Angels at Christmas (13 page)

“Yes, but…” Julie paused. “Isn't that the parade of ships?” This was one of her favorite Christmas traditions. Last year, she and her father had managed to get her mother down to the waterfront. It had been a highlight of the season for so many years, and she hated to miss it. Especially now, when the event held such a significant memory for her.

Roy glanced up. “Yes, I believe Saturday night is the annual Christmas parade of ships.”

“I don't suppose you'd care to see that, would you?” she asked hesitantly.

“Actually I would. I have a good view of Lake Washington if you'd like to see it from my condo.”

“Dinner, too?”

Grinning, he nodded.

“Wonderful.” Julie was thrilled not only with the opportunity to view the boats festooned with their Christmas lights but to know Roy better. His coming here was encouraging. Then a thought sobered her. They continued to trip over the matter of that settlement again and again. “You have to agree to one thing first.”

“Fine, let's hear it.”

She threw back her shoulders. “If you say a word about the settlement or mention money even once, I'm out of there.”

He seemed about to argue. “If you insist,” he finally said.

“I do.”

“Then I guess I have to agree.”

“Good.” She smiled and raised both hands, palms up. “See? That wasn't so hard now, was it?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said with another grin, “it was.”

Julie laughed, walking past him and into the house. She opened the front door and looked over her shoulder, silently inviting him inside. “I should ask my father to escort you from the house, just so you know how it feels.”

“Yes, well—”

“Never mind.” Her father sat in the living room reading the evening paper. He lowered it as Julie walked in, Roy Fletcher a few steps behind.

“Dad, make Mr. Fletcher welcome while I shower, okay?”

Her father's eyes widened. “What's this?”

“We made peace,” Julie explained.

Dean turned to Julie and then his employer. “Somehow, I knew you would.” He set his newspaper aside. “Do you play poker, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Now and then. I might be a little rusty.”

“Oh, that's not a problem.” Her father rubbed his hands together and gave a stagy wink. “I'll get a deck.”

A
nne couldn't stop smiling. Everything was working out so well between her son and Julie Wilcoff. With Eleanor Johnson, Roy's assistant, feeding her information, Anne had learned that he'd gone to Julie's yesterday afternoon—even though he'd thrown her out of his office. Her son had actually sought out this delightful and strong-willed young woman.

That alone was enough to make Anne weak with joy, but then she'd found out that Roy had gone a step further and asked Julie for a date. He'd invited her to his home on Saturday! Ms. Johnson was busy contacting caterers. He was having Julie over for dinner, and then they were going to watch the Christmas parade of ships.

This was almost more than Anne had dared to hope, the best early Christmas gift she could ever receive.

Although Anne had only met Julie briefly, she'd taken an instant liking to the young woman. Julie wasn't at all what she'd expected, although that didn't matter. Julie was nearly as tall as her son and solidly built, but as Anne had learned a long time ago, it was character and not appearance that counted. Roy had fallen for a pretty face and an empty heart once, and he'd suffered the consequences. So had Anne….

“Oh, my,” she murmured aloud, irritated with herself. Describing Julie as “solid” made her sound dumpy and unattractive, and nothing could be further from the truth. She just wasn't Aimee, who was petite and blond and delicate. Julie was none of those things, and that was all to the good. Besides,
solid
applied to her character, solid and direct, unlike Aimee's wispy charm.

Anne had spent a second day at the office, finishing her angels. Home now, her spirits soaring, she stood barefoot in the kitchen chopping vegetables for a huge salad when the phone rang. She automatically checked her caller ID and noticed the New York area code.

It could only be Marta.

“Hello,” Anne said, pleased to hear from her friend. The possibility that the angel painting might sell for an astronomical eight thousand dollars—or more—had set her heart racing with hope and excitement.

“Anne, it's Marta. How are you?”

“Fabulous! It was so nice to see you. I've been feeling great ever since.”

“I'm glad,” Marta said.

“How are you?” Anne was concerned about her friend's marital situation.

“I'm doing fine.”

Somehow Anne doubted that. “And Jack?”

Marta hesitated. “He's still being Jack.”

Anne knew then. Marta hadn't confronted her husband, because the potential aftermath of bringing the truth into the open outweighed the pain. Anne didn't blame Marta. Not so long ago she'd faced a similar situation; she understood and sympathized.

