Angel's Rest(52)

Dear Lucien,

I hope this missive finds you and your family well. For my part, I have some hard news to share.

Previously, I mentioned I had met the love of my life, a bonny lass by the name of Miss Winifred Smith, whom I came to call Angel after hearing the sweet, celestial sound of her voice as she lifted her voice to the Lord in church. On the day we were to wed, my angel disappeared. She is lost, Lucien. My angel is lost.

I am lost.

My world is ended and Eternity Springs has assigned the blame to me. They believe she forsook my love for another, and in a jealous fit I pushed her off the falls above town. They name me a murderer. It is a lie, Lucien. A brazen lie. I loved her more than life itself.

I am heartbroken. I am lost. As lost as my lost angel. Please pray for me.

Your friend,

Daniel

“Wow,” Sage said.

Nic blew out a breath. “There’s a photograph in the envelope. Look.”

Nic held up a sepia-toned photo of a lovely young woman. Around her neck she wore a silver locket engraved with the silhouette of an angel’s wings. Sarah said, “That’s the locket Zach found with the remains. It’s her. The Cellar Bride was Winifred Smith.”

“Daniel Murphy’s lost angel,” Sage spoke in a soft tone.

As Nic stared at the photo, sadness filled her heart. “She’s been here all along. At Cavanaugh House.”

“Not Cavanaugh House,” Celeste said. “Not any longer. I’ve been searching for the perfect name for our healing center and spa, and now I have found it. My dear friends, though our winter is far from over, spring waits on the horizon. Old wrongs will be righted and healing will come to Eternity Springs. The first step has been taken here, at Angel’s Rest.”

“Angel’s Rest,” Sage repeated. “I like it.”

Sarah pursed her lips in thought, then nodded. “It’s a great name. It’s a perfect fit.”

Nic met Celeste’s gaze. “We need to tell Zach. We need to bring her back and give her a proper burial.”

“We will.” Celeste’s smile warmed the room. “In good time. As soon as Eternity’s long winter is over.”

For a long moment, the room remained silent but for the hissing and crackling of the fire. Then Celeste, being Celeste, shifted from wise woman to girlfriend and said, “Now, how about we pop in the DVD? I have a hankering to see the new year in with Bond, James Bond. Sarah? Pass me the cookies, would you, please?”





NINE





February

Nic gave the pastry bag in her hand another twist to move the pink icing toward the tip and asked herself one more time why she’d volunteered to help Sarah bake cookies for the Father-Daughter Valentine’s Day dance. Ordinarily she enjoyed the event, held annually at Eternity Springs Community School. She adored seeing the little girls all dressed up and standing on top of their daddies’ shoes as they danced around the gymnasium. It brought back good memories of Uncle David and the way he’d stepped up to the plate, insisting she attend the dance with him her first year in Eternity Springs despite the fact she’d considered herself too old for such nonsense.

Secretly she’d been delighted. Her father certainly never would have participated in such an event. Even before Bryce P. Randall III turned his back on Nic’s mother, he’d had little to do with his accidental offspring.

In contrast, Uncle David treated her like a princess. His princess. That first year he had bought her a wrist corsage for the Father-Daughter Valentine’s Day dance, led her out onto the dance floor, and taught her the basic steps of a waltz. She’d fallen head over heels in love with both her uncle and the annual event that night.

This year was different. This year the very concept of Valentine’s Day left her feeling a little sick. Mostly, though, she was angry. Fiercely, hotly, savagely, insanely, every-appropriate-adverb-she-could-think-of angry.

She needed a good, complicated animal case at the clinic to distract her. Instead, all she had on her books were shots for a cat and boarding for two dogs. It was difficult to make a living as a vet this time of year in Eternity Springs.

As she traced pink icing around the edge of a cookie, her telephone rang. She set down the pastry bag, sucked a smear of sweetness off her finger, and rose to answer it. She didn’t bother to check caller ID before lifting the receiver and saying, “Hello?”

“Nic. Hi. This is Gabe Callahan.”