Angels at Christmas: Those Christmas Angels / Where Angels Go

“You know?”

Her father nodded. “Mr. Fletcher told me it was in the works, but it’s none of my affair, so I didn’t say anything.”

“You involved my father in this?” Julie hissed at Fletcher.

“Sweetheart,” her father said in the gentlest of tones, “perhaps it would be best if you left now.”

“Not yet.” Julie was going to stand her ground. As far as she was concerned, this conversation was a long way from over.

Her father glanced apologetically at his employer. “I’m afraid Julie’s got a temper, sir.”

“Dad!”

“She takes after her mother in that.”

Julie was horrified to hear her father saying such a thing to a man who’d insulted her.

“I’m sorry, Jules,” her father continued, “but you don’t leave me any other choice.” That said, he attempted to hoist her fireman-style over his shoulder and forcibly remove her from the office. Julie didn’t try to fight him, but she was too heavy for him to carry. He did manage to lift her several inches off the ground.

“Dad! Put me down!”

Either she weighed more than he’d assumed or he was willing to listen, because he set her down on the carpet.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Julie, get out of this office,” he said in a low, irate voice. “Now.”

She could only imagine how amused Fletcher must be. “Not until this is settled,” she said, glaring at her father’s employer.

Suddenly her father walked behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. The shock of it caught her unawares and she toppled back against him. Satisfied, he started to drag her out of the room, the heels of her shoes making tracks in the plush carpeting.

“Let me go!” she cried. When she looked up, she saw Roy Fletcher grinning widely. “Don’t you dare laugh,” she warned, stretching out her arm and pointing at him.

“Bye-bye, Ms. Wilcoff.” He waved and had the audacity to laugh outright.

“We aren’t finished!” she shouted. “Daddy, for the love of heaven, let go of me.”

“Not until we’re in the elevator,” her father said. He dragged her through the large double doors.

Fletcher walked around his desk. Julie wanted it understood that he hadn’t heard the last of her. “Furthermore, you owe me an apology!”

Fletcher’s assistant stood at her own desk, eyes twinkling. “Nice to have met you, Ms. Wilcoff.”

“You, too,” Julie said, smiling weakly.

The elevator arrived. “This is your last chance, Fletcher!” she yelled.

“No, Julie,” her father said as he entered the elevator car. The doors slid closed. “This is your last chance. I don’t want you ever pulling anything like this again. Is that clear?”

She nodded. It was ridiculous to be chastised by her father at the age of thirty, but at the moment she felt more like twelve.

It seemed to take two lifetimes for the elevator to descend to the lobby. The silence was so tense it almost crackled—like static electricity. One glance at her father, who was the calmest man she’d ever known, told her he was furious.

“You will apologize,” he said just before the doors slid open.

She’d need to think about that.

“Your car’s going to be towed,” he announced without inflection. “You took a handicapped parking space and you know better.”

She resisted stamping her foot. Yes, she did know better.

“You can either wait for me to get off work to drive you home or you can take the bus. There’s one every half hour.”

Staying on Fletcher Industries property one second longer was intolerable. “I’d rather walk,” she muttered. It would help her work off some of her anger.

“I thought you might decide that.”

“He’s an unreasonable man, Dad.”

Her father didn’t answer. “Jason,” he said to the guard who’d first questioned her. “Until you hear otherwise, my daughter is banned from the building.”

Jason nodded grimly, as if to suggest she’d better not enter this lobby again, not on his watch. “Yes, sir!”

Great. If her father had anything to say about it, the next time she set foot on Fletcher property she’d likely be shot on sight.

Nine

Roy sat back down at his desk and for the first time in months—years—he burst out laughing. He laughed without restraint. Then he returned to work, stared at his computer screen and started to laugh all over again.

The phone rang and Ms. Johnson interrupted his laugh-fest. “Your mother’s on line one.”

His mother? Not until Roy picked up the receiver did he recall that he’d just seen her the week before. He generally heard from her once a month; any more often was unusual. She’d said something about wanting him to see one of her paintings, but he’d told her he’d do that on Christmas Day.

“Hello, Mom.”

The line was silent.

“Mom?”

“Roy, is that you? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“It’s me,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Are you …” She paused, apparently searching for the right word. “You’re not laughing, are you?”

“Laughing?” he repeated, trying to sober his voice. “I was earlier.”

“A joke?” she asked.