Law of Attraction

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Does this mean I can ask for Ross and he’ll be all mine? she wondered. Was it really so easy, this Law of Attraction? Would her wishes come true if she truly believed, like a child setting out cookies for Santa? It sounded so simple and childlike…

  “And while you ponder meeting Patty McCormick, I want you to have this letter Helen entrusted to me when you were around ten.” Lenore’s face glowed with a mystical reverence as she handed Angie a sealed white envelope. “I have no idea what it says, except that your parents wanted you to have it in the event something befell them before you became an adult. Given what you’ve learned today, I’d say it’s time for you to read it.”

  For Our Angie, Our Angel.

  The sight of Mom’s familiar, distinctive script stilled Angie’s heart. Did this letter include other life-changing revelations? Would the woman who’d raised her reveal the circumstances of her birth in that bungalow?

  “Thanks,” she murmured. “I’ll take this upstairs.”

  Lenore’s squeeze made her pause. “I want you to know, dear, that had the Cavanaughs not taken you, I would have adopted you myself.” Her pale blue eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “You lived the better life, being raised by two parents rather than a single, older, rather…quirky mother who—”

  “Quirky?” Angie’s hand flew to her mouth to cover a laugh. “Eccentric and otherworldly, perhaps. Ethereal. But never out of step!”

  Lenore’s mouth clapped shut as though these words took her by surprise. “Thank you, dear. I assured your parents—both sets—that when the time was right, or if you ever needed me, I would call you home to take you under my wing. And here you are. My dream has come true. My mission’s complete.”

  “Oh, no you don’t! You’re not ducking out now, while the lightning bolts are striking that tower!” Angie said with a chuckle. “If that voice in the car was you calling me home, you’re not off the hook until all this stuff you set in motion gets settled! Got it?”

  Lenore laughed, her face radiating kindness, that unconditional love that surpassed all understanding. “Why would I walk away now? Life’s just getting interesting, don’t you think?”

  Seventeen

  My dearest Angela,

  I write this for both of us, as you know your father’s not one to set pen to paper. Truth be told, he’s always been the cream puff when it comes to discipline, or whenever you plead for things you just can’t live without. And while it falls to me to be the stern one, the parent who expects you to excel, from the moment I first held you I knew you were our very own angel from Heaven. And I thank God every day for the way you have graced our lives.

  Angie yanked three tissues from the box beside her bed. Sheesh. Could she withstand any more emotion today? She felt limp and damp, rung out like a dishrag. And this note from beyond the grave reminded her how she’d gone from one pole to the other this week, from enduring Gregg’s abuse to learning how Patty, Kyle, and the Cavanaughs had shaped her with their love. Could her life—her soul—be any more stretched between extremes?

  She focused on the letter again. While Mom had written this when Angie was around ten, it sounded like the same Helen Cavanaugh who had always spoken to her as though she were a small adult. Would she reveal anything about the adoption? Angie inhaled deeply, to fortify herself.

  I realize you believe everyone’s parents are old, but your father and I are farther along than most. We want you to be cared for and educated in the event of our untimely passing, so I have entrusted this letter—and you, dear Angela—to Lenore St. Claire in Harmony Falls. You’ll come to love her every bit as much as she loves you, and your future will be bright. I have written this so you’ll see, in my own hand, that this is our intention for you, should you have doubts in the wake of our demise.

  Angie blinked. While her mother had always spoken straight to the point, this missive sounded like she was predicting her own and Daddy’s passings. But it gave her comfort, like one last hug from her mother, to know things were progressing just as she’d planned.

  As she scanned the last few paragraphs, however, Angie saw no reference to the adoption. No hint that Helen and Bill weren’t her natural parents. Had they planned all along for Lenore St. Claire to be the bearer of these tidings, so they wouldn’t have to open that can of worms? Or was it as Lenore had said: they’d loved her so much they considered her their own child?

  She felt oddly fragile as she refolded the letter into its envelope. While it was nice to have Lenore confirmed as her guardian angel, it seemed Mom had taken the coward’s way out, not mentioning the truth. It was odd. It wasn’t her way, to sidestep the big issues.

