Kissed by an Angel

by Элизабет Чандлер

  "Gregory!"

  She put her window down.

  His skin was pale except for the scarlet that had crept up his cheeks. He stared at her, then glanced around the intersection, looking surprised, as if he were just now recognizing where he was and what had happened.

  "Are you okay?" she asked.

  "Yes… yes. Are you?"

  "Well, I'm breathing again."

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I–I wasn't paying attention, I guess. And I didn't know it was you, Ivy."

  Though his anger had subsided, he still looked upset.

  "That's okay," she said. "I was driving in a daze, too."

  He glanced through the window at the wet towel on her front seat.

  "What are you doing around here?" he wanted to know.

  She wondered if he would make the connection between the wet towel and swimming and Tristan. But she hadn't even told Beth or Suzanne what she was doing. Besides, it wouldn't matter to Gregory.

  "I needed to think about something. I know it sounds crazy, with all the space we have at the house, but I, well-" "Needed other space," he finished for her. "I know how that is. Are you heading home now?"

  "Yes."

  "Follow me." He gave her a brief, lopsided smile. "Behind me, you'll be safer."

  "You're sure you're okay?" she asked. His eyes still looked troubled.

  He nodded, then returned to his car.

  When they arrived home, Andrew pulled into the driveway after them.

  He greeted Ivy, then turned to Gregory. "So how is your mother?"

  Gregory shrugged. "Same as always."

  "I'm glad you went to visit her today."

  "I gave her your good wishes and fondest regards," Gregory said, his face and voice deadpan.

  Andrew nodded and stepped around a spilled box of colored chalk. He bent over to look at what had once been clean, white concrete at the edge of his garage.

  "Is anything new with her? Is there anything I should know about?" he asked. He was studying the chalk drawings done by Philip; he didn't catch the pause, didn't see the emotion on Gregory's face that passed as fast as it came. But Ivy did.

  "Nothing new," he said to his father.

  "Good."

  Ivy waited till the door closed behind Andrew.

  "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked Gregory.

  He spun around, as if he had forgotten that she was there.

  "Talk about what?"

  Ivy hesitated, then said, "You just told your father that everything's fine with your mom. But from the look on your face, at the intersection and just now, when you were talking about her, I thought maybe…"

  Gregory played with his keys. "You're right. Things aren't fine. There may be some trouble ahead."

  "With your mother?"

  "I can't talk about it. Look, I appreciate your concern, but I can handle this myself. If you really want to help me, then don't say anything to anyone, all right? Don't even mention our little run-in. Promise me." His eyes held hers.

  Ivy shrugged. "Promise," she said. "But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

  "In the middle of an intersection," he said, giving her one of his wry smiles, then went inside.

  Before going in, Ivy stopped to study Philip's concrete masterpiece. She recognized the bright aqua of her water angel, and the strong brown lines of Tony. After a moment, she identified the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers. Philip's dragons were easy to spot; they usually looked as if they had swallowed a vat of lighter fluid, and they always fought the Power Rangers and angels.

  But what was that? A round head, with funny bits of hair and an orange stick coming out of each ear?

  The name was scrawled on the side. Tristan.

  Picking up a piece of black chalk, Ivy filled in two olive teeth. Now he looked like the guy who was kind enough to cheer up an eight-year-old having a very tough day. Ivy remembered the look on Tristan's face when she had yanked open the storeroom door. She threw back her head and laughed.

  Back out now? Who was she kidding?

  Tristan was sure he had scared Ivy away that first day, but she came back, and from the second lesson on he was very careful. He barely touched her; he coached her like a professional; and he kept dating what's her name and that other girl. But it was getting more difficult for him each day, being alone with Ivy, standing so close to her, hoping for some sign that she wanted something other than lessons and friendship.

  "I think it's time, Ella," he said to the cat after two frustrating weeks of lessons. "She's not interested, and I can't stand it anymore. I'm going to get Ivy to sign up at the Y."

  Ella purred.

