Midwinter Magic (3 page)

At least, it hadn’t been. She’d never become corporeal in front of any of her clients. Never even dreamed about it, until Jack. And now here they were. In the flesh. Staring at each other across a candlelit table. Like a tongue-tied couple on their first date.

It’s not a date,
Sarah reminded herself fiercely.
It’s not a date. It’s not a date.

Jack laid his fork atop his empty plate and gazed across the table at her. When he spoke, his voice was low, coaxing. “Tell me something surprising about yourself.”

Oh, crap. It was a date.

“Tell me something surprising about yourself” was Jack’s standard opening gambit every time he met an interested woman. Which was all of them. If they stared at him blankly or leaned forward to flash cleavage with a confession like “I’m not a real blonde,” they didn’t get a second chance. Jack didn’t do stupid, and he didn’t do boring.

He also didn’t do guardian angels, but she had to tell him
something
. Something other than, “I have invisible wings and I watched you learn how to ride a tricycle when you were two.”

She settled on, “I travel a lot for work.”

Not the most exciting revelation, but it was the only thing she could say without inventing something outright. This was the first and last time they were ever going to meet like this. Face-to-face. Voice to voice. There was already so much subterfuge between them, she really wanted him to know something true. To exist in his memory as Sarah-the-person, not Sarah-the-mirage.

Jack leaned forward. “Me, too. Where have you traveled?”

“Everywhere,” she answered simply. Everywhere
he’d
traveled, certainly. Thanks to him, she was familiar with every frequent-flier lounge on six continents. But she’d traveled much farther and far longer than that. Since before he was born. To places he’d never dreamed existed.

He arched a brow. Quizzed her on a few of his favorite places. Tried to trip her up on the differences between Kuala Lumpur and Jakarta. Was impressed that her knowledge of Russian teas rivaled his own. She’d had to fudge a few answers on purpose, just so he wouldn’t think she was pulling her responses directly from his brain.

Ah, if only she could see into his brain. It would make this “date”—and her job—so much easier. Instead, she was forced to learn about him solely by observation. She couldn’t interact, ask questions, or get feedback. She never knew what he was thinking. Hell, she only knew for sure what he was planning if she happened to be right next to him when he signed a merger or scheduled a flight. And she couldn’t watch him 24/7. Angels might not sleep, but guardian angels did have a monthly date with the Governing Council of Heavenly Beings to be debriefed on current assignments.

With a man like Jack, those hours apart from him were the most harrowing of her life. While she was busy assuring the Council that absolutely, Jack was perfectly fine and perfectly safe and perfectly right on target for an inoperable coronary at age seventy, Jack would spontaneously decide to fly to India or Botswana and vaccinate orphan children in the middle of a jungle in the path of an elephant stampede. She was an angel, not a homing pigeon, so as soon as she finished assuring the Council of her charge’s continued safety, she’d have to frantically race to find him before he contracted malaria or got eaten by a tiger or fell into a snake pit.

Guarding him would go more smoothly once she made a graceful exit from his visible life. He was much easier to keep track of when she had wings and invisibility on her side.

“Well,” she said brightly. “It was nice meeting you, but I’ve got to get going.”

A glint came into his eye. A glint that one of his rivals had once referred to as “calculated skepticism.” A glint that tore down façades faster than his rivals’ legal teams could build them up. A glint that turned her belly into molten lava.

His smile was danger personified. “Are you staying here in Santita?”

“No,” she said quickly.
He
was staying in Santita and she definitely didn’t need him scouring the town for her.

“Do you have a car?”

She shook her head. She might be able conjure up a car, but she’d never driven one. First thing she’d probably do was drive it into a tree. “I’m taking the bus.”

“Where are you heading?”

“To. . . Sucre?” Damn. She hadn’t thought up a backstory. She’d never
needed
a backstory. She’d never spoken to a human before, much less been boxed into a corner where she was forced to lie to one.

“No, you’re not.” He idly twirled the stem of his empty wineglass. “You don’t have a hotel and you don’t have a plan and you’re definitely not going to Sucre. There are no buses until tomorrow. And nothing will convince me you were planning on walking two hundred kilometers in those shoes.”

