The Angel
Page 71
The entire way home Wesley berated himself for how badly the evening turned out. Bridget…she was great. Smart, beautiful, older—he liked that. A year and three months living with a woman in her early thirties had made Wesley nearly allergic to girls his age—their drunk texting, their obnoxious Facebooking, their Ugg boots and their wide-eyed flirting. Nora didn’t wear Ugg boots. Or play on Facebook. Or drunk text. She wore black leather boots with straps and zippers. She swore like a sailor, drank like a fish, fought like a man—literally. He’d watched her box once and she KO’d her sparring partner—a retired featherweight boxer named Bruce—in three rounds.
And Nora didn’t flirt with anybody. “Flirting’s for people who don’t mean it, Wes,” Nora had once said. “I seduce.”
Dammit…he’d just broken up with Bridget and here he was thinking of Nora. Again. As always. As he had every single day since moving back to Kentucky. He’d never told his parents about Nora—just said he’d decided he missed the farm too much. His mom had bought it. His dad had been more suspicious. Of course, he’d been something of a zombie those horrible weeks after Nora kicked him out of their house. He’d finished out the semester in a daze, crashing on his friend Josh’s couch and staring at his cell phone waiting for Nora to call and say she’d made a mistake, that she wanted him home with her again.
But the phone never rang. And even when he called her, she never answered. And now thirteen months later, he still hadn’t heard a word from her. Was she happy? Safe? Was she with Søren right now? Was that bastard hurting her? Wesley’s heart clenched at the very thought of them together. Only his hatred of Søren burned hotter and stronger than his lingering love for Nora.
But just barely.
Wesley turned into the drive and paused to punch in the security code. The iron gates yawned open and he drove through. He checked the time—11:53 p.m. Mom and Dad had been in bed for hours, thank God. No one would bother him with questions if he ran into the main house for a few minutes.
He killed the headlights as he pulled into the circular drive. Ever since coming back home, he’d lived in the guesthouse way out back. But all the mail went to the big house. He’d applied to Tulane—great pre-med program—but wasn’t quite sure he could handle NOLA weather. Kentucky summers were bad enough.
Wesley stood in the foyer and flipped on the lamp by the big entryway mirror. Glancing at himself he still didn’t quite recognize the person reflected back. For months he’d put off a much-needed haircut. When he lived with Nora she would pounce on him about his hair when it got too long, sometimes literally. Once he’d been lying on the couch reading when he felt a weight on his chest. His book went flying and he found Nora straddling his hips with her knees; she had both hands on his chest and a pair of scissors clenched between her teeth like some kind of guerrilla hairstylist.
“What are you doing?” Wesley had demanded as Nora held him down with one hand while her right hand wielded the scissors.
“Cutting your hair. You have the most beautiful brown eyes of any guy on earth and you let your damn hair hide them. Now don’t move unless you want me to blind you.”
The scissors inched closer and he’d tunneled his head into the couch cushions as far as he could. Nora only backed off when he swore on the grave of Anaïs Nin—her personal hero—he’d get his hair professionally cut that week. Now his hair almost reached his shoulders. His mom gave him hell for his hair, but her complaining didn’t make him nearly as happy as Nora’s haircut ambushes. Secretly he thought of his long hair as a source of strength, like Samson. He hadn’t cut it just to spite Nora. She couldn’t see it, couldn’t care less. But he knew if she saw him, she’d hate how long it was. And that gave him a little dark measure of satisfaction. Stupid really. She didn’t care about him, didn’t love him, didn’t miss him. Why bother?
Wesley flipped through the mail and found nothing of interest. Nothing from Tulane yet. Still too soon probably. Only sent his stuff in two weeks ago. He dropped the mail back on the side table and noticed a large padded envelope addressed to him.
He read the return address and saw it came from somewhere in New York. Had one of his old Yorke friends sent him something? Wesley tore the envelope open.
For at least a full minute Wesley stared at the cover of the hardbound book.
The Consolation Prize by Nora Sutherlin.
With shaking fingers Wesley slowly opened the cover. He turned one blank page…then another. On the title page he found a note in familiar handwriting.
Turn the page, Wes.
Wesley took a shallow breath. His heart raced wildly in his chest. Thirteen months of nothing but the silent treatment and now…
On the next page he found the dedication.
Wesley leaned his weight against the front door. He needed something to keep him standing. The door didn’t work, and he slid to the floor. He remembered…Nora in her bed, her hair still wet, her face devoid of any makeup. And she’d never looked so beautiful. The next day was her anniversary with Søren and as usual she intended to go see him. Finally Wesley had realized the simply horrible fact of the matter.