“I'm calling about the painting,” Marta said brightly. A little too brightly.

Anne held her breath. “Did my angel sell?”

“It's not for sale,” Marta said flatly.

Taken aback, Anne said nothing.

“Paintings are always more attractive when the artist refuses to sell, my dear.”

“Oh.” To Anne's way of thinking, that was dishonest.

“It
is
your personal favorite, isn't that correct?”

“Yes, but…” Four thousand dollars was half a year's worth of mortgage payments. Anne had begun to hope, to do something she'd told herself she never would, and that was to count on selling one of her paintings. “I
would
like to sell the angel….”

“But only if the price is right.”

“Well, yes…”

“That's what I told her.”

“Her?”

“Mrs. Gould. She's one of the Berkshire Goulds. She's got oodles and oodles of money.”

“She likes my angel?” Anne was almost afraid to hope.

“Likes her?” Marta asked, laughing. “Evelyn is determined to have her, but I wouldn't sell. I explained the situation and told her I needed to discuss it with you first.”

“Has she offered eight thousand dollars?”

“No.”

Anne's heart fell. If an extremely wealthy woman hadn't offered that much for a painting she supposedly wanted, then perhaps she wasn't interested, after all.

“She offered more.” Marta giggled.

“Ten thousand?” Anne whispered.

“More.”

“And you turned her
down?
”

“Of course I did. I had to confer with you. Besides, if we cave too easily, she might suspect you really
want
to sell it.”

“Oh, Marta, I don't know if we're doing the right thing.”

“Trust me, Anne. I've been in this business for years. I
know how to work this buyer. Furthermore, my commission from this sale is my Christmas gift to you.”

Anne was astonished. “I can't let you do that!”

“Yes, you can and you will.”

“But I want to make it on my own, Marta.” This was one of the very reasons Anne had chosen to paint under the name of Mary Fleming. She didn't want her friends' charity.

“If you knew Mrs. Gould, you'd know that she's—”

“I'm talking about the commission.”

The line went quiet for a moment. “Actually,” Marta confessed, “I might end up moving in with you at some point, and I was hoping to pave the way in case that happened.”

“You're serious?” Sometimes with Marta it was hard to tell.

“Very.”

“But you haven't confronted Jack?”

Anne heard Marta's sigh. “I've tried, and every time I broach the subject, it's as if Jack knows what's coming and starts talking about something else. Once he simply got up and left the room. I'm so emotional about it. All I seem to do is cry and then I get so angry with Jack and with myself that I'm a worthless mess.”

“Of course you're emotional!” Anne said. “You have every right to be.”

“I trusted Jack.”

Anne had trusted Burton, too. Although she was reluctant to mention it, Anne felt she'd be doing her friend a disservice if she didn't share the painful lessons she'd learned. “Keep an eye on your finances.” She hated to give her more to worry about, but this was the trap Anne had fallen into, at great cost to herself.

“Jack would never—”

“I said the same thing about Burton,” Anne told her. “What you need to remember is that if Jack's untrustworthy in one area, he could be untrustworthy in others.”

“Like Burton?”

Anne swallowed around the lump blocking her throat. “Like Burton,” she repeated.

“How much did he cheat you out of?”

Anne didn't want to think about it, didn't want to confess how blind and foolish she'd been. “A quarter of a million dollars is my best estimate.”

“Oh, my,” Marta breathed. “That much?”

“I'm past the anger now.”

“But how can you be?” she demanded, outraged on Anne's behalf.

“What else can I do? Hate him? Do you honestly think Burton cares how I feel about him?” Anne had gone through all of this after the divorce, gone through it over and over again. “It wouldn't matter. The only person I'd be hurting is myself.”

“But you must've been an emotional wreck.”

“Of course I was. In the beginning I was angry, and then I was so hurt I couldn't stop crying. For a while, I wondered if it was even worth living.”

“Oh, Anne.”

She'd never told anyone about those dark, ugly thoughts. Anne wondered if she should be confessing how bleak everything had seemed during those first dreadful months. When she'd discovered how bad her financial situation was, she'd sunk to her lowest depths. Once she'd learned she could cope with even that, her sense of self had begun to reassert itself.

