Make time for friends. Make time for Debbie Macomber.

CEDAR COVE

16 Lighthouse Road

204 Rosewood Lane

311 Pelican Court

44 Cranberry Point

50 Harbor Street

6 Rainier Drive

74 Seaside Avenue

8 Sandpiper Way

92 Pacific Boulevard

BLOSSOM STREET

The Shop on Blossom Street

A Good Yarn

Susannah’s Garden

(previously published as Old Boyfriends) Back on Blossom Street (previously published as Wednesdays at Four) Twenty Wishes Summer on Blossom Street Hannah’s List A Turn in the Road Thursdays at Eight

Christmas in Seattle

Falling for Christmas

A Mother’s Gift

Merry Christmas, Friends!

As you’ve probably already guessed, I love Christmas. And I have a special fondness for Christmas angels. After all, it was an angel who came to announce to Mary that she’d be giving birth. And later, when Jesus was born, it was angels who first told the shepherds watching over their flocks.

Shirley, Goodness and Mercy have proven to be three of my most popular story characters. Since they first appeared back in 1993, they’ve shown up periodically through the years. Last Christmas I was delighted to find huge wire angels strung with lights for sale in a local store. Naturally I purchased three and set them up in our front yard.

Wouldn’t you know it, soon afterwards we had a snowstorm with blizzard-like conditions. When I woke the next morning, I was dismayed to find my precious angels face down in the snow. My clever husband smiled and said we had three fallen angels. What struck me, however, was that despite the horrific weather conditions, their lights continued to shine.

This Christmas they’re shining again, my three angels—in our yard and in this two-story edition—and they’re brighter than ever. I hope Shirley, Goodness and Mercy will bring you some Christmas joy and a smile or two. And you can bet that whatever comes their way—and ours—their lights will shine!

Have a wonderful Christmas. Remember there are angels among us … and sometimes we don’t even know it.

Merry Christmas!

About the Author

DEBBIE MACOMBER is a number one New York Times bestselling author. Her recent books include 44 Cranberry Point, 50 Harbor Way, 6 Rainier Drive and Hannah’s List. She has become a leading voice in women’s fiction worldwide and her work has appeared on every major bestseller list. There are more than a hundred million copies of her books in print. For more information on Debbie and her books, visit www.DebbieMacomber.com.

Angels at Christmas

Those Christmas Angels

Where Angels Go

Debbie Macomber

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Those Christmas Angels

In memory of Sandy Canfield,

talented writer and dear friend.

And to Charles Canfield with affection and thanks

for the 38 years of love and support

he gave Sandy

One

Anne Fletcher pulled the last box of Christmas decorations from the closet in the spare bedroom. She loved Christmas—always had and always would, regardless of her circumstances. It was a bit early yet, a few days before Thanksgiving, but some Christmas cheer was exactly what she needed to get her mind off her problems. The grief that had been hounding her since the divorce five years ago … The financial uncertainty she now faced … The betrayal she still felt …

“No,” she said aloud, refusing to allow herself to step closer to that swamp of regrets. It often happened like this. She’d start thinking about everything she’d lost, and before she knew it, she’d collapse emotionally, drowning in pain.

Carrying the plastic container down the hallway, she glanced inside her art room and let her gaze drift over to her easel and her latest project. The bold colors of the setting sun against the backdrop of the Pacific Ocean pleased her. Yes, she was divorced, but there’d been compensations, too. Her art had fulfilled her in ways she hadn’t even realized were possible.

How different her life was at fifty-nine than she would’ve imagined even five years ago—before the divorce. What Burton had done was unforgivable. He’d hurt her, and he’d cheated her out of funds that were rightfully hers.

Once again she stopped herself, not wanting to indulge those bitter memories and regrets. She’d done plenty of that in the beginning, when she’d first learned he’d found someone else and wanted out of their thirty-year marriage. It was a fling, or so she’d managed to convince herself. A midlife crisis. Lots of men had them. Any day Burton would come to his senses and see what he was doing to her and to Roy, their son.

