Kissed by an Angel/The Power of Love/Soulmates

by Elizabeth Chandler

  “Angels, take care of him,” Ivy prayed again.

  The minister concluded the service, and everyone turned away at the same time. Gregory’s fingers brushed Ivy’s. His hand was as cold as ice. She remembered how cold it had felt the evening the police told them of Caroline’s death.

  “How are you doing?” she asked.

  He slipped his hand through hers and held her fingers tightly. The night Caroline had died, when he had done the very same thing, she had believed that he was finally reaching out to her.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “How about you?”

  “Glad it’s over,” she answered honestly.

  He studied her face, every centimeter of it. She felt trapped, anchored by his hand, his eyes invading her, reading her thoughts.

  “I’m sorry, Gregory. You and Eric were friends for so long,” she said. “I know this is much harder for you than for any of the rest of us.”

  Gregory continued to gaze at her.

  “You tried to help him, Gregory. You did all you could for him,” Ivy said. “We both know that.”

  Gregory bowed his head, moving his face close to hers. Ivy’s skin tingled. To someone who didn’t know better, to Andrew and Maggie watching them from a distance, it would look like a moment of shared sorrow. But to Ivy it felt like the movement of an animal she didn’t trust, a dog that didn’t bite but intimidated by moving its teeth very close to her bare skin.

  “Gregory!”

  He was so focused on Ivy that he jumped when Suzanne rested her hand on the back of his neck. Ivy stepped back quickly, and Gregory let go of her.

  He’s as edgy as I am, Ivy thought as she watched Suzanne and Gregory make their way to the cars parked along the cemetery road. Beth and Will started off, and Ivy followed slowly behind them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Eric’s sister walking toward her with long strides.

  Ivy had told the police that she and Will were on an after-school hike when they came upon Eric in the car. After Dr. and Mrs. Ghent learned of Eric’s death, they had telephoned her to discuss the story she’d given to the police and probe for more details. Now she steeled herself for another round of questioning.

  “You’re Ivy Lyons, aren’t you?” the girl asked. Her cheeks were smooth and pink, her thick hair shining in the rain. It was startling to be confronted by such a healthy version of Eric.

  “Yes,” Ivy replied. “I’m sorry, Christine. I’m really sorry for you and your family.”

  The girl acknowledged Ivy’s sympathy with a nod. “You—you must have been close to Eric,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I figured you were special to him.”

  Ivy looked at her, mystified.

  “Because of what he left. When—when Eric and I were younger,” Christine began, her voice shaking a little, “we used to leave messages for each other in a secret place in the attic. We put them in an old cardboard box. On the box we wrote ‘Beware! Frogs! Do Not Open!’”

  Christine laughed, then tears sprang into the corners of her eyes. Ivy waited patiently, wondering where this conversation was leading.

  “When I came home for this—for his funeral, I looked in our box, just on a whim,” Christine continued, “not expecting to find anything—we hadn’t used it for years. But I found a note to me. And this.”

  She pulled a gray envelope from her purse. “The note said, ‘If anything happens to me, give this to Ivy Lyons.’”

  Ivy’s eyes widened.

  “You weren’t expecting it,” Christine observed. “You don’t know what’s in it.”

  “No,” Ivy said, then took the sealed envelope in her hand. She could feel a small, stiff wad inside, as if a hard object had been wrapped in padding. The outside of the envelope intrigued Ivy even more. Eric’s name and address had been typed neatly onto it and her own name scribbled in big letters across it. The return-address sticker bore the name and address of Caroline Baines.

  “Oh, that,” Christine said when Ivy fingered it. “It’s probably just an old envelope Eric had lying around.”

  But it wasn’t just an old envelope. Ivy checked the postmark: May 28, Philip’s birthday. The day Caroline died.

  “Maybe you didn’t know,” Christine continued. “Eric was very close to Caroline. She was a second mother to him.”

  Ivy looked up, surprised. “She was?”

