Angels at Christmas (2 page)

“Do for whom?” it asked.

Gabriel. The Archangel Gabriel.

Goodness spun around and backed against the side of the
huge desk, crushing her wings in her attempt to hide. Oh, this wasn't good. Gabriel was their friend, but he wouldn't tolerate their snooping around his desk.

“Nothing.” Mercy moved closer to Goodness until they stood shoulder to shoulder, wing to wing.

Shirley was lost in her own thoughts, sitting in Gabriel's chair, apparently oblivious to their dire circumstances.

“Do?” Goodness choked out. “Are we supposed to be doing something for someone?”

“It's Anne Fletcher,” Shirley whispered, peering up at Gabriel, apparently still in a stupor. “We've got to help her.”

“Anne Fletcher?” Gabriel's brow furrowed with concern.

“She's said a prayer for Roy,” Goodness explained, and boldly handed Gabriel the request, as much as admitting it had been read. “She
wants
to believe. But she's worried about her son and has given up hope that anyone can reach him. We can't let her lose faith—we just can't!” She gazed up at Gabriel with large, pleading eyes. Her wings were folded back and she hung her head as though she felt the same sense of despair Anne Fletcher did.

Goodness had never seen Shirley so upset. Clearly this Anne person was someone she cared about.

Gabriel made a grumbling sound. Shirley glanced up and with a look of panic realized she was sitting in his chair. She bolted upright, then leaped to one side.

It was such a rare sight to see Shirley ruffled that, had she not felt so worried about her friend, Goodness would've been amused.

Once his chair was vacant, Gabriel sat down, ignoring the prayer request. Instead, he removed the massive book from the shelf behind him. With a soft grunt, he set it on his desk. He opened it to the section marked
F
, and ran his finger down a long list of names inscribed there.

Goodness wasn't going to risk standing on tiptoe and
taking a look. Even she understood when it was best to restrain her curiosity.

“Anne Fletcher,” Gabriel said thoughtfully. “It's been five years since the divorce.”

“Anne's divorced?” Shirley whispered. “Oh, my, I didn't know. How's she doing?”

“Actually, quite well,” Gabriel told her. “She's adjusted far better than we'd expected.” He nodded, smiling gently. “She's gone back to her art and that's helped her. It says here that she's living in Washington State, on a small island in Puget Sound.”

“Burton always discounted her talent,” Shirley said, and leaned on her palms against the desk, daring to read the huge volume that documented human lives. “She could've been a successful artist had she continued her studies.”

“Still might,” Goodness threw in, implying that she was in the know. She
hated
being left in the dark when it came to earthly matters. Humans intrigued her. They were the very pinnacle of God's creation, fearfully and wonderfully made, yet so obtuse. It was hard to believe free will could cause such problems.

“Anne Fletcher is indeed talented,” Gabriel said, “but fame and fortune were never important to her. She's had to deal with various losses, but as you already know, for every loss there is an equal or greater gain. Often humans have to search for it, though.”

Goodness nodded in full agreement, although she couldn't begin to guess what God had in store for the fifty-nine-year-old divorced woman. “God has another man for her, doesn't He?” she ventured.

Gabriel frowned as if Goodness's comments were starting to irritate him. “No, Goodness, not another man. Frankly, Anne isn't interested.”

“I don't blame her for that,” Mercy added. “After what
Burton did to her, she'd find it very difficult to trust again, and who could blame her?” She seemed to think that was all anyone needed to say on
that
subject.

“The prayer is for her son,” Gabriel pointed out as he read the request.

“Roy,” Shirley said. “You remember Roy, don't you?” she asked mournfully. “He was such a sweet child, so willing to please, so anxious to follow in his father's footsteps.”

“Burton never forgave him for not pursuing a law degree,” Gabriel commented absently. “Roy is gifted, but he works too hard.”

“I'm sure Anne would like grandchildren,” Shirley said, studying the prayer request.

“Of course she would,” Mercy agreed.

