He smiled at her and rubbed her shoulder. “Don’t look so glum. Things are going to be much easier for you.”
Molly started the car and didn’t answer. As far as she could see, things were going to be harder, thinking of Matt working with Dr. Alex Cole every day. But there didn’t seem to be much she could do.
WHEN MIRANDA CAME IN FROM THE COTTAGE ON Wednesday evening, she found her grandmother sorting through boxes in the living room. The Christmas tree they had bought together over the weekend was set in its stand, the long green boughs sticking up a bit from being so tightly bound.
“Grandma, you didn’t have to do all this by yourself. Why didn’t you call me?”
Sophie stood up, rubbing her lower back with her hands. “That’s all right, honey. Adam did the heavy lifting. I just gave instructions. He got a lesson in putting up a Christmas tree today. And a break from scraping wallpaper,” she added with a laugh.
Miranda noticed Adam, hidden behind the tree. He was carefully tapping a nail in the wall behind him. “Sophie’s afraid the tree will get knocked over,” he explained. “She told me to tie a few safety cords.”
“The tree gets knocked over every year, with or without the safety cords,” Miranda informed him, some of the more rambunctious youngsters in the family coming to mind.
“Oh, kids like to play. They can’t help it. They’re children. They’re just doing their job,” Sophie said.
Her grandmother had to be the most indulgent grandparent—or great-grandparent—on the East Coast, Miranda thought. That was one of the reasons her family loved to gather here. The kids were in paradise, running wild around the old house from cellar to attic and eating all the cookies they could hold.
“Come on,” Sophie said, “let’s get into these boxes. Miranda, you do the lights. I can’t reach high enough.”
Her height did come in handy at times, Miranda reflected with a private smile. She carried the box of lights to the tree and began stringing them around the branches. Before she realized it, Adam was close beside her, his hands touching her own as he helped arrange the decorations. She turned her head to look at him. Their faces were so close, close enough to kiss. She felt her heartbeat start to quicken as she remembered their first kiss. Would they ever have another?
“Thinking about that call from Detective Lester this morning?” Sophie asked him. Miranda decided her grandmother had a positive talent for defusing romantic tension.
Adam nodded, a flush rising above his collar. “He said he had a lead on a possible contact. Someone called about me.”
“And?” Miranda asked. Her already frantic heartbeat seemed to have doubled its pace. Why hadn’t her grandmother or Adam told her about this earlier?
Adam shrugged. “Lester said he had to investigate further, to see if the lead was valid. But he expects to call back before the end of the day with more news.”
Miranda nodded, struggling to hide her feelings. It was the call she knew had to come. Still, her stomach felt jumpy with nerves as she realized this could very well be his last day at the house.
“Oh, now this is a real treasure.” Sophie carefully removed the tissue-paper wrapping from an ornament made of colorful wooden beads and pipe cleaners. “Miranda made this for me when she was in grade school. Do you remember, honey?”
“Of course I do.” Once again, Miranda realized, her grandmother was steering things, this time trying to get them all to concentrate on trimming the tree. Well, it was better than concentrating on losing Adam.
“Anyone could see how artistic she is,” Sophie went on. “Miranda always had that creative flair…”
Sophie handed her the ornament and Miranda held it up below her ear.
“This would make a nice earring design,” she joked. “You can see that interest emerging in my early work, right?”
Adam smiled gently at her. “Not quite my taste. But everything looks good on you.”
Miranda felt herself blush as she met his warm gaze then realized her grandmother was watching. She turned quickly back to Sophie. “Here, let me hang those snowflakes,” she said, taking a bunch of ornaments from her hands.
Her grandmother seemed to have a story about each ornament in her large collection, particularly the handmade gems, crafted by her children and grandchildren.
“I knew you had a big family, Sophie. But I honestly had no idea it was that big. Are they all coming here for Christmas?” Adam asked.
