She stepped into the doorway of the chapel, tears of happiness welling up in her eyes. She gazed with love at the man seated at the other end of the long white runner on the floor. The runner seemed to draw a path right to him as he sat there smiling at her. She wanted to lift her skirts and dash to him, slip into his lap, and hold him close to her. But she knew such unorthodox behavior would throw their wedding into pandemonium. Instead she fought the impulse and fell into the expected one-slow-step-at-a-time bridal march.
Since neither Brad nor Annie had young relatives, they had no flower girl or ring bearer and chose rather to meet one another at the altar. Annie had wanted her father to give her away, but because of his illness, she felt it best for him to sit in a pew and watch. Her maid of honor was her old college roommate, and Brad’s best man was an attorney friend.
As they repeated their vows to one another, Annie thanked God for bringing Brad into her life at the right time, a gift above all others.
Finally, after the soloists had sung and the couple had exchanged vows, Pastor Moore challenged Annie and Brad to live their lives for each other, putting God first in all things. Then he pronounced them husband and wife.
Annie gave her bouquet to her bridesmaid then slipped onto Brad’s lap for the traditional bridal kiss. Brad lifted the shimmering veil that covered Annie’s face, pushed back a lock of hair, and kissed her. Lightly, at first, but then the kiss deepened—as if neither one remembered the audience looking on, witnessing their happiness. Annie and Brad would remember that kiss for the rest of their lives.
Pastor Moore turned to the friends, family, staff, and business acquaintances who filled the church and with a broad smile said, “It is my pleasure to introduce to you, Mr. and Mrs. Bradley Reed.”
The groom drew his wife close and pushed the lever forward, and Brad and Annie Reed rolled up the aisle in his wheelchair, love for each other shining on their faces.
“Are you ready to go home, Sweetheart—to Apple Valley Farm?” Brad asked tenderly when they had reached the privacy of the church’s foyer.
“Oh, yes, dearest love, my precious husband.” She longed to be alone with him as his wife.
The wheelchair came to a sudden stop, and Brad snapped his fingers. “Oh no!”
Annie stiffened. What could have happened to cause him such anxiety?
“I have to go back to my apartment!” he exclaimed. “Now!”
“Whatever for?”
He grinned. “I forgot my teddy bear and my Big Bird nightshirt!”
SINFULLY DECADENT AWESOME CARAMEL APPLE PIE
This terrific recipe was given to me
by Millie Miller of Oklahoma City.
1 high-quality, ready-made, deep-dish apple pie with lots of apple filling
1 small jar caramel ice cream topping
1 cup chopped pecans
Bake pie for 20 minutes according to package directions. Remove from oven and make deep holes in the top, filling each hole with a spoonful of caramel topping. If you have any topping left, spread it over the top. Sprinkle chopped pecans on topping. Return pie to oven for approximately another 20 minutes and bake until the topping bubbles and apples are tender.
Note: Be sure to put a large piece of foil or a cookie sheet under the pie when baking since it may boil over.
ANGEL FOOD
by Kristy Dykes
Dedication
To my hero-husband, Milton, who is my collaborator in the deepest sense of the word—he’s believed in me, supported me, and cheered me on in my calling to inspirational writing.
If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal…. If I give all I possess to the poor…but have not love, I gain nothing.
1 CORINTHIANS 13:1, 3
Chapter 1
A ngel Morgan still couldn’t believe her good fortune. She put the paint roller in the tray and looked around—dreamily—at the building that was now hers, compliments of her late great-aunt Myrtle Jean. It would soon be an elegant, upscale restaurant called Rue de France.
“No fair.” Angel’s mother, crouched above the baseboard and, smiling, kept up with her steady strokes. “No slacking on the job.”
“I, Myrtle Jean Morgan, being of sound mind”—Angel made her voice crack like an old lady’s as she held an imaginary will in her hands—“do bequeath to my great-niece Angel Morgan my building in Nine Cloud, Florida, to do with as she sees fit. I also bequeath a sum of money to be used wisely….”