“Frankly, I would've wanted to kill him.”

Anne laughed. “I considered that, but I preferred not to spend the rest of my life in jail.”

Marta laughed, too, but there was little humor in it.

“You want advice?” Anne had been in the same position Marta was now. She knew that her friend probably hadn't been ready to hear her suggestions when they'd spoken the
week before. She also knew how difficult it was to make decisions and think clearly during any kind of crisis.

“Please.” Marta's voice was as soft as a whisper.

“If I were going through it again, the first thing I'd do is see an attorney and have our joint assets frozen.”

Marta's breath came in a rush. “You told me to see one when I met you in Seattle, but now? So soon?”

“The sooner the better.”

“Okay,” Marta said, her voice gaining conviction. “I can do that.”

“A good one, but not one you both know.”

“All right.” Marta hesitated. “Should I tell Jack what I've done?”

To be fair to both parties, Anne felt she should. “I would. In your own time. It doesn't have to be confrontational.”

“I should keep it simple, in other words, like…like, I know what you're doing and I've seen an attorney. Period. End of story.”

“Something like that.”

“I'll do it.” Marta sounded determined now.

Anne longed to put her arms around her friend and offer her reassurance and comfort. Marta, so experienced and sophisticated, was as emotionally vulnerable as Anne had been.

“Call me the minute you know anything,” Anne said, trying to encourage her.

“About the painting?”

Anne had forgotten about her angel. “That, too, but right now I'm more concerned that you take care of yourself.”

“I…I think I'll wait until after the holidays,” Marta said. “To see an attorney, I mean.”

“Don't,” Anne warned. “Do it today, before you lose your nerve.”

“You're right, you're right. I will.”

“And stay in touch,” Anne said.

“I will,” Marta promised.

Anne hoped she would. But there was nothing more she could say or do. It was Marta's decision.

T
hings were working out nicely, Goodness thought. Despite their differences, Julie and Roy had knocked down some of the roadblocks that stood between them. Although she hadn't admitted it yet, Julie was attracted to Roy. They were having their first official date on Saturday, and the relationship was starting to take shape. Mercy was right, after all. Goodness gave her friend credit; Julie might very well be the answer to Anne's prayer request for her son.

This was the second evening the three angels had hovered over the Wilcoffs' living room while Dean and Roy played two-handed poker. Granted, Dean and not Julie had invited him tonight, since they'd both enjoyed the previous poker game. But Julie hadn't objected. And she'd even made dinner again—black-bean soup, corn bread and a salad. Chatting as he dealt, Dean picked up his two cards for Texas Hold'em and set the deck on the coffee table between them.

Roy looked over his cards and quickly placed his bet. Mercy, a serious student of cards, peered down at his hand.

“Should I help him with the deal?” she whispered.

“No,” Goodness cried. It was exactly this sort of intervention that got them in trouble. “Roy can win or lose this
game on his own. Besides, I think it would do him good if Dean beat him again.”

“Oh, come on,” Mercy pleaded. “Don't be such a spoilsport.”

Shirley sat atop the light fixture and sighed expressively. “Have you ever noticed how the game of poker is a lot like Roy's life just now?”

Goodness and Mercy stared at her. Sometimes Shirley came up with the most bizarre pronouncements.

“In what way?” Goodness was already certain she was going to regret asking.

“Notice how willing Roy is to fold,” Shirley said, pointing to the six and the three, one a spade and the other a heart.

“Well, yes, but if I was dealt those cards in Texas Hold'em, I'd fold, too,” Mercy told her. “He doesn't have much opportunity to make anything of it, and Dean has something better.”

“Roy's done the same in life,” Shirley said. “He's cast his father and Aimee aside. His inability to forgive them, as Anne has done, is a blight on his soul.” She shook her head. “Forgiveness is hard, and most people tend to hold on to their hurts, to take some kind of perverse satisfaction in them. I don't understand, but it's the way of humans.”

“Roy needs more time,” Goodness murmured. Angry and bitter as he was, any positive relationship with his father was impossible. Every effort Burton had made toward reconciliation with his son, Roy had rejected. He wasn't anywhere close to finding forgiveness for either his father or Aimee.

