Read Online Earth Angel by Siri Caldwell - Free Book Online Page A

harpist,” Gwynne said.
    “Harper,” Abby corrected with a quirky smile that was part apology, part sass. “Harpists play the pedal harp. You know, the kind you see in an orchestra. When you play the lever harp you’re a harper. It sounds more Celtic-y.”
    “You’re kidding. People really make the distinction?”
    “Says the woman who calls herself an energy healer instead of a faith healer.”
    Gwynne quirked her brow. “You noticed that, huh?” Abby must have been paying attention when she talked to her former clients. She didn’t remember the exact conversation Abby might have overheard, but it was true the faith healer label was one she was constantly trying to shake. She hated it when people put her up on the faith pedestal, like she had some special connection to God. Especially now. “Point taken.”
    “Every profession has its lingo,” Abby acknowledged. “Gotta keep the riffraff in its place.”
    Okay, that was so not her reasoning, but if it was Abby’s…“Maybe you shouldn’t have told me about the harper thing. I don’t want you to get in trouble with the other musicians.”
    “I’ll take my chances.” Abby’s pale blue-gray eyes flashed with amusement.
    Her eyes were…She’d never noticed before how compelling they were, how they sparkled like ancient starlight, a glint of something beautiful in the vast darkness.
    Gwynne regrouped before she got lost in those eyes. “I didn’t realize your harp was a different type. Although I did notice you don’t have a Grecian column with all the sparkly, sparkly gold leaf.” She’d never paid much attention to harps, but that was her memory of them.
    “Not a fan of gold leaf?”
    Not a fan of sparkly, Gwynne almost said, except everything about Abby was sparkly, lit up by her bright aura. Sparkly looked good on her.
    “Watch.” Abby plucked a string on her harp and then flipped one of the little metal levers near the top where the strings were attached. She plucked it again, and the note had changed. “Pedal harps do the same thing with pedals instead of sharping levers.” She flipped more levers, her left hand flying across the instrument, and then began to play, her tapered fingers alternately curling into her palm and extending to pluck the strings with lightning-fast precision.
    It was beautiful. As beautiful to watch as to listen to.
    “You don’t have to play when no one’s here,” Gwynne said. There was something about the look of crazy joy on Abby’s face when she made music that reminded her of her mother, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be reminded. Her sister had had that same look when she was little, when she was playing tag and racing on her little-girl legs as fast as she could go. She didn’t want to be reminded of that, either.
    “There isn’t no one here. You’re here,” Abby said. “I’ll play something you can sing along with if you want.”
    “Trust me, your harp sounds a lot better without me.” She smiled ruefully at the harpist…uh, harper. “But you can feel free.”
    “I don’t sing.”
    “You too, huh? Never?”
    “Not in public,” Abby conceded. “I don’t want you to run screaming from the room—you might not come back.”
    “My mother sang,” Gwynne said, despite herself, embarrassed by the hint of wistfulness she was sure Abby could hear in her voice. “She would have loved to hear you play.”
    “What kind of songs did she like?” Abby asked, picking up on Gwynne’s use of the past tense—if someone hadn’t already told her what happened. “I’ll play something for her. For you,” she corrected herself. “For her memory.”
    “She sang opera. She studied voice when she was young.”
    “Opera. Okay. Wow. What do I know that would be…Oh! I know. How about Lascia ch’io pianga ?”
    “I don’t know the titles, but…sure, okay. Maybe I’ll recognize it. I mean, she could sing anything.”
    She sang along with the radio when she drove Gwynne and her friends to