“I. . .”

“You’re stuck here for the night, no matter what your plans might’ve been. Tomorrow morning, I’ve got a date with the local kids, but in the afternoon, I’ll help you get to the right stop. The Sucre bus isn’t until one o’clock anyway. We’ll have plenty of time.”

Sarah shook her head, frantic. “You really don’t have to—”

“Of course I do. A woman traveling alone should not be hitching rides with strange men in the middle of nowhere. I’ll go with you, and make sure they let you on a direct bus. It’ll be safest.”

Yay. Chivalry.

She stared at her pristine dinner plate in dawning horror. If it was proving difficult to surreptitiously disappear in front of one person, it would be damn near impossible to do it in front of a busload of Bolivians. Not to mention, she couldn’t trust that Jack wouldn’t rappel down a landslide to rescue orphaned sloths before she had a chance to get out of the bus and fly back to find him.

No choice.

She was going to have to stay.

N
OW THAT
his empty belly no longer dominated his thoughts, Jack viewed Sarah Phimm in a different light.

Candlelight, to be exact.

The sun had finally set, leaving a single yellow-orange flame to cast its warm glow on Sarah’s cheeks, to lend extra shine to her golden ringlets, to sparkle softly on her. . . empty plate. Jack swallowed. What if she hadn’t already eaten? What if she didn’t have any money and was simply too proud to accept his? What if she’d claimed to be staying “around” because she had nowhere else to go?

“
Do
you have a hotel?” he demanded suddenly.

Her eyes widened and she just as quickly glanced away. “I. . .”

She didn’t. Great. “Do you have money? Tell me you have money.”

“Uh. . .”

“Eat. I told you it was on me.” He motioned to Doña Camila. “She needs to eat,” he told her in the same tone he used to enforce hostile takeovers. He turned back to Sarah. “And then you’ll come home with me.”

“No-no-no-no,” she stammered, her head shaking frantically. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“You can have the guest bedroom and I’ll sleep on the sofa in the main room. And I’m buying you breakfast
and
lunch before I put you on a bus going anywhere. And then—”

Her eyelashes did the weird fluttery thing as she mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “extenuating circumstances” beneath her breath. Before he could ask her to speak up, Doña Camila was right there, patting her on the shoulder.

“She stays here,” she informed Jack in a no-nonsense voice even a seasoned corporate raider wouldn’t argue with. “There’s no grandchildren tonight. You’ll see her tomorrow.”

Alrighty. Jack couldn’t say he understood the comment about grandchildren, but he supposed if Sarah was staying with Doña Camila, that explained how she knew the restaurant would be uncharacteristically open on a Sunday evening.

“Fine,” he said, matching the sternness in her tone with an even steelier one of his own. “But see that she eats. On me.” He handed her enough cash to feed an entire soccer team and then rose to his feet before either woman could argue. “I’ll be back tomorrow as soon as I finish with the kids.”

Then he headed straight to the dentist’s house and fell asleep in his clothes on top of the still-made bed.

When the chickens heralded an early dawn, he forced his stiff muscles out of bed and into the shower, where the lack of hot water shocked the last wisps of sleep from his head.

He dressed quickly, pausing only to greet his hosts and scoop up the heavy sacks before heading out the door. He hoped to make it to the one-room schoolhouse before class began. It would be the best chance to speak to all the local children in the same place at the same time. He wanted the gift-giving to go as smoothly as possible. Particularly since he’d lost a big chunk of his supplies along the way.

The kids abandoned their makeshift soccer game the moment they saw him coming. Leaving the scarred, half-inflated ball to limp across the grass alone, they ran toward him like a herd of puppies.

Smiling at their innocent delight, he let them tear into the bags and divvy it up as they pleased.

One of the first things that had struck him after spending time in third-world countries was the complete lack of a “Mine!” culture. He didn’t know the families and the personalities and the town as well as these kids did, and he didn’t have to. They were already dividing the clothes by size and need, art supplies by age and talent, toys by appropriateness and number of siblings.

