Those Christmas Angels (Angels Everywhere #5)(49)

“Thank you,” her friend whispered again. “I don’t know how I’d cope if it wasn’t for you.”

“We’ll have a wonderful Christmas,” Anne tried to assure her, although she knew what Marta was experiencing. The pain and shock…

“Oh, Anne, I’m just shocked that Jack would be so stupid.”

“He might come to his senses yet.”

“I’m not counting on it,” Marta said. “He seemed so sincere, so horrified. He kept insisting I was wrong. I never knew he was capable of such lies.”

It hurt just to listen to her friend’s agony. Anne didn’t have the heart to tell her that the pain, even when dulled by time, had a way of resurfacing when you least expected it. Anne had felt its sting only moments earlier when she’d opened her mail.

Marta grew quiet, as if she was composing herself. She took a deep, audible breath. “I’ve been so caught up in my own troubles I forgot to mention what’s been going on with your painting.”

Although she was dying to know, Anne was prepared to put it off. “That’s not important now.”

“But it is.”

“Did Mrs. Gould decide against it?” Anne asked. She’d never been comfortable with letting the buyer assume she had no intention of selling her angel.

“No, she’s more interested than ever, but now there’s another prospective buyer.”

“That’s wonderful,” Anne said excitedly.

“This one claims she’ll match or beat anything Mrs. Gould offers.”

“Are you saying that two customers have gotten into a bidding war?” Anne was almost afraid to guess what this could mean financially.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“How…how much?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes!” she cried. “Tell me.”

“Well, first of all,” Marta teased, “I’m not positive the artist’s willing to sell it.”

“Oh, Marta.” Anne couldn’t help it; she giggled.

“It’s an incredible painting, and everyone who sees it is drawn to it. Your angel has become the most talked-about piece in our gallery. She’s aroused more interest than anything else on display, and of course, the fact that it’s December is a plus. You couldn’t have painted her at a more appropriate time.”

Anne’s heart swelled with pride. “Oh, you’re making me feel so good!”

“That’s what the painting does, you know. People look at your angel and they feel better about life.”

“Has she helped you?” Anne asked.

“Oh, yes,” Marta replied. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s a soothing quality about your angel. It’s…almost as if I were standing close to God.”

Anne regretted having given the angel up so quickly. Even now, she didn’t know if she’d imagined the vision or it had actually happened. She chose to believe the angel had been real, but who was to know?

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

“I…I’m not sure,” Anne admitted.

“Well, let me know before I make a deal.”

While Anne loved the angel, ten thousand dollars or more for one of her pieces would go a long way toward establishing her credibility in the art world—and paying her mortgage.

“I’ve been offered twenty-five thousand for it,” Marta announced.

Anne felt faint. “How much?”

“You heard me right.”

“I—I can’t believe it! You’ve got to be making this up.”

“No, and the bid is climbing.”

“Marta, I have no idea what to say.”

“Just call and tell me when your flight’s coming in and I’ll be there to pick you up, check in hand. We do want to sell this painting, don’t we?”

Because she knew it was the right thing, Anne said, “Yes, we do.” Burton would probably never hear about her success, but that didn’t matter. Anne Fletcher was an artist and an unusual one at that. She could support herself with what she made on her paintings.

Nineteen

Roy caught himself whistling as he dressed for work Monday morning. He took a long look at himself in the mirror and saw something he hadn’t seen in years. Happiness. It had sneaked up on him and could only be attributed to his relationship with Julie. He liked the way she made him feel, the way she challenged him and made him laugh. He liked her warmth and honesty. He’d discovered that he wanted to be with her more and more—all the time, in fact. And this had happened in only a few weeks. He often found himself impatient when they were apart, eager to be with her again. Suddenly he wanted—no, needed—to hear the sound of her voice.

Without further thought he picked up the phone.

Julie answered on the second ring.

“What are you doing?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“Roy, it’s six o’clock in the morning. I’m getting ready for school. What do you suppose I’m doing?”

“I was hoping you were thinking of me.” He straddled a kitchen chair, grabbing his coffee mug. The best Colombian coffee and conversation with Julie—not a bad way to start his day.