“If you want some help with this, please let me know. Situations that seem simple and straightforward at their inception often get complicated as we learn more.”
Angie smiled gratefully at him. “Thanks. I might take you up on that.” Everyone in the room gazed at her as though she were a celebrity, or a star come down from the sky to glow in their midst.
“Here’s to that glow,” Ross said as he handed her a goblet of Chablis.
“Hear, hear!” Lenore and Elena gently clinked glasses.
Angie joined in, accepting their unspoken hopes as they sipped their wine. Ross was right again: no matter how the connections here spooked her at times, it didn’t get any better than this.
Twenty-Three
HOW cool was this? It just got better and better. Angie didn’t care that a sappy grin had overtaken her face; she couldn’t help swaying and tapping her toe to the music. This Sunday-night concert at Harmony Lodge had already outstripped her expectations, and the band was only playing its third piece! It had been fun to watch these guys rehearse earlier, but wow, when they performed for an audience, they cooked!
Ross stood up to swing into a trumpet solo that strutted like a hooker and invited Kyle to pimp for it. That was her father sliding his trombone through such quick, tricky syncopation! And what was more fun, that the guys wore fedoras slouched over their brows, with their shirtsleeves rolled and their ties loosened, or the way they totally enjoyed themselves while they played? This was more than music; it was a call to every inner kid in the crowd to boogie.
“C’mon now, folks, ya gotta sing along!” Billy Linhardt called out as they came to the chorus.
The crowd, already clapping to the beat, kicked in as though they’d done this dozens of times. “‘Won’t you come home, Bill Bailey?’” Angie belted. Normally she would’ve felt self-conscious, but when the whole hillside came alive with this music it felt totally natural to sing out. And totally wonderful.
Beside her, Elena clapped happily, carried away by joy. From the dais, she and Angie had a bird’s-eye view of the band as well as the audience that covered the lodge’s multilevel decks and most of the lawn. Had everyone in Harmony Falls come out for this occasion? They clapped and whistled as Billy finished his exuberant fiddling, and then everyone sang the chorus again with wild abandon.
As the band acknowledged the applause with huge grins, Lenore stepped up to Billy’s microphone. Her sparkly white tunic caught the sunset as she raised her hand for everyone’s attention. “Is everybody happy?” she called.
A thunderous response rumbled beneath the trees.
“The Wing Tips are the best when it comes to jazzing us up, and each spring we do it for a cause. We’ve got Elena’s to-die-for brownies, cinnamon rolls, and slices of pie,” Lenore continued, pointing toward the inn’s open doors. “The goodies are free, but we’d appreciate your donations to our annual drive for the homeless, the abused, and those who come to the lodge for hospice care. This iffy economy has made it a tough year for a lot of people.”
While many in the audience reached for their wallets, Angie helped Elena remove foil from pans of fresh cinnamon rolls. It made sense now, how Lenore St. Claire could offer her special hospitality without going broke, yet this charity concert for down-and-outs like her didn’t make her feel ashamed of accepting such care. Angie felt blessed to be associated with this cause: blessed because she’d been led here, when she could’ve driven anywhere. She could’ve drowned in “poor me” misery before she’d received so much love, or learned of her birth parents or met Ross Costello.
“My staff and I receive nothing from this fund,” the innkeeper emphasized, “and I’ll remind you that what you give with love returns to you a thousandfold. Thanks for coming out tonight, friends!”
“The Wing Tips?” Angie asked as she lifted dense, fudgy brownies onto serving plates.
Elena sliced pies, chuckling. “The band guys, they all wear wingtip shoes. You know, the old-geezer lace-ups with the perforated swirls on the toe? They probably think the wing part associates them with angels.”
Angie laughed. “If they’re all as ornery as Ross and my father—”
“Oh, they say Jerry, the string bass player, he married a lady in Tillamook while he still had a wife in Portland.” The Latina waggled her black eyebrows. “And while the kids in his two families sorted things out in court, it came out that Mac McCaslin, the piano player, he belonged to a swingers club! And one of Jerry’s older daughters was his sex partner!”
