“It wasn’t fifty.” The most she’d ever had at one time was seventeen, when a whole litter of mini lops pushed her over her previous record of twelve. And that time that Megan was talking about, it was more like ten. Megan had refused to continue with the massage until Gwynne climbed off the table, naked and exasperated, and chased the rabbits out.
“Okay, less than fifty,” Megan conceded.
“Thank you.”
“At least forty-nine.”
“Geez, Megan, thanks a lot. Kira’s going to think I have a hoarding problem.”
Kira refilled their glasses without comment.
Megan swirled her glass of cucumber slices. “You could have warned me the door didn’t shut all the way.”
“They weren’t trying to scare you,” Gwynne said. “They just wanted to see what we were doing.”
“What
were
you doing?” Kira said.
“Jealous?” Megan cheered up and patted Kira on the thigh. At least that’s what Gwynne assumed. If something more than that was going on under the table—which, judging from the sudden change in Kira’s expression, it probably was—she didn’t want to know. She was glad Megan was happy, though. Kira was better for her than Gwynne had ever been.
Gwynne emptied her glass in one long gulp. She might not be a massage therapist or an energy healer anymore, but she still believed in staying well-hydrated. Years of pressing glasses of water into her clients’ hands weren’t going to be undone in a single day.
“I think I have a rabbit phobia now,” Megan said. “Remind me never to adopt one.”
“How about a guinea pig?”
Megan’s face softened, as she knew it would. Everyone loved guinea pigs. Until they realized how much cage cleaning was involved. Which Megan was apparently contemplating now, because that smile that said
aren’t they the cutest
was already fading. She raised her palms with a sigh and slapped them on the table. “They’re rodents.”
“Well, technically…” Gwynne admitted.
“No pets, Gwynnie. I don’t do pets.”
“Okay, okay.” She didn’t want to give up the guinea pig, anyway. She’d named her Apple and she had the cutest tuft of hair that poofed out on the top of her head and hung over her eyes like bangs. It was totally adorable.
“If you think of another favor—a non-pet favor—let us know,” Megan said.
“You don’t have to do anything for me.”
“There must be something…” Absentmindedly, Megan refilled everyone’s glasses, even though only Gwynne’s was empty. “How about music while you work? Kira’s thinking about hiring a musician for the lounge.”
Kira rose from the table and paced. “I haven’t decided.”
“If you’re looking for a harpist, there’s one up at the hospital in Lewes,” Gwynne volunteered.
Megan grinned at Kira. “See, it’s a sign.”
Kira barked out a laugh. “It is not a sign.” Ever since they’d met, Kira had become more and more open-minded about Megan’s pseudoscientific beliefs, but she still had a ways to go.
“It is a sign,” Megan insisted.
“There was that violinist we interviewed last month,” Kira said. “She wasn’t bad.”
“Too screechy,” Megan said.
“She was good,” Kira argued.
“You promised there were going to be perks to knowing the owner,” Megan reminded her partner.
Kira stalked toward her, oozing sensuality. “This is the perk you want? Veto power over the music?”
“Yes.”
“When I made that promise, music was not what I had in mind.”
“I know what
you
had in mind.” Megan pulled Kira onto her lap. Kira was starting to go gray, but she still had the body of a twenty-year-old marathon runner—a physique that was not Gwynne’s type, but that clearly was Megan’s. “If you’re going to call it a perk, it’s supposed to be for
my
benefit. You get too much out of it.”
“Oh, you’ll benefit, all right,” Kira murmured, shifting on her lap.
Gwynne squirmed and eyed the exit. Maybe they wouldn’t notice if she left?
“No violin,” Megan said, pressing her lips to the back of her partner’s shoulder.
“I liked her,” Kira said.
“You’ll both like my harpist,” Gwynne said, jumping into the conversation to remind them she was still in the vicinity before things got out of hand.
Megan turned to her politely as Kira slid off her lap. “Is she a hospital employee? Was she good?”
Those were both relevant questions, but admitting she didn’t know precisely what the musician had been doing there, or what her harp sounded like, wasn’t going to help her cause. “Uh…”
Megan looked at her sympathetically, probably assuming she’d triggered painful memories. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s not that.” Gwynne had no idea why she was pushing for this. She was surprised she even remembered the harpist, considering how consumed she’d been by everything else going on, but there was something about her that had cut through the blind despair of those hours and imprinted itself on her memory. Something that made her want to see her again. And not just to apologize, although she wanted to do that too, because the apology she’d grumbled at the hospital had been totally inadequate. The harpist took it in stride, but that was because she was a good person. She had to have a good heart to work in a place full of people who were stressed and scared and not at their best. “You’re going to like her.”
