The Herald Angels Sing

by Roxanne St Claire

  She swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, I do. Let’s head toward Chestnut Creek to see if we can spot them.”

  “Take the Jeep.” Garrett tossed his keys to Trace. “In case you run into weather.”

  “We better not,” Molly murmured.

  “Just keep us posted on the family group text,” Liam added.

  “And I’ll poke around Gramma’s room for clues,” Darcy said.

  “I’ll call the fire station and see which of our cousins is on duty today.” Garrett pulled out his phone. “They can put the sheriff on notice to look for Gramma’s car.”

  She looked from one sibling to another, awash in gratitude. “I didn’t want this to turn into a Kilcannon code red, you guys.”

  “Just pink,” Shane said with a wink. “We’re on call for when you need us.”

  Thanking them, Molly slipped her hand into Trace’s and headed off to the Jeep. She could count the times Pru had given her cause to worry. But deep in her gut, she sensed that this time, something was really wrong.

  * * *

  “Gramma! Gramma Finnie!” Pru clutched the kerchief and spun around to scan the busy street. Shoppers, pedestrians, and, good heavens, more carolers blocked her view and made her wish that last few inches of height Mom kept promising had actually happened in her last growth spurt. But at five feet, three inches, Pru couldn’t see over much taller heads and shoulders.

  She made her way through the crowd to the street, which was bumper to bumper with stalled holiday traffic. Where would she go?

  “Excuse me,” she said to a couple settling on the bench where Gramma was supposed to be. “Did you see an older woman here? With a black and white dog?”

  The woman frowned and shook her head.

  “It was a really distinct-looking collie with two different-colored eyes.”

  “Oh.” The man sat up and gestured down the street. “I did notice that dog. I saw it right at that crosswalk, headed to the other side of the street.”

  Why would she leave? “Thank you!” Pru barely got the words out before taking off toward the intersection, coming to a screeching halt at the Don’t Walk sign. Instantly, she could practically feel the torment rip her body in half.

  Pru would sooner cross the street naked than disobey the sign. Like the other pedestrians, she waited, bouncing on her sneakers, itching to break this rule. Across the street, the crowd was even denser where diners waited outside of two crowded restaurants and a line formed to sit on Santa’s lap in a bookstore.

  But there was no sign of an old lady and a dog. Where are they?

  While she waited, she whipped out her phone and let her thumbs fly in a quick text to Gramma. WHERE ARE YOU?

  She didn’t wait for an answer as panic rose, and the light stayed red. She looked left and right, but the traffic was at a dead stop anyway. With a single breath for courage, she put her foot on the street, held up a hand to the cars, and somehow crossed Main Street, feeling no less victorious than Moses making it to the other side of the Red Sea.

  “Gramma!” she called again, her voice tight with a pounding pulse.

  The entire family would never forgive her if something happened to Gramma Finnie. Pru’s life would be over. She’d be an outcast, sent away to live as a pariah, and Mom would probably not get married out of grief. Pru would never recover from the guilt.

  The car! Maybe Gramma went to the car to get something for Blue. Turning, she ran toward the lot, peering at the face of every person under five feet. No Gramma. No dog. No nothing. Why didn’t she—

  Pru felt her phone vibrate in her pocket and almost tripped on a cobblestone when she slammed to a stop to fish it out. On a noisy exhale, she whipped out the phone, scooted out of the flow of traffic, and looked at the words that appeared on her screen before she even opened the text.

  Pru, I am not happy that I haven’t heard from you for so many hours. You know better than to do this. Where are you? When are you coming home and wh…

  “Oh.” She didn’t even tap the screen to read the rest of Mom’s rant. It would just make her feel worse. What could she say? I’m fine, but Gramma disappeared.

  Think, Prudence Anne. Think straight.

  First, the car. She retraced the route to the parking lot, jogged past the booth at the entrance, and tore to the Toyota Avalon parked along a wall.

  Coming around the back, her heart dropped when she didn’t see anyone inside. No Gramma, no dog. With a grunt, she smashed her face to the driver’s window, cupped her hands, prayed for a miracle, and saw…Gramma’s phone on the console.

