Читать книгу Angels at Christmas: Those Christmas Angels / Where Angels Go - Debbie Macomber - Страница 16

Roy sat back down at his desk and for the first time in months—years—he burst out laughing. He laughed without restraint. Then he returned to work, stared at his computer screen and started to laugh all over again.

The phone rang and Ms. Johnson interrupted his laugh-fest. “Your mother’s on line one.”

His mother? Not until Roy picked up the receiver did he recall that he’d just seen her the week before. He generally heard from her once a month; any more often was unusual. She’d said something about wanting him to see one of her paintings, but he’d told her he’d do that on Christmas Day.

“Hello, Mom.”

The line was silent.

“Mom?”

“Roy, is that you? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“It’s me,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Are you …” She paused, apparently searching for the right word. “You’re not laughing, are you?”

“Laughing?” he repeated, trying to sober his voice. “I was earlier.”

“A joke?” she asked.

“Actually, it was a woman. Her father’s employed here and she stormed into my office filled with righteous indignation about some nonsense or other. I have to tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything funnier.” Humor overtook him again and he burst into waves of laughter as he described Julie’s outrage. Soon his mother was laughing, too. She seemed to find the scene as hilarious as he did.

“What can I do for you?” Roy asked as he wiped his eyes.

“I wanted to make arrangements to come and paint,” she said.

“I thought you wanted me to come to your house—to look at one of your paintings.”

She had him completely confused now. Did his mother believe he was going to let her do custodial work? “What do you want to paint?”

“The lobby windows,” she said as if it should be perfectly obvious. “Remember? We talked about this a couple of weeks ago. I’m going to paint a holiday scene on the lobby windows.”

In Roy’s opinion, Christmas wasn’t all that different from any other day of the year. He’d do his duty and spend it with his mother; they’d exchange gifts against a background of decorations that brought back painful memories for him—painful because they were good. The truth was, he no longer cared much for Christmas. The holidays didn’t even resemble what he’d once known, those warm, happy times, joking with his parents, feeling their love for him and for each other. That had been a façade, he now realized. His father had become cynical and jaded as the years passed. Roy hadn’t seen that until it was too late. Far too late.

“Oh, yes. Now that you’ve reminded me, I do remember. You can paint whatever you want, Mother,” he told her. “I’ve already let the security people know.”

“I have a wonderful idea.”

She started to detail her plans—something about angels—but he cut her off. “Mother, this isn’t the Sistine Chapel. Don’t worry about it.”

“I know, but … well, I was thinking I’d paint a religious scene with angels similar to the one in this painting I was telling you about. You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”

There was no point in arguing with her even if he did object. “All right, paint your angels. I’ll have the windows cleaned.”

Her appreciative sigh came over the telephone line. “Thank you, Roy. I’ll be there Wednesday.”

“Fine.”

“I’m not going to bother you,” she assured him. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

This seemed to be his day for dealing with irrational women. He could hear the determination in his mother’s voice. For whatever reason, she felt it was important to paint a Christmas scene, and not just any scene, either. But if painting angels on his windows made her happy, then he guessed there was no harm in it.

“Fine, Mother, come and do as you wish.”

“I promise you’re going to love my Christmas angels.”

Roy rolled his eyes. “I’m sure I will, Mother.”

She seemed to be in a chatty mood and went on about dinner with her college friend. “I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” she asked after talking nonstop for several minutes. “I know how busy you are.”

For the first time in a very long while, Roy found he actually liked speaking to his mother—as much as he was capable of liking anything other than business. “It’s fine, Mom.”

For some reason, she seemed to get choked up over that and quickly ended the conversation. He replaced the receiver and stared down at his phone, hardly knowing what to make of his mother. Women. He’d never understand them.

Roy worked for another half hour and then realized he wasn’t in the mood. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, but he was leaving the office. Any file he needed could be accessed from the computer at his condo—a sprawling five-thousand-square-foot penthouse suite overlooking Lake Washington.

As Roy left the elevator and walked into the lobby, he saw a truck towing a vehicle away from the handicapped parking slot.

Jason, the security guard, wore a satisfied grin. “Ms. Wilcoff’s car,” he said, answering Roy’s unspoken question. “In her rush to get in to see you, she parked illegally. Her father wasn’t willing to make allowances.”

He was enjoying this more all the time. “Where is she?”

“Her father said she could either take the bus or wait until he was available to give her a ride. She decided to walk.”

That was exactly what Roy would have expected. “Any idea how much of a hike that is?” he asked.

Jason nodded. Grinning, he glanced down at the polished marble floor. “I think it’s about ten miles.”

A smile tempted Roy. “I see.”

“You can rest assured she won’t make it past me a second time, Mr. Fletcher. Her father’s banned her from the building, too, so you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“I appreciate that,” Roy said, pushing through the glass doors, but as he walked out of the building, he realized that wasn’t true. Despite everything, he’d enjoyed his encounter with Julie, reveled in it. He felt alive in ways he’d forgotten.

Roy turned back. “Do you know which direction she was headed?” he asked the guard.

Jason looked surprised. “North, I’d guess.”

“Thanks.” Roy was going south himself, but a small detour wouldn’t be amiss. He didn’t think she’d accept a ride, but he’d ask. Perhaps a brisk walk would help her vent her anger and make her a little more amenable to reaching some kind of agreement.

