glass down on the counter. “Well, I never. I daresay I’m as well-versed as almost anyone, and I don’t see anything in the Bible that
prohibits
exchanging gifts, at Christmas or any time.” She picked her glass back up to salute with it. “Tasteful ones, and not in excess. All things to the glory of God.”
I refilled my wine.
“Do you have plans for your Friday night, dear?”
“I’m going to take some roast and vegetables back to my room for now. I’m really tired,” I ladled an enormous bowl.
“You don’t want to watch
Murder, She Wrote
with me?”
We’d seen every episode at least three times. I smiled at her. “You tell me whodunit at breakfast tomorrow.” I kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for making dinner.” What I left out telling her was that I needed to get in touch with Jack. He didn’t know it yet, but he was going to have passengers on the way to New Mexico tomorrow.
Chapter Twelve
Early the next morning outside the Maxor Building, Jack dropped his bag and Snowflake’s collapsible kennel into the trunk of my Mustang, then opened the passenger door. Snowflake hopped in and he followed her. She adjusted herself into his lap.
Jack swiveled in his seat. “Morning.”
I’d texted Jack late the night before, asking to hitch a ride to his ranch for me and two, which he’d agreed to if I’d pick him up on my way to the airport, since his Jeep was still in the shop. The kids accepted that he would believe our cover story that they were two family friends who I was dropping in Alamogordo. I knew the chances of him buying it were slim to none, but a) I trusted him with the secret and b) I was still going to give it my best shot.
“Jack, these are the two family friends of mine I was telling you about, George and Frannie.” I used the cover names we’d picked together. “Guys, this is my boss, Jack.” I paused, then added the nickname I occasionally used for him on a whim. “Short for Jack Ass.”
Greg and Farrah stared at me for a split second.
Greg—who I had to remember to start thinking of and calling George—laughed first. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ass.”
“Jack, please.” Jack rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t show me a lot of respect.”
“Who, me?” I winked toward the teens.
We drove out of downtown, passing several of the older, more established churches on the way. At the First Baptist Church’s sign, I read POTLUCK SUPPER SUNDAY AT 5:00 PM—PRAYER AND MEDICATION TO FOLLOW. I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Jack asked.
I pointed at the sign and he chuckled. “I can just picture some little blue-haired lady carefully writing that in her shaky handwriting for one of the youth group members to put up.” Remembering the one from the night before, I decided that I really needed to start writing them down. I could write a hilarious little book, and surely authors made more money than paralegals.
Jack’s left dimple appeared. “Church bulletin typos made Sundays worth it for me as a kid.”
I merged onto I-40, keeping a sharp eye on the rearview mirror, as I had the entire way from Heaven in to pick up Jack. No followers that I could tell. Jack chatted with the kids as I exited and made a few quick turns to get us to the nearby Tradewind Airport. I parked as close as I could to the edge of the surface lot nearest Jack’s hangar—on the opposite side of the facility from the airport’s small terminal building—and checked the mirrors one last time. Still no suspicious vehicles.
Jack grabbed Snowflake’s kennel and his suitcase, and she walked beside him on a leash. I followed with my one rolling bag, and the kids fell in beside me, each of them carrying mostly empty plastic grocery bags. We passed a pole crowded with painted arrows pointing in different directions and denoting mileage to a multitude of destinations. It looked like an old-school Rolodex in mid twirl. Jack unlocked the door and we entered his pitch-dark shared private hangar. He flicked
prohibits
exchanging gifts, at Christmas or any time.” She picked her glass back up to salute with it. “Tasteful ones, and not in excess. All things to the glory of God.”
I refilled my wine.
“Do you have plans for your Friday night, dear?”
“I’m going to take some roast and vegetables back to my room for now. I’m really tired,” I ladled an enormous bowl.
“You don’t want to watch
Murder, She Wrote
with me?”
We’d seen every episode at least three times. I smiled at her. “You tell me whodunit at breakfast tomorrow.” I kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for making dinner.” What I left out telling her was that I needed to get in touch with Jack. He didn’t know it yet, but he was going to have passengers on the way to New Mexico tomorrow.
Chapter Twelve
Early the next morning outside the Maxor Building, Jack dropped his bag and Snowflake’s collapsible kennel into the trunk of my Mustang, then opened the passenger door. Snowflake hopped in and he followed her. She adjusted herself into his lap.
Jack swiveled in his seat. “Morning.”
I’d texted Jack late the night before, asking to hitch a ride to his ranch for me and two, which he’d agreed to if I’d pick him up on my way to the airport, since his Jeep was still in the shop. The kids accepted that he would believe our cover story that they were two family friends who I was dropping in Alamogordo. I knew the chances of him buying it were slim to none, but a) I trusted him with the secret and b) I was still going to give it my best shot.
“Jack, these are the two family friends of mine I was telling you about, George and Frannie.” I used the cover names we’d picked together. “Guys, this is my boss, Jack.” I paused, then added the nickname I occasionally used for him on a whim. “Short for Jack Ass.”
Greg and Farrah stared at me for a split second.
Greg—who I had to remember to start thinking of and calling George—laughed first. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ass.”
“Jack, please.” Jack rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t show me a lot of respect.”
“Who, me?” I winked toward the teens.
We drove out of downtown, passing several of the older, more established churches on the way. At the First Baptist Church’s sign, I read POTLUCK SUPPER SUNDAY AT 5:00 PM—PRAYER AND MEDICATION TO FOLLOW. I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Jack asked.
I pointed at the sign and he chuckled. “I can just picture some little blue-haired lady carefully writing that in her shaky handwriting for one of the youth group members to put up.” Remembering the one from the night before, I decided that I really needed to start writing them down. I could write a hilarious little book, and surely authors made more money than paralegals.
Jack’s left dimple appeared. “Church bulletin typos made Sundays worth it for me as a kid.”
I merged onto I-40, keeping a sharp eye on the rearview mirror, as I had the entire way from Heaven in to pick up Jack. No followers that I could tell. Jack chatted with the kids as I exited and made a few quick turns to get us to the nearby Tradewind Airport. I parked as close as I could to the edge of the surface lot nearest Jack’s hangar—on the opposite side of the facility from the airport’s small terminal building—and checked the mirrors one last time. Still no suspicious vehicles.
Jack grabbed Snowflake’s kennel and his suitcase, and she walked beside him on a leash. I followed with my one rolling bag, and the kids fell in beside me, each of them carrying mostly empty plastic grocery bags. We passed a pole crowded with painted arrows pointing in different directions and denoting mileage to a multitude of destinations. It looked like an old-school Rolodex in mid twirl. Jack unlocked the door and we entered his pitch-dark shared private hangar. He flicked
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