Angels at Christmas: Those Christmas Angels / Where Angels Go

“You’re sure about this bicycle business?” her father muttered as he started the engine. “I don’t like the idea of you riding back in the dark.”

“It’s perfectly safe, Dad,” she said, half-tempted to say that at thirty, she was well beyond the age of needing parental supervision. “I’m wearing a helmet and a vest that reflects in the dark, plus the bike has a flashing light in the front and the back.”

He grunted, obviously still disapproving, but didn’t argue further. As they reached Fletcher Industries, her father slowed. “You’ll need to be here at five this afternoon.”

“I will.” That would allow her time to finish up some paperwork and cycle back to the complex. “Where would you like me to meet you?”

He frowned as if he hadn’t considered this earlier. “In front of the building would probably be best. The parking lot is a secure area and I don’t want you going in there without me.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at five.”

Her father pulled up close to the tall office building and put his car in Park while Julie climbed out. Other cars had already started to arrive, and a delivery truck circled toward the back of the complex.

Julie walked to the rear of the Ford and removed her ten-speed. Her father drove off once he’d pointed out where they should meet. His taillights disappeared as he turned the corner and drove toward the employees’ designated parking area, joining a line of other vehicles.

Julie had just finished snapping the helmet strap under her chin when a sharp male voice spoke from somewhere behind her. She whirled around.

“What’s your business here?” Oh, great, her father’s first day and she was going to have a confrontation with a security guard.

“Hello,” she said, smiling warmly. “I’m Julie Wilcoff. My father—”

“I asked you to state your business.”

The man was no guard, Julie could now see. He was tall, an inch or two more than her five foot eleven, and dressed in a dark suit, expensive, judging by the cut, although she didn’t have a discerning eye when it came to fashion. He might have been handsome, but scowling as he was, he appeared intimidating and in no mood for excuses.

“I’m on my way to school.”

His expression implied that she was lying.

“You’re not a student.”

“No, I’m a teacher. My father dropped me off here to show me where I should meet him tonight when he’s finished work. Are you Roy Fletcher?” This could be the man her father had described; his attitude certainly resembled that of the company owner.

The man ignored her question. “Your father is Dean Wilcoff?”

“Yes.” She had to bite back the urge to call him sir. It’d been a long time since any man had intimidated her, and she wasn’t about to let it show. “I didn’t realize there were rules against riding bicycles in this complex.”

“There aren’t. Be on your way,” he ordered, starting toward the front door.

Julie planted one hand on her hip and glared at him. “I beg your pardon,” she said in her best schoolteacher voice. How dare he speak to her like this!

He paused, and then with exaggerated patience, said, “You’re free to go.”

“In case you’re unaware of it, I was entitled to do so before.” No wonder her father had taken a dislike to Mr. High-and-Mighty. He was, without exception, the most disagreeable person she’d ever met. His arrogance was absolutely staggering.

He turned his back on her and walked into the building.

Fuming, Julie climbed on her bike and locked her cleats into the pedals. She rode hard, her anger driving her faster and faster as she left the complex and then merged with traffic on the main thoroughfare outside Fletcher Industries. She arrived at Abraham Lincoln a good ten minutes earlier than she’d estimated. She parked her bicycle, still muttering to herself, and carefully took off her helmet.

“Mornin’,” Penny Angelo, who taught English, said cheerfully as she passed the bicycle rack, briefcase in hand.

Julie managed a halfhearted greeting and then added, her outrage flaring back to life, “You wouldn’t believe what just happened.”

“Did you cross paths with a rude driver?” Penny guessed, eyeing her ten-speed.

“No, a tyrant!” Julie waited for her heart to stop pounding and exhaled slowly in an effort to regain perspective. She refused to let the encounter affect the rest of her day. “It’s behind me now,” she said, making a determined effort to put Roy Fletcher out of her mind. If it had been him. He hadn’t answered her question, but from his demeanor and attitude she could only assume she’d run headlong into the company’s owner.

Despite her rough start that morning, Julie had a good day. She enjoyed teaching; she was strict but fair, and her students understood that and respected her for it. After her last class, Julie changed out of her work clothes and back into her cycling gear and pedaled the five miles to Fletcher Industries.

Invigorated, she arrived at the spot her father had suggested. She hadn’t been there more than a few minutes when a uniformed guard approached. It seemed she was destined for trouble. Probably Mr. Nose-in-the-Air had ordered him to chase her off. Well, if that was the case, she was ready. She had every right to be there, and she intended to point that out.

“Ms. Wilcoff?” the young man asked politely. His name tag read Jason.

She relaxed her stance. “Yes?”

“Your father said he’d be a bit late and asked that you meet him in his office.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I’ll show you up.”

What a difference from the way she’d been greeted that morning! The guard indicated where she could park her bike and then led her into the building. Entering the elevator, dressed as she was, Julie felt a bit self-conscious. She smiled shyly at a couple of women and decided that perhaps this bike-riding business wasn’t the best idea, after all, especially if she was going to be meeting people. She’d give it a week and see how it went.

Her father’s office was on the third floor. He looked up and smiled when she came into the room. “How was your day?”

“Great,” she said, dropping into a chair. “How about yours?”

“Fine, fine. I won’t be long.” He returned to the computer screen, which he studied intently. “Just checking some employee records,” he said. “I’m getting the hang of this computer stuff now.”

“Take your time, I’m in no hurry.”

“Wilcoff.” The same unfriendly voice that had almost ruined her morning sounded from the doorway.

Julie turned her head to find the same unfriendly man—presumably Roy Fletcher. His eyes narrowed when he saw her.

“You again?” he said.

Her father rose and cast a glance from his employer to Julie. “This is my daughter, Julie. You’ve met?”

“I had the pleasure this morning.” Fletcher held out his hand.

They exchanged brief handshakes. “Pleasure isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” Julie primly informed him.

“You teach English?”

“No,” she said in a clipped voice. “Etiquette.”

The merest hint of a smile touched his mouth. “I see.”