DEBBIE MACOMBER
WHERE Angels GO

For Debbie Sundberg

Who makes my Christmases beautiful

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

1

The sights and sounds of Christmas were all around him. At home, the scent of evergreen mingled with ginger and spice, and multicolored lights glittered throughout the house. This was Harry Alderwood’s favorite time of year. He’d settled in Leavenworth, Washington, more than five decades ago, and he loved the way this town celebrated Christmas. Despite his eighty-six years and failing health, nothing could dampen his love of the season. Even sitting in Dr. Snellgrove’s office, with its spindly artificial Christmas tree, waiting for what he was sure would be bad news, Harry didn’t feel depressed. This appointment would probably drain him for the rest of the day, and yet it seemed pointless. He doubted there was anything left for Dr. Snellgrove to do. His heart was giving out; it was as simple as that.

Harry wasn’t afraid of death. He often thought about it, especially with so many of his friends dying. He’d seen death, witnessed it countless times on the beaches of Normandy and the battlefields of Europe in World War II. He’d grieved when his own parents and his older brother, Ted, had passed away. He wasn’t afraid, though. Maybe he should be, but why worry about the inevitable?

An exhausted young mother sat across the room, keeping her little girl entertained by reading to her. Looking at them, he found it hard to tell who needed the doctor most, mother or child. Both seemed to be suffering from bad colds. Harry was grateful for the distance between them, since his own immune system was so weak.

Harry knew this would almost certainly be his last Christmas, and that saddened him. He’d always been a man of faith, and that faith had grown stronger as he grew older. Which was a natural progression, he supposed. He wondered if the angels celebrated Christmas in heaven; he suspected they did. Harry figured he’d find out soon enough. Meanwhile, he was determined to make his last Christmas on earth as special as he could for Rosalie. Already he was thinking of what he might do to show his wife of sixty-five years how much he loved her. Leaving Rosalie. That was his one regret….

“Harry Alderwood.”

He was caught up in his thoughts, and the nurse had to repeat his name before he heard her. She was a young woman named Kelly Shannon—or was it Shannon Kelly?—but he affectionately called her Nurse Ratched. She didn’t seem to mind.

“Harry?”

“Coming.” He needed a moment to clamber to his feet. Sometimes he forgot that his legs weren’t as steady as they used to be. Not long ago, he didn’t have a problem getting out of a chair, but these days he got so winded just standing, he could barely walk. Growing old wasn’t for sissies, that was for sure.

Using his cane for leverage, he slowly pulled himself upright, smiled at the young mother across from him and carefully placed one foot in front of the other. More and more, walking even a few yards was a chore. Still, he waved off Nurse Ratched’s offer of assistance. He took several deep breaths and winked as he walked past her. She smiled, adjusting the holly brooch she wore on her crisp white uniform.

He liked her attention to Christmas. And he was grateful that she didn’t rush him. That was the problem with people these days. They all seemed to be in a hurry, stepping around him, practically pushing him aside, in an effort to get ahead in the grocery store or the parking lot. Didn’t these folks realize he was moving as fast as he could? A few years ago, he used to be just like them, trying to get someplace quickly and then, once he arrived, wondering why he’d been in such a hurry.

“Your color’s good this morning,” Nurse Ratched said as she held open the door of the examining room and waited for Harry to move inside. “You must be feeling better.”

Harry never did understand why other people made assumptions about how he felt. No one really wanted the truth. Well, okay…maybe doctors and nurses did. But when it came to friends and acquaintances, he wasn’t interested in discussing his health. He accepted the likelihood of illness and the certainty of death, although he didn’t want to get there any sooner than necessary.

“Have a chair.” Dr. Snellgrove’s nurse pointed to the one against the wall.

It took Harry a long time to reach that chair and sit down again.

The nurse, chattering in a friendly manner, checked his blood pressure, which was normal, took his temperature, which was also normal, and then after asking the usual questions, left the room, closing the door behind her.

Five minutes later, Dr. Snellgrove appeared. Harry still found it a bit disconcerting to have such a young doctor; Paul Snellgrove barely looked old enough to shave, let alone make life-and-death decisions. Harry had met a number of young physicians lately, both men and women. That was a good thing, in his opinion—even though their youth reminded Harry of his own age. But these newly minted doctors tended to be idealistic, which he approved of, and they were up on all the latest technology, treatments and medications. The only problem was that they could be a bit unrealistic, seeing death as the enemy when sometimes, at the end of a long life or debilitating illness, it was a friend. Dr. Snellgrove wasn’t like that, though. Three or four years ago, he’d bought out Harry’s longtime physician’s practice. Harry admired the kid.

“What can I do for you?” Dr. Snellgrove asked, sitting on a stool and sliding it over so he was eye to eye with Harry.

Harry rested both hands on his cane, one on top of the other. “I’m having trouble breathing again.” This wasn’t a new complaint. It’d gotten worse, though. Twice in the past week, he’d woken in the middle of the night, unable to catch his breath. Both times he’d thought he was dying. He hoped to go gentle and easy, in his sleep or something like that, not sitting up in bed gasping for air and frightening poor Rosalie into a panic.

The young doctor asked him a few more questions. Harry already knew the problem. His heart was tired, which might not be medical terminology but seemed pretty accurate, and sometimes it just took a brief pause. The pacemaker was supposed to help and it’d worked fine for the most part…until recently.

“There’s not much I can do for you, Mr. Alderwood, much as I hate to admit it,” the physician told him. His eyes were serious as they met Harry’s.

Harry appreciated that the other man didn’t look away and was willing to tell him the truth. He was ready to release his hold on life. Almost ready. There was one thing he still had to accomplish, one arrangement he still had to make, and he needed enough time to do it. “No new pill?” He’d swallowed an entire pharmacy full now. Twenty-six prescriptions at last count—not all at once, of course. Thankfully, due to his years of military service, the government helped pay the cost of those many expensive drugs.

“No, Harry, I’m sorry. No miracle pills this week.”

Harry sighed. He hadn’t really expected there would be.

“Your heart’s failing,” Dr. Snellgrove said. “You know that.” Then he frowned. “I see you’re using the cane instead of the walker.”

Harry hated that blasted walker. “It’s at the house.”

“Harry, it’s December.” The physician looked exasperated. “The last thing you need is a fracture.”

Harry dismissed Snellgrove’s concern.

“I’m well aware that I’m dying,” he said, leaning toward the other man. “What I’d like is your best guess of how much time I’ve got.”

“Why is it so important to know?” the doctor asked.

