A Season of Angels (2 page)

“Angels,” Leah repeated softly. “That sounds nice.”

“Mom phoned earlier,” he continued. “She invited us over for Christmas Eve.”

Leah nodded. Christmas was meant for children. Instead of stringing popcorn and cranberries on the tree with her toddlers, she was working with a decorator who would shape their Christmas tree into a work of art. She would have much preferred a work of love.

When, Leah asked herself, when, oh, when, would the raw edges of her pain go away? She'd be a good mother. Andrew would be a doting, loving father. That God in his almighty wisdom had not seen fit to give her a child was the cruelest of fates. Tears filled her eyes and she looked away, not wanting Andrew to see. He knew her so well it was difficult to hide anything from him.

“Leah?”

She snuggled closer in his arms, needing the warm security of his love.

“It's worse at Christmastime, isn't it?” he asked gently.

They'd had this same conversation a hundred times over the years. With nothing new to add, with nothing new to share, it was best shelved.

“When will dinner be ready?” she asked, easing herself from the comfort of Andrew's embrace. She managed a watery smile. “I'm starved.”

“Have you seen enough?” Gabriel asked, standing directly behind Mercy.

She'd seen more than she wanted. Slowly, thoughtfully, Mercy dragged her gaze away from the scene below. Compassion swelled and throbbed within her. “Leah's hurting so terribly.”

“She hasn't stopped and won't until . . .”

“Until when?” Mercy prompted.

“Until she's found her peace.”

“Peace,” Mercy cried, folding back her wings. “The poor dear's at war with herself.”

Gabriel looked surprised by her insight. “Leah must fully accept her inability to bear a child before the invisible threads that bind her fall away,” Gabriel explained. “Then and only then will she be ready.”

“This is my mission, to show Leah the way to peace?” The tentacles of dread gripped Mercy's tender heart. Gabriel was seeking the impossible. She longed to help this woman of the earth, longed to ease the pain of her loneliness and the desolation of her soul. Slowly Mercy shook her head, wondering how she, an inexperienced prayer ambassador, would break through the barrier of Leah's misery and lead her to the warm, sandy shores of serenity.

“You may choose to refuse,” Gabriel announced formally.

“I would never do that,” Mercy said, surprising herself with the strength of her fervor. She didn't know how she'd manage but somehow, some way, she'd find a means of accomplishing her mission. One thing she'd learned since her appointment as a prayer ambassador. With God's help she could forge a path where there hadn't been one before. With God's help she would make a way where there was none.

“I can't spare you any longer than three weeks, earth time,” Gabriel reminded her. “Not with the New Year coming on. You know what it's like around here when people start making resolutions. By the middle of January, earthlings decide to take one last-ditch effort and try prayer.”

“Only three weeks,” Mercy repeated slowly. Even now she was having a difficult time pulling her gaze away from the scene between Leah and her husband.

“You'll contact me with any problems?” Gabriel asked.

Mercy bristled. The archangel's offer insinuated that she'd encounter more than her share, which was an unfair assumption. It was true she'd had trouble with the last assignment, had gotten sidetracked a time or two, but she successfully managed to complete her mission.

“There's no physical reason why Leah can't become pregnant?” Mercy asked, wanting to be certain she had her facts straight. The last thing she wanted was to walk into the middle of a prayer request without adequate information.

“None whatsoever,” Gabriel stated matter of factly. “Leah and Andrew have been to see every fertility specialist on the West Coast.”

“What about adoption?”

“They applied five years ago, but the waiting list is several years long. They were chosen by a birth mother and then bitterly disappointed when she changed her mind at the last minute. They withdrew their name shortly afterwards.”

“How very sad,” Mercy said softly.

“The Lundbergs are deeply in love.”

“That helps.”

Gabriel's chuckle caught Mercy off guard. She swiveled her attention to the archangel, who was clearly amused.

“What's so funny?” Mercy demanded, irritated and not taking time to censure the thought. Gabriel, after all, was an archangel and she was in no position to be questioning him.

“Nothing,” he said, smiling broadly.