“You could’ve been an actress.” Her mother shook her head, her eyes twinkling.
“I wonder if I’ll ever get used to being the owner of my very own restaurant.” Angel felt a sense of wonder and awe. She stared out the tall Palladian-style windows she’d worked so hard on yesterday, removing years of grime and neglect. Now they sparkled in the summer sunshine. She would get to the glass door this afternoon, if time allowed. “Pinch me so I’ll know this is real, Mom.”
Her mother, agile even at sixty-seven, plunked down her paintbrush, dashed over, and playfully pinched Angel on the upper arm.
“Ouch, I was just kidding.” Angel laughed as she rubbed the spot, then grabbed her mother in a bear hug. “Oh, Mom, I’m so happy.”
“And I’m happy for you.” Her mother’s voice choked up with emotion. “If anybody deserves this, it’s you, hon. It’s a blessing from the Lord. You know that, don’t you?”
Angel nodded and slowly released her, then walked back to her paint roller. If her restaurant was going to open on time, she’d better keep painting.
Her mother resumed her painting as well. “Of course, you’re one of the hardest working people I’ve ever seen—”
“I’m a chip off the old block.”
Her mother waved her hand in the air, as if she was shy of compliments. “How do you say excellent work in French?”
“Travail excellent.”
Her mother swept her hand around the large, high-ceilinged room. “That’s what you’ve done here.”
“Thanks, Mom. I couldn’t have done it without your help.”
“But the Lord’s help, most of all. He’s gifted you with determination…and fortitude…and creativity—”
“Now you’re embarrassing me.”
Admiration shone in her mother’s eyes. “You are so creative, hon. What a nifty idea, to give the downtown business owners a free lunch right before your opening day…”
“In only two weeks, I’ll get to meet the important people of Nine Cloud.”
“Your father used to call people like that The Brass. He said they dressed to beat the band.”
Angel laughed. “Well, I’m going to be dressed to beat the band that day.” She glanced down at the paint globs on her clothes.
“Knowing you, you will be.”
“That reminds me. I need to design an invitation for the free lunch and get it in tomorrow’s mail. I’m lucky I learned desktop publishing in a PR class—”
“You’re blessed, you mean. Luck doesn’t come into play for a Christian.”
“I am blessed, Mom. I’ve got the greatest mom in the world. You’ve been my cheerleader since I was a kid.”
“A champion’s worth cheering for.”
Angel’s eyes misted over. As the white walls turned goldenrod, she thought about her childhood that had been dear and sweet and pleasant—but only because her mother had worked like a Trojan to make it that way. Other women might’ve given up, but not her mother. Angel’s father had died when she was eight, and her mother had found a job as a school-cafeteria cook to support them.
God’s the reason we’re making it, her mother often said. He’s the most important thing in life.
Angel sighed contentedly, thinking about her twenty-four years. She’d determined early on to make something of herself, to go somewhere beyond the crackerbox house she’d grown up in on the wrong side of the tracks, and she’d worked hard to see that happen. In high school, she hit the books while her
friends enjoyed football games and parties. She did the same in college to maintain a four-year scholarship. For the past two years, she’d worked—slaved actually—in an upscale restaurant to learn about the business firsthand.
The only thing she hadn’t attained from the grit and gruel and grind of hard work was her great-aunt’s bequest. It had caught her by surprise. Now her dream was about to come true. She was a restaurant owner, and the money would flow in, and she would buy a beautiful home for her and her mother, and nice cars, too. And her mother would never have to work again.
She pushed the paint roller up and down the eleven-foot high walls. Paint one section. Move paint tray with foot. Paint the next section, move paint tray, ad infinitum it seemed. But that was okay. Every paint stroke brought her nearer to her goal, and that made her happy.
She paused for a moment and worked her shoulders in circular motions. The only thing that could make life any better for her right now was for Mr. Right to come on the scene. She’d been looking for him for years.
