“But I’m the one who’d be doing the work,” she’d reminded him.
“What you do in your spare time is your choice, but don’t use the name of this vet clinic when you do it.”
“So you don’t even want to donate any supplies?” she’d asked meekly.
His answer had been to glower at her. As a result, she didn’t even bother to ask him about discounting Mrs. Morgan’s bill for Muffin. She knew what his answer would be. Instead, she stopped by the reception desk and told Marsha that she wanted to cover that bill herself.
“That’s awfully nice of you.” Marsha smiled as she ran Cassidy’s debit card.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone,” Cassidy said quietly, “especially Dr. Auberon.”
Marsha nodded knowingly. “I understand.”
Cassidy took the cardboard cat carrier outside, where the wind was blowing fiercely. Using her coat to cover the case, she hurried to her car. She spoke soothingly to Muffin as she slid the carrier into the backseat, leaving her coat over it as insulation against the cold. Shivering as she drove across town, she continued to talk to Muffin, assuring her that she would soon be reunited with her owner.
It took about fifteen minutes to get to Mrs. Morgan’s apartment complex. Although the single-story building looked cheaply built, there was a friendly quality to it, with various pieces of plastic outdoor furniture and flowerpots with fake flowers and outdoor ornaments in front of the units. To Cassidy, it looked like the tenants enjoyed living here. Unlike at her condominium complex, where the units all looked almost exactly the same—stark and tidy to comply with their lease agreements.
With her coat still draped over the cat carrier, she hurried up to apartment 17 and knocked on the door. As she waited, she looked at a collection of garden gnomes gathered around a small bench that looked a bit wobbly.
“There you are,” Mrs. Morgan exclaimed as she opened the door wide. “I’ve been anxiously waiting. Come in, come in.” She waved Cassidy into the rather small, crowded front room and pointed to the coffee table. “Go ahead and set that down there. And you covered Muffin with your coat.” She smiled at Cassidy. “You are a kind girl.”
Cassidy removed her coat then opened the box. “Muffin needs to take it easy,” she said quietly, reaching into her pocket for the prescribed antibiotics. “And she needs to take one of these in her food, three times a day until they’re all gone.”
“One pill three times a day,” Mrs. Morgan repeated.
“Until every single pill is gone,” Cassidy stressed. “Otherwise Muffin could get sick again. Even sicker than before.”
“I understand.” Mrs. Morgan reached for her purse. “How much do I owe you, dear?”
Cassidy made an uncomfortable smile. “It’s, uh, it’s been taken care of.”
“Taken care of?” Mrs. Morgan looked stunned. “What do you mean?”
“Sometimes there are, uh, people who help out at the vet clinic—you know, because they want to. Muffin is such a dear cat that someone wanted to help her.”
“Well, bless that kind person’s heart.” Mrs. Morgan beamed at Cassidy as she closed her purse. “And since you came all this way to bring Muffin home to me, I have made you some soup.”
“Soup?”
“Did you already have your lunch?”
“No, actually, I haven’t. I just got off work and—”
“Then right this way, missy. I made potato and sausage soup—the same recipe my mother used to make. With real cream too.” Mrs. Morgan led Cassidy into the tiny kitchenette where a small chrome-and-plastic dinette—straight out of the fifties—was set with two places, complete with colorful Fiesta dinnerware. “You sit down and I’ll ladle out our soup.”
“It smells good.” Cassidy sat down in a chair and gazed around the interesting kitchen. Everything in here looked collectible. “I love your kitchen,” she told Mrs. Morgan. “I mean all your interesting things—the dishes and canisters and pans and everything. It’s really cool.”
“You sound like my grandson,” Mrs. Morgan said as she placed a steaming bowl in front of Cassidy. “He’s always saying, ‘Don’t get rid of any of these old things, Grandma.’ He tells me they’re valuable.” She laughed as she sat down with her own bowl. “This old junk?”
“He’s right,” Cassidy told her. “I love this style.”
“I’ve had it since I was young and newly married. Probably about your age.” She peered curiously at Cassidy. “How old are you, anyway?”