“Uh-oh.” Megan knew her too well.
Kira looked at Megan, then back at Gwynne. “Are you saying you’ve never heard her play?”
“I’m sure she’s good,” Gwynne said.
“Jesus.” Kira paced over to the railing and back. “I can’t believe I’m trusting you to run my spa.”
“Of course you trust me. I have excellent instincts,” Gwynne said.
“It’s your years of experience with clients that I’m counting on.”
“So, yay,” Megan said. “We get music.”
Megan grabbed Kira and kissed her on the cheek. At least Gwynne thought it was her cheek. She was doing her best not to watch. When she figured it was safe to look up, the two had returned to separate seats.
Kira looked a little dazed. “I need to run the numbers first.”
Megan’s voice deepened. “I can help you with that.” From the light twinkling in her eyes, it looked like she was ready to “help” her right here on the table.
Kira riveted her full attention on Megan. “I think that might be a good idea.”
“Go ravish her in another room, please, where I don’t have to watch,” Gwynne said, pushing back from the table before things went any further. “I’ll be back later.”
“No, wait,” Megan said.
Gwynne left. On her way out she heard Kira say, “I thought it was my turn to ravish
you.
”
* * *
Abby hesitated at the edge of the softball field and watched a dozen or so women joke with each other while they casually warmed up, twisting and bending at the waist and swinging their arms. It was a rare Saturday afternoon when she didn’t have a wedding to play, and she was determined to take advantage of it—get outside, do something different. She was always glad for the happy brides and grooms, and she appreciated the financial security of having so many paying gigs, but living through weekend after weekend celebrating heterosexual love couldn’t be one hundred percent healthy. It would be nice to spend at least one Saturday feeling like she was with her own kind.
Not that she was a jock—far from it. She’d passed gym class by showing up for class and being a good sport about being picked last whenever they divided into teams, and by ignoring how much she hated feeling uncoordinated, hated the way she jiggled when she ran, and hated wearing sports bras that were too tight and too hot and still didn’t stop her chest from hurting every time she bounced. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t give this a shot. Maybe without prepubescent boys in the mix, sports would be more fun.
Besides, she’d left Baltimore and moved over a hundred miles to the small coastal town of Piper Beach almost four months ago and it was high time she made some friends outside of the hospital staff. This was why she’d moved here, after all—because she was convinced that somewhere out there, if she could only find it, was a place that felt like home.
Bruce’s guitar jam wasn’t it. Maybe softball was.
She approached a pair of African-American women in softball-type outfits as one of them straightened up from tying her laces. Wow, she was tall. Tall and stunningly bald.
“What position do you play?” asked the stockier of the two, who sported a mass of braids.
“Oh, uh, anything. Whatever you need,” Abby bluffed. She figured they wouldn’t assign her to anything important until they saw her play and knew what she could do. Or, more to the point, not do.
“I’m Hank,” said the one with the braids. “We’re short players, so make yourself useful.” She glanced pointedly at Abby’s sneakers. “And next time, wear cleats.”
The other woman poked Hank with her elbow.
Abby decided not to take offense. Hey, at least her hair was in a ponytail, right? That was about as jock-like as she was going to get. She adjusted her headband, a print with bold orange daisies that matched her leggings but teetered on the edge of clashing with her red hair, and fluffed her ponytail in an I-never-play-sports-that-could-involve-safety-helmets kind of way. She was not normally prissy about her hair, and she didn’t even really mean it, but Hank brought it out in her—this weird cross between flirtation and defiance.
“Just so you know,” Abby said, “I’m not good at sports.”
Hank looked her up and down. “Don’t be scared, little girl,” she said rudely. “I’ll teach you to play.”
The woman next to her snorted.
Hank turned her head belligerently in her friend’s direction, hiking up one shoulder. “What.”
“
We’ll
teach you to play,” the woman said.
Hank dipped her chin. “Come on, Aisha, I didn’t mean it like that.”