The friends she’d grown up with were all married and either had babies or were pregnant. One had met her husband in church when they were both a mere sixteen. The others met their guys in their early twenties. Not so for Angel. She’d had lots of dates and one relationship that looked like it might lead to marriage. But her man—Mr. Right—had never materialized for her.
She scanned the room, pleased with her work. All of the walls were rolled. She put down her roller, poured paint into a small plastic pail, grabbed a paintbrush, and climbed a ladder. As she painted the edges of the wall up near the crown molding, she was careful with her strokes so she wouldn’t get golden yellow paint on the wood.
She glanced down from her perch on the ladder, saw her mother, and thought about the love between her parents, something her mother had endearingly talked about Angel’s entire life.
Angel wanted that kind of love—if and when it came to her. She breathed in deeply. I long for the day when True Love knocks at my door.
“Angel? I called you two times.”
“Hmm?” Angel stopped painting and turned, balancing carefully on the tall ladder. “Sorry. I was—”
“Daydreaming.” Her mother chuckled, her midsection—the only rounded part on her lean body—jiggling.
“You know me.”
Her mother gave a knowing nod. “You’re a pie-in-the-sky, Pollyanna girl. But that’s okay. I always said you could have as many daydreams as you want, as long as you turn them into reality someday. And that someday has arrived. I’m proud of you, hon. Now, somebody’s knocking at the door. Weren’t you expecting some equipment to be delivered? Do you want me to answer it? Or do you want to?”
Cyril Jackson III knocked on the door of old Miss Morgan’s building. He had about twenty minutes before an appointment and wanted to welcome the new business owner to Nine Cloud.
A few minutes passed, and he knocked again. He knew people were working inside. He could see them—or at least vague forms—through the dirty glass of the door. One was high up on a ladder. The other was in the far corner, crouched near the floor.
So why wouldn’t they answer the door? Or at least call out to let him know they were coming? Surely they’d heard him knock. He wished they’d let him in. This June sun was as hot as an August one, and he swiped his forehead, then knocked again.
As he waited, he glanced down the street and saw the three downtown buildings he and his father, Cyril Jackson II, owned in the long row of buildings lining Main Street.
He felt a sense of place and peace in the quaint, small-town atmosphere of his hometown in central Florida, things big-moneyed developers were seeking to create all over the state. Master-planned communities, they called them.
Just last week, he and his father had ridden over to see a city built out of nothingness near Disney World. It had two-story houses surrounded by white picket fences, a main street with awnings over the sidewalks, and neighborhood schools. These were things Nine Cloud had had all along.
He and his father laughed when Cyril read aloud the snazzy brochures—written by advertisers to lure people to move to the friendly, relationship-laden Southern town—exactly what Nine Cloud was and always had been. Of course Nine Cloud didn’t have a hotel like this new town, or street singers at Christmastime, or fancy restaurants and shops, or famous authors visiting the bookstore, or art festivals.
But Nine Cloud had history…
…and heritage…
…and pride.
He had to be honest with himself, though, as he glanced at the peeling paint on some of the buildings. Nine Cloud did need some refurbishing. But more than a physical transformation, Nine Cloud needed a spiritual transformation. He was praying for several situations. He was interceding for Ted White, owner of White’s Hardware, to accept the Lord. And Joe Freeman, the funeral director, needed to get back in church. He dropped out last year when his son died. And some of the teenagers in Nine Cloud were getting into trouble—drinking and things. They desperately needed God.
Lord, he silently prayed, give the folks of Nine Cloud a new glimpse of You.
He saw one of the vague forms coming toward the door. “Finally. Somebody’s going to answer.”
The door opened two inches at most. “Yes?” A young woman stood in the narrow opening, paint streaks in her blond hair, on her T-shirt, her cut-offs, and her ratty tennis shoes. She brushed her fingers through her hair as if to freshen it up, and more paint joined the paint that was already there.
Good thing your paint’s the same color as your hair, ma’am.