  “From the time he was a kid, Eric and my mother never got along,” Christine explained. “I’m six years older, and I took care of him sometimes when my mother worked long days in New York. But usually he was at the Baines house, and Caroline became closer to him than any of us. Even after she divorced and Gregory didn’t live with her, Eric would often go see her.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Ivy said.

  “Are you going to open it?” Christine asked, looking at the envelope curiously.

  Ivy tore off one corner and slit the envelope with her finger. “If it’s a personal note,” she warned Christine, “I might not show it to you.”

  Christine nodded.

  But there was no note, just dry tissue wrapped around the hard object. Ivy tore at it and pulled out a key. It was about two inches long. One end was oval, with a lacy design cut into the metal. The other end, which would fit into a lock, was a simple hollow cylinder with two small teeth at the tip.

  “Do you know what it’s for?” Christine asked.

  “No,” Ivy replied. “And there isn’t a note.”

  Christine bit her lip, then said, “Well, maybe it was an accident after all.” Ivy could hear the hope in her voice. “I mean, if Eric planned to kill himself, he would have left a note explaining this—wouldn’t he?”

  Unless he was murdered before he got a chance, Ivy thought, but she nodded in agreement with Christine.

  “Eric didn’t commit suicide,” Ivy said in a firm voice. Then she saw the gratitude in Christine’s eyes and blushed. If Christine only knew, Ivy thought, that I might have been the cause of her brother’s death.

  Ivy dropped the key into the envelope, tucked the flap in, and folded the envelope in half. Slipping it in her raincoat pocket, she told Christine she’d let her know if she figured out what the key was for. Christine thanked Ivy for being a good friend to Eric, which sent more color rushing into Ivy’s cheeks.

  Her face was still warm when she joined Will and Beth, who had been watching her from twenty feet away, huddled together under an umbrella.

  “What did she say to you?” Will asked, pulling Ivy under the umbrella with them.

  “She—uh—thanked me for being Eric’s good friend.”

  “Oh, boy,” Beth said softly.

  “Is that all?” Will asked.

  It was a question Ivy had come to expect from Gregory when he was pumping her for information.

  “You talked pretty long,” Will observed. “Is that all she said?”

  “Yes,” Ivy lied.

  Will’s eyes dropped down to the pocket where she had shoved the envelope. He must have seen the exchange, and certainly he could see the edge of the envelope now, but he didn’t question her further.

  They had been excused from school that day, and the three of them drove quietly to Celentano’s for a late lunch. As they pored over their menus Ivy wondered what Will was thinking and if he was suspicious of Gregory. At the police station on Monday, Will had let her do the talking, then echoed her story, neither of them mentioning Eric’s request for a secret meeting. Now Ivy wanted to tell Will everything. If she looked too long into his eyes, she would.

  “So how are you all doing?” Pat Celentano said, coming to take their order. Most of the lunchtime customers had left the the pizza shop, and the owner was speaking in a quieter voice than usual. “Rough morning for you.”

  She took their order, then set an extra basket of pencils and crayons on the paper tablecloth.

  Will, who already had several tablecloth drawings hanging on Celentano’s walls, began sketching immediately. Ivy doodled. Beth made long c
hains of rhyming words, murmuring to herself as the lists grew. “Sorry,” she said when one of her chains ran into Will’s drawing.

  He was writing and illustrating knock-knock jokes. Beth and Ivy leaned over to read them, and started laughing together softly. Will sketched them in their Old West photo costumes. “Virginia City Sweethearts,” he titled it.

  Beth pointed to the drawing. “I think you missed a few curves,” she said. “Ivy’s dress was a lot tighter than that. Of course, not as tight as your cowboy pants.”

  Ivy smiled, remembering the voice that had confused them all that day, a voice coming out of nowhere—Lacey having a little fun.

  “Love those buns!” Ivy and Beth said at the same time, and this time they laughed out loud.

  With the sudden laughter came tears. Ivy covered her face with one hand.

  Will and Beth sat silently and let her cry it out, then Will gently placed her hand on the table and began to trace it. Over and over the pencil ran along the sides of her fingers, the smooth touch of it soothing her. Then Will positioned his hand on the paper at an angle against hers and traced it too.

