Angel Song (10 page)
Victory
.
Time to seal the deal before she comes up with another argument
. “Well, you look like an honest sort, and specialty or not, I think I’ll take my chances. Should we shake hands on it or draw up an official contract? ’Cause here in the South, a man’s handshake is his word, but if you don’t think I look all that honest, well then, we could do it the New York way. I know in the big city you have to be more careful about these—”
Ann stuck out her hand. “All right then, sounds good.”
Her hand felt so fragile in his. Tan against pale, large against small. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a deal.” He released her hand and nodded toward the door. “You want to discuss it over dinner? Magnolia’s still makes the best she-crab soup in town.” The invitation came out before he knew he planned to offer it.
Ann stood perfectly still for the space of two heartbeats. Finally, she said, “Can I take a rain check? I’ve got lots of paperwork to get filed before I leave tomorrow, and besides, there’s a bunch of leftover food from yesterday.”
“All right, a rain check. I’ll hold you to that.” He kept the words short this time. He wanted her to know he meant it.
Ann turned back to untaping the box and briefly looked over her shoulder. “Well, I’d better get back to this paperwork.”
“All right then. I’ll see you next time.” He walked out the door, hoping their next visit would be soon.
Ann needed to go for a walk. After several hours of sorting through paperwork, she thought her head might explode from too much information. Yes, a quick walk around the block might clear her brain some.
However, there was little chance she could make it around the block without alerting Tammy and Keith. Yet somehow, as much as she’d avoided them today, she found herself almost hoping to run into them.
She changed into a pair of gym shorts and a lavender T-shirt, laced up her running shoes, and made a point of walking out the kitchen door instead of the front. Tammy’s house sat on the corner, so the back of it faced the side of Sarah’s. Ann wanted to allow ample time for them to see her, if they wanted to come out and talk. She knew this was silly. Tammy would be more than happy for Ann to stop by, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to go over there, and no one came out. Looked like she was going to have to go it alone.
At the end of the driveway, she turned right, planning to make a circle around the entire neighborhood, which really wasn’t that large anyway. Just ahead of her, she saw a thin woman in bright yellow jogging shorts and a white T-shirt stretching out her calves. Ann mumbled a “hello” as she walked by her.
The woman straightened up, her red hair glinting in the sun’s light. “Oh, hi. Sorry, didn’t see you. I’m going to do a cooldown lap. Mind if I come with you?”
“Sure.” When Ann saw the woman’s face, a bolt of recognition shot all the way through her. “You were at the . . . I mean, you gave me some water the other night. Downtown. Car accident.”
The woman nodded. “I thought you looked familiar. I’m glad to see that you’re all right.” From the corner of her eye, Ann could see the woman studying her face. “How is your sister?”
“She . . . didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry.” Something about the way she said it was comforting—not the embarrassed kind of pity, or even the overly gushy sort. Just stating the truth for what it was. “My name’s Eleanor, by the way.” Eleanor looked to be in her midforties, but her smooth skin and classic beauty would rival a woman half her age. And her hair was the prettiest color Ann had ever seen—not exactly red, not quite brown.
“I’m Ann.”
“Nice to meet you.” She fell into step beside Ann and neither of them said a word for almost five minutes.
Finally, Ann asked Eleanor, “Where do you live in the neighborhood?”
“Oh, me? I don’t live in this neighborhood actually. I’m a real estate agent and I specialize in the West Ashley area, so I come over here to jog sometimes, just to keep my eye on things. Besides, it’s nice and flat. The outer loop is almost exactly a mile, so it’s easy to measure and see if I’m improving my time. I keep thinking I’m going to do a few 10Ks, maybe even a half marathon. How about you, you like to run?”
“Not so much. Back home I’m more of a gym rat.”
“You’re not from here, then? Somehow I thought you were local.”
“I grew up in this neighborhood, but I haven’t lived here in a long time. My sister does . . . did. Last house before the corner.”
“The one catty-corner to Tammy?”
“That’s the one. You know her?”
“I don’t really know her personally, but I do know Keith. He’s the most amazing kid.”
Ann nodded. “I’ve only just met him.”
