An Angel For Christmas

“Down in the city,” Gabe said. “Richmond.”

“Nice. So—how did you come to be out here in the mountains?” Bobby asked.

“State police—we go wherever. Within the state, of course. So, are you a college student?” Gabe asked him.

Bobby couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Yes, and no. I’ve just applied again. I’ve been to Columbia and Northwestern.”

“Those are good schools. Where are you trying to go now?”

The question was entirely innocent, and a natural get-to-know-you question. Bobby looked at the door; he didn’t want Shayne to hear him.

“They don’t know it—none of them know it—I applied to Juilliard.”

“Ah. For—”

“I’m a guitarist, and I want to write my own music,” Bobby said, warmth entering his voice; he was speaking quickly. “My family—they’re all superachievers. My dad could write his ticket anywhere, though he’s stayed with the D.A.’s office. Maybe he’ll run for something someday, who knows? My brother is, as you know, an M.D., and my sister, bless her heart, is an executive with one of Manhattan’s finest ad agencies. All respectable moneymakers.”

“And are they happy?” Gabe asked him.

“Well, yeah, I think. Shayne loves medicine. I know—through the years—that my folks have talked about his work every time he got an offer to go into private practice. And Morwenna …”

“Yeah?”

“She was an artist once. A really good artist.”

“Doesn’t she get to use that talent at the ad agency?”

“I think that was the idea. But I think it got lost in one of the executive meetings,” Bobby said wryly. “I loved it when I was a kid. She was always drawing fantasy creatures for me. Being snowed in up here isn’t really anything all that new. It’s happened before. God forbid they sell this place and head south!”

“Would you want them to?” Gabe asked him.

Bobby thought about that for a minute. “Palm Springs, Daytona Beach … snowbound mountains!” He laughed. “No, I don’t suppose I would want them to sell. The house is historic—really historic. You can tell by the horrible plumbing and the really bad electricity. But the place really means something to my mom. And, in all honesty, I guess it means something to me, too.”

“That’s nice to hear. But, what’s the story with your music?” Gabe asked.

“According to my father, music is a hobby. Not a career. You go to school for a career.” Bobby looked at the door again. “I’m an adult. If I really want it, I can just stop taking parental financial aid and go it on my own. It will be much harder, but I’m willing to give it go. The thing is …” Bobby trailed off.

“Yeah?” Gabe pressed.

He laughed suddenly. “I guess it’s a good thing. We fight like cats and dogs, and it’s hard to plan a family dinner with a pack of overachievers … but, still, my parents always loved us. It’s the way that they look at me that kills me. It’s the disappointment.” Bobby shut up, wondering why the hell he had just kind of spilled out so much to a stranger. Maybe, he thought, because he’d needed to tell someone, but he didn’t want to tell them until he knew what might happen. He knew the odds were against him; getting into Juilliard was a numbers game, and there could only be so many people who got into the school. There were other music schools—if he didn’t make it, he’d try again.

But he didn’t want to tell anyone in the house that he’d auditioned. He didn’t want them to see his hope, or, his disappointment if he didn’t make it. Even though it meant they were sure to lecture him through the holiday, he was sticking with the story that he’d gotten a job working in New York City for the coming semester, until he figured out just what he did want. It wasn’t a lie; he did have a job offer working with a group of musical waiters at a place called Napoli. They waited on tables, stopped, picked up their instruments and did quick numbers in between.

Even if he made it into Juilliard, Mario, the head of the group and a great vocalist, had assured him they’d be happy to work with his schedule.

It was all okay, really. But he could just hear his father’s voice: “A singing waiter? What kind of life is that, Bobby? What if you want a family, kids? There’s no advancement, Bobby. Nowhere to go.”

“Sounds to me like you know how to get where you want to go—just have to hang in and take those first steps. So,” he said loudly, “Christmas here every year, huh?”

Bobby realized that Shayne was coming back with clothing for their guest.

He’d told a stranger, and not his brother, what he was hoping to do with his life.

“Yep, every year,” he said.

As Shayne walked in, Bobby walked out. “Patient seems to be fine,” he said.

Back in his own room, he found Genevieve and Connor sitting in the midst of a massive pile of wrapping-paper scraps. Rudolph was dancing here and there, and little blue snowflakes lay in strips across the floor.

“Nice job,” he said cheerfully. He looked around at the mess. “I think I hear Gram calling you from the kitchen!”

He led them back past his brother’s door, and could hear the drone of Shayne’s voice. No surprise. Shayne was willing to talk about the difficulty of the divorce at the drop of a hat.

Except that Shayne didn’t seem to be doing all the talking. He stopped speaking now and then, and Bobby could hear the stranger’s voice.

That he was speaking wasn’t odd at all.

That Shayne apparently stopped speaking to actually listen was odd indeed.

Chapter 3

“Dinner’s ready!” Morwenna called up the stairs.

Her father had been in his study and he emerged, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “So, kid, what happened? I thought we were going to get to meet Mr. Perfect this year.”

“He couldn’t come, Dad, and he isn’t Mr. Perfect.”

“But he’s a major presence in your life, right?” her father asked her.

“Dad, we’ve been seeing each other about six months. He still has his apartment, I still have mine. I—”

“I should hope so!” Mike said, disgruntled.

Morwenna chuckled softly. “Dad! You’d be surprised at the mismatched couples that jump in together in New York. The cost of living is staggering. But we’re both doing well, and he’s really a nice guy.”

“So nice that he isn’t here with you at Christmas,” her father said. He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. She had seen him in the courtroom, standing in just that position, when he was arguing the guilt of an accused.

He was good at the stance.

“Dad, an entire group from our agency was going to Cancún. Alex put the trip together before he knew that I was coming home.”

“And a bunch of adults couldn’t go to Cancún without him?”

“Hey! I’m an adult, too. I could have gone with them.”

Mike MacDougal shook his head sadly and sagely.

“No, because you know that you would break your mother’s heart if you did something like that.”