Chapter Seven

They made quick work of the rest of their lunch and left; leaving a big tip for the waitress. On the way back to town, Angel Rose continued her local history lesson, pointing out more interesting buildings or historic sites, and in no time they were back at the Historical Society. Ang was out of the truck before Richie could come around to open her door. “Don’t tell my Ma I didn’t open the door for you,” he joked, tossing his hat on the bench seat before closing and locking the door.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Ang answered, smiling at his silliness.

She let them into the building and grabbed huge wooden fob with three keys dangling from a hoop on the end of it from a drawer in her desk. “Here,” she said, handing it to Richie. “You can use this until you’re done; the keys will let you through all the locked doors. The larger brass key is for the third floor rooms. The smaller brass one will unlock the elevator and the stairwell. The silver-colored key will unlock the research room upstairs. You can come and go as you please as long as the office is open.” She led Richie upstairs to the stack of papers and boxes they had left behind. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, flicking on the light switches before closing the door behind them.

Richie groaned. “This looks like a daunting task,” he said, shaking his head.

“It won’t be that bad,” Ang answered quickly. Then she looked around and tried to see it from Richie’s point of view. “Well, maybe it is a lot, but we haven’t even gotten the rest of the records yet. Do you want to do that, or do you just want to just start with the deep history and tackle the rest later?”

“Look at all this paper! Will dealing with this first, then going for the new stuff later really make a difference?”

“No,” Ang said, shaking her head. “The process will still be the same; you’re just starting with the beginning this way. You can think of it like searching for all the parts of a story. You know the general plot of the story – you know that at the end the heroine disappears. What we have in here,” she said, gesturing to the pile, “is the back story, the middle, and some details. It’s just a matter of putting it in order, and seeing what you have.”

Richie shrugged. “I guess you’re right. Let’s just start with what we have here, and we can fill in the recent history later.”

“Alright,” she said, putting a hand on the doorknob. “Just remember to lock up before you leave, and you can drop the keys at my desk on your way out.”

“Aren’t you going to help me?” Richie asked.

Ang just shook her head and looked at her watch. “Alright, I can help you get started, but I do have a job here, you know.”

All Richie heard was “alright” and he beamed. He scooped up a pile of papers, and said “What’s first?”

Ang sighed and took the lid off of a box of records. “The first thing we should do is lay out this stuff chronologically on these long tables. Then you can start at the beginning, and build your story.”

The pair worked in tandem, sorting through the paperwork and laying out piles for each year they found. The first time she forgot to just sort, and started reading, she felt a familiar clouding in the back of her mind. She willed it to go away, and found that as long as she was careful, she could keep it at bay. When Richie finished his pile, he was surprised to see it was after five o’clock.

“Whoa,” he said. “Look at the time.”

Ang, still with a fistful of papers, tilted her wrist to look at her watch. She swore softly. “Damn, I’ve gotten nothing accomplished today.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘nothing’, Darlin’,” Richie answered. “I think we made quite a bit of progress here.”

She had to agree, but it wasn’t the work she had planned to get done. “I need to close the office,” she said. “You good for today?” When Richie nodded, she returned the gesture. “What do you think so far?”

“I haven’t been reading everything as we sorted, but from the bits I’ve caught, I can tell it really is a mystery what happened to Kirstin. Nobody seems to know what happened. I did find one interesting thing, though.”

“Really? And what was that?” Ang answered, distractedly sorting the last few papers she had in her hand.

“I found that you’re wonderful company, Angel Rose.” He just stood there quietly, watching her finish with the documents in her hand.

Ang finished sorting the last few items and smiled at herself, dusting off her hands. Frowning at the silence, Ang turned to Richie. “Sorry, I missed what you said. What did you find interesting?”

Richie shook his head. “Nothing, not really important, I guess.” He headed for the door and held it open so Angel Rose could pass through ahead of him. “So, hey, tomorrow’s Saturday – are you still going to be open?”

