Cate stood and stared at the man's broad back as he strode out of the store, then turned to Sarah, who was still massaging her throat. She felt stunned; she couldn't remember ever being threatened before; no one had ever physically abused her or hurt her in any way. Even to have someone speak harshly to her was shocking--she knew she'd led a somewhat sheltered life in that regard.

"Who was that?" Cate demanded. "I don't know," Sarah said. "He said he was looking for Zach."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I didn't know where Zach was. And I don't. Come on, let's not worry about it. Let's go back to work." She didn't want to talk about it any more, at least not with Cate. She needed to tell Zach, but she really didn't have any idea how to find him. The only times she'd seen him, he'd seemed to have been looking for her; she didn't know how to reverse the process.

Cate was still there, standing in the office doorway. "Sarah, what's wrong with your throat? Did he hurt you?"

"No, I'm fine. Just a sore throat." She felt close to tears, but she knew if she broke down in front of Cate, she'd never hear the end of it. Cate would want her to go to the police, but what could she say? "I met this guy who said he's an angel, and then this other guy, who I would guess is an angel, too, came in and demanded to know where he was, and when I couldn't tell him, he somehow made me stop breathing without touching me." Uh huh. She could just imagine how well that would go over.

Or maybe this guy wasn't another angel; maybe he was the demon she'd been fearing since she met Zach. It was hard enough believing in an angel; she definitely didn't want to be dealing with something even stranger and potentially dangerous.

"Cate, I need to make some phone calls, okay? I'm going to close the door, just come get me if you need me, okay?"

"If you're sure you're okay . . . " Cate moved slowly back into the store.

"I'm sure." Sarah closed the office door, then sank into her chair.

The big man had looked vaguely familiar, now that she thought about it, but she couldn't imagine where she'd seen him before. Maybe he resembled some movie actor she'd seen, or maybe he looked like a criminal she'd seen on television. He was certainly scary enough. He had that absolutely unfriendly, no questions, no smiles attitude--definitely the strong, silent type. Like some stereotypical Mafia goon whose job was hurting people, and he liked it.

She had told Cate she needed to make some phone calls just to get her out of the office, but maybe she should all someone. But who? Who could she tell that would believe her. She dialed Esmé in New Orleans.

"Hello!" came the familiar, warm voice.

"Hey, Esmé, it's Sarah," she said, and at the "Sarah!" that came back, the tears started.

Esmé knew enough to wait until Sarah could talk again; Sarah wouldn't be calling with some emergency that couldn't be handled long distance, she needed a shoulder to cry on, and a long distance shoulder must be all that was available.

"It's okay, sweetie," she crooned, just like she would have done if they'd been in the same room. "Just cry, Esmé's here."

Sarah finally got herself under control. "I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to do that. You know how it is, when you're just kind of holding yourself together by your fingernails, the smallest kindness can send you over the edge?"

"I know exactly how that is. What's going on, Sarah? What's got you on the edge?"

"Oh, I don't even know where to start!"

"How about at the beginning?"

* * *

Once she got started, it wasn't a very long story. When she had finished, there was silence on the other end of the line.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"It's an old cliché, but I believe that you believe, and that's really all that matters at this point. Why don't you come down and stay with me for awhile? I've got plenty of room, and while I'm finishing the book you'd have a lot of time to yourself. And Charles is here to keep away the bad guys." Charles was Esmés . . . well, Sarah wasn't sure exactly what Charles was. "Bodyguard" was probably too formal a term for what he did. He drove her car when she needed to go somewhere, and he took care of things around the house, and when "bad guys" needed to be taken care of, he took care of them, although Sarah doubted that came up very often. Still, Esmé was very well known in certain circles, and it certainly didn't hurt to have someone watching your back. Sarah had always wondered if there was more to their relationship than employer and employee, but she'd never asked.

"I'd love to, but really, I can't. There's the store . . ."

"Sweetie, the store won't collapse if you're not there. You've got people you trust working there, don't you? Let them handle it for awhile."

"They're just part-time, I really can't go anywhere. Not right now, anyway. Maybe after the first of the year."

"And what will have happened with your angel by then?" Esmé's voice was soft. "I really think you need to get out of town for a little while."

"I'll think about it.

"Okay, okay, blow me off. I'm used to it." Sarah could hear the smile in Esmés voice. "But please promise me you'll be careful."

It was beginning to be an ongoing theme. "I will. I promise. Listen, I've got to go. Thanks for listening."

"Call me and let me know what happens. Call me anyway, okay?"

"I will. Bye."

Sarah hung up the phone. She sat at her desk for a few minutes, then took a deep breath and got ready to go back out into the store. But before she did, she pulled a pen and a piece of paper out of the center drawer and wrote "Cadmiel" on it, so she wouldn't forget.

