Angels at Christmas: Those Christmas Angels / Where Angels Go

“I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to talk with someone openly and honestly,” Marta said after their second glass of wine and two cups of strong coffee. “I didn’t know where else to turn. Lots of our friends have split up over the years, but … this just can’t be happening. Not to Jack and me, and yet it is, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Anne squeezed Marta’s hand. “I hoped Burton would come to his senses. I prayed and pleaded with God to give me my husband back. My entire identity was tied up with his.”

Marta grew tearful again. “I’m beginning to wonder if God really answers our prayers.”

Anne believed He did. “While it’s true God didn’t give me the answer I wanted, He did answer me.”

“How do you mean?”

“I have my own identity now, and it isn’t that of Burton’s ex-wife. I’m Anne Fletcher—and I’m also Mary Fleming, artist.”

“Why did you decide to use a pseudonym?”

It was a well-kept secret. Only a few people knew. Her fear was that friends, out of pity and concern, would purchase her landscapes in a desire to support her. Anne didn’t want their sympathy. Come hell or high water, she was determined to make it on her own.

“Mary Fleming is business-savvy, smart and talented. Anne Fletcher is meek, mild and a victim, in the eyes of the world.”

“I love it,” Marta said, reaching for the tab and signing it to her room. “Speaking of Mary,” she said, “I’m really looking forward to seeing her work.”

Anne hesitated. “You’re sure about this?”

“Is that Anne or Mary speaking?”

“Anne,” she confessed with a laugh.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Okay, come to my car with me. I brought a sketch.”

They left the hotel, and Anne handed the valet her claim check. He brought her car around, and at Anne’s instruction, parked it by the outside curb to avoid delaying anyone who was pulling into the portico. The Cadillac was one of the few things she’d gotten as part of the divorce settlement. Roy said that was because Burton had wanted it to look as if he’d been fair.

“As I explained, this isn’t one of my landscapes,” Anne said, opening the door. Because of the size of the painting, she’d brought along her sketchbook. It lay on the passenger seat, and Anne picked it up and opened it to the sketch of the angel.

For a long moment Marta didn’t say anything. “This is the sketch you painted from?”

“Yes, in a huge rush.” She told her the size of the canvas. While on the ferry, she’d shaded in the sketch, using pencils. “Like I said this morning, I just finished the painting. I’m sure the oil is still wet.” Then, because she regretted showing her art to such a renowned professional, Anne quickly added, “Listen, it’s all right if you don’t like it.”

“Like it?” Marta said, meeting her gaze. “I love it. This is incredible. I realize it’s only a sketch, but if the painting’s anything like this, you have a real winner on your hands. Maybe it’s my state of mind, I don’t know,” she said, staring down at the pad, “but I feel like … like I’ve been touched by God just looking at it.”

Anne could hardly believe Marta had said that….

“I’m stopping by your place first thing tomorrow, and if this painting is half as good as I think it’ll be, I’m taking it back to New York. Agreed?”

“I … of course.”

“I can get eight or nine for this.”

“Hundred?”

Marta grinned. “Thousand.”

“Eight or nine thousand?” Anne knew she had to be dreaming.

“Maybe more. Now, I have to tell you that as the dealer, I take a percentage, but you could still end up with four or five thousand dollars.”

Anne wanted to throw her arms in the air and scream for joy. Instead, she clasped both hands over her mouth and silently said a prayer of gratitude.

Eight

Now that her father was working, Julie always stopped at the mailbox on her way home. For obvious reasons, she no longer accompanied him or rode her bicycle—her brand-new bicycle—to and from school. As she strolled toward the house on Monday, she shuffled through the day’s collection of bills, notices, Christmas cards and the usual junk mail—and paused at the thick manila envelope addressed to her. Julie hesitated in midstep. The return address was that of a well-known Seattle law firm.

Tearing it open, Julie juggled the house keys, the rest of the mail and her backpack as she extracted a letter and a thick wad of paper. Using her shoulder to open the door, she nearly fell into the house when she realized what she was reading.

A settlement offer.

From Roy Fletcher.

Julie scanned the details and by the time she’d finished she could hardly breathe. Mr. High-and-Mighty wanted to buy her off. He was willing to spend twenty-five thousand dollars to shut her up. Julie couldn’t believe it, couldn’t comprehend why anyone would go to such outlandish lengths to get rid of her, especially when she’d assured him she had no intention of suing.

She didn’t want his money. She didn’t want anything from him. His offer was the biggest insult of her life.

Pacing now, she stomped from one end of the living room to the other. She knew it wasn’t a good idea to try to reason with Fletcher, especially when she felt like this, but she couldn’t stand still and she couldn’t stay home. She had to do something before she exploded with indignation. This pent-up energy had to go somewhere.

Her thoughts continued to churn as she tossed her car keys in the air and deftly caught them. Good idea or not, her mind was made up. She was going to tell Mr. Big Bucks exactly what he could do with his “settlement offer.”

Julie was so angry she barely noticed the ten-mile drive in heavy traffic. Naturally there wasn’t a single parking space available anywhere at Fletcher Industries. With no other option, she pulled into a handicapped spot.

Arms swinging at her sides, every step filled with determination, Julie headed for the company’s headquarters. In the back of her mind a small voice whispered that this was probably a mistake. She didn’t care. She was beyond caring.

She stormed into the building, past the security guard, a young man with impressive biceps. Jason, she recalled. She’d met him last week. “Miss,” he said, stopping her. “You have to check in here first.”

Julie waved her hand at him as he moved out from behind his desk. “You don’t want to mess with me just now.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you onto the elevator until you’ve been cleared by security.”

“Hey, man, that’s Mr. Wilcoff’s daughter,” a second guard said, coming around the corner. “How you doin’?” he asked, as if they were the best of friends.

Julie vaguely remembered him from the day of her accident. Roy Fletcher had spoken to him briefly when he’d dropped off her bike at the office complex.

Julie smiled at the first guard. “You remember me, don’t you, Jason?” she said. “I came here with my dad about a week ago. How’s it going?”

“Okay, I guess,” he said, eyeing her skeptically.

For once Julie was grateful for the family resemblance.

“Yeah, I remember you now,” he said after a moment. “Do you have an appointment with your father?”

Julie smiled—and lied through her teeth. She had an appointment, all right, an appointment with justice. “I do. I apologize if I was rude earlier.”