Angel Song

by Sheila Walsh

  Beka continued to look at Ann with a worried expression as she answered, “She’s getting better every day. The new medication is amazing.”

  “That’s great to hear.”

  Beka smiled and squeezed Ann’s arm. “Thank you so much, Ann—for bringing in the Stinson account.”

  “What makes you think I had something to do with the Stinson account?”

  “Oh, come on, I’m not stupid. I overheard Jen saying he’d called here looking for you. Even in college—which was what, a couple hundred years ago?—you were the one who scored the big breaks, not to mention caught the eye of men like Patrick Stinson. Besides, it would never have been Margaret’s idea to give me a reprieve—that had to come from you.”

  “If I ever need a private eye, I’m giving you a call. You have got to be the most observant human on the planet.”

  “Yes, and by observing the tense way you’re holding your shoulders, I’m guessing you need to sit yourself down and get to work. Now quit goofing off with the hired help and get busy.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ann saluted.

  “By the way, I want to have you over for dinner later this week. I’ve got a new stir-fry recipe that will knock your socks off.”

  “Sounds good.” Ann took a seat at her desk. She looked at the Stinson folder in her hand, willing the sudden wave of grief to stay firmly buried until she made it home tonight. Work, hard work, was the only thing that would get her through this. Maybe the Stinson account was just the thing to keep her sane. Yeah, well, she needed to get busy if she had any chance of actually succeeding.

  It was almost 2:00 a.m. when Ann rode the elevator up to her studio apartment on the eighth floor. She lit a fresh-linenscented candle and walked into the kitchen, hoping she could at least find something to eat, but the only inhabitants of her refrigerator, aside from condiments and salad dressing, were two cans of tomato juice, a Diet Coke, and a case of bottled water.

  Ann pulled out a water and unscrewed the lid. She needed to go to the market, but it would have to wait until tomorrow night.

  Well, at least she was home. She looked around the small place, relief washing over her. The black bed with a white duvet, the white sofa, the white countertops, her little chrome coffee table. Oh, it all felt so good to be back in this neatly ordered world, no matter how chaotic life around it was.

  She slid open the door to her small balcony and looked down at the street below, still moving with activity even though it was the middle of the night. Yes, this was her world. And here in her own world, she looked forward to a good night’s sleep. Without nightmares, without memories, and without waking from dreams of hearing music that wasn’t there.

  “As I said before, this is a very impressive portfolio, and your company has an equally impressive track record.” Patrick Stinson looked at Margaret over the photos she’d placed on his desk. “I definitely think that I see the potential for a long-term partnership here.”

  “I absolutely agree. It just makes sense.” Margaret’s tone was as calm as if she’d just been told that the sky was blue, but her left pinky finger began to tap against the desk.

  “And I must say, I really think Ms. Fletcher has just the type of approach that will work well with our team. I’d like to see her personally involved in this project.” He looked at Ann then, a casual expression on his face, but there was a gleam in his eyes that suggested other intentions. He smiled his half-dimpled smile toward her, looking a bit too sure of himself for Ann’s liking.

  Jen’s warning played through her mind, but she wasn’t overly concerned. She’d seen plenty of his kind over the years and she’d learned how to handle them. She’d play along now, all innocent and naive, get the job contract signed, and then when Patrick Stinson started to cross the line, Ann would explain that she didn’t mix business with pleasure, but thanks just the same.

  Of course, Patrick Stinson was more charming than most, and many people were depending on this deal. Ann would have to take a little extra care not to offend him, at least not yet.

  He picked up one of the sketches and held it up for closer examination. “Why don’t we spend a little time mulling these things over and meet again after I’ve had a little time to talk with my team?”

  Margaret was already nodding. “Perfect.”

  “Can I buy lunch for you ladies? We could continue to talk about the project.”

  The invitation held little appeal. Ann wanted to keep some space between Patrick Stinson and herself until the deal was made—no sense asking for trouble. Besides, lunch with Margaret was never a happy thought.