* * *

The shop was busy. There was an old man standing at the counter buying a newspaper, a woman browsing in the mystery shelves, and two young girls sitting on the floor in the Young Adult section, giggling over something. She would usually ask them to get up off the floor in case someone tripped over them, but what were they hurting? If someone said something, she would ask them to move, but for now, she would let them be. Two more women came in and headed straight for the Christmas cards. She supposed she'd better be thinking about Christmas. It was still a few weeks away, but she hadn't done anything at all about it except to let Cate decorate the front window.

Thinking about it, she began to panic. She needed to buy something for her parents, and James' parents, and get them shipped back to Chicago. That was really the extent of her familial obligations, well, except for James' sister. They'd never really liked each other, never hit it off, but she should send her something. And, of course, Jason and Cate, but they were easy. She'd run over to Elysian Fields, the famous Sarasota giftshop, and buy Cate a crystal or some silver earrings--something Sarah would like for herself, following her mother's advice when picking a gift for a childhood friend--and she would give Jason money. She'd slip a $50 bill in a Christmas card, and he'd be thrilled.

And speaking of Christmas gifts, what, if anything, should she get Zach? She laughed at herself--she'd be to dinner once with him, and seen him maybe a half dozen times, if that, and she was thinking about what to get him for Christmas! And what did you get an angel, anyway? They probably already had everything they could possibly want . . .

It was silly, she knew; she would probably get him nothing, and she might not even ever see him again, but it was fun to think about, so while she walked around the store seeing if anyone needed help, straightening up the odd shelf, picking up a stray coffee cup, patting a little boy on the head as he played with a toy car while his mother shopped, she thought about what she would get Zach for Christmas.

Gloves, maybe. A warm hat. She'd knit him a hat! Oh yeah, she didn't knit. It was Cate who knitted. She'd ask Cate to knit him a hat! A book, but what kind of book? Poetry? What about music? A book was probably safer, because who knew what kind of stereo equipment they had in Heaven . . .

"Sarah?"

She had been standing in the poetry shelves--well, "shelf," really--holding a book of Edna St. Vincent Millay's sonnets pressed to her chest as she thought about Zach.

And terrible beauty not to be endured,
I turn away reluctant from your light,
And stand irresolute, a mind undone,
A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight¹

She started, and hurriedly shoved the book back onto the shelf. She looked up into Zach's face, and she felt blood rush into her cheeks. Oh, damn! She hoped he hadn't seen the book, but from the smile on his face, she assumed he had. Oh well. Might as well make a fool of herself sooner rather than later.

"Hello!" she said, pressing her back against the bookshelf in a futile gesture of hiding the books. Why couldn't she have been standing in the Travel section? Or Cooking? He reached behind her and pulled a volume from the shelf.

"Whom will you cry to, heart?" he read, and continued:

More and more lonely,
your path struggles on through incomprehensible
mankind. All the more futile perhaps
for keeping to its direction,
keeping on toward the future,
toward what has been lost.²

She looked into his eyes. She felt dreamy and slow. "Are you really an angel, Zach?"

"Yes, Sarah, I am."

"Are all the angels beautiful, like you?"

He laughed. "I'm afraid it's part of the job description."

She suddenly pushed away from the shelf. "Let's get out of here!" She rushed into the office and grabbed her bag, flying by Cate at the counter with a, "See you tomorrow!" Cate countered with, "Call me later!" and Sarah waved at her as they rushed out the door.

"Where are we going?" Zach asked as he hurried to keep up with her.

"I don't know!" she answered. "I just needed to get out into the fresh air." She ran down the sidewalk, then down the steps to the beach. She balanced herself on one foot as she took off her sandals and dropped them in her bag.

"Race you to the water!" she said, and took off, and he ran, laughing, after her. He caught her at the edge of the ocean, and they stood gasping for breath. "Zach?" she asked. "Is this real?"

He opened his mouth to speak. "Sarah--" he started, but she threw out her hand. "No, don't tell me!" she said. "I don't want to know. Just let me be happy for as long as it lasts, okay?" And she turned and started walking down the beach, only to turn back to him and say, "Tell me about angels."

* * *

"Do you talk to God?" she asked. "I mean, talk to him and he answers, not like I talk to him."

They were walking along the beach hand in hand, skirting little children building sand castles and teenagers lying on blankets; no one seemed to notice them--a small barefoot blond woman holding her skirt up out of the water and a tall man dressed all in black.

He stopped abruptly and held out his hand, , palm up like a traffic cop, indicating that she should stop talking. He stood stock still, gazing into the middle distance.

"What?" she said. He held up his hand again.

"Yes?" he said. "All right." He turned to her and mouthed, "God."

She backed up a step and clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

"Yes sir," he said. "No problem at all." He turned back to her, reaching for her arm, and started walking again. She pulled on his arm and made him stop.

"That was God? You were talking to God?" He grinned at her. "Just kidding," he said.

