A Gift to Last

by Debbie Macomber

  She couldn’t confirm or deny his words, for she no longer knew him.

  “Would you mind telling me about Edward?” he asked.

  Catherine leaned back and sipped her coffee. “In many ways he’s very like you. The physical resemblance is there, anyway.”

  Greg looked up and smiled faintly.

  “He’s six-two and muscular.”

  “How old? Thirty-four?”

  “Thirty-five,” she told him. “His birthday was last month on the twenty-ninth.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Yes, and he has a son himself and another baby on the way. Next spring.”

  Greg’s smile grew wider.

  “He’s a doctor.”

  “Really?” Greg seemed to have trouble believing it.

  “My husband is, too.” Perhaps it was time to remind Greg who Edward’s father was. “Larry raised Edward, helped make him the kind of man he is. Larry’s his father.”

  Greg shook his head. “I wouldn’t interfere in his life.”

  It took a moment for his words to sink in—and then it occurred to her what he’d meant. “Are you asking to meet Edward?”

  Greg didn’t respond for a long time. His face pale and intent, he finally said, “Yes. Could I?”

  Four

  M atthias Jamison enjoyed puttering around in his greenhouse before breakfast. The mornings—that was when he missed Mary the most. She’d been gone fifteen years now, and not a day passed that he didn’t think about the woman he’d loved for more than thirty years. Some men he’d known were quick to remarry after losing their wives. Not him. Mary had been the only woman for him, and no one else would ever fill the void left by her death.

  The sunrise over the Cascade Mountains was glorious, the light creeping up over the horizon, then spilling across his western-Washington vineyard like the promise it was. The morning sun was a reassurance, the pledge of another day, another opportunity. Mary had been the one to teach him that, but he’d never fully appreciated her enthusiasm for mornings until it was too late. He wished he’d shared more sunrises with his beloved wife.

  Their only grandson now suffered from the same rare form of leukemia that had claimed her prematurely. It looked as if Tanner, too, would die. Matthias’s jaw tensed and he closed his eyes. How could a loving God let an innocent child suffer like this?

  What made an untenable situation even worse was the fact that his daughter bore the burden alone. Her ex had done nothing for her or the boy, making Matthias feel doubly responsible, but beyond phone calls and the occasional visit, there was little he could do to help her from where he lived.

  The phone rang and Matthias hurried back to the house, hoping for good news. “Hello,” he answered in his usual gruff voice.

  “It’s Harry.”

  A longtime friend and vineyard owner from the Napa Valley. “A little early for you to be phoning, don’t you think?” Matthias couldn’t prevent his disappointment from showing. He’d been hoping it was his daughter, Gloria, on the phone. He sighed heavily. It damn near killed Matthias that he was as powerless to help the boy as he’d been with Mary.

  “I’ve got news that’ll cheer you right up,” Harry said.

  “I could use some good news.”

  “It’s about Greg Bennett.”

  Matthias stiffened at the sound of the name. He hated Greg Bennett with an intensity that had grown through the years. Bennett owed him. The success of the winery was largely due to Matthias’s guiding hand. If it hadn’t been for him, especially in those early years, Greg would have lost the vineyard ten times over.

  The younger of the two Bennett boys had shown a talent for the business, but Matthias had been the one to teach him about grapes, about wine making, about operating an estate winery. Greg’s father, John Bennett, had lived for the vineyard, to the point that it had destroyed his marriage. But he’d been impatient with the boy, an ineffective teacher.

  A few years after Greg had joined Bennett Wines, John had died, and Greg had taken over. From that point on, Matthias had advised Greg, guided him and helped him expand enough to buy out his brother’s share. Matthias had treated Greg as he would have treated his own son, if he’d had one. He’d shared everything with Greg Bennett, his skills and ideas, his enthusiasm for viticulture and wine making, his friendship. That was what made the betrayal so painful, so devastating. Mary’s illness was an almost intolerable blow, but Greg’s refusal to help them—that had been, in a way, an even greater blow.

