Dream Angel : Heaven Waits Page 2
On one hand, I looked forward to a friendly face, someone who understood my love for a man I had never met. Or so Steve assumed. Another part of me, my much less confident side, hoped a certain angel would be watching.
How does one attract an angel’s attention? Since his departure from my life, this question had been haunting every hour of my day. I could find no definitive answer. There were no written instructions for me to follow, and the Bible spoke sparingly of such things. I found myself relying on my own humanistic ideas which, of course, meant my plan was flawed from the start.
***
With only thirty minutes before I was to meet Steve at the café across from Graceland, I jumped into the shower and raced to get ready. The legacy of my childhood upbringing to literally and unfailingly be at church on time was that as an adult, I could not tolerate lateness. As I rushed about the room like a madwoman, trying not to be haphazard and waste the little time I had, my cell phone insistently rang with the sound of “Treat Me Nice.”
Heather was persistent, I’d give her that. I would have explained my plans to her, but she would only worry. I let the first, second and third calls all go to voice mail.
Racing the clock, I made a mental note to change my ring tone to something more reflective of my current mood. I considered “Hurt,” and then just as quickly tossed that idea aside. “The Sound of Your Cry” popped in to my mind. Better? No, the song I had was upbeat, and I could use all the help I could get.
I loved my angel. Was that not an acceptable excuse for chasing after him? After all, it was he who so abruptly left me, confused and literally alone in a bed smelling of his savory cologne. And, I wasn’t the type of woman who took men to her bed, even if they were Elvis Presley. I prided myself in being a good girl. Now, who was I? If God would only tell me how this was all supposed to work, this loving of angels, my life would be much easier. But so far, God wasn’t speaking. Or maybe it was I that was not listening? Nothing was clear.
What if God was silent for a reason? My mind spun around that question like a caged hamster on its wheel. Did he expect me to let Elvis go after all we’ve been through? Even the words “letting go” felt as thick on my tongue as a mouthful of cotton. No, I defiantly shook my head at nobody in particular. It wasn’t time to let go. Not yet.
In two fluid and familiar movements, I unpinned my long chestnut hair and quickly tied it back into the default time-saver: a ponytail. I paused to look at my reflection in the mirror. My oval features and defined cheek bones were hauntingly familiar, a walking reflection of my mother. And upon looking closer, my blue eyes sparkled with a new look, one of death-defying determination. This woman before me, throwing caution to the wind, was such a stranger to me the mere sight of her stopped me in my own tracks.
I reached for my purse, wondering if it was a sin to want what God himself had given me. While nibbling nervously on my bottom lip, I suddenly smiled. No, I won’t think of it today. Happily, I decided to side with Scarlett O’Hara.
Chapter 2
A sharp cold wind blew even for winter. Standing outside my motel, I pulled my jacket to my face and marveled at the steely sky churning over head. Gauzy thin clouds sped by, tearing apart, bumping into other clouds, and forming new shapes in a poorly choreographed dance. I imagined them to be as restless as my spirit.
I tried to warm up by pacing as I waited for the cab. The rhythmic pattern of five steps up, five steps back made it easy for me to fall into deep thought. Once colorful leaves blew dead and broken around my feet, but I did not see them. I was again becoming entrenched in this all-absorbing dilemma and allowing it to take me over. The remembering was always the same.
My trip to Boston last spring had been beyond life-changing and still consumed me. Though it had been months since the devastating car accident marred the trip, and brought my angel to me, it continued to mystify me. By nothing short of a divine plan, Heather had been driving when we had our misfortune on the freeway, and only I had been terribly injured. As was always the human condition, one could not help but wonder why.
“Miss! Miss!” A voice cut through the wind.
I turned to see a friendly bellhop peeking out from the doors of the warm hotel lobby.
“No need to stand outside, ma’am. The taxi will be a few minutes late.”
Looking down to my watch, I grumbled under my breath as I realized I had just five minutes before I was expected.
“Thank you, but I don’t mind waiting.” Turning, I shoved my hands further into my pockets.
Must everyone tell me what to do, I fumed, my defiance surging while the cold helped to clear my head. My teeth had just begun to chatter when my phone vibrated violently in my pocket. Despite the fact I had my hand curled around it, the idiotic thing still made me jump. I did not have to look to know who was calling.
“Yes.” I grimaced.
“So, tell me about this Steve.” Heather’s tone sounded tense, and for a moment I imagined I was having this conversation with my father.
“He’s a gentleman I met last night while visiting Elvis’ grave.” My breath expelled like steam out in to a cold Memphis morning.
The line went silent. I wondered if I had lost her in some infuriating cell phone vortex, but her measured breathing gave her away.
“This doesn’t sound too safe to be, you know, meeting with strangers.” Heather finally said sounding with what I noted was an extra measure of unease.
“He’s a fellow fan, not a stranger.”
“I’m coming to Memphis.” She blurted out.
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re acting irrationally!”
“I’m a grown woman.”
“I’m still coming.”
“Fine.” I closed my phone with a snap.
