The Heat of Angels Page 4

  “Hmmm, the pickup truck might be yours, but…I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m concentrating.”

  Chris laughed. “Sorry.”

  Passing three more cars, Sarah said, “No. No. And no.” And then she stopped, pointed, and said, “That’s the one. The Frontier SUV. That’s yours.”

  “How in the world…how’d you figure it out?”

  “The powers of logical deduction.”

  “That’s crazy! I mean, really, how’d you do that? You should apply for the detective position at the police department.”

  Sarah turned to face her. “I think you should shut up and let me collect.”

  Chris leaned toward her and they kissed. Their coming together was, alternatingly, yielding and insistent. The gentle softness of Sarah’s lips played with the fervid firmness of Chris’s tongue and accelerated her heartbeat faster than a hummingbird’s. She tasted the earthy trace of cappuccino mixed with, possibly, spearmint gum.

  Much too quickly, Sarah pulled away. Her eyes were half open, as if waking from a happy dream.

  “Wow,” Chris said.

  Sarah reached up and cupped Chris’s face, drawing her thumb softly over her lips. “I liked that.”

  “That kiss was as fantastic as your car-finding ability.”

  “I hope it was better than that,” Sarah said as she squinted charmingly, “because I saw you drive away from Whole Foods Market yesterday.”

  They laughed and fell into a hug. They fit so damn well, a shiver of passion started rising from Chris’s legs to her belly. She almost shook her head to remind herself to slow down, but she was having too much fun.

  *

  All the way home, Sarah thought about Chris. She was amazing and carried herself with such confidence and control. Maybe a little too much control, if she was to speculate beyond what she’d seen.

  But nothing seemed wrong about being with her. She was strikingly good looking and projected an unmistakable sexy vibe that she herself probably wasn’t even aware of. Chris understood her sense of humor and also made her laugh. Sarah even tried to walk slower so they wouldn’t get back to their cars as fast.

  She pulled into the driveway of her home in the Hollywood Hills, rehashing bits and pieces of their conversation. Their bantering back and forth about the sixties and the origins of their names was a joy that couldn’t be topped, even if you put it up against Christmas and puppies.

  But one thing bothered her. What did Chris think about the fact that she didn’t actually have a job? She used her time well by volunteering, but she wasn’t establishing a career or truly living on her own.

  Sometimes she hated her birthright. She often dreamt of breaking away from her family and setting off on her own. She could become anything she wanted, to hell with any financial strings that bound her. But the fears and cowardice that forced their way into her head and beat the shit out of the little independent and adventurous spirit inside her would soon douse that notion.

  She walked up her porch stairs and unlocked the front door.

  Chris seemed self-sufficient and hard working. She was sure Chris had earned anything she had. Normally most everyone did; they graduated from school, got a job, and started building their life.

  Sarah had been born into the exception, though. She despised names like “deep pockets,” “high baller,” “loaded,” “friends of the Benjamins”…all the terms that continuously taunted her as badly as the daily jibes of a schoolyard bully. But in all her turmoil, she kept quiet because no one would ever show her any sympathy for being frustrated and unhappy about her family’s affluence.

  She stood in the foyer and scanned the interior of the house. This all was hers, but it wasn’t hers. She hadn’t earned a penny toward its purchase price. How had she let this way of life all happen? Why hadn’t she rebelled when she was younger and more able to take risks? Long gone were the days of running away from home. She was a cow in a stockyard, not questioning the march that led to the big, ominous building where humans had smiles as strange looking as their menacing tools.

  Independence wasn’t a virtue she could call her own. And if she didn’t respect herself, how would someone like Chris?

  And did Chris see those things in her? Did she wonder about the logic of pursuing a woman who constantly chipped her tooth on a silver spoon? Would Chris call again?

  She sat down on her couch and put her feet up on the coffee table, marveling that her short time with Chris had made her forget about everything but their togetherness. Chris seemed truly interested in her without knowing much about her life. At the same time, Sarah was excited about getting to know Chris but frightened about Chris getting to know her.

  Still, she felt drawn to this new person in her life in extraordinary ways that ran deeper than anybody she’d ever been with, and that made her feel better than anything she could imagine.

  *

  Sunday morning came a little too early. Sarah hadn’t slept much because she’d spent the night with more energy than she could contain. Her date with Chris had been an unexpected leap forward and out of the stagnant dating puddle she’d been mired in.

  Finally she’d found someone who was cute and funny and kind. Chris seemed stable and responsible. Plus, she’d felt so good when they kissed.

  From the moment Chris had reacted with such kind understanding to Sarah’s silver-spoon admission, she’d wanted to kiss her. Chris didn’t show any signs of feigning acceptance of the fact that she didn’t have a career or hoping she might share some of her wealth.

  The information had passed Chris by as insignificantly as a gnat through a window screen.

  But would that impression last? People divulged a lot of trivial personal information that skipped along the surface during a first date. But later the reality of deeper knowledge could potentially sink her to the bottom.

