Falling Angel Read online

  Falling Angel

  by Clare Tisdale

  Copyright © 2012 JOSEFIN KANNIN

  Chapter One

  Despite the rain, Pioneer Square was hopping as the bus pulled to a stop outside the Seattle Art Museum.

  “Is everyone here for the Art Walk?” Cara asked her roommate. Ann had lived in Seattle so long she was practically a native.

  “Pretty much,” Ann said. “Like I told you, the galleries have their opening receptions tonight. But don’t worry, it’s not only artsy fartsy types who come. Art Walk is the hottest singles scene around. And you can’t beat the free drinks.” She poked Cara in the arm. “Don’t make that face. You’ve barely talked to a man since you moved here.”

  “Not true,” Cara protested weakly, though she had to admit Ann’s observation wasn’t far off. That was why she’d agreed to a girl’s night out. It was time for her to put the past behind her, where it belonged, and move forward. She only wished she felt more enthusiastic about it.

  The row of small galleries, interspersed with bars, second-hand bookstores and cheap eateries, was brightly lit. Cara’s stomach growled. “Want to get something to eat?” she asked hopefully.

  “The galleries have wine and cheese,” Ann said. “This one looks good.” She navigated Cara into a small gallery whose walls were covered in acrylic abstracts.

  Cara paused to look at a painting by the door, but Ann pulled her over to the drinks table. Wine bottles and plastic cups stood next to bowls of grapes and crackers.

  Ann sloshed Chardonnay into two cups and handed one to Cara, who took a sip and leaned back against the wall as fatigue seeped through her body. She had been on her feet all day, helping her boss, Ingrid Gustavson-Vennemeyer, put together a party for 200 guests for the following weekend. Since moving to Seattle six months ago, Cara had spent most of her time at work. It helped to keep the loneliness at bay. Ingrid often had to push her out the door at night.

  Ann nudged Cara and tilted her head toward the door. ”Beefcake at one o’clock.”

  A couple of young men were making their way through the crowd toward them.

  The taller guy had shoulder-length blonde hair and a stubbly chin. Despite the inclement weather he was dressed in a thin green T-shirt that showed off his gym-sculpted biceps. The other guy was short and stocky.

  Mr. Biceps spoke first.

  ”You ladies enjoying the show?” He looked directly at Cara and she felt herself blushing under his gaze.

  “Actually, we just got here,” said Ann. “Where are you guys from?”

  “We’re visiting from Yakima,” the stocky one said. “I’m Joseph, he’s Craig. We’re in town for the week. So what’s fun to do around here?”

  Ann, who worked as a barista in the city center and was used to out-of-town visitors, launched into a description of Seattle’s tourist attractions. Cara drifted in and out of the conversation. She was startled when Craig spoke to her.

  “Need a refill?” He whisked her cup away before she could respond and was back by her side in an instant, pressing a full glass into her hand.

  He leaned closer and she tried not to recoil at the odor of alcohol and cigarette smoke. “Hey, maybe you and your friend here can show us some of the sights this weekend.”

  Flustered, Cara took a big gulp of her drink. “Actually, um, I’m working this weekend. Helping my boss put together a huge party. I’m an event planner.”

  Craig wasn’t deterred by the brush off. “No kidding? I’m kind of an event planner myself. I book gigs for some of the hottest new acts around. Ever heard of the Glowing Mutants?” He paused, as if expecting her to squeal with excited recognition.

  “Nope. Sorry.” The art on the walls started to pulsate slightly, and the room was suddenly stiflingly hot. Cara realized that she really ought to eat something. She’d worked right through lunch and the alcohol was going straight to her head.

  Ann was talking animatedly to Joseph. Cara tapped her shoulder. “Can we go? I need to get some air.”

  Ann frowned. “Already?”

  “We’ll go with you,” Craig cut in. “I want to check out some of the other galleries, anyway.” He took Cara by the arm and propelled her through the room as Ann and Joseph followed behind.

