Earth Angel

by Siri Caldwell

  Abby watched them chatting, catching up on gossip about friends on the softball team. It figured that Gwynne played softball. She was probably great at it. Even if she wasn’t great at it, she looked like she’d at least fit in. She was the cute, petite, less intimidating version of Hank, with a too-short haircut and a direct gaze that was not quite feminine. She’d swing the bat with a confident, graceful arc and she’d look perfect sliding in the dirt, her body tangling with another jock’s and rolling from the impact.

  And where did that thought come from?

  She snapped out of it as Hank crumpled her trash and rose to return to work.

  “When are you going to start playing with us again?” Hank asked Gwynne.

  “I don’t know.” Gwynne’s shoulders slumped. “I have a lot going on.”

  Hank swayed uncomfortably like she didn’t know what to say. “I heard. Sorry about your mom and your sister.”

  Kira’s partner had warned Abby about that—that Gwynne wasn’t normally grumpy, but she’d recently suffered two deaths in the family.

  “Thanks.” Gwynne stared at her desk.

  Hank stood silently for several long, awkward moments before edging toward the exit. “Come back anytime. We could use you.”

  “I guess,” Gwynne mumbled unconvincingly.

  “You too,” Hank threw over her shoulder at Abby. It sounded like an afterthought.

  Abby fingered the ends of her longer-than-shoulder-length hair. Maybe she would try softball again. Just because she didn’t look the part didn’t mean she couldn’t learn to smack a ball. Her strong shoulders had to count for something.

  Hank stopped in the archway and turned around. “And that chick you were dating,” she told Gwynne. “The good pitcher?”

  Gwynne frowned. “The red pushup bra?”

  “Yeah, her. How come we never see her anymore?”

  “Because we broke up.” Gwynne sounded like it should be obvious.

  “That doesn’t mean she had to quit showing up.”

  “Her choice, Hank. Maybe if you guys had bothered to learn her name…”

  “Maybe if you didn’t call her the red pushup bra, we would’ve.”

  Gwynne folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll let her know you want her back on the team.”

  “Great.” Hank pulled on her jacket. “And do me a favor. Don’t date anyone on the team. We can’t afford to lose more players because of you.”

  “I gave you that player,” Gwynne protested.

  “Yeah, fine.”

  Abby didn’t watch her go—she watched Gwynne. A red pushup bra? What was it that Gwynne had found so fascinating about her ex-girlfriend’s choice of undergarments? Abby twined her fingers in her hair. Maybe she didn’t want to know.

  “When did you break up?” Abby asked instead.

  “What? Oh, it’s been a while,” Gwynne said distractedly. “You should join the softball team, if you’re interested. They need more players.”

  “You’re assuming I can play,” Abby pointed out. “You’re the one she really wants.”

  “Don’t worry about Hank. She’s allergic to women who wear dresses.”

  “And you’re not?”

  Gwynne ran her fingers through her hair and made it spikier. She met her gaze for a long moment. “No.”

  Abby tried to breathe, pretending that gaze hadn’t done anything for her.

  “She’s met me before,” Abby said. “And I wasn’t wearing a dress.” The problem with Hank, if there was one, was not about her clothing choices and appearance. But if Gwynne wanted to act like it was, she’d go along with it. “I was wearing fleece leggings.”

  “Leggings?”

  “It was too cold to wear shorts.” She wasn’t the only one on the softball field who’d thought so, either. “I didn’t move here from North Dakota.”

  Gwynne shook her head and smiled. What, did Gwynne think she was missing some obvious clue?

  “Maybe it’s my hair.”

  “Maybe it’s the fact that you call them leggings instead of pants.”

  No, it was the fact that Hank knew how terrible she was at Hank’s favorite sport.

  “Forget her,” Gwynne said. “Your hair is beautiful. If anyone around here has problematic hair, it’s me. My hair is a mess.”

  “It’s not a mess. I like it.” It did look a little hedge-clipper-gone-wild, but it was cute.