By my figuring, I had roughly three hours before the next plane landed. I knew she’d be onboard. Heather and I were more familiar than most with the flight schedules in and out of Memphis. We had both worked them many times in our years as in-flight service clerks — flight attendants to the rest of the world.
I understood Heather’s need to find me. Our camaraderie was full of expectant, and often dreaded escapades. Like fire and ice, we were very different. I was Audrey Hepburn to Heather’s May West. Such extremes should have prevented us from ever becoming such fast friends, but somehow we made it work. We have co-existing down to a science, telling each other everything and never judging what the other is sharing. It is a friendship based on love and as irritated as I was by her reaction, I also knew if the tables were turned, I would do no different.
My reverie was cut short by the sharp squeal of tires nearby as my yellow-checkered ride all but bounced into the hotel parking lot, a steamy white trail of exhaust behind him. I waived eagerly.
“To Graceland, please.” I said before the door was even closed behind me.
As we peeled away, I could see the bellhop, still shaking his head from inside his warm sanctuary.
“I don’t understand me, either.” I huffed, and blushed when I noticed my driver’s quizzical look peering at me from the rear-view mirror.
I smiled, silently praying the driver’s drop-offs were less flashy than his curb-jumping pick-ups.
***
The cabbie skillfully worked his way through the congestion on Elvis Presley Boulevard and pulled into the tourist viewing lane next to the mansion. My eyes never left the majestic white house above us as I handed the driver his fare. An ageless beauty, the mansion’s presence commanded attention. With flanking grand Corinthian pillars, and Tennessee limestone brickwork, it symbolizes today the affluence it reflected when it was created. The large gated windows, framed by emerald-green shutters, looked down knowingly from the home’s perch on the hill. I threw one final thanks over my shoulder to the cabbie and reluctantly turned my back to Graceland. Across the street sat the cozy café where Steve was waiting for me. I steadied myself with a deep breath and tried to pretend I didn’t feel the eyes on the hill
behind me, still watching as I walked away.
The wait at the crosswalk seemed interminable. Not only were my teeth beginning to chatter in rhythm with the blinking red hand, but my resolve to keep this date with a man I barely knew was starting to waiver. My conscious tugged at me and made my indecision worse. Was I genuinely interested in getting to know Steve, or was meeting him across from Graceland a sophomoric attempt to make my angel jealous? I flashed back to the night we met, remembering the oozing of Southern belle charm, and had my answer.
Elvis’ powerful tenor softly echoed in the breeze as I crossed the street and shuffled along in a plaza that surprisingly held few visitors. I strolled around unoccupied tables and chairs without really seeing them. I was focused on every rich, breathlessly sung note. And even under stress, his singing could still make me smile.
When I reached the windowed door of the café, my hand hovered over the worn brass handle. My hazy likeness gazed back at me and I laughed, embarrassed. I was not normally a woman who acted first and thought about it later. Where had the level headed girl my mama raised gone? I wondered, and inhaled deeply before giving the door a quick jerk.
A bell jingled merrily as I entered the diner. The 1950’s décor, complete with teal vinyl booths and a fire-red jukebox in the corner had the feel of a gentler time in history. As I stood there wishing I could beam myself back, a few lone visitors peered up at me briefly from their steaming morning brew. Scanning the room, I paused at every photo with Elvis’ piercing baby blues and that same smile. The mere sight of him stirred up a quivering in the pit of my stomach.
Who knows how long I stood in that one spot studying each photo before I realized the last one was directly over Steve’s blonde head. A morning paper opened before him to the sports section, he was looking at me, eyebrows raised.
“Good morning. Sorry I’m late.” I slid into the booth, across from him.
“Hello, luv. I was beginning to wonder if you were coming.” His emerald-green eyes sparkled brighter than his smile as he folded his morning read.
Steve’s accent charmed me. I didn’t know enough about England to guess which region he came from, but it didn’t matter. He was like a breath of fresh air. I believe I could have listened to him run on about nothing at all, and been quite happily entertained.
“I had trouble sleeping," I said, taking off my jacket, "and then I woke up late.”
“Can I fetch you some coffee, then?” He stepped out of the booth.
My mouth was poised with my request but he was too fast for me, and gone before I could share it. Peculiar, I thought, but who was I to judge. I had oddities of my own. Like the fact that I was in Memphis chasing angels, for one. Besides, he was a gentile looking man, tall with wavy hair, and a lean but sturdy build. Harmless, I considered, watching him steadily before realizing I was staring. I peeled my eyes away only to meet Elvis’ baby blues gazing down at me. Until that moment, I had missed seeing the life-size portrait on the wall immediately beside me. Elvis’ eyes were as soft as the clouds and even bluer up close than any photo could ever convey. For a moment I became lost in his idle gaze. As always, he was my personal composer, playing the strings of my heart.
“Here you go… one coffee.” Steve announced.
“Thank you.” I drew back, pulling my eyes away from Elvis.
“You scurried off so quickly last night I was beginning to wonder if I’d see you this morning.” Steve chuckled, taking his seat in a slow motion.
“My manners are usually better than that. Can you forgive me?” I cradled the hot cup in my hands and squinted against the steam drifting up from the velvety beverage.
