Kissed by an Angel/The Power of Love/Soulmates

by Elizabeth Chandler

  Ivy had just passed Gregory’s room when his phone rang. She wondered if she should pick it up for him or let the answering machine take a message.

  It’s probably Suzanne, Ivy thought, calling to find out where he is. She stopped to listen; if it was her friend, she’d pick up the phone and tell her that Gregory was on his way.

  The machine beeped. There was a moment of silence, then a voice said, “It’s me. I need the money, Gregory. You know I don’t like to go to your old man. And you know what will happen if I don’t get the money. I need the money, Gregory, now.”

  The caller hung up without identifying himself, but she recognized his voice. Eric.

  * * *

  Ivy drummed her fingers on the wicker chair, looked out at the pond behind the Goldsteins’ house, and checked her watch once more. Obviously Suzanne had forgotten about their plans. They were to meet there at six-thirty. It was now twenty-five minutes past seven.

  Ivy was annoyed that she had waited this long, especially since she didn’t even want to see Suzanne that night. But she thought that as a loyal best friend she should stick it out.

  “Always your best friend,” she murmured. At home she had a large box of tattered letters, notes that Suzanne had started writing in fourth grade whenever she got bored in class. All the letters were signed, “Always your best friend.”

  Always—but the truth was, with Gregory around, things were changing between the two of them. And Suzanne was as guilty as she. Ivy got up from the chair abruptly and started down the porch steps.

  From the other side of the house came the sound of a car in the driveway. A door slammed. Ivy circled around the house, then stopped. Gregory and Suzanne were walking slowly toward the house, their arms around each other, Suzanne’s head on his shoulder. Ivy wished she had left earlier, much earlier.

  Gregory spotted her first and stopped walking. Then Suzanne looked up. “Hi, Ivy!” she said with surprise. A moment later, her hand flew up to her head. “Oh, no, I totally forgot! I’m so sorry. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

  Since six-thirty, and you know it, and I’m starved, Ivy wanted to say, but didn’t. But she also didn’t play Suzanne’s game by reassuring her in some way: No, no, I just got here myself. That’s what she was supposed to say, wasn’t it? Ivy just looked at her friend and let her figure it out.

  Perhaps Gregory picked up on some of the tension between them. He jumped in quickly. “We decided at the last minute to get a pizza at Celentano’s. I’m sorry we didn’t know you were here, Ivy. It would have been great if you’d come with us.”

  He was rewarded with two glares: Suzanne’s, for implying that dinner would have been great if Ivy had come; Ivy’s, for suggesting that she’d enjoy being with them on a date. Hadn’t he ever heard that three’s a crowd?

  Gregory unwrapped himself from Suzanne, then retreated toward the car. Slipping one hand in his pocket, he propped the other on the open door, trying to look casual.

  “I can see there’s going to be some talking here tonight, some dirt-dishing. Maybe I should leave before I get hooked by the soap opera.”

  You are the soap opera, Ivy thought.

  “You may as well,” Suzanne replied. “Most guys are amateurs at talking.”

  Gregory laughed—not as much at ease as he pretended, Ivy thought—then rattled his keys at them and left.

  “I’m beat,” Suzanne said, throwing herself down on the front steps and pulling Ivy down next to her. “Manhattan in the summer—I tell you, it brings out the crazies. You should have seen all the people at Times Square, waiting for another vision of—”

  She stopped herself, but Ivy knew what she was about to say. She had already read about the angelic Barbra Streisand.

  Suzanne reached out then and touched Ivy’s face very, very gently. “Aren’t they getting tired of seeing you in the emergency room?”

  Ivy laughed a little.

  “How’re you feeling?” Suzanne asked.

  “All right … really,” she added when she saw the doubt in Suzanne’s eyes.

  “Are you dreaming about this now, too?”

  “I haven’t so far,” said Ivy.

  “You’re tough, girl,” Suzanne said, shaking her head. “And I bet you’re hungry and ready to kill me.”