  Just another of life’s little mysteries, the voice in her head replied. So how does it feel to be both a mystery and a miracle, Angie? You fit right in now. Welcome to Harmony Falls.

  Suddenly exhausted, Angie stretched out on the bed’s crisp comforter with her head cradled by the pillow. Early evening placed this room in the cool shadows of ancient pines, where the breeze drifted in from the sea. The unhurried melody of the wind chimes lulled her. She thought of Ross, and Kyle, and young Patty, and she slipped into a nap while surrounded by their sweet smiles.

  SHE awoke to the happy swagger of a jazz band: a trumpet took the lead while a trombone wah-wah-waaaahhhed around it and a honky-tonk piano tinkled out bits of “Bill Bailey” that meshed perfectly. Angie grinned as her foot beat time against the mattress. Groggy from a nap she hadn’t anticipated, she drifted with the playful music as it morphed into “Frankie and Johnny.”

  But this was no recording! The music came from outside her room, and as someone called a halt to give instructions about measure eighty-three, Angie rose to check it out. A group of guys in folding chairs sat in a double semicircle on the deck below her balcony, around an older fiddle player who directed with his bow until his turn came to play. And play he did! Angie’s whole body lit up as she nodded to the catchy rhythm, watching each player in turn.

  The band struck up another flashy introduction, and Ross stood from among them to sway with a solo passage, his trumpet flashing in the sunset. It was “Sweet Georgia Brown,” and it rocked. With his eyes closed and his whole body moving, he strutted his stuff, showing a playful side Angie loved to watch—and then Kyle upped the ante with a trombone passage that crooned like a human voice, a mellow baritone much like his own, in an intricate improvisation that made her jaw drop. He too played from memory, or gut, or whatever muse found the notes for him.

  That was her father, she realized afresh, playing as if he’d been born with that instrument in his hand, ramping up a duet with the guy she’d fallen for in a heartbeat. How awesome was this? They were dancing at their chairs while the string bass, a tuba, a French horn, and the other instruments rolled happily along in accompaniment. Angie couldn’t stand still. The music’s sheer joy carried her away, and she felt so damned happy, she hoped they’d jam far into the night.

  When a Scott Joplin ragtime dance ended with a triumphant chord, she burst into enthusiastic applause. Everyone looked up at her. Her face tingled with heat when she realized she hadn’t combed her hair or—

  Kyle’s smile said it didn’t matter, while Ross grinned and blew her a kiss. “Guys, this is Angie Cavanaugh!” he announced. “She’s staying with Lenore and looking at a bungalow on Windswept. You’ll be seeing a lot of her around town, so—”

  “You play, Angie?”

  “Yeah, come on down, girl!”

  “All I play’s the radio, but thanks!” She couldn’t stop grinning at their eager male faces. “You guys are fabulous! I’ll be your audience for as long as you want to—”

  A new voice sounded. “All right, boys, let’s shift into some blues. ‘Saint James Infirmary.’ I’m sure Miss Cavanaugh understands that we’ve got a gig to practice for.” From beneath the balcony, Rita McQueen slithered between the players’ chairs to stand behind Ross. She focused on Angie, her smile tight. “Ready when you are, Billy.”

  The fiddle
player quickly found a new sheet of music, as did the others, and they struck up a sultry introduction in a minor key as Rita’s hips swayed. Cupping her microphone to her mouth, she moaned about her baby being stretched out on a long white table, so cold and sweet and fair. And as the ballad continued into a funeral scene, Angie wondered if the point of this song was being aimed at her. Rita gazed relentlessly at her and Angie wasn’t about to look away.

  Rita sang in a low, sexy contralto that held its own among so many instruments—and she had sung this song a time or three. She might’ve even been quite the torch singer in a previous life, the way she milked the low notes with such bluesy angst. She played the irresistible femme fatale, her hand on Ross’s shoulder in a blatant show of ownership—or that’s how it looked to Angie, anyway. Ross played along, yet the rise in his color and the ice in his eyes suggested he was damn tired of the game.

