Hearts Evergreen: A Cloud Mountain Christmas\A Match Made for Christmas (10 page)

R
oscoe's Diner was as much a city landmark as
The Jackson Lake News
. Connor sat alone in a lumpy vinyl booth by the window, taking comfort in the knowledge that the onion rings were still deep-fried in grease, the coffee was strong enough to dissolve the end of a spoon and Roscoe himself was stomping around the kitchen like a cantankerous grizzly. He rarely left his lair but when he saw Connor's name scrawled at the top of his order, he poked his head out.

“Heard a rumor you were coming back,” he snorted. “Surprised you're here instead of at that fancy bookstore down the street, sipping one of those nonfat decaf latte things that smell like bubble bath.”

“You always had a way with words, Roscoe. You should have been a reporter.” Connor couldn't help but grin. Twelve years hadn't changed Roscoe a bit. Unkempt salt-and-pepper hair sprang in every direction like an unclipped hedge. A grimy canvas apron stretched across his barrel-shaped torso. The faded tattoos covering his arms told stories of a war that Connor had only read about in history books.

“Got better things to do with my time than decorate the stuff people use to line their birdcages,” Roscoe growled.

Connor laughed, saluting him with the bent spoon he'd used to stir his coffee. “Fair enough.”

Roscoe grunted again and disappeared. Bev, the waitress whose frizzy red hair clashed with her lavender eyeshadow, sauntered over to his table with the coffeepot. She rolled her eyes at the kitchen. “Don't mind him. He's been in a bad mood since the day he was born.”

She refilled his cup then targeted the table packed with students from the community college who'd commandeered the back corner of the diner and turned it into a study area. They took up space at Roscoe's because the hamburgers were cheap and the water—straight from the kitchen tap—was free.

Connor stared at the blank screen on his laptop. The cursor blinked in the corner, waiting for him to write something profound. No. Not profound. That wasn't what Robert wanted from him. If Connor hadn't been so ticked off at his dad, he might have appreciated his strategy. Robert couldn't have picked a better way to prove to the rest of the staff that he wasn't going to play favorites. When Connor had offered to help out at the newspaper for a few weeks, this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.

The door swung open, letting in a gust of wind and high-pitched laughter that shattered the peace and quiet of the diner. Connor got ready to level a look as icy as the temperature outside at whoever happened to make eye contact with him first, but the girls who stumbled in didn't even glance his way.

He blinked, just to make sure what he was seeing wasn't a figment of his imagination. No. They were still there. A giggling group of
angels
? They'd shed their winter jackets, revealing long white robes and slightly crumpled wings. Ropes of garland encircled their heads and their boots were spray-painted metallic gold.

Bev emerged from the kitchen and the coffeepot wobbled in her hand. Connor winced, preparing for the crash.

“What in the world—” She mouthed the words.

The door opened again and a young woman dashed in, carrying a trumpet.
A trumpet.
Connor had a sudden urge to smile. She wasn't in costume but she was clearly in charge of the raggedy band because the girls stopped giggling and looked to her for direction. She was in her mid-to-late twenties and there was nothing remotely angelic about
her
. The rust-colored old corduroy peacoat matched the reddish brown curls escaping from her knitted cap. A long denim skirt brushed the tops of ankle-high suede boots. Boots that were snow covered but not painted gold.

“Can I…help you?” Bev glanced nervously toward the kitchen, where Roscoe's stream of complaints rose above the hiss of the grill.

“We're delivering a Good News-gram,” one of the girls announced cheerfully. Her bright red hair matched her enthusiasm. “To Mr. Roscoe.”

“Mr., um, Roscoe?” Bev carefully set the coffee-pot down on the counter and groped for something to hold on to.

“Bev! Got a order up.” The roar from the kitchen made everyone flinch. Connor settled himself more comfortably in the booth. This was getting interesting. The young woman in charge took a tentative step forward as the angels crowded together like a herd of sheep who sensed a wolf in their midst.

“Roscoe, you've got some…visitors.” Bev nearly choked on the word.

“Visitors?” The word rumbled out long and loud like a freight train crossing a bumpy track. “I don't want visitors unless they're
customers
.”

“It's all right, girls.” The young woman gathered her troop in close as footsteps thudded against worn linoleum. Roscoe emerged from the kitchen, shaking his head like an angry bull.

One of the girls squeaked.

The whole diner watched in fascination.

The redheaded girl smiled bravely at him. “Mr. Roscoe?”

Roscoe's eyes bulged when he saw them. “I ain't buying no cookies this year so you can all just fly right back out that door—”

An off-key trumpet blast drowned him out. Roscoe's mouth dropped open.

Another angel stepped forward and blew a strand of tinsel out of her eyes. Short and round, with serious blue eyes and a sweet expression, she reminded Connor of a china doll. “Mr. Roscoe? We're here to deliver a Good News-gram from your sister, Maureen.”

Roscoe's jaw began to work and everyone braced themselves for the eruption. Instead, he scratched the stubble on his chin. “Maureen sent you?” His voice didn't come out at a roar this time. It was low and slightly confused.

The young woman gave the girls an encouraging look and they formed a semicircle. A thin dark-haired girl flitted around, straightening everyone's wings before taking her place with the rest of the group again.

“Behold!” The carrot-top lifted up her arms and the sleeves of her robe wrinkled like an accordion. “We bring you good news of great joy. God sent His son to Earth because He loves you. And your sister does, too.”