Angie’s head swiveled. The fiftysomething balding fellow who wowed the crowd with a stunning rendition of the “Maple Leaf Rag” had love handles that jiggled as he played Lenore’s piano. Looked about as sexy as, well, Bill Cava-naugh. “Mac does seem very happy,” she remarked. “They all do. Maybe we chalk it up to that mystique most painters, musicians, and actors have.”
“Artists are chica magnets, sí,” Elena agreed. She lifted perfect slices of lemon meringue pie from the pan. “And you know what they say about trumpet players, no?”
“No! What do they say?” Angie quickly dished up cream-cheese brownies, because people were heading toward their table.
“They got lips, baby. The longer they’ve played, the better they kiss!”
“And how would you know?” she joked, also wanting to hear more. Ross, Lenore, and Kyle had all discussed this subject, but it was interesting to hear another take on it. Especially since Elena had confessed to kissing Ross.
“She picked it up from gossip,” a voice behind them replied.
Like two schoolgirls caught passing notes, they flushed. Then Elena giggled. “Now Lenore, no matter how wise and…and holy you are,” she hedged, “you find such talk fascinating, no? You tell us we behave this way to learn things in this lifetime that will improve us. Things that elevate our souls.”
Lenore stepped between them to move their treats closer to the table’s front. “Think of all the learning that occurs when they get caught at their unfaithful games. The pain and betrayal, the loss of trust that ripples through entire families, when someone skims that first stone across murky waters,” she pointed out. “It’s usually the women who feel the burn when their men play with fire…which explains why I never lack for guests who need my help. And it’s why we experience lifetimes in each gender.”
“Universal payback?”
“Something like that. They say if you don’t live your life as a good example, you’ll serve as a horrible warning.” Lenore reached under the table for two large glass bowls, placing one at either end of their sumptuous display. Beyond the doors, applause rang out as the ragtime pianist took his bows. “Ready for this?”
Angie suddenly wished for three more hands: eager guests thronged their table, snatching desserts. Lenore placed more pies and brownies in front of them and then helped cut and serve, but even so, they couldn’t keep up with the demand.
“Wow, would you look at Elena’s cherry cheesecake?”
“Gimme one of those gooey rolls, girl!
“Did you hear the way those guys kicked it into high gear?”
“Lenore! Hey, you gave my mom—and us—a fine gift those last couple days before she died. Thanks for all you do.”
Angie glanced up from her pan of rolls and gaped. The bowls were crammed with money, and…had that last guy put in a clump of hundred-dollar bills? Still they came, some who exclaimed over the desserts and some who slipped checks and greenbacks into the bowls before ducking out of the way. Only when the band tuned up for its second set did the crowd diminish, and by then the three of them were surrounded by a pile of empty pans and two overflowing waste-baskets.
The trombone wah-wah-waaahed into a rousing rendition of “Sweet Georgia Brown,” and Angie started grinning again. Now, this was fun. And what a gratifying show of joy and goodwill, gratitude from an entire town, to thank Lenore St. Claire for the way she helped those who were having a tough time.
Angie watched with anticipation as her ment
or emptied one of the bowls and arranged the bills into piles. “…five, six, seven…fifteen, sixteen—jot that down, Elena. Sixteen hundred-dollar bills,” she said as she picked up the pile of fifties.
Angie stacked the empty pans, intrigued by this serious side of the sexy Latina, who followed Lenore’s count as closely as any auditor. And Lenore had no qualms about flashing so much cash in front of a woman who’d come to the lodge homeless and abused, who’d probably paid toward this favor by providing Angie new jeans and underwear. Elena had obviously carved a niche for herself after coming to Harmony Falls on the downhill slide. And judging from the crowd’s compliments on her cooking, plenty of locals appreciated her kitchen therapy as much as they lauded Lenore’s hospitality.
They appreciate you, too, the voice in Angie’s head said. And it feels good, doesn’t it?