  Mary had loved Greg, too. Many nights she’d insisted Greg join them for dinner. She’d opened her home and her heart to Greg, and when she needed him, he’d said no. Neither bonds of family nor friendship, neither obligation nor gratitude, had influenced his decision.

  “What about Greg?” Matthias asked now.

  “He was in San Francisco looking for a loan.”

  So Greg’s vineyard had been hit by fan leaf disease. Matthias had suspected as much, but hadn’t heard. “Did he get one?”

  Harry paused for effect. “Not a dime.”

  “Good.”

  “I thought you’d like hearing that.”

  Matthias did, but not nearly as much as he’d hoped. All his energy was focused on doing what he could to help his daughter and grandson. For fifteen years his hatred of Greg Bennett had simmered, until it’d burned a hole straight through his heart. He couldn’t forgive or forget, but his hatred no longer dominated every waking moment.

  “You always said time wounds all heels.”

  Matthias grinned. Actually, Mary had been the one to say that.

  “He’s going to lose everything.”

  “It’s what he deserves,” Matthias said without emotion. The younger man had laid the foundation of his own troubles. If anything, Matthias was grateful he’d lived long enough to witness Bennett’s downfall.

  “I bet you think he should rot in hell,” Harry said, and when Matthias didn’t comment, his friend spoke again. “Hey, I hate the guy, too. Everyone does—although not as much as you do.” He chuckled. “Well, I better get back to my morning coffee.”

  “Thanks for the call.”

  “Talk to you later,” Harry said. A moment later, the line was disconnected.

  Matthias appreciated knowing of Greg’s financial problems. Fan leaf, a virus, had indiscriminately infected a number of vineyards in both the Sonoma and Napa valleys. Owners had been forced to tear out formerly productive vines and start anew, a prospect that was both time-consuming and expensive. Many of the small and medium-sized wineries in the two valleys were in danger of going under, Greg’s included.

  Mostly retired, Matthias needed something to occupy his time. In recent years he’d been working with local vineyard owners who were trying to grow vines resistant to the fan leaf virus before it had the same devastating results in Washington as in California.

  Standing next to the phone, Matthias realized he should be dancing at the news about the disaster at Bennett Wines. A year ago, even six months ago, he would have been thrilled at the thought of Greg’s troubles. Revenge was said to be a dish best eaten cold, and he’d certainly waited long enough to have it served to him. But he experienced damn little of the pleasure he’d anticipated. He’d wanted Greg to suffer the same agony that had tormented him as he stood by his wife’s bedside.

  The vineyard was everything to Greg, just as Matthias’s only grandchild had become everything to him. And this time, they were both going to lose what they loved most.

  “That is so sad,” Mercy said, sitting on the edge of the counter in Matthias’s kitchen. “Just look at him.”

  “He’s worried sick about his grandson.”

  “What’s going to happen to the boy?” Both Goodness and Mercy turned to Shirley.

  “Do I look like I have a crystal ball?” Shirley asked irritably.

  “I don’t know about you two—” Goodness reclined on the long counter “—but I was hoping for something a little less stressful during this visit
to earth. We’re assigned to a guy who’s a real jerk. Someone who couldn’t care less about anyone except himself.”

  “Yeah, but we’re here on earth, aren’t we?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I agree with you,” Shirley said, cutting in while the opportunity presented itself, “but we can help.”

  “Where’s the fun? We got a human with his head so far up his—”

  “Mercy!”

  “A self-centered human,” she revised. “You know, I think I’d feel better if Catherine had torn him to shreds. She should never have forgiven him.”

  “Mercy! Just listen to yourself.”

  “Right, right,” she muttered, but Shirley could see that Greg was taking a toll on her friend’s compassion.

  “He’s got too many problems for us to deal with,” Goodness complained.

  Shirley wasn’t accustomed to such a defeatist attitude. “There’s always his brother.”

