I struggled to breathe. Despite the passage of years, I recognized her at once. Her oval face was elegant in its perfection and her beauty perhaps more striking in the mature woman than in the less polished late teen. Of all people…
Was this the circumstance which had concerned Wiggins, made him doubt my suitability to serve as an emissary?
She swore, her husky voice shocked and uncertain.
“You!” I sounded hoarse.
Kay took a step back. “I don’t believe this.” Thankfully, the hand holding the gun remained at her side.
Now I understood Wiggins’s reservations about sending me. He had spoken of Kay Clark. How could I have had any idea of her identity? If only I’d attended to Wiggins’s words more carefully, but my thoughts had been distracted by memories of Bobby Mac and Montmartre. Still, I was indignant. “You’re Kay Kendall.” I would never forget that face.
Kay Kendall—I suppose I’d have to remember that she was now Kay Clark—had been beautiful as a very young woman. She was beautiful as an older woman. What was she now? Nearing fifty, at least, but time had touched her lightly. Now there was the faintest of shadows beneath her eyes, an attenuation of her high cheekbones, giving her a poignant aura of vulnerability. Her face was elegant and memorable, high forehead, straight nose, pointed chin with a tantalizing cleft, raven dark hair lightly flecked with silver, compelling dark brown eyes. Kay Kendall Clark was arresting, fascinating, unforgettable. Few could resist her magnetism; though, like moths drawn to a flame, those entranced by her might forever rue their encounter.
“Bailey Ruth Raeburn?” Kay’s rich contralto voice rose in disbelief. “Oh, wait a minute. You’re dead.” She blinked uncertainly. “I must have a concussion.”
“No such luck.” This time my fingers flew to my mouth in dismay. I must not quarrel with my charge. “You’re fine. Besides, I didn’t push you that hard.”
“You’re dead!” Kay repeated accusingly.
“Yes.” And she was impossible. What was Wiggins thinking? Of course, it wasn’t in my purview to judge whether Kay Clark, aka Kay Kendall, deserved to be rescued, apparently from a foolhardy scheme she had hatched.
Now I understood Wiggins’s trepidation that I might revert, leave behind the Heavenly graces of charity and patience, succumb to anger, dislike, and disdain. To be utterly frank, I had decided opinions when I was on the earth. I was quick to make up my mind about people.
Oh, all right, I was a good hater, and that’s a bad thing.
When we arrive in Heaven, one of our first duties is forgiveness. No grudges are permitted. I’d passed that test with flying colors.
Well, perhaps not with exceedingly high marks.
However, I passed. For those who might think less of me, consider this: How many on earth have grudges they gnaw with the pleasure dogs give to old bones? Well, then. They, too, may find that entry exam a challenge. Before crossing through the Heavenly portals, I forgave everyone.
But that was in Heaven.
To go back to earth and maintain such magnanimity was, I’m afraid, expecting a bit much.
I gave myself a mental shake. I desperately wanted to make this visit to earth a picture-perfect exercise as an emissary from the Department of Good Intentions. If so, I must suppress all negative feelings about Kay Clark and convince her I wished her well. “Kay…” I forced a smile which didn’t feel genuine, but hey, I was making the effort. “I’m here to help you.”
She blinked again, as if she might will away my presence. “This is crazy. You are definitely dead. You’ve been dead for years. You and Bobby Mac went down in the Gulf.” Kay glanced at the broken vase and debris-littered ground. “There’s the vase. Or what’s left of it.” She looked down at the gun in her hand. “The gun’s real.”
“Much too real. Put that pistol in your pocket.” I’d developed quite a firm voice when I taught high school English.
Numbly, she dropped the gun into her pocket and glared at me. “I feel like I’m standing here. Maybe I’m not. If you’re dead, I must be dead.” Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t be here, and besides, you’d be ancient and you look younger than I do.”
“Of course I look younger.” I did not say this pridefully. I simply stated a fact. “That’s one of the joys of Heaven.” I hoped Wiggins didn’t feel I was revealing too much. However, I had to convince Kay that she was alive, and I was, well, dead. “Age doesn’t matter in Heaven. Those who died too young find full flower. Those worn by illness or despair once again move with ease and grace. They are at their best and brightest. That is the criterion, to be your best and brightest whenever in life that may have occurred. Your choice. One of my happiest years was twenty-seven. That’s the me you see.”
There wasn’t a handy alabaster pillar to reflect me, but I was confident the crimson tunic and gold trousers were a perfect foil for flaming red hair. I would emphasize that I was merely taking an innocent pleasure in the lovely fabric. Heaven knows I eschew vanity.
“If I’m alive, you are not standing there.” She tugged at an earlobe. “So why do I hear you?”
“Watch closely.” I disappeared. I counted to five, reappeared. For good measure—really the change wasn’t intended to be spiteful—I transformed the tunic to emerald green and the trousers to brilliant white. White sandals, too, of course.
Kay blinked several times. She touched fingers to her temple. She took an experimental hop. “I’m not hurt, so how can I be dead? Besides”—her tone was dismissive—“if Heaven is like the terrace of The Castle, I want my money back.” She shot me a look of undisguised distaste. “Obviously you are a figment of my imagination. Although why I’d draw you of all people out of my subconscious is one for my psychologist.” She paused, gave a gurgle of laughter. “Now that I think of it, maybe you’re part of the baggage I’ve carried since I slammed out of the mayor’s office, jumped in my car, and left Adelaide in my rearview mirror. Did you know the mayor made a pass at me? I suppose he’d heard the rumors about Jack and thought I’d be a nifty entry in his black book. I saw you on the way out. Your face had a decided prune look. You and all the other virtuous ladies of the town had decided I was a vixen. Actually, I doubt you and your friends were quite so ladylike in your terminology. I can’t wait to tell my psychologist. She’s always insisted that almost everyone has ghastly repressed memories except for me and I might be better off if I started repressing stuff. Finally, I have a repressed memory for her. But it’s weird that you popped to the top of my mind just because I had a close call. Okay.” She blew out a breath of relief. “I’m alive and I’m nuts, but that’s fine. Anyway, since you’re imaginary, I’m not going to waste any more time with you. I’ve got things to do.” She started for the steps.
I grabbed her elbow. “What do I have to do to get your attention?”
She jerked her arm away, her face strained. “Those felt like real fingers.”
“Kay Clark, listen to me.” I shook my head in exasperation. “You haven’t changed since you were working on the Adelaide Gazette and hell-for-leather to break up Jack Hume’s marriage.” Poor Virginia Hume. Sweet, gentle, kind, shy. What chance did the wren have when a macaw strutted onstage?
Kay’s thin face was abruptly still. Her eyes were deep pools of sadness. And anger.
I didn’t evade her gaze. Despite the passage of many years, we both remembered our last encounter. I had been, if possible, even more impulsive then than now. Virginia was the only daughter of Madge Crenshaw, my best friend. It was past ten on a hot summer night when Madge called, crying out her anger and despair over Virginia’s unhappiness. “…that awful girl’s chasing Jack. I tried to talk to him but he slammed out of the house. Virginia’s heartbroken.”