Roy drove a black Lincoln Continental with tinted glass. He could see out but no one could see in, which was precisely the way he wanted it. He exited onto the main street heading north and stayed in the right-hand lane. He drove a couple of miles, mildly impressed by how far she’d gotten. She’d made good time. Perhaps she’d grown tired and taken a bus. Or perhaps she’d hailed a taxi.

Then he saw her, walking at a quick pace, arms swinging at her sides. Roy reduced his speed to a crawl as he approached her. Traffic wove around him, some cars honking with irritation, but he ignored them and pulled up alongside Julie. With the touch of a button, the passenger-side window glided down.

She glanced in his direction and her eyes widened when she recognized him.

“Get in,” he said.

“Why should I?”

Time to play nice, he figured. “Please.”

She hesitated, then walked to the curb and leaned down to talk to him. “Give me one reason I should do anything you say.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

That didn’t appear to influence her. “I’m halfway there already.”

Horns blared behind him. “If you don’t hurry up and decide, I’ll get a traffic ticket.”

“Good. It’s what you deserve.”

“Julie, come on, be reasonable. I said please.”

She looked away and then capitulated. “Oh, all right.”

She certainly wasn’t gracious about it, but he felt thankful that she opened the passenger door without further ado and slid into the car. As he hit the gas, she fastened her seat belt.

“Give me your address,” he said.

Obediently she rattled off the street and house number.

Now that she was in the car, Roy couldn’t think of the right conversational gambit. He had no intention of meeting her demands and she apparently wasn’t interested in complying with his. Silly woman. With the stroke of a pen, she could be twenty-five thousand dollars richer, but she was too stubborn to do it. Perhaps she was looking for more.

“You don’t have anything to say?” she asked him after a moment.

“Nope. What about you?”

“Not a thing,” she returned testily.

He eased off the main thoroughfare and onto a quiet side street. It was a middle-class neighborhood of older homes, mostly small ramblers with a few brick houses interspersed among them, just enough to keep the neighborhood from being termed a development.

“Are you ready to listen to reason yet?” he asked as if he possessed limitless patience and was more than willing to wait her out.

“Are you ready to accept responsibility and write me an apology?”

“Not on your life.”

“I’m not signing that settlement offer, either,” she said, tossing him a saccharine smile. She exhaled sharply. “You can rest easy about one thing, however.”

He looked away from the road to glance at her.

“I can’t afford an attorney.”

Far be it from Roy to point out that in liability cases lawyers were more than happy to accept a chunk of the settlement. Generally it was a big chunk. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are.” She closed her eyes and leaned back.

Roy didn’t completely understand why, but he found himself not wanting to drop her off at her house; he wanted to continue driving so they could talk. “We should discuss it further. Perhaps we could reach a compromise.”

“Like what? I take twelve thousand five hundred dollars and you just apologize and don’t accept responsibility?”

“Something like that. Why don’t we have coffee and talk it over?”

Julie’s head snapped up. “You’re joking, right? Did I hear you invite me to coffee?”

“A gesture of peace and goodwill,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “I hear this is the season for it.”

“Oh, puh-leeze.” She crossed her arms. “Thanks but no thanks.”

Roy shrugged off her rejection, although he had to admit he was disappointed. “I was only trying to be helpful.”

“Were you?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“It’s no big deal.”

“You’re sincere?”

“Yes,” he said simply. He felt her scrutiny as he drove.

“Fine,” she agreed, “but I’d like to suggest we have coffee at my house.”

Roy pulled to a stop in front of the address she’d given him. It was a small, well-kept house, probably two bedrooms. Green shutters bordered the windows and a rocking chair sat on the front porch. Christmas lights were strung along the roofline.

“You have coffee on?” he asked.

“No, but I’ll make a pot.”

“Why not a restaurant? Neutral territory.”

“Because,” she said, and sighed heavily. “I’d feel more comfortable on home turf.”

He considered that. “Should I worry about being poisoned?”

“Hmm.” A smile teased the edges of her mouth. “That’s an interesting possibility.”

“Perhaps we can use this as a lesson in compromise,” he said.

“Compromise? How do you mean?”

“If I come onto your turf, we’ll order dinner and I’ll buy—”

Julie didn’t allow him to finish. “Dinner? I thought we were having coffee.”

“I’m hungry,” he said. “And we’ll eat in the security and comfort of your home.”

For a moment he was sure she was going to reject the idea; then she turned to him with a tentative smile. “All right. We’ll order pizza and I like anchovies.”

“Pizza it is. I like anchovies, too.” He’d never met a woman who did; once again she’d surprised him.

From the expression on her face, he wasn’t convinced she believed him.

“I’m just a regular guy, Julie.”

Muttering, “That’s what Benedict Arnold used to say,” she climbed out of the car and closed the door.

Roy joined her on the concrete walkway that led to the front steps. “I’m really not so bad, you know.”

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

He chuckled. “I guess it does. Friends?” He held out his hand.

She looked at his extended hand, sighed and gave him her own. “Don’t think this means I’m going to change my mind about the settlement check.”

“We’ll see about that,” he said as she inserted the key into the lock.

“Yes, we will,” she responded with equal determination.

Roy grinned. This might not be so bad. A girl who liked anchovies on her pizza was obviously reasonable some of the time.