“Because of Rosalie,” Harry murmured. “She’s forgetful and gets confused now and then, and I don’t think she’ll do well living on her own.” Harry worried about his wife constantly. Even their children didn’t realize how bad Rosalie’s memory had gotten in the last few years.

Paul Snellgrove reached for Harry’s chart and glanced at the top page. “You’re still in your own home, right?”

Harry nodded. He and Rosalie had raised their two beautiful daughters in that house on Walnut Avenue. Lorraine and Donna now lived and worked in Seattle and had raised their families there. One or the other came home at least once a month, sometimes more often; his sons-in-law were frequent visitors, as well. Kenny, Lorraine’s husband, had strung all their Christmas lights last week and brought him and Rosalie a tree. Oh, yes, Harry knew how fortunate he was in his family, how blessed.

And his grandkids…The four grandkids were adults themselves now and making their own way in life. Being around his grandchildren did Harry’s heart more good than any of those pills he gulped down every morning.

“I want to move Rosalie into Liberty Orchard, that new assisted-living complex, before I die,” he explained. “It’s the best solution for her. For everyone.”

The physician nodded. “Anything stopping you?”

“You mean other than Rosalie?” Harry joked. “I just need to convince her. That might take some doing, so I have to know how much time you think I’ve got.”

The young physician calmly appraised him.

His daughters agreed their mother would need help sooner or later, but didn’t feel the urgency Harry did. They didn’t understand that he couldn’t leave this life comfortably unless he knew Rosalie would be properly looked after.

“Tell me straight up,” Harry insisted. “It shouldn’t be that difficult to tell an old man how much time he’s got left.” He let the challenge hang between them.

The physician rolled the stool back a couple of inches and made a gesture that was more revealing than anything he might have said. “Harry, I’m not God, so I don’t know for sure,” he murmured, “but I’ll be honest if that’s what you want.”

“I do,” he confirmed.

Dr. Snellgrove slowly exhaled. “The truth is, you could go at any time.”

The words rattled Harry. That wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. He’d assumed he had a couple of months, possibly until spring. Maybe he’d even last until summer. He took a minute to absorb the reality of his situation, then nodded and said, “Okay.”

As if he feared he might have said too much, the physician launched into a lengthy explanation of cardiac rhythms and stenosis and congestive heart failure.

Most of his words slid off Harry; instead, the thought of dying reverberated in his head. When would it happen? Would he have time to arrange for Rosalie’s care?

“Don’t overtax yourself. Use your walker,” Dr. Snellgrove was telling him.

“I will,” Harry promised.

“Rest as much as you can,” the doctor went on. “And, Mr. Alderwood—Harry—you’ll have to stop driving. It’s increasingly unsafe.”

Harry nodded; he’d already accepted that. More arrangements to make…

No problem there. Harry didn’t have the energy to do much more than take the simplest outing. Most days were spent in front of the television. He liked those court shows best, and the Weather Channel, too. The older he got, the more important the weather seemed to be.

In Leavenworth this time of year, it was mostly cold and snowy. The stores around town counted on that snow for their tourist business, especially this close to the holidays. The entire month of December was a Christmas extravaganza here. Every weekend, there was a parade featuring an old-fashioned Father Christmas, a chubby Santa and even the Grinch, followed by a tree-lighting ceremony.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” the doctor asked as Harry rose awkwardly to his feet.

“You got a new heart for me?” Harry managed a grin.

The other man’s face saddened. “Sorry.”

Harry thrust out his hand. He wanted to convey his thanks for everything the doctor had done and for his honesty. “Merry Christmas, Doc. And in case I don’t see you again, Happy New Year.”

Snellgrove shook his hand warmly. “All the best, Harry. To you and your wife.”

In the waiting area the nurse handed him his coat, which hung on a peg on the wall. He wrapped the scarf Rosalie had knit him twenty-five years ago around his neck. He still wore it every winter. Rosalie was no longer knitting, which was a shame; she’d been an accomplished knitter. Their kids and grandkids had been the recipients of sweaters and mittens and hats, all kinds of beautifully made things.

Time was…He paused and smiled as he placed his hat on his head. Time was…That phrase came to him more and more often these days. He waited a moment, then slipped his arms into the sleeves of his thick wool coat. It felt heavy on his shoulders, heavier than it had when he’d put it on earlier that morning.

He wished Nurse Ratched a courteous “Merry Christmas” and prepared to leave.

Leaning on his cane, he opened the door and steeled himself against the cold before he made the short trek to his car. Like the doctor, his daughters didn’t want him driving anymore or going out on his own. They were right. He’d talk to them about selling the car; maybe he’d call them tonight. In the meanwhile, he’d drive very, very carefully.

The skies were dark and overcast, and the cold cut right through him. He climbed into the driver’s seat, then started the engine. A blast of cold air hit him as he turned on the defroster. He shivered; it seemed he was always cold. According to the doctor, being cold indicated poor circulation. In other words, Harry’s heart was giving out, and this was just another symptom.

With his gloved hands on the steering wheel, he waited for the windshield to defrost.

He could die anytime.

With that, another realization hit him. He had to convince Rosalie to move as soon as possible. But his wife could be a stubborn woman, and Harry knew he was going to need help.

Bowing his head, he closed his eyes. Harry believed more fervently now than ever, although he hadn’t been as faithful about attending church and reading his Bible. But when he did go to Sunday services, he walked away with something he could use in his life—a sense of God’s benevolence and a desire to be right-minded and honorable. The Bible was filled with wisdom—and some darn good stories, too. Rosalie generally went to services. The church was only a few blocks away, and every Sunday morning, his wife was there. Their next-door neighbor drove her or one of the girls did, if either happened to be visiting.

Another thing Harry didn’t make a regular practice of was prayer. He regretted that because he believed God answered prayers. He didn’t want to bother the Almighty with his own paltry concerns. Seeing that God was dealing with the big stuff like global warming and the problems in the Middle East, it didn’t make sense to Harry that He’d have time to worry about one old man. An old man afraid of what would happen to his wife after he died…Only Harry didn’t know where else to turn.

The inside of the car became his church. With his head bowed and his eyes closed, he whispered, “Okay, Lord, my time’s getting short. I want you to know I accept that. I understand you’ve got much bigger problems on this earth than mine, and better things to do than listen to an old man like me. Nevertheless, I hope you won’t mind if I ask for your help.

“It’s about Rosalie, Lord. The house is too much for her all by herself. Without me there to look after her, I’m afraid she’ll burn the place down because she’ll forget to turn off a burner or start a flood because she forgot the bathwater was running. I know you love her even more than I do and that’s a comfort. Show me how to convince her to move into that fancy new complex. Let me warn you, though, Lord, my Rosalie can be stubborn. But then, I guess you’ve noticed that.

