They were deeply involved in a kiss when Julie heard her father behind her.
“Yup,” he said gleefully. “I’d say my Julie likes Mr. Roy Fletcher.”
“I’d say she does, too,” Mercy shouted, and exchanged a high five with Goodness. “Just look at the two of them.”
Frowning, Shirley stood back, arms crossed. “It was too easy.”
“What do you mean?” Mercy demanded. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve been working hard to bring these two humans together. And I think I did a very good job.”
Shirley shook her head. “There’s trouble in the making, I can feel it. I’m telling you something’s going to happen that none of us will like.”
“Well, don’t go looking for it,” Goodness warned.
“I’m not,” the oldest of the trio insisted, “but I can sense it coming.”
“Don’t say that,” Mercy cried, covering both ears. “Roy and Julie are perfect together. They’re falling in love, exactly like we planned.”
“I wish I could agree,” Shirley said. “But experience tells me it was too easy. Mark my words, they’re about to hit a major snag.”
“You’re just upset about that salmon,” Mercy pouted.
Goodness wasn’t thrilled about the fish free-for-all in Pike Place Market, but any chastisement would only encourage Mercy to misbehave. After Julie and Anne had left, Mercy had gone amok. Fish had been flying in all directions. Staff and customers were shouting and shrieking; chaos was rampant. It’d taken both Shirley and Goodness to get her out of the fish market.
“What could go wrong?” Goodness asked.
“Yes, just look at them,” Mercy said. Roy and Julie had started to place the ornaments on the tree. Between each carefully hung bauble, they’d pause and exchange kisses and munch popcorn. “He’s even telling her about Christmases he had as a boy. We all know he doesn’t often talk about his parents.”
“Speaking of parents,” Goodness said, glancing around. “Where’s Dean?”
“He made an excuse to leave and give them privacy.”
“That’s very considerate.”
Shirley continued to frown. “I wish I had a better feeling about all of this.”
So did Goodness, but she’d come to respect her friend’s premonitions. She could only wonder what would happen next.
Eighteen
It was beginning to look and feel like Christmas, Anne thought as she walked out to her rural mailbox. The neighbors, whose house could barely be seen in the distance, had strung a multicolored strand of outside lights along their roofline. A six-foot-tall Frosty the Snowman stood forlornly in their front yard. Snow was a rare commodity in the Pacific Northwest, and a fake snowman was all there was likely to be.
As Anne strolled back up the meandering driveway that led to her cottage, she browsed through the assortment of holiday cards, bills and sale flyers. She’d been so busy with her artwork and traveling into Seattle that the mail had sat forgotten in her box for three days. Pouring herself a cup of tea, she settled at the small round table in her cozy kitchen and opened the top envelope.
It was clearly a Christmas card, an expensive one, judging by the large vellum envelope. Anne opened it and slid out the card. The scene was of snow and geese and a decorated Christmas tree in the middle of a pristine meadow. Curious now, she looked inside and gasped as she read the embossed name. A sharp pain slashed through her and she held her breath, closing her eyes at such blatant cruelty.
Burton and Aimee Fletcher
This Christmas card was obviously Burton’s way of reminding Anne of what he’d done to her. Not that she needed reminders … She didn’t know why her ex-husband hated her so much. Perhaps it was because, thanks to Aimee and the divorce, Burton had lost his son. Was he blaming her for that?
Refusing to dwell on the reasons for such unkindness, she tossed the card aside and reached for the rest of her mail. Her hands shook as she struggled to regain her composure. How sad that five years after their divorce, her ex-husband was still trying to upset her. Well, Anne wasn’t going to let him. Then it occurred to her that perhaps it hadn’t been Burton at all, but Aimee. If so, Anne couldn’t begin to figure out why the other woman would want to hurt her.
Although she tried not to let the Christmas card bother her, Anne couldn’t stop thinking about it. The fact that she hadn’t recognized the return address told her Burton and Aimee had moved from the oceanfront home Anne had loved so much. She could just imagine the new house. No expense would have been spared; Burton was all too willing to spend his money on Aimee. It thrilled him to have a beautiful young woman on his arm. A woman dressed in designer clothes, wearing lavish jewelry that spoke of her husband’s success. He’d done exceptionally well over the years. Twice now, she’d heard his name in conjunction with famous Hollywood stars and their very public divorces.
The phone rang. Anne wasn’t in the mood to talk, and decided to let the answering machine pick up. Out of curiosity, she glanced at caller ID. When she saw it was Marta’s New York number, she jerked up the receiver.
Anne had been waiting anxiously ever since their last conversation. The temptation to contact her had been almost overwhelming, but she hadn’t given in. If Marta had sold the angel painting—or wanted to discuss her marriage—she would’ve called.
“Hi, Marta,” Anne said, rushing her words together.
“Merry Christmas, Anne.”
Anne so wanted this to be good news. She needed it after that dreadful Christmas card.
“How are you?” Anne asked.
Marta hesitated. “Okay, I think. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Of course I do.” From the tone of her friend’s voice Anne suspected the call had to do with Marta’s husband and not the painting.
Marta sighed, a despairing sound. “I confronted Jack. I tried to follow your advice and casually mention that I knew about the affair. Unfortunately it didn’t work. I came unglued.”
“What happened?” Anne asked softly.
“You suggested I simply tell Jack I knew what he was doing and that I was protecting myself financially. That seemed so reasonable at the time, and I thought I could do it. I really did. But when the moment came, I burst into tears and called him every foul name in the book. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry. I’ve never been one to say those kinds of things.”
“This is your life and your marriage, and your heart’s breaking.” Anne had struggled with this same vicious anger herself. Her self-esteem had been destroyed; she’d come to the end of her composure, no longer the complacent wife. Her self-recrimination had been as bitter as her resentment and her fury.
“I had no
