Falling Star: Angelfire Trilogy Book 1

  by Karen Wiesner

  Hard Shell Word Factory

  This story copyright 1999 by Karen Wiesner. All other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the copyright.

  Published by Hard Shell Word Factory. 8946 Loberg Rd. Amherst Junction, WI 54407 http://www.hardshell.com

  Electronic book created by Seattle Book Company. eBook ISBN: 0-7599-1945-3 Cover art copyright 1999 Dirk A. Wolf

  Falling Star: Angelfire Trilogy Book 1

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatever to anyone bearing the same name or names. These characters are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  Falling Star: Angelfire Trilogy Book 1

  For Kim Hansen, who took me under her wing when I was just learning how to “fly” and has since become one of my closest friends… Love, Karen

  Falling Star: Angelfire Trilogy Book 1

  · Chapter One · Chapter Two · Chapter Three · Chapter Four · Chapter Five · Chapter Six · Chapter Seven · Chapter Eight · Chapter Nine · Chapter Ten · Chapter Eleven · Chapter Twelve · Chapter Thirteen · Chapter Fourteen · Chapter Fifteen · Chapter Sixteen · Chapter Seventeen Falling Star: Angelfire Trilogy Book 1

  · Chapter Eighteen · Chapter Nineteen · Chapter Twenty · Chapter Twenty-One · Chapter Twenty-Two · Chapter Twenty-Three · Chapter Twenty-Four · Chapter Twenty-Five · Chapter Twenty-Six · Chapter Twenty-Seven · Chapter Twenty-Eight ¨ Karen Wiesner Falling Star: Angelfire Trilogy Book 1

  Chapter One

  AFTER TWENTY-SEVEN years, it never failed to amaze her that nothing ever changed there.

  Rori Mason sat stiffly on the worn cushions of a sofa that had been in her father’s house as long as she could remember. He sat in his chair, a once-comfortable recliner with homemade, crocheted arm covers. The women in his congregation constantly tried to butter him up with gifts, hoping to get him to think about marriage again. Didn’t they realize Pastor William Mason had no room in his life for that kind of love? That need had died with her mother twenty-three years ago.

  He hadn’t looked at her, really looked at her, since she walked in the front door an hour ago. He’d hugged her because she initiated it. Then he’d announced one of his favorite preacher’s was on, and Rori knew nothing had changed. All the years she’d grown up in this house, that ridiculous radio—the one that looked like a prop from Gilligan’s Island—had been on, playing all-sermons, all the time. The only time her father shut it off was at bedtime. Oh God, she remembered trying to talk over it and getting “Not now, Rori. Why don’t you go play, sweetheart.”

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  Expelling a sigh, Rori leaned her elbows on her knees, looking around the cluttered living room. Her father still competed with a library when it came to books. The mostly ancient volumes were tucked and stacked everywhere space allowed. Books, nonfiction books, were one of the few things her father actually put down hard cash for. They weren’t all about God or religion either. Her father was interested in everything and how everything connected.

  Even if he’d never been affectionate about it, Rori remembered affectionately the way he used to help her with her homework when she asked him to. It was the only time he spent with her that he’d turn off the damn radio. Somehow those times made her feel like she’d won.

  She ran a finger over the cover of a book about Antarctica laying on the coffee table. Maybe she could sneak out for a smoke. God only knew how long this booming radio preacher would go on…

  “Where are you living now, Aurora?”

  Coming from such a close relative, the question could be considered odd. Not for Rori. She contacted her father. He never contacted her. Their communication was her choice, but she had the feeling he wouldn’t call her even if he had her phone number.

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  Giving him a general location could be done with confidence. “Buffalo.”

  “How many miles is that?”

  Rori clenched her teeth. She’d walked into one of his oldest traps. He’d do damn near anything to avoid her, although even he probably didn’t realize he was doing it.

  Nodding, rubbing her hands together slowly, she mumbled an estimate he’d go out of his way to prove wrong. Making her feel stupid wasn’t premeditated either; it was just an unfortunate side effect of his disappointment in his only child.

  Just as she knew he would, her father got out his maps, spreading them out on his work table. Rori watched him for a minute, wishing she had the guts to say “Daddy, what does it matter if I came more or less a hundred miles? I’m here. Don’t you wanna see me? It’s been six years.”

  But she didn’t say anything, watching him hopelessly the way she had hundreds of times.

  The last time she came home, after five years away, his once dark hair had turned completely white. He wore reading glasses too, but he still had the same expression of open warmth in his face and in his blue eyes.

  Rori used to wonder if his detachment from her had anything to do with how little they resembled each other. Although she remembered very little of her mother, old photographs

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  revealed she had her mother’s blond hair, ebony eyes, mouth and shape. Her father could withdraw from her because she looked nothing like him. Maybe he told himself she wasn’t his child because of those differences.

  Feeling desperate, Rori ran her fingers through her thick hair. If she moved now, she might be able to draw him out of his “research.” Leaning over the arm of the sofa, she slowly decreased the volume on the radio. He didn’t seem to notice this time. Then she got up, almost tiptoeing across the threadbare carpet to her tote bag.