“Practically. Una’s son, Kurt, is in the service,” she said. “Audrey, that’s my other daughter’s youngest girl, she’s studying in London, so we won’t see her until the spring. Other than that, they’re all coming.” She had hung the last Christmas ball and stood back admiring the decorated tree. “They fill up the house, sleeping on every horizontal surface. The little ones bring sleeping bags and I have a few air mattresses up in the attic.…Maybe you can get those down for me tomorrow and I’ll clean them up?”
“Sure, I’ll get them later,” Adam said, seeming conscious that he might not be here tomorrow. Her grandmother seemed to have forgotten, Miranda noticed.
“I remember one holiday, my grandson Kurt, the one who’s in the service now, when he was a teenager he could sleep through an earthquake. He conked out in the pantry after our Christmas Eve party. Just took a pillow and blanket and curled up on the floor. Well, that child didn’t wake up until one o’clock the next day, and no one even noticed he was missing. He stalked out of that closet with the blanket wrapped around him, looking like a mummy.”
Adam laughed and Miranda laughed, too, though she’d heard the story a thousand times. It suddenly struck her how many of her grandmother’s bits of conversation started off with the words I remember. How much of everyone’s character was the sum—and memory—of their past experiences. How hard it must be for Adam to hear all these stories and have no past of his own to draw on.
The phone rang. They all turned toward the kitchen, but no one moved. “I’ll get it,” Sophie said. She bustled into the kitchen, moving faster than Miranda imagined she could.
Miranda looked at Adam. He stared back at her, his eyes filled with a world of words, words that would never be spoken between them.
“Adam, it’s for you,” Sophie called out. “Detective Lester.”
Adam abruptly looked away and went into the kitchen to take the call. Miranda meant to stay in the living room, but couldn’t help following. She entered the kitchen to hear Adam say, “Well, thanks very much for following up on it.…Sure, I understand…All right…I’ll keep in touch.”
He set the phone down, a bemused expression on his face. “The person who had called was looking for a man who disappeared ten years ago. The photo and age didn’t match at all.”
“Oh my…” Sophie shook her head, her expression full of sympathy. “Well, there’ll be another call. You’ll get the right one sooner or later,” she assured him.
Adam nodded, but didn’t say anything. Miranda could see he had mixed feelings about the news. So did she. She felt a crashing wave of relief…and then a stab of heartache. She almost wished Adam had been found. How long could she stand this, having him here and all the while, knowing he would go?
“Well…I’d better take Dixie out for her walk,” she said briskly. She headed to the mudroom, grabbed her jacket and called for the dog, who eagerly ran to her side.
She was only a few steps from the house, when Adam ran up to meet her. “Mind if I come? I could use some fresh air.”
“Of course not.”
They didn’t talk, but seemed to know where they were going. With Dixie running circles around them, they walked up the hill behind the house and into the orchard. To Miranda’s favorite spot. They stopped and looked out at the harbor and the town below, tucked into the coastline. It was a clear night and beams of moonlight shone on the inky water.
Adam turned and looked over at the orchard. “That’s the spot where you found me, right? Under that tree.”
Miranda nodded and
dug her hands into her pockets. “You must be disappointed about the call. You must have had your hopes up.”
“Yes. For a while I really thought that was going to be it.” He turned to her, his expression hard to read in the darkness. “Now I feel…relieved,” he admitted.
“I do, too,” she said quietly.
Before she knew what was happening, he’d moved toward her and surrounded her in his strong embrace. Miranda pressed her face to his chest and felt herself crying. He held her very tight and kissed her hair, then her cheek, finally finding her lips with his own.
Miranda gave herself over to their embrace, to their silent communication of all the feelings she held inside.
Somewhere in the distance, she heard the sound of a train passing. The whistle blew low and mournful, echoing through the night. The sound made her feel sad. It seemed to contain all the loneliness she would surely soon feel.
She pulled away slowly from Adam’s embrace and stepped back. He didn’t say anything, just watched her. “I’m going back now,” she said.
