Divinely Yours Page 6

  “Reporters have been calling the hospital,” she said, her color high with excitement. “There’s a security guard sta­tioned outside your door to keep the media out.”

  Ryan had been dogged by the press most of his life. When he’d been a student at Columbia University, he was featured in the gossip rags at least once a week and earned the moniker “Bad Boy Blaine” after having dated practically every debu­tante in New York City. His hound-dog lifestyle slowed somewhat when his father, former U.S. president Rich­ard Blaine, died of a heart attack just before his graduation and Ryan moved back home to Atlanta to be near his mother and sister.

  “I’m beat,” Ryan said to Susan, wanting to blot out all his worries, especially the one foremost in his mind, the one he could never discuss with her.

  “Rest then, Ryan.” She nervously twisted the ser­pentine strand of her heavy gold necklace. He could tell some­thing was bothering her.

  “What is it, Susan?”

  She bit the cuticle of her thumb and a pinprick of blood appeared. “While you were sleeping, you kept saying something over and over...sky. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Skye with an “E.” The image of a small cubicle and a blurred blonde figure standing behind a desk flashed in his mind. He saw himself squinting at the woman’s features until they came into focus, and remembered how he’d gasped in recogni­tion. She’d been a dead ringer for the pre-accident Susan. Was it any wonder his mind had returned to the past a few min­utes earlier?

  “I must have been disoriented after my spill. I had no idea what I was saying.” He winced. “I could use some pain medication. Will you get the nurse?”

  “Right away,” Susan said, probably anxious for an excuse to leave the room. Most of their encounters were marked with awkwardness. He wasn’t really in pain; he just wanted some privacy so he could be alone with his memories for a minute. His dream after his accident had been so real. It transported him back to the earliest days of his relationship with Susan.

  The first time he’d laid eyes on her she’d worn a stained lab coat and reeked of cat pee. She was holding her nose as she entered the waiting room of the vet’s office, where Ryan stood with his golden retriever, Liberty, on a leash.

  “Eau de Cat Piss is not my usual fragrance of choice, but I just got sprayed by Lex Luthor, a tabby with aggression issues,” she said, explaining the odor. She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Susan Sims, and I promise not to stand too close.”

  Her handshake was energetic, as if she were plunging a toilet. She didn’t have a lisp then. That came after the acci­dent.

  Ryan was staying at the Blaine beach home on Devon’s Island, South Carolina. His mother had died six months before, and he wanted to spend one last summer at his child­hood vacation home before he put it up for sale.

  “My name’s Ryan Blaine, and this is Liberty,” he said, giving a short tug to the dog, who was sniffing a potted peace lily in the corner of the office.

  “What’s wrong with you, girl?” Susan wore a ponytail holder with plastic red balls, something Ryan had only seen on little girls. Everything else about her said robust small-town girl. Not his type at all.

  “Lib has an earache,” he said. “At least I think she does. She keeps shaking her head.”

  Susan crouched down to address Lib. “Cripes. I bet that hurts, doesn’t it, Lib?” She scratched the dog between the shoulder blades, which was Lib’s sweet spot.

  Ryan could have sworn Lib nodded solemnly in response. She also nuzzled Susan’s ear, a gesture she usually reserved for people she knew.

  “A tick?” the vet said in mock horror, as if Lib had confided in her. “Let’s take a look-see.” She inspected Lib’s ear and let out a low whistle. “Look at the size of this thing. It’s the Vampire Lestat of ticks. No wonder you’ve been trying to shake him. Don’t you worry, Lib, he’s history.”

  Ryan laughed. Maybe he’d discounted Susan too quickly. She was kind of cute in a quirky way.

  “Glad you found the trouble.” He flashed her the infamous Blaine grin—the one that guaranteed consent to a dinner date or at the very least an eagerly scrawled phone number. “Lib’s been keeping me up at night.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  He was used to getting some sort of response from women when he smiled—a sharp intake of breath, a smile, a flirty little hair toss—but from Susan he got nothing His eyes dropped to her left hand. No ring, so she probably wasn’t married.