“Would you…um…like to come in?” The young woman opened the door only an inch more.
Haven’t you ever heard of Southern hospitality, lady? You’re supposed to throw open the door in welcome.
“If you come in, you’ll have to be careful where you step. Paint’s everywhere.”
“I see that.” He stepped inside, enjoying the air-conditioning immediately, and closed the door behind him. This was probably Miss Morgan’s great-niece. He’d heard via the town grapevine that Miss Morgan had willed her building to her. Yes, it was the great-niece. He remembered seeing the striking blond at the funeral.
She held out her hand, then looked down at it and withdrew it. “I’d shake your hand, but…um—”
“Paint.”
“Yes. Paint.”
“Cyril Jackson, here.” He dipped his chin in politeness. “I own Main Street Café, right down the street.”
She looked sheepish, didn’t speak.
“And you’re the owner of the new restaurant, Rue de France, right?” he asked.
“You know the name of my restaurant?”
He tipped his head sideways. “You’ve got a flyer out front. In the window.”
“Y–yes…of course.”
“A French restaurant in Nine Cloud…” He stopped himself. He wouldn’t be rude enough to voice his thoughts. But he couldn’t help thinking them. Hadn’t she done any demographics? Marketing studies? Why would she start a French restaurant in Nine Cloud? It sounded like a flop to him.
An older woman with a friendly face walked up and shook his hand. “I heard you two talking. I’m her mother. Nancy Morgan’s my name. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson.”
He exchanged greetings with her.
“I’m going to go hunt some sweet iced tea, hon,” the mother said. “I’ve worked up a thirst. Would you like some?”
“Sounds good, Mom.”
“Try Main Street Café.” Cyril pointed to his left. “On down the street. We always have sweet iced tea on hand. And try our fudge-covered brownies. Mama Edwards makes them every morning.”
“I will,” she called as she bustled out the door. “Thanks for the suggestion.”
Cyril looked around. The two women were doing a nice job on the place. The ceiling had been redone. And the brick wall had some type of fancy paint treatment on it that showed traces of its original finish. And the yellow color on the rest of t
he walls blended nicely with the oak floors, or what he could see of them under the drop cloths.
The young woman stood there, not saying a word.
“Well…” He cleared his throat. Was she never going to introduce herself? “I know your mother’s name. And I know your restaurant’s name. But I don’t know your name.”
Her face reddened. “I’m…Angel Morgan.” She stuck out her hand, then nervouslike, as if remembering the paint, quickly withdrew it.
“Angel.” He rocked on his heels. Appropriate name. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Wonder if she had wings and a halo? “Angel, welcome to Nine Cloud.”
Angel berated herself as soon as Mr. Jackson walked out the door. She’d acted like a moron instead of the smooth businesswoman she was. She hadn’t even displayed proper etiquette.
“I don’t know why the cat got my tongue. But I just couldn’t think, let alone talk.” He seemed so…austere. And unfriendly?
She’d wanted to make a good impression on the business owners of Nine Cloud. That was the first step to success. She’d intended to meet them at the free lunch she was going to host, when she’d be dressed in nice clothes.
“And here I am, covered in paint.” With a glance at her paint-stained cut-offs and remembering her lack of manners, she knew she’d shot that chance with this businessman. And that made her frustrated with herself.
She knew who he was as soon as he’d said his name. When she’d talked with the attorney who executed Aunt Myrtle Jean’s will, he mentioned several business owners, including the one on Main Street who would be her chief competition!
“Mr. Cyril Jackson.” She let out a smirk. “The Third.” A name for him came to mind. “Mr. Brass,” she accused. Then another named surfaced, one she hadn’t heard since elementary school days. She couldn’t resist saying it now. “Mr. Hooty-Toot.”
Chapter 2
C yril sat down in his usual spot in the white-steepled church in the center of town. He’d just finished teaching his middle-school boys’ Sunday school class, and he welcomed the quiet time during the organist’s prelude.
Sweet Surprise: Romance Collection Page 41