Gabriel wasn't one to smile. He did so only rarely. Mercy wasn't convinced it was even in his personality profile.

“I'll give this prayer request my best effort,” Mercy said, thinking it was important that Gabriel know that.

“I trust you will. Just promise me one thing.”

Here it came, the long list of offenses she'd managed to rack up in the short while she'd been serving as a prayer ambassador. “Yes?” she said, straightening for the coming lecture.

“Stay away from scooters and escalators this time.”

Mercy grinned. “I will.”

Chapter 2

I
t was a disgrace, a downright disgrace the way Providence Hospital continued to use the same weatherworn figures in their nativity scene, Monica Fischer mused. The colors had faded and the animals, why, it was a travesty how dilapidated they'd become. If the hospital insisted upon decorating the grounds for Christmas, then they should do so properly.

“Did you see the nativity scene at Providence Hospital?” she asked her father as she joined him and the other choir members outside Nordstrom department store, downtown Seattle.

“I adore the crèche,” Lloyd Fischer said with a beaming smile. “Mary's seen better years, I know, but I can't help thinking that battered stable must be much closer to the way it actually was that night in Bethlehem than we realize.”

Her father was right, Monica knew. He generally was. She tried to be as charitable in thought and deed as he was, but it seemed beyond her. That was the crux of her problem, Monica realized. Every man she met was measured against her father's goodness and none had withstood the evaluation. Not even Patrick, whom she'd dated off and on for the last two years. Apparently their relationship was more off than she realized. He'd phoned two weeks earlier to tell her he was engaged to someone else.

That hurt and it hurt deeply. Monica had been dating Patrick all this time and assumed they'd enjoyed one another's company. She hadn't a clue he was seeing anyone else. True, they hadn't spoken of love or commitment, but they'd shared something special, at least Monica had thought it was special.

To make matters worse Patrick had finished by saying he would always think of Monica as a special friend. Monica had wanted much more than his friendship. It was time for her to marry and start her own family, and she'd foolishly set her sights on the wrong man. Now she'd need to make up for lost time, but by heaven, she vowed she'd marry and soon. There was a man for her, she was convinced of that, and she fully intended to find him.

“Are you ready?” her father asked, cupping her elbow.

Monica nodded. She enjoyed these Christmas performances the church choir gave each December in the busy downtown streets. The harried shoppers would pause and listen to the joyous music, enjoying the short respite from the hectic holiday rush. For a few short moments peace would descend like a warm blanket upon the milling crowd.

Monica climbed to the soprano section on the back row of the risers. She was tall, nearly five-nine, and stood a full head above the majority of the sopranos. Unlike the others, she opted for sensible flats with her dark blue suit. Her hair, although shoulder length, was tucked into a tight bun at the base of her neck. She wore no cosmetics and frowned upon women who did.

This was the first year their music was provided by their own church band. To Monica's way of thinking they should have made a point of practicing more often. The band's mistakes stuck out in an otherwise flawless program.

She played the piano, and as a favor to the choir director, Michael Simpson, sat in for a couple of weeks in their practice sessions. She hoped her dedication and example would inspire the small group. Her plan hadn't worked and no one seemed to appreciate the rigorous practice schedule she set for herself and the others. Eventually she'd gone back to the choir, and was pleased she had. Michael, as a means of making amends, asked that she sing a short solo in one of her all-time favorite Christmas carols, “Silent Night.”

When everyone was positioned on the risers, Michael raised his baton. The choir snapped to attention. Monica was proud of the professionalism of their small ensemble. Their voices rose in melodic harmony, blending smoothly. Monica's clear, high soprano voice escalated gloriously with the others. When she sang, she felt closer to heaven than at any other time, even when she prayed, which was something she'd been doing a good deal of lately. She needed a husband.

“M
onica's the tall one on the top riser,” Gabriel said, pointing out the earthling to Goodness. Like Mercy, Gabriel held a special fondness for this prayer ambassador, who, again like Mercy, possessed certain character traits that left him with misgivings. If it weren't for the business of the Christmas season, he wouldn't have assigned Goodness such a difficult case.