“Ah, but to know Keith is to love him. A lot of people seem to be especially disturbed by him, although I’ve never understood why. Does he make you uncomfortable?” There was no hint of judgment in her question, just curiosity.
Ann shrugged. “He talks about angels a lot; he actually
believes
he sees and hears them. It just sort of makes me feel, I don’t know, weird.”
“Don’t you believe in angels?”
“Not really. If they were real, and if they actually spoke to Keith, why wouldn’t they do more to help?”
“Maybe Keith is exactly the way God intended him to be. I’m sure that if he really does see angels, they’re sent to him for a specific purpose that’s beyond our understanding. And if someone else—say, you, for example—were to see or hear angels, it might be for an altogether different purpose.”
Ann shivered. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?”
“Good idea.” Eleanor lifted her face to the sky for just a moment, her eyes closed. “What an incredible day.”
“Yeah. Not too hot—yet.”
“Have you met Tammy’s cousin, Ethan? That’s his house, right there.” Eleanor pointed at a white house with green shutters and a whale-shaped weather vane atop the chimney. It looked like the kind of place where Ethan would live.
“Yes, I’ve met him. Didn’t know this was his house, though.”
“I helped him find it. This is nowhere near the house he
could
buy, but it is absolutely the perfect place for him.” She smiled in satisfaction.
“What makes it so perfect?”
“This area is considered the birthplace of Charleston, did you know that? The neighborhood may only be around sixty years old, but the first permanent settlement was here in West Ashley—Charles Towne Landing to be exact. Like Ethan, the roots here run deep. His father builds flashy new condos on the Florida coast, but Ethan has always been one to see the potential in what’s already there, in something that most people would overlook. Some hard work, some tender loving care, and when he’s finished, everyone will see the beauty that’s been there all along.”
“I gather he’s good at what he does.”
“His work is always featured in trade magazines, he’s got a waiting list almost a year long, but he doesn’t charge the rates he could, and he keeps his work crew small—says he doesn’t want work and success to become his priority.”
“What is his priority, then?” By now, they had reached Sarah’s driveway and Ann stopped walking, waiting for the answer.
Eleanor smiled in a way that hinted at a long-held secret. “You’ll have to ask him that yourself.”
“You’re here!” Keith’s shout sounded down the driveway
as he ran toward them. He came right up between the women and looked at each, as if uncertain which to hug first. Finally, he threw his arms around Ann but turned to Eleanor. “I knew you would like each other.”
“Keith. Keith? Where are you?” Tammy’s voice came from the backyard.
“Out front, Mama. With Ann and—”
Eleanor bent down to hug Keith. “I’ve got to hurry on now. I’ll see you again soon, okay?” She looked toward Ann. “Nice to meet you, Ann. Let me give you my card.” She reached into a zippered pocket on the leg of her shorts and retrieved a small wallet. She flipped it open, pulled out a card, and handed it to Ann.
Next to a smiling picture of Eleanor, she read:
Eleanor Light
Making Dreams Come True
843-555-5723
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m counting on it.” Eleanor jogged away.
Keith took her hand and said, “Now come with me. We need some quality time.”
“Well, I don’t think I can. I really need to—” Ann looked into his earnest blue eyes and saw the serious expression on his face. As much as she wanted to avoid disturbing conversations, she just couldn’t say no to that face. “That sounds really good.” And oddly enough, it kind of did.
F
IVE
A
LCOHOL
-R
ELATED
C
RASHES IN
T
WO
D
AYS
. Ann saw the headline in the morning’s paper and knew that she would read no further. She didn’t want to know details of their accident, didn’t want to know the name of the man who’d hit them, whether or not he had a family, or even a job.
She flipped to the next section of the
News and Courier
, but the damage was already done. Her emotions started racing faster than her brain could think. Why couldn’t that monster have controlled his drinking? Why couldn’t he have had a little more self-control? If he’d wanted to live dangerously, why did he have to take his death wish on the streets? She flipped page after page blindly, until she saw a headline that caught her attention with enough force to cool her ire: S
TINSON
S
ON
V
ISITS
C
HAR
L
ESTON
.