  She almost howled in frustration.

  Without taking one more minute, she shook off the panic and headed back to where the guy had said he’d noticed Blue. Back through the crowds and carolers, sweat dripping underneath her down coat and thick sweater, the Christmas-colored world blurring around her as tears filled her eyes.

  Finally, she stopped to catch her breath, leaning against the glass of a storefront, coming to terms with the fact that she had two choices: call the police or run away from home. Then she felt the glass behind her shake a little, like someone was knocking on it. Probably the owner telling her to stop blocking their display.

  Another knock. Louder.

  She whipped around to wave an apology, coming face-to-face with a dog. And not any dog. The sudsy head of a dog with two totally different colored eyes staring back at her.

  “Blue!”

  She jerked back to get some perspective, realizing she was standing in front of a pet store that put their groomers in the window and—

  “You found us.” Gramma Finnie came out of the door, looking calm, cool, and completely fine.

  Pru almost screamed with a full-body jolt of relief and anger. “Where have you been?”

  “I was headed back to you, lassie,” she said, waving a dismissive hand as if going MIA in a strange city was perfectly normal. “But Blue, oh, she does attract attention. So while you were in the jewel shop, I met a really nice lady who works here as a groomer. Well, she’s a vacation fill-in, actually, but she just moments ago had an unexpected cancellation, and that’s why she was getting lunch, so…” Her gaze shifted to the window behind Pru. “Look at my sweet Blue.”

  Pru’s heart almost returned to normal. Almost. “Gramma, you can’t just leave me in a strange town and not tell me where you’re going. And without your phone!”

  Her old eyes shuttered closed. “I’m not a wee five-year-old, nor have I lost my faculties, and have you never forgotten your phone in your life? I’m one block away from that bench.”

  “But this place is crazy busy,” she said. “Anything could have happened to you.”

  “Aye.” She gave that bittersweet smile. “Told you I had a bit of a reckless streak when I was younger. But, then, I’m not young anymore.”

  Irritation mixed with regret, because Pru had made her feel old and, well, not reckless. “I realize you want to have fun and spread your wings and not be bored, but that doesn’t mean you can leave me in a state of panic. Not to mention…” She looked at her phone, and there was yet another text from Mom. All caps this time. “I’m doing the same thing to my mother. I have to call her.” She glanced from side to side, looking for a quiet place to do that, but nothing in Holly Hills on Christmas Eve was quiet.

  Gramma’s wrinkled old face softened. “Aye, lass, you’re right. I’m sorry for putting you in a state. It’s over now, and we just have to wait for Blue, then we can head right back home.”

  “Except we have to wait until later this afternoon for the pin,” Pru said, handing her the empty kerchief. “That’s the bad news. The good news is the jeweler thinks he has a shamrock that will work.”

  “Oh, sure ’tis good news. And I’m hungry, so let’s find some lunch and make up from our harsh words and find a place to call your mother and…” Her gaze dropped to the lace-trimmed hankie she was threading through her fingers, pausing as she rubbed the stitching of MVB.

  “Did you do t
hat?” Pru asked. “Did you embroider your sister’s handkerchief?”

  She didn’t answer for a long time, staring at the cloth. “I did, but when you think…” She closed her eyes and lifted the hankie to her nose, taking a deep breath. “It’s like I can still smell the waterfront that day and hear the shouts of the street vendors, the clang of the sales, and the buzz of excitement and danger in the air.”

  “No, that’s Holly Hills on Christmas Eve.” Pru put her hand on Gramma’s shoulder. “And I see a deli up there that might not have a wait for lunch if you’re willing to sit at the counter. Come on. I’ll call Mom and tell her where we are, but not what we’re doing, and you can tell me what happened the day you took your sister to the port.”

  Gramma smiled. “Oh, child. What happened that day was nothing short of a Christmas miracle.” She sniffed again. “And I can smell the air that day. And I can remember it, plain as day. I’ll never, ever forget the way he looked at me.”

