Christmas 2011 Trio A

Two

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

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

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

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

“What do you know about computers?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t much care for him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julie nodded.

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

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

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

“We’ve already been through this.”

“And your point is?”

“Now, Dad, Emily and I think—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure?” Julie asked.

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

“It’s Mom’s recipe, remember?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, if your father is Dean Wilcoff.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julie could barely contain her anxiety. “Well?”

“I’m seeing Mr. Fletcher in the morning to discuss my questions.” The smallest hint of a smile touched his mouth.

“For better or worse, it looks like I’ve got the job if I want it.”

“Oh, Dad! That’s terrific news.”

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

Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, there are,” Gabriel said bluntly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We can,” Shirley promised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who’s she calling?” Mercy asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fine, Roy. And you?”

“Busy.”

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

He hesitated. “I have five minutes.”

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

“Any particular reason?”

“I’m meeting Marta Rosenberg for dinner.”

“Should I know the name?” Roy asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this a joke, Mother?”

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