Only he hadn’t, and Anne walked out of divorce court numb with shock and disbelief. Not until the judge’s gavel echoed through the room had she fully believed her husband was capable of such treachery. She should’ve known, should’ve been prepared. Burton was a top-notch divorce attorney, a persuasive man who knew all the ploys. But despite everything, she’d trusted him….

Her friends had been stunned, too—less by Burton’s deception than by Anne’s apparent acceptance of what he’d done to her. It wasn’t in her to fight, to drag her marriage and her life through the courts. Burton had recommended an attorney, whom she’d obediently retained, never suspecting that the man who’d represented her in court would apply to Burton’s law firm as soon as the divorce was final. Of course, he’d been hired….

Burton had promised to treat her fairly. Because she was convinced that he’d soon recognize what a terrible mistake he was making, she’d blindly followed his lead. Without a quibble and on her attorney’s advice, she’d accepted the settlement offer—one that had turned out to be grossly unfair. Although she hadn’t been aware of it at the time, Anne was cheated out of at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of assets.

Burton’s ploy in this particular case had been simple: he’d strung her along. Twice he’d come to her in tears, begging her forgiveness, talking about reconciliation, and all the while he’d been shifting their assets to offshore accounts. All the while, he’d been lying, stealing and cheating. She’d loved him and she’d believed him, and so had taken her husband at his word. Never had she dreamed he could betray her like this. After thirty years, she’d walked away with only a pittance. And, needless to say, no alimony.

Yes, Anne could fight him, could take him back to court and expose him for the thief he was, but to what end? It was best, she’d decided long ago, to preserve her dignity. She’d always felt that life had a symmetry to it, a way of righting wrongs, and that somehow, eventually, God would restore to her the things she’d lost. It was this belief that had gotten her past the bitterness and indignation.

Admittedly she couldn’t help lapsing sometimes, but Anne tried not to feel bitter. At this point, she couldn’t see how anger, even righteous anger, could possibly benefit her. She’d adjusted. Taking the little she’d managed to salvage from her marriage, she’d purchased a small cottage on St. Gabriel, a tiny San Juan island in Puget Sound. In college all those years ago, when she’d met Burton, she’d been an art student. She had a flair for art and enjoyed it. Given the demands of being married to a prominent divorce lawyer, she’d put aside her own pursuits to assist Burton. Her husband’s ambitions had become her own, and Anne was the perfect wife and hostess.

It’d been a disappointment to her to have only one child, a son they’d named after Anne’s father. Young Roy was the light of her life, her ray of sunshine through the years. When she wasn’t hostessing social events on her husband’s behalf, Anne spent her time with Roy, raising him with limitless love and motherly devotion.

If she felt any bitterness about the way Burton had treated her, it was because of what he’d done to Roy. Unfortunately, Roy was the one who’d introduced Burton to Aimee. He’d never forgiven himself for that, despite Anne’s reassurances. Still, Roy assumed responsibility for what had happened. He couldn’t seem to forgive himself for his role in the divorce, no matter how innocent that role had been.

To complicate the situation even more, he refused to forgive his father, not only for betraying Anne but for stealing Aimee, the woman he himself had loved and planned to marry. Roy’s anger was constantly with him. The anger had become part of him, tainting his life, as though he wore smudged, dark glasses that revealed a bleak, drab world. All Roy cared about now was his business, his drive for more and more, and while he’d achieved greater success than most men twice his age, Roy wasn’t happy.

Her son’s cynicism troubled Anne deeply—even more than the divorce itself. She’d put that behind her, as much as she was able, and built a comfortable life for herself, doing what she loved best—painting. Mainly through word of mouth, her work had begun to sell at the local farmers’ market and then at a couple of galleries in the area; it now provided her with a small income.

Anne would’ve given anything to help her son. Regardless of how much money he made or how many accolades he received, he remained lonely and embittered. She desperately wanted him to find happiness.