Cassidy told her, and Mrs. Morgan blinked in surprise. “Well, I never would’ve guessed. You look much younger.”
After Cassidy thanked her, Mrs. Morgan bowed her head and said a sweet, short blessing, adding on a special thank-you to Muffin’s benefactor before they began to eat.
“This is delicious,” Cassidy told her after the first bite.
“I’m so glad you like it.” Mrs. Morgan handed her the bread basket. “I didn’t bake these biscuits myself, but my neighbor did. Only this morning. We’re always exchanging food in these apartments. Sort of like one big happy family. Well, mostly, anyway. There are a few cranky grouches that live here. We try to stay out of their way.”
“Do many people in this apartment house have pets?” Cassidy asked.
“Oh, my, yes. Helen Downs has three cats. Gordon Moore has a little boxer mix named Buster. Gladys Fortner has a parrot.” She continued to list the tenants with pets, often mentioning the animals by name.
“Do any of your friends have trouble getting their pets to the veterinarian?”
Mrs. Morgan frowned. “We all live on fixed budgets here. Social Security and such. Feeding a pet is an additional expense. Paying for vet bills . . . well, it can be difficult.”
Cassidy explained her idea, and Mrs. Morgan’s eyes lit up. “That would be so wonderful. What a lovely thing to do. The Auberon Animal Hospital is to be commended. Such kind people.”
Cassidy wasn’t sure how to respond, but remembering Dr. Auberon’s comments about keeping her volunteer work separate from the clinic, she knew she had to explain. “Actually, this is not part of Auberon Animal Hospital. This would be a mobile veterinarian that’s financed by private donations.” Okay, that wasn’t a lie. Cassidy would be privately funding this out of her own pocket, and it would certainly be mobile, since she’d be working out of her car.
“Well, I think it’s wonderful! I can’t wait to tell my neighbors about it. I know that Gordon has been worried about Buster lately. Seems he’s got some sort of skin problem.”
“Maybe I could take a look at him after lunch,” Cassidy offered.
They continued visiting as they ate, and by the time they had finished, Cassidy felt like they were old friends. “Thank you for the soup, Mrs. Morgan,” Cassidy said as she was getting ready to leave.
“Please, call me Dorothy,” she said as she walked Cassidy to the door, pointing outside and to her right. “Gordon’s apartment is right down there—number 22. Just knock on his door and tell him I sent you to see about Buster.”
“Thanks.” Cassidy zipped up her parka.
“Thank you!” Dorothy said happily. “And, please, feel free to stop in anytime. Anytime at all. We can have lunch together again.”
Cassidy smiled. “I might have to take you up on that.”
“I hope you will,” she said eagerly. “Now don’t disappoint me.”
Cassidy waved goodbye before going down to apartment 22, where some whirligigs were stuck into a flowerpot with a dead plant. She knocked on the door, and when a short, bald man answered, she quickly explained.
“Dorothy sent you here to see Buster?” He scratched his chin with a doubtful expression.
“I’m a volunteer veterinarian, and I do house calls,” she said. “Dorothy thought Buster needed a checkup for his skin problem. Would you like me to take a look?”
He still looked uncertain, and she suggested he give Dorothy a call, but he said he had no phone because he couldn’
t afford it. So she further explained about Muffin being sick and going to the vet clinic, and how she’d brought Muffin home.
“Well, then, why didn’t you say so?” He grinned as he opened the door wider. “Dorothy told me about the kind vet lady who was going to deliver Muffin back home. That must be you.”
His apartment, unlike Dorothy’s, was rather barren and smelled pretty doggy. But since she was accustomed to pet smells, Cassidy ignored it as she removed her parka and hung it on a hook by the door. Before long she was examining Buster. “It looks like eczema,” she told him. “Perhaps aggravated by a food allergy. May I see what dog food he’s been eating?”
Gordon showed her a large bag of cheap dog food and, after reading the ingredients, Cassidy suspected it was the corn that might be bothering the old dog. She explained this and suggested Gordon try a rice and lamb blend instead. She guessed by Gordon’s expression that this might be a problem.
