Quiet Angel
Authors: Prescott Lane
By
Prescott Lane
Copyright © 2015 Prescott Lane
Kindle Edition
Cover design by Laura Hidalgo:
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
TWELVE YEARS AGO
It’s the same
here every frickin’ year.
Gage spun a football and stared out at the pristine coastline. There were kite-surfers trying to stay up before the waves crashed down, and some fair-haired children building sandcastles while others splashed in tidal pools. He strained his blue eyes to the Atlantic horizon and thought he saw a dolphin jumping ahead of a shrimp boat.
Gage pulled his t-shirt over his sandy blond hair, exposing his chiseled abs and tan chest from cutting grass a few times a week. His parents were well-off, but they made him work for his money. He looked down at his toes in the sand, spotting a collection of seashells close by, the bright sun setting down on them.
He didn’t know the first thing about seashells—no 18-year-old guy would know, or care, why they were all clustered near each other, why some sported radial ribs while others had ocher striations—but their different shapes and sizes held his interest for a moment. Then he looked out to the shrimp boat and tried to find the dolphin again, if there even was one out there.
It really didn’t matter either way. He’d seen a dolphin before. He’d seen the whole island before. It was all the same as last summer and every summer before that. His family came here each year, to St. Simons Island off the Georgia coast. It was only a short drive from Atlanta and, as his parents told him, an escape from the hustle of everyday life.
When his family first started coming, their house was part of a quaint little village along the beach, and Gage liked his time on the island, a young boy building sandcastles and splashing around. But as the years passed and the island grew in popularity, it became more of a resort community for upper-crust snobs and their preppy kids who didn’t have to cut grass.
It was a chance for the snobs to “summer” amongst each other in their three-story condos. Gage hated when they used the season as a verb. And he hated that there wasn’t much for teenage boys to do, except, of course, to drink and smoke pot and chase girls. He didn’t mind the occasional drink—he wasn’t a boy scout—but not the rest.
He let out a sigh, knowing he was pouting, that he’d been pouting the whole car ride here, that he probably should just be grateful for being in such a majestic place. But he couldn’t help it: he wanted to be anywhere else, preferably back in Atlanta celebrating high school graduation with his friends, spending time with them before heading off to the Naval Academy in a few months.
He tossed the ball above his head and caught it with both hands, as a group of fresh-faced guys—regulars from summers past—breezed past him, chatting about their new cars, the weed they stashed in suitcases, the Ivy League colleges they planned to attend. The guys looked like they were made in a Ralph Lauren outlet store, all looking spiffy in their plaid and yellow and blue hues. The guys stopped in their tracks, maybe 10 feet past Gage, seeing a new girl come out of a little cottage along the beach.
She had on a floppy white sunhat and a long periwinkle blue sundress. The guys apparently hadn’t seen the girl in past summers, though one of them said he saw her a few days ago hanging around a woman who looked too old to be her mother. The girl curled up in a beach chair and opened a book. At that point, a different guy said the book worms always scream the loudest in bed, at least that’s what he’d heard. When the laughing died down, the bets started as to who could screw her first.
Gage winced and gripped his ball. The girl appeared to be a bit younger than he was, but he couldn’t be sure with the sunhat covering her face.
One guy moved away from the group, seemingly prodded on by the others, and began to approach the girl. The others followed a few steps behind, playfully, curiously, eager to see if the guy embarrassed himself or hear whatever smooth line may work on her. Gage moved a bit closer, too, spinning the ball in his hand, stroking the laces with his fingers, keeping his eyes fixed on the girl.
The guy reached the girl, and they exchanged a few words. Gage was too far away—probably about 30 feet—to hear what was being said. But he could plainly see her close the book and shake her head, as if she had no interest being on the same island with the guy, let alone talking to him. The guy looked to his friends for help, but they only egged him on, urging him to keep trying. A nervous smile on his face, the guy turned back to the girl.
She tilted up her head to look at him, and Gage caught her pure, porcelain skin under the sunhat. Suddenly nothing seemed the same anymore.
The guy reached down to stroke her arm, and the girl pulled away—a sad, scared look on her face. Gage could feel her tremble from a distance. He placed his hand firmly on the laces and cocked his right arm back. He fired forward, hurling a tight spinning spiral humming through the air, the ball landing just as intended. The guy grabbed his face in his hands, letting fly a string of curses, holding his nose as blood poured out.
