Earth Angel (2 page)

“Sorry,” the woman said, her eyes widening. “I didn’t mean you.”

Obviously she’d been expecting someone else. Because who else could she have meant? She couldn’t have been talking to the angels.

Who were suddenly conspicuously absent.

After an interminable silence, the woman closed her eyes and put her head in her hands. “I didn’t mean you. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Abby tried not to think too hard about why those angels blinked out of the room so fast, almost as if they were the ones who’d been asked to leave. Because they hadn’t been. No one could see them but her. This woman had been talking to whoever she thought was at the door, not to her crowd of invisible, ethereal visitors, because she couldn’t have known they were there. That was simply not the way it worked.

“Would you like music? I’d be happy to play for you.”

“No, thank you.”

“Sorry to intrude.” Abby slipped out into the hall, ready to glare at Sapphire and make her tell her what that was all about.

But Sapphire, like the others, was gone.

Chapter Two

Gwynne Abernathy was sick of feeling like a fraud. It had been three weeks since Heather and her mother died, and working with clients was a struggle that showed no sign of getting better.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she told her friend Megan McLaren. She stared at a line of wispy clouds that hovered over the Atlantic Ocean, distant but still visible from the rooftop patio of Piper Beach’s newly refurbished Starfish Hotel, rechristened the Sea Salt by Megan’s partner, Kira Wagner, when she became the new owner. With the start of the summer beach season three months away and construction not yet underway on the pool that was scheduled to claim two thirds of the roof, they had the rooftop to themselves. “I can’t let people convince themselves that paying me to heal them is going to do them any good.”

“You’re quitting?” Megan asked in alarm. The wind blew her dark messy hair in her face and she pushed it out of her eyes. “It’s just temporary, right? You’re so good at what you do.”

“I wish everyone would stop saying that.”

“Maybe everyone keeps saying it because it’s true.”

Gwynne gripped the wooden railing and the edge bit into her palms. She should have become a doctor, she really should have. She should be working in the ER, saving people’s lives and actually making a difference instead of wasting her time on massage and energy healing.

“If I was that good, I should have been able to save my mother.”

“Everyone fails sometimes. Doctors fail too. People die. You don’t see doctors quitting just because their patients die.”

“At least they know they have a chance of saving them. The energy healing I do…it’s all bullshit. No offense,” she added, since Megan too was in the same line of work. They’d met in massage school and taught each other all sorts of things their teachers never mentioned. Megan McLaren was the only person she’d ever met who could see angels, who worked with them to ease pain and heal illness, who truly understood what it was like to be both envied and ridiculed for seeing something no one else could see. But this time, Megan didn’t understand. Megan was never going to understand.

“Just because you couldn’t pull your mother back from the brink of death…”

“I asked the angels for help and they just…stood there. They looked at me like they felt sorry for me. Like I was deluded to believe they could help.”

Megan leaned next to her against the railing. “Was there really anything they could do? Saving a person’s life is a lot to ask. Does anyone really have that power?”

“I used to think so.”

“Please tell me you haven’t lost faith in your abilities.”

Great. Now Megan felt sorry for her.

“What I’ve lost faith in is how useful any of it is. Yeah, I can help people, but help them do what? Get over the flu a few days faster? Relax a tight muscle? Sooner or later they’ll feel better without my help.”

“You do more than that.”

“What, invite the angels in? The angels will intervene when and if they feel like it.”

“They can’t save everyone,” Megan contended. “There’s only so far anyone is allowed to intervene.”

“My mother shouldn’t have died. Neither should my sister. I should have been able to help them.” One stupid accident and they were both gone.

“They were dying. We’re facilitators, not fixers.”

“Yeah, well, apparently I’m not a fixer
or
a facilitator.”

Megan gave her a pained look. “You relieve people’s suffering. You heal the pain in their souls.”

“Do I?”

That just didn’t seem like a particularly valuable skill right now. What good was it if they were still going to die? She should go to med school. There was still time for her to change careers.

