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Follow an Angel Copyright © 2011 by Marilyn Baron All rights reserved. No part of this story (eBook) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or book reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Published by TWB Press Edited by Terry Wright Cover Art by Terry Wright ISBN 978-1-936991-19-8
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By Marilyn Baron
Tapping my freshly painted nails on the mahogany table, I glance at my watch again as the seconds and minutes tick by. How much time has to pass before I officially consider my blind date a no-show? The waiter wanders over for the tenth time. I clench the menu in my hand, hungry but afraid to order, alone. How embarrassing would that be? He frowns as if he’s familiar with this scenario; I can see it in his face. My heartbreak must be splayed open for the world to see. He’s seen crushed and desperate women before, probably a thousand times. If only he had warned me. Now everyone at the bar is looking at me with that all-knowing “she’s been stoodup” look, wondering how long it will take me to get the message. Eli is not coming. What a loser I am. It’s beyond humiliating. “Are you ready to order?” the waiter asks. A line of people snakes beyond the maître d’ stand, no doubt looking at the poster of my name and face that I imagine is plastered all over the wall:
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Eden Eastman. New York’s Most Unwanted Woman. If you see her, don’t bother loving her. She’s living alone. By now, I’ve memorized the menu and finished two drinks. “He’ll be here in another minute.” How desperate is that? He smirks as if he knows I’m lying to him...and to myself. He’s already given me 45 extra minutes. I know he needs this table for paying patrons. And my watch keeps on ticking. Eli is getting later and later I pick up my BlackBerry. No messages. No one is answering my Tweets or my e-mails. I’m out of possible explanations for his delay. The subway car did not break down. Eli is not stuck at work or caught in traffic. He did not get the time or the date wrong. He’s not coming because he doesn’t want to meet me, after all. Wait, I’m getting a text. “Sorry, my grandfather just died; will call later. Eli.” It takes me a few seconds to process the situation. I’ve been stood up via a text message. My blood pressure shoots to the moon. I’m angry at him for making me feel like a fool. I’m angrier at myself for wasting so much time on this guy. I got all dressed up. I had my nails and hair done, for God’s sake. And I don’t usually make time for all the primping. I’m a busy woman with a high-powered Wall Street job. Maybe that’s what intimidated him. My job. Is that what’s wrong with me? It’s so damn frustrating. A warm, fat tear pops out and trickles down my cheek, followed by another and another. If I don’t stop, my tears are going to form a flood and wash away the bar. I can’t control them now. I’m tired of the endless stream of bad dates, er correction, no dates. I could be in that movie 27 Dresses. Okay, so I’ve only been a bridesmaid seven times. But that’s seven
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unflattering bridesmaid dresses. Seven pairs of matching dyed silk pumps. Seven bachelorette parties I’ve planned. Seven wedding showers I’ve hosted. I’m tired of this always-a-bridesmaid routine. Last weekend, I went to my best friend’s wedding. Now I’m the last single woman in my group of friends. My younger sister is getting married next month, and I don’t have an escort for her wedding. Not to mention I just turned 30. My biological clock is ticking out of control. Eli had a lot of promise. I’d met him on an Internet dating site and analyzed him on my to-date-him-or-not-to-date-him spreadsheet. He looked good on paper. He’d been eager to talk to me before we’d set up this date, called me every morning just to say hello, and at night he’d ask about my day. I’d gotten used to the special attention. I was really looking forward to meeting him, getting my hopes up that he would be the exception...that he was a good guy, but as it turns out, he’s just like all the rest of them. That’s it. I’m fed up. I’m giving up on love. Love sucks. There’s no one out there for me. “Is anybody out there?” I Tweet on my Blackberry. Now I’m ready to slink out of this bar, hoping no one will notice me in my despair. But I’m suddenly too sick to move. Sick of my job. Sick of my life. Sick of my love life, or lack of one. There’s nothing to look forward to. No dates. No parties. No one to love. I’ve got to get out of my high-rent apartment, get away from my job, take some time off, with or without pay, I don’t care. If my boss doesn’t give me leave, I’ll just quit. I’m fed up with New York City, The Land of Bad Dates. I’ve got to get out of this loveless, lonely town. *** Ocean sunrises are breathtaking. My internal clock wakes me up early to witness them every time I visit my parents’ beachfront condo in Florida, which isn’t often enough to satisfy me. That all changed when I finally took an indeterminate leave of absence from my 14-hour-a-day, six-figure job on Wall