  Sarah had tried to lie down to sleep, but thoughts of inadequacy buzzed around her head like bees trapped in a phone booth. She finally got up and made coffee. When she turned on her laptop to empty her mind, she couldn’t resist searching the Internet for Chris Bergstrom. One link led her to an article about Chris’s work with Abel. It talked about their training and Abel’s ability to detect drugs and people. It also noted the rarity of a female K9 officer and touted awards they’d received. The attached picture of Chris in her uniform was impressive. Sarah didn’t think of herself as having a thing for uniforms, but she might consider it now.

  She found a few pictures of Chris on different web pages, mostly illustrating articles about her police work. And she uncovered one mention of a Chris Bergstrom who contributed to a charity for military children. That had to be her.

  They’d parted the day before without any discussion about a second date. She so deeply hoped Chris wanted to see her again. Picking up her cell phone, she realized it was six thirty in the morning. As much as she wanted to call Chris, she resisted what might be an inappropriate gesture so soon after meeting her. Instead, she showered and left for the wildlife refuge.

  “You’re early,” Allan said to Sarah as she walked up the path toward him. He was standing by the baboon enclosure, his hands in an electrical box.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “The sensor for the light is out. Sasha and her family, here, have been in the dark for two nights.”

  Sasha, the matriarch of her tribe of Guinea baboons, sat nearby and watched them with interest. She lifted her long dog-like muzzle and sniffed the air when Sarah approached. Seemingly satisfied, she closed her eyes and lazily scratched her hip. A few other baboons, namely Billy, Tessa, and Pudge, slowly walked over, a breeze coming from the top of the hills behind them riffling their manes.

  “Maybe they like being in the dark. It’d feel more like their original habitat.”

  “Maybe for the young ones,” he said, nodding to Billy, Tessa and Pudge. “But the furry old lady was raised in captivity, and she likes having sort of a night-light.” />
  Sadness spread throughout Sarah like syrupy melancholy that wouldn’t easily dissipate. And she knew why. Sasha had never had a normal childhood. And neither had she.

  Chapter Four

  Abel’s bark woke Chris up. He announced an approaching dog and warned of a human in distinctly different ways. This was the latter, so she got up to investigate who was close by.

  In boxers and a T-shirt, she trotted toward the front of the house. The doorbell rang and she glanced at her wall clock. It was just after eight a.m.

  Chris’s neighbor, Mrs. Richards, started talking as soon as she opened the door.

  “Chris, honey, could you bring Abel over? We have a situation.”

  “What’s the problem, Mrs. Richards?”

  “It’s those children next door again. They’re so loud, and I think they throw themselves against the wall just to make noise. Their mother is there, but she won’t do anything about it.”

  Elderly Mrs. Richards lived in the apartment building next door and managed to come by asking for police assistance at least once a month.

  “Have you talked to the mother?”

  “Oh. No. She won’t listen anyway. I mean, she never responds to my notes, so I doubt she’d talk to me.”

  “How many notes did you leave?’

  “Maybe eight or ten. So I need you to bring Abel. Just the sight of him will get her attention.”

  “Mrs. Richards, I can’t bring Abel over. This is a personal matter, and it doesn’t appear that anyone is breaking the law. If you really feel that the noise is too loud, you can call the police.”

  “But you are the police.”

  “I’m not working right now.”

  Mrs. Richard’s eye’s darted back and forth, and Chris almost looked forward to the next thing out of her mouth.

  “Can I just borrow Abel, then?”

  Chris tried not to laugh. “Abel is a little too much firepower.”

  The old woman pumped her bicep. “I’m strong.”

  “I’m the only one who’s allowed to handle him.”

  “Oh.” She seemed puzzled. “Well, then. I guess I have to listen to that racket.”

  “The police are there if you need them, Mrs. Richards.”

  Chris closed the door and wondered if she should have purchased this house, given that the apartment building was a little too close by. But then again, she was glad she’d decided on the old bungalow. It was perfectly located on palm-lined Palm Street, between Santa Monica Boulevard and Sunset Boulevard, in the gay heart of West Hollywood, and she loved its cheerful exterior personality of light-blue paint and chocolate trim.

  She went out to her well-established but slightly overgrown yard and let Abel out of his locked kennel. As usual, though he’d spent all night holding his pee, he was much more interested in playing ball with her.

  “Take a break,” she said, and he immediately responded to her command, trotting over to lift a leg at a tree.

  Chris stood on her brick walkway, her bare feet cool on the red clay blocks, and waited until he was done. He was then back on task and brought his favorite ball to her, dropping it at her feet. She threw it, always careful to avoid a high lob. If it bounced wrong and went over the fence, Abel would immediately follow.

  The Zen-like repetition of ball-throwing allowed her to reflect upon Sarah and their date. The walk had been perfect. The conversation was truly pleasurable. And their amazing kiss had been a definite surprise.

  She’d call her again, she was sure. Chris very much wanted to find out more about the woman she’d encountered over blackberries.