Oh, who was she kidding? Megan was the one who’d been a whiz at anatomy, back when they were both in school. Gwynne had learned enough to pass the massage certification exam, but it hadn’t come easily. Realistically, she knew she wasn’t going to become a doctor anytime soon. Or ever. And let’s face it, the doctors hadn’t been able to save Heather and her mother, either. The doctors were as helpless as she was.

It was the angels who should have saved them.

“People die,” Megan said. “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do. Maybe what you wanted was impossible.”

“It wasn’t impossible. I should have—”

“What happened to them was not your fault.”

Gwynne’s legs tensed with an acute desire to stomp away, but Megan would just follow her with offers of help.

Megan meant well. But she didn’t know what the hell she was saying.

* * *

In the crap acoustics of the basement of a guy she’d never met before, along with his two guy friends and one other woman, Abby improvised on her harp to the rhythm of the group’s four guitars, at times reinforcing the beat, at other times weaving in and out of gaps between notes, becoming part of the bluesey, ever-changing soundscape.

“You’re good. You could pick up guitar if you tried,” said Bruce, the guy whose basement it was. “Once you try guitar, you’ll never look back.”

“I like the harp,” Abby said.

“It doesn’t sound right with our group. The harmonies are off.”

It didn’t sound right? It sounded great. No wonder they were all guitar players, if guitar was the only instrument the group’s leader approved of.

“Do a solo instead,” Bruce suggested. “Eight bars for an intro and then the rest of us take it from there while you sit it out.” He fingered a chord. “Sixteen bars,” he added with a smarmy smile that shone with self-congratulatory confidence that he was a good guy doing her a favor.

But playing a solo intro defeated the purpose of jamming with other musicians, of experiencing the joy of improvising and responding to what the others were doing and creating music that had a life of its own, an out-of-control momentum it didn’t have when she played solo. She played solo all the time. This was supposed to be different.

“Her harp sounds okay,” said one of the other guys.

“As a solo,” Bruce corrected.

“Isn’t it just about having fun?” Abby suggested.

Bruce’s gaze lingered too long on her chest. Abby’s hands tightened on the frame of her harp, which rested against her shoulder and partially blocked his view. Her chest was a healthy size, but aside from a minor hint of cleavage, it was completely covered by the bodice of her awesome dress. She glanced down to confirm that yes, the laces crisscrossing up the front through leather eyelets were securely tied. The dress was figure-hugging, yes, but not an eyeball invitational. It was true she might have been better off wearing jeans and a T-shirt, which were good for not attracting attention, but after twelve years of school uniforms, she’d found her own style, and she’d be damned if she’d conform to somebody else’s ideas about what she should wear.

She liked this dress. All her favorite dresses accentuated her figure because she’d decided before she hit puberty that the way to spot a lesbian was to look for a girl who was off-the-scale feminine. They didn’t care about boys, right? So it made sense that the way to attract one was to dress as differently from a boy as possible.

Never mind that the girl in her class she found herself fantasizing about was a rugged-looking tomboy.

Okay, so her theory was flawed. Slight change in plan.

But at this point it was too late to change what kind of clothes she felt comfortable in. It was probably too late even back then.

Bruce’s gaze continued to linger. Maybe he didn’t realize he was doing it. Abby narrowed her eyes at him and tried to relax her grip on her harp.

“If you’re gonna dress like a wench,” he said, “you might as well show some cleavage.”

“Seriously?” Granted, they’d met only an hour ago, and maybe the women he was used to hanging out with didn’t mind his brand of conversation, but she was here to make music with other musicians, not listen to this guy make an ass out of himself.

One of the other guys snickered.

“Come on, Bruce, don’t be a Neanderthal,” said the lone woman in the group. She clasped the hand of her boyfriend, the one who had shown his approval for Bruce’s commentary by laughing.

Caught by his girlfriend’s opposing view, he coughed up a “Seriously, Bruce.”

Bruce shook his head in disgust. “She’s got you whipped, man.”

“Women don’t like it when you call them wenches,” said the snickerer.

“Women?” said Bruce. “Since when did you start calling them
women
?”