  Refusing to be cowed, Angie started downstairs as the rehearsal adjourned. “See you here on Sunday, no later than five,” Billy instructed above the commotion of instruments getting tucked into their cases. “Don’t forget your clip-on lights! Still gets dark early.”

  The players stacked their music and grabbed their stands. They were mostly retired guys, by the looks of it, which made Ross one of the younger players—and certainly the most attractive. As Angie approached, the auburn-haired singer flashed her a feline smile and then launched herself at Ross. It was a movie kiss, played to best visual advantage.

  Angie gritted her teeth. Ross swore he’d broken up with this siren, and she believed him. Obviously, Rita did not. She was a cat on the prowl, claws at the ready, and even as Ross shoved her away, the torch singer wrapped her arms more tightly around his neck. He finally jerked his face from hers. “No more!” he declared as he roughly set her aside. “It’s over, Rita. Get it?”

  Angie leaned against the post, biting back her need to scream. She was the outsider here, the new girl in town being shown the lay of the land in a most graphic, irrefutable way. These musicians had played together for years, and they likely knew the Costello-McQueen soap opera by heart. Blow by blow, no doubt. It was frustrating and daunting.

  The singer smoothed her skirt and then stepped toward Angie as though nothing had happened. “You should come in for a tarot reading,” she suggested cordially. “I saw you looking at my new decks in the window, and I’d love to know what your cards predict. Say, tomorrow morning? I rarely have customers until elevenish.”

  While a tarot reading was the last thing Angie wanted from her, how could she back down? Rita might believe she was intimidated, or that she might relinquish Ross. If anything, Angie felt more determined to establish herself as the next Mrs. Costello on a woman-to-woman level, while he wasn’t present.

  She set aside her thoughts of retaliation when Kyle came up. He extended his hand, his expression guarded: this volatile redhead didn’t know they were related. “Nice to see ya again, Angie,” he said in his smoky voice. “After studyin’ that bungalow some more, I hope you’re ready to go with it, because I sure am. Sound foundation and structure there. New wiring, plumbing, and some cosmetic upgrades’ll make that place shine like the jewel it was built to be.” His purposeful gaze told her to follow his lead.

  Angie grinned, enjoying the secrets they shared. “Can’t wait to get back to my roots, to that house I loved as a child. Thanks for making that possible, Kyle. It was a real pleasure meeting you this morning.”

  Her heart thudded as Rita followed their conversation. “What roots’re we talking about, Angie? The amber ones beneath your highlights?”

  Angie blinked, keeping her expression blank. “You must be mistaken. This is my natural color.” She pointedly assessed Rita’s tinted hair and then refocused on Kyle. “As we were saying, I’d be pleased to assist you with the painting and such. I’ve been told I’m very teachable.”

  Rita’s smile didn’t reach her narrowed green eyes. “We’ll see about that, won’t we? I’m sure the tarot will reveal many things about your fate and future here in Harmony Falls.” Then, with a triumphant rise of her eyebrow, she bid Ross a silent good-bye and left the patio with a flit-flit-flit of her kitten-heeled sandals.

  Kyle snorted, tapping a cigarette from his pack. “Whatever that was about, I’m steerin’ clear of it. I suggest you do the same, young lady. Rita’s the queen when it comes to kickin’ up shit—as Ross here can tell ya.”

  “Bitch. I told her it was over. Told her you’re changing my door locks.” Ross rolled his eyes, raking his tousled black hair. “What part of no doesn’t she understand, damn it?”

  “The part of ya she can squeeze till ya either say uncle or do what she wants.” Kyle blew smoke out his nose with the air of a friendly dragon. “And now that my little girl’s wrapped up in this, ya better be damn careful, Costello. I’ve spent the better part of my life missin’ this kid, wonderin’ where she landed and how she turned out. Not lookin’ to have this situation blow up in my face, if ya get my drift.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Iverson,” Ross teased as he looped an arm around Angie’s waist. He studied her face with a soulful, sexy gaze. “Guess I’ll have to toe the mark, now that I’m dealing with your daddy, Ange. And that’s okay by me, you know? Sweetens the deal, this circle that connects the three of us.”

