angels from humans. For a moment she did nothing but soak in the earthly environment. Then, in a display of heavenly grace, the angel unfolded her wings, extending them to their complete and glorious length. With the full splendor of the Lord reflecting upon her, she revealed herself to Anne.
Anne Fletcher gasped and placed her hand over her mouth. To her credit, the human seemed suitably impressed. Slowly Anne dropped her hand and stared hard at Shirley, as if she expected her to disappear. She blinked once and then again, obviously testing to see if this could possibly be her imagination. Anne shaded her eyes from the light. Then, still staring, she reached for a pad and pencil and started to sketch.
“Oh, no.”
Mercy looked around, certain they were about to lose all visitation rights until the next millennium. Nothing happened.
Seconds later, Shirley was back. Goodness forced herself to keep quiet and not reprimand her friend. Mercy had no such restraint.
“How could you?” she wailed.
“Anne needed a sign,” Shirley said, “and I gave it to her. God is working, and I wanted her to know that—to believe.”
“But look what she’s doing!” Mercy cried, watching as Anne worked on the sketch, her fingers moving at a furious pace as if she was struggling to get everything she’d seen down on paper before it faded from memory.
Goodness could hardly wait until Gabriel heard about this.
Four
Julie was proud of her father, and so pleased that he’d been granted this opportunity. Abraham Lincoln Junior High where she taught was only a short distance from Fletcher Industries. The first day he was scheduled to work, she suggested she ride in with him and then take her bike from the complex to the school. She planned to do the same thing in reverse every afternoon, unless there was a late meeting scheduled or one of her teams had a practice or a game. It was hard to find opportunities to exercise, and this seemed a good solution, in addition to giving her extra time with her father. Folding a change of clothes into her backpack, she dressed in her spandex pants and nylon shirt. She attached her bicycle to the carrier on the rear of the Ford, then joined her father in the front seat.
“Are you excited?” she asked. If he wasn’t, she certainly was. Her father could use a psychological boost. It’d been a long dry spell for both of them.
He shrugged.
“Well, I am.” It felt, in some strange, inexplicable way, as if they could finally begin to heal—as if their time of grieving was about to end. Not that either of them would forget Darlene Wilcoff. She was alive in their hearts and would forever remain a part of them. Now, four months following her death, this crisp, clear late-November morning seemed filled with renewed promise.
“You’re sure about this bicycle business?” her father muttered as he started the engine. “I don’t like the idea of you riding back in the dark.”
“It’s perfectly safe, Dad,” she said, half-tempted to say that at thirty, she was well beyond the age of needing parental supervision. “I’m wearing a helmet and a vest that reflects in the dark, plus the bike has a flashing light in the front and the back.”
He grunted, obviously still disapproving, but didn’t argue further. As they reached Fletcher Industries, her father slowed. “You’ll need to be here at five this afternoon.”
“I will.” That would allow her time to finish up some paperwork and cycle back to the complex. “Where would you like me to meet you?”
He frowned as if he hadn’t considered this earlier. “In front of the building would probably be best. The parking lot is a secure area and I don’t want you going in there without me.”
“Okay. I’ll see you at five.”
Her father pulled up close to the tall office building and put his car in Park while Julie climbed out. Other cars had already started to arrive, and a delivery truck circled toward the back of the complex.
Julie walked to the rear of the Ford and removed her ten-speed. Her father drove off once he’d pointed out where they should meet. His taillights disappeared as he turned the corner and drove toward the employees’ designated parking area, joining a line of other vehicles.
Julie had just finished snapping the helmet strap under her chin when a sharp male voice spoke from somewhere behind her. She whirled around.
“What’s your business here?” Oh, great, her father’s first day and she was going to have a confrontation with a security guard.
“Hello,” she said, smiling warmly. “I’m Julie Wilcoff. My father—”
“I asked you to state your business.”
The man was no guard, Julie could now see. He was tall, an inch or two more than her five foot eleven, and dressed in a dark suit, expensive, judging by the cut, although she didn’t have a discerning eye when it came to fashion. He might have been handsome, but scowling as he was, he appeared intimidating and in no mood for excuses.
“I’m on my way to school.”
His expression implied that she was lying.
“You’re not a student.”
“No, I’m a teacher. My father dropped me off here to show me where I should meet him tonight when he’s finished work. Are you Roy Fletcher?” This could be the man her father had described; his attitude certainly resembled that of the company owner.
The man ignored her question. “Your father is Dean Wilcoff?”
“Yes.” She had to bite back the urge to call him sir. It’d been a long time since any man had intimidated her, and she wasn’t about to let it show. “I didn’t realize there were rules against riding bicycles in this complex.”
“There aren’t. Be on your way,” he ordered, starting toward the front door.
Julie planted one hand on her hip and glared at him. “I beg your pardon,” she said in her best schoolteacher voice. How dare he speak to her like this!
He paused, and then with exaggerated patience, said, “You’re free to go.”
“In case you’re unaware of it, I was entitled to do so before.” No wonder her father had taken a dislike to Mr. High-and-Mighty. He was, without exception, the most disagreeable person she’d ever met. His arrogance was absolutely staggering.
He turned his back on her and walked into the building.
Fuming, Julie climbed on her bike and locked her cleats into the pedals. She rode hard, her anger driving her faster and faster as she left the complex and then merged with traffic on the main thoroughfare outside Fletcher Industries. She arrived at Abraham Lincoln a good ten minutes earlier than she’d estimated. She parked her bicycle, still muttering to herself, and carefully took off her helmet.
“Mornin’,” Penny Angelo, who taught English, said cheerfully as she passed the bicycle rack, briefcase in hand.
Julie managed a halfhearted greeting and then added, her outrage
