Touched by Angels Page 0,14

so?" Mercy felt the excitement churning inside her. But that enthusiasm slowly ground to a halt as she studied the archangel. "Is there something you know that we don't?" Gabriel occasionally withheld information in a blatant effort to teach them a lesson. Mercy had long suspected it to be so.

"No," the archangel assured them. "Just don't be so quick to assume the obvious."

"My oh my, she is talented," Mercy admitted, watching her young charge's agile leap across the stage.

It was at times like this that Jenny realized how badly she hungered for this dream. Once she stood on stage with the other dancers, her adrenaline started flowing, pumping her deflated hopes until they soared higher and higher.

This was where she belonged, where she longed to be. Her heart hummed with excitement, waiting for the opportunity to prove herself.

"Jenny Lancaster." Her name was called by a man sitting in the theater seating. Since the lights blocked her view, the casting director was no more than a hoarse, detached voice. From her best guess, she figured he was somewhere in the first five or six rows.

Jenny stepped forward and handed the piano man her sheet music.

"What will you be singing?" asked the same uninterested voice.

She moved one step and peered into the dark. " 'Don't Cry for Me, Argentina.' "

"Fine. Give us your best eight bars."

It was always the same. Rarely did it vary. Jenny suspected she could have sung a tune from a Sesame Street production and no one would have known the difference, least of all the casting director. He'd made up his mind even before her turn had come, even before she'd been given a chance to prove what she could do.

Argentina might not weep for her, but Jenny felt the tears welling up inside her. Tears of disappointment. Tears of struggle. Tears of a dream that refused to die.

The first chords from the piano filled the silence. Jenny hung her head and closed her eyes, allowing the music to transport her to another world. She drew in a deep breath and slowly lifted her head. No longer was Jenny Lancaster auditioning for a bit part; she was playing the role of her life. Within the magic of a few notes, she was transformed from a disillusioned waitress into the ambitious wife of a South American dictator.

"Wow." Mercy was set back on her wings. "That girl can sing."

"She is talented," Shirley was quick to agree.

"Incredible." Goodness seemed to be at a loss for words, which was completely unlike her.

Mercy knew she could accept no credit for Jenny's skill; nevertheless she experienced a deep sense of pride that she should be assigned to this amazing young woman.

"Her voice, why, it's almost . . ."

"Angelic," Gabriel supplied, grinning broadly. It was a rare treat to find the archangel in such good spirits.

"Yes," Mercy agreed. "Angelic."

"You believe you can handle this request?" he questioned.

Mercy was sure she could. "Yes," she assured him confidently. "Leave everything to me." Somehow, some way, Mercy would come up with the means of helping Jenny fulfill her dreams. With a little help from her friends.

Anyone with this much talent, this much heart, deserved a break. A bit of intercession from the heavenly realm never hurt. Naturally Mercy wasn't about to let Gabriel know her plans, but then what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.

And while she had her hand in Jenny's life, Mercy decided, she might as well do what she could about getting the talented singer home for the holidays.

"No funny stuff," Gabriel warned.

Mercy managed to look offended. "Gabriel, please, you insult me."

"I won't have you hot-wiring cars and sending them where you will."

Mercy's shoulders went back in a display of outrage. "I'd never resort to anything that underhanded."

Gabriel didn't say anything for several moments. Then, scratching his head, he studied the three prayer ambassadors. "Can anyone tell me why I don't believe you?"

Chapter Four

"I'd like everyone to take out a clean piece of paper," Brynn instructed, standing in front of the classroom. It sounded like a simple enough request, one would think. But from the moaning and groaning, it was as if she'd sprung a surprise quiz on them.

"You aren't going to make us write again, are you?" Emilio Alcantara groaned aloud, voicing, Brynn suspected, the thoughts of half the class.

"Yes, I am," she said, unwilling to let her students' lack of enthusiasm dampen her spirits.

Yolanda leaned so far out of her desk toward Denzil Johnson that she nearly toppled onto the floor.

"Yolanda," Brynn