by Mimi Milan
Readers to the rescue!
~ The Angel Paws Rescue ~
Scent of an Angel
Touched by an Angel
When Angels Sing
You just made a difference!
Thank you for choosing this novel. Twenty percent of each purchased book from the Angel Paws Rescue series will be donated to nonprofit organizations. Scent of an Angel specifically donates to Pets for Patriots, a nonprofit that helps pair US military veterans with overlooked shelter animals.
What others are saying about Mimi Milan’s books:
A Rebel in Jericho
“A wonderful masterpiece… a riveting, memorable read.”
~ Amazon writer@heart
“The plot was interesting and kept me turning the pages…”
~ Carrie, reader
Twice Redeemed
“READ this book!”
~ Bibliophile Reviews
“Mimi Milan will draw you right into her book. Her passion comes through in these characters, making the story come to life…”
~ Cheryl Baranski, reader
“Interesting characters, secrets, and some hard times give us a lot of action and an all around good story!”
~ Deanna Stevens, reader
Touched by an Angel
The Angel Paws Rescue Series
Book Two
Bestselling Author
Mimi Milan
© 2017 by Michele Claudio
Cover Design by Teresa Spreckelmeyer
www.midnightmusedesigns.com
Published by Eaton House
P.O. Box 19795
Charlotte, NC 28219-0795
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission – except short passages for reviews. If you’ve purchased this book without a cover, or on any website other than a major retailer, it has been reported as unsold to the publisher (neither the author nor publisher have been paid). Therefore, it should be considered stolen.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), places, or events is entirely coincidental.
For speaking engagements, interviews, or other inquiries, please contact the author at:
[email protected]
www.mimimilan.com
www.facebook.com/AuthorMimiMilan
www.twitter.com/thewritingMimi
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
Dedicated to my sister, Rachael,
who is possibly the greatest artist I personally know.
Did you know…?
Almost 160,000 veterans live as legally blind or visually impaired, with the numbers growing by 7,000 more each passing year.
Injury does not necessarily include the eyes. Sometimes visual impairment occurs because of damage to the brain, resulting in traumatic brain injury (TBI) and neurological vision loss.
Studies have shown that service dogs not only assist veterans that are physically disabled, but also help cope with the symptoms of PTSD.
On average, dogs train for approximately eighteen months before they can be certified as service ready.
Some organizations enlist the help of veterans to train dogs to become service ready, while others simply match sheltered animals with veterans. Either way, it is more than evident that a pet can be a veteran’s best friend and a vital part of their recovery.
Acknowledgments
As always, I’m thankful for the gift of stories and all the inspiration I gleam from those around me. Individuals I would like to name specifically would be the following:
My cover artist, Teresa Spreckelmeyer, who always creates exactly what I envision. To be honest, sometimes the stories only come after I’ve seen whatever Teresa has conjured up. Think I’m kidding? Wait until you see what’s in store for next year!
In addition, I have to give extra thanks to my sisters and all the other Latinas who have played an important role in my life. Writing the scenes between Luciana and her aunt were often inspired by some conversation I remembered having with one of these women. So it was easy to imagine how my characters would react in a specific situation.
Of course, I always have to thank my family. My children are like imagination generators – they consistently keep the magic flowing.
Lastly, I have everlasting gratitude for the readers who continue to follow my work. Thank you for sticking with me and sharing both the ups and downs as both my writing and career continue to grow. Your support means the world to me, as well as all those we’ve helped in the process.
Best wishes to all!
Chapter One
Hands trembling with both excitement and fear, Luciana Lopez tore open the envelope from U.S. Customs. She quickly scanned it, her breath catching. Filled with disbelief, she read the letter once more.
Denied.
She slowly sank down onto her bed, a full size canopy without the netting. She laid back, the letter carelessly slipping through her slender fingers and landing on the floor beside her bare, ebony feet. Hot tears sprang to her eyes. The bedroom she had shared with her cousin for the last four year seemed foreign in her blurred vision – as if she were only now truly seeing it. Pale pink chiffon drapes whipped around in the cool spring breeze that floated in through the open window, brushing against matching walls painted to resemble puffy cotton candy. Worn thin with apprehension, she felt her chest constrict – a telltale sign of the anxiety attacks that occasionally plagued her. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to take in a deep breath. It did little good but she forced in another on top of it, holding as much air as possible in her burning lungs.
She let out a sob – a heart-wrenching, uncontrollable cry that escaped without thought. She quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, praying no one had heard her.
She was wrong.
“Que pasó?” The bedroom door flew open and she quickly sat up. Her aunt, Tía María, stood in the doorway with both fists planted on firm, supple hips. Small and stocky, she looked like a force to be reckoned with… a bulldog that would take on an army of ICE officers if any came to claim her family.
