Kissed by an Angel/The Power of Love/Soulmates

by Elizabeth Chandler

  “Do you think you could come up with a way to give advice without making sarcastic remarks about ‘that chick’?”

  “Sure,” she answered agreeably, and started walking the wall again. “But it wouldn’t be half as much fun.”

  “I’ll try Philip again,” Tristan said, more to himself than to her. “And Gregory—”

  “Now, Gregory’s a tough nut to crack. Do you trust him? Stupid question,” she said before he could answer. “You don’t trust anyone who’s got eyes for Ivy.”

  Tristan’s head bobbed up. “Gregory’s dating Suzanne.”

  She laughed down at him. “You’re so naive! It’s refreshing, for a jock-hunk type like you, but it’s kind of pitiful, too.”

  “Teach me,” he said for the third time, then reached up and caught her hand. Since angel hands did not pass through each other, he could hold on tight. “I’m worried about her, Lacey, I’m really worried.”

  She looked down at him.

  “Help me.”

  Lacey stared at her long fingers caught by his.

  She pulled her hand away very slowly, then reached down and patted him on the head. He hated the way she could patronize him, and he didn’t like begging, but she knew things that would take a long time for him to learn on his own.

  “Okay, okay. But listen up, because I’m only telling you once.”

  He nodded.

  “First you have to find the hook. You have to find something that the person saw or did that night. The best kind of hook is an object or action that is connected with that night only, but avoid anything that might threaten your host. You don’t want to set off alarm bells in his head.”

  She stepped carefully along a crumbling section of wall. “It’s sort of like doing a word search on a library computer. If you pick a term that’s too general, you’ll call up all kinds of junk you don’t want.”

  “Easy enough,” he said with confidence.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “Once you’ve got your hook, you enter the person, like you’ve already done with Will and Beth, only you have to be more careful than ever. If your host feels you prowling around, if something feels strange to him, he’s going to be on guard. Then he’ll be too alert to let his mind wander back through memories.”

  “They’ll never guess I’m there.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said again. “Be patient. Creep.” She crept along the wall in slow motion. “And slowly bring into focus whatever image you’re using for the hook. Remember to see it the same way that your host would.”

  “Of course.” It was simple. He probably could have figured it out on his own, he thought. “And then?”

  She jumped down from the wall. “That’s it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s when the fun begins.”

  “But tell me what it’s like, Lacey, so I know what to expect. Tell me how it feels.”

  “Oh, I think you probably could figure it out on your own.”

  He stopped short. “Can you read minds?”

  She turned to look him straight in the eye. “No, but I’m pretty good at reading faces. And yours is like a large-print book.”

  He glanced away.

  “You need me, Tristan, but you don’t take me seriously. I met a lot of people like you when I was alive.”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “Listen, I’ve got my own mission to work on. It’s time I start poking around New York City, going back to the beginning and figuring out what I’m supposed to be figuring out. Thanks to you, I’m already late for the train.”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “I know you can’t help it. Listen, if you should finish up your mission before I get back, can I have your grave? I mean, me not having one, unless you count my airplane seat at the bottom of the Atlantic, and you wouldn’t be needing one after that—”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “Of course, I might finish up my mission first.”

  After two years of procrastinating? he thought, but didn’t dare say it aloud.

  “I swear your face is like one of those largeprint books my mother used to read.”

  Then she laughed and hurried off in the direction of the station that was at the edge of town, nestled between the river and the ridge.

  Tristan turned the opposite way to climb a road that would take him to the top of the ridge, where the Baines house was. Philip might be home, he thought. Ivy’s little brother had held on to the belief in angels that Ivy had given up. He could see Tristan shimmering, though he didn’t know who it was. Strangely enough, Ivy’s cat, Ella, saw Tristan, too.

  He was able to pet Ella when he materialized the tips of his fingers. That was about as much as he could do now: pet a cat, pick up a piece of paper. Tristan longed to touch Ivy, to be strong enough to hold her in his arms.