  Outside, it was getting dark. Jazz and rock music filtered out from the surrounding bars. They turned in at the next gallery, an old building with an ornate but crumbling façade, and ascended a once-grand staircase to an artist’s loft that took up the left half of the second floor.

  Cara blinked as they entered the space. Multicolored strobe lights flashed across the otherwise darkened room. A large projection screen took up most of the back wall, with shifting footage depicting fields of wildflowers and other scenes from nature that contrasted starkly with the post-industrial space. Large speakers blasted Gregorian chant music. Craig drew Cara to a black leather couch and pulled her down onto it.

  “This is so cool!” he yelled over the music. “It would be an awesome backdrop for The Mutants’ show next week.” Casually, he draped an arm along the back of the couch and around Cara’s shoulders. Cara stiffened. Leaning forward, she gave him what she hoped would pass for a flirtatious smile. “Would you mind getting me a drink?”

  Craig grinned and jumped to his feet. “Be right back,” he shouted and disappeared into the crowd.

  Cara felt sick to her stomach. The whole scene brought back unpleasant memories of her ex, Barry, a musician who played guitar for the punk rock band Malones back in Chicago. How many nights had she sat in loud, crowded spaces like this, watching him perform, nursing her drink and dreading the struggle to get him to leave before he passed out, got in a fight, hit on some underage groupie or insisted on taking the wheel himself?

  Barry had been a mistake. A mistake so big she’d moved half-way across the country to get away from him and anything that reminded her of him.

  With a rising sense of panic, Cara struggled to her feet and made her way through the crowd to the door.

  On the landing, a knot of people stood smoking by an open window. To the right were the stairs down to the street. Across the hall was another door. Cara walked over and leaned against it. The cold air from the open window felt good on her face. The wine on an empty stomach had been a bad idea. She couldn’t shake the weird feeling of déjà vu she had gotten talking to Craig in that horrible room. She focused on breathing deeply and slowly as her heart rate gradually slowed.

  Cara, honey, get a grip, she told herself. You’re not locked into a vicious cycle of dating losers. Silently, she reminded herself of the three promises she had made on moving to Seattle: She would not date artists. She would not date men who weren’t responsible. She would only date men who weren’t afraid to commit, who were ready to settle down and live an ordinary, stable life.

  Like a mantra, Cara repeated the promises to herself. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

  All of a sudden, the door she was leaning on opened. Seconds later, Cara found herself lying flat on her back, staring up into a pair of the greenest eyes she’d ever seen.

  “Are you okay?” The man to whom the mesmerizing eyes belonged stared down at her. His face swung in and out of focus. He had a finely chiseled, slightly crooked nose, a prominent jaw and tousled reddish-brown hair. His lips were large and sensual.

  He reached for her hand and with a grip both gentle and strong pulled her to her feet.

  “Nothing broken, I hope?”

  Cara felt the back of her head, where already a small bump was rising. “I’m okay,” she said. Too embarrassed to meet his gaze, she stared at the hardwood floor. “I’m so sorry. How stupid of me to lean against the door like that. I had no idea. . . “

  “It’s all right, really. Happens all the tim
e.”

  She looked up. “Really?”

  A mischievous grin revealed a flash of white teeth. “Actually, this is a first. Now, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

  “You better come in. Sit down for a minute.”

  When Cara got flustered, she tended to talk a lot. After a few drinks, this tendency was amplified. She knew this about herself, and yet she didn’t seem to be able to control it.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I have a friend waiting for me in there.” She gestured at the gallery.

  “A boyfriend?”

  “Oh God, no. My roommate, Ann. Although there is this guy who’s been hitting on me all night. He’s got horrible breath, and he’s not my type at all.” She hiccupped, and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oops. Sorry. Too many drinks on an empty stomach.”

  The man turned suddenly serious. “You need me to straighten this guy out for you?” he asked in a menacing voice.

