Mr. Miracle (21 page)

“The handbook doesn’t say anything about—”

“It’s in the small print. It’s one of Dr. Conceito’s little tricks,” Celeste informed him.

“Why peek in the window when he could have walked right into the classroom?”

“He didn’t want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Dr. Conceito wanted to see who was attending the party before he raised a fuss. He didn’t want to offend an ally.”

“You mean someone like Jonas?” It’d surprised and gladdened Harry’s heart that the custodian had shown up.

“Exactly.”

“But regardless, when Dr. Conceito looked …”

“There was no party,” Celeste assured him.

Harry’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“I wonder if you picked up on something else going on at the party.”

Plenty of sharing and laughter had taken place, but Harry wasn’t sure what Celeste meant. “What?”

His mentor looked rather pleased with herself. “Jonas and Elaina.”

“What about them?” Harry had done his best to spend time with each of his students and exchange greetings with their guests. Preoccupied as he was, he didn’t get a chance to notice anything else.

“Jonas helped himself to a second tamale and complimented Elaina. You should have seen her blush. Then they got to talking. I think you might find him more of an ally than an adversary in the upcoming weeks.”

“Really?” This was an interesting development.

“What are your feelings about Danny?” Celeste asked.

Harry had given plenty of thought to the young parolee. “Danny’s got a good heart. All we need to do is keep him on track. He has tremendous potential.”

“I agree,” Celeste concurred. “You’ve done well, Harry. You’ve adjusted to human emotions and have come to love these humans just as God intended.”

His heart raced as he asked, “Does this mean I’ll be able to continue with my work here on Earth?”

“I believe there’s a very good possibility that you will.”

This was the best news Harry could have gotten. Oh yes, just as Addie had thought. This was going to be the best Christmas ever.

BALLANTINE BOOKS FROM DEBBIE MACOMBER

ROSE HARBOR INN

The Inn at Rose Harbor
Rose Harbor in Bloom
Love Letters

BLOSSOM STREET
Starting Now
Blossom Street Brides

CHRISTMAS BOOKS
Angels at the Table
Starry Night
Mr. Miracle

For a complete list of books by Debbie Macomber, visit her website at
www.​debbie​macomber.​com
.

D
EBBIE
M
ACOMBER
, the author of
Love Letters, Blossom Street Brides, Starry Night, Rose Harbor in Bloom, Starting Now, Angels at the Table
, and
The Inn at Rose Harbor
, is a leading voice in women’s fiction. Nine of her novels have hit #1 on the
New York Times
bestseller list, with three debuting at #1 on the
New York Times, USA Today
, and
Publishers Weekly
lists. In 2009 and 2010,
Mrs. Miracle
and
Call Me Mrs. Miracle
were Hallmark Channel’s most-watched movies for the year. In 2013, Hallmark Channel produced the original series
Debbie Macomber’s Cedar Cove
. She has more than 170 million copies of her books in print worldwide.

Carrie Slayton’s feet were killing her. She’d spent the last ninety minutes standing in two-inch heels at a charity art auction in a swanky studio in downtown Chicago. She couldn’t understand how shoes that matched her black dress so beautifully could be this painful. Vanity, thy name is fashion.

“My name is spelled with two
l
’s,” the middle-aged woman, dripping in diamonds, reminded her. “That’s Michelle, with two
l
’s.”

“Got it.” Carrie underlined the correct spelling. Michelle, spelled with two
l
’s, had just spent thirty thousand dollars for the most ridiculous piece of art Carrie had ever
seen. True, it was for a good cause, but now she seemed to feel her name needed to be mentioned in the news article Carrie would write for the next edition of the
Chicago Herald
.

“It would be wonderful to have my husband’s and my picture to go along with your article,” Michelle added. “Perhaps you should take it in front of the painting.”

Carrie looked over her shoulder at Harry, the photographer who’d accompanied her from the newspaper.

“Of course, Lloyd and I would want approval of any photograph you choose to publish.”

“Of course,” Carrie said, doing her best to keep a smile in place. If she didn’t get out of these shoes soon, her feet would be permanently deformed. She wiggled her toes, hoping for relief. Instead they ached even worse.

Harry, bless his heart, dutifully stepped forward, camera in hand, and flashed two or three photos of the couple posing in front of what might have been a red flower or a painting of a squished tomato or possibly the aftermath of a murder scene. Carrie had yet to decide which. The title of the work didn’t offer a clue.
Red
. Yes, the painting was in that color, but exactly what it depicted remained a mystery.

“Isn’t it stunning?” Michelle asked when she noticed Carrie staring at the canvas.

Carrie tilted her head one way and then another, looking for some clue as to its possible significance. Then, noticing
that Michelle, spelled with two
l
’s, was waiting for her response, she said, “Oh, yes, it’s amazing.”

Harry didn’t bother to hide his smile, knowing that all Carrie really wanted was to get out of those ridiculous shoes. And to think she’d gotten her journalism degree for this!

Carrie knew she was fortunate to have a job with such a prestigious newspaper. A professor had pulled a favor and gotten her the interview. Carrie had been stunned when she’d been hired. Surprised and overjoyed.

Two years later, she was less so. Her assignment was the society page. When she was hired, she’d been told that eventually she’d be able to write meatier pieces, do interviews and human-interest stories. To this point, it hadn’t happened. Carrie felt trapped, frustrated, and underappreciated. She felt her talent was being wasted.