The story was buried back in the Life section of the paper, a place Ann seldom bothered to even skim. She pulled the paper closer so she could read the rest of Charlene Pemberton’s social column.
Patrick Stinson, dashing New York City developer and son of Charleston’s own Marisol Stinson, made an appearance at the Dock Street Theatre last night. He came not only to watch the magnificent
Flora, an Opera,
but also to be a part of the dinner afterward honoring his mother. Marisol Stinson was recognized for her tireless work in supporting the opera, the Spoleto Festival in general, and all the arts in the city of Charleston.
Mr. Stinson’s presence set several of Charleston’s most eligible belles atwitter. He was never without a beautiful companion. His young nephew, Cedric, looked pleased to have his uncle in town, although when asked, his only comment was, “His plane is broken back in New York, and they didn’t get it fixed in time. He’d promised to take me flying and now he can’t.”
This columnist, for one, hopes that Cedric will continue to remind his uncle of his promise and perhaps coax this most charming man back to our fair city. Soon. Ooh la-la!
Plane broken back in New York City
? So much for having a small carbon footprint. So much for being honest too. Perhaps Ann needed to be extra cautious in dealings—business or otherwise—with the charming Mr. Patrick Stinson.
Ann had never been so glad to see the New York skyline in all her life. Here, her world made sense; she was in firm control of her destiny. Now she just needed to make certain her destiny involved landing the Stinson Towers account.
She took a taxi straight to the office, where a stack of invoices would be waiting, among other things. The elevator doors slid open at the familiar tenth floor. She walked the long hallway, pulling her suitcase past doors that led to everything from lawyers’ offices to the headquarters for some sort of plastic bead manufacturer. This is what she loved most about this city: the variety.
She paused at the glass doors that led to Marston Home Staging. This is where she belonged; hopefully she could regain some sense of equilibrium here. She entered the small waiting room, which was tastefully appointed in hues of beige and taupe. It was a little too “brown” for Ann, but Margaret was into “warmth.” Funny, her decorating style was the only thing about Margaret that could be described as warm. Still, putting up with Margaret’s brusqueness was worth the price if everything worked out as planned.
Jen smiled up from the reception desk. “Thank goodness you’re back. It’s been crazy around here.”
“It’s always crazy around here.”
“Yeah, but it’s been worse than usual today. That penthouse over on Fifth Avenue fell out of escrow this morning, and Mrs. Trumbull has been calling every five minutes to see why we don’t have the place set up again yet. Sylvia’s job in that loft over in Chelsea fell apart, and Ms. Simpkins decided last minute that she actually does want us to stage that three-bedroom over by Gramercy Park, but she’s refused to even talk to anyone but you. She said that you had ‘earned her trust.’”
Ann shook her head, partly in exasperation, partly in the glow of knowing that she was needed here. “I’ll call her right now.” She started toward the row of cubicles that housed her desk, then turned. “Is Margaret in?”
“She’s in, but I wouldn’t go back there if I were you. She’s in the worst mood I think I’ve ever seen.”
Ann glanced back toward the glass doors at the far wall and decided to brave it. “I think I’ll chance it. If I’m not out of there in a few minutes, send in the SWAT team, will you?”
“Like a SWAT team could help you against that.” She paused a second. “Maybe if their guns were loaded with silver bullets, or if there was an exorcist in the group or something, but even then, I have my doubts.”
Ann dropped her suitcase beside her desk and shuffled quickly through the mound of paperwork waiting for her. It was going to be a long night before she could finally make it back to her little apartment. Time to get started. But first on the list, face Margaret.
She tapped against the glass as she pushed open the door and leaned in. Margaret was, as usual, sitting at her desk with the Bluetooth earpiece in her ear. She waved Ann in with one hand, held her fingers up for silence with the other. “The contract that you signed specifically states that we do not accept the burden of the responsibility for the sale of the property.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head while she listened to whatever was being said on the other end of the line. “What I said was, according to a recent article in
Newsweek
, the average staged home sells in about seven days, as compared to eightyseven days or more for a nonstaged home. We most certainly did not guarantee your loft would sell in seven days.”
