The Trouble with Angels (Angels Everywhere #2)(46)

"Myrna and I understand Joe’s going to be away Christmas Day,” Steve began again. "It’s hard for me to believe he’s engaged. Time sure does fly, doesn’t it?”

"It does,” Paul agreed flatly.

"Anyway, Myrna and I were talking, and we want to invite you to spend Christmas Day with us. Myrna puts on quite a spread, and there’s always plenty. We won’t take no for an answer, Paul. Not this time.”

Paul wasn’t entirely sure what his plans were for the holiday. The idea of being alone, without responsibilities, without commitments, strongly appealed to him. He didn’t want his friend to think he didn’t appreciate the invitation, but at the moment he simply didn’t know what he was going to do.

"Would it be all right if I got back to you?” he asked.

"Of course,” Steve said.

Paul grinned. What he’d enjoyed most about his friend was his unabashed enthusiasm for life. Even a solid "no” wouldn’t have discouraged Steve. "I want you to know how much I appreciate you and Myrna thinking of me,” Paul said.

If he could have his own way, Paul mused, he’d go camping. Alone. He’d leave directly after the Christmas Eve services and head for the hills to a campsite he’d taken the family to many times over the years. Then he’d lie under the stars. Away from Barbara’s red stocking over the fireplace. Away from the tattered cotton snowmen his son had made a dozen or so years earlier. Away from Christmas and church and friends, however good their intentions.

He’d stumble over the memories of Barbara while he was camping, too—Paul was wise enough to recognize that—but at least it wouldn’t feel as if the heaviness of his grief were smothering him.

The phone rang, and line one lit up on his telephone. His line. Leta answered it for him, then buzzed him.

"Bernard Bartelli,” she said through the intercom.

Paul ran a hand down his face. He had nothing to offer the old man. Resting his face in his hands, he tried to reason what he could possibly say to the grieving husband.

"Line one,” Leta’s voice said through the intercom.

The line continued to flash like a bright red beacon, and still Paul couldn’t make himself reach for the receiver.

He couldn’t listen to the other man’s pain and not relive his own. He couldn’t hear Bernard’s frustration and anger without feeling it bubble up inside him all over again. Just when everything seemed to be getting better, he had to bear it all again, and he hadn’t the strength. He hadn’t the courage.

His hand trembled as he pushed the button to the intercom and steeled himself. "Please take a message.”

Leta hesitated, then said, "I already told Mr. Bartelli you were in the office.”

"I realize that,” he answered, the words thick with regret. "Just take a message. I’ll get back to him later.” Although he released the intercom, it seemed an eternity before Leta picked up the receiver and the light on line one stopped flashing.

Paul covered his face with both hands and discovered he was trembling. His breath came fast and hard.

A knock sounded against his door, and with a guilty jerk of his shoulders he straightened. "Yes,” he said, making his voice as unemotional and businesslike as he could.

Leta stepped just inside his office. "Mr. Bartelli wanted you to know that Madge is much worse. He’s contacted the children, and they’re coming. It doesn’t look as though Madge will last until Christmas.”

Paul’s heart sank like a concrete block. "I see,” he said.

"Bernard’s spending most of his time at the hospital. You probably won’t be able to catch him by phone there.”

"You’re right, of course. I’ll stop in at the hospital soon.” But he didn’t say when. Didn’t know when he’d work up the courage to lend comfort when he’d found none himself.

Leta didn’t leave. She hedged as if she weren’t sure what to say, then finally blurted out, "Do you want me to ask someone else to be with the Bartellis?”

"Someone else?” He was their pastor. But he wasn’t there when they needed him.

"Steve Tenny or another one of the elders,” she suggested.

Paul stared at her and realized how badly he’d failed the people he’d guided spiritually all these years. "Yes,” he whispered, "perhaps that would be best.”

Leta closed the door softly, and Paul pressed his elbows against his desk and hung his head as the shame and guilt pummeled him. Working on his sermon now was impossible. He felt bone dry. He had nothing to say.

Some time later Paul found himself sitting in the back row of the sanctuary. The church was semidark. What light was available was muted by the stained glass. For a long time he did nothing but sit.

Two of the lambs he had vowed to shepherd had needed him, and he had turned his back on them. He’d surrendered his duties to another because he’d been unable to cope with all that was involved with Madge’s illness.

It would have been easier, he mused, if the cancer that ate away at Madge Bartelli wasn’t the same rare type that had claimed Barbara. One he knew so intimately himself. He recognized each stage, relived the agonies.

He couldn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t face Madge, knowing her pain. Couldn’t console Bernard when he’d found no consolation himself.