The Power of Love Read Free

was something similar about his eyes and Will’s, something that drew her to him.
    She turned away quickly, then caught her breath. With a soft flash of colorful wings, a butterfly landed on her shoulder.
    “A flyer,” Beth said. Perhaps because they were all thinking about Tristan, Beth had used the word for a swimmer who did the butterfly.
    Ivy tried to brush off the insect. Its wings fluttered, but it surprised her by staying put.
    “It’s mistaken you for a flower,” Will said, smiling, his eyes full of light.
    “Maybe,” Ivy replied, anxious to get away from him and Beth. Pushing off from the side of the pool, she began to swim.
    She did lap after lap, and when she was finally tired, she swam to the middle of the pool and flipped over to float.
    “It’s such a great feeling, Ivy. Do you know what it’s like to float on a lake, a circle of trees around you, a big blue bowl of sky above you? You’re lying on top of the water, sun sparkling at the tips of your fingers and toes.”
    The memory of Tristan’s voice was so strong it was as if she heard it now. It seemed impossible that the big blue bowl of sky stayed up; it should have shattered like the car windshield the night of the accident, but there it was.
    She remembered lying back in the water, feeling his arm beneath her as he taught her to float. “Easy now, don’t fight it,” he’d said.
    She didn’t fight it. She closed her eyes and imagined being in the center of a lake. When she had opened her eyes, he was looking down on her, his face like the sun, warming her.
    “I’m floating,” Ivy had whispered, and whispered it now.
    “You’re floating.”
    “Floating.” They had read it off each other’s lips, and for a moment now she felt as if he were bending over her still—“Floating”—their lips close, so close …
    “Give ’em back!”
    Ivy pulled her head up quickly, and her feet sank straight down beneath her. She quickly wiped the water out of her eyes.
    The door of the pool house had been flung open, and Gregory was racing across the lawn, carrying a small piece of dark clothing in his hands. Odd globs of white, foamy stuff flew from his hair. Eric came streaking after him, one hand clutching Beth’s hat—his only bit of cover—and the other wielding a long kitchen knife. “You’re dead meat, Gregory.”
    “Come get them.” Gregory egged him on, holding up Eric’s trunks. “Come on. Give it your best shot.”
    “I’m going to—”
    “Sure, sure,” Gregory baited.
    Eric suddenly stopped running. “I’ll get you, Gregory,” he warned. “When you least expect it.”

2

    Lacey sat back in the café chair, smiling at Tristan and looking very pleased with herself. Apparently she had forgiven him for dragging her away from the pool house free-for-all at Eric’s party. Now she hooked her thumbs together and flapped her hands, rippling her fingers like wings. “You have to admit, landing that butterfly on Ivy was a nice touch.”
    Tristan eyed her shimmering fingers and long nails, and responded with something between a grimace and a smile. When he had first met Lacey Lovitt, he had thought the purple nails and the odd magenta rinse on her dark, spiked hair were a result of her hanging around in this world for two years—a long period of time for their kind of angel. But actually it was the way she liked her nails and hair to look, the way she had colored them after her last Hollywood film and before her plane went down.
    “The butterfly was nice,” he began, “but—”
    “You’re wondering how I did it,” she interrupted. “I guess I’ll have to teach you about using force fields.” She eyed the dessert tray as it went by—not that she, or he, could actually eat.
    “But—” Tristan said again.
    “You’re wondering how I knew about the butterfly,” she said. “I told you, I read all about Stonehill High’s hero, the great swimmer, Tristan Carruthers, in the local paper. I knew the butterfly was your