For the first time since they'd entered the room, Shirley smiled. “God provides,” she whispered, and then said in a louder voice, “Isn't that what you were just saying?”

Gabriel glanced up. “Roy isn't interested in marriage.”

“Not now he isn't,” Goodness chimed in. The possibility of romance rose before her—it was such fun to steer humans toward one another! Creating romance was by far her favorite duty on Earth. “We want in on this,” she announced.

Gabriel leveled a fierce gaze on her, and she swallowed hard and took a step back.

“But only if you feel it's for the best,” she mumbled.

“It's for Anne,” Shirley pleaded. “Beth's little Annie.”

“Are you saying the three of you want to return to Earth?”

Shirley, Goodness and Mercy all nodded simultaneously.

“I was afraid of that.” Gabriel stroked his chin. “I'm not sure Earth has recovered from your last visit yet.”

“We'll be exceptionally good this time,” Mercy promised, folding her hands prayerfully. “I swear I won't even
think
about going near an escalator.”

“It isn't moving staircases that worry me,” Gabriel said. “It's everything else.”

Goodness stepped forward again. She could tell by the look in his eyes that Gabriel was weakening. “We can help her, Gabe.”

“Gabe?”
he bellowed.

“Gabriel,” she corrected swiftly. “I know we can. Besides, I have this romance thing down pat. Humans are eager to fall in love. All we have to do is lead them in the right dir—” She stopped when she saw Gabriel's expression.

For a moment, no one spoke and then in a low whisper, Shirley said, “Please?”

Gabriel took his time answering while Goodness waited, holding her breath in anticipation. She wanted to visit Earth again. They'd been away far too long—several Earth years at least.

Oh, Gabriel, make up your mind
, she muttered to herself.
Say yes!

R
oy Fletcher hated doing job interviews. He warily regarded the older man sitting on the other side of his desk. Dean Wilcoff had to be close to sixty and retirement. His thinning gray hair was brushed away from his face and his dark eyes met Roy's squarely. He was big, an inch or two over six feet, broad-shouldered and muscular. He'd obviously maintained himself physically, which was good. As head of building security, it was unlikely he'd be chasing intruders, but he should at least be capable of it if the need arose. Roy glanced over Wilcoff's résumé a second time. The man had an impressive work history.

“You were with Boeing's security force for twenty-six years.”

“I was,” Dean answered without elaborating. There'd been some downsizing at the airplane manufacturer, but Roy guessed that Dean Wilcoff had left or been let go for another reason. Still, his Human Resources department had selected this candidate for him to interview.

The dates on Wilcoff's résumé showed that he'd last worked nine months ago, yet Roy didn't sense any desperation in the man. Wilcoff should be worried. By now, his un
employment benefits would've expired and at his age, obtaining another job wouldn't be easy.

“What do you know about computers?”

For the first time Roy noticed hesitation in the other man. “Only enough to get around on the Internet. My daughter's been after me to take one of those courses, but frankly I don't see the need. I work security. It's what I know and what I do best. If you hire me, Mr. Fletcher, you can rest assured that no one's going to break into your offices, day or night.”

Roy raised a skeptical eyebrow. Life didn't come with guarantees. Everything was suspect. Everything and everyone. This was a lesson he'd learned the hard way, but learn it he had.

“I'll get back to you,” he said, dismissing the man. He'd finished the round of interviews and although all the candidates were qualified, there hadn't been a single one he especially liked. The day before, he'd talked to three applicants, and three more today. No one had really impressed him. Unfortunately he needed to make his decision soon if he didn't want hourly phone calls from his HR director. Well, fine. He'd put the names in a hat and simply draw one. At this point, that was as logical as anything else.

 

“How'd it go?” Julie Wilcoff asked her father as she set the salad on the dinner table. She hated to ask, but he hadn't exactly been free with details since his return from the long-awaited interview. Julie was afraid that meant bad news, and he'd already had enough disappointments. After nine months without a job, her father had grown restless and discouraged. She knew he was worried, especially with the holidays so close. He'd wanted to have a new job lined up by New Year's, and he'd had such hope for this one, which seemed perfect for him. Yet he'd barely said a word since he'd come home from the interview.