  When he lifted their hands, Ivy gazed down at the design. “Wings,” she said, smiling a little. “A butterfly, or an angel.”

  He let go of her hand. Ivy longed to move close to Will and rest against him. She wanted to tell him everything she knew and ask his help. But she knew she couldn’t put him in danger. Because of her, one guy she had loved with all her heart had already been murdered. She wasn’t going to let it happen to the—Ivy caught herself. To the other guy she … loved?

  P3-9

  When Ivy was dropped off later that afternoon, she never went into the house. With Eric’s envelope still in her pocket, she climbed into her own car and started driving. After an hour of going nowhere, taking back roads that followed the river north, then crossing over, winding her way south, and crossing again into town, she stopped at the park at the end of Main Street.

  The rain had finally ended, and the empty park was drenched with late-afternoon color, the sun slanting through blue-black clouds and turning the grass a brilliant green. Ivy sat alone in the wooden pavilion, remembering the day of the arts festival. Gregory had watched her from one side of the lawn, Will from the other. But it was Tristan’s presence she had felt when she played. Was he there? When she played the “Moonlight Sonata,” did he know it was for him?

  “I was there. I knew it.”

  Ivy gazed down at her shimmering hands and smiled. “Tristan,” she said softly.

  “Ivy.” His voice was like light inside her. “Ivy, what were you running from?”

  The question caught her off guard. “What?”

  “What were you driving away from?” Tristan asked.

  “I was just driving.”

  “You were upset,” he said.

  “I was trying to think, that’s all. But I couldn’t,” she confessed.

  “What couldn’t you think about?”

  “You.” Ivy ran her hand up and down the smooth, damp wood of the railing she sat on. “You died because of me. I knew it, but I didn’t face it, not until now, when I realized that Eric might have died because of me. Not until I thought about what could happen to Will if he learns what’s going on.”

  “Will’s going to find out one way or the other,” Tristan told her.

  “We can’t let him!” Ivy said. “We can’t endanger him.”

  “If you feel that way,” Tristan observed dryly, “you shouldn’t have left your coat with him at the table.”

  Ivy reached quickly into her pocket. The envelope was still there, folded in half, but when she pulled it out she saw that the flap was no longer tucked in.

  “He looked as soon as you and Beth left him alone.”

  Ivy closed her eyes for a moment, feeling betrayed. “I guess—I guess I would have been curious, too,” she said lamely.

  “What do you think the key goes to?” Tristan asked.

  Ivy flipped the envelope over in her hands. “Some kind of small box or cupboard. At Caroline’s house,” she added, looking at the address. “Can you get inside?”

  “Easily, and I can materialize my fingers to undo the latch to let you in,” he told her. “Bring the key, and we’ll find what Eric wanted you to find. But not today, okay?”

  Ivy heard the strain in his voice. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m tired. Real tired.”

  “The darkness,” she whispered in a frightened voice. Tristan had said there would be a time when he wouldn’t return from the darkness.

  “It’s okay,” he assured her. “I just need rest. You’re keeping me busy, you know.” He laughed.

  It’s because of me, Ivy thought. He died because of me, and now—

  “Ivy, no. You can’t think that way,” he said.

  “But I do think that way,” she argued. “I was the one who was supposed to die. If it weren’t for me—”

  “If it weren’t for you, I would never have known how it is to love someone,” he told her. “If it weren’t for you, I would never have kissed a mouth so sweet.”

  Ivy longed to kiss him now. “Tristan,” she said, trembling with the sudden idea, “if I died, I could be with you.”

  He was silent. She could feel the confusion of thoughts, all the emotions tossing within him, within her.

  “I could be with you forever,” she told him.

  “No.”

  “Yes!”

  “That’s not how it’s supposed to be,” he said. “We both know that.”

  Ivy got up and walked around the pavilion. His presence within her was stronger than the autumn day outside of her. When he was with her, the smell of soaked earth, the ribbons of emerald grass, and the first scarlet leaves all paled like objects on the edge of her vision.