“I plan to come back over here tomorrow,” she told Gordon. “I’ll bring you a sample of the food I’m recommending, as well as some ointment for Buster.”
Gordon’s face lit up. “That’d be helpful to try a sample. Then I can see if it really is the food. Buster’s been eating this same food for years. Can’t understand why it would be a problem now.”
She explained how allergies sometimes occurred after resistance to allergens wore down over the years, and Gordon nodded with understanding. “I guess I have heard about that before with humans. Didn’t know it was true with dogs as well.”
“So I’ll stop by here tomorrow afternoon,” she told him. “And you can let your neighbors with pets know that I’ll be available.”
“There’s another sick dog,” Gordon said quickly. “Hank Johnson’s German shepherd, Bobby, is off his feed. Hank seems real worried about the dog. You think you could go have a look?” He told her the apartment number and she hurried on down to check on Bobby.
One thing led to another, and by the time Cassidy left the apartment building, she’d seen five pets. She made notes for what they needed and promised to return tomorrow afternoon with the various meds and supplies.
As she drove home, she was a little concerned about how she’d manage to pay for the necessary items, but she decided that angels probably didn’t worry about such things—they probably just trusted that the Lord would provide. Anyway, she was determined to do what she could to help the five pets and their owners to live more comfortably. After that, well, she’d have to see.
7
On Saturday morning, Louisa went to meet with Fran Jacobs, the manager of the parks and recreation programs. It didn’t take long to figure out that they needed help.
“Our budget got so cut back last year, the art therapy class never had a chance to get off the ground,” Fran said in a dismal tone. “We can’t afford to hire anyone, let alone provide art supplies. It’s a challenge just keeping the lights on here, and I’ve had to let several employees go. Many of our kids’ programs have been cut. And next year’s budget looks even worse.”
“I wanted to volunteer,” Louisa explained. “And I can provide art supplies. At least to start with.”
“Really?” Fran looked relieved. “You’d do that?”
“All I need is the space to do it. Although I suppose I could do it from my home.”
“We do have space,” Fran assured her. “That’s no problem. And there might still be a few art supplies in the arts and crafts room.”
“Do you think there are people who’d want to participate in art therapy?” Louisa asked tentatively.
“We had a lot of calls last winter. I even saved their numbers in the hope that we’d get something pulled together.”
“Well, I don’t have actual experience in teaching art therapy, but I did take a couple of classes in college—long ago—and I was always interested in it.” She made a sad smile. “I suppose I’ve been in need of it myself this past year.”
Before long, Louisa had a list of phone numbers and was taking a tour of the building, including the arts and crafts room, which she’d reserved for Thursday mornings.
“I wonder if next week is too soon to start,” Louisa mused as they walked back to the main office. “So many people get blue during the holidays . . . Maybe it would be good to offer them an outlet before Christmas.”
“Feel free to start the class whenever you like,” Fran told her. “But I won’t get it onto the website or the schedule until after the New Year.”
“Well, I’ll give these folks a call and see what the interest level is,” Louisa said as she was getting ready to leave. “Perhaps they’ve all moved forward in their lives by now.”
However, when Louisa got home and started to call the numbers, informing the people about her class that was starting on Thursday morning, she was surprised to discover that several of them were eager to come. She explained that although she was an artist and knew a bit about art therapy, it would be new to her as well. “But hopefully we can all learn and heal together,” she assured them.
By the time she finished she had seven people who had committed to come. Seven! She could hardly believe it. As she went to work packing up the various paints and brushes and sketch pads and canvases, she felt hopeful. Perhaps she would have a useful role in this life after all. That is, unless she failed at this. She knew that was entirely possible. What did she really know about art therapy? She’d spent the past year avoiding her painting studio and wallowing in her sorrows—what made her think she could help anyone now? Wouldn’t it be like the blind leading the blind?