In the five years since the divorce, Roy had not spoken to his father once, despite Burton’s repeated efforts. Yet Roy was so like Burton. He shared his father’s talents, his ambition. They shared another trait, too, the one that concerned Anne the most. He possessed his father’s ability to be ruthless about marriage and relationships. He was thirty-three, and in Anne’s view, he should get married. However, her son resolutely refused to discuss it. His attitude toward love and commitment had been completely warped. He no longer dated, no longer sought out relationships.

The only thing that mattered to Roy was the bottom line. He’d grown cold and uncaring; little outside of Fletcher Industries seemed to affect him. Anne realized her son was in trouble. He was hurting badly, although he seemed incapable of recognizing his own pain. Roy needed someone to teach him the power of forgiveness and love. She’d wanted to be that person, to show him that forgiveness was possible, but in his zeal to succeed, Roy had started to block her out of his life. It was unintentional, she knew, but nonetheless, it hurt.

Roy had established Fletcher Industries, his own computer security company, in Seattle, shortly after he graduated from college. His innovative, cutting-edge software led the competition in the field. Recent contracts with the government and several banks had given Fletcher Industries a solid position as one of the top companies of its type.

Those first years after he’d formed his business, Roy spent far too many hours at work. It wasn’t uncommon for him to stay in the office for two or three days at a time, living on fast food and catnaps. That all changed after he met Aimee. Her son had fallen in love and he’d fallen hard. Anne had been thrilled and Burton was, too. Then Roy had brought Aimee to his parents’ home in Southern California to introduce her … and all their lives had exploded.

Following his parents’ divorce, Roy had quickly reverted to his old habit of working long hours. Only now a callousness had entered into his business dealings. Anne was aware of this, but she was helpless to change her son, and her heart ached with her inability to reach him. Time and again, she’d tried to tell him what he was doing to himself—that he was damaging his life and his future—but he couldn’t or wouldn’t hear.

The kettle whistled, and leaving the Christmas box in the hall, Anne moved into the kitchen. She took the blue ceramic teapot from the cupboard and filled it with boiling water, then added a tea bag—Earl Grey, her favorite—and left it to steep. After a moment, she poured herself a cup and took a first sip of the aromatic tea. She frowned, berating herself for allowing her thoughts to follow the path they’d taken. Just when she assumed she was free of Burton, she’d wallow in the pain all over again and realize how far she had yet to go. There was only one cure for this bout of self-pity and for the worry that consumed her. Setting down the china cup, Anne bowed her head and prayed. Sometimes it was difficult to find the words to express what was in her heart, but not today. The prayer flew from her lips.

“Dear Lord, send my son a woman to love. One who’ll help him heal, who’ll teach him about forgiveness. A woman who’ll open his heart and wake him up to the kind of man he’s becoming.”

Slowly, as if weighed down by her doubts, Anne’s prayer circled the room. Gradually it ascended, rising with the steam from the teapot, spiraling upward out of the simple cottage and toward the leaden sky. It rose higher and higher until it reached the clouds and then sped toward the heavens. There, it landed on the desk of the Archangel Gabriel, the same Archangel who’d delivered the good news of God’s love to a humble Jewish maiden more than two thousand years ago.

Gabriel, however, was away from his desk.

Shirley, Goodness and Mercy, three Prayer Ambassadors who had a reputation for employing unorthodox means to achieve their ends, stood just inside the Archangel’s quarters. Together the three of them watched as the prayer made its way onto his desk. Only the most difficult prayer requests went to the mighty Gabriel—the prayers that came from those who were most in need, from the desperate and discouraged.

“Don’t read it,” Shirley cried when Goodness, unable to resist, bent to pick up the wispy sheet.

“Why not?” Goodness had always had more curiosity than was good for her. She knew that peeking at a prayer request before Gabriel had a chance to view it was asking for trouble, but that didn’t stop her. Mercy was the one most easily swayed by things on Earth, and Shirley, well, Shirley was nearly perfect. At one time she’d been a Guardian Angel but had transferred to the ranks of the Prayer Ambassadors. That had happened under suspicious circumstances, so Shirley’s perfection was a little compromised. Shirley never mentioned the incident, though, and Goodness dared not inquire. She knew that some things were better left unknown—despite her desire to hear all the sordid details.

