looked at him with her sparkling baby greens, and he wanted to give her whatever she asked.

  Holding up a finger in warning, he affected a stern expression. “Shh, not a peep.”

  He lifted his arm. As if pressing a touchscreen, he held out a finger. The thick mist cleared until it revealed the familiar figures and their instruments. A terrible risk to open the curtain. It equally exposed Alice and himself.

  Her gasp of delight made it worthwhile. He suppressed his own delight when she pressed against his back, gripping him tightly as she strained to see.

  Who wouldn’t be impressed? John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix standing with guitars, George Harrison sitting cross-legged with a sitar, leaning against a wall of cloud. Ray Charles at a piano keyboard.

  Blinking her wide eyes, she whispered, “Oh my God.”

  Luke angled toward her, sorry to have broken her grasp. “Are you insane? First of all, no noise, remember? Second, never call on Him without good reason. Especially during an undertaking He would not appreciate. And on Christmas Day.” Of all the faux pas to commit, she managed to find the worst.

  Sorry, she mouthed.

  Controlling her excitement might take an act of God. He could hardly blame her. It still amazed him to see these legends perform in angelic form. How tragic no one else could hear them again. Their mash-ups of classic holiday tunes with their original songs would sell millions.

  She whispered, “If only I’d brought a video camera.”

  “Don’t be absurd. No recording devices work here. And this is your final warning. Sshhh.”

  “Okay. Sorry. I can’t help it.” She barely repressed a squeal as Jimi flashed her a smile and winked.

  “That’s it.” He couldn’t chance further discovery. He pressed the air again, and the mist closed around them, shrouding the group from their view. And vice versa.

  “Nooooo,” she whined.

  He revved the Harley. “I can see this assignment will extend beyond the deadline.”

  As they headed home, she glanced back though he knew she could see nothing.

  In girlish excitement, she said on a sigh, “What a fantastic Christmas present.”

  When she tightened her grasp around his waist and rested her chin to his shoulder, it seemed like a gift to him too. The simple act eased two centuries of loneliness. How he’d missed the touch of a woman. A woman who cared about him.

  After they landed on her roof, he set the motorcycle onto its parking stand, then held out his hand. As soon as she slipped her hand in his, they stood in her kitchen.

  Alice lifted a bare foot and picked bits of broken glass from it. “Oh no. My favorite cup.” She bent to retrieve the shards of the mug she held earlier.

  “There’s no making you happy, is there? You’re going to complain about the trip, I suppose.” He’d thought sure it had pleased her.

  “I only meant that if you’d let me know before you whisked us away, I could have set my cup safely on the counter.”

  Typical female. He’d forgotten how churlish they could turn in
a snap. A good reminder why he didn’t believe in love. “Do you know the danger I put myself in for you? I could face severe consequences. And you couldn’t even hold your tongue for one minute.”

  Brushing up the last pieces into her palm, she rose. “I’m sorry. I got so excited, I couldn’t help myself.”

  Some progress, at least. “How convenient for you. And irresponsible, I might add.”

  Head bowed, she studied him a moment. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had so much fun. Thank you.”

  A heaviness hung in the air. An expectancy. Did she want him to kiss her? If she’d take one step, rise on her toes and touch her mouth to his, he wouldn’t stop her. He knew that for a certainty.

  And knew for a certainty it would result in disaster.

  Heaving a sharp breath, he shot her a wary glance. “Yes. Well. Now that we’ve gotten that little exercise out of the way, let’s focus. Remember this is a working holiday.” He said it to remind himself as much as her.

  Her tone softer, she said, “I appreciate it.”

  “No thanks necessary. Today is all about you, babycakes.” If any remnant of luck remained, some splendid insight would hit her, and remove any need for him to rack his brain for ways to be useful.

  With no idea what she needed, how could he possibly know where to start?

  Chapter Three

  The enthusiasm that had buoyed Alice earlier abandoned her when she stood in front of the easel. “Are you sure this will work?”

  Running his finger along her CD collection, he pulled one out to study it. “You’re giving up before you’ve even started?”

  “I may need another look at the daughter.” Or another ride on Luke’s motorcycle.

  Pressing a button, her stereo lit and the tray opened. He inserted a disc. “Bunk. You’re stalling.” Strains of an intricate piano melody floated out. Another of her favorites.