She nodded. “For half the day at any rate,” she said. “Though I’m not sure why we even bother sometimes.”

“You do it because you love it,” Richie said simply, turning the key in the lock. “So see you in the morning then.”

“Yep,” Angel answered, leading them down the stairs. Richie held out the key to Ang, who gestured at the copper pot on the corner of the desk. “You can leave it in there if you like,” she said. “That way, if I’m somewhere else in the building when you come in, you can just grab the key – you don’t have to wait for me.” She held up the pager-like device she had picked up earlier. “This will buzz when the front door opens, and all the rooms are hooked into the camera system, so I can see you come in.”

Feeling thoroughly dismissed, Richie just nodded. “Sounds good. Have a pleasant evening, Angel Rose,” he said.

“You too,” she answered.

Richie reluctantly left, pointing his truck toward home.

* * * * *

Kirstin paced around the house. She was worried that she pushed too hard too fast with this one, visiting him in his dreams like that. She just felt sure that he would accept her, especially after what had happened yesterday. She had sensed it when he seemed so fascinated by the great room, and was almost dialed in to her presence. She sighed. He had been gone for some time, though. Not that time meant much to her anymore. Distracted, Kirstin roamed from room to room, passing through walls and doors. She always returned to her room, though. It gave her comfort. She was almost happy there.

Sitting in her rocking chair and staring blankly out the window, she remembered back to that Halloween afternoon, and for the hundred-millionth time, wondered if she shouldn’t have told Geoffrey about what had happened at the lake.

The Past

Kirstin reached the lake with a smile on her face. She daringly removed her sturdy boots and stockings, and sat on a boulder; looking out over the glassy water. She could see small fish darting here and there just beneath the surface. Trailing one delicate foot lazily in the water, she listened eagerly for more sounds of Geoffrey approaching. Hearing none, she thought she must have been mistaken in what she had heard.

Looking around to make sure she was truly alone, she scampered down from the boulder and, gathering her skirts high between her legs, waded out into the lake up to her knees, letting the cool water wash away some of her fatigue.

She reluctantly returned to the boulder to let her legs dry and to reflect on some of the games the adults were going to play. There of course was the masquerade, where the guests would have to guess who each of the costumed people were. That was always amusing, as the children usually gave the adults away. There would be bobbing for apples, a race through the maze, and pumpkin carvings. The house staff was preparing a giant feast and there were long tables laid out in the great hall to hold the delicious foods.

Finally for each guest, Kirstin and her daughters had crafted a small gift of charms and talismans for each partygoer. Each guest would select a small sack tied with orange and black ribbon from a basket. Inside each tiny bag was a strip of paper bearing an individual charm for each guest. They would be told that the bags were blessed by Titania, Queen of the Fairies, and her blessing would serve to keep away the witches for a period of one year. All they had to do was follow the instructions on the charm. The girls had agonized for hours over what to write, and they had dozens of little sayings written on the slips of paper: ‘Hidden in your favorite book, pleasant memories around will look’, ‘Gaze on this charm in the morning, it will bring you much adoring’, ‘Worn in your glove this simple token will bring words to you, kindly spoken’ and on and on.

Ready to get back to the preparations, Kirstin donned her stockings and laced up her boots. She tossed the crust of bread into the lake, and smiled as a greedy duck made quick work of it. Turning to face the path, she saw movement in the trees. She knew now she was not imagining things. She also knew this was not Geoffrey, for he would not scare her so. Kirstin ran up the path, breathless by the time she reached the maze. She didn’t know who was out there watching her, but she was afraid.

Collecting her faculties and sensibilities, she chided herself for letting her imagination run away like that. It was All Hallow's Eve after all. She was probably just letting the wind get the better of her. She smoothed her hair back into its plait and straightened her clothes. With a slow, dignified step, she continued on to the house. When she got there, Geoffrey was waiting for her on the porch, a wide smile on his face.

“Sweetheart, we missed you,” he said.

