Angels Everywhere - Debbie Macomber [10]
“Monica.” Michael Simpson, the director, edged his way around two altos and moved toward her. “What happened?”
“I lost my balance and fell off the riser,” she explained.
His eyes widened. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “A . . . someone caught me.”
“I’m glad you weren’t hurt.” His smile was shy as he gently patted her hand. “I wanted to congratulate you on your solo.”
“But . . .”
“Your voice was never more pure.”
Monica gestured weakly. To accept the credit would have been wrong. “But another voice joined mine. Didn’t you hear it? I swear it came out of nowhere.”
“Another voice,” Michael asked, frowning. “I only heard you, and you were magnificent. You really outdid yourself.”
“Monica, Monica.” The Reverend Fischer hurried to his daughter’s side and clasped her hand between his. His eyes shone bright with tears. “I’ve never heard you sing more beautifully. You sounded so much like your mother. I’d almost forgotten what a stunning voice she had. This is God’s gift to you, this voice.”
“But, Dad . . .” She stopped, not knowing how to explain. There had been another voice that merged with hers. One that didn’t happen to belong to anyone in the choir. It didn’t belong to anyone she knew.
“Goodness, Goodness, Goodness,” Mercy said in that small chiding tone Gabriel had used with her so often in the past. “You were the one singing, weren’t you?”
Goodness did not attempt to deny it. “I couldn’t help it. ‘Silent Night’ is one of my personal favorites.”
“But she heard you.”
“I know.” That part had been unintentional. Simply put, Goodness had gotten carried away with herself. But she had used considerable restraint. No one, however, seemed to appreciate that part. She could have used Barbra Streisand’s voice. Barbra could really belt out “Silent Night,” or Judy Garland. Now, that would have caused a whole lot of comment. To her credit, Goodness had resisted, although on second thought, she did an excellent Carol Burnett.
“What if Gabriel hears about this?”
“Don’t worry about it.” The archangel would eventually find out, Goodness knew. There would be no keeping it from him, but even that hadn’t been enough for her to resist singing with Monica.
“He might take you off the assignment.”
“Not a chance. Gabriel’s shorthanded as it is. If he was going to pull me off this prayer request it would be for something a whole lot more troublesome than singing.” The prayer ambassador was far more concerned by the consequences of her folly. Monica had fallen into the arms of that hard-nosed, disgruntled private investigator. If anything unsavory had happened, Goodness would have held herself personally responsible.
Three
“Timmy,” Jody Potter called from the compact kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”
“In a minute.” The nine-year-old kept his gaze level with the television as he worked the controls of the Sega game. “I’m just about to save the world.”
“Timmy, please, we go through this every night.” Jody’s nerves were on edge and had been ever since she’d found the letter. The folded sheet of paper had slipped from Timmy’s school binder when she’d set it on the kitchen counter the night before.
A letter to God, but this wasn’t any ordinary letter. Timmy had asked for a father. Jody’s first instinct had been to sit him down and explain that he already had a father. Only Timmy had no recollection of Jeff, who’d died when Timmy was barely ten months old.
Timmy had no way of knowing how proud Jeff had been of his son. How he’d insisted on holding him each night when he returned from the office and feeding him his last bottle. Timmy didn’t remember that it was his father who’d sung him to sleep and then stood by his crib, gently patting his back. Her son couldn’t possibly remember