  She stood and loaded her purse on her arm. “I’m sure the two of you will want to talk over the details, so I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got several things to take care of at the office.”

  Margaret grabbed Ann’s arm and hissed, “I don’t think it’s anything that can’t wait, Ann.” She looked at Patrick. “Of course, lunch sounds wonderful.”

  And so Ann spent the next two hours not getting the work done that she needed to do, and listening to increasingly flirtatious comments from Patrick Stinson. He was charming, and Ann found herself enjoying his company. This seemed to unnerve Margaret, which made it all the better. Somewhere in the back of Ann’s mind, she knew this was dangerous, but after a while, she thought maybe she simply didn’t care.

  Chapter 10

  Ann had ordered takeout Chinese for dinner, too exhausted to attempt a trip to the market. She stood at her kitchen counter eating Kung Pao chicken out of the carton while thumbing through the large stack of mail she’d retrieved on the way in.

  There were the usual assortment of bills, the newest edition of Elle Decor, and plenty of junk mail. Then a pale blue envelope caught her eye. The return address was missing, but it was postmarked Charleston. She ripped the flap open and saw a single piece of folded white paper inside. She pulled it out, opened it, and stared down at a crayon drawing of a stick figure with long dark hair and tears dripping from her face onto the ground. On the far edge of the paper was another stick figure, shorter, with big glasses. In between the two was a large glob of golden octopus. She knew instinctively what this picture was. It was Ann, and Keith, and an angel in between them.

  She’d spent the last twenty-four hours convincing herself that nothing in Charleston mattered. She had almost completely put all the people, all the events, all the music out of her mind, until one childlike drawing smacked it right back in. This was something she couldn’t indulge; strength was needed at all costs. She wadded up the paper and threw it in the trash.

  Leaving the remainder of the mail behind, she wandered out onto her balcony. There was something comforting about the sound of the people on the street below, the mindless hum of many voices, some laughing, some shouting, some simply talking. They all blended together into a kind of mind-numbing buzz that kept any one voice from mattering too much. That’s what Ann liked. Voices that were at a safe distance. Not up close. Not giving hugs and saying how much they loved her. And definitely not talking about songs that didn’t exist, sung by angels that didn’t exist. Yep, a good dose of the drone of reality was all Ann needed to put her head back on straight.

  She tried to refocus on her work. She’d been sketching a kitchen for Mrs. Benson this afternoon. Something about it still wasn’t quite right; something seemed to be missing.

  When exhaustion threatened to overtake her, she walked back inside. A quick glance toward the stack of mail, then in the direction of the trash can, triggered an idea. What Mrs. Benson’s kitchen needed was more color—shocking color, much like the brightness of Keith’s golden octopus. High-gloss yellow cabinetry, even a yellow ceiling. It would contrast with the Lake Placid Blue granite and turn the entire kitchen into an abstract work of art.

  Before she even realized what she was doing, she walked to the trash can and uncrumpled Keith’s picture. Her hands seemed to act of their own will as they smoothed out the creases and wrinkles. Then she walked to the refrigerator and hung
the paper in the clip she usually reserved for her grocery list or important to-do memos.

  She put her fingers to her lips, then pressed them to the picture. “I don’t think much of your angels, but the color scheme is great. Thank you, Keith.”

  Ann dreamed of Keith that night. She saw his face ghost-white, his lips pale, and heard him gasping for breath. Behind him stood an angel—at first it was the chubby toddler version of a cherub frequently depicted in paintings. Then the sky turned gold, taking on a brilliant phosphorescent glow that continued to morph around him until it became one of Keith’s yellow octopus–like creatures, breathtaking and fearsome. Music came from all around, filling the room, the building, and even the air he was breathing. Keith smiled weakly up into the glow above him. “I knew you’d come,” he rasped. “I knew it.”

  Ann awoke with a start, the same song still flowing through her brain. Or was it here in her apartment?