The two of them got into an argument and Abby escaped and joined the rest of the group. Someone pulled her onto their team and soon she found herself up at bat.
Her first swing was a disaster. A couple of women cheered in a motherly way, supportive of the new girl who obviously sucked.
The next pitch, she could immediately tell from the change in the pitcher’s windup that she was moving more deliberately, more slowly, tossing her a gentle, easy-to-hit target. Being nice to her. Bruce’s attitude at the guitar jam was almost easier to deal with.
Abby tightened her grip on the bat. She swung, and missed. How could she be so coordinated at the harp and so uncoordinated with a bat? She had good hand-eye coordination, just not when it came to balls. And no, she did not mind if anyone snickered at that, because she meant it that way too. Juvenile, yes. But true. When it came to balls—of any kind—she was not interested.
“Give it a good whack,” the catcher encouraged her.
Another pitch came at her.
“Whack it!” someone yelled as the ball approached. “Pretend it’s your boyfriend’s head.”
Abby clenched her jaw and swung, and as the ball thunked into the catcher’s mitt, the bat flew out of her hands.
She didn’t belong here.
Chapter Three
Abby navigated traffic the way she played music—exquisitely aware of the location of all the players, whether they were cars and traffic lights and pedestrians on the street or strings and levers on a harp. She could sense where each vehicle was, feel it in her fingertips, feel a tug on the invisible strings that linked her to each driver when someone was about to come to a sudden stop or change lanes without using their turn signal, and she adjusted her speed accordingly, smoothly weaving around obstacles at well above the speed limit, one element in a coordinated whole. It wasn’t mind reading; it was an innate
knowing
. She didn’t understand how she did it, but she never questioned it.
Her driving mojo didn’t carry over to other aspects of her life, but that was fine. Life without surprises would be boring. She thought about that when she arrived for her audition at the Sea Salt Hotel and Spa and wheeled in her five-foot-tall, 36-string harp and saw who was there to greet her.
It was the woman from the hospital. She no longer had dark circles under her eyes or that appalling look of utter exhaustion, but it was definitely her. The despair was still there, lurking in her eyes, weighing down her shoulders, but it was so well hidden that anyone who wasn’t paying attention would think she was doing fine. Unlike the last time she’d seen her, her spotless jeans and unwrinkled emerald silk blouse under a matching jacket—besides bringing out the green of her eyes—did not look like they’d been slept in, and her short brown hair was styled into adorable pixie spikes. For a lot of people, a well-groomed exterior was a sign that they’d returned to normal. For this woman, she suspected it was an act.
“I’m Gwynne Abernathy,” the woman said, not mentioning their previous run-in. “Can I carry something for you?”
Abby handed her the low wooden stool hooked over her wrist and followed her with her harp through the lobby and down a hallway.
“You’re the one who recommended me for the job?” The hotel owner had mentioned Gwynne’s name on the phone, but Abby hadn’t recognized it. She’d dismissed the minor mystery as unimportant, since every year she performed for thousands of wedding guests whose names she’d never know.
But this wasn’t an anonymous wedding guest. This was…
her.
The one she’d been obsessing about for weeks, wondering if she really had ordered those angels out of that hospital room, or if it had all been a weird coincidence.
She wasn’t expecting it to be her. The woman hadn’t even heard her play. And it wasn’t like they’d talked, or made a connection. On Abby’s part, yeah. Considering all the time she’d spent mulling over their awkward encounter, she’d have to say they made a connection. But on Gwynne Abernathy’s part? Doubtful. But that was okay. If it got her an audition, she’d take it. And maybe afterward she’d pull her aside and ask her what had happened in that hospital room.
“Thanks for putting in a good word for me,” Abby said.
“I’m surprised Kira mentioned it.”
The hallway opened into an archway that led into a spacious lounge where Gwynne set down her harp stool. The room was uncluttered and painted white, designed to draw your eye to the hundreds of glass balls on the ceiling, each one lit from within, glowing with the pale blues and greens of sea glass. Glass pebbles in the same range of colors tiled the far wall, and an adjacent wall was painted with a mural of a mermaid sunning on a rock. The beautiful design barely registered, though, because the room was swirling with angels. They spun around her and Gwynne, unafraid to come close, and as one swooped toward her face, Abby tripped on her long skirt. She caught her balance on the hand truck her harp was on, leaning on it harder than she would have liked but managing not to jar the harp.