“Lord, when I’m gone, you’ll have to take care of her for me.” He paused and decided he was taking up too much of God’s time, so he added, “Amen.”

When he glanced up, the cloud cover had broken and sunshine burst upon the snow, making it shimmer with light. Harry watched it for a long moment, feeling good. The problem now rested in God’s hands.

2

Harry’s prayer rose upward, higher and higher through the snow-laden branches of the evergreens. His petition to God whisked its way past the thick white clouds, carried by the warm winds of his love to the very desk of the Archangel Gabriel. There it landed.

“Harry Alderwood,” Gabriel muttered, turning the pages of the massive book that detailed the prayers and lives of the faithful. “Ah, yes, Harry.” Gabriel remembered the older man. Harry didn’t pray often and seemed to believe he shouldn’t bother God with his petty concerns. Little did the old man know how much God liked to talk to His children, how He longed to listen to them.

Having the ear of God and sharing His love for humans, Gabriel felt tenderness for this man who was so close to making the journey from life into death. In many cases when death was imminent, the veil between heaven and earth was especially thin. Harry accepted that he was dying but he clung to life, fearful of leaving behind those he loved—especially his wife, Rosalie.

Harry’s days were few, even fewer than the old man realized, and that brought a certain urgency to his prayer. Unfortunately, Christmas was only eight days away, and Gabriel was swamped with requests.

Two prayers had now reached him, almost simultaneously, from the small Washington town of Leavenworth. The second was from Carter Jackson, a small boy who felt he could trust God more than Santa.

Carter’s prayer wouldn’t be any easier to answer than Harry Alderwood’s. Requests like this got even more complicated at Christmastime. Heaven was busy, busy, busy. There was work to be done, prayers to be answered, angels to be assigned.

Gabriel studied the list of available Prayer Ambassadors and saw that his three favorite angels were indeed free. Shirley, Goodness and Mercy were close to his heart, but there’d been problems with them in the past.

Lots of problems.

Mercy, for example, tended to become too engrossed with the things of earth. Gabriel shook his head in a mixture of amusement and irritation. No matter how short-handed he was, he dared not let those three visit earth again. Giving Mercy the opportunity to be around forklifts and escalators was asking for trouble.

Not once could Gabriel remember assigning her a prayer request without regretting it afterward. Okay, perhaps regret was too strong a word. Mercy always managed to straighten everything out at the last second and he had to admit, she did make him laugh. But Mercy with Harry Alderwood…

“Poor Harry,” Gabriel whispered.

“Harry,” Mercy repeated from behind him.

She had a bad habit of sneaking up on him and Gabriel did his best not to leap back in surprise. Controlling his reaction, he turned to face the Prayer Ambassador. She was the picture of innocence, wide-eyed and hopeful.

“Did I hear you mention Harry Alderwood?” she asked, as her wings made small rustling sounds. This happened whenever she was excited. The mere prospect of returning to earth had Mercy nearly breathless with anticipation.

“You did,” he said.

“If there’s any way I could be of service,” Mercy volunteered, “I’d be more than happy to help.”

“I’m sure you would, but there’s the small matter of—”

Mercy interrupted him, raising her hand. “If you’re going to bring up that unfortunate incident with the aircraft carrier, I want to point out that I’ve repented.”

“Actually,” Gabriel said, clearing his throat. “I was thinking about the time you rerouted that 747.”

“Oh.”

Mercy’s cheeks colored, as well they should. That had been the final straw as far as Gabriel was concerned. “I don’t know if I can trust you back on earth,” he said pensively. But the number of available Prayer Ambassadors was limited….

“Please, please, please, give me another chance,” Mercy begged, hands folded.

For all the trouble she caused, Mercy did have a certain knack for getting prayers answered. What humans didn’t always grasp was that prayer requests usually required participation on their end. God liked it when His children trusted Him with their needs, but the Almighty Father welcomed human cooperation, too.

“Harry’s prayer just arrived,” Gabriel said with some hesitation. “He knows his remaining time on earth is brief.”

“Doesn’t he realize he’ll receive a new body once he gets to heaven?” Mercy asked, seeming surprised by the older man’s reluctance to leave earth. “It’s so much better here.”

“He knows,” Gabriel said. Perhaps it would be best if he allowed her a view of Harry and Rosalie. “Come and meet Harry,” the archangel invited and with one wide sweep of his arm, he whisked away the veil between heaven and earth. A moment later the two of them were able to look down upon the town of Leavenworth.

“Harry, is that you?” Rosalie called when he stepped into the house and closed the door against the bitter December wind.

“It’s me,” Harry replied in a strained voice. He felt short of breath, and his mind was full of what Dr. Snellgrove had told him. He knew Rosalie couldn’t cope without him; he also knew he’d have to trust that God would answer his prayer.

“I have lunch ready,” his wife said as he entered the kitchen.

He had little appetite, but Harry couldn’t disappoint Rosalie, since she’d made the effort of preparing their meal. At this stage, she only remembered a few of her favorite recipes. Almost always, they had canned soup for dinner. No doubt that was what she’d made for lunch, too.

Food didn’t interest Harry much anymore. He ate because it was necessary but without any real enjoyment.

Coming into the kitchen, he saw that he’d guessed correctly. Rosalie had heated up soup. Two steaming bowls filled with bright-red tomato soup sat on the kitchen table. What was left in the small saucepan was boiling madly on the stove. When Rosalie turned her back to bring the silverware to the table, Harry reached over and switched off the burner.

Soon he joined his wife at the round oak table in the small alcove. They bowed their heads, and Harry murmured grace. When he finished, Rosalie smiled softly, her eyes brimming with love. “How did everything go at the doctor’s, sweetheart?”

Rather than worry her, Harry simply nodded. “I’m as fit as can be expected for a man of my age.”

Rosalie looked back at him with concern. She seemed about to ask him more but changed her mind. He’d told her what she wanted to hear.

“Is soup all right?” she asked.

“It’s perfect.” Not sure how to broach the subject of moving, Harry swallowed three spoonfuls of his lunch, then paused. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d brought it up—far from it. He carefully set his spoon on the place mat.

“How’s that nice Dr. Snellgrove?” Rosalie asked, shakily lifting a spoonful of soup to her mouth. She helped herself to crackers from the box and crumbled them in her bowl, one cracker at a time.

“I like him.”

“I do, too. Did he give you another prescription?”

Harry shook his head. As it was, the visiting nurse, who stopped by the house every second day, had to use a chart to keep his medications straight.

“You’re going to be fine, aren’t you?” his wife asked.

