Authors: Elizabeth Chandler
The Power of Love
THE POWER OF LOVE
ELIZABETH CHANDLER
POCKET BOOKS
New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Simon Pulse edition September 2002
First Archway edition August 1998
The Power of Love
Copyright © 1995 by Daniel Weiss Associates, Inc., and Mary Clair Helldorfer
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster
Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Manufactured in the United States of America
20 19 18 17 16 15 14
Lyric excerpts of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II. Copyright © 1945 by Williamson Music. Copyright renewed. International Copyright Secured. Used by Permission. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-6710-2346-1
eISBN-13: 978-1-4391-2087-3
K
ISSED BY AN
A
NGEL
T
HE
P
OWER OF
L
OVE
To the many hands that created this book.
1
“This time I’ll reach her!” Tristan said. “I have to warn Ivy, I have to tell her that the crash
wasn’t
an accident. Lacey, help me out! You know this angel stuff doesn’t come naturally to me.”
“You can say that again,” Lacey replied, leaning back against Tristan’s tombstone.
“Then you’ll come with me?”
Lacey checked her nails, long purple nails that wouldn’t chip or break any more than Tristan’s thick brown hair would grow again. At last she said, “I guess I can squeeze in a pool party for an hour. But listen, Tristan, don’t expect me to be a perfect, angelic guest.”
Ivy stood at the edge of the pool, her skin prickling from the cold water that occasionally splashed her. Two girls brushed past her, chased by a guy with a water gun. The three of them tumbled into the pool together, leaving Ivy drenched by a shower of icy drops. If this had been the year before, she would have been trembling, trembling and praying to her water angel. But angels weren’t real. Ivy knew that now.
The previous winter, when she had dangled from a diving board high above the school pool, frozen with a fear she had known since childhood, she had prayed to her water angel. But it was Tristan who had saved her.
He had taught her to swim. Though her teeth had chattered that first day and the next and the next, she had loved the feel of the water when he pulled her through it. She had loved him, even when he argued that angels weren’t real.
Tristan had been right. And now Tristan was gone, along with her belief in angels.
“Going for a swim?”
Ivy turned quickly and saw her own suntanned face and tumbleweed of gold hair reflected in Eric Ghent’s sunglasses. His wet hair was slicked back, almost transparent against his head.
“I’m sorry we don’t have a high dive,” Eric said.
She ignored the little jab. “It’s a beautiful pool anyway.”
“It’s pretty shallow at this end,” he said, pulling off his sunglasses, letting them dangle from their cord against his bony chest. Eric’s eyes were light blue, and his lashes were so pale he looked as if he didn’t have any.
“I can swim—either end,” Ivy told him.
“Really.” One side of Eric’s mouth curled up. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he told her, then walked away to talk to his other guests.
Ivy hadn’t expected Eric to be any nicer than that. Though he had invited her and her two closest friends to his midsummer pool party, they weren’t members of Stonehill’s fast crowd. Ivy was sure that Beth, Suzanne, and she were there only at the request of Eric’s best friend and Ivy’s stepbrother, Gregory.
She gazed across the pool at a line of sunbathers, searching for her friends. In the midst of a dozen oiled bodies and bleached heads sat Beth, wearing a huge hat and something resembling a muumuu. She was talking a mile a minute to Will O’Leary, another one of Gregory’s friends. Somehow Beth Van Dyke, who had never even dreamed of being cool, and Will, who was thought to be ultracool, had become friends.
The girls around them were arranging themselves to show the sun—or Will—their best angle, but Will didn’t notice. He was nodding encouragingly to Beth, who was probably telling him her newest idea for a short story. Ivy wondered if, in his quiet way, Will enjoyed Beth’s writings—poems and stories, and, once for history class, a biography of Mary, Queen of Scots—which somehow always turned into steamy bare-every-emotion tales of romance. The thought made Ivy smile.
Will glanced across the pool just then and caught the smile. For a moment his face seemed alight. Perhaps it was only the flicker of sun flashing off the water, but Ivy took a self-conscious step back. Just as quickly, he turned his face into the shade of Beth’s hat.
As Ivy stepped back she felt the bare skin of a cool, hard chest. The person did not move out of the way, but rather lowered his face over her shoulder, brushing her ear with his mouth.