How did he know I took cream?
“I thought maybe you had another engagement.” He sipped his beverage, studying me over the rim of his mug.
“Yes… well, I was hoping to meet with a friend, but he never showed.” I smile lightly and took a cautious sip.
“He, you say?” He asked suspiciously as he scanned my face for the truth. “What foolish chap would leave your side allowing a bloke like myself to step in so easily?”
My cheeks burned. I loved a compliment as much as the next woman, but my shy nature always had me feeling like a teenager left in the company of men. A simple “thank you” never seemed good enough. And, as I was stammering about, momentarily knocked off balance, my attention shifted to a red jukebox against the wall behind Steve. The machine turned on with a click.
“You blush beautifully, by the way.” Steve was still strategizing while the red and orange lights of the music box flashed.
I ignored his intense stare, mystified as it shuffled 45’s like a deck of cards.
“Did you see anyone put money into that music box?” I touched Steve’s hand, politely interrupting, while eagerly reaching out to a passing waitress with my other. “Excuse me, miss, does this jukebox have a timer on it?”
“No ma’am, that machine is plum crazy, that’s what it is,” the grey-haired waitress said, as she hustled by, loaded precariously with full trays.
I grinned, looking down to hide my smile, while also preoccupying myself with removing imaginary lint from the jacket in my lap.
“This cold must be affecting my brain.” I gave a quiet laugh as an oldie-but-a-goodie softly began to play.
“Sam, where is your gent now?” Steve gently asked as Elvis' voice floated into the room.
My attention flickered from the bright and shining machine, then back to the man at my table. What was this song? Distracted, I felt my head cock like the family dog, and a whole minute must have passed before Steve’s question even registered.
“I’m afraid my gentleman’s location is a mystery, even to me.” The truth was out of the question and a lie just felt wrong.
“Well, if he’s smart, he’ll get back to you before I steal you away.” Steve’s eyes flashed about my face in a scrutiny that flushed me, and not in a good way.
I pushed out a laugh.
“May I ask the man’s name?” He asked, a little too casually I thought. “It’s always good to know one’s competition.”
Having just met Steve, his hard pressed flirting had me fidgeting while warning bells of a turn in an uncomfortable direction rang inside my head.
“Well, it’s… complex.” I half-smiled only vaguely aware the chipper song, I couldn’t quite place, had stopped.
“I’m a good listener.”
My regret soared. He was misunderstanding and who could blame him. Out of desperation I had become, virtually overnight, someone even I disliked, an abuser of other people’s emotions. How did I get here? I couldn’t say, as it had all happened so fast. I considered my declining words carefully, but before I could open my mouth to speak the first few velvety bars of “He’ll have to go” filled the room like a handmade quilt.
“Put your sweet lips”, Elvis purred, and that voice instantly took me back to the late hours of our last night when his whispered words of romance were just for me. My pulse skipped.
“If I’m prying, I apologize.” Steve slid his hand across the counter and placed it over mine.
Words tumbled around in my head but nothing acceptable seemed to present itself. Suddenly, the song blared and we both jumped as Elvis’ voice bellowed through the diner. Two employees raced past our table headed to tend to the “noise” that nobody was complaining about. I watched as they jerked out the wall plug, and still the music continued. My eyes widened, and I was monitoring them, as they raced to the back, while also trying to read Steve’s mouth that still moved. I leaned in closer, but his words were drowned out by Elvis growling the last sung lyric. His demand all but screamed in to my ear, slamming against my heart.
My friend had to go, I contemplated, and as if answering the lights to the juke box flickered once and then twice before falling dark.
“I-I don’t know why I came it’s… it’s not right.” I began to collect my coat.
“Samantha.” He smiled at me but would not meet my eyes.
“Please stay, Samantha. You haven’t finished your coffee.” He jumped up and caught me by the arm. His grip was tight and I winced from the sting.
“I can’t stay. Please forgive me.” Tears swelled, and I could barely hear what must have been my own voice over the pounding in my ears.
Steve’s unbelievable reaction to me leaving him, for what was the second time, was as mind-boggling as his insistent behavior was scary. He was either the loneliest man in the world, or the craziest. Either way, I felt lower than the silt at the bottom of the murky Mississippi.
I tried my best to give one last humble apology and followed it with a firm goodbye as I put my coat on. The house on the hill that taunted me was pulling me in, and I was powerless, even if it meant Steve got left behind.
Chapter 3
The wind blew against me as though Mother Nature herself knew my destination. I pulled my coat tighter around me and raced across the plaza’s wet sidewalks. My resolve was stronger than the oncoming wind. Running to the store front, I pulled the door open too hard and practically jumped over the threshold into the still lobby. A warm waft washed over my face, and Elvis’ soothing voice floated melodically throughout the room. With little pause, I sped through the red velvet ropes like a mouse in a maze determined to receive my reward.
“Hello. I’d like a ticket for the next bus,” I practically demanded of the agent, exhibiting little to no eye contact as I gazed back in the direction I had left Steve.
“Would you like the platinum tour?” The woman behind glass asked by rote and without looking up.