“I’d say you’ve already spent enough for one day, wouldn’t you?” He reached to pull the tag out from under her sleeve. Angel instinctively shoved it back up again.
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business.”
Just then the front door opened and Branson exited. He took a few steps in Angel and Peter’s direction. “Don’t stay up late, you two.” He winked.
“I’m not staying at all,” Angel mumbled. “The sooner I get out of here, the better.”
Peter turned toward the front door. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be inside calling a cab—which I’ll pay for.” He entered his house, and the front door closed with a bang.
Angel groaned. “Why does he always have to be the hero?”
“Is that what you’re looking for? A hero?” Branson asked.
Angel shook her head. “Nope. Just a ride.”
“I’ll be happy to drop you off. Where are you headed?” He took her arm and she accepted it willingly.
“Houston.”
“Same here.”
“Well, if the offers stands, I accept.”
“Awesome.” Branson dove into a lively conversation about his new sports car and she began to relax a little. Whatever Peter’s problem, it was behind her now.
Literally.
She settled into Branson’s tiny car and tried to put everything into perspective as he rambled on about fuel efficiency and gas mileage. She nodded occasionally, but nothing seemed to make any sense. Try as she might, the events of the evening just didn’t seem to explain Peter’s bizarre behavior. Of course, she didn’t know him well enough to make much sense of it all, but something had definitely changed tonight.
But what caused that change? Had she triggered it in some way? Angel yawned and leaned back against the seat as Branson pulled out onto the highway. He rambled endlessly about his life, his job, his career, his car. Her ears were weary with listening, but at least he didn’t expect much conversation in return. Thank goodness.
The trip home took longer than expected. Branson accidentally took a wrong turn off of Interstate 45 and they ended up near the ship channel. An accident, or so she was told. At any rate, by the time she arrived home, Angel’s nerves were a jumbled mess. To make matters worse, Branson tried to kiss her goodnight when they pulled up in front of her house. She was too numb to fight him off. Instead, she turned her head, letting his lips brush her cheek only. Then she entered the house in a puddle of tears.
Her brother met her at the door. “What happened, Angel? What did he do to you?”
“Nothing, Nardo.” She brushed away loose tears and headed for the stairs.
He headed for the front door and yanked it open. “I’ll take care of this.”
“No. Close the door. Please. Before you wake up Mom and Dad.”
He closed it, then turned to face her with arms crossed. “Start talking.”
“First of all, that’s not even Peter out there,” Angel explained. “Someone else brought me home.” She turned toward the stairs.
Nardo followed directly behind her. “What happened? Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I’m just tired.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Nardo, please.” She sighed and continued walking.
“I know where he lives, Angel. I could go over there and—”
“You wouldn’t.” She turned to look at him, to gauge his expression.
“I might. What did he do?”
“If I understood it myself, I’d tell you. Trust me.” She reached the top of the stairs and headed for her bedroom. “But promise me you won’t do anything, Nardo. I’m fine. I really am.”
“You promise?” He didn’t look convinced.
“I promise.”
He shook his head in defeat. “You’re too sweet, Angel. You know that. It gets you in trouble every time. If the rest of us didn’t take care of you—”
“I know, I know.” She forced a smile and entered the safety of her bedroom. Once the door was closed behind her, she melted in a heap on the bed. Tears flowed freely as she reflected on the evening’s events, especially Peter’s final words.
“What did I do to deserve that kind of treatment, Lord? I was kind to Peter—and to his family. I was polite. And yet he treated me like a beggar at his table—someone who wasn’t fit to sit beside him. I don’t understand.”
Angel dressed for bed, not even taking the usual care to remove her makeup and brush through her hair. All of that could wait until morning. Her sinuses ached with an undeniable pressure. Probably from all of the tears. She had a stuffy head and her throat tickled. Her evening with Peter Campbell had also given her a terrible headache. Right now what she needed, what she longed for, was sleep.
What she found, however, was something far different. For hours Angel tossed and turned in the large four-poster bed. The white eyelet comforter twisted around her, making her even more uncomfortable. Something had happened at dinner to upset Peter, but what? She played out the conversation over and over again, but nothing came to her.
He seemed so frustrated at me. Why? What did I do? Her mind began to drift to Branson Starr. Peter had shifted his gaze between the two of them several times during the evening. Was it possible? Could he really be? Jealous?
As preposterous as the idea sounded, it began to grow on her. It Peter had jealousy issues, they were completely unfounded. Guys like Branson were a dime a dozen. Their heads were a little too big for their bodies. But apparently this revelation meant Peter had feelings for her beyond friendship. How could that be? They had only known each other a few days.
She carefully thought through every prior conversation, trying to remember what she might have said, might have done to encourage his feelings.
Nothing.
Angel punched the pillow with her fist, and attempted to shape it to her liking. She couldn’t seem to relax, couldn’t seem to stop her mind from reeling. Her conscience bothered her a little, too. She hadn’t been deceitful to Peter, not intentionally, anyway. Clearly she had not disclosed some things, but they were important things, things that could cost her a great job. Things that affect the entire community. If she divulged those things. . .
No. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
Finally, when she could take it no more, Angel switched on the bedside lamp and reached for her Bible. She opened it and quickly thumbed through for something, anything that might bring her comfort. The Word of God always managed to soothe her aching soul and tonight would be no different.
She finally settled on a passage in Psalm, Chapter Seventy-Seven. The first few verses seemed just right for a night such as this. “When I was in distress, I sought the Lord,” Angel read aloud, “at night I stretched out untiring hands and my soul refused to be comforted.” Well, that certainly applies. It’s night and my soul seems to be struggling beyond what I can deal with on my own.
She read on, encouraged by the words. “I remembered you, O God, and I groaned; I mused, and my spirit grew faint.” She rubbed at her aching forehead then continued reading. “You kept my eyes from closing; I was too troubled to speak.” She yawned. Yep. Sounds like me, all right.
But where was the solution? Angel started to lay the Bible down. However, something told her to keep looking. Her mind immediately went to the book of James, one she had grown to love in recent weeks. She quickly turned to the first chapter and scanned until her finger landed on a section that spoke to her immediate need.
“If any of you lacks wisdom,” she read, “he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him. But when he asks, he must believe and not doubt, because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.”
The Lord had, indeed, been generous to Angel. He had brought her into relationship with Himself and had delivered her from past fears and hurts. How could she doubt that God remained in control of every area of her life?
Had she really been like the wave of a sea, tossed around by the winds life had thrown her way?
Father, forgive me for my doubt.
As soon as the words flitted across her mind, she began to pour forth a prayer in earnest. She prayed about her job situation. She lifted up her family. She prayed for Peter, and asked for forgiveness for losing her temper with him just a few short hours earlier. The longer she prayed, the more convicted she felt. Peter couldn’t be held responsible for misunderstanding her situation. She had never really divulged her full story, as she had planned. That wasn’t his fault. It was hers.
He was an amazing man—and a strong Christian. He was a man to be trusted with the truth. She would tell him the truth—every word of it. He would understand and even appreciate her goals to help the elderly. In fact, he might even be of help to her.
The idea magnified, the more she thought about it.
Tomorrow she would tell him everything. If she could find him. If not, she would drive to his house and make everything right again. She would tell him why she had dressed as a cleaning woman. She would explain what she was doing in the dumpster. She would give him as much information about the identity theft story as she felt comfortable sharing. Even if it meant she had to give up her job.
Angel began to pray with zeal about her job situation. She asked the Lord to give her something to peg the bad guys, something to put an end to their deeds. Unfortunately, as she prayed, she found her personal thoughts interrupting from time to time. Did she have feelings for Peter Campbell? Had she even taken the time to consider such a thing?
He was a great guy. Nice looking, as well. He came from a good home, a Christian home. That was essential to her. Clearly, he had issues that needed to be addressed, but so did she. Angel was revisited with a memory of his face looking over the edge of the dumpster. Such a kind face. Such a good face.
My angel.
He was quite a man, had she been looking for a man. Maybe that was the problem. She hadn’t been looking.
Then again, maybe the Lord had just dropped one in her lap.
***
“Calling the police is my best option at this point.” Peter talked to himself as he paced in circles around his bedroom. “Of course, if I call them, I’ll have to have evidence. All I have right now is circumstantial. Then again, maybe all I’ll ever have will be circumstantial.”
He paused to re-think the situation. She’d stolen three things that he knew of—a laptop, a credit card and a dress. Of course, he didn’t actually have proof of any of those things. Where could he get the proof? He immediately thought of the large yellow bucket. “If she shows up at Tennyson Towers with the bucket tomorrow, I’ll call the police. They’ll find everything inside.” Except the dress, of course. Heaven only knew what she’d done with the dress.
Peter bit his lip, and the salty taste of blood distracted him from his thoughts for a moment. Angel’s situation was sad, certainly, but it did not provide an excuse for thievery. On the other hand, even the worst of criminals could be reasoned with. If they were given a fighting chance and a glimpse at the truth of God’s power, they could turn their lives around.
But where would he begin?
“Lord, I know now why you gave me this job. I’ve known all along You wanted me to make a difference in my community. I just didn’t know you were going to start with someone as devious as Angel. Give me wisdom, Father. Help me to do only the things you’re requiring of me—no more and no less.”
Peter’s heart immediately began to ache for the person Angel had stolen the credit card from. They would have quite a bill on their hands, from the looks of the tag inside her sleeve. If only he had been able to get his hands on that card. Then he’d know who to call.
The police would know what to do. Peter contemplated contacting them, in spite of his lack of evidence. The more he calculated, the more uneasy he grew. “Lord, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t handled this correctly. I’m sorry I let it go so far. I should have called the police earlier in the day and put a stop to all of this nonsense before it got out of hand.” He continued to pace the room.
WAIT, PETER.
“I’m tired of waiting, Lord. Things are only getting worse. Now other people are involved. Other people are being hurt.”
WAIT, PETER.
