Read Angel Be Good for Free Online

been
kind.
    The scene faded once more, to reappear in a
blaze of Christmas lights. He saw his father sitting at a table,
staring at the tree that Nat had carefully chosen and decorated.
Hell, he'd been a teenager then.
    Then, he saw himself. A fourteen-year-old in
all his awkward glory. Carefully bringing in their Christmas dinner
on a tray. A dinner he'd been so excited he'd been able to prepare
himself.
    Smiling, he set down the turkey TV dinner in
front of his father and added a saucer with sliced canned cranberry
sauce as a side dish. He'd even set the table with red and green
napkins and placemats, hoping his father would be pleased by all
the work he'd gone to.
    Dad took one look at the foil-encased dinner
and lifted his brows. "You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble.
We could be eating at The Maisson even now."
    Nat had looked up excitedly, proud of the
preparations he'd made, only to have his face fall when he realized
his father was being sarcastic. Dad wasn't impressed. He was
disappointed. In him. As usual.
    The screen froze. Nat felt as if an artery
had been torn open by watching the scene. The pain on his own face
had been so clear and obvious and he hurt now just as much as he'd
hurt then. He'd never been able to satisfy his father, no matter
how hard he'd tried. Eventually, he'd given up.
    Nat wanted to strike out. Anything to stop
the pain, the longing, the need of the boy he'd been. He turned to
Daphne, wanting to hurt her as she was allowing him to hurt. "You
enjoying this? I find it rather tedious."
    She looked at him with a clear gaze, those
midnight eyes boring into him and he couldn't hide the pain.
Dammit. He was weak, as weak as the boy on the TV.
    The tape rolled again and he turned back to
see what would be next.
    As soon as he saw the setting, Nat knew what
was coming. His jaw tightened spasmodically. Even knowing what
would happen, it was as if he were mesmerized by his own death.
    The setting was Constance's apartment on
Christmas Eve. Constance with her silky red tresses and
sophisticated demeanor. Constance, who'd slipped perfectly into his
lifestyle, had amazingly agreed to marry him.
    They were sipping wine and slowly decorating
her tree. A tree as artificial as she. With each shiny bulb that
went into place on the tree, Nat watched himself die a little, not
by inches but by ornaments. False things, shiny and glowing but of
no value.
    "This will stop right now." The words seemed
to fight their way out of Nat's throat. A jolt of crisp anger
brought him out of his paralysis. He bolted from his chair. "I'm
not going to take another moment of this, Daphne. I know what's
coming and I won't watch."

~~~~

    Chapter Three

    "It doesn't matter what you want, Nat,"
replied Daphne. "The Council wants you to watch this. Could it be
that you're afraid? Maybe you'll discover you were just as much of
a jerk back then as you are now. Is that what you're worried
about?"
    "Don't be ridiculous." Nat's anger
dissipated. What was he worried about? Now that he'd learned about
women, seeing it through wiser eyes would lessen the pain of the
younger, less experienced Nat. Watching this tape could be a
catharsis, a confirmation of all he held to be true and right.
    Wordlessly, he regained his chair and turned
to view the TV.
    The young Nat, with twenty-four years of
life behind him, gazed with admiration at Constance. He watched her
every move, proud that she was soon to be his. Two weeks earlier,
she'd agreed to wear his ring and it sparkled with her every
movement. Flickers of candlelight bounced off it, radiating prisms
of color as promising as the love light in his own eyes.
    Ah, the young Nat thought he could have it
all. Money. Power. Love. He hadn't learned yet that love didn't
exist.
    True love? Nonsense. The scene before him
would prove that theory. Constance.
    She was lovely. Achingly so. Even with his
older eyes, he paused to admire the way she seemed to flow, the
gentle curve of her hip, the length of