“Darling, I just went for a little walk to get some air,” she said, ascending the stone steps to step into the circle of his arms. She turned her face up for a kiss. “I am sorry I took so long.”

“A moment away is an eternity for me,” Geoffrey said, sipping from her lips. “I am glad you are back.”

Arms wrapped around each other, the pair went into the house.

* * * * *

The Present

Angel Rose spent a little time going through the mail on her desk, but really couldn’t concentrate on her work. She was preoccupied by the piles of papers that were up in Richie’s research room. The more she thought about them, the more she felt a little pushing at the back of her brain to go up and look at them. When the pushing turned into a whisper, then a murmur, she gathered her things and locked up. The mail would wait.

No way was she going to give in to the curse now. Richie could just do the next batch of sorting on his own. She had helped him make some serious headway; the rest was up to him.

Chapter Six

Angel Rose stood frozen for a moment, her hand all but glued to the marks on Richie’s arm. In the span of six heart beats, she saw everything – a young woman sitting by a fountain, her walking along the lakeshore, grabbing Richie as he looked for her along a rhododendron-flanked path, and the desperate plea she made for help. When Richie tilted his head and frowned slightly at her, she sucked in a breath and pulled her hand back quickly. “That looks like it hurts.”

Richie shrugged. “It’s not too bad.”

“And you have no idea how this happened?”

Richie shook his head. No way was he telling this stranger about his dream. “Nope. No big deal; I’ve been tramping around the yard – I probably scratched myself on a bush or something. I’m sure they’ll fade in a day or two. Now, Marty said you’d be able to help pull together a history of the house? What did you call it? The Thompson estate?”

“Absolutely. The Thompson family was well-known and well-loved in this town, and most people know about the family who lived in the house way back when. I’m sure there must be reams of records upstairs in the stacks.” Hopefully not spooky ones, she thought. “Follow me. I’ll tell you what I know while we walk.”

Ang snagged her keys and a small pager-like device from the copper pot and led the way across the room to a locked, white door. She unlocked it and it opened onto a wide landing preceding a stairwell. She led Richie up a flight of stairs to the second floor, chatting as she went.

“The Thompsons made their fortune in London, and emigrated here sometime in the early 1700’s. The patriarch of the family, James, wanted a grand adventure, so he packed up his wife and daughters, and steamed across the pond to America. They did well here, growing cotton and fruit and such, and their fortune stayed solid, which was unusual back then. There were a few generations of Thompsons in that house before things got interesting.”

Richie nodded as they came to the top of the stairs. She led him up the hall to a nondescript door, unlocked it, and continued her story as they passed through and settled on a sofa situated along the wall next to the doorway. Richie was enthralled by what he was hearing, and didn’t even glance around the room; he merely sat with his full attention on Angel Rose.

“Most of the last remaining Thompsons to live in the house were all taken by a small pox epidemic. The only survivors were Elizabeth, an old spinster, and Geoffrey, the grandson of Elizabeth’s sister, Katherine Maddox. Elizabeth raised the boy like her own son and gifted the estate to Geoffrey when he fell in love and married. Geoffrey Maddox and Kirstin St. Claire married in 1855. It was true love at first sight. Most of their married lives are chronicled here in the stacks.”

Richie looked around, becoming aware of his surroundings for the first time. He whistled as he looked around the room. Along one side was a low table with computer work stations spaced out on its top. Discreet cameras in the corners of the room covered the whole expanse, and a small screen mounted on the wall showed an image of the front door. The rest of the room was line after line of filing cabinets. “Why so much of their story, and not their ancestors?” he asked.

“Ah, well, you see, their ancestors were boring. Geoffrey’s and Kirstin’s story involves an honest-to-goodness mystery.” She swallowed hard and continued. This was getting too close to what she wanted to avoid. “The Maddoxes had three children: twin girls then a son. The story goes that on Halloween afternoon in 1861, Kirstin left her house to go to a neighbor’s to help with costumes. The Maddoxes had hosted a Halloween celebration at the estate every year since they were married – even when the war broke out. Kirstin never made it to her friend’s house, and she never returned home. The sheriff, neighbors, relatives, and friends combed the estate and neighboring lands, and the road between the Maddox’s home and the neighbor’s, but no trace was ever found of Kirstin.” She looked at Richie’s face, seeing the disbelief there.