There was a crackling sound and then, out of nowhere, music began to play. Everyone in the diner strained to hear it. Connor vaguely recognized the tune. The girls waited a few beats and then started to sing the words. They started out soft but grew more confident, spiraling into the final chorus with clear, rippling sopranos. “O Come All Ye Faithful.” That was it. He remembered singing the Christmas carol when his mother took him to the Christmas Eve service—the only time they went to church as a family.

When they finished, Roscoe stepped closer, practically nose to nose with the girls. Connor drew in a breath, hoping the grouchy old cook wouldn't be too hard on them. After all, it was clear they'd been hired to deliver…what had they called it? A Good News-gram?

He watched in disbelief as Roscoe lifted the corner of his apron and dabbed at his eye.

“Onions,” he muttered. “
Bev!
Get these rug rats some hot chocolate. On the house.”

“Thanks, Mr. Roscoe!” The girls surrounded him and Roscoe's cheeks turned red. Finally, he shook them loose and charged back to the kitchen. Where, Connor guessed, life would make sense again.

The young woman tucked the trumpet under her arm and shepherded the girls toward one of the larger booths in the back of the diner.

They skipped right past Connor's table. When the woman brushed close enough for him to breathe in the appealing combination of fresh air and the subtle floral scent that clung to her jacket, he turned and planted one foot in the aisle.

“That was quite a show. Are you going to pass a hat?” he murmured.

She paused and looked down at him, tilting her head as if she hadn't heard him right. With the quick eye for detail his career had fine-tuned, he catalogued her features. Mouth a shade too wide. Chin a little sharp—what some people might call “heart shaped.” And her eyes…a vibrant aquamarine.

“We don't charge money to deliver Good News-grams,” she said quietly. “We don't even accept donations.”

“Just hot chocolate.”

The aquamarine eyes widened in surprise and she took a half step forward. And bumped into his foot.

Connor wasn't quite ready for her to leave. “So what's the point?”

“To remind people why we celebrate Christmas. And to deliver a personal message from someone who loves them. Don't you think this is the perfect time of year to remind a person they're loved?”

She stepped over his foot. It must have been a hypothetical question because she didn't give him time to formulate an answer. Not that Miss Do Good would have wanted to hear it. Connor brooded over her response for a few minutes. There had to be more to it than what she claimed. His eyes drifted to the blinking cursor on the laptop again and a slow smile spread across his face.

He'd just found
his
warm, fuzzy Christmas story.

“That man is staring at us again,” Alyssa whispered.

Sarah didn't have to be told. She could
feel
the weight of the stranger's gaze. For some reason, it unnerved her more than the sight of Roscoe bearing down on them like a cranky badger. She'd been more than ready to explain what the Good News-grams were all about after he'd stopped her—until she saw the gleam in his silver-gray eyes. He was a skeptic. The girls had done a good thing and then some mocking twenty-first-century
Scrooge
challenged their motives.

Scrooge wasn't exactly accurate, though, Sarah admitted to herself, resisting the urge to sneak another look at him. The man in the booth was a lot younger than the Dicken's character. And a lot more attractive. She shook that pesky thought aside. In her opinion, character counted more than looks.

“I've seen him before,” Emma murmured, licking the back of her spoon and leaving a chocolate mustache on her upper lip.

“You have?” Sarah refused to turn around and gawk at him, even though he didn't seem to have a problem gawking at them.

“Maybe your dad arrested him once.” Mandi's eyes gleamed.

Oh, great.

The girls' parents, especially Emma's father, a sergeant with the local police department, had expressed their doubts about letting their daughters traipse around town dressed like angels. Sarah had assured them she'd keep a close eye on the girls but if Pastor Phillips hadn't stepped in to support their unconventional idea, she doubted the parents would've granted their permission.

The announcement about the Good News-grams had been made during the morning worship service on Sunday and right afterward Sarah had been approached by an elderly woman who wanted a message delivered to her brother. The girls had been ecstatic. And so was Sarah. Until she found out their very first message was to be delivered to Roscoe.

Roscoe's Diner was located on the south side of Jackson Avenue. It wasn't that the neighborhood was unsafe, just a bit more…colorful. Its character hadn't been created by the group of city planners who'd worked to renovate the downtown area over the past five years. If the rumors Sarah had heard were true, Roscoe had formed his own group to
counteract
the renovation. Six months of negotiation ended when the south side business owners stubbornly refused to change their storefronts to match the other businesses. The result was a two-block section at the end of The Avenue that reminded Sarah of eccentric cousins at a family reunion. The rest of the family knew they were there but did their best to ignore them.

“Girls, it's getting late. I better get you home before your parents start to worry.” She left a tip for the waitress, who'd filled up the girls' cups
twice
and added extra marshmallows to their hot chocolate. “Coats on. Careful with your wings.”

“When is our next delivery?” Jennifer asked, carefully tucking her red hair under her hat.

“As soon as we—”

The man in the booth suddenly loomed in front of her. “Did I hear you mention you're doing this again? Is this some kind of club?”

“Just until Christmas,” Jennifer spoke up. “Our church is sponsoring us—”

Sarah ignored him and ushered the girls toward the door. He followed them with the focus of a hound dog on a rabbit trail. “What church is that?”

There was that cynical undercurrent in his voice again. Sarah's teeth ground together. Sure. Now he probably thought they were part of some religious scam.

“Lakeshore Community Fellowship. Your port in life's storms,” Jennifer sang out cheerfully, always willing to add a stray sheep to the flock. The girl was a natural evangelist.

Sarah gave Jennifer a gentle nudge forward but apparently the man's curiosity still wasn't satisfied. He stepped in front of her. Sarah didn't consider herself petite but she had to tilt her head back to look at him. A half smile slashed one corner of his mouth and he handed her a business card.