Harry saw that her face had tightened with fear. “Of course I am. It’s…it’s just a matter of getting the proper rest.”

She instantly relaxed. “Good. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Harry didn’t, either. He sighed. Perhaps he should take this opportunity to introduce the subject—again. “I was thinking that the upkeep on the house is too much for me.” Harry felt that if he described the idea of moving to assisted living as something he needed, he might have a better chance of convincing her.

Rosalie ignored the comment. Although her face had wrinkled with age, Harry saw her as he had that first time, sixty-six years ago. She’d worked at the lunch counter at a Woolworth’s store in Seattle. Harry had gone over from Yakima to take a short training course, shortly after he’d gotten an underwriting position with the insurance company. He’d worked for the same company for more than forty years.

It had been his first trip to the big city, and the crowds and noise had overwhelmed him. A friend had suggested they stop at the lunch counter for a bite to eat. One look at Rosalie, and he was completely smitten. Until then, he would’ve scoffed at the very thought of love at first sight. He never did again. One look and he’d fallen head over heels for his beautiful Rosalie.

“Harry?”

He blinked, surprised at the way he’d become immersed in his memories.

“You’re finished your lunch?” she asked.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I’m not very hungry.” She didn’t seem to be eating much herself, he noticed.

“I’ll fix you something later,” Rosalie suggested.

“That would be good.” He lingered at the table. “Dr. Snellgrove wants me to use my walker.”

Rosalie pinched her lips together. “Haven’t I been saying the same thing? If you fall down again, I won’t be able to help you up, sweetheart.”

This was a problem. A week ago, he’d fallen and, struggle as he might, he couldn’t get back on his feet. Rosalie had tried to help and soon they were both exhausted. As a last resort, she’d phoned the fire station. They’d sent out an entire crew, embarrassing Harry no end, although the firefighters couldn’t have been nicer. He purposely hadn’t mentioned the incident to Dr. Snellgrove. No reason to. He was fine, a bit chagrined, but no worse for wear.

With careful movements, Harry shuffled into the family room and settled down in front of the television. Rosalie carried their soup bowls to the sink and after rinsing them out, sat in her own chair, beside his.

“Oprah will be on soon,” she informed him.

This was her way of letting him know she’d be watching the talk show. Rosie liked Oprah and Dr. Phil, and while she’d grown forgetful in some areas, she had no trouble remembering when her favorite shows were on. Harry hated to admit it, but he’d come to enjoy them, too. The complete lack of common sense exhibited by some of the folks on those programs continued to astonish him, and he was always heartened by the occasional portrayals of heroism.

“We might think about visiting Liberty Orchard one of these days,” he said, reclining in his chair. He reached for the afghan Rosalie had knit him years earlier and spread it on his lap. The cold never seemed to leave him.

“I don’t see any rush, do you?” Rosalie asked.

Rather than go into what Dr. Snellgrove had told him, Harry said, “Like I was saying earlier, this house is too much for me now. I don’t see any reason to delay. We could put our name in, anyway.”

“We can, I suppose,” Rosalie reluctantly agreed. “But I’d rather wait until summer.”

He didn’t want to alarm her and decided to put the discussion off until later. Perhaps after he’d rested…

Gabriel studied Mercy. Her deep-blue eyes brimmed with compassion as she turned to him. “He’s very weak.”

Gabriel nodded.

“How much longer does he have?” she asked, watching the tender look Rosalie sent her husband as she left her own recliner and walked over to where Harry slept. Rosalie gently tucked the hand-knit blanket around Harry’s shoulders and pressed her lips against his brow.

“Not long,” Gabriel responded.

“Surely God won’t take him until after Christmas?”

“Unfortunately, Harry will leave earth before then.”

“Oh, dear. So his prayer request is urgent. Someone has to convince Rosalie to move, and quickly.”

“Yes.”

“But Christmas is only about a week away!”

No one needed to tell Gabriel that. “I know.”

“Oh, my.”

“Are you still interested in taking on this request?” he asked, certain she’d change her mind.

Mercy bit her lip, mulling over the situation. This was the most difficult request he’d ever proposed.

“There can be no shenanigans this time,” he warned.

“None,” she said solemnly. Her gaze remained on the old couple, and the warmth and love that flowed between them.

“Do you think you can help Harry?” Gabriel asked, still unsure. Mercy was so easily distracted….

“I can,” she said confidently. She turned again to look at him and Gabriel was shocked to see tears in her eyes. Harry Alderwood had touched Mercy’s heart. Gabriel couldn’t hope for anything more. Mercy would do everything in her power to prepare both Harry and his wife for a life apart, for death.

3

Beth Fischer couldn’t wait to get home from her Seattle job as a paralegal for Barney, Blackburn and Buckley, one of the most prestigious law firms in the state.

The minute she walked into her small downtown condo, she logged on to the computer. As soon as she was on the Internet, she hit the key to bring up the computer game that had enthralled her for months. World of Warcraft had quickly become addictive. Six months ago, one of the attorneys at the office had casually mentioned it; he’d laughingly advised his colleagues to stay away from it because of its enticing qualities. Beth should’ve listened—but on the other hand, she was glad she hadn’t.

While the game loaded, she hurriedly made herself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and carried it into the small office that served as a guest bedroom on rare occasions. Directly off her kitchen, it was a perfect computer room.

She sank into her comfortable office chair, tucked her shoeless feet beneath her and signed on. Her name was Borincana and she was a hunter. Her pet wolf was called Spot, not the most original name, but it had attracted the attention of a priest named Timixie, who had since teamed up with her. Both were Night Elves and together had risen to level forty.

They were unbeatable and unstoppable, a legend in the annals of online computer games—in their own minds, anyway. Both of them were addicted to the game and met every evening to play, sometimes for hours. They didn’t need to be on line at the same time but often were.

When Lloyd, the attorney, had commented on this game, Beth had been looking for a mindless way to fill her evenings. She needed something to relax her—and distract her from the fact that all her friends were getting married, one by one.

So far, Beth had served as a bridesmaid in ten weddings. Ten. Already three of her friends were parents, and another two were pregnant. If she’d enjoyed crafts, she would’ve learned to knit or crochet. The truth was, Beth couldn’t bear the thought of spending her evenings sitting in front of the television, creating little blankets for all those babies, when the likelihood of her marrying and having a child of her own hovered around zero.

Marriage terrified her. Been there, done that—and failed miserably. Fortunately she was smart enough to realize her mistake. Some people were meant to fall in love, marry and produce the requisite two children, preferably a boy and a girl. Her younger sister, Angela, had done so in record time.

For a while, the pressure was off Beth. Recently, however, her mother had taken up the old refrain. “Meet someone. Try again.” Joyce Fischer hadn’t been subtle about it, either.

