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.