Page 2 of When the Angel Falls First

“Can I help you find something?” I asked, offering what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

He started, as if startled to find someone else in the room. “Yes, uh… I need a book. For my wife,” he said, his voice rough, as if he wasn’t used to speaking much. It was akin to a timid whisper trying to masquerade as a roar.

“Oh? What kind of books does she like?” I inquired, expecting the usual vague descriptions like “romance,” “thrillers,” or “those murder mysteries.”

He seemed to shrink a little, the cap bearing the brunt of his tight grip. “I, uh, don’t rightly know. I thought she’d like the birthday gift I got her. It was a mixer, a very fancy one, but she tossed it out the window.” His cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson.

I stifled a laugh, as this woman sounded just like me. Offering a mixer as a birthday gift to a paramour was like offering Anna Karenina a subscription to a fashion magazine. AndI’d bet he’d run straight out of the lion’s den to find her something else. So, here he was, a hapless husband in the wilderness of the written word, trying to make amends through literature. It was romantic—and desperate—in a distinctly Seattle, rain-soaked sort of way.

Yep, this man would likely have been sleeping on the sofa for a month without my help.

And he clearly needed my help. “Describe her to me.”

I nodded, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear as I listened to the man’s account of his wife—a woman who loved gardening, who had a soft spot for animals, who valued memories over material things. He seemed sincere, truly wanting to understand her, to reach out to her.

All the while, I let my fingers wander beneath the counter, ghosting over the familiar, comforting leather of Caleb’s journal. It was as if I was trying to draw upon some arcane knowledge that would provide some divine understanding of the man in front of me, the woman he loved, and the unseen strings that connected their hearts.

And I knew I could do it, because of the journal—the one that kept me connected to the man who’d stolen my heart without even trying.

As my skin brushed the raised leather, a small jolt of electricity sparked. It was a sensation I’d felt many times before, a mysterious intuition guiding me, always to the right recommendation. This time was no different. The answer arrived like the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle falling into place, clear as day.

“Black Beauty,” I announced, with a certainty that startled even me. “She needsBlack Beauty.”

The man looked taken aback, perhaps expecting a more adult title or at least something less… equine. But I was sure of it.

I fetched a copy from the classics section, its glossy black cover reflecting the soft lights of the bookstore. “It’s more than a horse’s tale, it’s a journey back to her childhood. A reminder of simpler times, of purity and innocence. It’s about understanding, resilience, and the bond between humans and animals.” I cleared my throat to recount my favorite passage. “‘My troubles are all over, and I am at home; and often before I am quite awake, I fancy I am still in the orchard at Birtwick, standing with my friends under the apple trees.’”

He blinked at me, his lips slightly parted. “That sounds like just the thing.”

“Imagine,” I continued, my eyes filled with conviction, “her holding this book, these words… It’s an apology, an acknowledgment, and an olive branch, all rolled into one.”

I held the book out to him, hoping he’d trust my somewhat unorthodox prescription. The way his eyes lingered on the cover told me he was willing to take that leap of faith.

No sooner had the jingling bell heralded the man’s exit than a sudden commotion erupted from the adjacent aisle.

“You are uncanny!”

Barb, my part-time employee and full-time agent of chaos, burst from behind a towering box of books, startling me enough to send me stumbling backward.

“Barb!” I yelped, my heart playing a rapid beatnik rhythm as I tried to regain my footing. My glasses skidded down my nose, hanging precariously on the tip. The world was a dizzying blur of colors until I managed to shove the glasses back up into place. As I adjusted them, my multicolored shawl slipped from my shoulder.

My surprise turned into a laugh when I saw Barb standing there, her hair standing on end like she’d been static-shocked, and her apron covered in dust from her hiding place. Hersurprise attack had quite literally blown the dust off a box of forgotten ’90s thrillers I’d picked up at a trade show.

“Man, Barb, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” I chided, holding a hand over my pounding heart for dramatic effect.

Unperturbed, Barb shot me a mischievous grin. “How do you do that, Josie?” she asked, her eyebrows arched in genuine curiosity. “It’s like you’ve got some literary superpower.”

My cheeks warmed at the compliment, and my fingers instinctively touched the cover of Caleb’s journal under the counter. “Oh, it’s nothing really,” I said, attempting nonchalance. “Just a wild guess based on what he told me about his wife.”

But even as I tried to brush off my uncanny ability, a secret smile tugged at my lips.I might have a touch of a superpower, I thought. But I could never say that out loud, or people might think I’d lost my damn mind.

Like what I thought about Caleb when he told me he was an angel.

TWO

Caleb

The hummingof afternoon traffic mixed with the chatter of diners at Rocksmith Café. I sat at a corner table reading an L.A. Dobbs mystery book. I’d picked up mystery books at first to help me better slip into the role of private investigator, and they’d grown on me.

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