  “Very hungry and almost ready,” Ivy replied as Suzanne pushed herself up from the steps and dug in her purse for her house keys. Peppermint, Suzanne’s Pomeranian, greeted them with yaps of joy, anticipating dinner. They headed straight for the kitchen.

  While Suzanne fed Peppermint, Ivy explored the Goldstein’s refrigerator, which was always well stocked. She settled for a large bowl of homemade soup. Suzanne set a pan of brownies and some lemon frosted cupcakes on the table between them. She cut herself a brownie, then swiveled back and forth in her chair. “I’ve got him, Ivy,” she said. “Gregory’s definitely hooked. Now all I have to do is reel him in.”

  “I thought you were going to reel him in last week, or maybe the week before,” Ivy recalled.

  “That’s why I need your help,” Suzanne said quickly. “I’m never sure with Gregory. I have to know, Ivy—did he go out with any girls this weekend? I mean, with me being away and him having to come home because of you, I wondered whether he got out his little date book and …”

  Ivy chased noodles around with her soup spoon. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “How can you not know? You live with him!”

  “He was home Saturday morning. In the afternoon we played tennis and went shopping. At night he went to a movie with Philip and me. He was out for a while on Sunday afternoon, but the rest of the time he was with Philip and me.”

  “And you. It’s a good thing you’re my best friend and Gregory’s stepsister,” Suzanne remarked, “or else I’d be insanely jealous and suspicious. Lucky for both of us, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Ivy replied without enthusiasm.

  “How about Monday? Did he go out then?”

  “For a while in the morning, then late last night. Suzanne, I don’t feel right reporting on him to you.”

  “Well, whose side are you on?” her friend asked.

  Ivy crumbled a cracker in her soup. “I didn’t know there were sides.”

  “Who do you feel most loyal to, me or Gregory?” Suzanne persisted. “You know, in the beginning I thought you didn’t like him. In fact, I thought you couldn’t stand him but didn’t say anything because you didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”

  Ivy nodded. “I didn’t know him very well then. But I do now, and since I care about him and I care about you, and since you’re chasing him—”

  “I’ve caught him, Ivy.”

  “Since you’ve caught him, and you hooked me years ago, how can there be sides?”

  “Don’t be so naive,” Suzanne replied. “There are always sides in love.” She chopped away at the brownies in the pan. “Love is war.”

  “Don’t, Suzanne.”

  She stopped chopping. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t do what you’re doing to him.”

  Suzanne sat back in her chair. “Just what are you saying?” There was a noticeable chill in her voice.

  “I’m saying don’t play games with him. Don’t push him around the way you’ve pushed around the other guys. He deserves better treatment, much better.”

  Suzanne was silent for a moment. “You know what you need, Ivy? A boyfriend of your own.”

  Ivy stared down at her soup.

  “And Gregory agrees with me on that.”

  Ivy glanced up sharply.

  “He thinks Will is perfect for you.”

  “Tristan was perfect for me.”

  “Was,” said Suzanne. “Was. Life goes on, and you’ve got to go on with it!”

  “I will when I’m ready,” Ivy replied.

  “You’ve got to let go of the past.” Suzanne laid her hand on Ivy’s wrist. “You’ve got to stop acting like a little girl, holding on to the hand of big brother G
regory.”

  Ivy looked away.

  “You’ve got to start getting out and seeing other guys. Will’s a start.”

  “Butt out, Suzanne.”

  “Gregory and I can set you up.”

  “I said, butt out!”

  “All right!”

  Suzanne sliced an ultrathin piece of brownie, then pointed the knife at Ivy. “But you butt out, too, and don’t tell me what to do. I’m warning you now, don’t interfere with me and Gregory.”

  What did she mean by interfere? Ivy wondered. Don’t give her advice—or stop holding on to Gregory’s hand?

  They both stared down at their food in silence. Peppermint sat between their chairs, looking from one to the other. Then somehow, after what seemed an interminable silence, they found their way onto safer ground, talking about the wedding Suzanne had been to. But as Suzanne talked on and Ivy nodded, all Ivy could think of was that one way or the other, she was going to lose someone who meant a lot to her.

