The Red Gloves Collection

by Karen Kingsbury

  He had flown out for the wedding. He still lived in Redding. His parents had both died years ago, so he had the old house to himself now. Just him, alone with the Lord, celebrating life and anxious for heaven.

  He maneuvered himself past the milling crowd and peered over the heads of a group of men. There she was. Surrounded by guests in the far corner of the church foyer. He made his way closer and motioned to her. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Gideon?”

  Her face lit 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

  The 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 trouble. But sometimes it was boring looking for things to do, and he’d get curious and wonder what would happen if he made a milk shake with ice cubes. But how was he supposed to know the milk-shake maker had a lid? And using paper and a red crayon to trace the tiger on the wall calendar probably wasn’t a good idea in the first place, because of course sometimes crayons slip.

  He took the last swallow from his milk and waited until the cookie crumbs slid down the glass into his mouth. Cookies were the best snack of all. He set the cup on the counter, climbed off the barstool, and walked with tiptoe feet into his mom’s office. He wasn’t allowed in there except if his mom was working on her lawyer stuff and he had to ask her a serious question.

  But she’d understand today because a letter to God was very serious business.

  The room was big and clean and full of wood stuff. His mom was the kind of lawyer who put bad guys in jail. That’s why sometimes she had to work late at night and on Sundays. Jordan pulled open a drawer near his mother’s computer and took out two pieces of paper and two envelopes. In case he messed up and had to start over. Then he snuck real quiet out the door, down the hall, and into his room. He had a desk and pencils in there, only he never used them because second graders at St. Andrews didn’t get homework till after Christmas.

  One time he asked his mommy what would happen if he couldn’t do the homework when he got it, what if the stuff he had to do was too hard.

  “It won’t be too hard, Jordan.” His mother’s eyebrows had lifted up the way they did when she didn’t want any more questions.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m completely sure.”

  “How come?”

  “Because, Jordan, I’ve been through second grade and I know all the answers. If you have trouble, I’ll help you.”

  His heart felt a little less scared after that. Not every second grader’s mommy had all the answers. If she knew everything, then he could never really get in too much trouble with his homework, and that was a good thing because Christmas wasn’t too far away.

  He sat down at his desk, took a pencil from the box, and spread out the piece of paper. The white space looked very empty. Jordan stared at it for a long time. If God was going to read the letter, it had to be his best work ever. Big words would be a good thing. He worked himself a little taller in the chair, sucked in a long breath through his teeth, and began to write.

  Dear God, my name is Jordan Wright and I am 8years old. I hav somthing to ask you. I tride to ask you befor but I think you wer bizy. So I am riting you a letter insted.

  Jordan’s hand hurt by the time he finished, and he could hear music playing on Grandma’s grown-up show. That meant it was almost done, and any minute Grandma would come looking for him. He quickly folded the letter in half, ran his finger along the edge, and folded it again. Then he stuck it in the envelope and licked the lid shut. With careful fingers he wrote “God” across the front, then his pencil moved down a bit and froze. He’d forgotten something.

  He didn’t know God’s address.

  His heart felt extra jumpy. God lived in heaven, so that had to be part of it. But what about the numbers? Jordan could hear footsteps coming closer. He didn’t want Grandma to see the letter. She might want to read it, and that would ruin everything because it was a secret. Just between him and God. He looked around his room and saw his backpack near his bed. He ran fast to it and slipped the letter inside. He could give it to his mot
her on the way to school tomorrow. She would know God’s address.

  She knew everything.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Megan Wright tucked her blouse into her navy skirt as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. Her biggest opening argument of the month was in less than an hour. “Let’s go, Jordan. Two minutes.”

  “Just a sec.”

  “Not just a sec.” She blew at a wisp of hair as she grabbed a cold piece of toast from the kitchen counter. These were the times she missed George more than any other because the morning routine had been his deal. As long as he was at work by eight-thirty he’d been happy. But she had briefings and depositions that started earlier than that.

  “Now, Jordan. I have a hearing today.”

  She poured two glasses of orange juice, snatched one and spun toward the vitamin cupboard. Two C’s, one A, one E, a B-complex, a CoQ10, and two garlics. She popped the pills into her mouth and swallowed them with a single swig of juice. George had been more than twenty years older than her, a man she respected and tried to love. But the fortress surrounding George’s deepest emotions was unyielding stone and razor wire, and in his presence, Megan never felt like more than an amicable business partner. When the love she’d dreamed of never materialized, Megan allowed herself to become like him. Married to her job.

  Neither of them had figured Jordan into the plans.

  But surprise gave way to possibility, and for a time Megan believed that maybe George would come around, spend less time at work, and get caught up in fatherhood. They would have quiet moments together, watching their baby sleep and dreaming of his future. Laughter and passion would finally find them, and her life would be all she’d ever hoped it to be. But the dream never quite materialized. George was nearly fifty by then, and thrilled with the idea of a son, a child to carry on his name, but he was as distant as ever with Megan.

  “You treat me like part of the furniture, George.” Megan whispered the words to him one night after they climbed into bed. “Don’t you want more?”

  His eyes had been steely cold. “You have all you could ever want, Megan. Don’t ask more of me than I can give.”