  He’d go straight to the house now and wait for her to come home from the party. He’d watch for Gregory, too. While he did, he’d figure out whose mind might hold the clue he needed—and how, please tell me how, he prayed, to reach Ivy!

  P2-3

  Suzanne swatted back a piece of hanging plant that needed clipping, then stretched out luxuriously on her lounge. She wore a gold silk robe and had wrapped a green-and-gold towel around her head like a turban. Everything in the room—the large, round tub, the pillows, the luxurious carpeting and silk-grained wallpaper—was green or gold.

  The first time Ivy had walked into this room at Suzanne’s house, her eyes had popped open. She was seven years old then. The sumptuous bath, the elegant child’s bedroom, and the velvet-lined trunks containing twenty-six Barbie dolls immediately convinced Ivy that Suzanne was a princess, and Suzanne didn’t act otherwise. She was a remarkable princess who cheerfully shared all her toys and had a nice streak of wildness in her.

  That day Ivy and Suzanne had snipped off small hunks of their own hair and made little wigs for the dolls. Twenty-six dolls required a lot of hair. Ivy figured she’d never get invited back, but soon she was being picked up by Mrs. Goldstein all the time, because Suzanne said she wanted to play with Ivy even more than she wanted her allowance or a pony.

  Suzanne sighed, adjusted her turban, and opened her eyes. “Are you warm enough, Ivy?”

  Ivy nodded. “Perfect.” After bringing Suzanne home from the party, Ivy had changed from her wet bathing suit to a T-shirt and shorts. Suzanne had lent her a pink, satiny robe, which was needed in the air-conditioned house. It made Ivy feel like part of the princess scene.

  “Perfect,” Suzanne repeated, lifting a long, tan leg, pointing her toes. She took a sudden ungraceful swat at the plant hanging over her lounge, then dropped her leg and laughed. Now that the pie and whipped cream had been washed out of her hair, she was in a much better mood.

  “He is … perfect. Tell me the truth, Ivy,” she said. “Does Gregory think about me often?”

  “How would I know, Suzanne?”

  Suzanne turned on her side to face Ivy. “Well, does Gregory talk about me?”

  “He has,” Ivy said cautiously.

  “A lot?”

  “Naturally he wouldn’t say a lot to me. He knows I’m your best friend and would pass it along to you, or at least have it tortured out of me.” Ivy grinned.

  Suzanne sat up and whipped the towel off her head. A tumble of jet black hair fell over her shoulders.

  “He’s a flirt,” she said. “Gregory will flirt with anyone—even you.”

  Ivy didn’t take offense at the words even you. “Of course he will,” she said. “He knows it gets to you. He likes to play games, too.”

  Suzanne dropped her chin and smiled up at Ivy through wisps of damp hair.

  “You know,” Ivy went on, “you two are supplying Beth with a ton of material. She’ll have written five Harlequins before we graduate from high school. If I were you, I’d ask for a cut.”

  “Mmm.” Suzanne smiled to herself. “And I’ve only just begun.”

  Ivy laughed and stood up
. “Well, I’ve got to go now.”

  “You’re going? Wait! We’ve hardly talked about the other girls at the party.”

  They had dissected the other girls all the way home, and shouted a dozen more catty comments over the loud drumming of Suzanne’s shower.

  “And we haven’t talked about you,” said Suzanne.

  “Well, when it comes to me, there’s really nothing to talk about,” Ivy told her. She took off the robe and started folding it.

  “Nothing? That’s not what I heard,” Suzanne said slyly.

  “What did you hear?”

  “Well, first off, I want you to know that when I heard it—”

  “Heard what?” Ivy asked impatiently.

  “—I told them all that, as someone who has known you a long time, I thought it unlikely.”

  “Thought what unlikely?”

  Suzanne started combing her hair. “I may have even said very unlikely—I can’t remember.”

  Ivy sat down. “Suzanne, what are you talking about?”

  “At least I told them I was very surprised to hear that you were making out in the deep end with Eric.”