  P2-8

  “Give us a few more minutes, Philip,” Ivy said. “We want to look at the rest of these paintings.”

  “I think I’ll go find Gregory.”

  Ivy reached out quickly and caught her brother by the back of his T-shirt. “Not today. You’re stuck with Beth and me.”

  For the last four days Ivy had spent little time with Gregory, seeing him only at occasional family meals and in chance passings in the hall. Whenever their paths did cross, she’d been careful not to start a long conversation with him. When he’d sought her out—and the more she’d avoided him the more he had sought her out—she’d claimed she was on her way up to the music room to practice.

  Gregory looked puzzled and a little angry about the distance she was putting between them. But what else could she do? They had grown too close. Without meaning to, Ivy had come to depend on him. If she didn’t back off now, she might lose Suzanne as a friend.

  Suzanne and Beth had met Gregory, Philip, and Ivy in town that afternoon, at the bottom of Main Street, where the festival began. Suzanne had immediately draped her arm across Gregory’s back and slipped her hand into his back pocket, walking him away from Ivy and Philip. Ivy had responded by steering Philip in another direction. Beth was left standing on the street corner.

  “Come with us,” Ivy had called to her. “We’re going to see the art.”

  The display was set up along a narrow lane of old shops that ran back from Main Street. An assortment of townspeople—women pushing baby strollers, old ladies in straw hats, kids with their faces painted, and two guys dressed as clowns-walked along looking at the pictures, trying to guess who the artists were. Each picture was titled and numbered, but the artists’ names were masked for the judging that would take place later that day.

  Ivy, Beth, and Philip were almost at the end of the display when Philip had started fussing about finding Gregory.

  Now Ivy pointed to a strange painting, trying to distract him. “What do you think that is?” she asked.

  “Things.” He read the title with a scowl.

  “Looks to me like a row of lipsticks,” Beth said, “or trees in the fall or Christmas candles or catsup bottles or missiles at sunset—”

  Philip screwed up his face. “It looks to me like it’s stupid,” he said loudly.

  “Shh! Philip, keep your voice down,” Ivy warned. “For all we know, the artist is right behind us.”

  Philip turned around to look. Suddenly the scowl was gone. His face lit up. “No,” he said, “but there’s an—” He hesitated.

  “What?” Beth asked.

  Ivy glanced quickly behind her. No one was there.

  Philip gave a little shrug. “Never mind.” He sighed.

  They moved on to the last entry, a panel with four watercolors.

  “Wow!” Beth said. “These are fabulous! Number thirty-three, whoever you are, you’re my winner.”

  “Mine, too,” Ivy agreed. The artist’s colors were almost transparent and infused with a light of their own.

  Ivy pointed to a painting of a garden. “I wish I could sit there, for hours and hours. It makes me feel so peaceful.”

  “I like the snake,” Philip observed.

  Only a little boy would have found that snake, Ivy thought, painted in so slyly.

  “I want to talk to the woman in the last picture,” Beth said.

  The woman sat under a tree with her face turned away from the painter. Blossoms were streaming down on her, luminous apple blossoms, but they made Ivy think of snow. She looked at the title: Too Soon.

  “There’s a story behind that one,” Beth said softly.

  Ivy nodded. She knew the story, or one like it, about losing someone before you had a chance to—

  For a moment her eyes stung. Then she blinked and said, “Well, we’ve seen everything in the show. Let’s go spend money.”

  “Yeah!” Philip shouted. “Where’re the rides?”

  “There aren’t any rides, not at a festival like this.”

  Philip stopped short. “No rides?” He couldn’t believe it. “No rides!”

  “I think we’re in for a long afternoon,” Ivy told Beth.

  “We’ll just keep feeding him,” Beth replied.

  “I want to go home.”

  “Let’s walk back to Main Street,” Ivy suggested, “and see what everyone is selling.”

  “That’s boring.” Her brother was getting that stiff-jawed look that meant trouble. “I’m going to find Gregory.”

  “No!” She said it so sharply that Beth glanced over at her.