Unfortunately he had little choice and of those ambassadors left, Goodness was his best chance of seeing this prayer to fruition. If only he could guarantee that Goodness would stay away from television and movie screens. The incident of her showing up on an in-flight movie and using John Wayne's voice to warn everyone of approaching turbulence continued to rankle. He'd counseled her on a number of occasions, but to no avail.

“I know what you're thinking,” Goodness said, looking up at him with eyes filled with innocent promise. “I won't pull any more stunts with humans. I've learned my lesson.”

“You're sure this time?”

Goodness glanced toward Monica and nodded eagerly.

Gabriel wished he shared her confidence. His own gaze drifted toward Monica Fischer. Her name was a familiar one as her father, a man after God's own heart, often included her in his prayers. Monica came from a strong religious background. With her father serving as the pastor, Monica had been raised in the church. It was ironic that what the young woman lacked was faith when she was surrounded on all sides by it. Instead Monica was deeply religious and had yet to distinguish the differences between faith and religion.

“She's lovely,” Goodness claimed, locking her wings together. “Finding Monica a husband won't be the least bit difficult, not when she's so outwardly beautiful. God must have a special man in mind for her.”

“He does,” Gabriel agreed with some reluctance, wondering just how much he should explain to this inexperienced ambassador. Goodness would learn everything she needed to know soon enough, he decided. The information he had would overwhelm her now. Soon enough Goodness would recognize exactly what God had planned for Monica Fischer.

The angel focused her attention on him, her eyes wide and questioning, awaiting an explanation. “What is it I must teach her?”

Gabriel drew in a deep breath and explained. “I fear Monica's steeped in the juices of her own self-righteousness. She struggles to be good under her own power and ignores all the help made available to her through faith.”

Goodness sighed with heartfelt sympathy. “She must be miserable.”

“No,” Gabriel returned without hesitation, “she just makes everyone else feel that way. Monica's complicated her life with a long list of rights and wrongs and dos and don'ts. Her head's so clouded with matters unrelated to faith that she's lost sight of what it means to be a child of God. Her struggles are useless when everything has already been done for her. All she need do is ask.” But Gabriel wasn't telling Goodness anything new. The earth was populated with those who looked for redemption through religion.

“The poor dear.”

Gabriel didn't view Monica in those terms. It was her type that caused him the greatest concern. While Monica struggled to lead people to God, her sanctimonious ways often steered them in the opposite direction.

“She sings very well,” Goodness commented.

Gabriel nodded. “She's gifted in several areas.”

“I shouldn't have any trouble teaching what she needs to know before Christmas.”

How confident Goodness sounded, Gabriel noticed. He sighed inwardly, wondering once more how much he should explain, then decided it would be best not to discourage Goodness's enthusiasm. She'd discover everything she needed to know soon enough.

“The man God has for her is ready for a wife?”

Gabriel was beginning to feel a twinge of guilt. “Yes, and eager. Very eager. Only he doesn't know it yet, but you won't have to worry about him. Monica's the one who needs you.”

“Then I'll do everything within my power to help her.”

“You're ready?” Gabriel asked, thinking he'd best send her soon before he said too much. This request would be a learning experience for this young prayer ambassador as well as for her charge. All he could do was hope for the best.

“Let's go,” Goodness said, impatient to leave the splendor of heaven and walk incognito into a dull, sin-cloaked world.

Gabriel watched as Goodness floated down from heaven, thinking humans were right about one thing. God often did work in mysterious ways and never more so than in this instance. Gabriel was confident of one thing. Neither Goodness nor Monica Fischer would ever be the same again.

M
onica looked out over the gathering crowd and was pleased at the attention their small choir had garnered. Shoppers stopped, their arms folded around packages and some of the tiredness left their eyes. A few joined in and sang themselves. Children were lifted in their fathers' arms for a better look. The transformation the singing group produced brought a small, satisfied smile in Monica's heart.

