Page 4 of Scarlet Angel

With an exhale, I raise my eyes to heaven and catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bartender. Wrinkles from travel mar my linen blouse, and unkempt tangles twist my otherwise straight strands. A person could be forgiven for believing I traveled through a wind funnel. I blow a blast of air upwards from my mouth to shift the unruly layers away from my eyes and turn my attention to the leather-bound Savoy cocktail menu.

Winston Churchill, the British bulldog who once redrew Europe’s boundaries and freed Italy, infamously frequented this establishment. Did the great man ever feel feeble and dead-tired from the fight? Probably. Funerals try the soul, and the warrior likely attended his fair share.

The funeral tomorrow will be the first I’ve attended for someone I love. The heavy weight on my chest differs greatly from the funerals in my past. My husband’s funeral, for one. On that day, I soared. My memories of my father’s funeral are hazy. I’d been too young to comprehend, and the years buried any emotion. This weekend, I fear drowning.

The bartender approaches in a pressed white blazer, oxford button-down, and black bowtie. Straight bangs hang a hairbreadth over her perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

“May I help you?”

I force a cordial smile and, with one last glance at the menu, say, “I’ll have the Cardamom Angel Face.”

“And you, sir?”

Startled, I shift to see who she’s addressing. If it’s my uncle…

“The Dandy Beau,” Nikolai Ivanov answers, holding a credit card out for the bartender.

The titan’s trimmed auburn beard has grown in along the sides, rounding out his angular jawline, but otherwise, little has changed since I last saw him at my cousin Willow’s impromptu wedding when he swooped in last-minute to offer his services as best man. He’s still got the arrogant angled chin and judgy eagle eyes. He’s wearing a custom three-piece suit that declares he’s obscenely rich as he stands on a pedestal of his own, expecting that all the little people should admire him on bended knee.

“I’ll pay for my drink,” I clarify for the bartender, but she doesn’t seem to care as she’s already busy with our orders.

“Nonsense. I’m the host.”

“The host? Pff.” I lift my hands in disbelief. “Of a funeral?” Two funerals, to be exact. I eye the stools across the bar, but moving to another seat would be childish.

“Have I done something to offend?” His cultured Oxbridge accent rubs me the wrong way.

In all fairness, he’s done nothing to me. But I know his type, and pompous, self-absorbed men offend me. I’m also in the shittiest of moods, although he’s not to blame.

“I’m not in a social mood.”

“Are you ever?”

I side-eye him. Given he and I spent less than an hour in the same room at a wedding and had little interaction, he has no ground to stand.

“My uncle and aunt are in their hotel room. Should I…” I bite back my offer to ring them to join us. Sitting with them would be worse than sitting with the arrogant Brit.

This is all Willow’s fault. She had to go and die. I pinch the bridge of my nose and scrutinize the bartender, mentally urging her to hurry up and deliver my drink.

“For someone in mourning, you’re sporting some tough bark.”

Again, I side-eye him. If I’m quiet long enough, maybe he’ll move along. I don’t get weepy, but it doesn’t mean I don’t ache. Willow was not only my cousin, but she was also my best friend. My only friend, if I’m honest. I’d been happy for her when she married because she dodged a marriage that likely would’ve been worse than mine. I wouldn’t wish my hell on anyone, especially not Willow. She saw the best in everyone. She shunned the dark side of humankind.

I never expected that she’d be dead a month after her wedding. I can’t quite wrap my head around it. None of this feels real. I keep waiting for my mobile to light up with her number.

The bartender slides my frothy concoction across the bar.

“An angel,” she says to me, then she delivers a martini glass to Nikolai.

“An angel for an angel,” he says.

“And your drink is inspired by James Bond.” I, too, can read. The menu declared his drink to be what the modern-day Bond would drink. “Do you think of yourself as a 007?”

“Do you fancy yourself an angel?”

An unladylike snort escapes. “Some say demon would be more apt.” I stir my cocktail with the glass straw, evading his pointed gaze. “But you’ve heard the stories.”

“Don’t tell me you care what the monsters say?”

---