3

“Yeah, it’s a lot of structural work,” the building contractor says as he stands in the living room and shakes his head. “You really ought to have checked before you started walking around on the roof — I swear every year some fool falls through, no offense.”

“None taken,” I sigh.

‘Yep, I’m a fool.’

I’d spent the morning trying to find insurance paperwork and phoning contractors, only to find my asshole husband had not paid the insurance this year. Where that money had gone, I have no idea. So now I have to pay to have the work done, but most of the contractors were not willing to labour over the Christmas period. I’d also had to try and come up with a plausible explanation for the giant hole in my roof. But apparently Tom, the contractor, wasn’t surprised by it at all, simply assuming I’d been trying to hang Christmas lights or stuff a fake Santa into my chimney and underestimated the strength of the roof beams.

Meanwhile, the true cause, an actual angel, is upstairs in my son’s old bedroom, hiding from view, oblivious to the drama he’d caused both psychologically and structurally to my world.

I’d put a sling around his wing as best I could last night, but I have no idea what damage he’d sustained from his fall. I’d also laid down the law that he could only stay until his wing was fixed. I’m not in any shape to have a houseguest at the moment, even one who looks like Adonis and does nothing but compliment me.

He hadn’t made any comment about that, but I didn’t press the issue. Instead I’d gone to bed, exhausted and heartsick from the day’s events and still half-thinking I’d probably had a stroke. Nevertheless, I told him before I retired for the evening to stay hidden from sight, just in case he was real. Given the year I’ve had, honestly, nothing surprises me any more.

This morning, after another restless night of broken sleep and bad dreams, I’d woken to breakfast in bed.

He was more than real. He was a dream come true.

“Keep this up and we’re going to get along like a house on fire,” I’d murmured as I sipped the perfectly brewed coffee. “And I don’t mean I want you to set it on fire. You’ve done enough damage.”

He’d smirked, and once again I couldn’t help but return the smile, even though I knew I had a long morning of fruitless phone calls ahead of me. And another day of trying not to imagine my husband doing horizontal acrobatics with a girl young enough to be his daughter.

The builder drones on, but I’ve already stopped listening. His droning monologue reminds me of James. His constant ‘preparation, preparation, preparation,’ mantra before anything could be done. Me, I prefer a more devil-may-care, instant gratification kind of workflow. I don’t need his advice on what I should have done or could have done. The point is, it was done. No point crying over spilt milk or ‘compromised structural integrities’ — I have to fucking fix it. End of story.

“So,” I interrupt him. “Cut to the chase, Tom. How much will it cost to repair?”

“Well,” he looks down at his notebook as though it holds the answers, “it’ll take a day or so to organise another beam. Then, we have to hire scaffolding and braces to hold up the ceiling while we undertake the work. Likely, it will take a couple of days to get it set right, and then another couple of days for plastering. Then the building inspector has to be booked to tick it off, but the government work’s office is shut over the holidays. So, realistically, at least two months before the job is all done and dusted. In the meantime you’ll have to move out — you’ll get mighty cold here otherwise, and it’s not safe.”

I wait for him to finish. None of what he’s said made any difference to the cost as far as I could see, other than the hiring of the scaffolding and the time to put the beam back where it had once stood before I’d watched, horrified, as feathers rained down upon me. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why people can’t just answer a bloody question. I don’t want to know what he had for breakfast this morning. I don’t want to listen to him work out his logic one sentence at a time. I just want a straight answer. Seriously, is it just me?

‘Oh my God, I’m that grumpy old woman!’

“Do you really need bracing?” I embrace the grump and interrupt him. “I mean, it’s been twenty-four-hours, and the rest of the ceiling is still holding up.”

“It’s a danger to my men,” he frowns, “a work safety issue.”

“Right,” I sigh, “well then, the cost?”

“Couple of grand.”

“A couple of thousand dollars to put up a bit of wood, plaster, and tiles?”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re looking at ten grand at least. I mean you have to allow for overtime penalties due to the season….”

“Ten is more than a couple, Tom,” I roll my eyes. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s a busy time of year. A lot of the boys are off on Christmas holidays soon. If you want the job done before the new year, now would be the time to book it in.”

I shake my head.

In my brain, I’m thinking, which let’s face it is where thinking is usually done, that the Angel may have a crooked wing, but he has two very strong arms. The least he can do is help me fix the ceiling. After all, he said he wanted to learn…perhaps we can learn to build together. There’s no way in hell I’m giving this guy ten thousand dollars to do it. And bracing? Bah.

“OK, then,” he says, shrugging as he turns to leave. “Ah, Mrs Wright is there any reason why the front door is swinging open, knob-less?”

“Yes. My husband ran off with his secretary, which I’m sure you’re well aware of, Tom, since you contract for his business here and there. So this house is now officially knob-less.”

I hear laughter from the bedroom upstairs, but the builder doesn’t join in.

“Merry Christmas, Ma’am,” he says solemnly.

“You too,” I murmur as he leaves.

As I watch him drive away I consider my options. There’s enough money in the bank to perhaps buy the materials, but the work will have to be done in-house, and I definitely can’t afford to move out, even if I had anywhere to go.

‘I said I was going to remodel after James left. I guess this is my chance.’

