Heather Graham by Angel's Touch Page B

Cathy thought, as she started across the street. A huge moving van came trundling along, and Cathy stepped back before she remembered that there wasn’t much the truck could do to her anymore.
    When she crossed over, the woman had nearly disappeared down the street. Cathy started to run after her.
    Seconds later, she was amazed to discover how winded a fledgling angel could become. She gripped a streetlamp, inhaling, exhaling. She stared at the house in front of her and read the name on the very American red-white-and-blue eagle-shaped mailbox.
    O’Connor.
    Look to the obvious.
    Far down the street, the woman who had poked through the donut-shop garbage had slowed down. She was looking at the bright Christmas lights attached to the handsome residences here by the Common. Looking into windows. At Christmas trees.
    The power of suggestion was hers, Cathy had been told. She simply hadn’t been informed how to use it.
    She looked down the street, concentrating. Come back, Maggie. Come back and see this house.
    She looked toward the dwelling. Come out, Mrs. O’Connor. Come and look for your husband.
    It didn’t seem to be working. Maggie was still moving away. The O’Connor’s door remained closed.
    Come look for your husband!
    I don’t have a husband. I left the abusive slug years and years ago!
    Cathy muttered a swift curse, realizing as the thought-reply came flying back at her from Maggie that she’d been sending her power of suggestion in the wrong direction that time.
    Try again. She was allowed a few screwups, really. She was new at this.
    Maggie, come back this way. Come back, Maggie. Come and look into the warmth of this house…
    To Cathy’s surprise and relief, Maggie turned at last, shaking her head in confusion as she looked back over the street she had just walked down.
    Maggie began to walk toward the O’Connor house. Slowly at first. Then more quickly. She stopped at last beneath the streetlamp just to the side of the front of the O’Connor house.
    What was he doing here on Christmas Eve? Jimmy wondered, stepping into the men’s room of Mulligan’s. Considering the place, the atmosphere and all, the facilities were fairly decent. There was a broad mirror over the three sinks, a line of three urinals, a row of three stalls. He walked straight for the urinals, his kidneys loaded. After absently unzipping his fly, and relieving himself, he closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. He should have had beer, not whiskey. He’d wound up with whiskey and beer chasers.
    He should have gone home.
    He didn’t know why he hadn’t. Except that he’d wanted a drink. And when he drank at home, even if it was Christmas, everyone stared at him. Like he was doing something wrong. Even Sharon didn’t say a word. She just looked at him.
    She never said a word. No matter what he did. When he’d gotten fired, she’d just spent more time in her sewing room. When he stayed out late, she just took the kids with her wherever she went. No matter when he came in, she had dinner ready if he was hungry. He wondered briefly if the way she so unquestioningly loved him was why he had decided to marry her. Or had he just proposed because she was different, a challenge. Sharon Challifour, so solemn, so studious! Seducing the girls who hung around him had been no challenge. Getting Sharon into bed had been a notch in the old belt.
    Oh, sweet Jesus, he was thinking about his wife. His pregnant wife. Mother of two already. She’d been lucky to marry an O’Connor of Boston.
    Lucky to marry him.
    Hell, no! Poor damned Sharon—why the hell hadn’t she left him yet?
    Better still, just what the hell was he afraid of, huh? Getting old? Making real commitments? Facing the truth about himself?
    You’re not a great O’Connor of Boston, Jimmy. You’re just a drunk. A drunk. If it weren’t for your name and your family, and a wife who picks up your sodden carcass every time you go on a bender, you’d be on the streets, no better