“Why hire an old man like me?” he muttered as he walked to the table.

“Because you're highly qualified, dependable and intelligent.”

“I'm not even sure I want to work for Roy Fletcher,” her father complained. He pulled out his chair and sat down.

Julie frowned. After weeks of searching, of making dozens of unsuccessful applications, after talking about this interview for days on end, his attitude came as a shock. But if her father, a man who never exaggerated or jumped to conclusions, made such a statement, there was a reason.

Roy Fletcher's name had appeared in the media for years. He was one of the geniuses in the security software business, the man entrusted by the government to keep out hackers. Fletcher Industries had prospered as doing business online had become increasingly prone to theft—of credit-card numbers, private information, financial records and more. Her father was in security, too, only a different kind. While Roy Fletcher made sure no one could break into computer files, her father prevented intruders from breaking into the doors and windows of buildings.

Julie sat down at the table and handed her father the meat loaf. It'd been her mother's recipe and was one of his favorite meals. Julie had hoped this would be a celebration dinner, but apparently not. Still, she wondered what had prompted her father's comment. “What's wrong with Mr. Fletcher?” she asked.

“I don't much care for him.”

“Mr. Fletcher interviewed you himself?” Dad hadn't mentioned that earlier.

Her father nodded. “After I talked to a nice gal in what they call Human Resources.” He paused a moment. “She sent me to see him.” Another pause. “He isn't a pleasant man.”

Julie scooped up a serving of scalloped potatoes and put
them on her plate. Toward the end of her mother's final bout with cancer, Julie had moved out of her apartment and back in with her parents. Her father had quit his job and stayed home to nurse her mother. His company benefits had paid most of the medical bills; Julie's salary as a junior-high physical-education teacher covered the rest. It had been a time of sacrifice for them all. Emily, Julie's fraternal twin, had helped, financially and emotionally, as much as possible, although she no longer lived in Seattle.

After six months of this arrangement, Julie's beautiful, petite mother had died. That was four months ago. From the beginning, the doctors had given them little hope. Julie, Emily and their father knew and were prepared for the eventuality of Darlene Wilcoff's death. Or so they'd assumed. What Julie had learned, and her sister, too, was that it didn't matter how ready you thought you were to face the death of a loved one; even when death is expected, it hits hard. Julie, her sister and their father had been left reeling. Julie felt her life would never be the same—and it wouldn't. The world had lost a graceful, charming soul; she and Emily had lost a loving mother; Dean had been deprived of the woman he adored.

Julie waited until their plates were filled before she questioned him again. “What didn't you like about Roy Fletcher?”

“He's cold.” Dean hesitated and his brows drew together. “It's as if nothing touches him, nothing affects him. From what I've heard, people don't mean much to Fletcher. In fact, the whole time I was with him, I had the feeling there wasn't a single person in this world who meant a damn thing to him. I doubt he's an easy man to know.”

“People usually have a reason for acting the way they do,” Julie said, hoping that would encourage her father to continue the conversation. She couldn't help being curious. The job offered an employment package that was far above anything he would have received with another employer.

“Well, whatever the reason, I got the impression that Fletcher thinks everything comes down to money, but there are some things that can't be bought.”

Julie nodded.

Her father sampled the meat loaf, then set down his fork. “It's time, you know.”

Julie pretended she didn't understand, but this was a discussion they'd had more than once. Her father seemed to believe Julie should move back into an apartment of her own, now that her mother was gone. She disagreed. First, her father needed her. Oh, he'd muddle through with meals and housework; Julie wasn't concerned about that. But she knew he was lonely and struggling with an all-consuming grief. As well, finances were tight since he was on a significantly reduced pension, and it went against his pride to let someone, even his daughter, pay the bills.

