her shoulders lay a faux fur leopard coat, and if Michael could believe it, designer shoes with a dangerously high heel.
“Christian Louboutain, the Leopard print pumps,” Jerome said in his ear. “Eight hundred and twenty-five dollars a pair. You’ve turned a crow into a bird of paradise.”
“I’ve done nothing.”
“Oh, come off it, Michael. Everyone knows you took an interest in her from the get go. We don’t know what you did but it must have been pretty spectacular to have this result. Oh, oh. Watch out. Here she comes, aimed at you like an arrow from a crossbow.”
Althea marched through the aisle of the little restaurant, pushed open the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining area and grabbed Michael’s wrist with her arthritic hand. “Who are you?”
“I am sorry, ma’am, but patrons are not allowed in the kitchen area,” Michael began.
“Oh, stuff and nonsense. I want to know who you are.”
Her grip tightened, not painfully, but enough to tell him that she meant business. “I want your full name.”
“Michael O’Malley, ma’am.”
“I just want you to know you won’t receive any reward.”
“I do not know what you are talking about, ma’am.”
“Oh, yes you do. You need to understand you’ll gain nothing by what you’ve done.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am.”
She released her hold on him. “Well, then. Why are you just standing there? Come out and take my order. Now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And stop calling me ma’am. You make me feel a hundred years old instead of eighty. Don’t you know that eighty is the new sixty? Call me Althea.”
“Yes, ma’am…Althea.”
When she trailed back through the tables, every eye in the place was on her. And on the new waiter.
Althea sat down and shrugged off her coat onto the chair back. “I’d like a house salad with blue cheese dressing, a Porterhouse steak well done, a baked potato with sour cream, a slice of cherry pie, heated to room temperature with ice cream.”
Like a good waiter, he said nothing about her complete change of dining fare. “I will see to it right away.”
“Then I expect you to sit down at this table and tell me exactly who you are.”
Michael hurried back to the computer and punched in the order, thinking this was a new emotion he was feeling. What was it? Worry? Fear? Apprehension? All of the above? He thought he’d gotten accustomed to the ebb and swell of human emotions, but this onset was quite fierce. What was he going to tell Mrs. Hudson? Obviously he’d have to lie. Lying wasn’t something he did well. And of course, there was Gabriel to remind him that lying was not acceptable behavior, even for a wingless angel.
He hit the lever that released ice into the tallest glass and filled it with unsweet tea. He turned to thread his way through the tables, plunked the iced tea down in front of Althea and made his escape back into the kitchen before she could corner him again.
When her food order came up, he was not so lucky. It took him time to pluck the plate of steak and baked potato off his tray and center it on her placemat. By the time he had the huge tray emptied, she’d already caught his wrist with that grip that was surprisingly strong for a woman her age.
“Now you sit down.” She indicated the chair across the table from her.
“Ma’am, I cannot do that. I have other customers…”
“Right now, the only customer you have is me. Sit.”
He sat.
She proceeded to spread butter on her potato. “Butter’s been unduly vilified. There’s nothing wrong with butter. It’s just hard cream.”
Michael sat there, watching, silently sending frantic messages to storm the gates of heaven for help and getting nothing.
“How do you feel about it?”
“How do I feel about what?”
“Butter,” she snapped impatiently. “Sort of like angels, don’t you think?”
It was a verbal
“Christian Louboutain, the Leopard print pumps,” Jerome said in his ear. “Eight hundred and twenty-five dollars a pair. You’ve turned a crow into a bird of paradise.”
“I’ve done nothing.”
“Oh, come off it, Michael. Everyone knows you took an interest in her from the get go. We don’t know what you did but it must have been pretty spectacular to have this result. Oh, oh. Watch out. Here she comes, aimed at you like an arrow from a crossbow.”
Althea marched through the aisle of the little restaurant, pushed open the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining area and grabbed Michael’s wrist with her arthritic hand. “Who are you?”
“I am sorry, ma’am, but patrons are not allowed in the kitchen area,” Michael began.
“Oh, stuff and nonsense. I want to know who you are.”
Her grip tightened, not painfully, but enough to tell him that she meant business. “I want your full name.”
“Michael O’Malley, ma’am.”
“I just want you to know you won’t receive any reward.”
“I do not know what you are talking about, ma’am.”
“Oh, yes you do. You need to understand you’ll gain nothing by what you’ve done.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am.”
She released her hold on him. “Well, then. Why are you just standing there? Come out and take my order. Now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And stop calling me ma’am. You make me feel a hundred years old instead of eighty. Don’t you know that eighty is the new sixty? Call me Althea.”
“Yes, ma’am…Althea.”
When she trailed back through the tables, every eye in the place was on her. And on the new waiter.
Althea sat down and shrugged off her coat onto the chair back. “I’d like a house salad with blue cheese dressing, a Porterhouse steak well done, a baked potato with sour cream, a slice of cherry pie, heated to room temperature with ice cream.”
Like a good waiter, he said nothing about her complete change of dining fare. “I will see to it right away.”
“Then I expect you to sit down at this table and tell me exactly who you are.”
Michael hurried back to the computer and punched in the order, thinking this was a new emotion he was feeling. What was it? Worry? Fear? Apprehension? All of the above? He thought he’d gotten accustomed to the ebb and swell of human emotions, but this onset was quite fierce. What was he going to tell Mrs. Hudson? Obviously he’d have to lie. Lying wasn’t something he did well. And of course, there was Gabriel to remind him that lying was not acceptable behavior, even for a wingless angel.
He hit the lever that released ice into the tallest glass and filled it with unsweet tea. He turned to thread his way through the tables, plunked the iced tea down in front of Althea and made his escape back into the kitchen before she could corner him again.
When her food order came up, he was not so lucky. It took him time to pluck the plate of steak and baked potato off his tray and center it on her placemat. By the time he had the huge tray emptied, she’d already caught his wrist with that grip that was surprisingly strong for a woman her age.
“Now you sit down.” She indicated the chair across the table from her.
“Ma’am, I cannot do that. I have other customers…”
“Right now, the only customer you have is me. Sit.”
He sat.
She proceeded to spread butter on her potato. “Butter’s been unduly vilified. There’s nothing wrong with butter. It’s just hard cream.”
Michael sat there, watching, silently sending frantic messages to storm the gates of heaven for help and getting nothing.
“How do you feel about it?”
“How do I feel about what?”
“Butter,” she snapped impatiently. “Sort of like angels, don’t you think?”
It was a verbal
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