Earth Angel (6 page)

“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.”

“I play lots of places. Weddings pay the bills.” At least they did when the check didn’t bounce. Just last weekend she’d had to deal with a mother of the bride who was shocked—
shocked
—that she charged for her time. The bride had said her mother would have her payment ready, but with all the excitement, something obviously fell through the cracks, because when Abby asked for the check the woman became downright angry.

“You’re charging us?” The bride’s mother’s hands had flown to her heart. “You can stay for the reception. It’s open bar.”

Party with a room full of drunken old men where she knew absolutely no one? Tempting.

“We have a contract,” Abby reminded her.

“We’ll feed you,” the woman said earnestly. “I…” She glanced past her vaguely. “Rex! So good to see you.”

Oh, good, the guests were starting to arrive.

Which was when Abby spotted the florist and chased her down. The florist would know who was in charge. She hoped. Because free food wasn’t going to pay the rent.

Penelope folded another napkin and jiggled the table assessingly. “I never imagined you playing weddings. Isn’t that…I don’t know…beneath you?”

As opposed to not performing at all? If she had a normal job she’d come home from work and be too tired to play, and before she knew it she’d end up like Penelope, playing just once in a rare while, letting part of herself slip away. Instead she had the chance to make music her life. “I like weddings.”

“But you were so good.”

“Now I’m even better.”

“You know what I mean. You could have played in an orchestra. Don’t you feel like you’re selling out? Weddings are so cheesy.”

Abby tried not to be annoyed. “Didn’t you just ask me to play at your wedding?”

Penelope closed her lips over her straw and looked up at her from beneath her lashes like an oversized kid trying to look cute in exchange for forgiveness. “I thought it would be like our old band getting back together, one last jam, having fun. I didn’t know you did it professionally. If I’d known you play weddings every weekend I wouldn’t have asked you. I don’t want you to feel like it’s work.”

“It’s okay, Pentachord. I want to do it.” Penelope looked like she could use another milkshake, extra buzz, and Abby didn’t want her to stress. “It’ll be fun. Promise.”

Penelope got a dreamy smile on her face that meant she was thinking of Natalie. That was good. Weddings were supposed to make you look dreamy. They weren’t supposed to be about arguing with your old college friends.

“So…” Abby said. “Back to the question of what music to use for the processional.”

“I have a friend who used Pachelbel’s Canon in D at her wedding. That was nice,” Penelope suggested.

Abby groaned. “Anything but that.”

“You said anything but the Wedding March.”

“I lied.”

“Seriously, Abby. Maybe I should ask Ramona to play the drums. I bet she could do the Wedding March
and
Pachelbel’s Canon,” Penelope threatened. “Because I
like
them.” Ramona was their fourth bandmate. She was coming to the wedding too, and was going to be part of the mini-comeback concert Penelope and Nat wanted to have after the traditional first dance.

“I can play Pachelbel,” Abby said. “And the Wedding March.” She would never argue with a regular client like this, so why was she doing this to Penelope? She loved getting the opportunity to play other music, but even when she didn’t, no matter how many weddings she played, no matter how many times she rehearsed and performed the same old tunes, making music and creating a romantic atmosphere was always fun. “I’m sorry, it’s your wedding. I’ll play whatever you want.”

Penelope let out a tired sigh. “What’s so bad about the Wedding March?”

“No, it’s your wedding. You choose.”

“No, I want to hear this. I want to know why you care so much.”

“Okay,” Abby said, shrugging. “When you and Nat decided to get married, who proposed?”

“I did. I knew I wanted her, and—”

Abby interrupted her before they got sidetracked. She’d already heard the sappy details once and she’d love to hear them again—later. “You’re a woman, and you had the nerve to propose?” She shifted in her seat, pretending to switch who was speaking. “That’s right,” she answered herself. “Because there was no man.” Abby pointed at Penelope with her straw. “Not very traditional.”

Penelope bit her lip and didn’t respond right away. When she did, she spoke thoughtfully, weighing each word. “You know how in college, everyone said being gay was no big deal? I was so used to being out that it was kind of a shock when I got out in the real world and not everyone was okay with it, you know? And I want to prove to them that we’re normal too. I want to prove that we can get married, and have the big, traditional wedding with the patriarchal walk down the aisle and the music everyone’s heard a million times and the white cake that’s chocolate inside because nobody really likes white cake. I want to be part of that. I want to be part of something bigger than me, part of the community, part of something that other people understand.” She tossed back the dregs of her milkshake, holding the straw out of the way so she didn’t get foam on her face. “When you take the plunge you’ll probably hire a pagan priestess who’ll offer an ancient Minoan blessing and you’ll have the guests join you in a drumming circle followed by Gregorian chant, and I admire you for doing your own thing, but that’s not me.”

“Don’t forget the woodland fairy princess costumes,” Abby said lightly. She had no idea Penelope felt that way. It had been so long since they’d spent time together, and Penelope was right, life changed you, made you care about things you didn’t know you were going to care about back when you were twenty years old. “I’d be honored to play the Wedding March.”

“You won’t regret this.”

No, she wouldn’t regret making Penelope happy. She could play the tune in her sleep, so what was three more minutes of her life? Being a professional meant performing the same music over and over again every weekend and finding something new to love about it each time. It would be fine. Penelope and Nat would be happy with their music, Abby would be happy being part of their celebration, and no one would know the selection had ever been in question. And when the day came that a bride requested a Paraguayan folk tune, she’d be ready.

Chapter Five

Gwynne dropped a butterscotch into her coffee and slumped behind Sea Salt’s appointment desk, wondering for the umpteenth time how all her old clients and everyone they’d ever met seemed to know where she worked.

