Page 26 of Gabriel's Angel

“Hello. It’s so nice of you to come all this way.”

“Part of the job,” Mr. Witherby said, adjusting his fogging glasses. “’Sides that, your young man here wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”

“Don’t you worry about this old man here.” Mrs. Witherby patted her husband’s arm and studied Laura. “He loves to complain.”

“Can I get you something, some coffee?”

“Don’t you fuss. Mr. Bradley’s got a carload of supplies. You just sit down and let him take care of it.” She had already walked over to lead Laura to the couch with her frail hands. “Man’s nervous as a goose at Christmas,” she confided. “Let him keep busy for a spell.”

Though she couldn’t imagine Gabe being nervous about anything, she thought the Witherbys would expect such emotion from a man about to marry. Laura listened to Gabe rattling bags and cans in the kitchen. “Maybe I should help him.”

“Now, you sit right here.” Mrs. Witherby motioned to her husband to sit, as well. “A woman’s entitled to be waited on when she’s carrying. The good Lord knows you won’t have much time to sit once that baby’s born.”

Grateful, Laura shifted to ease the throbbing in her back. “You have children?”

“Had six of them. Now we’ve got twenty-two grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.”

“And another on the way,” Mr. Witherby stated, pulling out a pipe.

“You can just put that smelly thing away,” his wife told him. “You aren’t smoking up this room with this lady expecting.”

“I wasn’t going to light it,” he said, and began to chew on the stem.

Satisfied that her husband had been put in his place, Mrs. Witherby turned back to Laura. “That’s a pretty picture there.” She indicated a sprawling landscape that might very well sell for an amount in six figures. “Your man’s an artist fellow?”

Her man. Laura experienced a twinge of panic and a glow of pleasure at the phrase. “Yes, Gabe’s an artist.”

“I like pictures,” she said comfortably. “Got me one of the seashore over my sofa.”

Gabe walked back in carrying an armful of flowers. Feeling awkward, he cleared his throat. “They sold them at the market.”

“And he bought them out, too,” Mrs. Witherby cackled. Then, with a few wheezes, she heaved herself off the couch. “You got a vase? She can’t be carrying all of them.”

“No, at least... I don’t know.”

“Men.” She sighed and then winked at Laura. “Give them to me and let me take care of it. You can do something useful, like putting more wood on that fire. Wouldn’t want your lady to catch a chill.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

If he’d ever felt more of a fool, he couldn’t remember when. Wanting to keep his hands busy, he moved to the fire.

“Don’t let her browbeat you, boy,” Mr. Witherby advised him from the comfort of his chair. “She’s already spent fifty-two years nagging me.”

“Somebody had to,” Mrs. Witherby called out from the kitchen, and he chuckled.

“Sure you two know what you’re getting into?”

Gabe dusted his hands on the thighs of his jeans and grinned. “No.”

“That’s the spirit.” Witherby laughed and rested his head against the back of the chair. “Essie, get that bag of bones you call a body moving, will you? These two people want to get married while they’re still young.”

“Keep your tongue in your mouth,” she muttered. “Already lost his teeth.” She came in carrying a watering can filled with flowers. She set it in the middle of the coffee table, nodded her approval, then handed Laura a single white carnation.

“Thank you. They’re lovely.” She started to rise and nearly winced at the stab of pain in her back. Then Gabe was there to take her hand and draw her to his side.

They stood in front of the fire with wood crackling and the scent of the flowers merging with that of the smoke. The words were simple and very old. Despite the countless weddings she’d been to, Mrs. Witherby dabbed at her eyes.

To love. To honor. To cherish.

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