“Whoa,” Richie muttered under his breath.

“And we haven’t even really scratched the surface yet,” Angel Rose said. She debated for a moment about what to say next, then decided he’d find out anyway. “Strangely, the estate’s flowers won’t flourish and the trees won’t blossom – it’s almost as if the house is in mourning. The one exception Rhodie Row: the rhododendron trail that runs alongside the topiary maze, leading from the lake to the house. It yields flowers every year, which is unusual; rhododendrons usually alternate floral growth and foliage growth.” That was about as much as she wanted to tell him.

Richie’s gaze wandered around and landed on the computers in the room. Surprise registered on his face. Ang took the opportunity to redirect the conversation before he could ask her any more questions.

“Surprised to see we’ve joined the 20th century?” Angel Rose chuckled. “This building was the original saloon from when the town was founded more than three hundred years ago, but we really couldn’t protect all this history without some major renovations.”

She went on to tell Richie about the year that the building was converted to the Historical Society, thoroughly distracting him. “The building was hoisted up onto trucks, and backed away so that a cellar and temperature-controlled vault could be built underneath. Once that was done, the building was gently put back into place. The rooms on the upper two levels were converted into file rooms, and in the last couple years, we added a computer system. A battalion of high school kids had spent the better part of last summer transferring everything from zillions of index cards to the computer.”

“Wow, I woulda liked to have seen the move of the building. That must have been cool.” He smiled widely, and Angel Rose couldn’t help but smile in return.

“It sounds it, doesn’t it? I hear it was something. They say some of the older men actually brought out brooms and swept the road clean before the trucks rolled, so there wouldn’t be any jostling of the building.” She smiled. “I would have liked to have seen that. It was before my time here, though. I’ve only been here a few years.”

Richie laughed. “There were several older men in the diner this morning – I can just imagine them with push brooms, cleaning dust off the street.” He shook his head to clear the mirth and looked at Angel Rose. “I hope someone took pictures of that; I’d love to see it.”

She laughed. “This is the Historical Society – of course there are pictures. Do you want to find them?”

“No,” Richie answered, shaking his head. “Not right now – first things first. So, where do we start on the Thompson estate?” Richie asked.

She smiled sickly at the word ‘we’. “Actually, you start with the computer. Everything in here is indexed. You just have to look up ‘Thompson estate’ and it will tell you where all the records are. Your search should also yield information on the surrounding properties, and the newspaper accounts of the disappearance, as well as any recent information we may have.” Ang put finger-quotes around ‘recent’.

“Recent?” Richie asked. “How recent?”

“Oh, we’re probably online current through the late seventies to early eighties. Anything later than that will have to be done the old-fashioned, slow way.”

“Cool,” Richie said distractedly, looking despondently between Ang and the computer. As excited as he was about the thought of digging into an honest-to-God mystery, he really didn’t want to use the computers, so he tried a stalling tactic. “Say, you don’t have a southern accent, and you said you weren’t raised in the South. Where are you from?”

Ang was thrown by the abrupt change of subject, and her breath caught at the smile that split Richie’s face at her consternation. She couldn’t help but return the grin. “I grew up in Boston, went to UNC, fell love with the South, and stayed on after college. What about you? I mean I know where you’re from; why come down here?”

Richie chuckled. “Promise not to tell?” Ang nodded. “I’ve been on the road for pretty much the last eighteen months, and I felt burned out – needed to recharge. I couldn’t do that at home, so I went to New Orleans and wound up making a solo record, and hell.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I guess I got bit by the bug, too. I love the pace, the people, and the history of the South – always have. Now I have the time to spend more time here, so here I am.”

“And you had to buy an estate to do that?”