To make matters worse, her entire family lived in the Pacific Northwest. Carrie had left everything she knew and loved behind, including Steve, her college sweetheart. He’d married less than six months after she took the position in Chicago. It hadn’t taken him long, she noted. The worst part was that Carrie was far too busy reporting on social events to have time for much of a social life herself. She dated occasionally, but she hadn’t found anyone who made her heart race. Dave Schneider, the man she’d been seeing most recently, was more of a friend than a love interest. She
supposed after Steve she was a bit hesitant to get involved again. Maybe once she left the
Herald
and moved home to write for a newspaper in the Seattle area, like she planned, things would be different.

Back inside her condo, Carrie gingerly removed her shoes and sighed with relief.

This was it. She was done. First thing in the morning she would hand in her two-week notice, sublet her condo, and take her chances in the job market in Seattle. If the managing editor, Nash Jorgen, refused to give her the opportunity to prove she had what it took, then why stay? She refused to be pigeonholed.

That decided, Carrie limped into her bedroom and fell into bed, tired, frustrated, and determined to make a change.

“You can’t be serious,” argued Sophie Peterson, her closest friend at the newspaper, when Carrie told her of her decision.

“I’m totally serious,” she said as she hobbled to her desk.

“What’s wrong with your foot?” Sophie asked, tagging behind her.

“Stupidity. This gorgeous pair of shoes was only available in a half-size smaller than what I normally wear. They were so perfect, and they were buy one pair, get the second half off. I couldn’t resist, but now I’m paying for it.”

“Carrie, don’t do it.”

“Don’t worry, I have no intention of wearing those heels again. I tossed them in a bag for charity.”

“Not that,” Sophie argued. “Don’t hand in your notice! You’re needed here.”

“Not as a reporter,” Carrie assured her, dumping her purse in her bottom drawer and shucking off her thick winter coat. “Sorry, my mind is made up. You and I both know Nash will never give me a decent assignment.”

“You’re your own worst enemy.” Sophie leaned against the wall that separated their two cubicles and crossed her arms and ankles.

“How’s that?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re the perfect fit for the society page. You’re drop-dead gorgeous, tall, and thin. It doesn’t hurt that you look fabulous in a slinky black dress and a pair of spike heels. Even if I could get my hair to grow that thick, long, and curly without perming the living daylights out of it, Nash would never consider someone like me. It isn’t any wonder he wants you on the job. Give the guy a little credit, will you? He knows what he’s doing.”

“If looks are the only criterion—”

“There’s more,” Sophie said, cutting her off. “You’re great with people. All you need to do is bat those baby blues at them and strangers open up to you. It’s a gift, I tell you, a real gift.”

“Okay, I’m friendly, but this isn’t the kind of writing I want to do. I’ve got my heart set on being a reporter, a real reporter, writing about real news and interesting people.” In the beginning, Carrie had been flattered by the way people went out of their way to introduce themselves at the events she covered. It didn’t take long for her to recognize that they were looking for her to mention their names in print. What shocked her was the extent people were willing to go in order to be noticed. She was quickly becoming jaded, and this bothered her even more than Nash’s lack of faith in her abilities.

The holidays were the worst, and while it was only early November, the frenzy had already started. The list of parties Nash assigned her to attend was already mammoth. Halloween decorations were still arranged around her desk, and already there was a Christmas tree in the display window of the department store across the street.

Determined to stick with her plan, Carrie went directly into Nash Jorgen’s office.

A veteran newsman, Nash glanced up from his computer screen and glared in her direction. He seemed to sense
this wasn’t a social visit. His shoulders rose with a weary sigh. “What now?” he growled.

“I’m handing in my two-week notice.” If she’d been looking for a response, she would have been disappointed.

He blinked a couple of times, ran his hand down the side of his day-old beard, and asked, “Any particular reason?”

“I hoped to prove I can be a darn good reporter, but I’ll never get the chance writing anything more than copy for society weddings. You said when you hired me that you’d give me a shot at reporting real news.”

“I don’t remember what I said. What’s wrong with what you’re writing now? You’re good.”

“It isn’t what I want to write.”

“So? You make the best of it, pay your dues, and in time you’ll get the break you’re looking for.”

Carrie was tired of waiting. She straightened her shoulders, her resolve tightening. “I know I’m fortunate to work for the
Herald
. It was a real coup to get this position, but this isn’t the career I wanted. You give me no choice.” She set her letter of resignation on his desk.

That got Nash’s attention. He swiveled his chair around to look at her once more. His frown darkened, and he ran his hand through his thinning hair. “You really are serious, aren’t you?”

A chill went down her spine. Nash was actually listening. “Yes, I’m serious.”

“Fine, then.” He reached across his desk and picked up a hardcover book and handed it to her. “Find Finn Dalton, get an interview, and write me a story I can print.”

She grabbed hold of the book, not recognizing the author’s name. “And if I do?”

“Well, first, there’s a snowball’s chance of you even locating him. Every reporter in the universe is dying to interview him. But if you get lucky and he’s willing to talk and we print the piece, then I’ll take you off the society page.”

Carrie wavered. He seemed to be offering her a chance, as impossible as it might seem. Now it was up to her to prove herself. She dared not show him how excited she was. “I’ll find him.”

He snickered as though he found her confidence amusing, and then sobered. He regarded her with the same dark frown he had earlier before a slow, easy smile slid over his harsh features. “I bet you will. Now, listen up—if you get an interview with Finn Dalton, you can have any assignment you want.”