Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [51]
Quietly, so as not to disturb Charlie, Angela dressed and crept downstairs. She reached for the aluminum coffee percolator and filled it with the water Charlie had left out. Within minutes she had bacon frying on low and was mixing a batch of pancakes.
Playing house, which she knew was what she was doing, was a comforting obsession that kept much less pleasant things at bay. For this brief time, no dreams had haunted her sleep. She had almost forgotten about her visions.
Almost.
Her mind whirled as she stirred the pancake batter. What would she do with herself all day? Dust. Punch cushions to plumpness. Water the plants and clean the already clean bathroom. She could strip both beds and put on fresh sheets. The towels needed to be washed. She could dust and vacuum and read the paper. After that, television, and then time to make dinner. Normal as could be.
If her mother knew where Angela was and what she was doing, she would totally disapprove. Who the hell is Charlie Roman? And what do you think you’re doing with him? But . . . you don’t have to come home. There’s nothing here for you. Or me.
Sylvia Steinhart wasn’t wrong about that. Her parents’ marriage had been rocky for years. Some day, Angela thought, she herself would make someone a good wife. She liked to potter around the house and take her time doing small things. She liked clean things and everything neatly in its place. She particularly liked watering Charlie’s plants with the yellow watering can with the orange flowers painted on the side. It made her feel very domestic. She was enjoying every unreal minute of her stay here. But it wasn’t going to last indefinitely. Sooner or later she was going to have to confess all to Charlie Roman. If good old Mummy ever found out where she was, poor Charlie would be dragged into court for attempted kidnapping or some other trumpedup charge.
She couldn’t allow that to happen to him. He was just too nice. Her face was fierce as she stirred the batter with a vengeance.
“What’s wrong?” Charlie asked. She jumped, startled by his sudden appearance. He was alarmed at her strange look.
Angela looked up. “Nothing,” she said calmly. “I was just thinking of something unpleasant there for a minute. Sit down. I’m making you pancakes and eggs and bacon. You need something besides coffee before you go out on a day like this. Didn’t I tell you that weatherman was all wet last night?” She giggled.
Charlie laughed. “Those were your exact words, all right. Do you know what woke me up?”
“Perking coffee?”
He nodded. “From here all the way upstairs. It’s a great smell.”
Angela poured the batter onto the square grill pan. “Yes, it is.”
“And . . . I like the smell of pine, too. Especially at Christmastime.” Charlie paused. “I was thinking, Angela, would you like to take a ride to Cranbury soon and buy a real Christmas tree? We’ll bring it home and decorate it together. There are boxes and boxes of decorations in the attic.”
“Oh, Charlie! Really? Oh, I would love that!” Angela cried, her eyes shining. “I’ve never decorated a tree before. My mother always did it all. I wasn’t allowed. That way it came out perfect,” she added with a touch of bitterness.
“You’ve never decorated a tree before?” Charlie asked incredulously.
“No, but I’ve always wanted to. So do you have a star for the top?”
“Better than that. A gossamer angel!”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Angela said, sliding a stack of pancakes onto his plate. “Your eggs are coming right up.”
Charlie ate like there was never going to be another ounce of food put before him. He savored each and every mouthful, not because he was that hungry but because Angela had made it especially for him. He knew she would be pleased if he ate it all. When he’d finished, he leaned back in the stout wooden chair. “I hate to eat and run, but I’d better get an early start. The weatherman said the roads were freezing over and there were traffic jams. I’ll call you on my break and, if I get a chance, I’ll stop