Staring daggers at Gage, the guy stumbled back to his group, in no condition to do anything about what just happened. And his friends had no intention of doing anything for him, choosing instead to point and laugh at him. That was easier and more fun than locking horns with a guy with chiseled abs and a strong right arm, even if they outnumbered him.
The guy wiped some blood from his face and barked to Gage, “You could’ve just called ‘dibs.’”
Gage rolled his eyes and jogged to get the ball. When he bent down to pick it up, a gust of wind kicked up and blew off the girl’s hat. He grabbed the hat instead of the ball then stopped and stared at the girl, her chocolate brown hair tied in a braid, a silver pendant in the shape of wings hanging from a leather rope around her neck, her crystal blue eyes filled with caution.
“
Dibs
, huh?” she asked. “You hoping to score, too?”
“Um, no,” Gage said quickly, his words falling out in a thick Southern accent. She raised her eyebrows, and he ran a hand through his sandy blond hair. “It’s not that you’re not hot.” He looked away, embarrassed, wishing he was far out in the ocean with the dolphin. “I mean, you’re beautiful, but I’m not looking for that. Just wanted to get my ball.” She tilted her head to the side. “I’m sorry about that prick.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“No.”
“So why get involved?”
“I guess if you see someone in trouble, you try to help?”
She gave a slight smile. “So you make it a habit of saving young women?”
“Only girls in big hats.”
She motioned to her hat in his hand. “Can I have it back?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said and handed it to her.
“And don’t forget about your ball.”
“Right,” he said and quickly scooped it up.
The girl looked away from him, down the beach at the preppy group, still hanging around and staring at her. Then she looked back at him—football in hand, hard body, a bit nervous, probably a year or two older than she. “Thanks for the save. I’m Layla.”
“Gage,” he said, a twinge of relief in his voice. “What are you reading?”
Layla looked at the spine of her book. “
History of Angels
.”
“Is this summer reading or something?” he asked and sat down beside her in the sand.
Layla bit her lip slightly and pulled her legs under her. “No, it’s not for school. I just like to read about them.”
“You still in high school?”
“Yeah,” she said. “You?”
“I just finished.” He played with some sand in his hands, trying to calm his nerves. “Who’s your favorite?”
“
Favorite
?”
“Angel.”
“Oh,” she said, flashing a glorious smile, giving the sunset a run for its money, two huge dimples appearing on her cheeks. “There are so many great ones, but I guess my favorite is Layla.”
“You’re named after an angel? My parents named me after a tool. What’s she the angel of?”
“Guardian angel of conception and childbirth. She brings the soul to the unborn baby in the mother’s womb.” Layla briefly looked into his blue eyes then out to the ocean, the sun barely visible on the horizon.
“Layla?” an elderly voice called out from the beach cottage.
Layla gave her a wave and smile then turned back to Gage. “My grandmother.”
“Are you on vacation?”
“I’m staying with her for the summer, maybe longer.”
“My family comes here every summer. Don’t remember seeing you before.”
“First time,” she said.
“Where are you from?”
She paused for a moment. “Houston. You?”
“Atlanta,” he said. “If you stay longer than the summer, I guess you’re switching high schools?”
“I don’t know my plans.”
Her grandmother called out again. “Layla?”
“I better go see what she wants inside,” she said and stood up. “It’s getting dark, too.”
Gage got up and brushed some sand off his shorts. When he looked up, she was already a few feet away, heading towards the cottage. His heart began to race: he didn’t have her number and hadn’t made plans to see her again. He wanted to but figured he didn’t have a chance with her. He gripped his swim trunks for something—anything—to say.
“What’s your last name?” he blurted out.
She gave a smile over her shoulder. “Baxter.”
“Mine’s Montgomery,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Can we do something tomorrow?”
“Depends on what you have in mind.” She opened the screen door and headed inside.
Everything has changed.
*
Her beach cottage
was a two-bedroom bungalow with a pair of Adirondack deck chairs facing the ocean. The harsh sun and salty air had left their mark, and so had a few tropical storms and a hurricane or two, all weathering the old wooden frame just slightly. But its pastel salmon exterior still carried a sparkle. Layla’s grandmother made sure of that. She also made sure her cottage withstood the zoning changes allowing the creep of commercial and residential buildings seemingly everywhere but her property.