  “Please. I got mad at my hair last night and hacked at it.”

  Abby looked again. She could tell it was different, but it didn’t look terrible. “Going for the uneven look?”

  Gwynne rearranged her hair into more spikes. “I may have been a little impulsive.”

  “It just needs a few days to settle in. Think of it as edgy.” That was the thing about being impulsive—you had to have a positive attitude or it was all over. Even if the impulse involved scissors and already-short hair and anger you didn’t seem to want to talk about with the friend you just had lunch with.

  “A few days to settle in? I love that you’re trying to make me feel better, but that is the worst white lie I’ve ever heard. Did you see the back?” Gwynne turned her head to show her the ragged cut that did, frankly, look a lot less intentional. “I have an appointment for tomorrow morning to get it evened out. They might have to shave that part.”

  “I’m sure it’s salvageable.”

  Gwynne clasped her hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “I’m not worried about it. I can’t see the back, anyway, and no one else cares what I look like.”

  She cared enough to get it fixed, though.

  “Plus I came up with this great line about how it’s edgy,” Gwynne said. “Totally convincing.”

  “You didn’t use it on me.”

  “I didn’t use it because you seem like the kind of woman who would see through my B.S.”

  “I don’t have to if you do it for me,” Abby pointed out.

  “I like you.” Gwynne unclasped her hands and rubbed the choppy hair at the back of her head. “You don’t happen to own a red pushup bra, do you?”

  Abby opened her mouth in disbelief. Of course she didn’t own a pushup bra, because there was no need to push anything up any farther than it already was. Not that Gwynne needed to know that. Besides, Gwynne was kidding—it wasn’t a real question and she didn’t expect a real answer. If Bruce the guitar guy had said it she’d be pissed, but with Gwynne, it was harmless. She just hoped she wasn’t blushing.

  “Was there anything about this woman you liked besides her bra?”

  “One or two things.” Gwynne gave a self-deprecating smile. “But she didn’t see through my B.S.”

  * * *

  The next time Abby saw Gwynne at work, someone had done some magic on her hair and turned it into a shorter version of her previous pixie cut that drew attention to her stunning, androgynous bone structure. She hadn’t gotten close enough to see what the hair stylist did to the back, but she figured if she waited, she’d eventually get a chance to check it out without being obvious.

  Or she could just ask, and hope that Gwynne didn’t take it as an invitation to flirt with her.

  Or hope that she did.

  “Welcome to Sea Salt,” Gwynne was saying in a warm, professional tone.

  Abby continued to play her harp while Gwynne offered the guests—a stressed-out mother and a five-year-old boy—a glass of grapefruit-lime spring water that Abby had sampled earlier and voted much tastier than the cucumber water. The boy eyed the mint leaves floating in the glass and jerked away.

  The mother corralled him into her arms. “My son has intestinal parasites that won’t go away. A friend of mine said you do faith healing—”

  Gwynne’s face clouded over. “Energy healing.”

  “She said you were able to help her son.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  “You have hands that heal. You cleared up his psoriasis when doctors could do nothing.”

  Gwynne’s polite sm
ile shut down. “I don’t do healing anymore.”

  “Please.”

  Not another one. Abby wasn’t sure why Gwynne got this constant parade of former clients and strangers coming through who were not here to visit the spa, but to visit her—or, more accurately, to beg her for help. They complained of fatigue, arthritis, fibromyalgia, infections, acid reflux, headaches…the list went on and on. They called, they came in person, and for all she knew they e-mailed, and Gwynne always turned them down. She wondered what had made her close the door on what by all appearances had been a spectacularly successful career as a healer.

  “Can’t you make an exception?”

  It had to be so hard for Gwynne to say no to these people. But say no to them she did, every single time. “You should see a doctor.”

  The boy wriggled away from his mother and stopped in front of Abby and stared at her harp in awe. She switched to a medley of nursery rhymes she figured he’d recognize. At “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” he shrieked and ran back to his mother, then slumped against her leg.

