haven’t. And you should remember that Aunt Myrna, well, she is a novelist. A storyteller extraordinaire. She tends to embellish everything.”
“But the whole town believes in these angels!”
“So it seems.”
“And you don’t not believe in them!”
“John,” she said, giving his arm a reassuring pat. “Angels are a state of mind. Don’t get so intense about it.”
“Sydney is driving us crazy. She wants to know if they’re real or a story. We’ve always told her the truth—we don’t make things up. Silly things.”
“Silly things? Like Santa and the tooth fairy?”
John grinned. “Well, they’re real.”
“Thank God. I thought you were going to be one of those atrocious modern parents who take away their kids’ fantasy life before they outgrow their training wheels! My father is one of the most no-nonsense, pragmatic, low on bullshit parents a kid can grow up under, and he said, whether I knew it or not, whether I could see them or not, I had angels.”
“I guess I can see his point,” John said.
But June had stopped listening. She was remembering back to when she was seven, climbing the big tree in her yard with Tom Toopeek, Greg Silva and Chris Forrest. She was the only girl—she was often the only girl—but she was as loud and fast and strong as the boys. They were building a tree house. The base and platform had been up for weeks, anchored by Elmerand Mikos, who made sure it was safe, solid and would bear their weight. But she and her friends were always adding to it—walls, rope swings, ladder rungs up the trunk and along the huge boughs.
And she fell.
It was funny; she was completely unconscious, but she remembered every bit of it. The long flight down, the thunk of her skull, the crack of her spine, and then hearing everyone around her but not being able to respond or move.
The boys ran into her house screaming, “Doc! Doc! Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!” while June lay there beneath the tree, lifeless. Her mother and father and friends all came back to her, her father yelling that no one should touch her. Her eyes were open, she could see him looming over her, but she couldn’t even blink. His face above hers filled the space of her vision. Then he slowly touched two fingers to her neck to get a pulse and she found her breath. She inhaled sharply, painfully, then coughed and began to cry.
She had had the damnedest headache for about a week, but was otherwise miraculously uninjured. Her mother tried to keep her out of the trees, but that passed. It had been June’s only real brush with death.
“June? June?”
She blinked and looked at John. She smiled. “I’ve met the Princess Sydney and I believe she has angels, whether she can see them or not.”
“That’s probably what I’ll end up telling her, but I was looking for some slightly more reliable feedback. For my own curiosity, as well. You know, if someone like Doc or Tom Toopeek had actually encountered angels….”
“Have you met Jerry Powell yet?” she asked him.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Dr. Powell, child and family therapist, Ph.D. in clinical psych. He moved here a few years ago from San Jose, I think. Really nice guy.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Why? Has he seen the angels?”
“I don’t think so, but he’s been for a ride in a spaceship.”
She walked away from him, grinning over her shoulder.
“We’re going to be drinking bottled water, for sure,” John muttered.
Mikos Silva had a nice farm between the Trinity and King mountain ranges, south of town. It was an even, flat valley there, not too far off the highway. He had built himself a sturdy house and raised three kids—two boys and a girl. Greg Silva was the same age as June, and they had been friends all through school.
All the Silva kids had moved out of Grace Valley, but they hadn’t gone far. The oldest, Maria, married a fisherman and moved to Humboldt Bay, where she worked as a nurse and raised her kids. Greg became a
“But the whole town believes in these angels!”
“So it seems.”
“And you don’t not believe in them!”
“John,” she said, giving his arm a reassuring pat. “Angels are a state of mind. Don’t get so intense about it.”
“Sydney is driving us crazy. She wants to know if they’re real or a story. We’ve always told her the truth—we don’t make things up. Silly things.”
“Silly things? Like Santa and the tooth fairy?”
John grinned. “Well, they’re real.”
“Thank God. I thought you were going to be one of those atrocious modern parents who take away their kids’ fantasy life before they outgrow their training wheels! My father is one of the most no-nonsense, pragmatic, low on bullshit parents a kid can grow up under, and he said, whether I knew it or not, whether I could see them or not, I had angels.”
“I guess I can see his point,” John said.
But June had stopped listening. She was remembering back to when she was seven, climbing the big tree in her yard with Tom Toopeek, Greg Silva and Chris Forrest. She was the only girl—she was often the only girl—but she was as loud and fast and strong as the boys. They were building a tree house. The base and platform had been up for weeks, anchored by Elmerand Mikos, who made sure it was safe, solid and would bear their weight. But she and her friends were always adding to it—walls, rope swings, ladder rungs up the trunk and along the huge boughs.
And she fell.
It was funny; she was completely unconscious, but she remembered every bit of it. The long flight down, the thunk of her skull, the crack of her spine, and then hearing everyone around her but not being able to respond or move.
The boys ran into her house screaming, “Doc! Doc! Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!” while June lay there beneath the tree, lifeless. Her mother and father and friends all came back to her, her father yelling that no one should touch her. Her eyes were open, she could see him looming over her, but she couldn’t even blink. His face above hers filled the space of her vision. Then he slowly touched two fingers to her neck to get a pulse and she found her breath. She inhaled sharply, painfully, then coughed and began to cry.
She had had the damnedest headache for about a week, but was otherwise miraculously uninjured. Her mother tried to keep her out of the trees, but that passed. It had been June’s only real brush with death.
“June? June?”
She blinked and looked at John. She smiled. “I’ve met the Princess Sydney and I believe she has angels, whether she can see them or not.”
“That’s probably what I’ll end up telling her, but I was looking for some slightly more reliable feedback. For my own curiosity, as well. You know, if someone like Doc or Tom Toopeek had actually encountered angels….”
“Have you met Jerry Powell yet?” she asked him.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Dr. Powell, child and family therapist, Ph.D. in clinical psych. He moved here a few years ago from San Jose, I think. Really nice guy.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Why? Has he seen the angels?”
“I don’t think so, but he’s been for a ride in a spaceship.”
She walked away from him, grinning over her shoulder.
“We’re going to be drinking bottled water, for sure,” John muttered.
Mikos Silva had a nice farm between the Trinity and King mountain ranges, south of town. It was an even, flat valley there, not too far off the highway. He had built himself a sturdy house and raised three kids—two boys and a girl. Greg Silva was the same age as June, and they had been friends all through school.
All the Silva kids had moved out of Grace Valley, but they hadn’t gone far. The oldest, Maria, married a fisherman and moved to Humboldt Bay, where she worked as a nurse and raised her kids. Greg became a
Similar Books