  “I wouldn’t have been sent back to help you,” Tristan continued. “I wouldn’t have been made an angel if it weren’t important that you live. Ivy, I want you to be mine”—she could hear the pain in his voice—“but you’re not.”

  “I am!” she cried out loud.

  “We’re on different sides of a river,” he said, “and it’s a river that neither of us can cross. You were meant for somebody else.”

  “I was meant for you,” she insisted.

  “Hush.”

  “I don’t want to lose you, Tristan!”

  “Shhh. Shhh,” he soothed. “Listen, Ivy, I’m going to be in the darkness soon, and it may be a while before I reach you again.”

  Ivy paced around.

  “Stay still. I’m going outside of you, so you won’t be able to hear me,” he told her. “Stay still.”

  Then all was silent. Ivy stood motionless, wondering. The air around her began to shimmer with gold. She felt hands touching her, gentle hands cradling her face, lifting her chin. He kissed her. His lips touched hers, actually touched hers with a kiss long and unbearably tender. “Ivy”—she couldn’t hear him, but she felt her name whispered by him against her cheek. “Ivy.” Then he was gone.

  P3-10

  Ivy hung a long dangle earring on each ear, wiped away a smudge of mascara beneath one eye, then took a step back from the mirror, surveying herself.

  “You look hot.”

  She glanced at Philip’s reflection in the mirror and burst out laughing. “You didn’t pick up that expression from Andrew. And how do you know what hot looks like, anyway?”

  “I taught him.”

  Ivy spun around. Gregory stood in the entrance to her bedroom, leaning casually against the door frame. Since Eric’s death nearly a week before, Ivy had felt Gregory’s presence following her like a dark angel.

  “And you do look hot,” he added, his eyes moving down her slowly.

  Maybe I should have chosen a skirt that’s not so short, Ivy thought, or a top that isn’t scooped so low.

  But she was determined to show the others at Suzanne’s birthday party that she wasn’t a depressed girl ready to choose the suicidal path everyone
thought Eric had taken. Suzanne was still having her party, though it was the day after the funeral. Ivy had encouraged her, telling Suzanne it would be good for everyone—the kids from school needed to come together now.

  “It’s the colors. They make you hot,” Philip said to Ivy, anxious to sound as if he knew what he was talking about.

  Ivy glanced at Gregory. “Good job, teach.”

  Gregory laughed. “I did my best,” he said, then he held up his car keys and rattled them.

  Ivy grabbed her own keys and purse.

  “Ivy, this is silly,” Gregory said. “Why are we going to the same place and taking two cars?”

  They had already argued about her decision during dinner. “I told you, I’ll probably leave before you do.” She picked up a wrapped gift for Suzanne and turned out the lamp on her dressing table. “You’re dating the hostess—everyone will probably leave before you do.”

  Gregory smiled slightly and shrugged. “Maybe, but if you want to leave, there will be lots of guys there glad to give you a ride home.”

  “Because you look hot,” Philip said. “Because you—”

  “Thank you, Philip.”

  Gregory winked at her brother. Philip jumped off her bed, using her scarf as a parachute, and scooted through the bathroom that joined his room with hers.

  Gregory continued to lean against Ivy’s door. “Is my driving that bad?” he asked, stretching one arm across the doorway, blocking her exit. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were afraid to drive with me.”

  “I’m not,” Ivy said firmly.

  “Maybe you’re afraid of being alone with me.”

  “Oh, come on,” Ivy said, walking briskly toward him and pulling his arm down. She turned him around by the shoulders and gave him a push. “Let’s get going or we’ll be late. I hope your Beamer has gas.”

  Gregory reached back for her hand and pulled her close to him, too close. Ivy’s heart was beating fast as they moved down the stairs—she really didn’t want to ride alone with him. She wished he weren’t so attentive when she got into his car. The constant small and needless touches jangled her nerves. He kept looking at her as he drove slowly down the driveway.