She smiled, humming along with the music. Amazed at how comfortable she felt here, how settled into the routine after only a couple of weeks. During last night’s dinner with Elliott, Ross, and her father, they’d told tales about each other over Elena’s delicious lemon chicken while they drank three bottles of wine. Yet nobody got drunk. They’d just been happy, including Elliott. The evening had surpassed Angie’s best memories of holiday dinners, while also relieving some of the anger she felt toward parents for keeping such a huge secret from her.
She carted an armload of pans to Lenore’s kitchen. When she returned with more desserts for after the show, Elliott lingered in the outer doorway, watching the band. He turned, his face lighting up. “Looks like you ladies made out like bandits.” Lenore was still tallying, so he stood on Angie’s other side. “Can’t thank you enough for last night’s food and good company,” he said in a low voice.
“We really enjoyed having you, Elliott. Good to see you here, enjoying the music.” He looked rested, less desperate. It wasn’t difficult to see why Samantha had adored this congenial man: despite his advanced psychiatry degrees, he exuded a boyish delight as the music became more playful.
He focused his sparkling brown eyes on her. “I meant what I said about talking you through some of those issues concerning your adoptive parents,” he said quietly. “But I was also wondering…if you plan to resume your hospice work in Seattle.”
What was he driving at? They’d talked extensively about Kyle’s rehabbing the bungalow and how excited she was, so surely he didn’t think she would commute? And yet…she hadn’t settled that matter, had she? Her manager had invited her back when she got things hashed out with Gregg. And a paycheck awaited her there, and maybe the money Ross’s attorney had gone after on her behalf…and her furniture and clothes were still at the apartment…
“Why do you ask?” she hedged.
He grinned shyly. “I—I’ve never had to interview anyone, because Sam was always my office assistant, but…well, would you consider the position? You have great people skills and clinical experience. You’re easy to talk to, and…Well, if you feel awkward about working in my home—”
Angie clasped his hands. “I’m so flattered you feel I could replace—I mean, no one will ever replace Samantha—”
“But my work goes on,” he murmured. “My patients depend on me. And frankly, I’ll go nuts—well, you know—if I don’t resume my routine.”
Angie could hardly believe what she was hearing. But she was hanging on this endearing man’s every word, imagining what it would be like to work with a professional who delved into patients’ psyches as well as their past lives.
“There’s no way I can answer the phone while I’m in a session,” he continued earnestly. “And if I keep the books or even make appointments, I’ll screw up Sam’s system before the first day’s out. You have experience doing this sort of thing, right? So, please? Will you give it some thought?”
His expression told her he wanted a resounding, immediate yes, yet questions flew through her mind. Was she qualified to work so closely with a psychiatrist and his patients? What if she couldn’t figure out Samantha’s bookkeeping? “I was a receptionist, in charge of admissions, and I helped patients and their families settle in,” she replied hastily. “If I messed up your records—”
“I can have my tax accountant take on that part,” he admitted. “I have no illusions about any one person handling everything my wife did, but the other day, when that yellow butterfly fluttered above you…?” He smiled wistfully. “To me, it was the ultimate sign of Sam’s presence. Her way of leading me. I’ve thought about that a lot, Angie. And it could well be that the universe and Harmony Falls drew you here to help me, when I needed you most. Stranger things have happened.”
How could she argue with him? Lenore and Ross had spoken of Sam’s affinity with the butterflies, too, so Elliott wasn’t just making this up to entice her. His brown eyes shone with hopefulness.
“I…Okay, I’ll do it!” she blurted. “I just can’t believe this position came at me from out of nowhere, and—” She pivoted to look at Lenore. “Did you set this up? Because if you did…”
Lenore looked up from her scratch pad. “I didn’t say a word. But it has crossed my mind, how well you two would work together.”
“See? She felt it, too.” Elliott gripped her hands as though to seal the deal. “You can’t imagine the load this takes off my shoulders, Angie. Can you start June first? I’d return before that, but Sam made me promise to wait until I’d recovered somewhat.”
“Yeah, I—”
“Meanwhile, figure out what you want for pay and benefits. Those are issues I’ve never dealt with, either, but name it and it’s yours.” He shook his head, grinning. “This is so fantastic! What a relief.” As he headed for the doors, he looked up and raised his fists in victory, totally ecstatic.