  She knew, in that moment, a truth she’d hoped not to face. The song, the insanity, had followed her to New York. Her mind would never be free from thoughts of Charleston—it wouldn’t be free of the paracusias—until all ties to that place were gone.

  She got dressed as quickly as possible, then took pen and paper down to the corner coffee shop. There she sipped a chai latte and composed a list of all the things she needed to do to prepare the house for listing, then ranked each in order of priority. She’d hire Ethan to work on the place. If she actually paid him, their barter agreement would be null, and she wouldn’t feel guilty about not going back there and helping.

  Relieved to see that it could be so easy—on paper at least—she left the shop with a renewed sense of purpose. She was going to be stressed to the limits financially, but the end results—the Stinson job, her new partnership with Margaret, and her sanity—would be worth it.

  It was just a few minutes after seven when she arrived at the office. No one would be there for another hour, and it would be a good time to get a big leap on her day. Except the lights were already turned on, and the door to Margaret’s office was open. This was not a good sign. Even less of a good sign was the handwritten note Ann found on her desk: Come see me as soon as you get in.

  Ann couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong since she’d seen Margaret in such high spirits yesterday. Had Ann forgotten to do something? She’d already blazed through a good portion of the paperwork on her desk, and the Stinson presentation had been well received. During the course of yesterday afternoon, she’d managed to greatly calm the über-uptight Stephanie Simpkins and promised to come by late this morning to start getting her Gramercy Park project all set up. Well, whatever Margaret’s problem, best to get on with it. Ann had a full day ahead of her and needed to get to it.

  “Good morning, Margaret.” Ann said the words as she walked into the office.

  Margaret put her hand to her heart. “Thank goodness you’re here. I got a call last night from Patrick Stinson. He definitely wants to use our firm.”

  “That’s great news.” And it was, but something about the stress in Margaret’s tone said something was not so good.

  “Yes. Yes, it is. He’s having his lawyers look over the contracts, but apparently they are already backed up on another issue. He has asked that we go ahead and begin to get the groundwork done for the job in the meantime.”

  “We don’t do that.” The words slipped out of Ann’s mouth before she thought enough to stop them.

  Margaret stared back, her penciled-in left eyebrow cocked almost to her hairline. “Don’t we?” Her words were cold and hard.

  “That’s your rule; obviously you know we don’t. We’ve never started work on a project before the contracts were signed and sealed.”

  Margaret stretched her neck, tilting her head from side to side. “True. But we’ve never had a client with the clout of Patrick Stinson. If we can keep him happy and earn his business, the sky is the limit as far as what we’ll be able to do.”

  Ann knew Margaret was right. She also knew that Patrick Stinson did not have the same incentive; he had no reason to make certain that Marston Home Staging was happy. Still, Margaret was the boss. If she wanted to gamble with her company, that was her prerogative—at least until Ann became a partner. For now, it helped Ann get what she wanted as well. “Okay, I’ll start getting things together.”

  “Fine. By the way, next Thursday night the Stinson Company is having an open house at their new condo project over on Eighty-sixth Street, and Patrick Stinson wants us there.”

  “Why?” They hadn’t been the designers on the job, and they’d already seen the pictures. It didn’t make sense.

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s our client, our biggest client ever. If he wants us to come to an event, I don’t care if it’s his son’s bar mitzvah or his grandmother’s funeral, we’re going to be there.”

  A nighttime event made the perfect setup for line-crossing relationships—something Ann knew she should avoid for the time being. “Do we both need to go?”

  “As owner of the company, of course I’m going to go, and as the designer that Patrick Stinson specifically requested on this job, of course you’re going to be there.”

  “Obviously, I would love to be there. It’s just that I was planning to leave for Charleston on Thursday night and take a long weekend.” These words were out before Ann realized it. Still, she decided that perhaps, in this case, it was better to face hallucination-inducing twelve-year-olds than the alternative.