Her latest visitor approached her desk walking gingerly on the balls of her feet and favoring one leg.

“Are you Gwynne Abernathy?”

Could she get away with saying no? Except it wouldn’t work, because she was already nodding yes.

“My friend Donetta told me I had to find you. Can you help me? The bottom of my heel hurts so bad it hurts to walk. It hurts to stand, even. The first doctor said it was tendinitis, and now the second doctor says it’s a heel spur, except I have a spur on the other heel too, and that one doesn’t hurt, so…”

“It could be a heel spur,” Gwynne said. “But you need to see a massage therapist first before anyone talks you into surgery.” The aura around not only the foot, but the entire leg, was an angry, irritated red, making her suspect there was more going on than a bone growth—a spur—on the heel. She scanned the room to make sure the other clients were waiting comfortably before coming out from behind her desk—getting sidetracked only briefly to rest her gaze on Abby at her harp. Turning people away hadn’t stopped them from seeking her out. Maybe checking out their problem and
then
turning them away would be more effective. Maybe then they’d believe she couldn’t help. “Have a seat on the sofa for a second and I’ll take a look.”

She touched the woman’s foot, then her lower leg.

“It’s my heel, not my leg.”

Gwynne replied by pressing deeply into the calf muscle. The woman gasped and gritted her teeth. Yeah, thought so. People assumed heel pain meant the problem was in the heel, but more often than not, it stemmed from somewhere else.

“When you’re driving, do you have trouble working the gas pedal?”

“You can tell that?”

“You have trigger points in your calf. Why don’t I schedule an appointment for you with Megan McLaren? She’ll be able to fix this.”

“Donetta told me to ask for you.”

“I’m not seeing clients right now.” No matter how many times she said that, she just couldn’t seem to escape her reputation. She cradled the woman’s foot and ran a current of healing energy from her heart, through her fingers, and into the contracted muscle fibers, releasing the tension.

“No walking in the sand until this gets better,” Gwynne told her.

“Is that what did it? I figured it was my high heels.”

“That too. See Megan for a massage. And all these spots that hurt, work on them two or three times a day, and your heel should feel better soon.”

“Can I come back in a few days so you can check that I’m doing it right?”

“Megan will check for you,” Gwynne said.

“But—”

“Megan’s good too,” piped up Dara Sullivan, a client of Megan’s and a massage therapist herself, from the sofa where she sat waiting for her appointment. “Her work is very similar to what Gwynne does.”

“Used to do,” Gwynne corrected.

“I can’t believe you quit,” Dara said. “You were amazing.”

“But you like Megan too?” the woman who was
not
her client asked hesitantly.

Dara flashed an I’m-in-love-with-the-world-and-I’m-going-to-sell-you-on-massage-therapy smile. “Megan’s awesome.” She looked at Gwynne and her smile disappeared. “Not as awesome as Gwynne, of course. Her ability to manipulate energy fields is…I don’t think anyone can do what she does.”

I couldn’t save my mother’s life.
Gwynne’s stomach turned to granite, heavy and useless. Why she’d thought quitting her job would magically make everyone stop talking to her about auras and angels and all that happy horse poop, she didn’t know.

“You’re not helping.” She needed to pull Dara aside later and ask her not to say stuff like that in front of the customers. “Megan is seeing my clients, and Megan is wonderful.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not wonderful,” Dara retorted.

“Megan has a more compassionate presence. When she gives a massage, love radiates from her whole being. Me, on the other hand…I’m just a jerk with a skill.”

“You need psychological help.” Dara snapped open one of the random magazines that were lying around for the guests and vigorously flipped through it.

Megan emerged from the treatment room where she’d been finishing up with a client and looked straight at Gwynne, who was still on the sofa cradling the visitor’s foot. “Gwynne. I thought you quit.”

“I did.” She sent a final burst of energy into the leg to integrate the healing.

The woman tried to sit up, but sitting up made her hold her hands to her head and fall back to the sofa. She’d be fine in a few minutes. Or ten. Or twenty. People always got dizzy when she channeled energy into them. She didn’t have Megan’s gift for gentle, beautiful healings.

Megan waggled her fingers like she was pretending to cast a spell. “That’s what you call quitting? I could sense that healing from behind my door.”

Gwynne stomped back to her desk. “Dara’s your next appointment.”

“Dara!” Megan said, mercifully letting it go. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

Dara slapped her magazine shut. “Could you please tell Gwynne she’s not the big, bad jerk she seems to think she is? That people really do think it’s worth it to be slammed around by her terrible, damnable energy? Because it works?”

“Dara…” Gwynne had known Dara a long time, and familiarity had not bred contempt. More like idolization. Besides massage, Dara was branching out into Reiki, a popular form of off-the-body energy healing, and she was always trying to improve her energy skills—especially now that her hands were in chronic pain and she needed a new career direction. She had made it clear that she would love nothing better than for Gwynne to teach her a few tricks, but Gwynne refused, even though she got tired of turning her down. Because honestly, saying no was doing her a favor.

“Is Gwynne beating herself up again?” Megan said, not sounding very concerned. She opened the file cabinet behind Gwynne’s desk and pulled out Dara’s file.

Gwynne shot her an irritated glance that Megan didn’t deign to turn in her direction to notice.

“It’ll pass,” Megan told Dara. “Once she gets back on her feet she’ll be back to having more than enough self-esteem.”

“Back me up here,” Dara said.

“Gwynne, you’re not a jerk,” Megan said dutifully. “Your channeling may not be subtle, but you’re not a jerk.”