  “Could you check her for fleas too?” he said, glancing around the small waiting area as he strategized. There were only two things hanging on the wall: a chart depicting the life cycle of the heartworm and a framed diploma.

  “Applied animal behaviorist,” he read aloud as he exam­ined her credentials. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

  “I’m a trained veterinarian,” she explained as she checked Lib’s coat for other parasites. “But I’m also certified to work with troubled pets. I like to think of myself as a pet whisperer. I speak their language.”

  “So you’re a pet psychologist?”

  “Yup.”

  “So where’s your couch?”

  “Where’s the couch?” She clutched her stomach as she laughed. “You’re slaying me. Has anyone ever told you you’re a real funny guy, Mr. Blaine?”

  He was caught off guard. Was she making fun of him? But no, she was gazing at him in such an innocent way it didn’t seem possible. He couldn’t quite figure what the heck was tumbling around inside that blonde head of hers. No dinner invitation, he decided. He’d start with something more casual.

  “Would you like to have coffee with me sometime?”

  “Nope,” she said, not even looking up.

  “No?”

  “Nope.”

  He laughed nervously. “Woman usually qualify a ‘no’ answer, saying ‘no, I have a boyfriend’ or ‘no, I have to wash my hair.’ They don’t just say no.”

  “You want an explanation?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Even though explanations are usually full of bull?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “All right, you asked for it.” She paused for a moment and looked him full in the face. “Your nose is crooked. That’s why I won’t have coffee with you.” She gestured toward an open door. “You want to bring Lib into the back room? I’m going to need to dip her.”

  Ryan touched the tip of his nose. He’d broken it several years ago in a game of touch football. One former girlfriend said his nose lent a welcome ruggedness to his Ken-doll looks.

  “Isn’t that kind of shallow?” he demanded. “To judge someone solely by a part of their body?”

  She shrugged.

  Her rejection of him was a powerful aphrodisiac, like thigh-high boots, garter belts, and Spanish fly rolled into one irresistible package. Over the next week, Susan Sims entered Ryan’s daily thoughts with the persistence of a pop-up ad.

  After she declined his coffee invitation, he brought Liberty into her office every few days, each time with a new mysteri­ous ailment.

  “Liberty coughed last night,” he’d claim, or “She was limp­ing on the beach yesterday.” Lib was as boneless as an amoeba in Susan’s presence, yielding to all of her probing and prod­ding with dark-eyed devotion. One afternoon when Ryan brought Liberty in, claiming her tongue color looked funky, Susan summoned him into her private office.

  “I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Blaine,” she said. “I think we’re dealing with some very serious psychological issues here.”

  Clearly she was going to try to sell him on therapy for Lib­erty. Not a problem. He was rapidly running out of physical symptoms to report on. Let her shrink Liberty’s brain if she wanted. It would give him an excuse to keep coming into the office.

  “Libby has seemed kind of dep
ressed lately,” Ryan said, expelling a worried sigh.

  “I didn’t mean Liberty,” she said in an exasperated voice. “I’m talking about you. Are you familiar with Munchausen syndrome by proxy?”

  “What?”

  “It’s when a parent fabricates medical symptoms in their child, often making them undergo unnecessary treatment. I never heard of it occurring with an owner and his dog before, but after seeing you and Libby—”

  “You think I have this munch thing?”

  “Yup.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was serious or just working him over.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “I’ll quit inventing symp­toms for Lib if you agree to have coffee with me after work.”

  “Nope,” she said, her usual answer.

  Ryan felt like banging his head against her desk. In the last few days he’d shelled out over five hundred bucks in vet bills and had worked so hard at being gallant he was exhausted. The woman simply wasn’t going to go out with him. End of story. Time for him to tuck his tail between his legs and trudge home. He rose dejectedly from his chair and headed to the door.