“Perhaps,” Shirley agreed, but reluctantly.

“He'll get a better hand next time,” Mercy said, watching as Roy shuffled the deck.

“He needs what humans call luck, and we both know there's no such thing as luck, only God,” Goodness reminded them both, but no one seemed to be listening. Both her fellow Prayer Ambassadors were intent on the game.

“Roy needs all the help he can get,” Shirley said. “That's why we're here.”

“Did you lend him a little heavenly assistance?” Goodness asked when Roy came up with a pair of kings.

First Mercy and now Shirley. The two of them were out of control. Goodness was the only one with a sense of mission, a sense of purpose. They had important work to accomplish, and her fellow Ambassadors weren't taking it seriously. They seemed more interested in this card game. Not that Goodness was averse to poker, of course, but unlike her colleagues, she did have her priorities straight. Pouting, she folded her wings, crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

Mercy looked up, surprised at this uncharacteristic display of temper. “I didn't have anything to do with him getting that pair.”

“Me, neither,” Shirley said with an expression of such innocence that Goodness had no choice but to believe her. “I'm just saying Roy could do with a good turn of the cards, but I wasn't responsible for that one.”

“Oh, all right,” Goodness muttered. She was tired of policing her friends. And at least they seemed to be realigning their priorities….

The phone rang. “Who's that?” Mercy asked.

“Quiet,” Goodness said. “Julie's answering it.”

Both Shirley and Mercy flew around while Goodness hovered in the kitchen doorway, listening in on the conversation. “It's Anne,” she said excitedly.

“How'd she get Julie's phone number?” Shirley asked.

“I don't know.”

“Probably the phone book,” Mercy suggested.

“What does she want?”

“Shh,” Goodness cautioned. This was wonderful! She beamed at her friends. “Anne's inviting her to lunch.”

“When?”

“Saturday.”

“She's having dinner with Roy on Saturday,” Mercy said with a worried frown.

Goodness motioned for them to be quiet, fast losing her patience. This was hard enough without the two of them pestering her. Mercy held both hands over her mouth, while Shirley whirled about the room like a hamster on a treadmill.

“Well?” Shirley said when Goodness left the kitchen doorway.

“They're meeting on the Seattle waterfront.”

“I
love
the waterfront,” Mercy said.

Goodness looked at her. “Promise me you won't start throwing those salmon again.”

“I'm not making any such promise.”

“Need I remind you that we're on a mission?”

Shirley nodded sternly. “A very important mission.”

Goodness noticed how Mercy glanced longingly at the deck of cards and the piles of chips. She found it far too easy to get distracted. Maybe her priorities weren't quite in order yet.

 

Julie gathered the team of junior-high girls around her. Huddling close together to ward off the December-afternoon cold, her soccer team radiated energy and enthusiasm. Each girl thrust her right arm into the center of the huddle and gave a loud cheer.

The first string raced onto the field for the opening kick, and the others returned to the bench. As Julie started down the sideline, she glanced into the stadium. A number of parents had already arrived. More would come later in the game, depending on work schedules. The girls appreciated the support and so did Julie.

She had several talented players. Most of the girls had been involved with soccer from the age of five, and they knew how to play as a team. At halftime, they were ahead three to two.

Their audience had grown, Julie saw as she sent her girls back onto the field for the second half of the game. Darkness descended earlier and earlier these days, and the field lights came on automatically. As they did, she saw a lone figure standing by the chain-link fence at the far end of the field.
It couldn't be
. Roy Fletcher? Surely she was mistaken. Why would he attend one of her games?

Julie felt the blood rush to her face and then just as quickly drain away. He'd been to the house for dinner two nights in a row, and played cards with her father both times. He'd apparently enjoyed the meals, although she'd never thought of Roy Fletcher as the kind of man who'd appreciate a bowl of black-bean soup and buttery corn bread. He'd surprised her by accepting and then eating two big bowlfuls, all the while praising her cooking skills. He'd been equally enthusiastic about Wednesday's Crock-Pot stew. Now he'd shown up at her soccer game.

The two teams were tied in the third quarter, but Abraham Lincoln managed to pull off a win with a last-second goal, ending the match with a score of four to three. Julie went into the locker room with the team, but she didn't expect Roy to be waiting for her when she finished nearly an hour later, after the girls had showered, changed and cleaned up.