No, thank you, Mom. Beth wasn’t interested and that was all there was to it.

The World of Warcraft was the best alternative she’d found to lonely nights—and the best diversion from talk of marriage and babies. She’d been grateful to find something that was so much fun and so involving. The bonus, of course, was Peter, her Internet partner—the priest Timixie. They chatted by instant message every now and then, congratulating each other on their successes. Like her, Peter seemed to make a point of avoiding relationships.

During the game they teamed up and traveled together, roaming the World of Warcraft landscape, and generally made a great couple—in strictly virtual terms, of course. As far as Beth was concerned, her relationship with Peter via the game was as close as she was willing to get to another man.

Just when life in the alternate universe was getting interesting and another battle seemed imminent, Beth’s phone rang. Groaning, she glanced at caller ID and saw that it was her mother. She ignored it and after five rings, the machine picked up.

“Marybeth, I know you’re there. Are you playing that blasted computer game again? This is important—we need to discuss Christmas. Call me back within the hour, otherwise I’ll drive over to your condo and I don’t want to have to do that.”

Beth cringed at the sound of her name as much as the message. She’d grown up as Marybeth and had always hated it. For some reason, it reminded her of those girls on reruns of Hee Haw. Nevertheless, her mother refused to call her anything else. Beth could see she wouldn’t be able to ignore the call. With a sigh, she started to log off.

Right away, Peter instant-messaged her. Where are you going?

She typed back. Sorry. My mother phoned about Christmas and I need to be the dutiful daughter.

Peter’s reply came right away. I hear you. I’m being pressured, too. My parents are after me to get a life.

Beth read his comment and nearly laughed out loud. My mother said almost exactly the same thing to me.

Where do you live?

This was the most personal question he’d ever asked and she hesitated before replying. Seattle.

Get out of here! I do, too.

No way! It was hard to believe they’d been playing this game for nearly six months and yet they’d just discovered they lived in the same city. Gotta go, she typed quickly. I’ll be back in half an hour.

See you then, Peter wrote.

Beth put Borincana and Spot, her animal companion, in hiding, where they’d be safe from attack, and reluctantly reached for the phone. Even as she punched the speed-dial button, she knew that the conversation would have little to do with Christmas. Her mother was trying to find out if Beth was seeing anyone.

As if she’d been sitting by the phone waiting for her call, Joyce answered on the first ring.

“No, Mother, I’m not dating.” Beth figured she’d get to the point immediately. That way, she could bypass all the coy questions about coworkers.

“What makes you think I’d ask you something like that?” her mother returned, obviously offended by her directness.

“Because you always do,” Beth countered. She loved her parents and envied them their marriage. If her own had gone half as well, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. She and John, her college boyfriend, had been young, barely twenty-one, and immature. Everyone had advised them to wait, but they’d been too impatient, too much in love.

Within six months of the wedding, they’d hated each other. Beth couldn’t leave fast enough, and John felt the same. He was as eager to escape their disaster of a marriage as she was.

It was supposed to be a painless and amicable divorce. Everything had gone smoothly; she’d filed because John seemed incapable of doing anything without her pestering him. If something needed to be done, she had to take responsibility because John was utterly helpless.

They couldn’t afford attorneys, so they’d gone through the legal documents with the assistance of a law student on campus. They had no material goods to speak of. He’d kept the television and she took the bed. Still had it, in fact, but she’d purchased a new mattress a couple of years ago.

What surprised Beth, what had caught her completely unawares, was the unexpected pain caused by the divorce. This wasn’t like breaking up with a boyfriend, which was how she’d assumed it would feel. This was failure with a capital F.

Following the divorce, she’d gone to see a counselor, who’d described her emotions as grief. At the time she’d scoffed. She was happy to be rid of John and the marriage, she’d said. Nonetheless, she had grieved and in some ways still did. It was perhaps the most intense pain she’d ever experienced. It’d left her emotionally depleted. Nine years later, she was unable to put her failed marriage behind her.

Twice during the divorce proceedings she’d hesitated. Twice she’d considered going to John and making one last effort to work it out. The problem wasn’t that she’d found him in bed with another woman or that he’d been abusive, physically or mentally. He wasn’t an addict or an alcoholic—just completely irresponsible and immature. She’d had enough, and in the end she’d walked away. Her failure to try again was one of the things that still haunted her.

“Marybeth, I was asking you about Christmas,” her mother was saying.

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I noticed,” Joyce said sarcastically. “Your father and I thought that instead of the big fancy dinner we do every year, we’d have a potluck.”

A potluck on Christmas Day? Beth didn’t like the sound of that, although she understood the reasoning. Her mother spent most of the day in the kitchen and that couldn’t be much fun for her. Beth decided she’d do her share without begrudging the time or expense.

“Aren’t you going to complain?” her mother asked as if taken aback by her lack of response.

“No. Actually I was thinking I’d bring the turkey and stuffing.”

“You?”

“I can cook.” Beth thought the question in her mother’s voice bordered on insulting. “Is that so?” Joyce Fischer asked. “When did you last eat anything that didn’t come from a pizza delivery place or the frozen food section at the grocery store?”

Living alone, Beth didn’t have much reason to stand over a stove. Not when it was convenient and easy to order takeout or grab something from the deli. Her microwave got far more use than her stove.

“Okay, okay, I’ll order a cooked turkey. We have to have turkey, Mom. It’s tradition.”

“I’d like to begin a new tradition,” her mother said. “I want to enjoy the day with my grandkids—speaking of which, when can I expect more?”

Beth was amused by the transition from dinner to her absent love life in one easy breath. “Probably never.”

“Marybeth!” She seemed horrified at the prospect. “You’re a beautiful woman. You need to put your divorce behind you and move on with your life. You know John has, and more power to him.”

Mentioning the fact that her ex-husband had remarried was a low blow.

Lisa Carroll, a college friend of Beth’s—correction, acquaintance, and an unfriendly one at that—had gleefully shared the news of John’s marriage a couple of summers ago. Beth had taken it hard, although they’d been divorced for seven years by then. John was perfectly free to try his hand at married life a second time. She was happy for him. Thrilled, even.

That was what she’d tried to tell herself, but it didn’t explain the depression she’d sunk into afterward. For weeks she was weepy and miserable. In the back of her mind, she’d held out hope that one day John would return to her. It was an utterly outlandish notion, wholly unrealistic.

“I should never have told you John got married again,” she said, unable to disguise the pain of her mother’s words.

“I’m sorry, dear. But you do need to move on. I was in church this week and I lit a candle for you. I asked God to send someone special into your life and I feel sure He’ll answer my prayer.”