Each child selected precisely one new thing to call their own before throwing themselves wholeheartedly into the pleasure of who they would surprise with the rest. This blanket for that baby sister, this hair clip for that pregnant mother, this hammer for that work-worn dad, this book for that grandmother whose legs couldn’t carry her into town anymore. Despite not having everything he started out with, Jack was more than certain that tonight, every inhabitant of this small town would have an unexpected gift. If that didn’t make it a good Christmas, he didn’t know what did.

No.

Not true.

Jack knelt to collect his now-empty sacks, and remained on his knees beneath the spreading dawn. How many lives had corporations like his ruined? How many homes had been destroyed? Forests leveled? Rivers polluted? No amount of coloring books and clean socks could make up for something like that. People had
died
because of “industry leaders” like him. Because of mergers he’d signed, because of corners companies had cut. All in the name of the almighty dollar. The relentless bottom line. The ability to declare rising dividends for stockholders at a corporate gala and be greeted with standing ovations and raised glasses of champagne.

He was done turning a blind eye to the poor, the desperate, the helpless. But even if he spent the next thirty-five years atoning for the first thirty-five—which he fully intended to do—it was impossible for any one man to right a multibillion-dollar empire of wrongs.

And yet he’d keep trying.

He slung the empty burlap over his shoulder and pushed to his feet. Empty sacks didn’t mean it was time to rest. Empty sacks meant it was time to refill the well. There were a thousand worthy towns like this one. Tens of thousands. If he lived to be eighty and it took one week to find a town in need and the rest of the month to deliver appropriate supplies, that ought to give him. . . five hundred and forty microscopic blips of goodness.

After a decade of destroying twice as much in a single day.

“Señor Morgan! Wait!”

Jack turned back toward the school. The children were seated quietly, pencils at the ready, as their schoolteacher jogged across the grass toward him.

“Thank you,” she said, her smile beatific. “You are a godsend. I never doubted you would be back. Nor did the children.”

Jack returned her smile, but his soul was hollow. He didn’t deserve her thanks or her smile or her trust. He certainly didn’t deserve the blind faith of innocent children. He didn’t deserve anything but penance.

A gruff, “My pleasure,” was all he said in reply. He wouldn’t be seeing her, or the children, or this village again. It didn’t do to get attached. Not when the only thing that kept him sane was moving on, and helping others to move forward.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” she asked with a warm smile.

As if he might have plans. Or anyone to share them with.

“Do you know of any other towns that could use some holiday cheer?” he asked, well aware he hadn’t answered her question. He’d learned the prize skills of avoidance and redirection at his father’s knee.

“Towns?” the schoolteacher repeated doubtfully. “Yes, although I wouldn’t call the place I have in mind a ‘town.’”

Jack’s blood flowed a little faster. “Who? Where?”

“South of here, far from the main roads but not too far from the Pilcomayo River, is a village desperately in need of help. Last year, the rainy season swept away most of their roads and many of their roofs. They are too poor to make the repairs and the government cannot help everyone. There is probably nothing you can do, but. . .”

But it was almost Christmas. And the rainy season was upon them again. If he didn’t get the roofs fixed soon, those village kids would be dying of pneumonia before New Year’s. He’d have to assess the damage, get supplies from anywhere he could. . . A thrill raced through him, just like it did whenever he’d confronted a corporation who declared hell would freeze over before they’d allow him to buy them out. Jack loved a challenge. And he always won.

This time, his smile was genuine. “If I leave now, can I make it by nightfall?”

A long-suffering sigh sounded from right behind him. “I’m coming with you.”

He whirled around.

Sarah. In a Mötley Crüe T-shirt. And a poodle skirt. And steel-toed Doc Martens.

At least she’d left off the cupcake.

“You’re coming where?”

“Wherever you’re going.” Her smile was angelic. . . and highly suspicious. She beamed at the schoolteacher. “I want to help, too.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “What about the bus?”

“I don’t do buses.”

“Well, where I’m going requires a bus. How else would we get all the way to the Pilcomayo? On roller skates?”

“Four-wheel drive.” She held up a tiny black fob and pressed a button. A sparkling new Subaru SUV gave a merry chirp in response.

Jack stared. Had he thought her stranded and penniless? She’d apparently out-poker-faced the world poker face champion. He was impressed.