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Street, amid my parents’ cries of: “How can you leave a job that pays so much? How are you going to live in New York City? Do you know how high the unemployment rate is?” And, my all-time favorite, “At least wait until you get your next bonus,” which was what I’d done last year, at their insistence, and the year before that. And I won’t forget their ever-popular admonition, “Be smart!” I thought I already was smart. Their voices have been jabbering in my head for two years, and finally, on my 30th birthday, I’d had enough and told them that I am in charge of my life. If I want to ruin it, then I will ruin it. But it will be my decision. My way. My choice. Being stood up at the bar two weeks ago was simply the final straw that triggered my resolution to leave New York and abandon any hope of finding love. I’m still mad at that creep, Eli whatever his last name is. How dare he stand me up? Besides, either I get away from my job or check myself into an insane asylum. New York has one of the all-time great ones, which would be very convenient. I could take the No. 6 subway to 28th Street and walk one block south and four blocks east to arrive at Belleview. “If you’re crazy and you know it, check right in.” That little ditty plays like a scratched record in my head, and I clap my hands in fiendish delight. Or, I could take a nose dive off one of the many bridges in New York City. Instead, I elect to recover my sanity and mend my broken heart at my parents’ spacious condo. I may not ever go back to New York, except to pack up my apartment stuff and move in with my parents, a move I’m hoping to avoid. So here I am visiting their vacation home to recuperate from life. On my first real week of freedom. Freedom from the rat race. Freedom from lost love. Eventually all my angst evaporates in the warm summer air, coupled with a delicious ocean breeze that makes the night comfortable enough to sleep outside, which I did, on the Zero Gravity, stress-reducing recliner. Polishing off a bottle of
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Shiraz didn’t hurt, either. I hadn’t planned to fall asleep on the balcony, but the moment I relaxed, I dozed off. The last thing I remember is looking up at the constellations—Orion the Hunter and the Big Dipper—a meteor streaking across the sky, and the moon lighting a path across the water as I watch the stars twinkle out one by one. When I open my eyes, I see the rising sun break through the clouds. But this sunrise is different. There’s a massive deep purple cloud formation stretching across the horizon over a narrow swath of Mediterranean blue and white sky. The cloud pattern resembles a broad wingspan, a perfectly formed pair of scalloped angel wings. I see a pair of eyes, two deeper purple patches that look a lot like blackout sunglasses. I snap a picture with my cellphone. No one is going to believe this odd, ominous sky. Then I drift back to sleep. “Eden,” a voice whispers. I smile. I’m having a beautiful dream about a giant cloud formation that looks like an angel. “Eden,” the voice repeats softly. I open my eyes and see a man with wings, a real man with real wings, which extend all the way across the width of the balcony. He’s surrounded by an aura, or maybe that’s just because he’s backlit by the glaring sun, perched as he is on the low balcony wall. No, he’s teetering on the edge, wings flopping and feathers flying. I reach out my hand to steady him, but he’s too far away. I fear he’s going to fall. He surely is the clumsiest angel on Earth, obviously uncomfortable in his own wings. I scramble out of the recliner and stare at the sight of this full-blown angel wearing a sexy pair of Aviators. He must be a mirage. I blink in disbelief, but I can’t blink this vision away. Maybe drinking the entire bottle of wine last night wasn’t one of my better ideas.
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“What are you doing up here?” I shout. “Are you crazy? Get off that wall. You’ll fall.” I’ve peered over the ledge many times, so I’m quite familiar with the five-story drop to the first-floor concrete patio. Dizzying. “Are you going to invite me in?” the winged man asks politely. One minute I’m seeing a cloud formation, and the next, I’m having a conversation with a celestial being. I guess the man upstairs thinks I could use a little heavenly intervention in my life right about now. Besides, what do I have to lose? I’m face-to-face with an angel on my balcony. Obviously, I’ve already lost my mind.
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About the Author
AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH © BY ONE SIX PHOTOGRAPHY
Marilyn Baron is a public relations consultant in Atlanta. She’s a member of Romance Writers of America (RWA) and serves on the board of Georgia Romance Writers (GRW) as editor of The Galley, GRW’s award-winning online newsletter. She is the recipient of the GRW 2009 Chapter Service Award. Marilyn writes humorous women’s fiction, including The Edger, which won first place in the Suspense Romance category of the 2010 Ignite the Flame Contest, sponsored by Central Ohio Fiction Writers RWA chapter. Her manuscript, The Colonoscopy Club, finaled in the GRW Unpublished Maggie Awards for Excellence in 2005 in the Single Title category. A native of Miami, Florida, Marilyn now lives in Roswell, Georgia, with her husband. She blogs with the Petit Fours and Hot Tamales writers’ blog. Marilyn graduated from The University of Florida in Gainesville, Florida, with a B.S. in Journalism [Public Relations sequence] and a minor in Creative Writing. She met her husband at UF and both of her daughters graduated from UF. Go Gators! When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, traveling [she’s been to Helle (a village in Norway) and back], going to the movies, eating Italian food and hovering over her two daughters. Her favorite place to visit is Italy, where she spent six months studying in Florence during her senior year in college. She invites you to visit her blog at www.petitfoursandhottamales.com
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