“Didn’t ‘have to’, darlin’,” Richie said, in all seriousness. “Wanted to. And was able to.” Richie shook his head and sighed. “I guess I can’t put off the inevitable any longer – would you give me a crash course in the computer stuff?”

“Sure,” Ang answered. “It’s really just a matter of cross referencing the relevant dates and topics on the computer. The interface is quite simple.” She started to explain how the indexing program worked, and about the labeling scheme, and struggled to suppress a chortle when she saw Richie’s eyes glaze over. “I’m sorry; I guess you don’t like computers?”

He chuckled. “It’s not so much I don’t like them, as I have a pathological fear of them.” He was so sincere that Angel Rose lost the battle with her laugher and it rolled from her. Richie’s grin widened, and he continued. “I don’t like machines that are smarter than me.” He noticed she had a nice laugh: full bodied and genuine. He also noticed her eyes danced when she laughed, and she had a small dimple under her left cheek.

“I guess can help you,” she said, trying to keep the reluctance out of her voice. “It’s the least I can do to make up for jumping to conclusions about you earlier. The older records, from the War Between the States and earlier are all upstairs. We’ll print out a list of everything we need here, and can go up and get the older stuff first.”

“There’s a room just down the hall that you can use for the duration of your research. It’s climate controlled, there is really good light, and it locks with a separate key from the stairs, so nobody will disturb your progress; not that we get too many researchers in here or anything. There’s also an intercom that connects with my desk in case you need something.” Richie looked at her with surprise. “Yes, all of your research has to be done here. This isn’t a library; I can’t let you take this stuff out. Some of these documents and artifacts are priceless. They all are irreplaceable.” She led him up the hall to the room in question and flipped on the lights. The room was ringed on three sides with long tables. Overhead, incandescent light fixtures illuminated the space. In the middle of the room was a desk with a computer, printer, phone, and intercom speaker.

“Ready?” she asked him.

“Lead on.”

Angel Rose worked the computer and soon had a two-page printout of material for them to find. “Let’s head upstairs. There’s a cart up there we can put into the service elevator, so we don’t have to carry everything down the stairs.”

The third floor was just as cool and dry as the second, thanks to the air-conditioning system. The rooms all had little signs on the doors listing the years of the documents inside. The sign on the third door they came to read, “1860-1875”.

“This is the room,” Angel Rose said. She fit yet another key into the lock.

“Why are these rooms locked, but not the ones downstairs? Doesn’t the lock on the stairwell protect these rooms, too?”

Ang shrugged. “The older the documents, the more precious they are, I guess. It’s always just been that way.” She looked around the hall and spied the cart she wanted at the far end, near the elevator. It looked like a room-service cart, with a wide top and a shelf underneath. “Can you grab that cart down there? Just leave it outside the door here.”

Richie went for the cart as Ang opened the door and turned on the lights. He left the cart outside the room and followed her inside, closing the door behind him.

“Everything in this room is extremely fragile,” she cautioned. “To help protect them, all the documents have been put into polypropylene sleeves. Please leave them in the sleeves, okay?” Richie nodded. Ang continued. “Don’t worry about mixing up the documents; each of the sleeves has a tab on the end that has an index code so they can be re-filed quickly. The multi-page items, like old magazines and newspapers, are all here but they’re also on fiche. It’ll be easier to scroll through them on the machine. We can print out the relevant articles, and you can make notes on them.”

“Whatever you say,” Richie said, perusing the list. “This is a lot of stuff to find.”

“Then let’s get started,” Ang answered.

They worked together; pulling files and boxes from various places throughout the room, and piling them up on the table closest to the door. By the time they were done, the stack was formidable, and Ang was happy that the twinges and whispers she heard earlier were absent. Instead, she heard a growling noise, like an angry bear. Cautiously, she turned and saw Richie look at his watch, and pat his rumbling stomach. “Miz Summerlin, it sounds like it’s way past my lunchtime. Why don’t we plan our next phase of the attack over a big, juicy burger? My treat. It’s the least I can do to repay you for your help.”