  “He?” The word caught Pru’s attention as they walked. “Your dad? The man who ran the cart? Timothy, the soldier Vi wanted to marry? Who is he?”

  Gramma just smiled and slipped her hand through Pru’s arm. “Oh, I’ll tell you, lass. I’ll tell you all about him.”

  Chapter Eight

  Wexford Harbor, Ireland

  Wet snow and rain pressed scratchy wool to Finnie’s shivering body. Her arms ached from clinging to the rough rope of Alphonsus’s harness. Her backside felt as broken as the road they’d traveled to get here. And she was so hungry it felt like her empty belly was turning inside out in search of a morsel.

  But as they climbed out of the cart and took in the wild, loud, frightening vista of Wexford’s port, Finnie caught a glimpse of her sister, and all of her discomfort disappeared.

  Vi practically glowed. Yes, she was as soggy as Finnie and surely as cold and hungry after a ride over the most rutted, impossible trail from just outside Carrig Hill to the largest harbor in the county. But here she was, at the end of a journey of several hours, and Vi’s eyes were bright, her cheeks rosy, and her smile firmly in place.

  “Let’s find the cart vendors,” she said, squaring her shoulders after they hitched Alphonsus to a post sticking out of a stone wall for just that purpose. “They’re like money changers.”

  They were more like thieves to hear Da tell about it. But for many people, there was no other way to get passage on a boat. The tickets were costly, and poor country folk had little cash on hand if they needed to make an emergency trip. So someone was always available to take what they had to sell—even family treasures.

  Finnie followed, swallowing her sadness about a piece of jewelry. All the way to the port, Vi had nattered on about the war, the dead, the troubles in England. They simply had to beat the Germans, and Ireland’s neutrality was a national embarrassment.

  Lots of Irish felt that way, Finnie knew. Not the mothers, of course, but the young men. Plenty of lads wanted to fight.

  In fact, some were right here. Two here, another group of four or more over there, all fit and hearty and barely twenty. Heck, some were not quite seventeen. And every cluster they passed, Finnie felt their gazes move to Violet.

  Her sister didn’t notice as she wove her way to a row of cart vendors, some selling, some buying, a little livestock on one, some flowers and vegetables on another. But at the end, one could find the “goods,” as they were called. The keepsakes. The family heirlooms and precious gemstones. The dear things that made a house a home. All sold for very little so someone could go somewhere.

  So sweet country nurses could go to London and save lives and get married.

  “This one,” Vi said, holding Finnie’s hand to keep her close and bring her along. “I like this one.”

  Finnie squinted at the cart display of ribbons, hats, and a velvet box of some inexpensive jewelry. Behind that stood a man with steely eyes beneath a paddy cap pulled low. He huddled into a herringbone wool jacket, a cigarette dangling from his fingers.

  As they got closer, Finnie held back. “I don’t like this one,” she muttered.

  “Come on. He has earbobs. He’ll like mine.” She approached the cart and got his attention immediately.

  “Sellin’ or buyin’, lassies?” The man sounded nicer than he looked, but Finnie still lingered a bit away while Vi approached the cart. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, thanks to the clanging of metal and the shouts from men working on the docks. A horse and buggy rattled by, and two men argued furiously over the price of something.

  Finnie tucked herself deeper into her coat, closer to the next cart than the one where Vi was negotiating away family treasures.

  “It’s all I got, sir, but ’tis a fine lamp.”

  Finnie turned at the sound of a young man’s voice—no, not quite a man yet, she realized as her gaze landed on a customer at the cart behind her.

  “Aye, lad, I feel the ache in yer gut,” the cart vendor said, spitting to the side to punctuate the sentence. “But I canna gi’ you a dime for that.”

  Finnie inched closer, drawn for some reason to the youthful face. Did he want to go to the war, too? He was far too young to fight, Finnie thought, taking in baby-soft skin and clear eyes that shifted between green and brown. His hair was long and tousled, and his narrow shoulders rose and fell with a huge sigh of disappointment.

  “I need the money, sir,” he pleaded. “I have to go.”