  "Then I'm going to find myself a monastery with a swim team."

  The next day he made a conscious decision not to change into his bathing suit. He pocketed a brochure for the Y, strode out of the pool office, then stopped.

  Ivy wasn't there. She forgot, he thought, then he saw Ivy's towel and ponytail holder down by the deep end. "Ivy!"

  He ran to the edge of the pool and saw her in the twelve-foot section, lying all the way at the bottom, motionless. "Oh, my God!"

  He dove straight off the side, pulling, pulling through the water to get to her. He yanked her up to the surface and swam for the pool's edge. It was difficult; she had come to and was struggling with him. His clothes were an extra, dragging weight. He heaved Ivy up on the side of the pool and sprang up beside her.

  "What in the world-?" she said.

  She wasn't coughing, wasn't sputtering, wasn't out of breath. She was just staring at him, at his soaked shirt, his clinging jeans, his sagging socks. Tristan stared back, then threw his waterlogged shoes as far as he could, down several rows of bleachers.

  "What were you doing?" she asked.

  "What were you doing?"

  She opened her hand to show him a shiny copper penny. "Diving for this."

  Anger surged through him. "The first rule of swimming, Ivy, is never, never swim alone!"

  "But I had to do it, Tristan! I had to see if I could face my nightmare without you, without my-my lifeguard close by. And I could. I did," she said, a dazzling smile breaking over her face. Her hair was hanging loose around her shoulders. Her eyes were smiling into his, the color of an emerald sea in brilliant sunlight.

  Then she blinked. "Is that what you were doing-being a lifeguard, being a hero?"

  "No, Ivy," he said quietly, and stood up. "I was proving once again that I'm a hero to everyone but you."

  "Wait a minute," she said, but he started to walk away.

  "Wait a minute!" He didn't get far, not with the weight of her hanging on to one leg.

  "I said wait."

  He tried to pull away, but she had him firmly anchored.

  "Is that what you want, for me to say you're a hero?"

  He grimaced. "I guess not. I guess I thought it would get me what I want. But it didn't."

  "Well, what do you want?" she asked.

  Was there any point in telling her now?

  "To change into dry clothes," he said. "I've got some sweats in my locker."

  "Okay." She released his leg. But before he could move away, she caught his hand. She held it in both of her hands for a moment, then lightly kissed the tips of his fingers.

  She peeked up at him, gave a little shrug, then let go. But now it was he who held on, twining his fingers in hers. After a moment of hesitation, she rested her head against his hand. Could she feel it-the way just her lightest touch made his pulse race? He knelt down. Taking her other hand in his, he kissed her fingertips, then he laid his cheek in her palm.

  She lifted up his face.

  "Ivy," he said. The word was like a kiss. "Ivy."

  The word became a kiss.

  Chapter 9

  "He beat me!" Tristan said. "Philip beat me two out of three games!"

  Ivy rested her hands on the piano keys, looked over her shoulder at Tristan, and laughed. It had been a week since their first trembling kiss. Every ni
ght she had fallen asleep dreaming about that kiss, and each kiss after.

  It was all so incredible to her. She was aware of the lightest touch, the softest brush against him.

  Every time he called her name, her answer came from somewhere deep inside her. Yet there was something so easy and natural about being with him. Sometimes it felt as if Tristan had been a part of her life for years, sprawled as he was now on the floor of her music room, playing checkers with Philip.

  "I can't believe he beat me two out of three!"

  "Almost three out of three," Philip crowed.

  "That will teach you not to mess with Ginger," Ivy said.

  Tristan frowned down at the angel statue that stood alone on the checkerboard. Philip always used her as one of his playing pieces.

  The three-inch china angel had once been Ivy's, but when Philip was in kindergarten, he'd decided to pretty her up. Pink-frost nail polish on her dress and crusty gold glitter on her hair had given her a whole new look; and Ivy had given her to Philip.

  "Ginger's very smart," he told Tristan.

  Tristan glanced up doubtfully at Ivy.