  Cara shook her head, not sure whether he was joking or not. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary. Kind of you to offer, though.”

  “All right then.” The man crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at her. “You hungry?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You look kind of hungry. Like you could use a hot meal.”

  “I can’t stomach the soft cheese and stale crackers in there right now, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It so happens that you have fallen into the doorway of the best-stocked bachelor pad in Seattle.”

  Seeing her expression of alarm, he laughed again. “Don’t worry, I promise I’m not trying to seduce you. I just don’t like to see a pretty woman looking so wiped out. I can whip up a sandwich, or pasta, if you want something more substantial.”

  “Wow,” said Cara. “This is so embarrassing. Talk about crashing the party. Weren’t you headed out somewhere when you opened the door and I fell in?”

  “I was going to check out the show, but there’s no rush.” He held out his hand formally. “I’m Ben.”

  He was lean and muscular, with broad shoulders tapering down to a flat, hard stomach and powerful legs. He wore a black leather jacket over a plaid work shirt, faded blue Levis and scuffed leather boots. Maybe he was a construction worker?

  “Cara,” she said, shaking his hand and wondering what he saw when he looked at her.

  “Come on in,” Ben said, closing the door to the hall as though the situation had been decided. He helped her out of her coat and red silk scarf with the practiced ease of someone used to entertaining and led her down the hallway, which opened into a kitchen and dining area.

  His home was very clean and sparsely furnished. The floors were unfinished wooden boards, the walls painted a stark white. A massive table, hewn from the center of an ancient redwood, took center-stage in the dining room, surrounded by several mismatched chairs. Several paintings in an abstract expressionist style leaned against the walls, and a large Raku plate with a crackled glazed surface of metallic silver, gold, and blue hung on one wall.

  Cara looked around, trying to get a sense of who this mysterious Ben was.

  Against the back wall of the dining room, a row of shelves made from cinderblocks and wood boards displayed an impressive collection of ceramics. Vases and pitchers in washes of blues and greens rubbed shoulders with rustic bowls and plates. A cast bronze bust in classic Greek style sat with dignity next to a set of clay goblets.

  Following Ben into the kitchen, Cara was surprised to see how well-appointed it was. A Viking range stood against the left wall next to modern oak cabinets, a stainless steel dishwasher and fridge. Adjacent to these was a large enameled farm-style sink with a window above it overlooking the alleyway. A granite-topped counter separated the kitchen from the dining room, with drawers and shelving on the kitchen side and two bar stools on the other. An iron bar supporting an array of gleaming copper pots and pans hung by chains from the high ceiling.

  “I’m pretty hungry myself,” Ben said. “How’d you like to try the Ben Kilpatrick pasta special?”

  “Sounds delicious.” Cara perched on one of the bar stools and watched as Ben pulled ingredients from the fridge, extracted a colander, wooden spoon and mixing bowls from cupboards and drawers, set a copper pot of water to boil with a pinch of salt, and plucked cloves of garlic from a garlic braid nailed to the wall in a utilitarian fashion. He chopped vegetables on the granite counter with a quick, sure hand and poured the chopped garlic and onion into an enameled pot with a splash of olive oil.

  “I feel like I’m watching the home cooking channel,” Cara said.

  Ben laughed.

  “Are you a chef?”

  “Nope. Self-taught. I’ve always enjoyed good food, and eating out gets to be pretty expensive.”

  Cara noticed one of her own favorite cookbooks featuring Northwest cuisine among those arranged on a shelf by the range. She felt secretly pleased to find this thread of shared interest. “I’ve never seen a man so at home in the kitchen,” she said, as the delicious smell of sautéed garlic and onion filled the air.

  “You obviously haven’t been meeting the right men.”

  Cara laughed. “You’re probably right,” she conceded. “My stepfather barely knew how to boil an egg, and my guy friends in college lived on beer and ramen noodles.”

  “So your boyfriends never cooked for you, huh?” Ben asked.

