A Season of Angels (Angels Everywhere #1)(8)

“I’m doing this for your own good.”

He clamped his mouth closed and appeared to be counting to ten. His head nodded with each number and by the time he reached eight, his patience had evaporated. “Either you move or I’ll be forced to move you myself and I guarantee you won’t approve of my methods.”

Monica was saved from having to make a decision when the door opened and she was momentarily pushed to one side. By the time she’d turned around and recovered, her reluctant hero had disappeared. It didn’t take her two seconds to know where he’d gone. For half a heartbeat she toyed with the notion of going inside the Blue Goose after him.

Defeated and mildly discouraged, Monica trudged her way across the street. The other choir members were mingling with the crowd, passing out invitations for the Christmas Eve service. The idea had been her father’s and although Monica feared they might attract riffraff from the streets, she hadn’t said as much. It wouldn’t do any good to argue with her father, not when he had such a soft spot in his heart for street people.

“Monica.” Michael Simpson, the director, edged his way around two altos and moved toward her. “What happened?”

“I lost my balance and fell off the riser,” she explained.

His eyes widened. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “A . . . someone caught me.”

“I’m glad you weren’t hurt.” His smile was shy as he gently patted her hand. “I wanted to congratulate you on your solo.”

“But . . .”

“Your voice was never more pure.”

Monica gestured weakly. To accept the credit would have been wrong. “But another voice joined mine. Didn’t you hear it? I swear it came out of nowhere.”

“Another voice?” Michael asked, frowning. “I only heard you, and you were magnificent. You really outdid yourself.”

“Monica, Monica.” The Reverend Fischer hurried to his daughter’s side and clasped her hand between his. His eyes shone bright with tears. “I’ve never heard you sing more beautifully. You sounded so much like your mother. I’d almost forgotten what a stunning voice she had. This is God’s gift to you, this voice.”

“But, Dad . . .” She stopped, not knowing how to explain. There had been another voice that merged with hers. One that didn’t happen to belong to anyone in the choir. It didn’t belong to anyone she knew.

“Goodness, Goodness, Goodness,” Mercy said in that small chiding tone Gabriel had used with her so often in the past. “You were the one singing, weren’t you?”

Goodness did not attempt to deny it. “I couldn’t help it. ‘Silent Night’ is one of my personal favorites.”

“But she heard you.”

“I know.” That part had been unintentional. Simply put, Goodness had gotten carried away with herself. But she had used considerable restraint. No one, however, seemed to appreciate that part. She could have used Barbra Streisand’s voice. Barbra could really belt out “Silent Night,” or Judy Garland. Now, that would have caused a whole lot of comment. To her credit, Goodness had resisted, although on second thought, she did an excellent Carol Burnett.

“What if Gabriel hears about this?”

“Don’t worry about it.” The archangel would eventually find out, Goodness knew. There would be no keeping it from him, but even that hadn’t been enough for her to resist singing with Monica.

“He might take you off the assignment.”

“Not a chance. Gabriel’s shorthanded as it is. If he was going to pull me off this prayer request it would be for something a whole lot more troublesome than singing.” The prayer ambassador was far more concerned by the consequences of her folly. Monica had fallen into the arms of that hard-nosed, disgruntled private investigator. If anything unsavory had happened, Goodness would have held herself personally responsible.

Chapter 3

“Timmy,” Jody Potter called from the compact kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”

“In a minute.” The nine-year-old kept his gaze level with the television as he worked the controls of the video game. “I’m just about to save the world.”

“Timmy, please, we go through this every night.” Jody’s nerves were on edge and had been ever since she’d found the letter. The folded sheet of paper had slipped from Timmy’s school binder when she’d set it on the kitchen counter the night before.

A letter to God, but this wasn’t any ordinary letter. Timmy had asked for a father. Jody’s first instinct had been to sit him down and explain that he already had a father. Only Timmy had no recollection of Jeff, who’d died when Timmy was barely ten months old.

Timmy had no way of knowing how proud Jeff had been of his son. How he’d insisted on holding him each night when he returned from the office and feeding him his last bottle. Timmy didn’t remember that it was his father who’d sung him to sleep and then stood by his crib, gently patting his back. Her son couldn’t possibly remember that Jeff had burst into tears of joy the night Timmy had been born.

What Timmy wanted now was a father who was alive. Someone who could throw a ball and catch better than she could, according to his letter. Someone who understood and enjoyed football. Someone who would be a friend.

What Timmy accepted far better than she did herself, Jody realized, was that Jeff was forever lost to them. Her son was looking for a replacement.