THE SERENA WILCOX MYSTERIES
BOOK ONE
ANGELS MARK
NATALIE BUSKE THOMAS
Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. All events and dialog are for entertainment purposes only and do not necessarily represent the author’s views.
Angels Mark
by Natalie Buske Thomas
Copyright © 2011 Natalie Buske Thomas
All rights reserved.
Author’s Works
The Serena Wilcox Mysteries
Angels Mark 2011
Covert Coffee 2012
Bluebird Flown 2013
Project Scarecrow 2013
Ruby Red 2014
Future Beyond 2014
Project Willow 2014
Downward Spiral 2015
And prequel novellas:
Gene Play 1998
Virtual Memories 1999
Camp Conviction 2000
Other Books:
Dramatic Mom
Savannah’s Inky Imagination
Fender (The 10 Chapters Series)
Thriving in a Hateful World
Ramen Noodles and Hot Dogs
Nice Authors Finish Last
Faith According to You
We are the Angels that He Sends
The Miracle Dulcimer
The Magic Camera
Grandpa Smiles
Nana Plays
For a complete list of Natalie Buske Thomas’ works, including her oil paintings, please visit her website.
www.NatalieBuskeThomas.com
ANGELS MARK
Book One
CHAPTER 1
She made X’s in her mashed potatoes with her fork, staring at her plate without really seeing the food. All around her was the clatter and the chatter of people dining in groups large and small, huddled under the stained glass domed lights that adorned the ceiling above each cozy table. She was conspicuously alone in a large mid-priced chain restaurant in a suburb just outside of Minneapolis.
Parents donned bibs on hungry toddlers. Some fawned all over Baby, some were embarrassed by Baby’s noisy demands, and the rest ignored Baby, despite glaring looks from nearby tables. Friends shared deep-fried appetizer platters, each group with an obvious identity: co-workers blowing off steam, girls’ night out, birthday party. Couples clicked sparkling wine glasses; most pretended to share intimacy while distracted by other things. A few couples shared a real moment, with some moments more fleeting than others. Children bounced through the aisles on their way to and from the restrooms, occasionally led by a parent.
Tables with booth seating, running along every wall and tucked into every corner, were fully occupied by smiling people. The remaining tables, with traditional seating, were scattered throughout the middle of the restaurant and wedged in wall spaces too small for the booths. That was where she was sitting, the third table from the kitchen doors, hugging the wall.
“May I get you something?” said Bryce, a local college student who had recently taken this job waiting tables three nights a week. His tuition was paid for by his parents, books were covered by paternal grandparents, and clothes were gifted by his maternal grandparents. Aunts and uncles pitched in dorm and food costs. He worked solely to sustain his partying habits, which were substantial.
Seemingly never hung-over, over-stressed, or fatigued, his ever-present smile showed a history of good orthodontics and tooth whitening. Bryce’s fresh good looks, topped with thick sandy locks, often netted him big tips from female diners -- but not from this one. This one didn’t even look at him.
“Oh, no thanks,” she said. “Wait, actually, yes. I’d like the hot fudge sundae cake. With whipped cream, but no nuts, please.” She raised the glossy dessert menu and tapped her finger on the picture of the “Chocolate Lover’s Deluxe Fudge Sundae Cake” special, complete with red cherry on top. The price was not special, but she wasn’t thinking about cost.
“Sure,” he said, his smile cranked up to full wattage. He turned away from her table quickly and merged into the swarm of patrons coming down the long carpeted aisle, his checkerboard-patterned shirt still visible until he reached the swinging kitchen doors. He should have collided with a female server, but somehow gracefully skated around her at the last possible second. The trays full of Buffalo wings she was balancing survived in defiance of all the laws of physics.
I probably made him feel uncomfortable, a woman sitting alone at a table large enough for six people. What on earth am I doing here? She sipped her soft drink slowly. How long could she make this evening stretch out? Eventually she would run out of room in her stomach. Then she would have to leave the warm restaurant with its pizzeria-like scent of garlic, and its competing craving-inducing smell of frying oil, its too-early Christmas music soundtrack competing cheerfully with the din, and its staff of people paid to be friendly. She would have to go home, except there wasn’t a home to go to.
She had taken care of that late last night when she lit a red glitter taper candle and then deliberately tipped it onto a stack of piano sheet music – a gentle tap of the candlestick holder and down it went, candle and all. The paper caught fire within seconds and she watched the edges of each page from the recital version of “Let it Be” curl, blacken, and smolder before crumpling and disappearing into the fire. Soon everything else on the coffee table was ablaze.
She stood there watching the flames for what felt like hours. After the fire consumed the sheet music, an L.L.Bean catalog, an old electric bill and most of a Grisham novel, it licked at the wood of the coffee table. She worried that the fire would exhaust itself before catching on to the table, but the flames eventually took root in its mahogany frame. From then on, the fire progressed slowly.
As hard as it was to be patient, she couldn’t hurry it along. She could only stand by helplessly, hoping that it would pick up power and speed, spreading itself until the whole room was engulfed. She waited; her feet hurting from standing so long, her bladder full, and her throat dry.
When the room finally began to fill with smoke, she went downstairs where her bags were packed and ready for her on her favorite chair. She slung the oversized backpack over her right shoulder, grabbed one bag with her left hand, and wheeled the third bag with her right hand. She waited a few more minutes, making sure the fire was spreading throughout the house.
She heard the thud of something falling in the kitchen and felt certain that the rest of the house would be gone within the next hour or so. She took one last look around, at the picture frames on the mantel: her daughters, her son, her husband. She set her bags down and opened one of the glass walk-out patio doors. She put a coat on, but didn’t take the time to zip the front. Then she grabbed her bags and left the house for the last time.