  “It’ll have to be a beer instead,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Coffee keeps me up at night. Pick me up at six and we’ll grab a cold one.”

  “The nurse is on her way. She says she has to check the—” Susan skidded into the hospital room on a pair of needle-sharp heels. She stopped in mid-sentence. “You’re smiling. Are you feeling better?”

  “A little,” Ryan said. He pondered her face, searching for a trace of the woman who’d charmed him on Devon’s Island. Susan’s hand flew to her cheek, her finger tracing a two-inch vertical scar. “What’s wrong? Why are you staring?”

  That was another thing about the post-accident Susan. She was as jittery as a squirrel.

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine,” he fibbed, his usual re­sponse. He’d done enough fibbing in the past year, his nose should be as long as a yardstick.

  Seven

  Skye paused by a wooden bench on the Earth University campus and retrieved the class reading list from her purse, consulting it for the first time. Most of the Earth’s major reli­gious works were there: the Torah, the Bible, the Koran, and the Bhagavad-Gita. Several weighty philosophical works, like Plato’s Symposium and Aristotle’s Ethics, were also included, along with less daunting titles such as Jonathan Livingston Seagull Life’s Little Instruction Book and Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.

  Two female students, one tall and willowy, the other short and curvy, strolled by, creating a female Laurel and Hardy tab­leau.

  “Can you believe this thing?” said the slender one, waving the reading list. “Do you think there’s Cliffs Notes?”

  “I don’t know why we have to read this nonsense anyway,” said the other, who wore a tight t-shirt that said “Salt of the Earth.” “I plan on being a supermodel.”

  “Really? I was thinking I might be an heiress or a pop singer,” replied her companion.

  “Why not be both?” said the short one with a shrug.

  “Excuse me,” Skye said, turning to address them. “How do you know you won’t be a subsistence farmer in Nigeria? Or end up in a sweatshop in Honduras?”

  Skye had been researching her future domicile, and frankly, the more she learned, the more fretful she’d become.

  “Is a sweatshop like a sauna?” the slender woman asked, twisting a strand of hair around her finger.

  “Not exactly,” Skye said. Unlike her, these weren’t new souls. How could they be so naive? “What I’m trying to say is not everyone on Earth can be a celebrity.”

  “If we don’t go to class now we’ll be late,” the short woman said in a huff. She obviously didn’t appreciate Skye dumping buckets of rain on her parade.

  Skye tucked the reading list into her purse and was head­ing toward the main building when she heard the word “Boo!”

  She wheeled around. A grinning Rhianna, wearing a plaid skirt, navy knee socks, and a white blouse tied at the midriff stood in front of her. Her wild auburn hair was tamed into looped sprouts on each side of her head, making her resemble an oversized mouse.

  “Don’t I look scholarly?” she said, doing a quarter turn in front of Skye.

  “Why are you here?” Skye asked. “Shouldn’t you be at guardian angel orientation classes?”

  “Class doesn’t start for another hour. Besides, somebody had to accompany you on your first day of school.” Rhianna unzipped a Power Puff Girls book bag and invento­ried the items inside.

  “Glitter pens, holograph notebooks, glue sticks, Trapper Keeper, and a Red Delicious apple to bribe the teacher.” Rhi­anna handed the book bag to Skye. “Everything you could possibly need for the new school year.”

  “I’ve always been a fool for glitter,” Skye said, pulling her friend into a hug. “And since you’re feeling so generous, I have a small favor to ask.”

  “Fire away.”

  “I was wondering if you could nose around and find out why the Supreme Being chose me to go to Earth.” She related what she’d learned in Doris’s office. “I have no idea why She singled me out, and I’m not so sure I like being on Her radar screen.”

  “Sweetie. Everyone’s on Her radar screen.”

  “You know what I mean. Could you poke around? I’ve heard you guardian angels are privy to all kinds of juicy infor­mation.”

  “Rooting around in confidential records is strictly forbidden. I signed a sacred oath vowing I wouldn’t engage in such nefarious activities.” She smiled. “Lucky for you I don’t consider anything to be sacred.”