Next phase? she thought to herself. The research hadn’t triggered her curse, and she had to admit it was fun. She loved digging into a new project. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders as she chewed on the decision to help Richie with his research. It felt like the right decision. Lunch felt like a good choice too -- she had to eat anyway; may as well do it with a gorgeous man. “Please, call me ‘Ang’, and lunch does sound good. Let’s drop this stuff off in your research room first, then we can go.”

“Where should we go? I’ve only seen the one eatery – that Diner. Is their lunch any good?” He was pushing the cart alongside Ang as they walked toward the elevator. She unlocked the control panel with the same key that let them into the stairwell, and pushed the call button.

“Depends on the day. Let me think on that a minute.” She ran through the menu in her mind. Today’s ‘Lunch’ was not burgers so the Diner was out. “If you’ve got a hankering for a good burger, we could go to The Farmhouse,” she said, naming a restaurant in the next town. “They’ve got the best.” The elevator doors slid opened, and the two of them, with the cart, filled the small space.

“’Hankering’?” Richie teased. “That is not an East Coaster talking.”

Ang blushed. “So sue me, alright? I picked up some of the vernacular. If you stick around, I bet you’ll be saying ya’ll by the time the summer’s over.”

Richie laughed. The elevator dinged and the doors opened onto the second floor. Richie pushed the cart into his allotted research room, and re-joined Ang on the elevator. They smiled at each other through the short ride down to the first floor.

He watched as Ang gathered her purse and keys, and led them outside. He waited for Ang to lock the door of the Historical Society, and then led the way to his truck; a hand automatically moving to hover at the small of Ang’s back. He opened the door for her, and she climbed up onto the bench seat. Ang’s eyebrows rose. “Southern-bred manners,” she commented.

Richie just shook his head. “Nope. Good ol’ Jersey-bred survival skills. My Ma would skin me alive if I didn’t open a door for a lady,” he said. “And she’d know, too, even if nobody told her.”

Ang laughed. He really was delightful and not at all what she’d thought a famous rock star would be like. She expected aloofness and a ‘do it right now, and do it may way’ attitude, but Richie was respectful and considerate, had a sharp wit and a wicked sense of humor, and in no time at all, she felt like they’d been friends for ages. She had a strong feeling that he had never in his life met a stranger —she’d have to be careful not to let her guard down too far.

As they drove the short distance to The Farmhouse, Ang pointed at buildings or people and shared stories about her town. Richie threw in a few of his own anecdotes, and had Ang in stitches by the time they hit the town line. She was partway through a story from her college days when they pulled into the half-full parking lot of the restaurant.

Richie playfully grabbed Ang’s hand as they crossed the lot, and Ang went ramrod straight, stopping abruptly and pulling her hand away. In that brief contact, she saw a flash of Richie listening to an answering machine someplace that definitely wasn’t the Thompson estate. There was some sort of music playing through the phone followed by a familiar voice saying, “Man, we should get together, see if we can do something with this. Call me when you’re back.” She shook her head slightly to try to clear the image.

“Sorry darlin’,” Richie said, spinning around to face her. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Ang shook her head. “No, I’m sorry,” she answered. “I’m just not used to being touched.”

Richie nodded. If he knew her better, he’d make some sort of remark about maybe needing to change that, but he wasn’t getting that vibe from her. He was getting some sort of vibe from her, but not the ‘flirt with me’ one.

“Shall we?” he said, sweeping his arm toward the restaurant. She nodded and started walking. They were quiet until they were seated at their table. They placed their orders, and chatted a little bit more about the Maddox Mystery.

After a short time, a waitress approached with their drinks and appetizer. Richie waited until she had left to change the subject.

“So,” Richie said, “how did a computers major,” he shook his head and shivered at that, “end up working at a historical society?”

