“Huh?”
“Talk to Claire. She likes you. Just tell her that I was a rat but I didn’t mean to do anything wrong, that it was a big mistake. That she’s the only one for me. Say something nice, all pretty and poetic and sincere. Make it up if you have to.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
He paused, brow lowered, then he looked at Val with a smile. “Consider it your good deed for the day.”
She stared at him for a moment before she burst out laughing. “You have a lot of nerve asking me to do this.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“I’ll talk to her. But you’ll owe me big time for this.”
His smile widened. “And will you throw her over the Falls if she tries to hurt me?”
“Do you want me to?”
He opened his mouth to say something, but must have had second thoughts. “Of course not.”
“Good answer.”
“Val, maybe if she doesn’t take me back, you and me should go out some time. There’s a little place in Tonawanda that has great lobster.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
His smile held but he didn’t say anything else.
She pointed in a direction far away from her. “Go.”
He went, but looked over his shoulder to blow her a kiss first.
What a jerk, she thought. But she was still smiling. He’d managed to pull her out of her current funk a little bit. Kicking and screaming, but she did feel better.
She was sure it would pass.
Val trudged back to the Paradise Inn, which was a ten minute walk up Clifton Hill, past wax museums, souvenir shops, restaurants, and around the bend.
On the way back she’d come up with a plan. And she was going to follow through with it right away before she chickened out.
There was one person in the earthly realm whom she’d come to trust completely. Somebody who’d never been anything but nice and kind and warm and thoughtful with her. Somebody who’d made the past two months of being human nearly bearable.
Even though he made her clean rooms.
Mr. Barlow. She absolutely adored the old man. She was going to tell him that she was a fallen angel. He would believe her, she knew it. Then she’d have someone who knew what she was—the fact that Seraphina also knew was, sadly, little comfort to her—and help her get back. She wasn’t sure exactly how he could help, but getting this huge weight off her mind would be a wonderful thing.
It made perfect sense to her.
Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten all day. She would talk to Barlow, clear her mind, then head over to McDonald’s for dinner.
That was the plan.
She moved past the rickety old patio furniture strewn about in the small courtyard in the middle of the U-shaped motel, sidestepping the pool that apparently hadn’t been in working order for more than five years and was currently covered by a thick layer of leaves and snow.
She marched right to the manager’s office, her plan clear in her mind, and pushed open the door. A little bell above it jingled. Nobody was at the desk.
“Mr. Barlow?”
No answer. She could hear soft music coming from his living area behind the office on the other side of a beaded curtain, so she moved toward that and pushed the curtain aside.
Barlow’s living room was small. Drab carpeting. A beat up La-Z-Boy armchair was positioned in front of a television with rabbit ears. A few copies of Reader’s Digest sat on the chipped coffee table. The room felt comfortable, but old and tired.
At the moment, though, there were a couple of things in the room that didn’t look old and tired. A balloon, for one. Red and shiny and tied with a long yellow ribbon that trailed down to the floor. Printed on the balloon was HAPPY ANNIVERSARY. It was a smear of color in the colorless room.
Barlow himself sat in the armchair, staring at Val in surprise. The pretty woman holding a cake and standing in front of Barlow didn’t look surprised. Which was odd since she was topless. Val would have expected a half-naked woman carrying a cake would look surprised that someone just walked in on her unannounced.
They all stared at each other for a moment as the radio played “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” by
Rod Stewart.
Val finally averted her gaze. “Awkward,” she said aloud. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”
“This is”—Barlow gestured at the woman—“Alexa. She’s . . . um, a friend of mine.”
“I can see that,” Val glanced briefly at the woman. “I’ve, uh . . . never seen you around here before.”
Barlow cleared his throat. “No, Alexa hasn’t visited me for several months.”
“Charmed,” Alexa said. She put down the cake, then retrieved her blouse from the floor.
“I, uh, wanted to talk to you. But—” Val glanced at the balloon, then again at the now thankfully dressed Alexa, “I’m thinking it can wait a bit. Should I be saying ‘happy anniversary’ to you today?”
Barlow’s gaze shifted to the woman, then he sighed heavily and shook his head. He stood up from the chair, walked over to the ribbon, and pulled the balloon down from the ceiling.
“Not necessary,” he said, then popped the balloon between his palms.
Val jumped at the sudden noise. “Bad balloon?”
He let the limp piece of rubber fall to the carpet.
Alexa was now pouting. “Baby, why did you do that?”
He rolled his eyes. “How many times do I have to ask you not to call me ‘baby’?”
Her pout deepened.
Val was very confused. Barlow was an old man, easily in his mid-seventies. His face was deeply lined, and his eyes always looked as if they’d seen too much and just wanted to stay shut. His hair was thick but white, just like his eyebrows, and he wore black-rimmed glasses.