  Christmas was still seven days away. She had to work on Saturday and Sunday night, so she planned to leave Saturday morning. Her father didn’t celebrate Christmas the way the world did anyway. There were no presents, decorated trees or special dinners. He celebrated by reading the accounts of the Messiah’s birth in the Bible and he preached about it during the appropriate season, but it’d never been any different than other days during the years Rori grew up here.

  The gift she’d gotten her father now would serve as a haven’t-seen-you-in-awhile token. Instead of wrapping it, she’d tied a plain white satin ribbon around it.

  He still measured and calculated, concentrating with such focus he took no notice of her pulling an ottoman over to the table near him. Straddling it between ragged denim thighs,

  Chapter One

  she looked up at him.

  Rori felt very much like a little girl there. Sometimes, years ago, when she was quiet or feigned interest, her father let her sit near him while he worked. She still remembered the smell of the old books he’d referenced and cross-referenced with and the musky scent of his cologne. She’d wanted to burrow right into his arms until she believed in his love for her. But, even though he always held her when she made the first move, the love wasn’t there.

  Oh, she knew he loved her in his own way. He loved her in that altruistic, mourning-the-human-condition way he loved everybody. He loved her because she was lost and she needed his love desperately. But his love wasn’t unconditional. From the very beginning, requirements were set down in his mind, unconsciously, subconsciously. He’d wanted a boy—Rori’s first failure, and it hadn’t mattered whether she had any control over it.

  Besides, leaving her father’s arms, she always wished she didn’t need him the way he didn’t need her.

  “Daddy, I got you something. I mean, I saw it and thought of you, so I got it.”

  The first victory was getting his attention, and Rori couldn’t help smiling as he turned his

  Chapter One

  head, easing off his glasses to look at her.

  “You didn’t need to get me anything, sweetheart. I don’t need anything.”

  “I know.” She held it up to him. “I wanted to.”

  After setting down his glasses, he took the leather-bound book from her. In truth, she went in search of it, not stumbled onto it. She certainly didn’t frequent bookstores, new or used. One of her father’s favorite books was The Spiritual Man by Watchman Nee, and his copy had been in tatters the last time she visited.

  “I think it’s a first edition or something,” she murmured a little too hopefully. He pushed the ribbon off from the top.

  When he turned back to the table to slip his glasses on again, Rori stood to watch him thumb through it. She was a sucker for her own disappointment because she knew he wouldn’t initiate any affectionate gratitude outside of words, yet a little part of her held out for it.

  “This is beautiful, sweetheart. Thank you. I may have to give this book another read.”

  His words, partial satisfaction, sent her hopes crashing rather than soaring. She’d asked herself a million times in her life What were you expecting? Can’t you be happy with half of what you want?

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  Yet she always felt crushed—when she’d set herself up for it. After twenty-seven years, she accepted she wouldn’t walk through her father’s front door and have him hug her with tears in his eyes because he was so happy to see her, because he’d actually missed her. What she got were tears in her eyes hugging him. Her dream wouldn’t happen, she’d always wish it could, and he’d always prove her worst fears.

  She needed some time out. T

ime to work through her own silly feelings. They were silly. Not only had no one ever promised her a rose garden, the subject never even came up. If she hurt, she needed to deal with it on her own.

  The phone rang, and Rori saw her out. Hugging her father’s shoulders from the back, she said, “Daddy, I’m gonna go outside for a smoke. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

  She’d stopped searching for his disapproval long ago, certain she’d find it every time. Besides, smoking was the least of her latest sins.

  Getting her coat from the closet near the front door, she heard him answer the phone. How would she last for another forty-four hours? Smoke break every hour, she joked with herself, except she only had twenty-seven cigarettes with her. Well, sixteen hours of sleep in there somewhere, and she might just make it.

  Rori slipped on her leather jacket, not bothering to zip it over her cropped sweater. Fresh

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  air would be a first kiss right now.

  Closing the front door behind her, she stood on the steps. Her footmarks from an hour ago were covered with a virginal layer of snow. She’d been so conscious of them then. Ten more steps, Ror, nine more and you can still turn back, five more, daddy, be glad to see me for once.

  Taking the pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket, she started down the sidewalk, pressing new footprints into the snow with her snakeskin boots. Smiling, she experienced a moment of disbelief when she realized there were some good memories connected with Syracuse, her father’s home. The good memories came so infrequently and even those turned on her eventually.

  Rori remembered the snow here as a little girl. She remembered snowball fights, building forts and snowmen, making angels in the fresh-fallen snow. She remembered holding her arms up to Nathan Jovanovich, wanting him to pull her up and away from her angel so it wouldn’t be ruined with hand-or footprints. She remembered wanting Nate to pull her up into his arms. His face would always get closer and closer, but then he’d let her go once she was clear of the angel and standing on her own.

  God, he’d been destined to do that to her all his life.

