The Red Gloves Collection by Karen Kingsbury Page B

up, those unforgettable eyes shining. She excused herself and followed him to a quiet spot around the corner.
    “Earl.” She took his hands in hers. “I’m so glad you made it.”
    A blush warmed his face and he stared at his shoes for a moment. “I have a plane to catch in a few hours.” He handed her a package. “I wanted you to open this before I go.”
    “Earl, you shouldn’t have. It’s enough that you’re here.” She slid her finger into a seam in the wrapping paper and pulled out a framed painting. For a long moment she merely stared at it. Then two delicate tears trickled down her cheeks. “Oh … It’s beautiful, Earl. I can’t believe it.”
    It was an original painting, one he had commissioned from an artist friend he knew at church. Earl had found an old photograph of Gideon as an eight-year-old, a picture she’d given him long ago. Then he’d asked the artist to duplicate it on canvas. The man had done a stunning job of capturing Gideon’s soulful eyes and the emotion she carried in her heart at that young age.
    But that wasn’t what made Gideon stare in wonder.
    There was something else—something Earl had asked the artist to add to the painting. On the left side it read, “Christmas miracles happen to those who believe.” And beneath that was a perfect illustration of the gift that had started it all.
    The gift that had both changed them … and saved them.
    A pair of bright red, woolen gloves.

Maggie’s Miracle

    dedicated to…
    Donald, my forever prince
    Kelsey, my beautiful laughter
    Tyler, my favorite song
    Sean, my indefinable joy
    Josh, my gentle giant
    EJ, my chosen one
    Austin, my miracle boy
    And to God Almighty, the author of life,
    who has—for now—blessed me with these.

PROLOGUE
    T he letter was his best idea yet.
    Jordan Wright had already talked to God about getting his wish, and so far nothing had happened. But a letter … a letter would definitely get God’s attention. Not the crayoned pictures he liked to send Grandpa in California. But a real letter. On his mom’s fancy paper with his best spelling and slow hands, so his a’s and e’s would sit straight on the line the way a second grader’s a’s and e’s should.
    That way, God would read it for sure.
    Grandma Terri was watching her yucky grown-up show on TV. People kissing and crying and yelling at each other. Every day his grandma picked him up from St. Andrews, brought him home to their Upper East Side apartment in Manhattan, got him a snack, and put in the video of her grown-up show. Jordan could make his own milk shakes or accidentally color on the walls or jump on his bed for an hour when Grandma watched her grownup show. As long as he wasn’t too loud, she didn’t notice anything.
    “This is my time, Jordan,” she’d tell him, and her eyes would get that in-charge kind of look. “Keep yourself busy.”
    But when the show was over she’d find him and make a loud, huffy sound. “Jordan,” she’d say, “what are you into now? Why can’t you read quietly like other children?” Her voice would be slow and tired, and Jordan wouldn’t know what to do next.
    She never yelled at him or sent him to his room, but one thing was sure. She didn’t like baby-sitting him because yesterday Jordan heard her tell his mom that.
    “I can’t handle the boy forever, Megan. It’s been two years since George died. You need a nanny.” She did a different kind of breathy noise. “The boy’s wearing me out.”
    Jordan had been in his room listening. He felt bad because maybe it was his fault his grandma couldn’t handle him. But then he heard his mom say, “I can’t handle him, either, so that makes two of us.”
    After that Jordan felt too sick to eat dinner.
    Ever since then he’d known it was time. He had to do whatever it took to get God’s attention because if he didn’t get his wish pretty soon, well, maybe his mom and his grandma might not like him anymore.
    It wasn’t that he tried to get into