Free Angel Song by Sheila Walsh Page B

How about I’ll just see you around, okay?”
    “Oh . . . well . . . sure. Sure. I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon, then. Come on, Keith. We need to get home.”
    “Bye, Annie.” Keith threw his arms around Ann and hugged tight. “I love you.”
    The words stunned Ann all the way to the bone. “I . . .” No other words would come. She hugged him tight, but when the urge to cry on his shoulder became almost overwhelming, she pulled away. They needed to leave, and fast, or she was going to break down right here in front of them. Ann focused on deep breathing.
    “Come on, baby, we’ve got to go home now.” Tammy took Keith’s hand but looked toward Ann. “You call me if you need anything. I’ll be over here quicker than you can get the phone hung up. I did give you my number, right?”
    “Definitely. Completely covered.”
    “Right. Well, come on, Keith. We’ll be back to see Ann tomorrow. Okay?”
    “Bye,” he said again, then turned to follow his mother.
    Ann walked back into the house and closed the front door behind her. That’s when the breakdown began.

Chapter 7
    Ann floated through a balmy sea, completely enveloped in its warmth. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt so peaceful, so happy, so loved. As she continued to float, she became aware of a vibration around her that seemed to ebb and flow with the rhythm of waves crashing in the distance—but no, it wasn’t waves. It sounded like . . . wings. Each beat whooshed in rhythm with the next, creating a music all its own. Peaceful. Filled with a love so amazing it penetrated to her very marrow. She wanted to stay here forever .
    A dull ache in her back began to pull her from the scene, but she still heard the faint hint of the music. It wasn’t loud—it seemed to be coming from a great distance—but the tune was unmistakable. Ann couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep, so she forced her body to an upright position, then flipped on the table lamp at the end of the sofa. Finally, the music faded and disappeared.
    Obviously it had been a dream. Again. Her current situation was nightmarish enough without all this nonexistent tripe messing with her mind. These dreams, this music, they needed to stop. Right now. According to the clock on the wall, it was just after 2:00 a.m. She stretched her cramped muscles, picked up the remote, and spent the rest of the night mindlessly pushing buttons, never pausing long enough on any single channel to really know what was on. She couldn’t relax enough to even consider sleep—although whether it was from grief or fear of dreaming unearthly music, she wasn’t certain.
    It was Keith; he was the one who was doing this to her. He was the one who had her thinking about angels and wings and songs—paracusias—that were best forgotten. Perhaps it would be better if she avoided him altogether today.
    As the rising sun began to blaze through the lace curtains, she stood up to stretch. After a few nights sleeping on this too-short and too-sagging sofa, she could feel all thirty of her years, and she thought maybe she even felt a few she hadn’t lived yet.
    Tomorrow afternoon, she was flying home. If she could just make it through another day and a half here, she would be away from these constant reminders of what she’d just lost. The confusing blur of faces and names that Ann could never recall. Sad smiles, tight hugs, words spoken in hushed tones. And flowers, endless deliveries of flowers. This in spite of the fact that Ann had requested donations to charity in lieu of them. She began to thumb through the stack of cards Danielle had left for her.
    One card in particular drew her attention:
    With sympathy, Patrick Stinson
    It infuriated her that Margaret had told him. He’d known all about it when Ann had called his office yesterday, and whether Margaret’s motive in telling was to convince him to work directly with her instead, or to gain sympathy and secure the contract, Ann didn’t know. Somehow she