“You lit a candle on my behalf?”

“I always do when I have a special prayer.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “You asked God to send me a husband?” She couldn’t believe her mother would do this.

“Don’t make it sound like I signed you up for a dating service.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t there anyone who interests you?” Joyce pleaded.

The desperation in her mother’s voice made Beth uncomfortable. “Not really,” she murmured.

“Someone at work?”

“No.” Beth most emphatically did not want an office romance. She’d seen a couple of those go sour. After the last one, between a legal secretary and one of the partners, the law firm had set a policy against the practice of dating within the office. Which was fine with Beth, since she happened to enjoy her job and had no intention of risking dismissal.

Her gaze drifted toward the computer screen. “Well, there’s someone I met recently….”

“There is?” Hope flared instantly.

You’d think Beth had just announced that she’d set her wedding date.

“We met on WoW.”

“That ridiculous game?”

“Yes, Mom. I found out he lives in Seattle.”

“What’s his name?”

“Peter.”

“Invite him to Christmas dinner,” Joyce said promptly. “I’ll do the full meal. Forget the potluck. I’ll entice him with my cooking—and I promise to teach you how. You know what they say about the way to a man’s heart.”

“Mom!”

“I used to be scornful of those old wives’ tales, too,” her mother continued undaunted, “but so many of them are true. Now, don’t worry, I’ll downplay the fact that you don’t cook. Leave everything to me.” Her mother didn’t even attempt to hide her delight.

“Mother, no!” Good grief, for all she knew, Peter was married. She didn’t dare ask for fear he’d assume she was interested. All right, she was interested, but only because her mother had forced her into it.

“You’ve got one week to ask him.”

“Mother!”

“I insist.”

Beth closed her eyes and before she could protest further, Joyce disconnected the line. Sighing, Beth hung up the phone. It was either arrive on Christmas Day with a man or disappoint her mother. She sighed again as she recalled that Joyce had resorted to prayer in order to find her a husband.

Beth loved her sister and she treasured little James and Bella, her nephew and niece, but Angela hadn’t done her any favors by marrying the exemplary Brian and then quickly producing two perfect grandchildren.

Trying to forget her woes, she logged back on to the game and was pleased to see that her partner was still online. She joined Peter and soon afterward he sent her a message.

How’d the conversation with your mother go?

Okay. She wished she hadn’t mentioned that she’d be talking to her family. She was more concerned with what had happened while she was Away From the Keyboard. Did I miss anything exciting when I was AFK?

Yeah. I teamed up with level 41 Dwarf Warrior and defeated the last two Warmongers to complete the Crushridge quest.

Beth sat up straighter. Wow. Great going.

You should’ve been here. I started pounding my chest.

You Tarzan? she joked.

Only if you’re Jane, came his reply.

Beth read the line a second time. He almost seemed to be flirting with her. Nah, he was just teasing, which they often did, bantering back and forth and congratulating each other. It would be easy to misread his intentions, and she didn’t want to make more of this than warranted.

When she didn’t respond to his comment, they returned to the game. Only later, when she’d logged off and headed for the shower, did Beth pause to reconsider.

If Peter had been flirting, and that was a huge if, perhaps she should make an effort to learn more about him.

Beth turned on the shower. These were the thoughts of a desperate woman, she told herself grimly. Signs of someone who’d sunk to a new low—finding a date for Christmas Day through an online computer game.

4

Gabriel gazed at Joyce Fischer’s prayer request, which had appeared in the Book of Prayers a few days earlier. The book rested on his desk, spread open, filling up almost as quickly as he could make assignments. Joyce had prayed countless times that her daughter would finally meet the right man. Gabriel shook his head as he tapped his finger against the page. It would help if Beth was amenable to a new relationship. After her divorce, Joyce Fischer’s daughter had completely closed herself off from men; this Peter, however, might be an interesting prospect.

“Gabriel?” He heard the timid voice of Goodness behind him. Gabriel knew the minute he’d assigned Mercy to Harry Alderwood’s request, Mercy’s usual companions wouldn’t be far behind. It would be just like Shirley and Goodness to want a piece of the action, too. Far be it from them to remain in heaven while Mercy got an assignment on earth.

“About Beth?” Goodness pressed.

The Prayer Ambassador regarded him with imploring eyes. Eyes so blue they seemed to glow. Gabriel wasn’t surprised to discover that Goodness had been reading over his shoulder. Apparently she was interested in the Beth Fischer assignment.

“What about her?” Gabriel asked, ignoring the plea in her eyes.

“She could use some help, don’t you think?”

“All humans have fallen short,” Gabriel explained, and while it was true, he took no pleasure in saying so.

“Which is why God assigned us to help.”

He couldn’t disagree with that.

“What’s going on with Beth?” Goodness asked, stepping closer to Gabriel’s desk and eyeing the huge Book of Prayers.

The archangel stepped aside so Goodness could read Joyce Fischer’s entire request. He pictured Joyce in St. Alphonsus Catholic Church, kneeling by the altar rail and lighting a candle as she bowed her head and prayed for her daughter. Although Joyce had referred to grandchildren, the real desire of her heart was to see Beth happy. Joyce believed that a relationship, a marriage and family, was the way to make that happen for her daughter. Gabriel felt reasonably sure she was right.

“What about Kevin Goodwin?” Goodness asked.

Gabriel was impressed. Clearly Goodness had already done her research on Beth.

“They work together. Kevin is unattached,” Goodness continued.

“True,” Gabriel murmured. He’d considered Kevin himself, but apparently God had other plans for the young attorney—plans that didn’t include a relationship with Beth. Plus, there was the small matter of her company’s policy on workplace romance, which created a further complication. “Personally, I like Peter,” he said.

Goodness gave him an incredulous look. “From that computer game Beth’s hooked on? That Peter?”

Gabriel nodded.

Goodness thought about it and when she spoke again, she betrayed her reservations. “He’s a possibility, I guess.”

Gabriel arched one of his heavy white brows. “You guess?” As endearing as Goodness was, he wouldn’t accept insubordination from her or any of the other Prayer Ambassadors.

“Don’t misunderstand me, I like Peter quite a bit,” Goodness added hurriedly, obviously realizing she’d overstepped some invisible line. She should know by now, Gabriel grumbled to himself, that he took Prayer request protocol seriously.

“It’s just that I’m afraid the only way they’ll ever be able to communicate is as Night Elves,” she said after a moment’s pause.

This produced a smile. “Yes, well, the computer game’s a concern, but a minor one.”

“Beth likes Peter—doesn’t she?” Goodness asked.