  Skye laughed. “Thanks, Rhianna.”

  The two of them crossed under the shadow of Terrestrial Hall, an ivy-covered stone structure with a buttressed tower. In the spirit of academia, it was continuously autumn on the EU campus, and all the trees on the school’s grounds flared with vivid golds and reds.

  As they entered the building, Skye said, “Earth 101 is held in room 17. The sign says it’s to the left.”

  The pair traveled down a long narrow hallway, and on their way, Rhianna paused to point at a sign posted outside one of the classrooms.

  “Advanced Martyrdom is canceled this semester due to lack of enrollment. Ha! I can guess why.”

  “Where’s the Charmed Life class? That’s the one I want to sign up for,” Skye said nervously.

  The bell rang just as the two women located room 17. Skye jumped at the sound.

  “This is it,” Rhianna said. “Be a dutiful student, okay? I don’t want to peek in the classroom and see you standing in the corner with a dunce cap on your head.”

  “I’ll try,” Skye said with a weak smile.

  Rhianna pressed her cheek against Skye’s face for a brief moment and sauntered down the hall toward the exit. Skye took a deep breath and slunk down the aisle through the middle of the classroom, glancing to the left and the right, looking for a place to sit. Most students had already claimed their seats, and the only unoccupied desks left were in the first two rows. Skye was disappointed; she was hoping to hole up in the very back of the room. She selected a place next to a female student with shiny dark hair that skimmed the pockets of her blue jeans. The stu­dent punched data into a WishBerry, and just as a latte with whipped cream appeared on her desk, a voice thundered from the back of the room.

  “We’ll have none of that in this classroom.”

  Everyone stopped their chatter and turned to see a spin­dly limbed man with a graying beard stride down the middle aisle to the front of the room. He paused beside the desk of the woman with the latte, picked it up, helped himself to a large swig, and wiped a trace of cream from his mustache with the back of his hand. Then he tossed the drink in a wastepaper basket, brushing his hands together as if they were soiled.

  “Hey
,” the girl protested, “why did you—”

  “What is the name of this class?” he barked.

  “Earth 101,” the girl responded.

  “And on Earth is it possible to indulge our whims with a couple of keystrokes?” demanded the professor.

  “Well, no,” began the girl. “But—”

  “It is if you’re on Amazon,” called out a smart aleck from the back.

  The entire class tensed, no doubt expecting a strong admonition from the professor. Instead he considered the comment for a moment and then let loose a loud chortle.

  “Amazon,” he said, with a nod. “I suppose you’re right. Amazon, indeed.” Then he took his place behind the podium and sur­veyed the class. Skye slid down the back of her chair, hoping to disappear.

  “I’m your professor, Dr. Mullins.”

  A sullen-looking fellow in the front row waved a piece of paper at the professor. “About this reading list—”

  Dr. Mullins snatched the paper from the student and proceeded to tear it into tiny pieces that floated to the floor like snowflakes. “That’s what I think of the recommended reading list for this class. Make a paper airplane from it or use it as a cocktail napkin. Better yet, throw it away. You’ll have no use for it this semester.”

  His final comments were met by whoops and applause from the class. The girl next to Skye folded her reading list into an expertly rendered origami bird.

  “I’ve studied all the texts on the list and quite frankly most of them say the same thing,” the professor said. “Therefore, I’ve decided to simplify matters considerably. I’ve boiled down all of the world’s greatest philosophies into five easy lessons. Once you commit these lessons to memory, you’ll be prepared for your very first life on Earth.”

  He reached behind his podium and produced an iPhone, which he set atop an empty desk in the first row.

  “It’s a proven fact people learn and remember information more efficiently when it’s paired with music,” he continued as he fiddled with the iPhone. “Therefore each lesson will be contained within a Beatles song. The Fab Four, as it turns out, were quite the philosophers. Please listen care­fully. We’ll be covering two lessons today.”