Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [45]
It was five minutes before noon when Angela awakened and became aware of her surroundings. She lay for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Strangely enough, she felt better than she had in months, maybe years. The episode of mania triggered by her anger at her mother seemed to be ebbing. The very last shrink she’d seen had explained that her extreme moods were cyclical. He’d diagnosed her as bipolar, but at least he’d encouraged her creative talent, prescribing art as therapy. As far as her visions, he was the one who’d pegged them as the product of a psychological fugue. Meaning a state of mind that came and went. Nothing she could control.
To hell with that and every other diagnosis, she thought. Right now she only wanted to be utterly ordinary, an average person that no one noticed, following a safe routine. At peace. She was glad she had escaped from the world and all her problems, if only temporarily.
Her eyes scanned the small bedroom. The furniture was old maple and held a high gloss, as though it had just been polished with lemon oil. The tiny floral print of the wallpaper, though faded, was pleasing to the eye. The maple rocking chair with the green velvet cushions looked so inviting that Angela hopped from bed and raced over to it. It creaked, but the steady motion soothed her. She rocked a few moments, savoring the feeling, realizing that it reminded her of sitting in her grandmother’s lap. She’d been cared for then. Angela wished suddenly that she could go back to that long-ago time. Playing house had been her favorite game.
Charlie didn’t seem to mind her being here. She remembered that he’d come into her room earlier, thinking that it was the first time she’d seen him smile. He wasn’t a handsome man by any stretch of the imagination, but he had a nice smile, a warm smile. And she would be willing to bet that not too many people had ever seen it. He struck her as being a generally unhappy man and a loner, much like herself. She wondered what had happened to make him that way. Maybe one of these days he would tell her.
She looked around again, wanting something to do. All her art materials had been left behind in her studio—she didn’t even have a sketch pad to doodle in or the colored pencils that she took everywhere. Being without them made her feel oddly free. If she needed something to do, she could make herself useful around Charlie’s place. After she’d showered.
Rubbing her wet hair with a towel, Angela came out of the bathroom, dressed, and then carefully made her bed. She smoothed the rumpled chenille till there was no sign of a wrinkle. Then she went into Charlie’s room and made his bed. She looked around at the room, noticing how spartan it was. He hadn’t struck her as a collector of anything. His dresser was bare except for a brush and comb. She lined up his scuffed slippers and hung his robe on the back of the door. She took a quick peek into the closet and took inventory.
One suit and one sports jacket. Two pairs of pants on separate hangers. One heavy sweater with leather patches on the elbows—these were all that were hanging on the long rod. A pair of dress shoes, a pair of work boots, and a tattered pair of sneakers were the only things on the floor. The overhead shelf was bare. No sign of a carton or box and no suitcases. All of which told her he didn’t do much socializing or go on vacations. How lonely this man must be. Even lonelier than her.
Making her way down the stairs, Angela sniffed at the aroma of coffee. Charlie had left her some; the machine was on warm. It would be bitter by now, but it was a nice thought. A note rested next to the machine. Angela stared at it, trying to make out the squiggly handwriting.