Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(23)

"You should," Jake says. "Tell your parents. Share your doughnuts. We'll leave you to them, actually. We don't want to be late."

I kiss her cheek and slip out of the booth and past Delia.

"Thanks again, Jake," Kaylee says. "Really. Better than a Furby."

Delia steals a doughnut from the box and heads back to the kitchen.

"We'll see."                       
       
           



       21



Brielle





Sunday revelation: an astounding percentage of churchgoers watch the news before heading off to worship. I'm squeezed and patted, my cheeks smeared with various shades of lipstick. It's overwhelming, all these ladies in their Sunday best, their hairspray and perfume and soft sweaters pressed against me. Their promises to keep Dad and me in their prayers.

My lips tremble, but I force them into a smile and grip Jake's hand.

They're all so kind. But I'm angry and lost, and their kindness just might break me today.

The sanctuary fills with voices, human and flawed, singing about our Savior. Some sounding like skilled musicians, some pitchy and flat all at once. I mouth the words but let the others do the singing. I notice Pastor Noah's not here today, but his wife, Becky, leads the congregation from the piano. Stephanie stands at her side, harmonizing. The two of them are lovely, angelic even. Next to me Jake sings, his eyes closed, the tender rasp of his voice most appealing here, in worship. And though our elbows brush, I've never felt so far from where he is.

The song is a favorite here, and I know each word before it's sung. They're beautiful words. Words that lift up Christ, thank Him for His sacrifice, declare that all things work together for the good of those who love Him.

But today it's hard.

I close my eyes tighter and tighter. Try as I may, I just can't see it.



Jake's working again today, so I plan to grab my camera and disappear for a while. Far from Dad and whatever explanation he's cooking up. But the second I step through the front door, I know I've walked into an ambush.

Pastor Noah is here. He sits on a barstool at the counter, eating a hefty serving of chocolate chip pancakes. I happen to know Dad hates this guy. Hates. More than he hates the Red Sox. Seeing him in my kitchen is bizarre-weirder than finding Dad flipping flapjacks for a koala bear. Next to him is my boss, Miss Macy. She's pancake-free but stands there in a pair of jeans, nursing a cup of steaming coffee.

It's always strange to see her wearing anything but a leotard.

"Elle, sweetheart." Her lips are tipped down, her chin puckering. More sympathy. Yeah. But she squeezes me tight, smelling like fruit and sunshine, and I can't help the tears that spring to my eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

"Your dad asked us to stop by," she says, rubbing my arms like I've caught a chill. I turn my eyes to Dad, but he's flipping a pancake, patently avoiding eye contact.

He's a chicken.

A big, fat chicken.

The kitchen door opens then, and the sheriff walks in.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, removing his hat. "Cemetery's a mess. We're going to have to-" He sees me and stops.

Miss Macy and Pastor Noah are strange additions to the kitchen this afternoon, but Sheriff Cahill? Pretty sure I know exactly what that's about. I can only assume Dad invited Miss Macy and Pastor Noah for moral support.

And suddenly I'm out of place here. In my own house. I know things I shouldn't know. Things they have to tell me but would rather not.

"I'm just going to change."

"Go ahead, Elle," Dad says, his eyes lingering on Mom's Bible clenched in my fist. "Get changed. We'll be here when you're through."

I kick off my heels as soon as I enter my room. They skitter across the carpet, disappearing under my bed. I swap out my slip dress for jeans and a yellow T-shirt, all the while considering just why Dad included Pastor Noah in this terrifying little gathering.

Of all the people in the known universe, Canaan included, Noah is the last person I'd have expected Dad to invite into our house. Noah and Becky were old friends of Mom's, churchy friends, and Dad's not keen on churchy folk. Out of ideas, but still hoping to stall, I run a brush through my hair and stare at myself in the mirror over my dresser.

I catch sight of the halo on my wrist. It's grabbing hold of the sunlight spitting through my blinds and sending it back brighter and more beautiful than ever. I wonder what they'd all think if I put it on my head and wore it out there.

I wonder what I'd see.

I grab the white sweater hanging on my desk chair and slide it on over the halo. No point provoking Dad right now.

