Charlie's Angels

Charlie's Angels
Cheryl St.John

Charlie McGraw never should have bought the angel book for his precocious daughter.Because then Meredith wouldn't be convinced that getting a new mommy was as simple as having an "angel" sprinkle him with her "miracle dust." And she never would have believed the beautiful blond-haired woman who drove a truck called the "Silver Angel" was some treetop angel come to life.Starla Richards was no angel. But try telling that to a five-year-old who was so starved for a mother's love that she'd stowed away on Starla's rig. Or convincing herself that miracles just didn't happen to ordinary people when Starla found herself snowbound with the handsome, caring widower and his adorable daughter….

“I’m not an angel. I’m just a person,” Starla explained.

Meredith opened her book. “This is the mommy and daddy,” she said, pointing to an artist’s rendition of a couple in a house with a roaring fireplace. “The daddy has lots of work to do. He comes home too late at night and the mommy and the little kids are sad, ’cause they miss him.” She turned a page. “See, they decorate the tree, but the daddy isn’t there.

“Then the beautiful angel on top of the Christmas tree hears how sad they are and she comes to life,” Meredith continued. “She sprinkles miracle dust on the mommy and daddy. The daddy kisses the mommy under the mistletoe, and then he stays home and opens presents with the kids. See, the angel looks just like you.”

The woman glanced over at the white-robed apparition. “Meredith, I’m not an angel. How am I going to convince you?”

Meredith just shrugged. The angel lady probably had to keep it a secret in case everybody wanted miracle dust and there wasn’t enough!

Charlie’s Angels

Cheryl St.John

CHERYL ST.JOHN

A peacemaker, a romantic, an idealist and a discouraged perfectionist are the words that Cheryl St.John uses to describe herself. The author of both historical and contemporary novels says she’s been told that she is painfully honest.

Cheryl admits to being an avid collector who collects everything from dolls to Depression glass, brass candlesticks, old photographs and—most especially—books. She and her husband love to browse antiques and collectibles shops.

She says that knowing her stories bring hope and pleasure to readers is one of the best parts of being a writer. The other wonderful part is being able to set her own schedule and have time to work around her growing family.

Cheryl loves to hear from readers. You can write her at: P.O. Box 24732, Omaha, NE 68124.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Christmas was for families. Charlie McGraw glanced around the cheerfully decorated interior of the Waggin’ Tongue Grill. A two-foot artificial tree sat at the corner of the counter by the cash register. Lighted garlands had been draped around the window opening that looked into the kitchen, and from the back Harry Ulrich’s off-key baritone could be heard humming a tune that switched between “Jingle Bell Rock” and “Yellow Submarine” every other stanza. Finally Charlie’s attention wandered to the other patrons.

Snippets of excited conversation drifted his way, making it obvious that Kevin and Lacy Bradford and their two kids had just returned from a shopping trip. Just in time, too, if the snow blowing across the nearly empty parking lot was any indication. Heavy snow had been falling and drifting for most of the day. Charlie wouldn’t have brought Meredith out in this weather without his four-wheel-drive Jeep Cherokee.

At another table, Forrest and Natalie Perry took turns picking up a spoon that their chortling baby girl threw onto the floor. Their son, Wade, chattered while finishing off a dish of ice cream. The Perrys lived within walking distance of the Waggin’ Tongue.

Charlie glanced at his five-year-old daughter. That morning he’d wrestled her curly dark hair into a fabric-covered elastic band, but strands were trailing down her neck already. He should take her shopping when the weather cleared. Try to get in the holiday spirit. Have her pick out some gifts for her grandparents.

With school closed for two weeks and no kindergarten diversion, Meredith was bored and had taken to following him around his workshop, asking at least ten rapid-fire questions a minute. His responder had been on autopilot most of the morning.

“If a doctor cut open your neck, could he see hiccups?” she asked now.

“He could probably see muscles moving or something. I really don’t know. I think hiccups come more from your chest.”

“If he cut open your chest, then could he see hiccups?”

“Maybe. But a doctor wouldn’t do that.”

“Where do French fries grow?”

“You cut potatoes into French fries, and potatoes grow in the ground. In Idaho mostly.”

“Is Idaho far away?”

“It’s in the United States.”

She drowned another fry in ketchup. “When are we gonna get a tree, Daddy?”

“Hmm? Oh, soon. We’ll get one soon.”