“Goodness,” Shirley warned again.

“I’m just going to glance at the name,” Goodness muttered, carefully lifting the edge of the folded sheet.

“Is it anyone we know?” Mercy demanded, drawing closer.

Goodness eyed Shirley, who was trying not to reveal her own interest. “Well, is it?” Shirley finally asked.

“No,” Goodness said. “I’ve never heard of Anne Fletcher, have you?”

“Anne Fletcher?” Shirley echoed, and then as if her knees had gone out from under her, she sank into the chair reserved for Gabriel. “Anne Fletcher from California,” the former Guardian Angel repeated slowly.

Goodness looked again, lifting the edge of the sheet just a bit higher this time. “Formerly of California,” she said.

“Oh, no!” Shirley cried. “She moved. I wonder why. Tell me where she’s gone.”

“The San Juan Islands,” Mercy said, leaning over Goodness to take a look for herself.

“She’s in the Caribbean?” Shirley said, sounding distraught.

“No, in Puget Sound—Washington State,” Goodness told her.

“I remember it well,” Mercy said with a dreamy smile. “Don’t you remember the Bremerton Shipyard? We had so much fun there.”

“What I remember,” Goodness informed her fellow angel, “was all the trouble we got in when you started shifting aircraft carriers and destroyers around.”

“I don’t know how many times you want me to apologize for that,” Mercy muttered, crossing her arms defiantly. “It was a fluke. Nothing like that’s happened since, and frankly I think you’re …”

Her words faded as she saw Goodness studying Shirley. “How do you know Anne Fletcher?” Goodness asked softly.

“Poor, poor Anne,” Shirley murmured, seemingly lost in thought. “I knew her mother—I was her Guardian Angel. I was with her mother, Beth, when she gave birth to Anne.”

So Shirley had a connection to Anne Fletcher. “I didn’t read the request,” Goodness said, more eager than ever to throw caution to the winds and take a second, longer look.

“Maybe there’s something we can do,” Mercy said. It sounded as if she was encouraging Goodness to flout protocol, and Goodness was happy to go along with the implied suggestion. She quickly scooped up the prayer request, then almost dropped it when a voice boomed behind them.

“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!

Two

Roy 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.”

Three

“Would you care to meet Anne Fletcher for yourselves?” Gabriel asked, eyeing the trio.

Goodness couldn’t believe their good fortune. She nodded and smiled as Mercy eagerly agreed. It’d been so long since they’d visited Earth with its manifold delights. The place was definitely interesting—and appealing—but completely unlike Heaven. Earth was also dangerous, full of exotic allures and various temptations. Heaven, on the other hand … well, eyes hadn’t seen or ears heard all that awaited those in glory.

Shirley’s face brightened. “Could we visit Anne for just a little while? I haven’t seen her in years.”

“At one time she routinely prayed for her son,” Gabriel explained as he guided them out of his quarters and to a convenient location to view Anne’s little spot on Earth. “For quite a while after the divorce, she brought Roy’s hardened heart to God’s attention, but when she didn’t see results, her faith weakened. Now only an infrequent prayer comes our way.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Shirley whispered. “When I was assigned to her mother …” She paused and looked up guiltily, as if afraid she’d said more than permissible. “I’m sure all Anne really wants is for her son to be happy.”

“But happiness is a condition of the mind, not of circumstances,” Gabriel reminded them. “That appears to be a most difficult lesson for humans. They expect to find happiness in things, which we all know is impossible.” Sadly he shook his head. “They repeatedly fail to see what should be perfectly logical.”

“Humans require a lot of patience,” Goodness said, trying hard to sound knowledgeable.

Gabriel studied the trio, as though gauging how much he could trust them if he did grant them passage back to Earth. Goodness did her utmost to look serene and confident. She fully intended to be good, but she couldn’t count on Mercy. Shirley was iffy, too. Her friend seemed to have a special fondness for Anne, and there was no telling what she’d do once they arrived on Earth.

