handed the single sheet of stationery to her friend. Michelle scanned the page, then raised her eyes to Jenny.
"Your mother wants you to come home for Christmas."
Jenny sank onto the sofa and tucked her feet beneath her. "Christmas has always been so special with our family. I don't think I've met anyone who could put on a spread the way Mom does. She makes this incredible sage dressing for the turkey, and the scent of it fills the house." She closed her eyes, and the memory was so powerful, she could almost smell the pungent herbs right then.
"Maybe there's a way you could manage to make it home," Michelle said sympathetically.
"There isn't," Jenny said, unwilling even to listen to suggestions. No one needed to tell her that she'd done this to herself.
Christmas with her mom and dad and little brother. A lump formed in her throat.
Christmas on the range. Snow glistening in the moonlight, sleigh rides every December. Decorating the tree together had long been a family tradition. Her father would set a pot of wassail to warm over the fireplace, and they'd sing carols while they strung the lights and added the tinsel. The ranch hands and neighbors would stop over for a cup of her father's special brew. Trey came every year.
"Jenny?"
Her eyes popped open. "Sorry. I guess I got carried away there for a moment."
"Why hasn't your family come to see you?"
"Mom and Dad?" Jenny supposed she should have considered that a long time ago, but try as she might she couldn't picture her parents in New York. To the best of her knowledge they'd never been more than three hundred miles away from the ranch. Their lives revolved around the care and feeding of a thousand head of cattle. It would be unheard-of for her father to leave the ranch unattended.
There'd been a time when Jenny hated the mere mention of the word beef. How eager she'd been to escape to the big city and find her way in the world. How eager she'd been to disassociate herself from the Flying L Ranch.
"Did you hear anything from Peterman?" she asked Michelle, needing to change the subject before she became downright maudlin.
"Not a word. Rumor has it he's looking for a particular kind of girl."
"Oh?" Jenny feigned interest. It went without saying that whatever character type the famous director sought wasn't likely to be Jenny. She had lost count of the number of times she'd auditioned for John Peterman. He hadn't chosen her yet, and she doubted he would this time.
She didn't know when she'd started all this stinking thinking. About the time she'd told the first lie to her parents. Negative thoughts had crowded her mind ever since.
"I can't shake the feeling you're going to be offered one of the major roles," Michelle said. "Mark my words, Jenny Lancaster. We're both headed for Broadway."
"This is the saddest thing I've ever seen," Mercy told her two friends. "Jenny wants nothing more than to go home for the holidays, and can't."
"Surely there's a way we can help her."
"I'm convinced there is." Goodness spoke with utter confidence. "All we may need to do is pull a few strings. That shouldn't be so difficult."
Mercy smiled. "We've been doing that for years, haven't we?"
"Maybe we should make it impossible for Jenny to refuse her mother."
Mercy looked to the former guardian angel. "What do you mean?"
Shirley pointed to the Thanksgiving card tucked in Jenny's bedroom mirror. "Perhaps all we really need to do is give her a good enough excuse to head home."
Chapter Six
Jenny didn't want to do it. Her heart ached every time she thought about refusing her mother's plea. The list of fabricated excuses was as long as her arm.
She waited until she had the apartment to herself and then sat down at the table. She bolstered herself with a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of butter cookies. With pen in hand, she wrote.
Dearest Mom and Dad,
You don't know how it pains me to tell you I won't make it home for the holidays. I love you both more than words can say. I think of you every day. Know that my heart will be with you, but this is the price of success. . . .
Jenny wadded up the letter and unceremoniously tossed it into the garbage. She tried again, and after six or seven lines the second sheet followed the path of the first.
A half hour later, the table was nearly obliterated with discarded attempts.