“All right. I’ll be down in a minute.”
She nodded and turned away. Dixie stayed with Adam, staring after her with a puzzled expression.
Miranda concentrated on not crying as she strode back to the house. This just isn’t fair, she thought. Finally, I really know what it is I want. And it’s something I just can’t have.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS THE THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT, JUST A WEEK before Christmas Eve. Church attendance usually grew at this time of year, no doubt. But as Ben practiced his sermon in his office, he noticed a large blue bus pull up behind the church. The words Shady Brook were written in curly white letters on the side.
Was it a group trip that had gotten lost, stopping to ask for directions?
He watched from the window as Tucker Tulley ran out to speak to the driver. Then Tucker ran back inside, and the bus began emptying. More seniors. An entire busload.
Dressed in his robes, Ben swept out of his office and trotted toward the sanctuary.
He met Tucker in the hallway. “We’ve got some visitors,” the deacon explained. “Big group. I’m getting a crew together to set up some folding chairs at the back of the church.”
“Good idea,” Ben said. “Where are they from?”
“Peabody,” Tucker said, mentioning a town about twenty-five miles south. “They’re all from the same senior community, Shady Brook. They heard about the angel statue on the Internet and got a group trip together.”
“The Internet? How did they see it there?”
“On a chat board about angels,” Tucker said simply. “You know, people post stuff about a topic and other people respond? Seems someone who thinks the angel granted him a miracle wrote about it on some ‘Talk About Angels’ site and…here they are.”
Ben blinked in astonishment. He was no stranger to the Internet. He checked e-mail every day and occasionally did some online research. But he had never gone into a chat room, and the idea that people from who-knows-where were online discussing the statue in his church floored him.
As Tucker headed to Fellowship Hall for a cart of extra chairs, Ben proceeded toward the sanctuary. Carolyn had just arrived and walked over to meet him.
“Ben? You don’t look well.…Are you okay?” she asked quietly, touching his arm.
He did feel a little shaky. And alarmed. Why he should panic about a busload of retirees was the question. It just seemed as if his church was…out of control.
“Did you see that large group that got off the bus?” he asked his wife. “They came all the way from Peabody. They heard about the angel on the Internet.”
“Oh.” Carolyn considered the information a moment. “It would be nice if you acknowledge them in the announcements. They did come a long way.”
His wife was right. Why was he getting so ruffled about it? All are welcomed here—wasn’t that his church’s motto?
Just as he tried to focus on a calm and centered attitude, Lillian Warwick stalked into the church, accompanied by Emily Warwick, Emily’s husband, Dan Forbes, and Dan and Emily’s two-year-old daughter, Jane.
“Good morning, Lillian.” Ben greeted the most contentious member of his congregation with a smile.
“What has drawn the crowd today, Reverend? Are you giving away something for free? Toaster ovens? CD players?”
“We have some visitors from Shady Brook Village in Peabody, Lillian. You know that visitors are always welcome here.”
“Welcome to put some money in the plate,” she snapped back. “I know what they are, a group of elderly fools, visiting this benighted little burg to pay homage to a chunk of painted wood. With wings.”
“We all have a right to our beliefs, Lillian. You do…and they do,” Ben said evenly.
Emily, who had been putting their coats away, now caught up with her mother and the conversation. “Mother, come with me. Reverend Ben has to get ready for the service and you’ll miss out on your seat.”
Emily handled her mother as one would a spoiled child. She did a good job of it, too, Ben thought, though Lillian’s high maintenance had to get tiring.
“I don’t know about you, Reverend,” Lillian said, “but I don’t like the idea of my church turning into a sideshow spectacle.”
“Mother!” Emily said in a low, outraged undertone.
“It’s all right,” Ben assured her, somehow managing to smile. “I’m always interested in the views of all members of the congregation.” He gave her mother a courteous nod. “Thank you, Lillian, for being so clear.”