Locking the room, she carried the soccer balls to the equipment area, then headed toward the faculty parking lot. As she stepped from the building and into the darkness of late afternoon, she saw Roy silhouetted against one of the lights. He'd pulled his vehicle around to where she'd parked and leaned casually against the fender as if he had nothing better to do.

“I wondered if you'd gotten lost in there.” He straightened as she approached and moved toward her.

“Hi.” His being here flustered Julie. Roy Fletcher was a very important man, far too important to spend valuable
time watching her coach a soccer game. “I thought I saw you.” That wasn't the most intelligent comment she'd ever made, but she couldn't think of anything better.

“I didn't get here until halftime.”

“You didn't need to come. I certainly didn't expect you to.”

“I didn't expect to come, either,” he confessed. His hands were plunged deep in his overcoat pockets. “It's been years since I attended a soccer match. This afternoon, a business associate sent me a report about our overseas sales, and I suddenly started thinking about European soccer.”

“They take it very seriously over there.”

“Seems to me your girls do, too.”

“True.” She nodded slowly. “My team works hard and winning is important, but it's about far more than that.”

“I disagree,” he countered. “Winning is everything.”

“Perhaps in your line of work.”

“In every line of work. In everything. Look at soccer. Each game counts and—”

Julie held up her hand. Life and business were intense for Roy. Or maybe life
was
business in his view. “Now isn't the time to be having this conversation,” she said briskly. Julie was tired and cold and in no state to reason with Roy Fletcher. If he wanted to argue, she'd prefer to be at her best, and currently she was far from it.

“You're right,” he murmured as he walked her to her car.

“You came, and I'd like to thank you for that,” she said.

“That's the weird part,” Roy went on. “I got sidetracked there for a moment. As I said, I was looking at European sales figures, and I started thinking about soccer. Then I remembered that you were coaching a game this afternoon and I had this strange urge to come and watch.”

She noticed the urge hadn't been to come and see her. “Strange urge or not, I'm honored you were here.” She told
herself it was ludicrous to feel disappointed that
she
hadn't been the reason.

“It was an excellent game.”

“Thank you on behalf of my team.” She inserted the key into her lock, anxious now to get home and under a hot shower.

“And you're an excellent coach.”

Again she smiled her appreciation. She tossed her backpack on the passenger seat. She didn't want to be rude by climbing into her car and driving away, but Roy didn't seem to have anything else to say.

As it turned out, Julie was wrong about that.

“Do you enjoy clam chowder?” he asked unexpectedly.

“Yes, I do.” It was one of her favorite soups.

“There's a little hole-in-the-wall café not far from here. They used to serve the most incredible clam chowder. I don't even know if the café's still open. I haven't been there in years, but I'm willing to look if you are.”

Julie wanted to be sure she understood what he was asking her. “Are you inviting me to dinner?” He seemed nervous about this, but she must be misreading him. Roy Fletcher had nothing to be nervous about.

“Yes, I guess I am asking you to dinner.” He brushed a hand across his face. “Like I said, I don't know if the café's still open. I ate there in college quite a lot. The food was cheap and good.”

Money certainly wasn't something he needed to worry about now.

The differences between them—between his fame and wealth and her middle-class obscurity—would probably be a factor if they were to continue seeing each other. In a flash Julie understood; it was more than dinner he was asking her about. He did want to see her, get to know her, and he was asking if she felt the same way about him.

The look in his eyes was intense. “I like what I know about you, Julie.”

She was bewildered and a little shaken. Roy Fletcher was interested in dating
her
, a thirty-year-old teacher with few marriage prospects. “Other than your tendency to be arrogant, I like you, too.”

He grinned. “You have your faults.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“The word
stubborn
comes to mind.”

“I'm stubborn when I happen to be right.” She wasn't letting that one pass.

He smiled. “I think that's a conversation we should reserve for another time,” he said, echoing her earlier remark. “Agreed?”

She nodded. “I can go to dinner dressed like this?” She had on a nylon blue-and-white running suit—the Abraham Lincoln school colors. Her name was printed across the back with the silkscreen of a wolf, the team symbol.