  "Maybe next time Philip will let you borrow her and you can win," Ivy said with a smile, then turned to Philip. "Isn't it getting late?"

  "Why do you always say that?" her brother asked.

  Tristan grinned. "Because she's trying to get rid of you. Come on. We'll read two stories, like the last time, then it's lights out."

  He walked Philip down to his bedroom. Ivy stayed upstairs and began to flip through her piano books, looking for songs that Tristan might like. He was into hard rock, but she couldn't exactly play it on the piano. He knew nothing about Beethoven and Bach. Tristan's idea of classical music was the musicals from his parents' collection. She ran through several songs from Carousel, then put the old book aside.

  All night there had been music running through her like a silver river. Now she turned out the lights and played it from memory, Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

  Tristan returned in the middle of the sonata. He saw the slight hesitation in her hands and heard the pause in the music.

  "Don't stop," he said softly, and came to stand behind her.

  Ivy played to the end. For a few moments after the last chord, neither of them spoke, neither of them moved. There was only the still, silver moonlight on the piano keys, and the music, the way music can linger on sometimes in silence.

  Then Ivy rested her back against him.

  "You want to dance?" Tristan asked.

  Ivy laughed, and he pulled her up and they danced a circle around the room. She laid her head on his shoulder and felt his strong arms around her. They danced slow, slower. She wished he would never let go.

  "How do you do that?" he whispered. "How do you dance with me and play the piano at the same time?"

  "At the same time?" she asked.

  "Isn't that you making the music I hear?"

  Ivy pulled her head up. "Tristan, that line is so… so…"

  "Corny," he said. "But it got you to look up at me." Then he swiftly lowered his mouth and stole a long, soft kiss.

  "Don't forget to tell Tristan to stop by the shop sometime," Lillian said. "Betty and I would love to see him again. We're very fond of chunks."

  "Hunks, Lillian," Ivy said with a grin. "Tristan is a hunk." My hunk, she thought, then picked up a box wrapped in brown paper. "Is this everything to be delivered?"

  "Yes, thank you, dear. I know it's out of your way.

  "Not too far," Ivy said, starting out the door.

  "Five-twenty-eight Willow Street," Betty called from the back of the store.

  "Five-thirty," Lillian said quietly.

  Well, that narrows it down, Ivy thought, passing through the door of 'Tis the Season. She glanced at her watch. Now she wouldn't have time to spend with her friends.

  Suzanne and Beth had been waiting for her at the mall's food court.

  "You said you would be off twenty minutes ago," Suzanne complained.

  "I know. It's been one of those days," Ivy replied. "Will you walk me to my car? I have to deliver this, then get right home."

  "Did you hear that? She has to get right home," Suzanne said to Beth, "for a birthday party, that's what she says. She says it's Philip's ninth birthday."

  "It's May twenty-eighth," Ivy responded. "You know it is, Suzanne."

  "But for all we know," Suzanne went on to Beth, "it's a private wedding on the hill."

  Ivy rolled her eyes, and Beth laughed. Suzanne still hadn't forgiven her for keeping secret the swimming lessons.

  "Is Tristan coming tonight?" Beth asked as they exited the mall.

  "He's one of Philip's two guests," Ivy replied, "and will be sitting next to Philip, not me, and playing all night with Philip, not me. Tristan promised. It was about the only way to keep my brother from coming with us to the prom. Hey, where did you two park?"

  Suzanne couldn't remember and Beth hadn't noticed. Ivy drove them around and around the mall lot. Beth looked for the car while Suzanne advised Ivy on clothes and romance. She covered everything from telephone strategies and how not to be too available to working hard at looking casual. She had been giving volumes of advice for the last three weeks.

  "Suzanne, I think you make dating too complicated," Ivy said at last. "All this plotting and planning. It seems pretty simple to me."

  Incredibly simple, she thought. Whether she and Tristan were relaxing or studying together, whether they were sitting silently side by side or both trying to talk at the same time-which they did frequently-these last few weeks had been incredibly easy.