“Well, I sorta fell into it,” Ang said, sipping her sweet tea. “I had my freshly minted degree, and no desire to go lock myself in a cubicle for twelve hours a day. I toyed with the idea of teaching, but I didn’t want to spend more time in school.” Ang grabbed a crab puff and ate it in two bites. She moaned, licking her fingers and closing her eyes. “So, I – ” she broke off when she opened her eyes to see Richie staring at her. “What?” She felt around her face, sure she had spilled something on it.

Richie’s eyes darkened as he watched her stroke her cheeks and pat her mouth. “Nothing. You were saying?”

“Uh, oh yeah. I needed to do something to earn some money, and taking over at the historical society came with a small apartment across town.” She laughed. “Apparently, this was not a job anyone wanted. When I got there the records were a mess. I spent the whole first year sorting and filing and nursing hundreds of thousands of paper cuts.” She laughed and had more tea. “Once it was done, I brought in the computers and wrote the programming that we use now.”

Richie examined Ang’s proffered. “Looks like you healed pretty nicely,” he said.

“Yeah,” Ang said, “I heal quickly.” They were staring at each other for several moments when the waitress came with their burgers, and another round of sweet tea.

Richie picked up his burger and sunk his teeth into it, letting its juices run down his chin. “Oh my God, this is good,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

She took a bite of her own burger, and moaned. “These are the best burgers around,” she said, her mouth full. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“You sure did,” Richie answered. “I will believe anything you tell me, darlin’.” He took another bite and looked at Ang. Mouth full, he said, “Anything at all.”

“We’ll see about that,” Ang said under her breath.

Chapter Five

Ang had been told that she had a gift. It was the only time she thought her mother was actually lying to her: Ang had always thought of it as more of a curse. For as long as she could remember, Ang saw things that others didn’t; sensed more than others did. It scared her when she was young and didn’t understand what was happening.

Sometimes she had dreams – premonitions really – that had her dreading going to sleep at night. After the first few premonitions came to pass, Angel Rose would talk to her friends and family, to try to make them understand what was coming. At first, they didn’t believe her. As more and more of these dreams came true, people hesitated when Ang talked about them; not really wanting to believe that she could really see what she did. Reactions to her curse were mixed. Some people steered clear, not wanting to be associated with a “psychic”. Others thought it was a cool parlor trick, nothing more, and didn’t pay much attention to it.

As Angel Rose grew, so did her gift. She found that if the “vibes” on an object were strong enough, she could touch an object and could see things about the owner that only that person could possibly know. That’s how she had learned her mother was adopted.

Kelly Patterson Summerlin was a sentimental woman, and had kept a swatch of her own baby blanket. One afternoon, when Angel Rose was looking for something in her mother’s closet, she found the blanket. The instant she touched the fragment, she saw images of a crying young girl and a trio of wimpled nuns, and heard a name. Angel Rose sought out her mother and asked her who Joy was, and why was she giving away her baby if it made her so sad she was crying. Her mother had paled with the realization that her daughter’s gift was growing, but told Angel Rose the whole story of her own adoption as she knew it.

Kelly had found her birth parents (with her adoptive parents’ blessings) when she was eighteen. She learned that Joy, Kelly’s birth mother, and Patrick O’Hara, her birth father, had Kelly when they were teenagers. They were strongly persuaded to give up their baby for adoption, and Joy told Kelly all about taking their precious baby girl to the convent for adoption. Sadly, Patrick was killed during World War II so Kelly never met him, but she and Joy had forged a friendship that lasted for nearly a decade before breast cancer took the older woman. Kelly’s eyes filled when she told Angel Rose about Joy’s final days in the hospital, and the great joy she took in placing her hands on Kelly’s growing abdomen.

“I swear, she told me to ‘take care of this precious baby girl angel’ growing inside me,” Kelly had said, as they looked through photos she had stored in a shoebox. “So when you were born, I knew I had to name you Angel.”

Angel Rose had been taken aback. “I thought you didn’t know I was a girl until I was born,” she said.

“I didn’t,” Kelly answered, “she just knew. She must have had the sight too, like you.”