She reached out and swatted him on the shoulder. "Don't tease me like that!"

They went on walking.

"So you weren't really talking to God? Do you talk to God? I mean, on a regular basis?"

"Sure. Well, listen mostly. He does tend to go on a bit."

* * *

"And what about the wings," she asked.

"What about them?"

"I've done some research. I'm not totally clueless about angels. Wings that size wouldn't get you off the ground!"

"Oh no? Do you believe everything you read? Do you think we're governed by the same laws of physics that mortal beings are? Sure, if you were going to fly, you'd need wings the size of a 747, but for me . . ." and he took off, soaring, into the air.

She stood on the beach, laughing delightedly, as he swooped around her, then glided to a graceful stop at her feet. She clapped. "Bravo!" she cried, then hugged him.

* * *

Sarah suddenly remembered her morning visitor. "Oh, I forgot to tell you! There was someone at the bookshop looking for you this morning. He . . . well, I think he might have hurt me if there hadn't been other people around."

"What? Who was it?" He instantly lost the playful mood.

"I don't know. He said to tell you that Cadmiel wanted to talk to you."

"Cadmiel?" He frowned. "Cadmiel wouldn't come here. He must have sent someone . . . What did he look like? Did he hurt you?"

"No, not really. Scared me, that's all. Tall. Blond. A big guy. Bigger than you, heavier."

He turned away from her, thinking.

"What is it, Zach? Do you know who he is?"

"I know what he is," he said.

"What is he?" She took his hand. "Zach, tell me. I need to know what to do if he comes back!"

"I don't think he would hurt you in any lasting way," he began. "I need to find out who he is, first. If he's from Cadmiel, he just wants me. It doesn't have anything to do with you, he was just using you to get to me."

"But who is he?" she asked again.

"I don't know. But as I said, I know what he is, or what I assume he is--an angel of retribution."

"And he's after you?"

"It would seem so."

"But why?"

He started walking again. "They must have sent someone to find me and bring me back. We're generally not allowed to deviate from our assigned duties. Humans are allowed free will, but it's frowned on in Heaven."

"I thought you were my guardian angel. That's what you said."

He had the grace to look abashed. "Well, not officially."

"You mean you just decided all on your own to come down here and fix things for me, and you didn't have permission, or whatever you needed in order to make it okay?"

"That's right. AWOL, to put it simply. I thought maybe no one would notice."

"Oh great." She folded her arms and stood staring out over the ocean. "So, what? We now have legions of angels come down from Heaven to find you and take you back?

"Well, not legions. It sounds like only one."

"Who's Cadmiel?"

"He's one of the old ones. His original assignment was to make certain that every human being accomplished their own destiny, fulfilled their purpose. In the last century or so he's become . . . autocratic. I've heard he feels that guardian angels are actually meddling in human affairs, that if someone is destined to, say, die in an automobile crash, then angels have no business coming down and making them notice the stop sign, for instance."

"But wouldn't you assume that if someone is destined for a particular thing, that the angel would be part of that destiny?"

"Not to Cadmiel's way of thinking. I personally believe that we should do everything we can to help, but I'm in the minority, it seems."

"Oh, surely not! Do you mean that most of the angels are like him, old and fussy and set in their ways?"

"Many of them are. It's not all sitting around on clouds and playing harps and looking down on pastoral scenes. There's a lot of infighting and argument."

"In Heaven?" She was shocked. She had thought it was all sitting around on clouds and playing harps. Well, not figuratively, but theoretically.

"Yes, even in Heaven."

She thought of something else: "You said 'old ones.' Do angels age?"

"Yes, although very slowly. All angels are old, but Cadmiel and those of his generation are beyond ancient. Their age can't be measured in years, or even centuries, but eons. They've become grumpy old men and think it's their duty to enforce Heaven's rules--well, maybe it is."

Heaven had rules? She said it out loud, "Heaven has rules?"

"Of course. There are always rules, even in Heaven."

"God's rules?"

"Mostly, although he's pretty hands off these days. A few centuries ago he began to back away from the day to day business--just got tired of it all, you know--and left the running of things to these . . . well, the closest thing in your understanding would be a council, or a committee -- these 'council members,' for lack of a better word. Some of us think they've begun to abuse their power."

"Dissension in the ranks?"

"Something like that. It's taken centuries to develop, of course. Nothing happens quickly in Heaven."

"Are you going to do anything about it?" Sarah asked.

"There's really nothing I can do. There's quite a rigid hierarchy, and unfortunately I'm not a big part of it. I'm just a regular angel. I take care of books, and in the grand scheme of things, I'm in charge of memory. Well, not only me--I'm one of the ones in charge of memory. A very important thing, to my way of thinking, but not to some."

----

¹Sonnet No. 7: "When I Too Long Have Looked Upon Your Face" - Edna St. Vincent Millay
²Lament - Rainer Maria Rilke

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