Gabriel had to reflect on that question carefully. “She’s comfortable with him. With what she knows of him, anyway,” he finally said.

“That’s a start,” Goodness murmured in an uncertain voice.

“You have a problem with it?” Gabriel asked, genuinely interested in her reply.

“Not a problem…” Goodness hesitated. “I think it’s a sad state of affairs that humans are resorting to relationships through the computer. There’s no real intimacy—but I could be wrong. I’ll admit that’s happened before.”

Gabriel shrugged. “For some, it’s simply an easier way to meet people. In fact, a person’s character can be revealed in these role-playing games.” He nodded sagely, pleased with his up-to-date observation. “The way Beth and Peter are able to work together as partners, for example.”

“I suppose,” Goodness agreed with evident reluctance. “I still think it’s rather sad.”

Gabriel studied her. With her current attitude, he had to wonder if Goodness was the right choice for Beth.

“How’s she doing now?” Goodness asked.

“Shall we take a look?”

“Please.” Goodness sidled closer to the archangel. “You are going to send me to earth, aren’t you?”

Those same blue eyes gazed at him expectantly. Goodness wasn’t his first choice and he feared this request was too difficult for her. Another Prayer Ambassador, one with a little more experience in complicated situations, might serve better. One who wouldn’t be as tempted by things of the earth. Unfortunately—like Mercy—Goodness had a somewhat blemished reputation when it came to her prayer assignments. But even knowing that, Gabriel found he couldn’t refuse her. “You can join Mercy.”

“Oh, thank you,” Goodness trilled, clasping her hands together. Her wings fluttered rapidly with excitement, dropping a feather or two. “I won’t disappoint you, Gabriel. You have my word.”

“I’m counting on that.” He meant it, too. This was too important an assignment for her to bungle; it needed a delicate hand. He caught himself before warning Goodness. No, Gabriel decided, he’d let her unravel the revelations about Beth all on her own. This presented a growth opportunity for Goodness—and for Beth Fischer, too.

“What’s she doing now?” Goodness asked, crowding close to Gabriel in her eagerness to see Beth.

“It’s lunchtime,” Gabriel said. “She’s at a small waterfront restaurant with a friend.” With one sweep of his arms, Gabriel parted the veil of clouds that obscured the earth below. At first, the view was hazy, but a few seconds later, the air cleared. Then, as though they were gazing through glass, Gabriel and Goodness saw Beth. She and her friend were seated at a table in a busy restaurant. A wreath in the nearby window was decorated with sprigs of holly and red Christmas balls.

Beth’s long dark hair was parted in the middle, and she wore a soft pink cashmere sweater with gray wool pants.

“She looks very pretty,” Goodness whispered.

Gabriel could only agree.

“So, what are your plans for Christmas?” Heidi asked as she picked up half of the tuna-salad sandwich they were sharing.

“I’ll spend it with my parents,” Beth said without any real enthusiasm. Already she was worried. Her mother had suggested—no, insisted—that Beth invite Peter to join them on Christmas Day. It was an unlikely scenario. After six months of impersonal conversation, she had no idea how they were going to make the transition from being WoW partners to friends to…well, dating each other. Sort of. A Christmas Day blind date—with her family, yet. She grimaced.

How could she possibly convince someone she’d never even seen to accompany her to one of the most important holiday functions of the year? She might as well ask for a miracle.

“You’ve drifted off again.”

Beth didn’t need to ask what her friend meant. She often grew quiet when something troubled her. “Can I ask you a question?” Beth asked, setting down her sandwich and leaning toward Heidi.

“Sure, anything. You know that.”

Beth considered the other woman one of her best friends. She’d been a member of Heidi’s wedding party and was godmother to her son, Adam.

“When you first met Sam…” she began. Heidi and Sam had just begun seeing each other when Beth met her; they’d now been married four years.

“When I first met Sam,” Heidi repeated. “Did I know I was going to fall in love with him? Is that what you want to ask?”

Beth blinked. That wasn’t exactly it, but close enough. “Yes.”

“The answer is no. In fact, I thought he was a total nerd. I mean, could you imagine me married to an accountant? I found him so fussy and detail-oriented, I couldn’t picture the two of us together.”

It was remarkable. Heidi, her fun-loving, easygoing friend attracted to a bean counter. Yet as far as Beth could tell, they were completely happy in their relationship. They were so different; Heidi was slapdash and impulsive and, as she’d said, Sam was the opposite. But where it truly mattered—their feelings about marriage and family, for instance—their values were the same. Recently, with Heidi’s encouragement, Sam had joined a couple of his friends in a new business venture. Their firm, specializing in forensic accounting, was doing well.

“It wasn’t like that with John and me,” Beth murmured. “When we first met, I was sure we were the perfect match.” She swallowed hard. She didn’t know why she continued to do this—torturing herself with the details of her failed marriage. All it did was remind her that she simply wasn’t any good at relationships.

“John was a long time ago.”

This was Heidi’s gentle way of urging her to stop dragging the past into the present, and she was right. Sitting up straighter, Beth squared her shoulders. “I think I might have met someone.”

That immediately sparked Heidi’s interest. In the last five years, she’d frequently tried to introduce Beth to available men, mostly colleagues of Sam’s. Beth had declined each and every time. “Who did you meet? Where? When?”

“We met online.”

Her friend instantly brightened. “You signed up with one of those Internet dating services?” Heidi had suggested this approach months earlier—advice Beth had strongly rejected.

“No, we met…I mean, we haven’t really met. We’re partners in an online computer game.”

“That war thing?” Heidi wrinkled her nose in distaste.

Beth nodded. “We teamed up in World of Warcraft last June. But I know next to nothing about him, other than the fact that he lives in Seattle.” Even as she explained this, Beth realized it wasn’t true. Peter was decisive, a characteristic she admired in a man. He was thoughtful, too. The two of them worked well together in the landscape of the game, anticipating and complementing each other’s moves.

“Then find out more,” Heidi urged. “Contact him outside the game. Meet him for coffee or something.”

Beth shook her head. “I couldn’t do that,” she said automatically. And yet she had to, didn’t she? Unless she was prepared to disappoint her mother for the thousandth time.

“Why couldn’t you?” Heidi asked, genuinely perplexed. “You said you’ve been partners for…what? Six months. Make up an excuse. Tell him you want to discuss battle strategy and you’d prefer to do it in the real world.”

“But…he might think I’m hitting on him.”

Heidi smiled. “Well, aren’t you?”

Her friend had a point. “Not really,” Beth mumbled but it was a weak rejoinder.

“You want him to meet your family, don’t you?”