  Ivy’s mouth dropped. “Making out with Eric! And you told them it was unlikely? More like totally impossible! Suzanne, you know I wouldn’t!”

  “I don’t know anything for sure about you anymore. People do strange things when they’re mourning. They get lonely. They try different ways to forget…. What exactly were you doing?”

  “Playing a game.”

  “A kissing game?”

  Ivy blew out through her lips. “A stupid game.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Suzanne said. “I don’t think Eric’s right for you. He’s much too fast, and he plays around with some weird stuff. But of course you should start dating again.”

  “No.”

  “Ivy, it’s time you started living again.”

  “Living and dating aren’t the same thing,” Ivy pointed out.

  “They are to me,” Suzanne replied.

  They both laughed.

  “What about Will?” Suzanne asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Well, he’s kind of a newcomer to Stonehill, like you, and an artsy type—like you. Gregory said that the paintings he’s entering in the festival are awesome.”

  Gregory had told Ivy the same thing. She wondered if the two of them were conspiring to get her and Will together.

  “You’re not still angry about him drawing those angels, are you?” Suzanne asked.

  Drawing a picture of Tristan as an angel wrapping his arms around me, Ivy corrected silently. “I know he thought it would make me feel better,” she said aloud.

  “So cut him a break, Ivy. I know what you’re thinking. I know exactly how you feel. Remember when Sunbeam died, and I said, ‘That’s it for Pomeranians. I never want another dog again? But I’ve got Peppermint now and—”

  “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  Ivy knew Suzanne meant well, but losing Tristan wasn’t quite like losing a fourteen-year-old half-blind and completely deaf dog. She was tired of dealing with people who meant well and said ridiculous things.

  Fifteen minutes later Ivy was headed home, her old Dodge climbing the long drive up the ridge. Several months earlier she would not have believed it possible, but she had grown fond of the low stone wall and the patches of trees and runs of wild flowers she passed—her stepfather Andrew’s wall and trees and flowers. The large white house on top of the hill, with its wings and double chimneys and heavy black shutters, actually seemed like home now. The high ceilings did not look so high to her, the wide hall and center staircase no longer intimidated her, though she still usually scooted up the back steps.

  It was about an hour before dinner and Ivy looked forward to some time by herself in her music room. It had been four weeks exactly since Tristan died—though no one else seemed to have noticed the date—and four weeks exactly since she had stopped playing the piano. Her nine-year-old brother, Philip, had begged her to play for him as she once did. But every time she sat down on the bench she went cold inside. The music was frozen somewhere within her.

  I have to get past this block, Ivy thought as she pulled her car into the garage behind the house.

  The Stonehill Arts Festival was two weeks away, and Suzanne had registered her as a performer. If Ivy didn’t practice soon, she and Philip would have to do their famous “Chopsticks” duet.

  Ivy paused outside the garage to watch Philip play beneath his tree house. He was so involved in his game, he didn’t notice her.

  But Ella did. It was as if the cat had been waiting for her, her green eyes wide and staring expectantly. She was purring even before Ivy rubbed her around her ears, her favorite spot, then she followed Ivy inside.

  Ivy called hello to her mother and Henry, the cook, who were sitting at a table in the kitchen. Henry looked weary, and her mother, whose most complicated recipes were copied off soup cans, looked confused. Ivy guessed that they were planning another menu for a dinner entertaining benefactors of Andrew’s college.

  “How was the party, dear?” her mother asked.

  “Good.”

  Henry was busily scratching items off Maggie’s list. “Chicken à la king, chocolate pie with whipped cream,” he said, sniffing with disapproval.

  “See you later,” Ivy said. When neither of them looked up, she headed for the back stairs.

  The west side of the house, where the dining room, kitchen, and family room were, was the most-used section. A narrow gallery lined by pictures connected the family room to the wing occupied by Andrew’s office on the first floor and Gregory’s bedroom on the second. Ivy took the small staircase that ran up from the gallery, then crossed through the passage that led back into the main part of the house, into the hall with her room and Philip’s. As soon as she entered her room she smelled something sweet.