  “What’s this about a brother?” Goodness asked, suddenly attentive.

  “Don’t you remember?” Shirley did a double take. At their blank stares she sighed and reminded them. “Phil. You remember reading about Philip Bennett, don’t you? He’s a big muck-a-muck with Pacific Union Bank. Greg considered going to him for a loan, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

  “Why not?”

  Shirley sighed again. It would help considerably if Goodness and Mercy had finished their research.

  “Refresh my memory, would you?” Goodness asked.

  Shirley felt the burden of responsibility. “You didn’t read the whole file, did you?” she asked wearily.

  “Ah…no.”

  “That’s what I thought.” It would do no good to lecture them now. “Greg’s mother was dying while he was in the middle of his second divorce.”

  “I remember reading about Bobbi,” Mercy said triumphantly. “His second trophy wife.”

  “His second attempt to find another Catherine, you mean,” Goodness muttered.

  “Yeah, yeah. What does Bobbi and their divorce have to do with Greg’s mother?” Mercy asked. Both angels were lying on their stomachs now, chins propped on their hands.

  “You didn’t finish reading the file, either?” Shirley was dismayed.

  Anything that was going to get accomplished on this mission would obviously be up to her.

  “It was too depressing.”

  “I don’t have the patience to cope with men like him,” Goodness said.

  “Go on about his mother,” Mercy urged, motioning with her hand for Shirley to continue.

  “Greg hid as much of his wealth as he could from Bobbi, mostly in stocks and bonds. Otherwise she’d want her share in a divorce settlement.”

  “Were they married long enough for her to get much?”

  Like most angelic beings, neither Goodness nor Mercy fully understood the way such matters were handled on earth. “Didn’t matter,” Shirley said. “She had a good attorney.”

  “Oh.” Apparently Goodness and Mercy were knowledgeable enough to know what that meant.

  “Lydia Bennett was dying and asked to see Greg,” Shirley continued. “Unfortunately her request came the morning of his settlement hearing. Greg chose to go to court. I’m sure that if he’d known his mother would die before he got to the hospital, he would’ve canceled the court date.”

  “Oh, my,” Goodness whispered.

  “Phil never forgave him?”

  “Never. They haven’t spoken in ten years.”

  Goodness sat up and looked around. “I don’t know if I can take much more of this. You two do what you want, but I need a break.”

  “Where are you going?” Shirley demanded. If her fellow angel got into any mischief, she’d be the one held accountable. As usual.

  “Outside,” Goodness called over her shoulder.

  Without a word, Mercy followed Goodness.

  “Mercy!” Shirley shouted.

  Flustered now, she raced after the pair and came to an abrupt halt when she saw the hot-air balloons. Their huge parachutes with the bright rainbow-colored panels brightened the sky. There must have been a dozen balloons in the lower Kent Valley. She knew that conditions in the early-morning hours were often ideal for ballooning.

  “Goodness! Mercy! Don’t even think—” She was too late. Shirley caught sight of them as they hopped into a wicker carriage already filled to capacity. The ground crew was about to release the giant balloon from its tether line.

  “Goodness!” Shirley called, exasperated beyond measure. “Mercy! Get out of there!”

  Both pretended not to hear her. Shirley had to be careful. It wasn’t uncommon for humans, especially young ones between the ages of one and five, to hear angels speak. Some older people possessed the ability, too. Inside the basket was an eighty-year-old grandmother who was taking the flight as a birthday gift from her grandchildren.

  “For the love of heaven, will you two kindly—” Shirley froze, certain she was seeing things. The hot-air balloon had risen only about six feet off the ground, where it remained, hovering, even though the ropes that had bound the craft to earth had been set free.

  “What’s happening?” the old woman called to the ground crew, who’d stepped aside, obviously waiting for the balloon to glide upward. “Shouldn’t we be going up?”

  Shirley groaned when she saw the problem. Just as she’d ordered, Goodness and Mercy had indeed left the wicker basket, but had taken positions outside it, securing the dangling tether lines to the ground.