What he didn't grasp—and she could find no way to explain—was how badly she needed to be with him. They'd suffered the biggest loss of their lives, and being together seemed to help. She wasn't ready to move out. Eventually she would, but not yet. For her, it was too soon.

“We've already been through this.”

“And your point is?”

“Now, Dad, Emily and I think—”

“You should have your own life, instead of taking care of your old man.”

“I do have my own life,” she insisted. “I'll stay here until we're both back on our feet. Then you can kick me out.”

“The thing is, I might never get back on my feet, especially financially,” he said, his gaze dark and brooding. “It's time we faced facts here. I should sell the house.”

“No!” Julie cried, the thought unbearable. Losing the family home so soon after her mother's death was more
than she could cope with emotionally. Not if there was any way to stop it. “Emily and I refuse to let that happen.”

Emily wanted to help more, but she was a young navy wife, living in Florida with two small children. Her husband was periodically at sea, sometimes for months at a time. Although twins, Julie and Emily were about as different as two sisters could be. Emily was like their mother, small and delicate, with blue eyes and wavy blond hair. A classic beauty. Julie took after her father's side of the family. Her hair and eyes were a deep shade of brown. Tall, strong and solidly built, she was a natural athlete. She'd played center in basketball, pitcher in softball and was a track star all through high school and college.

While boys had flocked around Emily, they'd mostly ignored her sister. Emily had brains, as well as looks, and although Julie had brains, too, she wasn't pretty the way her sister was. It had never bothered her until recently, when she'd turned thirty. Her sister was married, and so were most of her friends. Sure, she dated, but the number of eligible men had dwindled as the years went on. With her mother growing increasingly ill, Julie hadn't worried about it much. But now…She sighed. Like her father in his job search, Julie had given up hope of meeting the right man. For a woman over thirty, the pickings were slim.

The phone rang, and Julie and her father both turned to stare at it.

“Let the machine pick it up,” he said. That had been a hard and fast rule during her teenage years—no telephone call was worth disrupting family time at the dinner table.

“You sure?” Julie asked.

Her father nodded and continued eating. “You did a good job on the meat loaf.”

“It's Mom's recipe, remember?”

Her father grinned. “It might surprise you to learn she got it from a ‘Dear Abby' column.”

The phone rang again. “No way!” This was news to Julie.

Her father chuckled. “That broccoli salad I like came out of the paper, too.”

Her mother had never told her this, but then it was Emily who usually hung around the kitchen. Julie was always at basketball practice or some sporting event. There'd been so many things her mother had never had the opportunity to tell her. Unimportant things, like this, and other things—revelations, advice—that really mattered. How Julie wished she could go back and recapture all those precious hours with her mother. If only she'd known…

The answering machine clicked on and they heard a disgruntled male voice. “This is Roy Fletcher.”

Without thinking, Julie launched herself toward the phone, whipping the receiver off the cradle before Fletcher could end the call. “Hello,” she gasped. “I assume you want to speak to my father?”

“Yes, if your father is Dean Wilcoff.”

Her dad was right; the man's voice was devoid of the slightest warmth.

“Just a moment,” she said, handing him the receiver.

“Dean Wilcoff,” he said gruffly, frowning at Julie. His look said that if it'd been up to him, he would've left Roy Fletcher cooling his heels. Fortunately Julie had been closest to the phone.

She bit her lower lip as she studied her father. This
had
to be good news. Roy Fletcher wouldn't phone to tell a man he'd chosen another candidate for the job.

Her father's eyes widened. “Before I accept the position, I have a few questions.”

Julie wanted to wave her arms over her head and scream. Her father needed this job and not only for financial reasons.
Oh, Dad, don't blow this now
. It was too important.

After what seemed like an hour but was probably five minutes, her father replaced the receiver.

Julie could barely contain her anxiety. “Well?”

“I'm seeing Mr. Fletcher in the morning to discuss my questions.” The smallest hint of a smile touched his mouth. “For better or worse, it looks like I've got the job if I want it.”

“Oh, Dad! That's terrific news.”

“That, my dear Julie, remains to be seen.”