  “He’s on a date, Philip,” Ivy reminded him quietly, “and we can’t bother him.”

  Philip started dragging his feet as though he had been walking for miles. Beth was walking slowly, too, studying Ivy.

  “It’s just that it’s really not fair to Gregory,” Ivy told Beth, as if she had asked for an explanation. “He’s not used to a nine-year-old tagging along everywhere.”

  “Oh.” The way Beth glanced away told Ivy that her friend knew this wasn’t the whole truth.

  “And of course, Suzanne’s not used to it at all.”

  “I guess not,” Beth replied mildly.

  “This is boring, boring, boring,” Philip complained. “I want to go home.”

  “Then walk!” Ivy snapped.

  Beth glanced around. “How about getting our picture taken?” she suggested. “Every year there’s a stand called Old West Photos. They have different costumes you can dress up in. It’s fun.”

  “Great idea!” Ivy replied. “We’ll take enough for an album,” she added under her breath, “if it keeps him occupied.”

  The canopied stand was set up in front of the photo shop and looked like a small stage set. There were several backdrops to choose from, trunks of clothes that kids and adults were sorting through, and props scattered about—pistols, wooden mugs, a fake-fur buffalo head. Tinkly piano music gave the tent a saloon atmosphere.

  The photographer himself was dressed up in a cowboy hat, vest, and tight cowhide pants. Beth eyed him from behind. “Cute,” she observed. “Very cute.”

  Ivy smiled.

  “I like anything in boots,” Beth said, a little too loudly.

  The cowboy turned around.

  “will!”

  Will laughed at Beth, who flushed with embarrassment. He put a reassuring hand on her arm, then nodded at Ivy. Philip had already strayed toward the costume trunks.

  “How are you?” Will asked.

  Beth banged herself on the head. “I completely forgot that with your job, you’d be doing this.”

  He smiled at her—a big and easy smile. It was impossible to see Will’s eyes under the shadow of his hat, but Ivy could tell when he glanced from Beth to her, because the smile became not so big, and not so easy.

  “Thinking about having your picture done?” he asked.

  Philip was already elbow-deep in clothes.

  “Looks like our date wants to,” Beth said to Ivy.

  �
��Your date?”

  “My brother, Philip,” Ivy explained. He had wedged himself in between two guys big enough to play pro football. “The short one.”

  Will nodded. “Maybe I should steer him toward another trunk. Ladies’ costumes are over there,” Will added over his shoulder, pointing toward trunks where a flock of girls were gathered.

  A few of the girls were older than Ivy and Beth. Others looked two or three years younger. All of them kept turning around, looking at Will and giggling.

  “Hey, cowboy,” Beth called softly after him. “I bet they’d like your help, even more than Philip.”

  “They’re doing fine,” he said, and continued on.

  “Love those buns.”

  Will stopped.

  Ivy looked at Beth, and Beth looked at Ivy. Ivy knew she hadn’t said it, but Beth acted as if she hadn’t, either. Her blue eyes were brimming with laughter and surprise.

  “I didn’t say it.”

  “Neither did I.”

  Will just shook his head and walked on.

  “But you were thinking it,” someone said. Ivy glanced around.

  “Well, maybe I was, Ivy,” Beth admitted, “but—”

  Will turned around.

  “I didn’t say it!” Ivy insisted.

  “Say what?” Will asked, cocking his head.

  Ivy was sure he had heard. “That you have—That I thought—That—” Ivy looked sideways at Beth. “Oh, never mind.”

  “What is she talking about?” Will asked Beth.

  “Something about your buns,” said Beth.

  Ivy threw up her hands. “I don’t care about his buns!”

  The buzz of voices beneath the canopy ceased. Everyone looked at Will, then Ivy.

  “Would you like to see mine?” asked one of the football types.

  “Oh, jeez,” Ivy said.

  Will laughed out loud.

  “Your cheeks are pink,” Beth told Ivy.

  Ivy put her hands up to her face.

  Beth pulled them away. “It’s a much better color for you than purple and yellow.”