Goodness didn’t begrudge Gabriel his doubts. The trio always left Heaven with the best intentions, but when they began to mingle with humans, their powers to resist grew increasingly weak. They found it impossible not to interfere in situations that hadn’t been assigned to them—which inevitably got them into trouble.

Gabriel’s gaze was drawn back to the big blue sphere, the view of Earth from Heaven.

Goodness peered closer but couldn’t make out anything yet. Gabriel would need to bring everything into focus.

“Yes, I’m afraid that where her son is concerned, Anne’s lost hope,” the Archangel murmured sadly. “She doesn’t understand that some things need to be believed in order to be seen.”

Goodness was impressed. “That’s so wise.”

“Poor Anne,” Shirley whispered, her brow wrinkled in worry.

“We can help her, I’m sure,” Mercy insisted, sidling next to Shirley. “Anne needs us.” She glanced from Gabriel to Shirley, looking for confirmation.

Goodness bit her tongue to keep from chastising her friend. They couldn’t act too eager, otherwise Gabriel might become suspicious. He might wonder if they had ulterior motives for wanting to visit Earth. As unobtrusively as possible, she made a small waving motion with her hand, hoping Mercy would get the message.

“Of course,” Mercy added with an exaggerated sigh, “there are any number of angels more qualified than the three of us.”

“Yes, there are,” Gabriel said bluntly.

“I thought you said we could see her from here,” Shirley said, squinting through the thick cloud cover.

For a moment Gabriel seemed to be having second thoughts. His expression became more severe as he stared at them. Little wonder humans were terrified of Gabriel, Goodness reflected. His imposing stature was enough to intimidate the bravest men. That was one reason, she supposed, that he was only sent from Heaven on the most serious of missions.

Slowly he raised his massive arms and with one sweeping motion the clouds cleared and the mist gradually thinned, revealing the cottage surrounded by tall fir trees. Then Anne came into view. She stood in her art room, a paintbrush in her hand. A few Christmas decorations hung here and there, as if a halfhearted effort had been made to display them.

Once more Shirley leaned forward, peering downward. “Anne’s painting,” she said, and pointed to the scene below.

Once the mist faded completely, Goodness stepped closer to her friends to get a better look. Just as Shirley had declared, Anne Fletcher stood in front of an easel, apparently deep in thought.

Goodness examined the painting and was pleasantly surprised. Shirley had been right; the woman was a talented artist. She used bold, distinctive colors and strong, confident lines. But despite the beauty of her landscape, Anne was obviously dissatisfied. She seemed about to paint over the canvas and destroy her work. Instead, she set her brush and palette aside and slumped into a chair. Tilting her chin, Anne stared at the ceiling, blinking back tears.

“What’s wrong?” Shirley asked, turning to Gabriel for an explanation. “She looks like she’s going to cry.”

“She’s worrying about her son,” Gabriel said. “She—”

“But she’s prayed for him,” Shirley broke in. “Anne knows to leave matters with God. Her mother taught her the importance of trusting in God,” she said, adding, “But that was so long ago….”

“She spoke to her son a little while ago, and things are even worse than she realized. She’s given up hope.”

“But she prayed—how can you say that?” Shirley demanded. “After everything she’s been through, after all she’s suffered. Look,” she cried, gesturing at the weeping woman, “there’s no bitterness or hatred in her, no ill will toward Burton and his new wife.”

“That’s true,” Gabriel agreed, and he seemed truly astonished by the simple human act of forgiveness. “Anne has forgiven her husband for what he did to her, but she feels helpless to influence her son.”

“Why is God taking so long to answer?” Shirley asked, pacing restlessly.

“He has His reasons. It’s not for us to second-guess the Creator of the Universe.”

For an instant, Shirley seemed about to argue, but Goodness intervened. “Perhaps God knows that the right woman’s going to come along. A woman who’ll open Roy’s eyes—and his heart. It can’t be an ordinary woman, but one strong-willed enough to stand up to his arrogance.”