  “Next weekend? You’re thinking of leaving next weekend?” Margaret’s voice almost screeched, revealing a rare loss of control. “That is not acceptable. You need to change your plans because we need you to be at that open house. This is not the time to offend Patrick Stinson.”

  Little did Margaret know, that’s exactly what Ann was trying to do—keep a safe distance and avoid any potential offense. “I could change my flight to Friday morning, I suppose, then come back Tuesday morning.” If Margaret knew the tickets had not yet been purchased—and in fact, the trip had not been planned—she would shut it down, and Ann couldn’t allow that. At least a next-morning flight gave her an excuse to leave the reception early.

  Margaret rubbed her temples. “Am I to assume this will be the last of such trips for some time to come?”

  “There might be more, but I’ll keep them as few as possible, and over weekends.” She paused, then added, “Of course, I’ll make certain to keep up with my projects here; I won’t let the travel take away from that.”

  “This is the worst possible time for this. Couldn’t you let the house sit for a month or two? What’s it going to hurt?”

  More than Margaret knew, but better to stay with concrete facts that she could understand. “Margaret, I believe we made a deal allowing me to buy in as partner, so I have plenty of incentive to seal the deal with Stinson. Besides, as I’m sure you recall, a few months ago I agreed to a sizable pay cut to help keep this company going without layoffs—and yet layoffs happened anyway. I’m barely making my rent and expenses right now; I can’t afford the financial burden of a second home.” Ann didn’t mention the fact that said home was paid off, and the only financial burdens were Internet, cable, electric, and water. “I’ll make certain the office can reach me at all times.”

  “You’d better. Or else.” There was no hint of levity in her voice.

  Chapter 11

  As Ethan pulled into Tammy’s driveway, he glanced toward the empty house next door. Just to make certain that things looked in order, that nothing appeared to be disturbed. Keeping an eye on the place, that’s all. It had absolutely nothing to do with Annie, or the still urgent feeling that he was supposed to help her somehow, even though she was in New York, and in spite of—or maybe because of—her fierce independent streak that refused offers of help.

  Why was it that the more she claimed not to need help, the more determined he became to help her? Sarah’s independence never struck him that way, but with Ann, it was almost an obsession. Then, of course,
there was the single freckle on her right cheekbone that he had the insane desire to touch.

  No, none of that mattered. It was probably just old habit, since he’d had so many good memories over there when Sarah was alive, when he’d have lunch with Tammy, Keith, and Danielle on the patio. Whatever you do, don’t ask Tammy if she’s heard from her. You make one move toward weakness and more are sure to follow.

  “Ethan, hi.” Keith was climbing down the steps, waving, before Ethan even got out of the truck. “You ready to play?” He held a small football in his hand.

  Ethan climbed out of the truck and held up both hands. “You bet I am. Hit me, I’m open.”

  Keith threw the ball, almost falling in the process. It landed several feet short. “Oh, man, I’m not very good at this. Sorry, Ethan.”

  “Like I’ve told you before, buddy, even professional athletes warm up before the big games. I should have been closer for our warm-up throws.”

  “Keith, didn’t I tell you not to demand Ethan’s attention the minute he pulled up?” Tammy was at the door now, fists on hips, looking a mixture of frustrated, amused, and exhausted.

  Ethan held up his hands. “My fault. I told him I was open.”

  Tammy rolled her eyes and smiled. “You could at least bring in the dessert first. Especially if you did the usual stop-at-the-grocery-store-and-buy-a-gallon-of-ice-cream-on-the-way kind of dessert. It’ll just sit in your truck and melt.”

  “Who, me?” Ethan tried to look offended but was pretty certain he wasn’t pulling it off very well. “As a matter of fact, that’s not at all what I did. I brought homemade brownies, thank you very much.”

  “You? Made brownies?”

  “That’s not what I said. I said I brought homemade brownies.”

  “Then who made them?”

  “You know that colonial I’ve been remodeling? Their youngest daughter just graduated from high school, and they had a big family shindig last night. This afternoon they sent me home with a couple boxes of leftovers.”