  The cart vendor shook his head vehemently. “Donchya go, lad. You’ll be dyin’ like all the rest of them. There’s a reason Ireland’s neutral.”

  So he was going to war. Or trying to.

  “I have to go,” he insisted. “My brother went. He’s there, waitin’ for me.”

  Like Timothy Donovan. Everyone there was waiting for someone.

  The cart vendor pulled his flat cap lower and leaned into the lad’s face. “And what about when you get home? If you get home. Won’t be a hero, that’s for sure.”

  “I don’t care about being a hero,” he said defiantly. “You want them to win? They’re bombing London. They’ll take Ireland! They won’t stop!”

  “You’re not going to stop the Germans, lad.”

  “I could try!” he insisted. “I have to go. ’Tis what I am meant to do.”

  “We’re Ireland, not Europe, lad. Now take your little lamp home to yer mammy and get off the docks.”

  Color rose in his cheeks, accenting a peppering of freckles on his smooth skin and turning his eyes coppery and cold. “We can’t lose this war, man.”

  “We are not in a war, lad.” He turned away to another customer, leaving the young man standing stone-still. After a moment, he looked up, directly at Finnie.

  He stared at her like he could see right through her, like he could peer into the depths of her soul, and he let her have a glimpse of his. What she saw was pure…goodness. So honest and real that she could feel her next breath strangle in her chest. She wanted to—

  “Let’s go, Finnie! Let’s go.” Vi grabbed her arm and jerked her around, yanking her closer. “I saved the pin!” She let out one of her tinkling laughs. “I saved it for you.”

  “And still got enough money?”

  Her sister shoved the kerchief into Finnie’s hand, and the pin poked her palm like a little reminder that they still had that one treasure. A stick in the hand had never felt so good.

  “More than enough. Granddad’s paperweight paid for the fare to Dublin, and the earbobs will get me all the way to London.”

  “Then you take it.” She offered the tiny bundle back to Vi. “For your wedding day.”

  But Vi shook her head defiantly. “’Tis my gift to you, sweet sister. To thank you for bringing me here today, even though you’ll pay a price.” She pressed her hands to her mouth, practically dancing on her toes with excitement. “This is it, sweet Finnie. I’m going to Timmy. Going to save lives. ’Tis what I am meant to do.”

  ’Tis what I am meant to do.

  The echo of the lad’s words m
ade Finnie turn back to where he still stood, listening to their exchange. She saw the moment Vi’s words hit his heart, and jealousy and heartache crashed over him. She felt his pain in the pit of her stomach.

  “Let’s go,” Vi insisted. “I need to get my bag from the cart, and heavens above, lass. You have to get home, or there’s no tellin’ what Da will do.”

  She dragged Finnie back to the stone wall and hitching post, chattering the whole way like she’d just bought passage to the countryside for a holiday, not to London in the middle of a bombing.

  At their cart, Vi reached into it and pulled out a small cloth bag and the leather case with the nurse’s cross that Mammy had given her for her birthday. She hoisted it high like a trophy.

  “I’m off to nurse, lassie.”

  The realization of what she was doing and where she was going slammed Finnie as though Alphonsus had lifted his front leg and clomped her in the chest. “Mary Violet, please be careful. And write. And come home.”

  She tipped her pretty head and added a smile that no doubt kept Timothy Donovan alive just thinking about it. “Aye, my dear sister. I will. In that order.” She held out the bags for a hug. “C’mere, wee one. Ya know I’ve always loved you best of all the whole Brennan clan. You be kind to our brothers, now.”

  “Patrick wants to go, too, you know.” She’d heard her sixteen-year-old brother talk about it far too often.

  “Then maybe I’ll see him there.”

  Saints alive, two Brennan kin at war? “I canna think about that,” Finnie admitted.

  “Listen to me.” Vi took Finnie’s face in two gloved hands. “Donchya be afraid of anything, lass. If you need to do something, do it. If yer heart feels a callin’, listen to it. Be a wee bit more reckless, my sweet Finola, like you were today. It will free your soul.” She finished her speech with a kiss on Finnie’s cheek.