“Who could that be?” Mercy asked, looking wide-eyed at Gabriel.

“This woman is waiting to be found, and I’m sending you to Earth to find her.”

“We’re going back?” Goodness hadn’t been convinced that Gabriel would actually agree, since he so obviously had reservations about their dependability. She was thrilled. And just before Christmas, too! Oh yes, this was excellent news, the best yet.

“You may go,” Gabriel said in a guarded voice, “but with a few stipulations. You have less than a month—the prayer request must be answered before Christmas Eve, and in the process your goal is to teach these humans a lesson. Can you do it?”

“We can,” Shirley promised.

“We’ll be better than ever,” Mercy said.

“I’ll keep an eye on them both,” Goodness assured the Archangel.

“But who’ll watch you?” he asked, cocking one dark brow.

Goodness sputtered, hardly knowing how to respond, then straightened. She recited her mission statement. “I … I will faithfully fulfill my duties as an Ambassador of the Almighty.”

“Well said.” Gabriel nodded with approval, but Goodness wasn’t fooled. One wrong move, and they’d be immediately jerked back from Earth with its multitude of fascinating distractions.

A short while later, the three of them were gathered in Anne Fletcher’s art room. It was a small area with plenty of light. Canvasses were stacked against the wall, some painted, others a pristine white, waiting to come to life. Anne sat near a phone, and after a long moment, picked it up.

“Who’s she calling?” Mercy asked.

“Shh,” Goodness warned. Thankfully, Anne wasn’t aware of their presence nor could she hear their voices, unless special arrangements had been made well in advance. They were required to go to Gabriel for permission to reveal themselves—not that there weren’t inventive ways around that. “Listen,” Shirley said, hushing them all.

Anne punched out the private number to Roy’s office. There was no guarantee that he’d speak to her. She didn’t doubt that he loved her, but her son was avoiding her these days. Anne wasn’t fooled; she knew why he was doing this. While she tried not to nag him, Anne realized she must sound like a distant echo, repeating the same message over and over. No wonder he looked for ways to sidetrack her—or avoid her altogether.

“Roy Fletcher,” came his gruff, disembodied voice.

“It’s your mother,” she said with a cheerful lilt. “I haven’t heard from you in ages.” She wanted to bite her tongue. This wasn’t how she’d intended to start their conversation. Why, oh, why had she said that? It must have seemed like a chastisement, and that was the last thing she wanted Roy to think. “But I know how busy you are,” she said, faltering a little.

“Do you need anything?” he asked, already sounding bored. He’d be quick to write a check, and had on several occasions, although she’d never cashed one. She wondered if he’d noticed. It wasn’t Roy’s money she wanted, it was his happiness. No amount of money he gave or received, no matter how generous, could buy that.

“I’m fine, Roy. And you?”

“Busy.”

“Are you telling me you can’t talk now?” Or any other time, she thought, disheartened.

He hesitated. “I have five minutes.”

Anne almost had the feeling he was setting a timer. “I called to tell you I’m coming into Seattle next Thursday.” The trip required a ferry crossing and a half-hour drive; it often took a couple of hours to make the journey across Puget Sound.

“Any particular reason?”

“I’m meeting Marta Rosenberg for dinner.”

“Should I know the name?” Roy asked.

Anne sighed, resigned now to his lack of interest and enthusiasm. Except for his work, everything in life seemed to be an effort for Roy.

“There’s no reason you should remember the name,” she told him. “Marta and I were good friends in college. We’ve kept in touch through the years—Christmas cards, that sort of thing. She’s made a real name for herself in New York as an art dealer and gallery owner.”

Surprisingly, that piqued his interest. “Is she going to sell your paintings?”

“Oh, hardly,” Anne said, embarrassed at the idea. Anne would never approach her friend with such a request. Her paintings were amateurish compared to the work Marta sold, work by big names. Revered artists. “I was hoping you and I could meet beforehand,” Anne suggested. She wanted to get to her main reason for calling before her allotted time elapsed.

