while later, the three of them were gathered in Anne Fletcher’s art room. It was a small area with plenty of light. Canvasses were stacked against the wall, some painted, others a pristine white, waiting to come to life. Anne sat near a phone, and after a long moment, picked it up.
“Who’s she calling?” Mercy asked.
“Shh,” Goodness warned. Thankfully, Anne wasn’t aware of their presence nor could she hear their voices, unless special arrangements had been made well in advance. They were required to go to Gabriel for permission to reveal themselves—not that there weren’t inventive ways around that. “Listen,” Shirley said, hushing them all.
Anne punched out the private number to Roy’s office. There was no guarantee that he’d speak to her. She didn’t doubt that he loved her, but her son was avoiding her these days. Anne wasn’t fooled; she knew why he was doing this. While she tried not to nag him, Anne realized she must sound like a distant echo, repeating the same message over and over. No wonder he looked for ways to sidetrack her—or avoid her altogether.
“Roy Fletcher,” came his gruff, disembodied voice.
“It’s your mother,” she said with a cheerful lilt. “I haven’t heard from you in ages.” She wanted to bite her tongue. This wasn’t how she’d intended to start their conversation. Why, oh, why had she said that? It must have seemed like a chastisement, and that was the last thing she wanted Roy to think. “But I know how busy you are,” she said, faltering a little.
“Do you need anything?” he asked, already sounding bored. He’d be quick to write a check, and had on several occasions, although she’d never cashed one. She wondered if he’d noticed. It wasn’t Roy’s money she wanted, it was his happiness. No amount of money he gave or received, no matter how generous, could buy that.
“I’m fine, Roy. And you?”
“Busy.”
“Are you telling me you can’t talk now?” Or any other time, she thought, disheartened.
He hesitated. “I have five minutes.”
Anne almost had the feeling he was setting a timer. “I called to tell you I’m coming into Seattle next Thursday.” The trip required a ferry crossing and a half-hour drive; it often took a couple of hours to make the journey across Puget Sound.
“Any particular reason?”
“I’m meeting Marta Rosenberg for dinner.”
“Should I know the name?” Roy asked.
Anne sighed, resigned now to his lack of interest and enthusiasm. Except for his work, everything in life seemed to be an effort for Roy.
“There’s no reason you should remember the name,” she told him. “Marta and I were good friends in college. We’ve kept in touch through the years—Christmas cards, that sort of thing. She’s made a real name for herself in New York as an art dealer and gallery owner.”
Surprisingly, that piqued his interest. “Is she going to sell your paintings?”
“Oh, hardly,” Anne said, embarrassed at the idea. Anne would never approach her friend with such a request. Her paintings were amateurish compared to the work Marta sold, work by big names. Revered artists. “I was hoping you and I could meet beforehand,” Anne suggested. She wanted to get to her main reason for calling before her allotted time elapsed.
“I have a half hour open at lunchtime,” Roy murmured.
Anne’s spirits lifted. “That would be lovely. I’m meeting Marta at seven and—”
“I’ll pencil you in for noon. I have a meeting and I might be a few minutes late, so don’t be upset if you’re left twiddling your thumbs for a while.”
“I was thinking I might decorate the windows at your office building before Christmas,” she hurriedly added.
Her remark was followed by a lengthy pause. “You want to do what?”
“Paint your windows, you know, for Christmas.”
“Is this a joke, Mother?”
“No, it’ll give a festive air to the complex. I was thinking of those big windows in the front lobby. In case you hadn’t noticed, ‘tis the season, Roy. Don’t you remember how we used to paint the windows at the house every year?”
Again his response was slow and edged with sadness. “Of course I remember, but I was a kid then. I’ve outgrown things like that.”
Anne didn’t feel that way in the least. She wanted to do whatever she could to resurrect happy memories for him. “You won’t mind, though, will you?”
“If it pleases you, then by all means paint.” His voice softened slightly. “I have to go.”
“I know.” Her five minutes was up.
“I can’t promise you lunch, but I’ll do my best to squeeze you in.” With that, the phone line went dead.
Anne set the receiver back in its cradle as if it weighed thirty pounds.
“Squeeze her in!” Mercy cried, outraged. “This is worse than I thought. Anne’s his mother! How are we ever going to find a woman willing to put up with that kind of behavior?”
Actually, Roy Fletcher was in worse shape than anyone had thought, Goodness mused. They had their work cut out for them.
“Oh, dear, look,” Shirley whispered.
Anne Fletcher’s hand remained on the telephone, as if she was trying to maintain an illusion of contact with her son. Her head fell forward and her shoulders slouched. Suddenly, before the other angels could react, Shirley slipped into the middle of the room.
“What are you doing?” Goodness asked, reaching out unsuccessfully to stop her.
“Anne needs encouragement,” Shirley insisted. “She can’t continue like this.”
“You’re going to get us pulled off this assignment,” Mercy warned. “We haven’t been on Earth five minutes. That’s a record even for us.”
“Don’t you remember what Gabriel said?”
“Darn right I do! One wrong move and we’re out of here.”
“No,” Shirley countered, “he said some things had to be believed in order to be seen.”
“But he didn’t say for us to leap in and do something we know isn’t allowed.”
Mercy’s warning, however, went unheeded. “What’s Shirley going to do?” she asked Goodness.
“I’m afraid to find out,” Goodness replied.
“I’m going to prove to Anne that she should believe,” Shirley announced grandly.
“But that’s the opposite of what Gabriel meant,” Mercy argued.
“I’m