As Grace sat in her design studio on Monday morning, staring at a set of blueprints that didn’t really make sense, she felt stuck. Not stuck as far as the design she was supposed to be working on—although she did feel uninspired. And not stuck as far as her marriage and mixed-up children went—although she certainly had no idea of what to do about either of those situations. Mostly she felt stuck in her commitment to partner with her book group friends, masquerading as an “angel” when she knew better.
Really, what had she been thinking? She picked up her phone, deciding to call Louisa and beg out of this preposterous agreement. She would say she was too busy and with the holidays had too much on her plate. Surely her friends would understand. She was about to hit speed dial for Louisa when she noticed the angel ornament that she’d brought to work with her today—hoping it would inspire her to greatness.
There it was, lying facedown on a pile of old junk mail. Not very inspiring. She picked up the angel and studied its sweet face, wishing that she would hear Abby’s voice coming down from on high, telling her what to do. Of course, Abby would probably say something like: “Only God can tell you what to do, Grace. He wants to direct your path—if you’ll just take the time to listen.”
Grace closed her eyes for a few seconds, imagining that she was taking the time to listen, but knowing in her heart that she wasn’t. She had never been the type to slow down and contemplate or meditate or whatever it was that helped people to hear God speaking to them. Did God actually speak to people, or did they simply imagine it? She wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure she even wanted to find out. Because if God did speak to her, he would probably voice his severe disappointment—the same way her parents used to do. Nothing she did was ever good enough then. Why would it be good enough now?
She opened her eyes and started to lay the angel back down on the stack of ignored mail when she noticed a familiar envelope sticking out of the pile. It wasn’t really junk mail; it was from the Habitat for Humanity folks—probably a solicitation for a year-end donation, since Grace had already told them she was useless with hammers and saws. For some reason she was curious about the ivory envelope’s contents.
She opened it and was surprised to see that it wasn’t a form letter like she’d expected. Instead it was an invitation to participate in a special holiday project. Local interior designers were being asked to help decorate the three newest Habitat homes in time for a Christmas open h
ouse. Perhaps this was the angel project she’d been looking for! She glanced at the date and was dismayed to see that the letter was several weeks old. Would it be too late to participate?
Without wasting another minute, she decided to call the number at the bottom of the letter. Being featured in a holiday open house—even for Habitat—would be good PR. When she finally connected with the woman in charge, she was pleased to hear that they still needed a decorator. “It’s for the living rooms for all three homes,” Julia Abernathy informed her. “We thought that Wallace and Stein Interiors had taken them on, but they were forced to bow out late last week and I’ve yet to find another designer.”
“Oh, I’d love to do those rooms,” Grace said eagerly. Never mind that she still didn’t have her own Christmas decorations up—she wanted to do this.
“Then we’d love to have you do it. The open house is scheduled for the Sunday before Christmas—that’s barely two weeks from now. Can you pull it together by then? Remember, it’s for three living rooms.”
“I’m sure they’re not large rooms.”
“No, not at all. The homes are all between 1,000 and 1,200 square feet.”
“That’s no problem.” Grace imagined setting up faux trees and hanging garlands and placing various decorations here and there—and setting her placard out for everyone passing through to see. Piece of cake!
“That’s fabulous! Such a relief. After Wallace and Stein informed me they couldn’t afford it, I was afraid the living rooms would look so barren compared to the rest of the houses’ interiors. The other designers have already been hard at work.”
“Well, I’ll get right on it too,” Grace said positively. “As soon as today, even.” She wondered why a large firm like Wallace and Stein couldn’t afford a few Christmas decorations. But their loss would be her gain and her chance to shine, since she had all sorts of decorations, both at home and in the stockroom. Easy-peasy. “So should I assume the Christmas decorations will be on loan in the houses?”
“Well, that’s up to you, but I must say that donating Christmas decorations would be a nice little perk for the families. Although I’d understand if you were putting something special in the rooms—you know, for the open house. Of course, all the furnishings will be donated. That’s what makes this whole thing so special. Imagine these families getting a fully furnished home right before Christmas. It’s the first time we’ve been able to do something this big. And I can’t tell you how exciting it’s been.”
The Christmas Angel Project Page 5