  “Never.”

  “Poor baby.”

  For the first time all day Cara allowed herself to relax as she watched him work. This peaceful, well-organized residence seemed a world away from the scene across the hall. She toed her pumps off her aching feet and let them drop to the floor.

  “My ex, Barry, was on a strict raw foods diet,” she confided. “He lived on juiced carrots, wheatgrass, whisky and cigarettes. He justified the cigarettes as being all natural, because he rolled them himself.” She sighed, sinking her head onto one hand.

  “Sounds like a real prince. No wonder you dumped him.”

  “You’d think I would have dumped him. But the fact is, I’m a sucker for losers. I stayed with him until he ended things by having sex with my best friend.”

  “Ouch.”

  “That’s why I moved out here, to start a new life. They say Seattle is like the final frontier. I figure I can reinvent myself. Be someone different. Stop making the same mistakes.” She looked up and met Ben’s clear gaze. “I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

  Ben smiled. He took a bottle of Chianti from a shelf beneath the counter and poured her a glass, and took a beer from the fridge for himself.

  “Here’s to good food, and faithful friends,” he said, holding up his bottle.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  They toasted, and for a moment it seemed as though they had known each other a long time already.

  “So, how did you like the loft show?” Ben asked. He added the chopped tomatoes to the pot along with several spices pulled from a stainless steel rack above the stove.

  “Honestly, I didn’t know what to make of it. It was such a strange mix of old and new.”

  “What do you think the artist was trying to say?”

  Cara considered this. “I guess the exhibit mirrors our own postmodern state of mind. Stuck between the ancient world of nature and religion and the modern world of technological wonders and existential angst.” She laughed, embarrassed.

  “I think you’re right.” Ben drained the spaghetti into a metal colander, gave the sauce a stir, and leaned against the counter opposite her, still holding the wooden spoon in one hand. A lock of russet hair fell over his eye.

  Cara felt a second, wordless conversation start up between them.

  Ben raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on in there?”

  “Sorry,” she said, pulling herself together. “I think the smell of the food cooking has made me slightly delirious. I like your home.”

  “Thanks. It’s the first place I can call my own since moving out here.”


  “Must be nice, not having to share it with anyone.”

  “It is. I’ve always liked solitude.” Casually, Ben steered the conversation away from himself. “So, what brought you to the show?”

  “My roommate, actually. She loves to go out and meet guys, and drags me along with her.”

  “You make it sound like a chore.”

  “It’s not that,” said Cara, debating whether to confide in him. He seemed so open, so non-judgmental, that she decided to be honest. “It’s that . . . well, I’m not that into the whole singles scene. And artists, especially, seem so puffed up with a sense of their own importance, you know? I’m at a point in my life now where I’m looking for something more stable.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just that I’ve made a promise to myself to make better choices when it comes to guys.”

  “No more crazy artist-types, huh?” A small smile played about Ben’s lips. “Only stockbrokers and CPA’s from here on out?”

  “It sounds so calculating, when you put it that way. All I mean is I’m looking for someone who’s a realist, not chasing some illusory dream. It seems childish to pursue art as a viable career. The reality is that many are called but few are chosen.”

  Heartened by Ben’s attentive silence, Cara continued. “When it comes to men, I intend to stake my hopes on more of a sure thing. A good provider, as they say. Emotionally and financially stable. I guess I’m a little more cynical than I used to be.”

  “At your advanced age? How old are you? Twenty-one, twenty-two? Are you even legal?”

  Cara glared at him. “I’ll be twenty three next week, thank you very much.”

  “No way!” said Ben, laughing at her indignation.

  Cara relented and grinned. “I know. I look like a twelve-year-old, right? I can’t buy wine at the store without getting carded. It’s embarrassing, really.”

  “I like the way you look.”

  For a moment, their eyes met, and Cara sensed in his a challenge. A small thrill went through her as she looked away, tracing the marbled surface of the counter with her fingertip.