“I think you have an admirer,” said Gregory.
Ivy did not move away from him. She had gotten used to her stepbrother, his tendency to lean too close, his way of showing up behind her unexpectedly. “An admirer? Who?”
Gregory’s gray eyes laughed down at her. He was dark-haired, tall and slender, with a deep tan from spending hours a day playing tennis.
In the last month, he and Ivy had spent a lot of time together, though back in April she would never have believed it possible. Then, all that she and Gregory had in common was shock at their parents’ decision to marry, and anger at and distrust of each other. At seventeen, Ivy was earning her own money and looking after her kid brother. Gregory was racing around the Connecticut countryside in his BMW with a fast, rich crowd who scorned anyone who didn’t have what they did.
But all that seemed unimportant now that he and Ivy had shared a lot more—the suicide of Gregory’s mother and Tristan’s death. When two people live in the same house, Ivy discovered, they share some of their deepest feelings, and, surprisingly enough, she had come to trust Gregory with hers. He was there for her when she missed Tristan the most.
“An admirer,” Ivy repeated, smiling. “Sounds to me like you’ve been reading Beth’s romances.” She moved away from the pool, and Gregory moved with her like a shadow. Quickly Ivy scanned the patio area for her oldest and best friend, Suzanne Goldstein. For Suzanne’s sake, Ivy wished Gregory would not stand so close. She wished he wouldn’t whisper to her as if they shared some secret.
Suzanne had been pursuing Gregory since the winter, and Gregory had encouraged the chase. Suzanne said they were officially dating now; Gregory smiled and admitted to nothing. Just as Ivy laid a light hand on Gregory to push him back a little, a glass door slid open and Suzanne emerged from the pool house. She paused for a moment, as if taking in the scene—the long sapphire oval of the pool, the marble sculptures, the terraces of flowers. The pause conveniently gave all the guys a chance to look at her. With her shimmering mane of black hair and a tiny bikini that seemed more like jewelry than clothing, she outshone all the other girls, including the ones who had been longtime members of Eric and Gregory’s crowd.
“If anyone has admirers,” Ivy said, “it’s Suzanne. And if you Ye smart, you’ll get over there before twenty other guys line up.”
Gregory just laughed and brushed back a tangle of golden hair from Ivy’s cheek. He knew, of course, that Suzanne was watching. Both Gregory and Suzanne were into playing games, and Ivy was often caught in the middle.
Suzanne moved with catlike grace, reaching them quickly, yet never appearing to move faster than a leisurely stroll.
“Great suit!” she greeted Ivy.
Ivy blinked, then stared down at her one-piece in surprise. Suzanne had been with her when she bought the suit and had urged her to find something that plunged even further. But of course this was just a setup to turn Gregory’s attention to Suzanne’s … jewelry.
“It really looks terrific on you, Ivy.”
“That’s what I told her,” Gregory said in an overly warm voice.
He had never said a thing about Ivy’s suit. His white lie was intended to make Suzanne jealous. Ivy flashed him a look and he laughed.
“Did you bring any sunblock?” Suzanne asked. “I can’t believe I forgot mine.”
Ivy couldn’t believe it, either. Suzanne had been working that line since they were twelve and vacationing at the Goldsteins’ beach house.
“I know my back is going to fry,” Suzanne said.
Ivy reached for her bag, which was on a nearby chair. She knew that Suzanne could stretch out on a sheet of foil at high noon and still never burn. “Here. Keep it. I’ve got plenty.”
Then she placed the tube in Gregory’s hands. She started off, but Gregory caught her by the arm. “How about you?” he asked, his voice low and intimate.
“How about me what?”
“Don’t you need some lotion?” he asked.
“Nope, I’m fine.”
But he wouldn’t let her go. “You know how you forget the most obvious places,” he said as he smoothed the lotion at the base of her neck and across her shoulders, his voice as silky soft as his fingers. He tried to slip a finger under one strap. Ivy held the strap down. She was getting mad. No doubt Suzanne was burning up, too, she thought—though not from the sun.
Ivy pulled away from Gregory and quickly put on her sunglasses, hoping they would mask her anger. She walked away briskly, leaving them to tease and antagonize each other.
