Bill Northrup, the gallery owner, stood nearby, quietly waiting for her attention. At one point in their relationship, he had wanted considerably more than her attention. Now he settled for what she would give him – her friendship and her art.

Angel smiled at Bill, but her eyes were still haunted by the sadness that was as much a part of her as her long legs and slender body.

“I always feel that I should sign my pieces ‘Angelina and Sun,’ ” Angel said, “because without that incredible light, my stained glass is nothing.”

Bill shook his head unhappily.

“You’re too modest,” he said. “Look around. You’re selling very well, especially for a first show.”

Angel looked, but she had eyes only for the art itself. Brilliant shards of light and shadow, a shifting play of colors, the feeling of being in the center of a fantastic, slowly turning jewel.

She was pleased that she was selling her creations, because that was how she earned her living. Money as such didn’t give her any particular joy, however. Colors did. That, and knowing that other people enjoyed her rainbow visions.

“I’m glad,” Angel said simply. “Beauty should be shared.”

Bill sighed. “You’re not hard enough for this life.”

“A hardcase angel?” she asked, laughing lightly, turning aside the old argument. “Not very likely, is it?”

“So I’ll be the hardcase and you be the angel,” retorted Bill.

“That was our agreement.” Her lips curved in a tiny, teasing smile. “You’ve held up your end very well.”

“The guy waiting for you could give me lessons.”

Angel’s honey eyebrows arched in silent question.

“On the phone,” explained Bill. “Miles Hawkins.”

Angel shook her head in a gesture of bafflement that made her breast-length hair shimmer and run with light.

“I don’t know him,” she said.

“He knows you.”

“Are you certain?”

“He said it was something about Derry and he had to see you immediately.”