  “Let go,” Shirley yelled.

  “Are you sure that’s what you really want us to do?” Goodness asked.

  Without waiting for a response, both Goodness and Mercy released their tether lines at the same time. The balloon shot into the sky like a rocket. A few seconds later, its speed became more sedate.

  “Wow!” Shirley heard the grandmother shout, holding on to her protective helmet with one hand and gripping the basket with the other. “Can we do that again?”

  Goodness stood next to Shirley, looking extremely pleased with herself.

  “That felt wonderful.”

  “You’ve risked the entire mission,” Shirley said coldly. “Gabriel is sure to hear about this.”

  “Look at this,” Mercy called as she joined them. She held a bottle of sparkling wine in one hand and dangled a trio of champagne flutes in the other.

  “Where’d you get that?” Shirley asked.

  “They fell from the sky.” She grinned broadly as she said it.

  “Come on, Shirl,” Goodness cajoled, “humans aren’t the only ones who enjoy a glass of bubbly now and then.”

  Five

  G reg had barely slept or eaten in five days. He hadn’t recognized the gaunt beleaguered man who’d stared back at him in the bathroom mirror that morning. For a long time he’d studied his reflection, shocked into numbness. Anyone seeing him would assume his condition was due to either the stress of his vineyard being wiped out or the failure of his third marriage. Neither was true.

  He had a son. Catherine had given birth to a boy, raised that child, loved him, guided him into adulthood. Now this child, the son Greg had rejected, was a doctor. His son was a father himself, which made Greg a grandfather. A grandfather! That knowledge was heady stuff for a man who’d never…never been a real father and never would be. When he’d abandoned Catherine and the child, Greg had assumed there’d be plenty of time for a wife and family. He hadn’t realized back then that this child of Catherine’s was his only chance. In his cowardice he’d thrown away the very life he’d always expected to have.

  The first emotion he’d felt when Catherine told him about Edward had been undiluted joy. He had no right to feel anything—he knew that without her having to say it—but it’d been impossible to hide his reaction. Catherine always did possess the uncanny ability to see through him. It was one reason he hadn’t been able to face her after she’d told him about the pregnancy. Evading responsibility, he’d run and hadn’t
looked back—but he’d been looking back plenty these past five days. Every waking minute, to be precise.

  Greg wouldn’t have blamed Catherine if she’d ranted at him, called him every ugly name her vocabulary would allow. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d offered him a gracious forgiveness, of which he felt completely undeserving.

  He could have accepted her anger far more easily than her generosity of spirit. As unbelievable as it seemed, she was the one who’d made excuses for the shabby way he’d treated her.

  All Greg could do was torment himself by thinking of the opportunities he’d missed when he walked out on Catherine. Since their meeting Friday afternoon, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach had refused to go away. He didn’t know what to do next, but one thing was clear: he had to do something.

  Catherine had said she’d get in touch with him about his meeting Edward. He could tell she wasn’t keen on the idea; her pointed remark that Edward already had a father had hit its mark. She’d said the decision would come after she’d had a chance to talk it over with her husband, Larry, and with Edward himself. They’d parted then, with Catherine promising to call soon.

  He hadn’t heard from her since, and the waiting was killing him.

  By five that evening Greg had lost patience and decided to call Catherine. He hurried into his office and reached for the telephone, intent on dialing directory assistance. As he lifted the receiver, a week’s worth of mail slipped off his desk and onto the carpet.

  With money pressures the way they were, Greg had been ignoring the mail, which consisted mainly of past-due notices and dunning letters from his attorneys. He stooped to pick up the envelopes, and that was when he saw it.

  A letter addressed to him in Catherine’s flowing penmanship. Thirty-five years, and he still recognized her beautiful handwriting.

  Without conscious thought, he replaced the receiver. He studied the envelope carefully, noting the postmark. She’d mailed it the day after their meeting. He held it for a couple of minutes before he had the courage to open it.