“I’ll take the ride,” he said at once. Even though it would be one-way.

Right now, Sarah might be thinking it would be a lark to visit a village in the middle of nowhere. But she couldn’t begin to guess how much work a project like this would be, or how much time it could take. He’d be spending Christmas Eve beneath a lean-to in the middle of nowhere. As eccentric as she was, Sarah undoubtedly had somewhere better to be. People who loved her. Who missed her. Expected her home.

He smiled to hide the dark turn his mind had taken. “I’ll chip in for gas if you let me drive.”

“You’ll pay for everything and like it.” She tossed him the keys.

He caught them with one hand and turned back to the schoolteacher. “I’ll be on the road within the hour.”

“Wonderful. With four-wheel drive, you can definitely make it before nightfall.” She smiled and handed him a scrap of paper. She’d drawn a map on one side and written a name on the other. “Ask for Alvaro. Tell him you are a friend of mine. He will give you shelter. And. . . thank you.”

“Thank
you
.” Jack tucked the paper into his wallet. She would never know just how badly he needed this. He kissed her cheek, waved to the children, and cut over to the SUV. Sarah was already in the passenger seat.

He hauled open the door and swung himself inside. The driver’s seat was roomy, comfy, clean. Everything about the car sparkled. The carpets, the cup holders, the mirrors, the windshield. . . Where had she rented this thing? A factory showroom? How had it even gone a yard down the road without attracting a healthy coating of mud and dust? He turned the key in the ignition, half expecting to see a row of zeroes across the odometer.

Nope. It read “1952.” He smiled wryly. The year of his mother’s birth. There was an old family photo from that year, back home on Jack’s desk. Framed. His mom as a chipmunk-cheeked infant, bundled in his grandmother’s arms. He’d never gotten to meet his grandmother, but he always imagined her looking exactly as she did in that photo, with her dark hair in soup-can curls, her baby in her arms, and her poodle skirt awhirl as if—

Jack cut a sharp glance at Sarah.

Her poodle skirt was identical to the one his grandmother had worn in the photo.

He shook his head and settled his hand on the clutch. He was being fanciful, which wasn’t like him in the least. Of course Sarah’s poodle skirt looked like his grandmother’s. All poodle skirts looked exactly like poodle skirts. That was the point of poodle skirts. He didn’t even know if this one was the same color. All he had was a black-and-white photograph that had gone yellow and brittle before he’d even been born.

As for the 1952 glowing up at him from the dash? Nothing otherworldly there, either. All cars had to pass that number and every other potentially meaningful number, as their odometer clocked the miles. Or kilometers, as the case may be. He needed to get his head out of the past and focus on the future. Pick up his luggage from the dentist’s house and hit the road. “Plenty of time” was never as much time as you thought, and anything could happen on the road between here and there. He glanced into the second row of seats to see if Sarah had thought ahead to bring her luggage.

She had. One small carry-on bag.

His was right beside it.

“You brought my
luggage
?” he blurted in surprise.

Her eyes closed. Not the weird fluttery thing she sometimes did, but a comparatively normal I’m-in-so-much-trouble squeezing of the eyes.

“I took a few liberties,” she mumbled.

He thought about that. Clearly she expected some sort of explosive reaction. But why? It was just a suitcase. She hadn’t stolen it from him—she’d brought it to him. Thanks to her foresight, they’d be on the road that much faster. Matter of fact, if it weren’t for her, he might not be on the road at all.

So he said, “Thanks,” and slid the gearshift into first. As soon as they were on the highway, he messed with the radio until he found a genre he liked. The further they got from Padilla, the weaker the signal would become, but for now he had his pick of stations. So he picked the eighties. Normally he was just as happy with Latin music as with any other, but he figured anyone who accessorized a poodle skirt with Doc Martens and a Mötley Crüe shirt clearly had a strong appreciation for the pre-grunge days.

As if he’d conjured it up through wishful thinking, the opening engine purr of Mötley Crüe’s
Girls, Girls, Girls
drifted from the speakers.

“Know this one?” he asked innocently.

She snorted and shot him a look of such comical disbelief, he could barely contain his laughter. “Word for word, trust me.”