  *

  Sarah sat on her living-room couch, reading a novel about vampires in modern-day Paris. Since childhood, literature had provided a distraction from a family who was overly concerned with superficial endeavors that rankled her. They spent too much time and energy fussing about how they should look and act, which, even to her immature mind, seemed shallow. They were trying to conceal who they really were, and the amount of energy they expended could have built the pyramids. She hadn’t even reached the point of using two hands to count her age when she figured out that family secrets were just that, and breaking the silence was tantamount to treason. And though, at that age, she didn’t know what the word “treason” meant, she knew her parents were formidable rulers in the kingdom of what she’d later understand as protocol.

  The constant tension made her want to hide in her closet, but decorum required her to at least be in the presence of the people who created her and the other two offspring that had come along, one before and one after her.

  Reading seemed to be the most acceptable pastime, her parents ostensibly happy that she was educating herself instead of watching TV.

  Now, as an adult, she could spend hours nose-deep in a book, which helped quiet her mind from the tape recordings her parents must have surgically implanted in her brain.

  Good girls don’t run through the house.

  We aren’t supposed to raise our voices, are we?

  Why can’t you be someone we can be proud of?

  Books were her sanctuary, and their pages, salvation.

  The dull buzz of her cell phone came from the kitchen, so she got up to fetch it.

  “Hello?”

  “Sarah,” came the voice. “It’s Chris.”

  A sudden injection of elation raced through her veins, and she dropped her head back, completely delighted. “Well, hello. How are you?”

  “Very well,” Chris said. “Happy Sunday.”

  And it was, now. “Happy Sunday to you.”

  “I’m calling because I really would,” she stretched her words out like a jeweler selling the important aspects of a rare gem would, “like to have a second date with the woman who came from bottle blowers.”

  “I’d love to. But I must warn you,” Sarah said as she sat back down on her couch, “that we blowers of the bottle are a quirky bunch.”

  “I get the feeling that I’m now supposed to say, how quirky are you?”

  “Well, I’m glad you asked. Traditionally, we’re adamant about what happens on the second date. We’re pretty good at planning and, I must say, expert at a good time.”

  “Is it because of all the hot air you’re used to blowing?”

  “Touché, Officer Bergstrom.”

  “Whatever you plan will be fine with me.”

  Chris’s voice sounded so warm and sincere, Sarah wanted to pause in confused suspension. With words now catching in her throat and her chest feeling strangely like bursting, it was as if joy and contentment, both very foreign emotions to her, were suddenly making themselves at home. “Would…” she said, hoping her voice remained even, “would you like to come over here for dinner?”

  “That sounds great.”

  “Is six thirty okay with you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Sarah hung up and stared out her front window. Maybe this was the start of a decrease in book time. She suddenly stood up and looked around her living room. The place needed a thorough scouring. She checked her watch and realized that she had lots of time, but she kangarooed around the room anyway, hopping about with joyful enthusiasm.

  *

  After a shower, Chris was listening to the television while she picked out jeans and a light-blue pullover and got dressed.

  Two of the three fires that burned in Los Angeles County were sixty percent contained. The other one, moving from the northern part of the Angeles National Forest, was still eating its way through fairly inaccessible areas and, other than some calculated firebreaks, water-dropping planes were the only artillery.

  Chris hated that so much land was being destroyed. Of course, nature relied on fire to balance its ecosystems and to revitalize and clear away underbrush, as well as expose fresh soil underneath. And some plants need fire to germinate and reproduce.

  But every season, too many knuckleheads lit matches or flicked cigarettes out of car windows in numbers that were much more frequent than those c
aused by lightning strikes or sparks from rock falls.

  It bothered her that animals were currently suffering throughout the county. She just prayed that birds and mammals were evacuating and reptiles were burrowing in their holes or finding ponds and streams in which to hide.

  Over the voice of the fire reporter, a rapid bing-bing-bing punched through. The heavy thumb on her doorbell told Chris that Paige had come by.

  She opened the door, and Paige followed her to the back of the bathroom.

  Paige sat on the toilet while Chris combed her wet hair. “I’m on my way to the hiking store. Need anything?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “What are you doing on your day off?”

  “I’ve got a date.”

  “With the grocery-store lady?”

  “Her name’s Sarah.”

  “Slow down, Turbo. Back up a few steps. How’d the date go last night?”

  “Really well.” Chris watched herself smile in the mirror. “We met in Laurel Canyon, had coffee, and took a walk.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “She kissed me.”

  Paige leaned back and crossed her legs, looking like a psychologist analyzing a patient. All she needed was a pipe to chew on. “While that would normally be an ordinary act on the first date, I do know, in your case, that’s a big thing. What happened that made you so reckless? Did she put booze in your drink?”

  Chris glared at her. “No. It was just a…thing that happened.”

  “You’re not going to get away with that flimsy answer. Kissing on the first date is a whopper for you, I know. You’re pragmatic and methodical when it comes to…well, everything.”

  “I don’t know. She’s just different. She’s so easy to talk to. We have the same sense of humor.”

  “And she’s hot, right?”

  She picked up the hair dryer. “Yes, that, too.”

  “It helps,” Paige said. “So if I look at the rampant trend being established here, that means your date tonight will end in sex.”