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CHAPTER 1
“Birdie!” I rushed forward to embrace my old friend.
My seventy-something friend had dyed a turquoise streak in her long, white hair, which undulated through the weave of the braid hanging over her shoulder. “We wanted to escape before the hot season began, dear. Those summers in Arizona are too extreme for us.”
Birdie Watson, one of the original members of the Tuesday morning quilters, had been wintering in Arizona with her new husband, Denver. Now they were back in the San Fernando Valley, and she was ready, it seemed, to rejoin our group today.
She wore her signature denim overalls and white T-shirt. As she limped into my living room, I noticed she no longer wore white socks with her Birkenstock sandals. Instead, her toenails were painted turquoise and silver rings circled three of her toes. Marriage apparently agreed with her, because she also seemed to be a little broader across the rear.
Birdie sat in the middle of my cream-colored sofa and rubbed her knee. “My arthritis is getting worse. The doctor says I’m ready for a knee replacement. But I’ve got another solution in mind.”
Before I could ask what she meant, Lucy Mondello walked into my house and shoved a plate of oatmeal cookies into my hands and grinned. “Do you like my surprise, Martha? I looked out my window yesterday and saw the Winnebago parked in Birdie’s driveway.” The tall, orange-haired grandmother lived across the street from the Watsons. “So, we hatched a plot to surprise everyone this morning.”
“What surprise?” Jazz Fletcher breezed through my front door, impeccably groomed and wearing a pink polo shirt. Although he was the same age as me, he had well-toned muscles and a flat stomach. A small sneeze and a little yip came from inside the pink tote bag he carried, a signal from his petite dog, Zsa Zsa, that she wanted to be released. Jazz reached inside and tenderly lifted out the little white Maltese. Today she wore a pink pinafore and rhinestone barrette in her topknot. As soon as her paws touched the floor, she immediately sprinted to the sofa.
When Jazz realized why the little dog was unusually excited, he made his way to the living room. The six-foot-tall man sat next to Birdie and enveloped the small woman in a hug. I returned to the kitchen to pour five cups of coffee. Birdie’s voice was so soft I had a difficult time understanding their conversation as I filled the little pitcher with half-and-half. But I did hear her mention “a mystical white feather.”
Last to cross my threshold was Giselle Cole. In her early forties, she was easily the youngest member of our group. As usual, my red-headed half-sister wore one of her many designer ensembles. This morning it was a blue silk tank top and a white linen suit with the jacket lined in the same blue silk. Rather large diamond studs sparked on her ears. She handed me a pink cardboard box tied with white twine. “Eclairs.” When she noticed the older woman sitting on the sofa between Jazz and Lucy, she turned to me and raised her eyebrows. “Who... ?”
When I told her, she smiled broadly and marched to the living room. “So you’re the famous Birdie Watson everyone talks about! I’m Martha’s little sister, Giselle.” She thrust her hand toward the older woman.
“Hello.” Birdie smiled, wincing a little as Giselle grasped her arthritic fingers.
Giselle plowed ahead, apparently unaware of the brief pain she’d just caused. “You’re the one who used to be a hippie flower child. You must be disappointed the Age of Aquarius never happened. Or maybe it did happen but died in infancy. Either way, I’ll bet it was tough letting go of the fantasy and adjusting to the real world.”
I brought in a tray with steaming cups and placed it on the coffee table next to a platter of sweets. Then I glanced at Birdie to see how she was reacting to my sister’s tactless comments.
Just for an instant, confusion flitted across Birdie’s face. “You mentioned the Age of Aquarius. Are you interested in spiritual matters, dear?”
Giselle sat in one of the two easy chairs I had recently reupholstered in velvet in the color of a Creamsicle. She paused for a moment and shrugged. “Sometimes, I suppose.” She reached in her Gucci tote bag and extricated a Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt she’d been working on. “Martha’s teaching me a little bit about Judaism. There’s a lot of spiritual reasons for stuff Jews do. I’m learning it’s not always about money.”
I rolled my eyes. Giselle had been raised in the Catholic faith and had little or no knowledge of Judaism until she met me. “I can’t wait for the day when you learn enough to stop making such asinine comments, G.”
“What?” Giselle feigned an innocent stare. Her green eyes were one of the few things we had in common, inherited from our Irish father.
Birdie reached for a cup of coffee. “I believe everyone has their own spiritual journey in this lifetime. What we don’t learn now, we’ll have a chance to learn next time around. That’s why Denny and I are going to live in the Mystical Feather commune.”
“What’s that?” Lucy put her sewing in her lap and sat at attention. Lucy claimed she had ESP and was deeply interested in metaphysics.
“It’s a spiritual discipline started in the nineteen thirties by Madam Natasha St. Germain. She was a famous medium who encountered her true spirit guide while fasting and meditating. He revealed many secrets of the spirit world and instructed her to bring those truths to the material world. When she came out of her trance, she discovered her guide left plumage—three white feathers, to be exact—on the table as a sign. So, she established the Mystical Feather Society.”
“Fascinating.” Jazz moved a little closer to Birdie. “What is a spirit guide?”
Birdie sat up a little straighter. “It’s a spiritual entity that’s assigned to each individual before birth. It manifests itself as a person, an animal, or a being of light. Its mission is to protect the individual and help them fulfill their life’s purpose.”
“You mean like a guardian angel?” Giselle snorted. “I don’t believe in angels.”
Lucy frowned at my sister. “Don’t be so sure of yourself. There are many famous people who’ve been guided by these entities. James Van Praagh. Alison Dubois.” She turned back to Birdie. “Who was Madam St. Germain’s spirit guide?”
Birdie smiled softly. “An albino raven.”
Giselle laughed out loud. “Hence the white feathers? Oh, come on. How can you believe all that nonsense?”
“To you it may be nonsense, dear. But not to us. Denny and I received our own sign when we went walking in the hills around Sedona at the vernal equinox in March. We spotted three white feathers on the path in front of us.”
The more she spoke, the more my gut clenched. “Where is the commune? What, exactly, is involved in joining?”
“The actual commune is not far from here, in the mountains of Ojai, California. Denny and I aren’t getting any younger, dear, and neither one of us has any heirs. So, we’ll be selling the ranch in Oregon, our house here in Encino, and the one in Arizona. The money will go into the Mystical Feather Society Trust, which runs the commune. We’ll be well taken care of until our spirits leave our bodies.”
When my sister glanced at me, I could tell she was as disturbed as I was. Jazz also looked alarmed.
Even Lucy’s smile faded. “Oh, hon, I sure hope you know what you’re doing. That’s a big commitment to make.”
Giselle murmured, “Especially on the word of an albino raven.”
Birdie seemed unflappable.