"Angels- 01 - A Season Of Angels" - читать интересную книгу автора (Macomber Debbie)

УAnd getting more so every minute. Good-bye, Marcia.Ф
УMonica,Ф she corrected. She hurried after him, convinced she owed him this much for having saved her from certain injury.
УWhatever,Ф he said, without looking her way. УHave a good day.Ф
УHas anyone ever talked to you about the direction your life is headed?Ф she asked, scurrying to keep pace with him. She was tall, but he was taller and it took two of her strides to equal one of his.
УAre you going to preach at me next? Trust me, the last thing I need now is a sermon.Ф
УNot if you promise me you wonТt drink.Ф
УListen,Ф he said, stopping abruptly, УIТm trying to be as polite as I can, but my patience for this malarkey is long gone. IТm a responsible adult and I donТt have a problem with alcohol, so if you donТt mind, IТd prefer to be left alone.Ф
УYouТre drinking beer, arenТt you, and itТs barely afternoon,Ф Monica insisted. УAnyone who needs alcohol this early in the day must be addicted.Ф
УFine, then, to satisfy you, IТll order coffee. There, are you happy?Ф
Monica knew a lie when she heard one. УDonТt try to appease me with lies,Ф she said, glaring at him.
TheyТd crossed the street by this time and he continued to ignore her as much as possible, but Monica was making that difficult. She didnТt know what was driving her to behave so uncharacteristically. Normally she wasnТt nearly as aggressive; she was weak on evangelism, but this man desperately needed help and she was returning a favor. HeТd saved her and now it was her turn to do him a good deed and rescue him, although it was clear he didnТt appreciate or welcome her efforts.
TheyТd reached the Blue Goose and Monica hurled herself against the thick wood door, flinging out her arms until she stood spread-eagled across the entrance.
УWhat the hell do you think youТre doing?Ф he demanded, glaring at her.
УIТm saving you from yourself.Ф
УGo save someone else, would you?Ф His eyes were formidable, cold and cutting, but Monica refused to back away.
УIТm doing this for your own good.Ф
He clamped his mouth closed and appeared to be counting to ten. His head nodded with each number and by the time he reached eight, his patience had evaporated. УEither you move or IТll be forced to move you myself and I guarantee you wonТt approve of my methods.Ф
Monica was saved from having to make a decision when the door opened and she was momentarily pushed to one side. By the time sheТd turned around and recovered, her reluctant hero had disappeared. It didnТt take her two seconds to know where heТd gone. For half a heartbeat she toyed with the notion of going inside the Blue Goose after him.
Defeated and mildly discouraged, Monica trudged her way across the street. The other choir members were mingling with the crowd, passing out invitations for the Christmas Eve service. The idea had been her fatherТs and although Monica feared they might attract riffraff from the streets, she hadnТt said as much. It wouldnТt do any good to argue with her father, not when he had such a soft spot in his heart for street people.
УMonica.Ф Michael Simpson, the director, edged his way around two altos and moved toward her. УWhat happened?Ф
УI lost my balance and fell off the riser,Ф she explained.
His eyes widened. УAre you all right?Ф
She nodded. УA .а.а. someone caught me.Ф
УIТm glad you werenТt hurt.Ф His smile was shy as he gently patted her hand. УI wanted to congratulate you on your solo.Ф
УBut .а.а.Ф
УYour voice was never more pure.Ф
Monica gestured weakly. To accept the credit would have been wrong. УBut another voice joined mine. DidnТt you hear it? I swear it came out of nowhere.Ф
УAnother voice,Ф Michael asked, frowning. УI only heard you, and you were magnificent. You really outdid yourself.Ф
УMonica, Monica.Ф The Reverend Fischer hurried to his daughterТs side and clasped her hand between his. His eyes shone bright with tears. УIТve never heard you sing more beautifully. You sounded so much like your mother. IТd almost forgotten what a stunning voice she had. This is GodТs gift to you, this voice.Ф
УBut, Dad .а.а.Ф She stopped, not knowing how to explain. There had been another voice that merged with hers. One that didnТt happen to belong to anyone in the choir. It didnТt belong to anyone she knew.
а
УGoodness, Goodness, Goodness,Ф Mercy said in that small chiding tone Gabriel had used with her so often in the past. УYou were the one singing, werenТt you?Ф
Goodness did not attempt to deny it. УI couldnТt help it. СSilent NightТ is one of my personal favorites.Ф
УBut she heard you.Ф
УI know.Ф That part had been unintentional. Simply put, Goodness had gotten carried away with herself. But she had used considerable restraint. No one, however, seemed to appreciate that part. She could have used Barbra StreisandТs voice. Barbra could really belt out УSilent Night,Ф or Judy Garland. Now, that would have caused a whole lot of comment. To her credit, Goodness had resisted, although on second thought, she did an excellent Carol Burnett.
УWhat if Gabriel hears about this?Ф
УDonТt worry about it.Ф The archangel would eventually find out, Goodness knew. There would be no keeping it from him, but even that hadnТt been enough for her to resist singing with Monica.
УHe might take you off the assignment.Ф
УNot a chance. GabrielТs shorthanded as it is. If he was going to pull me off this prayer request it would be for something a whole lot more troublesome than singing.Ф The prayer ambassador was far more concerned by the consequences of her folly. Monica had fallen into the arms of that hard-nosed, disgruntled private investigator. If anything unsavory had happened, Goodness would have held herself personally responsible.

Three
УTimmy,Ф Jody Potter called from the compact kitchen. УDinnerТs ready.Ф
УIn a minute.Ф The nine-year-old kept his gaze level with the television as he worked the controls of the Sega game. УIТm just about to save the world.Ф
УTimmy, please, we go through this every night.Ф JodyТs nerves were on edge and had been ever since sheТd found the letter. The folded sheet of paper had slipped from TimmyТs school binder when sheТd set it on the kitchen counter the night before.
A letter to God, but this wasnТt any ordinary letter. Timmy had asked for a father. JodyТs first instinct had been to sit him down and explain that he already had a father. Only Timmy had no recollection of Jeff, whoТd died when Timmy was barely ten months old.
Timmy had no way of knowing how proud Jeff had been of his son. How heТd insisted on holding him each night when he returned from the office and feeding him his last bottle. Timmy didnТt remember that it was his father whoТd sung him to sleep and then stood by his crib, gently patting his back. Her son couldnТt possibly remember that Jeff had burst into tears of joy the night Timmy had been born.
What Timmy wanted now was a father who was alive. Someone who could throw a ball and catch better than she could, according to his letter. Someone who understood and enjoyed football. Someone who would be a friend.
What Timmy accepted far better than she did herself, Jody realized, was that Jeff was forever lost to them. Her son was looking for a replacement.
УI won,Ф Timmy cried, leaping to his feet, holding his hands high above his head while he danced around the living room.
УIТm relieved to know the world is safe at last,Ф Jody muttered, carrying the meat loaf over to the round oak table. УCan we eat now?Ф