Looking up, I see the angel descending the staircase wearing the grey sweatpants I’d found in James’ otherwise empty drawers. They have a few holes in them and some paint splatters, so I’m guessing that’s why James left them, although I don’t know why he bothered taking any of his clothes. Now that he’s shacking up with the Wednesday Adams look-alike his style has changed as much as his personality. When he’d visited last night he was wearing tight new jeans and a black t-shirt that did nothing to hide his small beer gut. Prior to his affair he’d favoured button-down check shirts and sweats.

I’d always liked his casual style. But even old sweats never looked anything on him like they do on this angel. I study him now, swallowing hard as I note the pants clinging to every line of his muscled legs. I really can’t help but admire his physique as he reaches where I stand. I mean, I’m only human, and he’s still shirtless despite the weather, because I hadn’t found anything to fit his broad chest. The fact he’s wearing pants is a win though, in theory. I’d managed to convince him that clothes were a necessity not just for decency but due to the weather outside, and the law. Honestly, I wouldn’t have minded if he’d stayed naked, except I would have drowned in drool. Even now I’m hard-pressed not to poke his abs to see if they’re as solid as they look.

“Don’t you think it strange, though?” He’d murmured as he’d pulled on the sweatpants earlier, “that you humans wash your skin and your clothes. It makes so much more sense just to wash one thing.”

I had to agree. It was something I hadn’t considered. And if I had a body like his I’d be more than happy to show it off. But do I want my stretchmarks and saggy boobs dangling about for all the world to see? Hell no.”

I drag my eyes away from him now and turn to walk into the kitchen.

Pouring us both a coffee, I frown at him.

“You have questions,” he smiles. “I can see it in your eyes.”

I roll them and begin my interrogation. Shit yes, I have questions.

“If you’re an angel from Heaven, sent by God, have you seen my parents? I lost them in a car accident three years ago?”

He clears his throat and looks, for the first time, uncomfortable.

“No. I haven’t seen your parents, Merri. I’d rather not talk about where I come from. I don’t want to say something that might destroy your faith and understanding of your world. It’s not permitted, or acceptable to my kind, to do something like that.”

“I have no faith. I’m an atheist,” I shrug. “So just tell me the truth.”

“An atheist? Then why ask after your parents?”

“I did just have a winged man who claims to be an angel fall through my roof!” I roll my eyes again. “So, forgive me for hedging my bets.”

“Yes,” he chuckles. “You did. Tell me what you believed before you saw me, though.”

I shrug.

“I’ve never been a church-goer. Once upon a time I thought perhaps there might be reincarnation, but I never fully embraced that idea, or religious dogma. I wondered for a time after my parents passed if some energy from a deceased person remains behind, because I sometimes feel like they’re with me. I think now that perhaps it does, but only in the minds of those who love and remember them. That’s how they live on. That’s all.”

“I agree,” he says quietly. “Although there are even some of my race who have faith in some kind of afterlife. Nobody’s come back to say one way or the other, though.”

“No,” I shake my head. “No human, that’s for sure.”

“Or angel,” he shrugs.

“So, what are you? And what is Heaven, really?”

“I am an angel,” he says gently, “but Heaven is my planet, not a realm for souls. We, my kind, watch over the human race. We try to keep you safe.”

“You’re not doing a very good job,” I snort. “War, famine, disease…”

“We can’t stop all the evils of the world, but we can mitigate those that threaten catastrophic harm from within and without. We can do all in our power to balance the bad with humour, patience, empathy, honour and love — we work to promote celebrations of these human attributes. Some of these annual celebrations have been incorporated into religions, but they’ve been around for millennia.”

“I guess that’s why you have a reputation as being ‘godly,’ then,” I shrug, “because we deified angels.”

“Yes. Over the centuries we’ve visited and lived amongst humans to learn from them, but also to teach. We don’t stay, though, once our work is done. I have to believe I’ve been sent here to do just that and then return to my kind to spread the word.”

“Right,” I nod, my mind racing with new questions.

“And is there a god?”

“There’s a supreme ruler of our planet, whom we call God,” he nods, “but he’s not ‘a god’ as defined by humans. He’s the ruler, as was his father before him, and his son will be after him. It’s a hereditary role, a bit like your human monarchy.”

“So, who sent you here?”

“My boss,” he shrugs, “I think.”

“Not God.”

“Merri, there are millions of us. That would be like me asking you if the president told you what to wear today.”

“Huh,” I nod.

“Although, if I was the president I’d tell you what to wear,” he says with a smirk.

“Let me guess,” I sigh, “no clothes.”

He grins.

Still mulling over everything he’s told me, I finish my coffee, put my cup in the sink, and turn back to him.

“I, for one, am thankful you’ll be wearing clothes today, because we have to go shopping. I’m pretty sure there’d be a riot if the lascivious housewives of this town got an eyeful of what you’re packing underneath those rags.”

“Are you saying you think I’m attractive, Merri?” He raises his eyebrows.

‘Hell yes. Blind Freddy could see you’re attractive – but I’m not in any frame of mind to become a cougar.’

“I’m saying, I hope you’re really ready to learn,” I mutter over my shoulder as I pick up the car keys, “because we’re both about to get a crash course in re-building a roof.”

“I’m good at crashing,” he grins.