“You still love him, don’t you?” he’d asked her.
She’d run her hands through her wet hair and let the water droplets fall to the floor.
“Many waters,” she’d said.
Many waters cannot quench love, Nor will rivers overflow it. Song of Solomon 8:7.
And Nora didn’t flirt with anybody. “Flirting’s for people who don’t mean it, Wes,” Nora had once said. “I seduce.”
Dammit…he’d just broken up with Bridget and here he was thinking of Nora. Again. As always. As he had every single day since moving back to Kentucky. He’d never told his parents about Nora—just said he’d decided he missed the farm too much. His mom had bought it. His dad had been more suspicious. Of course, he’d been something of a zombie those horrible weeks after Nora kicked him out of their house. He’d finished out the semester in a daze, crashing on his friend Josh’s couch and staring at his cell phone waiting for Nora to call and say she’d made a mistake, that she wanted him home with her again.
But the phone never rang. And even when he called her, she never answered. And now thirteen months later, he still hadn’t heard a word from her. Was she happy? Safe? Was she with Søren right now? Was that bastard hurting her? Wesley’s heart clenched at the very thought of them together. Only his hatred of Søren burned hotter and stronger than his lingering love for Nora.
But just barely.
Wesley turned into the drive and paused to punch in the security code. The iron gates yawned open and he drove through. He checked the time—11:53 p.m. Mom and Dad had been in bed for hours, thank God. No one would bother him with questions if he ran into the main house for a few minutes.
He killed the headlights as he pulled into the circular drive. Ever since coming back home, he’d lived in the guesthouse way out back. But all the mail went to the big house. He’d applied to Tulane—great pre-med program—but wasn’t quite sure he could handle NOLA weather. Kentucky summers were bad enough.
Wesley stood in the foyer and flipped on the lamp by the big entryway mirror. Glancing at himself he still didn’t quite recognize the person reflected back. For months he’d put off a much-needed haircut. When he lived with Nora she would pounce on him about his hair when it got too long, sometimes literally. Once he’d been lying on the couch reading when he felt a weight on his chest. His book went flying and he found Nora straddling his hips with her knees; she had both hands on his chest and a pair of scissors clenched between her teeth like some kind of guerrilla hairstylist.
“What are you doing?” Wesley had demanded as Nora held him down with one hand while her right hand wielded the scissors.
“Cutting your hair. You have the most beautiful brown eyes of any guy on earth and you let your damn hair hide them. Now don’t move unless you want me to blind you.”
The scissors inched closer and he’d tunneled his head into the couch cushions as far as he could. Nora only backed off when he swore on the grave of Anaïs Nin—her personal hero—he’d get his hair professionally cut that week. Now his hair almost reached his shoulders. His mom gave him hell for his hair, but her complaining didn’t make him nearly as happy as Nora’s haircut ambushes. Secretly he thought of his long hair as a source of strength, like Samson. He hadn’t cut it just to spite Nora. She couldn’t see it, couldn’t care less. But he knew if she saw him, she’d hate how long it was. And that gave him a little dark measure of satisfaction. Stupid really. She didn’t care about him, didn’t love him, didn’t miss him. Why bother?
Wesley flipped through the mail and found nothing of interest. Nothing from Tulane yet. Still too soon probably. Only sent his stuff in two weeks ago. He dropped the mail back on the side table and noticed a large padded envelope addressed to him.
He read the return address and saw it came from somewhere in New York. Had one of his old Yorke friends sent him something? Wesley tore the envelope open.
For at least a full minute Wesley stared at the cover of the hardbound book.
The Consolation Prize by Nora Sutherlin.
With shaking fingers Wesley slowly opened the cover. He turned one blank page…then another. On the title page he found a note in familiar handwriting.
Turn the page, Wes.
Wesley took a shallow breath. His heart raced wildly in his chest. Thirteen months of nothing but the silent treatment and now…
On the next page he found the dedication.
Wesley leaned his weight against the front door. He needed something to keep him standing. The door didn’t work, and he slid to the floor. He remembered…Nora in her bed, her hair still wet, her face devoid of any makeup. And she’d never looked so beautiful. The next day was her anniversary with Søren and as usual she intended to go see him. Finally Wesley had realized the simply horrible fact of the matter.
“You still love him, don’t you?” he’d asked her.
She’d run her hands through her wet hair and let the water droplets fall to the floor.
“Many waters,” she’d said.
Many waters cannot quench love, Nor will rivers overflow it. Song of Solomon 8:7.