That was a nerve-racking subject. She decided to tell Heidi the whole story, how all of this had started with her mother’s phone call. As she spoke, she concluded hopelessly that inviting him to Christmas dinner was impossible. Actually bringing him would be worse. Then again…it might work if there was an understanding between them. But she couldn’t figure out why Peter would agree to such an arrangement. He had his own family, his own obligations without taking on hers. No, she couldn’t ask him.

On second thought, he might understand. He’d said his family was after him to get a life. Perhaps they could join forces the way they had in World of Warcraft. Combine their efforts.

Still…

“For all I know he could be fifty, living at home and unemployed.” There, it was out—Beth’s biggest fear. Of course, Peter could be wondering the same thing about her. “Or—” an even bigger fear “—he could be married.”

Chewing her sandwich, Heidi didn’t respond for a moment. “The only way to find out is to ask,” she said reasonably.

“He might think I’m—”

“What? Available? Beth, you are available! Okay, so you made a mistake in judgment. It happens, it’s too bad, but it isn’t the end of the world!”

“Should I tell Peter right off?” she asked uncertainly. “About my divorce?” This was her other worry—how much to say and when. She was afraid that once they did talk, she’d compulsively blurt out her entire relationship history. After two minutes, her prospective Christmas date would flee for the border.

“Don’t lie,” Heidi advised.

“Should I be evasive?”

“Don’t overload him with details in the beginning. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Right.” It seemed ridiculous to be discussing this when Peter hadn’t even agreed to meet her yet.

“You do like what you know about him, right?”

Beth considered the question, then nodded. “Yeah.”

“That’s the important thing,” Heidi assured her.

Beth nodded again. All she needed to do now was take that first step.

Goodness sighed as the veil between heaven and earth slowly closed, blocking the angel’s view. She turned to Gabriel, and he could see that she was waiting for him to comment.

“Beth’s ready,” he said emphatically.

“And Peter?”

“He’s ready, too.”

“He isn’t fifty, living with his parents and unemployed, is he? Or…married?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, he’s single and he has a good position at the home office of Starbucks. He’s doing well financially and is popular with his peers.”

“Just like Beth.”

“Beth’s resisted opening herself to love,” Gabriel said. As for this new relationship—well, there were a few facts yet to be uncovered, facts Goodness would have to learn on her own.

“Beth needs to be taught that she’s capable of falling in love again,” Goodness murmured.

“Yes,” Gabriel said, encouraging her as much as he dared.

“Peter might not be the one, though.”

He wasn’t sure what Goodness had against the young man. “That’s not up to us,” he said sternly.

“Right.” Goodness folded her hands. “I’ll do my best to steer them toward each other. After that, they’ll have to work it out for themselves.”

Gabriel squinted at her. She sounded as though she was reciting something she’d memorized. “I’m relying on you,” he reminded her. “You need to be very clear about your own boundaries. You’re there to help them, Goodness, to give them a nudge—not to push them into each other’s arms.”

“I won’t let you down,” she promised.

Gabriel sincerely hoped that was true. Just as he was about to expand on his concerns, another urgent prayer request whisked past him, landing on his desk.

Gabriel sighed as he bent to read this one. It came from nine-year-old Carter Jackson. Ah, yes. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard from the young man. Carter wanted a dog. He decided to assign Shirley to this request, since she had a particular affinity for children.

Shirley, Goodness and Mercy back on earth. If his hair wasn’t already white, that would’ve done it.

5

Carter Jackson pressed his ear as hard as he could against his bedroom door. If he shut his eyes and concentrated he could hear his parents’ conversation.

“I’m sorry, honey. I know how much Carter wants a dog, but we can’t afford one right now.”

“But, David, we promised.”

“I didn’t promise him any such thing, Laurie. I said maybe he could have a dog for Christmas.”

Carter’s mother sounded sad. “It’ll break his heart.”

“Believe me, I know that. I don’t like this any better than you do.”

Although he was only nine, Carter understood that his father wanted him to have a dog, just as he had when he was Carter’s age. Carter had already decided to give his dog the same name as his father’s—Rusty. Rusty was a good name for a dog.

“We could get a dog from the shelter,” his mom was saying. “A rescue.”

“It’s not the cost of the dog. It’s the vet bills, the food, everything else.”

His mother didn’t respond.

“You looked at the budget, didn’t you? If there was any way we could make it happen, we would. But you know as well as I do that we can’t afford a dog. We can barely afford a Christmas tree!”

Carter wasn’t sure what a budget was, but he knew it must have something to do with money. Money always seemed to be a problem. His mother used to work at a dress shop in downtown Leavenworth, but the shop closed and she hadn’t been able to find another job.

That was all right with Carter. He liked having her at home, and so did his little sister, Bailey. After school they both liked being able to go home rather than to the day care lady down the street. Their mother usually had a snack or a small surprise waiting for them. She seemed happier, too, not to be working such long hours, but Carter knew there were problems with the budget…whatever that was.

“Our health insurance rates just went up,” his father said.

“I saw that,” his mother murmured. Her voice was quiet, making it difficult for Carter to hear everything she said. “I try to keep the heat as low as I can while the kids are in school, not that it’s helped all that much.”

That explained why his mother was always wearing a sweater when Carter got home from school.

“The oil prices are killing us,” his father said. He sounded angry.

“I know. I’m sorry.” This came from his mother.

“It’s not your fault, Laurie.”

Carter risked opening the door a crack, to see what he could. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light, but then he saw his parents. They sat on the sofa and his mother’s head rested on his father’s shoulder. His father had one arm around his mother, and they seemed to be leaning against each other.

“Should we tell Carter now or wait until Christmas morning?” she asked.

Carter bit his lip. They’d promised him a dog. His father said he hadn’t, but he had. He just didn’t remember. He’d said it this summer, and ever since then Carter had hung on to that promise—he could have a dog at Christmas.

It wasn’t fair and he struggled not to break into tears. Turning his head, he buried his face in his arms and breathed deeply. He couldn’t let them see him standing there—or hear him cry.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to buy the kids any gifts this year,” his father continued.

“It’s all right, honey,” his mother reassured him. “There’ll be plenty of presents from your parents and mine. The gifts from your family are already here. The kids will have something to open. Besides, we don’t want to spoil Carter and Bailey. It’s more important that they know the true meaning of Christmas.”

His father seemed to agree.

Carter couldn’t listen to any more of their conversation. His sister was sound asleep in the bed across from his own. Bailey was in first grade and he was in fourth. Bailey wanted her own room. But if he couldn’t have a dog, then Bailey wasn’t going to get a bedroom all to herself, either. That was what Bailey had asked Santa for in her letter.

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