The Trouble With Angels Page 0,42

great minds and forming his own.

It was time to think about scheduling another series of sermons. He generally planned them up to six months in advance. One year he'd spent nearly nine months in the Gospel of John alone. Steve Tenny had suggested he write up his sermon notes and submit them for publication.

Paul had toyed with the idea for a time, but that was right before Barbara had been diagnosed with cancer; afterward, both their lives had become a crazed circus ride.

Those notes were in a binder on the shelf. Paul stood and reached for the binder and read through the first few pages. How proud he'd been of his insights, of the applications he'd made. As he read over the first few pages, he didn't see what all the fuss had been about. This wasn't any better or any worse than what he'd been preaching for the last twenty years.

Discouraged, he set the binder aside, determined to forget the project. Better yet, he'd throw the whole thing away.

He picked up his detailed notes and tossed them into the wastepaper basket.

A knock sounded against the door. "Come in," he said without much enthusiasm. Sometimes Mrs. Johnson came looking for him at the house, and he wished to avoid her as much as he could. The woman who'd served as his secretary all these years had become something of a pest lately.

He smiled when Joe entered the den. "Joe. I thought you and Annie were going grocery shopping for our dinner with your sister and Eric."

Joe frowned. "We finished that hours ago."

Paul looked at his watch. The time had slipped past without him noticing. That seemed to be happening more often of late.

"We were thinking about buying you a Christmas tree."

"A tree?" Paul repeated. "Don't bother, son. It's just going to be me this year, and heaven knows it'd probably become a fire hazard before I find the time to take it down."

Joe wore a hurt, little-boy look. "We've always had a tree, Dad."

It was all Paul could do to keep from reminding his son that Joe had always spent Christmas with him. "If you insist, buy me one of those small trees the grocery store sells in the flower pots. The ones that are already decorated. That would suit me just fine."

"All right," Joe agreed easily enough, and Paul was grateful. "By the way," Joe said, helping himself to a chair, "how's Mrs. Bartelli doing?"

Paul looked away. He didn't want to think about Madge and Bernard. "About as well as can be expected," he murmured. "I doubt she'll be home again."

"Then she's going to die soon?"

"Probably." Once again God would turn his back on a grieving family and yank away a loved one who had prayed desperately for healing, the way Paul had prayed for Barbara.

"That's too bad." Joe raised his feet and set them on the ottoman. "Say, Dad, since Annie's doing the cooking for tomorrow night's dinner, I thought I'd help straighten up the place a bit."

Paul looked around. True, books were stacked here and there, but it wasn't so bad. "Do you think it needs it?"

"Kind of," Joe said.

His son always had been the diplomatic one in the family.

"Fact is, I was thinking you could use someone who came in once or twice a week to clean for you."

Paul laughed. His own voice sounded rusty and odd to him. It must have been longer than he realized since he'd really laughed.

"What's that mean?" Joe asked, smiling himself.

"I don't need any housekeeper. Good grief, what would they do?"

"We could find someone who'd fix your dinner now and again."

"Why would I want anyone to do that?" Paul asked, seriously wanting to know. "I'm a good cook." He stood and slapped his son across the shoulders. "It's a nice thought, and I appreciate it, but no thanks."

Chapter Nine

The night closed in around Maureen with thick, dark hands. She shivered with cold and rubbed the length of her arms in an effort to keep her blood circulating. It seemed hours since she'd wandered away from the stables, but it couldn't possibly have been that long, could it?

"Help," she called out, forcing the panic from her voice. Her throat felt raw from calling. It was useless. No one knew where she was. No one was going to find her.

"Maureen."

Her name came faintly, like a warm whisper from the distance.

She bolted upright and stood on top of the rock. "Here," she shouted, cupping her mouth. "I'm over here!"

"Keep talking." The whisper