  "That's because he's the one," Beth said knowingly.

  There was only one thing about Ivy that Tristan couldn't understand. The angels.

  "You've had a difficult life," he had said to her one night. It was the night of the prom-or rather, the morning after, but not yet dawn. They were walking barefoot in the grass, away from the house to the far edge of the ridge. In the west, a crescent moon hung like a leftover Christmas ornament. There was one star. Far below them, a train wound its silver path through the valley.

  "You've been through so much, I don't blame you for believing," Tristan said.

  "You don't blame me? You don't blame me? What do you mean by that?" But she knew what he meant. To him, an angel was just a pretty teddy bear-something for a child to cling to.

  He held her tightly in his arms. "I can't believe, Ivy. I have all I need and all I want right here on earth," he said. "Right here. In my arms."

  "Well, I don't," she replied, and even in the pale light, she could see the sting in his eyes. They started to fight then. Ivy realized for the first time that the more you love, the more you hurt.

  What was worse, you hurt for him as well as for yourself.

  After he left, she cried all morning. Her phone calls hadn't been returned that afternoon. But he came back in the evening, with fifteen lavender roses. One for each angel, he said.

  "Ivy! Ivy, did you hear anything I just said?" Suzanne asked, jolting her back to the present.

  "You know, I thought if we got you a boyfriend, you'd come down to earth a little. But I was wrong. Head still in the clouds! Angel zone!"

  "We didn't get her a boyfriend," Beth said quietly but firmly. "They found each other. Here's the car, Ivy. Have a good time tonight. We'd better dash, it's going to storm."

  The girls jumped out and Ivy checked her watch again. Now she was really late. She sped over the access road and down the highway.

  When she crossed the river, she noticed how rapidly the dark clouds were moving.

  Her delivery was to one of the newer houses south of town, the same neighborhood where she had driven after her first swimming lesson with Tristan. It seemed as if everything she did now made her think of him.

  She got just as lost this time, driving around in circles, with one eye on the clouds. Thunder rumbled. The trees shivered and turned over their leaves, shining an eerie lime green against the leaden sky. Th
e wind began to gust. Branches whipped, and blossoms and tender leaves were torn too soon from their limbs. Ivy leaned forward in her seat, intent on finding the right house before the storm broke.

  Just finding the right street was difficult. She thought she was on Willow, but the sign said Fernway, with Willow running into it. She got out of her car to see if the sign could have been turned-a popular sport among kids in town. Then she heard a loud motor making the bend on the hill above her. She stepped out into the street to wave down the motorcyclist. For a moment, the Harley slowed, then the engine was gunned and the cyclist flew past her.

  Well, she'd have to go with her instincts. The lawns were steep there, and Lillian had said that Mrs. Abromaitis lived on a hill, a flight of stone steps lined with flowerpots leading up to her house.

  Ivy drove around the bend. She could feel the rising wind rocking her car. Overhead the pale sky was being swallowed up by inky clouds.

  Ivy screeched to a halt in front of two houses and pulled the box out of the car, struggling with it against the wind. Both houses had stone steps that ran up side by side. Both had flowerpots. She chose one set of steps, and just as she cleared the first flowerpot it blew over and crashed behind her. Ivy screamed, then laughed at herself.

  At the top of the steps she looked at one house, then the other, 528 and 530, hoping for some kind of clue. A car was pulled around the back of 528, hidden by bushes, so someone was probably home. Then she saw a figure in the large window of 528-someone looking out for her, she thought, though she couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, or if the person actually beckoned to her. All she could see was a vague shape of a person as part of the window's reflected collage of thrashing trees backlit by flashes of lightning. She started toward the house.

  The figure disappeared. At the same time, the front porch light went on at 530. The screen door banged back in the wind.

  "Ivy? Ivy?" A woman called to her from the lit porch.

  "Whew!" She made a run for it, handed off the package, and raced for her car. The skies opened, throwing down ropes of rain. Well, it wouldn't be the first time Tristan had seen her looking like a drowned rat.