Frustrated, he sat on the edge of the bed. And sat. Okay, I’m waiting Lord.
No response. He yanked the covers down and climbed in, mumbling all the way. After spending one sleepless night already, he needed rest, but would it come?
Funny. When he closed his eyes, all he could see were Angel’s deep brown ones staring back into his. Her gentle laugh echoed in his ears and her sweet smile held him captive once again.
SHE’S MY CHILD, PETER.
He sat up in the bed, ready for an argument with the Almighty. As he did, a host of memories began to fast-forward themselves through his mind. Angel in the dumpster, barely conscious. Angel at the restaurant, shoveling down everything on the menu. Angel at dinner tonight, looking like a beauty queen and impressing his parents beyond belief.
IS ANYTHING BEYOND BELIEF, PETER?
His heart began to race and other memories came just as quickly. Angel typing faster than a pro. Angel talking to his mother as if they were old friends. Angel telling a very believable story about a history class at U.C.L.A.
“Lord, is it possible I’ve misjudged her? If so, show me quickly, Father and I’ll make it right. Before I call the police. Before I take matters into my own hands.”
IN MY TIME, SON. IN MY TIME.
“Then help me see her the way You do, Father. In spite of the evidence. Help me to have compassion. Help me to…”
Peter’s mind began to wander a bit. Visions of Angel in that beautiful dressed wouldn’t leave him. There was a loveliness about her that could not be ignored. She carried an inner beauty, a strength that seemed to rise up from the core of her being.
If he didn’t know any better, he’d have to say she was no different from the Christian young women he had known.
If he didn’t know any better.
CHAPTER NINE
“Okay, Angel, here’s where the rubber meets the road.” Mr. Nigel paced back and forth across his plush office, credit card in hand. He waved it as he spoke. “I tracked down one very anxious Mr. Dennis Morgan. This is his card, all right. Apparently he tossed it in the trash about a month before the expiration date. The bank had already sent him the new one and he said he never thought to cut this one in half. Just tossed it. People do it every day.”
Angel nodded. “Right.” She coughed, and then reached into her purse for a tissue to wipe her nose. She had awakened with a terrible sinus headache. To make matters worse, the irritating tickle in the back of her throat had developed into a full-blown cough.
“You’re not getting sick on me, are you?” Mr. Nigel’s bald head glistened as a ray of sunlight shone through the office blinds. It held Angel spellbound.
“Just a little cold. I’ll be fine.” She quickly tucked the tissue into her purse and focused on him.
A new determination framed his words. “He thinks they got to him by picking through his trash. That means at least one of your guys up at Anderson Advertising must be posing as a trash collector or something. At any rate, they’ve gotten pretty skilled at going through other people’s stuff.”
Angel’s hand flew over her mouth immediately. No way. A trash collector? Her heart picked up speed.
“Mr. Morgan said they, whoever they are, used this card to make online purchases in the amount of. . . Are you ready for this?”
“Go ahead.” Angel braced herself. How bad could it be? After all, it was just one credit card, right?
“$17000. They bought everything—movies, CD’s, books. They even ordered plane tickets—all in the name of Dennis Morgan.”
Angel’s heart skipped a beat. “And the bills?”
“Were sent to him, naturally. Which explains why he’s a nervous
wreck.”
“That’s awful.”
“Yep. Nearly destroyed his marriage, too. He’s had a hard time convincing the Missus that he didn’t actually charge the stuff. She was ready to leave him.” Mr. Nigel picked up the glass paperweight from his messy desk and rolled it around in his palms.
“That’s terrible.” The poor man. On top of everything else, his marriage was falling apart? Angel coughed again and dug around in her purse for a mint or something that could calm the tickle in her throat. Nothing.
Mr. Nigel set the paperweight down and focused on his story. “He contacted the fraud department at the bank where the card was issued, but these things take time. In the meantime, it turns out those creeps took him for a lot more than just what one card could buy. When they went through his trash, they apparently also found his checking account number, social security number, all sorts of things. They’ve been running up bills all over town using his information.”
“Oh my goodness. This just gets worse. We’ve got to do something to help him. I’ve got to do something to help him.”
“Yep. Dennis said he had no clue about that stuff till the clerk at the supermarket refused to take his wife’s check—told her she had a history of bouncing them. Wasn’t true, of course, but really put her on the spot. That’s when she finally realized her husband was telling the truth. Then the family got a call from a wireless phone company demanding $1500 for unpaid phone service, which someone had taken out in his name, using his social.”
“Wow. I’m feeling a little better about removing the card from Anderson’s. I don’t mind telling you, I felt like I had stolen it.”
“Stolen it back, you mean.” He continued, “Good news is, the Mister and Missus are back together and the marriage is out of danger. And, needless to say, Mr. Morgan is particularly thrilled that you’ve tracked down his card. He’s ready to go to the police right away. But I’m trying to talk him into waiting a couple of extra days.”
“Why wait?”
“What we need here, Angel, is good, hard evidence. Something that will nail these guys to the wall.”
Texas Weddings (Books Five and Six) Page 8