“I have a half hour open at lunchtime,” Roy murmured.

Anne’s spirits lifted. “That would be lovely. I’m meeting Marta at seven and—”

“I’ll pencil you in for noon. I have a meeting and I might be a few minutes late, so don’t be upset if you’re left twiddling your thumbs for a while.”

“I was thinking I might decorate the windows at your office building before Christmas,” she hurriedly added.

Her remark was followed by a lengthy pause. “You want to do what?”

“Paint your windows, you know, for Christmas.”

“Is this a joke, Mother?”

“No, it’ll give a festive air to the complex. I was thinking of those big windows in the front lobby. In case you hadn’t noticed, ‘tis the season, Roy. Don’t you remember how we used to paint the windows at the house every year?”

Again his response was slow and edged with sadness. “Of course I remember, but I was a kid then. I’ve outgrown things like that.”

Anne didn’t feel that way in the least. She wanted to do whatever she could to resurrect happy memories for him. “You won’t mind, though, will you?”

“If it pleases you, then by all means paint.” His voice softened slightly. “I have to go.”

“I know.” Her five minutes was up.

“I can’t promise you lunch, but I’ll do my best to squeeze you in.” With that, the phone line went dead.

Anne set the receiver back in its cradle as if it weighed thirty pounds.

“Squeeze her in!” Mercy cried, outraged. “This is worse than I thought. Anne’s his mother! How are we ever going to find a woman willing to put up with that kind of behavior?”

Actually, Roy Fletcher was in worse shape than anyone had thought, Goodness mused. They had their work cut out for them.

“Oh, dear, look,” Shirley whispered.

Anne Fletcher’s hand remained on the telephone, as if she was trying to maintain an illusion of contact with her son. Her head fell forward and her shoulders slouched. Suddenly, before the other angels could react, Shirley slipped into the middle of the room.

“What are you doing?” Goodness asked, reaching out unsuccessfully to stop her.

“Anne needs encouragement,” Shirley insisted. “She can’t continue like this.”

“You’re going to get us pulled off this assignment,” Mercy warned. “We haven’t been on Earth five minutes. That’s a record even for us.”

“Don’t you remember what Gabriel said?”

“Darn right I do! One wrong move and we’re out of here.”

“No,” Shirley countered, “he said some things had to be believed in order to be seen.”

“But he didn’t say for us to leap in and do something we know isn’t allowed.”

Mercy’s warning, however, went unheeded. “What’s Shirley going to do?” she asked Goodness.

“I’m afraid to find out,” Goodness replied.

“I’m going to prove to Anne that she should believe,” Shirley announced grandly.

“But that’s the opposite of what Gabriel meant,” Mercy argued.

“I’m doing it,” Shirley said.

Sure enough, she stepped through the thin layer of truth that separated angels from humans. For a moment she did nothing but soak in the earthly environment. Then, in a display of heavenly grace, the angel unfolded her wings, extending them to their complete and glorious length. With the full splendor of the Lord reflecting upon her, she revealed herself to Anne.

Anne Fletcher gasped and placed her hand over her mouth. To her credit, the human seemed suitably impressed. Slowly Anne dropped her hand and stared hard at Shirley, as if she expected her to disappear. She blinked once and then again, obviously testing to see if this could possibly be her imagination. Anne shaded her eyes from the light. Then, still staring, she reached for a pad and pencil and started to sketch.

“Oh, no.”

Mercy looked around, certain they were about to lose all visitation rights until the next millennium. Nothing happened.

Seconds later, Shirley was back. Goodness forced herself to keep quiet and not reprimand her friend. Mercy had no such restraint.

“How could you?” she wailed.

“Anne needed a sign,” Shirley said, “and I gave it to her. God is working, and I wanted her to know that—to believe.”

“But look what she’s doing!” Mercy cried, watching as Anne worked on the sketch, her fingers moving at a furious pace as if she was struggling to get everything she’d seen down on paper before it faded from memory.

Goodness could hardly wait until Gabriel heard about this.

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