“No pasa nada.” Luciana lied, silently praying that the small fib of everything being fine would be enough to appease her aunt. She simply didn’t have the heart to inform the graying, spitfire woman that their time together would soon come to an end.
Her aunt wasn’t in the market for any excuses, though.
“Nada de tús mentiras!” The aging woman advanced, shaking a stubby finger while admonishing her for lying. “I wasn’t born yesterday just so you could buy me with lies today. What is going on?”
Luciana leaned forward and plucked up the letter lying on the floor beside her foot. She gingerly offered it to her aunt, hopeful that the woman would have some suggestion for her. She did – only it wasn’t exactly the one Lucy had expected to hear.
“See, nena? This is why I told you to find a nice young man like I did all those years ago.” The woman shrugged. “Okay. Maybe not so many years and not so young, but you understand what I’m saying. Find an American and settle down. Then you could stay permanently.”
Luciana squelched a groan, and resisted the urge to bury her head in her hands. Her aunt was so… so…
Old school.
Getting married to an American in order to stay in the United States was something women without options did back in the day. It was not “door number one” for a college student graduating with honors. Nope. It wasn’t an idea for Luciana to toy with. She didn’t jud
ge anyone else for the choices they made. However, she wasn’t about to play the “little wife” card just to avoid a deportation order. It would be hard going back to the Dominican Republic after all this time. Still, nothing could be harder than being barefoot and in the kitchen, a baby hanging off each hip while all her dreams slowly died on the back burner of life. That’s what a husband would want of her. At least, that’s what had been demanded of almost all her friends who had gone that route. Dominican or American – it didn’t really matter. All the women ended up with the same story for as far as she could see. Modern day maids and nannies with one major drawback – no paycheck. They were treated like unpaid servants – each and every one. As the oldest of six children, she had already played those roles when her mother passed away and her father turned to the bottle. By the time she was fourteen, she was an expert dishwasher and diaper changer – two jobs she wasn’t about to exchange her last name for any time soon, and maybe never.
Marriage was a life sentence of servitude and that was a death warrant to her dreams.
She gave her head a firm shake. “No, tía. That’s not my story.”
“No?” The older woman challenged. “Then what exactly is your story? To return to la patria with your tail between your legs? Worse, to refuse to go back just to get snatched up and deported to the fatherland? If you really want to use that degree of yours, then you’ll do what you can to stay in this country. Trust me, Lucy. There’s no museum on the island waiting to hire you on as a curator.”
Her aunt made a good point. As an art history major, there was nothing Luciana wanted more than to work in a museum filled with amazing work by gifted artists. From local talent to visiting exhibits, she wanted to oversee it all. If she couldn’t do that, then she wanted to manage her own gallery. The opportunity to do either one simply didn’t exist back on her island. At least, not on her “side” of the island where those who looked a little too Haitian were confined.
Tía Maria continued on with her advice, but her voice faded away until finally drowned out by Luciana’s thoughts. She stared at the wood floor below, focused on one plank. Deep grooves ran down it– all the way to the opened door and out, vanishing from sight the same way she wished she could disappear. Her aunt meant well – she knew that – but she didn’t want to sit there any longer, listening to tontarías or any other silliness about some marriage plot to get a visa. People didn’t do stuff like that anymore. At least, educated women barely celebrating twenty-four years didn’t resort to such drastic measures. Besides, who would she marry anyway? All the good guys were spoken for. The rest were frat boys.
More successful at chugging beer than passing exams.
Tía Maria waved a hand in front of Luciana, forcing her to snap out of her reverie.
“Ay, nena. What am I going to do with you?”
“Heaven help us if I know.”
Her aunt snapped her fingers, eyes flashing with excitement. “Hey! You know, that’s not a bad idea.”
Luciana frowned. What crazy idea had Tía Maria latched onto this time?
“Get yourself to misa,” her aunt directed, “light a candle and send a prayer to la virgin. She will give you Mr. Right!”
Her niece laughed. “I am not going to church, Tía. At least, not to pray for a man. Besides, I think Jesús and La Madre have better things to do than orchestrate my love life.”
“That’s why they send the saints!”
Luciana shook her head with laughter. She jumped up from her spot on the bed, walked over to the woman, and bent down to deliver a quick peck on one slightly wrinkled cheek.
“Listen, I agreed to model for one of the art therapy classes. So I have to get to campus.” She made a beeline for the door.
“Honey, you need Jesus!”
Luciana almost laughed at the idea of attending mass with her aunt. She briefly turned to casually reply, “Then pray for me.”
Her aunt crossed the air in front of her, rattling off all kinds of blessings in Spanish with the petition for “Mr. Right” repeated twice… just in case God wasn’t aware which plea was most important.