As Angel Rose got older, the gift grew stronger still, and she found she could shake hands with someone and learn things about the person he never said out loud. Meeting with new people had now become one of those frightening events she tried desperately to avoid.

Eventually, Angel Rose worked very hard to suppress this ‘gift’. She had grown tired of being the trick pony trotted out at parties to “do readings”. When she was looking at colleges, she concentrated on schools that were far away, and were not very desirable among her friends – she wanted to make a clean start. Any time she had a twinge or a dream she ignored it, and she avoided physical contact with others as much as possible. Within a year or so, the murmurings all but stopped and Angel Rose rejoiced.

Now, for some reason, the thought of researching the Thompson estate brought the whispers back again. There was clearly something going on with this house, something strong – and she most definitely didn’t want to get involved. Maybe she should tell the owner that they’d lost the records from that particular century. Maybe she’d just tell him to do his own research. Maybe –

Her thoughts were cut off when the front door opened and in walked the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. He was tall, a good eight inches taller than she was, with long dark hair that kissed his shoulders. Expressive, clear brown eyes were partially hidden behind the fringes of hair that hung over his forehead and he quickly snatched the hat from his head and smiled under her perusal. His mouth was sensuous with full, utterly kissable lips, and the dimple that winked when his grin widened did nothing to dampen the deadliness of his smile.

The stranger’s broad shoulders and ripped torso were clearly outlined in the skin-tight black t-shirt he wore tucked into equally tight blue jeans. Tattoos peeked out from the bottom of his shirt sleeves. Battered cowboy boots added half an inch to his height, and he all but swaggered into the room. He looked familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Cautiously, she stood to greet her visitor.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Mornin’,” Richie said, smiling at Ang. “I’ve been waiting for you.” He took in the woman before him. Small, lithe, and with a riot of red-shot-with-gold curls that he imagined quite a few men would like to delve their fingers into. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, but knew they must be blue or green or something in between. He was inexplicably drawn to find out, so he strode to her desk, and sat on the edge of it like he owned the place.

Ang was shocked by the man’s forward behavior. “How can I help you?”

“My real estate agent, Marty Halstead, said he was going to get in touch with you about digging into the history of my new house and...” Riche was cut off.

“YOU bought the Thompson estate?” Ang blurted helplessly. She recognized his voice, but didn’t want to call attention to the fact, yet couldn’t help the outburst. “What the heck for? You’re not going to tear it down, are you? It’d be just like a rich guy to want to build some sort of dude ranch or escape mansion or whatever the hell you rock stars do with your millions.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a second there, darlin’,” Richie said, smirking. So, she did recognize him. He’d been wondering. “First of all, hi, I’m Richie Sambora.” He held out a hand and waited for the woman to take it.

“Yeah, I know; hi,” she replied, “I’m Angel Rose Summerlin.” She sheepishly reached for his proffered hand, and gave only the barest of shakes. “And I hope you can forgive me. I may not be from the South, but my mama did raise me better than to spout off at strangers.” The instant their skin touched, a little shock passed between them, like they had scuffed their feet on a wool rug before shaking hands. She quickly dropped his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Miz Summerlin,” Richie said. “And don’t worry about it,” Richie continued, absently rubbing his palm where she had zapped him, “Though I had this speech all coming together in my head about how I don’t have to justify my purchases or intentions to you and so on – but I will tell you, I am not tearing down anything. I want to restore the house, and can’t do that without knowing what it looked like back in its heyday.” The scratches on his arm started itching, and he rubbed at them, frowning. “That’s why I’m here.”

Ang noticed Richie’s frown, and saw the scratches. “My goodness, what happened to your arm?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Richie said shrugging and holding it out for inspection. “It was like that when I woke up this morning.”

Without thinking, she reached for Richie’s arm and lightly touched the wounds. As soon as her fingertips touched the scratches, three things happened: Her blood turned to ice, her eyes lost their focus, and she saw with perfect clarity the woman who had made the marks.