  His mother glanced at him distractedly. “You think I didn’t do that first? The medication isn’t working.”

  “I can’t help you,” Gwynne said tightly. “I wish I could. I really do. But it’s beyond my abilities. You need to see a doctor and put your son on another medication.”

  Abby segued into one of her favorite meditative tunes, hoping it would do something to help the mother. Gwynne looked like she could use it too.

  “Please? My friend said what you did for her son was a miracle.”

  But Gwynne didn’t want to be a miracle worker. “Spontaneous remission. Conditions like that sometimes go away on their own.” She reached across her desk and touched the woman’s hand in sympathy. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Spontaneous remission. Abby had heard that phrase tossed around by nurses in her vicinity. Because there was no such thing as a miracle worker. Not Gwynne, healing a little boy’s tenacious parasites. Not a musician with a harp, easing patients’ pain when the pain meds stopped working. There was no easy way to explain those recoveries, and spontaneous remission sounded more scientific than we don’t know. Could Gwynne really heal?

  “But what am I going to do?” the mother wailed.

  “See a doctor.” It was killing Gwynne to turn her away—it was clear from the way her whole body was leaning in, her face troubled. But she wouldn’t do it. “I don’t want to give you false hope. If I treat him and that makes you hold off on seeing a doctor, he could get worse. I don’t want him to get sicker than he already is because I let you believe I could heal him. Because I can’t. I can’t heal him.”

  The mother pushed away from the desk. “I guess I’ll just have to pray.” Her son ran around her in circles and she grabbed him by the hand as he zipped by.

  Gwynne bit her lip and watched them go. Once they were gone, she put her head in her hands, elbows planted on her desk.

  Abby continued to play, flowing easily from one tune to the next. At first she tried to make Gwynne feel better, but soon she got caught up in the music and played for the pure joy of it. Music had always transported her, and with this particular harp, with its strong, even tone and its glorious resonance, that was even more true. Rees harps never went up for resale because once you got your hands on one, it sounded so good you never wanted to give it up. She could play this instrument forever. But eventually she did decide she couldn’t play forever, and stopped.

  “How’s your ear?” Gwynne asked, not looking up.

  It took her a minute to come back to earth and realize Gwynne was talking to her. “It’s better. The doctor put me on antibiotics.” Again. If only music could heal her ear infection as effectively as it soothed sick patients.

  Gwynne grunted. “Finally, someone around here who’s willing to go to a medical doctor for help.”

  * * *

  “Please don’t make me play the Wedding March.” Abby leveled her gaze at her friend Penelope and sank her forearms onto the wobbly Formica table in the front window of her favorite ice cream shop. She leaned farther forward to emphasize her point. “Anything but that.”

  Back in college, she and Penelope had started their own rock band together. They amped her harp and Penelope sang soprano when she wasn’t on the flute and Ramona and Natalie were on drums with an I’m-so-angry-I-have-to-scream-my-lyrics thing going on, and instead of being a loud disaster, it turned into a compelling, bizarre contrast of highs and lows that gave her chills. And now Penelope and Nat were getting married, and Abby couldn’t wait to play the walking-down-the-aisle music for their ceremony and the nobody-listens-to-you-while-they’re-socializing background music for the reception.

  But not Wagner’s Wedding March.

  “It’s traditional,” Penelope said.

  “It only premiered in 1850. What do you think people played at their weddings before then?”

  Penelope pressed her fingers to either side of her forehead and stared. “You’re trying to talk me out of it because you just don’t want to play it.”

  “All right, that too.” Gold star for Pennylongstocking.

  Penelope squeezed her brow in frustration. “What else am I supposed to use?”

  “A modern ballad,” Abby suggested.

  “Too cheesy.”

  “A Paraguayan folk tune. Their music for harp is amazing.”

  “I’m not Paraguayan.”

  “You’re not German, either,” Abby said. “Richard Wagner—the composer?—was German.” She tried again. “How about Medieval and Renaissance music? It has more history than the so-called traditional stuff, and it’s beautiful.” She hummed a few bars of “Robin is to the Greenwood Gone.” “And you could dress up your attendants—”

  “No.”