He shrugged. “Gertie educated me,” he said, clearly wise enough to toe the party line as long as his girlfriend was in the room. It was actually kind of sweet.

“Whipped,” Bruce said.

“Can we all shut up and play?” Gertie said.

Bruce sprawled on the sofa with his guitar in his lap. “Whenever loverboy’s ready.”

“Shut up,” said Gertie’s boyfriend.

“Abby plays the intro,” Bruce reminded them.

Abby sighed. This was not going to work out.

* * *

Gwynne squinted into the sun from her perch on the Sea Salt Hotel’s rooftop. She’d picked a good day to return—it was one of those freakishly spring-like days in February that reminded her the tourist hordes were on their way, and she and Megan and Megan’s partner Kira were taking advantage of it by flirting with winter sunburns—something she’d be doing a lot more of now that she’d decided to take a job working for Kira in the newly opened spa located on the ground floor four stories below.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Megan asked.

“She’s sure,” Kira said.

“I’m sure.” Gwynne leaned back, balancing her patio chair on its two back legs, maintaining traction with the toes of her canvas boat shoes. Supervising massage therapists and managing a spa wasn’t the clean break from her old life that she had hoped for, but it was certainly something she was qualified to do, and Kira was desperate for someone to replace Trish, her current manager, who was moving to Minneapolis. Megan was qualified too, of course, but Megan’s clients came first, and she wasn’t going to give up her thriving massage practice for anyone, not even for the love of her life and the spa they’d designed together. Unlike Gwynne, who had just given Megan her entire client list.

“Don’t you want to take a few days to think about it?” Megan said.

“I never think before I act. Why start now?” Gwynne needed to stay as busy as possible so she wouldn’t have time to think, because thinking led to wallowing, and wallowing led to dwelling on things that no amount of avoidance was ever going to let her forget. Maybe quitting her old job wasn’t the best way to do that, but she’d never claimed to be logical.

Megan didn’t look amused.

Gwynne rocked in her chair, testing how far she could take it off-balance. “You know it’s true.”

“But giving up your healing work,” Megan said. “Are you sure?”

“Hey.” Kira leaned forward and scooted her chair closer to Megan’s, scraping it against the roof-deck. “Don’t talk her out of it, honey. I need someone for that job.”

Gwynne lowered her chair legs. “I’m glad I can help out.”

“You’re doing me a huge favor,” Kira said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” Yup, she was desperate.

“Don’t speak too soon.”

“You’re perfect for the job,” Megan protested, generously pretending she’d never been frustrated by Gwynne’s limitations in the keeping-her-life-organized department. It wasn’t the only hole Megan pretended to have in her memory where Gwynne was concerned. Which made it easy to be friends. Especially when they both were more than willing to forget they’d ever briefly dated each other. “I just don’t want you to rush into it.”

“I don’t mind if you rush into it,” Kira said. “Trish is leaving in a week.”

“I don’t feel rushed,” Gwynne said.

“If you’re sure…” Megan dragged the word out so long Gwynne thought she was going to run out of air. It was nice of her to worry, but she had to quit working one-on-one with clients before either her negative energy or her incompetence made someone more ill than they already were.

Megan finally took a breath. “If there’s anything we can do for you…”

Like stop second-guessing her? But Gwynne knew how to get her to drop the topic. “Any chance you’d be interested in adopting a super-adorable rabbit?”

“Oh no,
another
one?” Clearly this was not the return favor Megan had in mind. “When are you going to stop taking in all those strays?”

“I only have two right now.”
Right now
being the operative phrase. It was only a matter of time before her house filled up again, not that she needed to mention that. “I found homes for all the others.”

“All your other animals,” Megan clarified, “or all your other rabbits?”

“Okay, okay, I also have a kitten. And a guinea pig. But I’m working on it.” Gwynne downed her water, avoiding the slices of cucumber that floated in her glass. Another one of Kira’s experimental drinks to serve at the spa. “Want a kitten?”

Megan rolled her eyes. “At least it’s only two rabbits. I’ll never forget that time you had fifty of them running all over the house and they got into your treatment room while I was giving you a massage.”