Both of them were using her to score points. Why couldn’t they leave her out of their stupid games?
You’re jealous, she chided herself. You’re just jealous because they have each other, and you don’t have Tristan.
She found an empty lounge chair at the edge of a small crowd and dropped down into it. The guy and girl next to her watched with interest as Suzanne led Gregory to two lounges in a corner apart from the others. They whispered as Gregory spread lotion over her perfectly shaped body.
Ivy closed her eyes and thought about Tristan, about their plans to run off to the lake together, to float out in the middle of it with the sun sparkling at their fingertips and toes. She thought about the way Tristan had kissed her in the backseat of the car the night of the accident. It was the tenderness of his kiss that she remembered, the way he had touched her face with wonder, almost reverence. The way he had held her made her feel not only loved, but sacred to him.
“You still haven’t gone in the water.”
Ivy opened her eyes. It seemed pretty clear that Eric wouldn’t let her alone until she proved she would not freak out in the pool.
“I was just thinking about it,” she said, removing her sunglasses. He waited for her by the pool’s edge.
Ivy was glad that, at his own party, Eric had stayed sober. But perhaps this was how he made up for it. Without alcohol, without drugs, this was how Eric entertained himself: testing people on their most vulnerable points.
Ivy slipped into the water. In the first few moments the old fear washed over her as the water crept up her neck, and she was terribly afraid. “That’s what courage is,” Tristan had said, “facing what you’re afraid of.” With each stroke, she grew a little more comfortable.
She swam the length of the pool, then stopped and waited for Eric in the deep end. He was a poor swimmer.
“Not bad,” Eric said when he caught up with her. “You’re not bad for a beginner.”
“Thanks,” said Ivy.
“You’re not even out of breath.”
“I guess I’m in good shape.”
“Not out of breath at all,” he said. “You know, there’s a game Gregory and I played at camp when we were little kids.”
He paused, and Ivy guessed that he was going to suggest they play it now. She wished they were hanging on to the wall at the other end of the pool, where it was shallow and the trees didn’t crowd out the sun, and most everyone else now waded and sat.
“It’s a test to see how long each of us can hold our breath,” he told her. He spoke without looking at her; Eric rarely looked anyone in the eye.
“You have to duck under the water and stay under for as long as possible while the other person times it.”
Ivy thought it was a dumb game, but she went along with it, figuring that the sooner they played it, the sooner she could get rid of him.
Eric quickly went under, holding his arm above the surface so she could read his watch. He stayed under for one minute and five seconds, surfacing with a rasping gasp. Then Ivy took a deep gulp of air and dropped down. She counted slowly to herself—one thousand one, one thousand two—determined to beat him. While she held her breath she watched her loose hair swirl around her. The chlorine was strong, and she wanted to close her eyes, but something told her not to trust Eric.
When she finally surfaced he said, “I’m impressed! One minute and three seconds.”
She had counted one minute and fifteen.
“Here’s the next step,” he said. “We see if we can stay under longer by going down together. It’s like we encourage each other. Ready?”
Ivy nodded reluctantly. After this, she was getting out of the pool. Eric stared at his watch. “On the count of three. One, two—” He suddenly pulled her under.
Ivy hadn’t gotten her breath. She pulled back, but Eric wouldn’t let go. She waved her hands at him underwater but he gripped her upper arms.
Ivy began choking. Ivy had swallowed some water as Eric dragged her down, and she couldn’t help coughing, trying to clear her lungs—but each time she did, she swallowed more water. Eric held her tight.
She tried to kick him but he moved his legs out of the way and smiled a close-lipped smile.
He’s enjoying this, she thought. He thinks this is fun. He’s crazy!
Ivy struggled to get away from him. Her stomach tightened with cramps, and her knees drew up. Her lungs felt as if they would burst.
Suddenly Eric grimaced. He pulled to one side so swiftly that he swung Ivy around with him. Then he let go. They both came to the surface, gasping and sputtering.
“You jerk. You stupid jerk!” Ivy yelled. But her coughing stopped her from going on.
Eric pulled himself up onto the wall, his face pale, his fingers still clutching his side. When his hand dropped, she saw the red marks, thin bloody stripes, as if someone had scratched his back and side with long, sharp fingernails.
