Angels And Elves

“Forrest, Forrest, this is me, Andrea, your adorable, sweet little sister. I’m simply asking you to do me a teeny-tiny favor.”

“Spare me,” he said, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I’ve fallen for your innocent routine so many times, it’s a crime.”

“Keep an open mind,” she said. “You’re not going back to work for a bit. Right?”

“Right,” he said, eyeing her warily. “I’m planning to take a couple of weeks off. I usually worked seven days a week in Japan.”

“Perfect. You see, Deedee and I are very worried about Jillian. She’s been on this exhausting tour and she was tired even before she left. Why was she tired? I’m glad you asked.”

“I didn’t.”

“Hush. Jillian seems to have forgotten how to relax, have fun, have a proper balance of work and play in her life. She’s gotten so caught up in deadlines and her writing schedule, that we hardly see her. We can’t pry her out of the office in her house.”

“And?”

“Remember when the four of us were kids and Mom would periodically say it was time for her Angels and Elves to get busy?”

“Yeah, I remember. We’d mow the lawn for an elderly couple, run errands for a shut-in, you’d baby-sit for free for a new mother, stuff like that. Every few months we did Angels and Elves assignments.”

“Exactly. Forrest, Deedee and I are asking you to make Jillian Jones-Jenkins your Angels and Elves assignment. Take her out, have fun, get her to relax and enjoy life again. Hopefully she’ll realize how narrow her existence has become.”

“Oh, man,” Forrest said, frowning, “are you kidding? That’s nuts, Andrea. I don’t even know this woman. You expect me to convince her to get her priorities back in order? That’s the dumbest Angels and Elves assignment I’ve ever heard.”

“It is not. It’s custom-made for you. You have some free time right now. You’re handsome, charming, intelligent, all that jazz. And you know how to show a woman a good time. Heaven knows, you’ve got women chasing after you like bees to honey.”

“Flattery will get you nothing.”

“Don’t say no. At least promise me you’ll think about it.”

“Andrea...”

“Please?”

“Okay, okay,” he said, raising both hands. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.”

“For about five seconds. Then I’ll say no.”

“Darn it, Forrest, don’t be so difficult. Look, go to Books and Books tomorrow and buy Jillian’s new novel for me. You can meet her at the same time.”

“Then I’ll say no. Andrea, has it ever occurred to you that Jillian might not appreciate the sneaky little program you and Deedee are putting together here?”

“It’s for her own good. Deedee and I really are concerned about her. She won’t know you’re on an Angels and Elves assignment. This is a very humanitarian mission I’m asking you to undertake, Forrest.”

He got to his feet.

“I’ll go buy the book,” he said, “and meet Jillian. Beyond that? I’m not promising anything. I’m thirty-two years old. A person would think that I’d have learned by now that your schemes always spell trouble for me in big, bold letters. I shouldn’t be going anywhere near Deedee Hamilton’s store.”

“But you will, and you’re wonderful, and I adore you, and I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, laughing, “and you’ve been able to wrap me around your little finger since the day you were born.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Bye for now, brat. Take good care of the dynamic duo you’re toting around in there.”

“Bye, Forrest. And thank you.”

* * *

Andrea waited until she heard the front door click shut behind Forrest, then snatched up the receiver of the telephone that had been placed on the coffee table within her reach. She pushed buttons in rapid succession.

“Deedee? Forrest was just here. He wouldn’t give me a definite yes, but I talked him out of a definite no. Here’s the setup. Forrest will come to your store tomorrow to buy Jillian’s new book for me and...”

One

Best wishes, Jillian Jones-Jenkins.

Jillian stared at the words she had just written with the appropriate flourish on the title page of the book in front of her.

The flowing handwriting was nothing more than a series of fancy squiggles that had no meaning. She was so thoroughly exhausted that she was beyond being able to recognize even her own name.

She blinked and shook her head slightly, striving to concentrate. She managed to produce a weak but passable smile.

“There you are.” She handed the thick, hardcover book to the beaming woman standing on the opposite side of the lace-cloth covered table. “I sincerely hope you enjoy Midnight Embrace.“

“Oh, I know I will,” the woman said, clutching the treasure to her breasts. “I’ve loved all your books, Miss Jones-Jenkins. I read them over and over. They’re such wonderful stories. So romantic, so touching, so filled with love.” She sighed. “Oh, dear, I do go on and on, but I want you to know how much pleasure you’ve brought into my life with your work.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Jillian said. “I hope I never disappoint you.”

The woman moved away and another stepped forward, presenting a book to be autographed. Jillian opened it to the title page, then hesitated, her gaze sweeping over the expanse of the bright, cheerful, well-stocked bookstore.

The man was still there.

He was watching her, she was certain of it.

Jillian, stop it, she admonished herself in the next instant. Tired was tired, but this was a step beyond. If anyone looked at her crooked, or said the slightest cross word, she’d probably burst into hysterical tears like a toddler in need of a nap.

Therefore, she decided, it went without saying that she was overreacting to the presence of the man. He was the only male in the store, and each time she looked in his direction, he was watching her. She was the constant target of his scrutiny, his gaze never seeming to wander from her.

She wrote the name recited by the woman in front of her, then signed her own by rote with the usual flair. Her smile was beginning to feel pasted to her face like a plastic mask.

The man, she mused, as she vaguely heard herself thanking the woman for her loyal support, was extremely handsome. He was about six feet tall, had thick, dark auburn hair, was well tanned, and had just-rugged-enough features. His eyes were brown as best she could tell, but he’d stayed too far away from where she was seated at the table to be certain.

“You want me to write, ‘Merry Christmas, Margaret’?” Jillian asked the next patron. “But this is only February.”

“I know, dear.” The woman smiled. “I’m shopping early for the holidays in December. That way I feel Christmassy all year long.”

“Oh, I see,” Jillian said, with a mental shrug.

Whatever floats your boat...dear, she tacked on in her mind. Now where was she in her mental inventory of the tall, handsome stranger skulking in the aisles?