Weeping Angel by Stef Ann Holm Page A

the furnishings, buying them piece by piece, not in a set. Her comfortable easy chairs and sofas were in pink hues. A light-colored paper of no pronounced pattern lent a rich air to the walls. The wooden mantel above the fireplace was filled with heirlooms placed on either side of a porcelain clock. But it was the oriel that caught his attention, and he walked toward the large bay window filled with vibrant leather ferns, philodendron, herbs, and her prized phalaenopsis orchids.
    â€œDid you grow all these yourself?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDamn. I doubt I could grow weeds.” Frank brought the glass to his lips, and Amelia found herself transfixed on the way his Adam’s apple gently bobbed when he swallowed. He looked over the rim at the east wall and she followed his gaze. A waist-high area of wallpaper to the left of her fireplace was noticeably faded. She used to have her Turkish parlor suit situated there, but had moved the silk brocatelle tête-à-tête to make room for the piano. She hadn’t gotten around to shifting the small sofa back into its old spot.
    She’d been too depressed to even look in that corner of the room at night while she did her mending or reading.
    Seeing the eyesore now, she became vexed, her feelings sensitive anew to the bruising Frank Brody had given her when he’d stolen her piano.
    â€œI hope you’re satisfied,” she remarked briskly.
    â€œYeah, the drink tastes good.”
    â€œNot that, Mr. Brody. You know very well what I’m talking about.”
    â€œThe damn piano.”
    â€œRefrain from cursing my piano.”
    â€œThe piano isn’t yours, so I can curse it if I want.” He shoved his empty glass at her and tugged on the brim of his hat. “That New American came to me fair and square, Miss Marshall. I guess you’re going to hold it over my head for the rest of my life.”
    â€œI guess.”
    He gave her a bitter glare. “I meant what I said. You can give lessons in the saloon for as long as you need. I didn’t mean to scare you off, and I give you my word not to bother you anymore while you’re practicing. Far be it for me to stand in the way of a woman’s busts.” On that, he went to the front door and let himself out.
    Amelia stood in the middle of the parlor, watching him through the jungle of plant leaves in her oriel. She saw a glimpse of white leave through her gate, and it reminded her he wasn’t wearing his navy vest. She turned to run into the rear yard to fetch it, went only one foot, spun back to look out the window, and stopped.
    He was already gone.
    It would seem they were both destined to leave articles of clothing at the other’s residence. Whatever would the Thursday Afternoon Fine Ladies Society think of that, were they to find out?
    Shaking off the thought, Amelia deposited the glass on a side table, plucked up her skirts, and bounded up the stairs. She stopped at the water closet doorway. The room didn’t seem to be out of order or show any signs of disturbance; but she wasn’t looking all that closely at her toilet articles. Her eyes were pinned on the pair of lisle hose, two snowy chemises, and acorset cover trimmed with Valenciennes lace dangling from her clothes dryer.
    He’d folded the hardwood arms back next to the wall in order to use the necessary. She wanted to die. Of course he’d seen her most private attire. How could he miss them? And even more humiliating, twice in one day!
    Amelia slumped next to the doorjamb, lowering her gaze with a deflated sigh. It was then she noticed the pull-chain fixture commode. The closet seat was up.
    Now why on earth had he done that?

Chapter
6

    H ere she comes!” Pap exclaimed from his vigil at the bat-wing doors of the Moon Rock. One side flapped into place as he let go and ran to stand by the piano with a Cheshire cat grin on his face. He’d been hovering around the entry since nine