  “No to the costumes?” But costumes would be so fun. She gathered her long hair off her shoulders and pulled it into a high ponytail as she contemplated her look. “I might have to wear a pointy wizard princess hat to your wedding.”

  “That’s fine,” Penelope said.

  “I might actually do it, you know.”

  “I don’t care. As long as you’re there, you can wear whatever you want.”

  Abby released her hair. Pennywhistle was a better person than she herself would ever be. “What are you two wearing? White dresses?”

  “Me? In a dress? No.” Penelope folded a couple of paper napkins and ducked under the table and jammed the napkins under the central table leg to make it stop wobbling. “And I know this is going to be a big disappointment to you, but we are not wearing tunics or cloaks or sackcloth, either. Or pointy hats. Or whatever you delusional archaeology majors are wearing these days. I’m wearing a white tuxedo and Nat’s wearing a black one.” She popped up from underneath the table. “Is that nontraditional enough for you?”

  “You’ll look beautiful,” Abby said.

  Penelope scanned her face like she couldn’t decide if she was serious or not. “White’s not a problem for you?”

  “I love that you’re wearing what makes you happy.”

  “But you wouldn’t wear white.”

  “Actually, I like white wedding dresses. The beading, the lace…What’s not to like?”

  “Stop. Just…please stop. You are not talking me into wearing a dress.” Penelope shook her head in disbelief. “I should have known you liked those things. Would you really wear one?”

  “Only if the veil was sewn to a pointy wizard princess hat.”

  “Really? A white dress?”

  “Or maybe a Neolithic cavegirl leopard skin.”

  Penelope tested the stability of the table. “Yeah, good luck finding a girlfriend who will want her parents to see you in that.”

  The waiter arrived and Abby ordered a Kahlua-spiked milkshake. The waiter asked for her ID.

  “You’re carding her?” Penelope said.

  Abby smiled tightly. One day this would stop happening, but that day hadn’t come yet—even though anyone who bothered t
o look ought to be able to tell there was no way she was anywhere close to being underage. It was the round face that threw people off. Or maybe the freckles.

  “Crow’s feet,” she said, pressing one finger to the outside of her eye as she reached for her purse.

  “I don’t see any crow’s feet,” Penelope said. “Give me a break.”

  Abby decided not to argue, because who was she to complain? As her grandmother liked to point out, eventually the worry lines would become a lot worse and she’d wonder what she’d been whining about.

  “Don’t you want to card me too?” Penelope asked the waiter.

  “Do you want me to card you?” The waiter looked too exhausted and hung over to care that his tip was in imminent danger, but Penelope, who’d never been any good at reading men, pressed on.

  “I’m younger than her,” Penelope said, which was only marginally true. “You’re making me feel old.”

  The waiter held out his hand and Penelope got out her purse. Turning thirty was hitting her hard if she thought being mistaken for a teenager, even out of an overabundance of caution imposed by this guy’s law-abiding boss, was a compliment.

  Talking about her wedding plans made it all better, though. Or maybe that was Penelope’s vanilla milkshake with caramel sauce and a shot of Jack Daniel’s. God knew alcohol was making it easier for Abby to listen to the endless details. She ran a finger down her list of possible tunes, humming a few bars and making suggestions for the reception music while the bride-to-be talked.

  “It sounds like you’ve really kept in practice,” Penelope said. “I’m jealous.”

  Abby sipped her shake. “You don’t play anymore?”

  “Not really. I take the flute out occasionally just for fun, but it’s hard to find the time. You know how it is.” Penelope swirled her straw in her nearly empty glass. “I wish I could have played professionally, but it’s impossible to make a living as a musician.”

  “I make a living at it,” Abby pointed out.

  Penelope pursed her lips and wrinkled her brow. “Do you? Playing in a hotel lobby?” She sounded doubtful. “I assumed you had a real job and you played at that hotel—spa—whatever—resort—thing for fun.”