Then she noticed a man who stood head and shoulders above the others. He seemed to be trapped by the people around him, and was impatiently edging his way around the gathering.

Being on the top riser gave her an excellent view and she frowned at this intruder. He needed both a shave and a haircut. Even from this distance she noted his eyes, which were a cutting shade of cobalt blue. He seemed to need to get somewhere and was impatiently making his way through the crowd, scooting around one and then another with nary a word of pardon. He wore a beige trench coat and looked as if he'd slept in the bedraggled thing.

Monica's gaze followed him as long as she could, but he soon moved out of her peripheral vision. What an unpleasant man, she decided, annoyed at his intrusion into their performance. No doubt he was a modern-day Scrooge who resented every moment wasted on the celebration of the Savior's birth.

The small church band struck up the first chords of the next carol, “Silent Night.” The highest notes were well within Monica's vocal range and her voice was strong enough to ring out loud and clear. When the moment arrived for her short solo performance she allowed her soul to soak up the music and fly free. Then unexpectedly, from out of nowhere, another voice joined and blended with hers.

Quickly Monica looked in both directions to see who had been so bold as to disrupt her one moment of glory. She knew she shouldn't be so concerned, but it bothered her, and yet as far as she could tell none of the other sopranos were singing.

She raised her voice a full octave, straining her vocal cords. The second voice followed her lead, angelic in its purity and so strong it all but drowned out her own. What perplexed Monica most was that no one else around her seemed to notice anything was amiss. Faces from the audience gazed on approvingly and even the choir director smiled, delighted by her performance.

As she drew to a close, the last of the notes fading into nothingness, the small crowd cheered and she was enthusiastically applauded. Annoyed that her one and only solo had been interrupted by an intruder, Monica twisted around to see if she could find the second voice.

She must have been more energetic in her efforts than she realized because she lost her balance. Her arms flew out in an effort to catch herself, but before she could alert anyone to her plight, she tumbled backward off the top step of the riser.

Crying out, her arms flapping in empty space, she was surprised to land in the unexpected cushion of a man's waiting arms.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

It was him. The very man she'd noticed earlier, the one who'd cut his way through the crowd with such impatience.

“Ah . . .” For the life of her Monica couldn't make herself speak. All she could do was stare into his handsome features. On closer inspection his eyes were a deeper shade, a metallic blue, amused now, but dispassionate. The thick lines that fanned out from his eyes weren't from smiling. They spoke of experience, most of it harsh, and disenchantment, most of it warranted, she guessed. Lines bracketed his mouth as well, they deepened as he studied her with the same curiosity with which she regarded him.

“No need to take such a chance,” he chided. “If you wanted an introduction all you needed to do was ask.”

Gasping and breathless, Monica struggled until he slowly, reluctantly lowered her feet to the ground. He waited until she'd found her balance before he released her completely.

“You might want to thank me,” he suggested lazily.

Flustered, Monica blinked several times, seldom at a loss for words as she was now. “Thank you,” she managed, the words as stiff as starch, stuck in her dry throat. “I'm not sure what happened, but apparently I lost my balance.”

His brazen grin broadened. “Was that you singing just now?”

She nodded, and the curiosity got the better of her. “Did you hear two voices or one?”

“One.”

“But there were two. That's what flustered me so. Another voice blended with mine. A strong soprano. Surely you heard the other voice?”

“Listen, lady, all I heard was you and I'm not much for religious music, but from where I was standing you sounded real good.”

She blushed with pleasure. Her voice was adequate and she did love to sing, but she didn't possess any great talent. To assume she did would have been vain on her part, and vanity was a greased track straight to the arms of the devil as far as Monica was concerned. “Thank you again.”

“You need some help joining the others?”

Monica glanced toward the riser and shook her head. The ensemble was almost finished with their program and it would only disrupt the group to have her climb back into position now.

“Then I'll be on my way,” he said. “I can hardly wait to tell Lou. It isn't often a beautiful woman throws herself into my arms.”

“I didn't throw myself into your arms,” she informed him primly, straightening the sleeves of her dark suit jacket.