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  Rori chose to come a week before Christmas just to avoid running into Nate and his wife.

  The cold air made her breath form smoke before she lit one of the two cigarettes in her pack with the engraved lighter Brett gave her for her last birthday. She stepped out to the part of the sidewalk that formed a T, then performed a fouette en tournant with the grace of a ballerina. She hadn’t danced in the snow since she was a little girl, and she was tempted to do it here, in front of her father’s house.

  Odd that a dozen ballet lessons had brought her to this point in her life.

  Rori shook her head, embracing the lamp post with one arm and propelling herself around it a few times. She came to a stop and found she was facing the Jovanovich house. Nestled squarely in the middle of the block, it looked as cozy as a fairy tale.

  The irony of that house being situated between the Mason house on the right and the Radcliffe house on the left had never been lost on Rori. Nathan Jovanovich had always been between her and Jenna Radcliffe, Nate’s wife.

  It wasn’t supposed to be that way. It was supposed to be her and Nate. He’d been her only comfort each time her father told her to “go play.”

  Rori stepped out of the house, turning her head immediately at the sound of voices.

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  Jenna had beat her to Nate’s again. For a minute, Rori stood watching them together.

  He was beautiful at seventeen, only a year older than she and Jenna. Oh, he looked like a Greek god with the tan summer gave him. He was dressed in khaki shorts and a pullover. His hands burrowed in his pockets as he listened to Jenna with a kind smile.

  Rori had dreamed of him again last night. Her sexual dreams were out of control. And even if it hadn’t been Nate she’d shared kisses and caresses with, it was forever him in her dreams. God, in her heart.

  She wondered if Jenna ever fantasized about Nate the way she did. Looking at sweet little Jenna, with her short dark hair and prim sundress, Rori concluded her nemesis only dreamed of hand-holding with Nate, marriage and having his babies.

  Rori thought of those things too, but they were for later. The hot fantasies of Nate were for now. Maybe today he’d kiss her finally. Then she’d never let Jace touch her again.

  Hopping down the steps, she felt the warmth of the sun and a gentle breeze caught her long, loose, honey blond hair.

  Sublime satisfaction filled her from head to toe seeing Nate straighten from leaning on his porch railing at her approach. He no longer listened to Jenna with a gentle smile on his coveted mouth. The only person in the world he paid attention to was her…

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  The front door of the Jovanovich house opened, and Rori realized with a start she’d been staring at it. Her boots made a scraping noise against the sidewalk as she whirled away from the house.

  Nate came out of his parents’ house. Nate was here! What was he doing here? She’d come early to avoid seeing him and Jenna.

  She had reason to hate this man. More reason than he had for coming out here. The blood rushed to her head, harder and faster with each of his footsteps.

  The rush of confusion, hurt, and, inevitably, blind anger were infinitely familiar to her where Nathan Jovanovich was concerned. When she’d come here five years ago to visit her father, that cruel lash of emotions made her say to him “Stay out of my life, you sanctimonious, cowardly motherfucker.” No chance he’d misread the bitterness as unrequited love speaking, so why was he approaching her again?

  Oh God, she couldn’t breathe. Each oncoming footfall reverberated inside her stomach. She’d do something stupid. She always did stupid things over Nate.

  Closing her eyes for a long excruciating moment, she tried to block out his voice, but his “Hello, Rori” greeting tumbled past any defense she’d constructed to keep him out. This was the boy who hadn’t heard it when two cars crashed in front of his house twelve years

  Chapter One

  ago. He hadn’t heard the horrendous racket because she was there, because the whole world faded around them whenever they were together. This was the boy she’d planned her entire life around. He was the reason all her dreams crumbled around her like a collapsing sand castle and she’d fled, leaving her home, her family, her friends at sixteen.

  Her hand shook as she fitted her cigarette between tight lips.

  Don’t self-destruct this time, Ror; don’t let him get to you.

  But he did get to her. He always did, even after she’d accepted it was all over for her. Right now, she prayed for the very least—at the very least, she could pretend he didn’t mean anything to her, that he hadn’t made even a dent in her life, let alone her heart.

  His boots crunched in the snow built up against the curb, then he faced her, demanding to be noticed. Avoiding him was torture for her. Rori reminded herself she was made of strong stuff. She’d left Brett, hadn’t she? And she hadn’t crawled back within a month, the way he predicted. She’d been on her own for six months. She didn’t need him or any other man. Especially not this one.

  “Wanna bum a smoke, holy man?” she asked in a bored voice, trying not to notice his still soft gray eyes behind the round scholar glasses…or how much more strength his face had than eleven years ago. Oh, but she’d thought he was beautiful then too. His face meant

  Chapter One

  perfection and love to her. She’d kissed every inch of his face once the opportunity finally came for her. Don’t remember it, Ror, she commanded herself. But her fingertips and her tongue replayed the magic in her mind one more time. Don’t remember loving him with tracing fingers and don’t you dare remember touching your tongue to that little cleft in his chin.

 

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