Chapter Two
The car stopped in front of the main entrance of Eastern U, the sounds of spring flitting through the air as students rushed to their classes. Some pounded the pavement as hard as possible. Others whipped by on bicycles and skateboards. Not everyone was in a hurry, though. The landscapers were out beautifying the grounds with a variety of flowers, encircling them with fresh dirt and mulch while birds sang from a nearby perch.
Rhett Marshall knew all this to be true despite his inability to see. Almost two years of rehabilitation classes learning echolocation and the acoustic wayfinding exercises were finally starting to pay off. He could sense where things were even though he couldn’t see much more than shadows. The distinct smells of freshly chipped wood were impossible to miss, too. He hung his arm out of the open car window, his hand cupped as if he could catch the moment along with the wind.
The car came to a slow stop.
“Hey, you sure you’ll be okay? I can walk you to class if you’d like.”
Rhett turned to the voice that had just addressed him. Tanner McKoy, the army veteran who had befriended him at a VFW meeting, had proven to be a good friend. Both the man and his new wife, Eva, had gone out of their way to help him. From emotional support as he relayed his tale of being in Afghanistan to helping him find a service dog at a local shelter, there seemed nothing they wouldn’t do.
“Naw, I’m good. Gotta break in Bear anyway. Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose.” He called over his shoulder to where the small, fluffy rescue waited in the backseat. “Right, Bear? You gonna’ guide me to my class?”
As if understanding his services were in need, the dog released a resounding bark. Rhett climbed out of the car, his white walking cane in hand. He leaned over and grabbed his bag, slinging it onto his shoulder before ambling to the back door. Upon opening it, the dog jumped down and joined his master, patiently waiting until the leash was securely in Rhett’s free hand. Rhett reached down to place a hand squarely on the dog’s head and rubbed between his ears.
“Good job, boy.” He praised the ball of fluff while releasing the aluminum walking stick. It unfolded with ease and hit the ground with a distinct tap. He moved it slightly farther to easily locate the sidewalk. He inclined his head. “Thanks for the ride, Tanner.”
“Any time, man. Eva can swing by later if you need a way back.”
“Thanks for the offer. I should be good, though.”
“You sure?”
Rhett smiled. “You can take the man out of the army, but can’t take the army out of the man.”
Tanner laughed. “Yeah, you know how it is. Old habits die hard. Sorry if I come off like some mother hen.”
“Naw, not at all. I’m just messing with you,” Rhett confessed. “To be honest, it’s nice to know someone who really understands. Get what I mean?”
Tanner agreed, “I sure do.”
“Alright then. See you later, brother. Thanks again.” Rhett waved him off and turned towards the university, focusing on the task at hand. With the help of both Bear and his walking cane, it didn’t take long to get to the appropriate class. He found his usual spot and slid his bag off his shoulder. It dropped to the floor on one side of him and Bear took his place on the opposite side. Rhett slipped into his seat before reaching over to praise the dog again with another pat on the head. “Good boy.”
Straightening back up, he took in his surroundings, listening to other students file in and take their seats. Professor Greer, an unusually pompous man who liked to refer to himself as “dear Doctor,” took his place at the front of the room and addressed the class.
“To those of you with a smidgen of talent, welcome back. To the rest of you, only one more week to drop this class. Then your failing grade will become permanent. Those who are failing – you should know who you are. However, in case you’ve forgotten, allow me to point out that i
t would be the ones who couldn’t draw a straight line… even with a ruler. So, please do us both a favor and fill out the drop form.”
A quiet mumble sounded to the left of Rhett and he wondered if the profanity had reached the professor’s ears.
Apparently so.
Dr. Greer cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mr. Mueller, for proving that you are actually paying attention today. Now if there are no further comments, I would like to present a special guest for today’s assignment... a live model.”
Murmurs of approval sounded all around. Rhett, on the other hand, inwardly grimaced. Until now, everything they had worked on consisted of whatever personal items each student happened to bring to class. Sneakers, fruit… even Bear had all been subjects of Rhett’s projects. They all began the same, too. He would spend a couple of minutes feeling the object with the tips of his fingers to imprint a clear image in his mind’s eye. Then he would use his hand as a guide on the canvas to sketch out the object. Determining the various textures of the oil in the paints helped him determine which color to use.
“Uh… Dr. Greer?” Rhett hesitantly raised a hand, hoping to attract the professor’s attention without garnering any from the rest of the class.
“Yes, Mr. Marshall?”
Rhett’s resolve began to waver. He took a slow, deep breath and reminded himself that if he could stare down the barrel of a gun, then he most certainly could express his needs for such a simple request. “Sir, I have to feel the subject in order to paint it.”
“Oh, yes.” Dr. Greer spoke as though suddenly remembering that Rhett couldn’t see. “Señorita Lopez, one of our students is a decorated military veteran who made a great sacrifice for our country – a real hero. Would you mind terribly if he touched your face in order to… well… see it? I promise you will not be disappointed. He is actually quite good.”