  She gasped with surprise. On her bureau, next to the photo of Tristan in his favorite baseball cap and old school jacket, were a dozen lavender roses. Ivy walked toward them. Tears rose quickly in her eyes, as if the salty drops had been there all along without her knowing.

  Tristan had given her fifteen lavender roses the day after they argued about her belief in angels—one for each of her angel statues. When he saw how much she loved their unusual color, he’d bought her more, giving them to her on the way to a romantic dinner the night of the accident.

  There was a note next to these roses. Gregory’s jagged handwriting was never easy to decipher, and less so through tears. She wiped her eyes and tried again.

  “I know these have been the hardest four weeks of your life,” the note said.

  Ivy lifted down the vase and laid her face lightly against the fragrant petals. Gregory had been there for her, looking out for her, since the night of the accident. While everyone else was encouraging her to remember that night and talk about the accident—because, they said, it would help her heal—he’d let her take her time, let her find her own way of healing. Perhaps it was his own loss, his mother’s suicide, that had made him so understanding.

  His note fluttered to the floor. Ivy quickly leaned over and picked it up. It fluttered down a second time. When she tried to pick it up again, the paper tore a little in her fingers, as if it had caught on something. Ivy frowned and gently smoothed the note. Then she set it back on the bureau, slipping one corner under the heavy vase.

  Despite the tears, she felt more peaceful now. She decided to try playing the piano, hoping she’d be able to find the music within her. “Come on, Ella. Upstairs. I need to practice.”

  The cat followed her through a door in the bedroom that hid a steep flight of steps leading to the house’s third floor. Ivy’s music room, which had a sloping roof and one dormer window, had been furnished by Andrew as a gift to her. It was still hard for Ivy to believe she had her own piano, a baby grand with gleaming, unchipped keys, kept perfectly in tune. She still marveled at the sound of the CD system, as well
as the old-fashioned phonograph that could play the collection of jazz records that had belonged to her father.

  At first Ivy had been embarrassed by the way Andrew lavished expensive gifts on both her and Philip. She had thought it angered Gregory. But now it seemed so long ago, those months when she’d thought that Gregory hated her for invading his life at home and school.

  Ella scurried ahead of her into the room and leaped up on the piano.

  “So, you’re sure I’m going to play today,” Ivy said.

  The cat still had her wide-eyed look and stared just beyond Ivy, purring.

  Ivy pulled out music books, trying to decide what to play. Anything, anything, just to get her fingers going. For the festival she would do something from one of her past recitals. As she sorted through classical scores she set aside a book of songs from Broadway musicals. That was the only kind of old, soft music that Tristan, a rock fan, had known.

  She reached for Liszt and opened the score. Her hands trembled as they touched the smooth keys and she started her scales. Her fingers liked the familiar feel of the stretches; the repetitive rise and fall of notes soothed her. She glanced up at the opening measures of “Liebestraum” and willed herself to play. Her hands took over then, and it was as if she had never stopped playing. For a month she had been holding herself so tightly; now she gave in to the music that swirled up around her. The melody wanted to carry her, and she let it, let it take her wherever it would lead.

  “I love you, Ivy, and one day your’re going to believe me.”

  She stopped playing. The sense of him overwhelmed her. The memory was so strong-him standing behind her in the moonlight, listening to her play—that she could not believe he was gone. Her head fell forward over the piano. “Tristan! I miss you, Tristan!”

  She cried as if someone had just now told her that he was dead. It will never get easier, she thought. Never.

  Ella crowded close to her head, nosing her. When Ivy’s tears stopped flowing, she reached for the cat. Then she heard a sound: three distinct notes. Ella’s feet must have slipped. Ivy thought. She must have stepped down on the piano keys.

  Ivy blinked back the wetness and cuddled the cat in her arms. “What would I do without you, Ella?”