“It’s not the last you’ll hear of it,” Lillian promised as Emily nearly dragged her away.
No, I’m sure it’s not, Ben thought as he went to take his place at the pulpit.
AFTER HIS ENCOUNTER WITH LILLIAN WARWICK, SUNDAY’S service had been blessedly uneventful. But on Monday morning, Ben found himself in his office, wondering how many people felt the way Lillian did. Was their church turning into a sideshow spectacle? And how many people were chatting about the angel on the Internet? Ben had an uneasy image of groups of seniors from the farthest points of the globe suddenly organizing trips to his church. Perhaps he should call his superior, Reverend Hallock, and give his side of the story before the angel wound up on Entertainment Tonight.
The phone rang and his secretary answered it. “It’s Sara McAllister, at the newspaper office,” Irene said. “She’d like to speak with you.” Ben stared at the phone a moment, then picked it up.
“Good morning, Reverend,” Sara said. After asking how he was, she got to the point. “I’m writing a story on the angel statue. I’ve done a lot of interviews and would like your point of view for the piece. Would you talk to me about it? I need to take some pictures, so I can come see you at the church.”
Ben wasn’t surprised by the query. The only wonder was that she hadn’t called sooner. “Of course, Sara,” he said. “I’ll answer your questions if I can. I’ll be here all morning. Stop in anytime.”
A short time later, Ben saw Sara from his office window, walking across the green. He left his office and went to meet her at the front entrance of the church. They went into the sanctuary first, taking seats in the back, some distance from the statue. There were already a few visitors near the angel.
“Do you think it’s all right if I take a picture?” Sara asked quietly.
“Yes, I think it’s fine,” Ben said. The visitors at the statue sat with their backs toward Sara and they were so far away, Ben didn’t feel a photo compromised anyone’s identity.
Sara took out her camera and snapped a quick picture.
Then she pulled out her long notepad. “First, I’d like to get the basic facts of when and where you found the angel. I’ve already spoken with Carl Tulley, so I’m just asking now to verify,” she explained.
Ben recounted his version of the story, then Sara told him about the people she had contacted who claimed their prayer petitions had been answered by visiting the statue. Ben�
�s eyes widened as she described prayers for health, romance, financial worries, and even victory in a high school basketball game. It sounded as if Sara had interviewed an army of believers.
“So, what do you think, Reverend? What’s your position? Do you think there’s something to all these testimonials?”
Ben didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t heard about the other “miracles,” beyond his own congregation. With all these witnesses coming forward, the phenomenon seemed harder to dismiss.
Still, where was the proof? The indisputable evidence? He had been doing some reading on these types of accounts—from statues that wept healing tears to the face of the Blessed Mother in a pizza. He knew how easily these claims fell apart with the slightest probing. He believed he had a duty to err on the side of skepticism or at least a reserved opinion. The last thing he wanted to do was offer false hope, and yet how could he dismiss the very real power of faith?
“Reverend Ben?” Sara prompted.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But the issue is so complex that I don’t have a simple answer for you. All I can reasonably tell you is that the mind is powerful. If a person believes hard enough, has enough faith, then anything is possible, I suppose.”
Sara scribbled on her pad. “Can I quote you on that?”
“Yes…I guess so.” Did he really want to be quoted in the newspaper when he didn’t really know what to make of any of this?
In for a penny, in for a pound…
“Well, thanks for your help. I’ll take some more pictures now.” Sara rose with her camera and walked closer to the statue. The visitors had gone and they were alone in the sanctuary.
She lifted the camera and focused. “It is beautiful. It’s very…unique. Do you have any idea where it came from?”
“I’ve checked the church records of gifts. There was a notation about a statue that seemed to fit this description, donated in the 1950s. None of the donor’s descendants are church members, and the record gave no information about the statue’s origins—how old it was, where it was made, that sort of thing. I don’t have much time right now to dig deeper, but perhaps after the holidays I can find out more.”
A Christmas Visitor Page 18