  She held her breath, wondering if he would kiss her right here in front of Kyle, her father. She felt like a girl at a dance where her dad was a chaperone—a dad who could read all the emotions on her face and in her heart because he’d known them himself. And while Bill Cavanaugh had rarely pried into her feelings, letting Mom handle that girly stuff, she went fluttery inside at the way Kyle now studied her.

  “Sorry,” he murmured. “Can’t get over how much ya look like Patty. Brings back a lotta stuff I thought was dead and buried.”

  “Understandable,” she murmured.

  “And on that more sober subject,” Ross segued, “Lenore says Elliott’s invited us to come when he scatters Sam’s ashes. That includes you, sweetheart. Won’t be a funeral so much as a commemoration of a beautiful woman and the lifetimes he’s shared with her.”

  Angie’s eyes teared up. “I can’t think he’d want me to intrude.”

  “Won’t be that way for Elliott,” her father remarked. “I’m guessin’ Lenore’ll say a few words—”

  “And I bet we go to that grotto on the other side of Hug Point, where he and Sam watched the sunlight illuminate the rocks.” Ross blinked, obviously moved. “Say yes, Ange. You’ll get a new perspective of that deserted cove where you tried to walk out on me before we even met. Please?”

  The emotion in his crystal blue eyes made something shift within her. He looked so earnest, so devoted to her, maybe because he felt Elliott’s loss so keenly. Would Ross have mourned her, if he’d found her body washed up on the beach?

  He loved you before you touched him, or met his eyes, or fibbed about not hearing him call you. He’s known you a long, long time, angel, and he’s figuring that part out now. Planning for the “here” as well as the hereafter.

  She blinked. While it was interesting to hear her inner voice’s opinion, it still jarred her, the way it said what she needed to hear at any given moment. “All right, then. Dr. James seems like such a sweet man. What time will we be going?”

  Ross’s shrug did alluring things to his polo shirt. “The sun has to be at the right angle, on a bright day, for that grotto to light up. He’ll know. He’ll stop by the lodge.”

  What an odd yet fascinating way to schedule a scattering. Yet it fit, didn’t it? It was the wish of a man who wanted everything to be perfect for the final time he spent with his beloved wife.

  Just as Ross is spending every possible moment with you, no matter how Rita wants it to look. Things are rarely as they appear.

  Angie swallowed hard. Right now it appeared Ross Costello wanted to devour her, as though Kyle weren’t looking on and taking mental notes.

  “It was cool to wake up to your music, guys
,” she murmured. “I can’t wait to hear you Sunday night. Meanwhile, I’ll prepare myself for a reading with Rita tomorrow.”

  The men exchanged a scowl. “Why do you want to—?”

  “What can ya possibly gain by goin’ to her shop, when you could—?”

  Angie slipped out of Ross’s embrace. “I can’t let her think I’m so easily scared away,” she said firmly. “I plan to live in Harmony Falls, and I doubt Rita’s leaving, so I’ll establish my boundaries now. Before she believes she can pester me into giving up or giving in.”

  Did she look and sound as resolute as she wanted? Both Ross and her father smiled their encouragement, yet what they didn’t say spoke volumes, too. Kyle ground his cigarette butt in the grass with his boot heel. “Good for you, girl. And good luck. Drop by the house Monday so’s we can talk about what you want me to do.”

  The carpenter brushed her cheek with his callused fingertips, and her heart fluttered into overdrive. “I will! Thanks! I…I can’t wait!”

  Kyle had no more than turned his back when Ross grabbed her. “Neither can I,” he whispered. His kiss touched something deep inside her, leaving no doubt he intended to do that in a more intimate way. Soon. And naked.

  Eighteen

  HIS lips eased her into a fine place, far, far away, and as he sighed with her, inviting her tongue to play, Angie followed where he led. His mouth was a master of nuance, and she its willing student. So sweet, so lovely, so dexterous…so unlike any affection she’d ever known, as he cradled her head in his hands.

  “Oh! Elena, I—” Angie sat bolt upright in bed as the grinning housekeeper raised the window shades.

  “You were dreaming, chica,” Elena teased with a snap of her castanet eyes. “Three guesses who you were naked with, and the first two don’t count, sí?”