I leave my room, lingering in the hallway outside the kitchen. I listen, but the words are all whispers. I consider hiding in my room and calling Jake, telling him to call in sick, get over here, help me face this. Instead, I press my head against the wall and I pray. A good one. A long one. And then, sliding on my sneakers, I step into the kitchen.

But it's empty.

Answered prayer?

"In here," Dad calls, deflating my happy thought. "Thought we'd be more comfortable this way."

Maybe it's not an answered prayer, but it's progress. I can't remember the last time Dad thought of anyone's comfort but his own.

I walk across the kitchen, grabbing a lukewarm pancake from the stack. I tear off a piece and shove it into my mouth as I step through the archway leading to the living room. Dad's given his chair to Noah, which might be the weirdest thing yet. Miss Macy sits on the couch, her legs crossed, coffee cup still glued to her hand. Sheriff Cahill sits in my favorite reading chair. He's thumbing through a magazine and puts it down as I enter.

Dad stands by the television, like he's going to be doing magic for us or something. I expect him to produce a large, flimsy saw and a box for me to climb into.

"Sit, baby," he says, gesturing to the couch.

Miss Macy pats the spot next to her and I sit, glad I'll at least have a hand to hold through this whole thing.

Dad clears his throat. "Elle, last night, there was some . . . trouble out at the cemetery." He rubs a sleeve across his brow and looks around. The cool he seems to have manufactured for this little meeting has fled, and panic takes control of his face. "I don't . . . umm . . . Mike, you wanna?"

"Sure," the sheriff says, leaning forward in his chair. But the pity on his face is too much, and I decide. I don't care what I have to tell this room of people, I'm not pretending my way through this conversation.

"I know about Mom's grave," I say. My words are delivered to Dad, but he's the only one in the room not looking at me.

Miss Macy rubs my arm all the harder, and Noah prays under his breath. The sheriff rolls onto his heels and pushes back so he's sitting on the ottoman of the reading chair.

"How?" Dad says, his voice strangely gruff. "How do you know?"

This right here, this is why I should have listened to Helene.

"It was all over the news," Noah says. "All over the papers, Keith."

But Dad shrugs Noah off. "She doesn't read the paper. Doesn't watch the news. Your boyfriend told you, didn't he?"

I shake my head, but the hatred in his eyes keeps my mouth shut.

Miss Macy saves me.

"It's been everywhere, Keith. Knock it off."

The room goes quiet. It seems Dad is still waiting for an answer. He wants to know how I knew, but I'm not going to lie to him.

"Why?" I say, my voice dry. "Why was the casket empty?"

Dad's eyes snap to Mike's.

"I swear," Mike says, "that part wasn't released to the press . . . to anyone, Keith. No one knows about that. It's just like I told you."

"You're still trying to hide stuff? I know, Dad. Does it really matter how?"

"It's a small town," Noah says. "Word gets around."

"I want to know how," Dad says stubbornly.

I'm mad now. Really, really mad. "Yeah, well, I want to know why, Dad. Why was her casket empty?"

The sheriff is embarrassed, yanking at his collar, his face slick. "There are several scenarios that fit the evidence, Miss Matthews."

"No, no, no," Dad says. "If we're gonna do this, let me do it right."

"Good man," Pastor Noah says.

Dad glares at him, forcing Noah farther back into his seat. Then he laces his fingers and turns to me. For the first time in forever he looks clear. Determined.

I'm hopeful. And then he starts talking.

"Your mother was terminal," Dad says. "She was incredibly ill and you were very, very small. I needed help. Miss Macy was the logical choice. She was a friend of Hannah's. In fact, when your mom made up her will, she insisted on listing Miss Macy as your godmother."

I turn to her, surprised. "You're my godmother?"

Miss Macy's eyes are full of tears, her voice soft. "I can't magic you a ball gown or anything, but yes. It's what your mother wanted."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to," she says, stroking my hair.

"Then why didn't you? All these years . . ."

"I asked her not to say anything about that stuff, about your mom," Dad says, gruff. Irritated. "I'm not ashamed of it, Elle. I was doing my best to protect you. I'm still trying, if you haven't noticed, but I'm not the voice you listen to these days."

He's cheating. It's not fair to make me feel guilty now. But it works, and my voice wobbles.