Yes, Samantha, I owe you a big one, too, Angie mused gleefully. You can send those butterflies any time.
“Well! How fine was that, chica?” Elena hugged her playfully. “Now you’ve got a job and a new home in the works. And Ross. Talk about having it all. And in less than two weeks!”
“Yeah, I’m not sure this is really happening,” she murmured. After all, who’d ever known a boss to say “Name your salary and benefits” before he’d seen her résumé or interviewed her?
Angie strolled to the doorway to catch the breeze, to consider what had just happened. The Wing Tips were swaying to a Dixieland beat now as the crowd sang along with the finale.
“‘Away! Away! Away down souuuuuth in Dixie!’”
As their applause rumbled in the dusk, Angie sent up a little prayer. I’m not sure why this is happening or why you think I deserve it, Lord, but thank you. Thank you so much for guiding me to this pot of gold at the end of a bright, shiny rainbow.
She felt peaceful and free. Even as Rita McQueen moved to the microphone, Angie watched with tolerant anticipation. The guys flipped their music, sipped their drinks, and watched Billy for the downbeat.
Kyle caught her eye and gave her a thumbs-up. She sent it back to him, grinning. Couldn’t wait to tell him about her new job.
Ross stood up as the dramatic introduction began for a tune Angie recalled from their rehearsal, only this performance version felt more ramped up. His hips bumped seductively as he muted his horn for a bluesy, he-done-her-wrong tone. Rita swayed with the microphone. The deck lights and the sunset over the sea cast their magical spells. Angie hadn’t heard much about the owner of the Tea and Tarot shop lately, so perhaps a miracle had happened and she was thinking about moving on.
“I went down to Saint James Infirmary…,” she crooned.
She had the crowd eating from her hand immediately, sucked in by her torch-singer aura and vampy chest voice. But as the words went on, those phrases about seeing her baby lyin’ there on a long white table, cold, Rita turned to sing directly to Angie. As though she sang about Angie, she rhapsodized over the death and the funeral, maybe conveying a deep, dark wish to make the lyrics come true.
Angie went still. Envy simmered in the pit of her stomach: Rita McQue
en was established in this town, was part of this crowd, and was an impressive musician. She herself was a newcomer peering through the plate-glass window, a wannabe who didn’t sing or play. Frustration roiled in her gut even as her mind tried to squelch it. This was only a song, probably penned by some drunk, broke street musician in New Orleans. She was getting awfully paranoid if she believed Rita was sending a musical death threat.
Still, at the crowd’s appreciative applause and whistles, Angie felt compelled to move. Skirting the back row of chairs, she worked her way to where she had a clear view of the Pacific, drank in the soothing roll of the waves in the last light of day. Billy Linhardt announced the band’s final number, and as the familiar notes rose into the night, Angie smiled. She sang softly to elevate her mood after that brief red blip on her emotional radar. “‘I wanna beeee in that number, when the saints go marchin’ in!’”
Blow-out solos followed on the piano, and then on the fiddle and the trombone. But when Ross took it home with a series of trumpet trills and turns that made her mouth hang open, she knew true wonder at his gift. Angie moved toward him, needing a much closer look.
His instrument was an extension of his soul—his jazzy, bluesy, rock-and-roll soul—and his expression bespoke sheer ecstasy. His eyes flew open—did he feel her there, watching him?—and then Ross played just for her, wooing her with some kissy-kissy-kiss sounds that made everybody chuckle. He didn’t miss a beat but kept improvising as the guys around him played on, friends along for the ride.
Angie flushed. Had she ever felt or heard so much fun? And who had ever serenaded her? It didn’t take any stretch of her imagination to know that when Ross Costello made love, he lost himself in that passion just as he gave his all to every note he played. It was an awesome thought, another dream that could come true any day now.
When he finished with a flourish, his arms flew up, victorious. His instrument glimmered in the deck lights. His handsome face shone with sweat as he acknowledged the crowd’s wild applause. Suddenly they all jumped up, clapping louder, praising him, thanking him, for the way he’d made them marvel again.
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