  George had been a bond trader, a financial wizard with a spacious office in Midtown. For two weeks straight he’d complained about a stiff neck, but neither of them saw the signs. When his secretary found him that October morning, arms spread across his desk, his head resting on a pile of client files, she’d thought he was merely resting. An hour later a client call came in and she tried to wake him. Her scream brought most of the office staff and fifteen minutes later paramedics gave them the truth.

  He was dead, the victim of a massive coronary.

  Megan lifted the juice to her lips once more and downed it in four swallows. It had been two years now. Her grieving period had lasted only a few months. The two of them had never loved the way Megan had hoped, the way she’d once, a long time ago, believed possible. She and George were business partners, friends who ran a common household. She missed George in a functionary sense—especially on mornings like this—but he’d taken none of her heart with him when he died.

  The problem was Jordan.

  The boy was the one person George had truly loved, and what little free time and sparse emotions he was able to give had been completely reserved for their only child. Megan never admitted it, but more than once she’d found herself feeling jealous of George’s love for Jordan. Because it was a love he’d never had for her. When George died, Jordan was devastated. In the two years since his death, the level of Jordan’s behavior in school and at home had plummeted.

  Grief and anger, his doctor had called it. A passing phase. Megan and Jordan met with a counselor after George’s death, but the sessions were costly and time-consuming, and Megan didn’t notice any improvement in Jordan’s behavior. She’d asked her doctor about medication for the boy. Ritalin or one of the other drugs kids were using.

  “Let’s wait.” The pediatrician had angled his head thoughtfully. “I still think his behavior is related to the loss of his father.”

  That was three months ago, and Megan was tired of waiting.

  Her mother had lived with them since just after George’s death, an arrangement Megan had thought would be best for all of them. Her mom had retired from teaching in Florida that year and lived on a limited income. They could share expenses, and her mother could help her with Jordan after school and on the weekends. But Jordan was too much for her mother, especially now that the weather was cooler and they were inside more.

  She set the juice glass in the dishwasher. “Jordan!”

  Her son’s tennis shoes sounded on the hardwood hallway as he ran into view. “Sorry, Mom.”

  Megan looked at the boy and felt her patience waning. “Jordan, orange and green?”

  “Miss Hanson says October is orange month.”

  “Miss Hanson isn’t your mother.” Megan pointed down the hallway. “Find something that matches, and do it now. We have to go.”

  “Okay.” Jordan ran back down the hall, his steps a bit slower this time.

  Megan glanced at the clock on the microwave oven. 7:16 A.M. They’d have to catch every green light along Madison Avenue to make it on time. She darted into her bathroom, brushed her teeth, and checked her look. Trim and professional, dark hair swept into a conservative knot, makeup applied just so. She still turned heads, but not because she was pretty.

  Because she was powerful.

  At thirty-two she was one of the youngest prosecutors in the borough, and she had no intention of getting sidetracked. Not until the D.A.’s office was hers alone. That hadn’t been her goal before George’s heart attack, but now—now that she was their single source of income, things would always be tight if she didn’t keep climbing.

  “Jordan … ” She grabbed her leather jacket and flung her bag over her shoulder. “Now!”

  He was waiting for her near the door. “Beat ya!”

  His crooked grin caught her off guard, and for half a second she smiled. “Very funny.”

  “Big hearing?” Jordan opened the door for her.

  Megan shut and locked it. “The biggest.”

  They hurried down the stairs and out onto the street. It was raining, and Megan hailed the first cab she saw. “Get in, Jordan. Hurry.”

  He tossed his backpack in and slid over. She didn’t have the door shut before she said, “Fifth and 102nd. Fast.”

  The routine was the same every morning, but sometimes days like today—they had less room for error. They were a block away from school when Jordan pulled something from his backpack and stuck it in Megan’s bag. “Hey, Mom. Could you mail this? Please?”

  Megan jerked a folder from her purse and opened it. The hearing notes were in there somewhere. She’d stayed up until after midnight studying them, but she wouldn’t be prepared without going over them one more time.

  “Mom?”

  The folder settled on Megan’s lap and she looked at Jordan. “What is it, honey? Mommy’s busy with her court notes.”

  “I’m sorry.” His eyes fell to his hands for a moment. “I put something in your bag.”

  “Right … ” Megan concentrated. What had the boy said? Something about the mail? “What was it again?”

  Jordan reached into her bag and lifted a white envelope from the side pocket. “It’s a letter. Could you put the ‘dress on it and mail it this morning? It’s important.”

  “Address’ Megan raised her eyebrows at him. Whatever they taught kids at St. Andrews, it wasn’t enough. Her son’s academic abilities were nowhere near Megan’s expectations for an eight-year-old child. Yes, he could hit a ball over the fence and throw it to home plate. But that wouldn’t help him get into college. She patted his cheek. “The word is address. Not ‘dress.”

  “Address.” Jordan didn’t skip a beat. “Could ya, Mom? Please?”

  She dropped her eyes back to the folder and lifted it closer to her face. “Sure, yes.” She cast him a brief smile. “Definitely.�
� The letter was probably for his grandpa Howard in California. But usually he addressed them.

  The cab rumbled along, inching its way through a sea of early-morning yellow, but Megan barely noticed as she studied her notes. Getting a conviction on the case was a sure thing. The defendant was a nineteen-year-old up for murder one, the ringleader of a gang of teens who’d spent a week that past summer lying in wait for late-night female victims in Central Park. In each case, the young men studied their prey for days, watching them enough to know their walking pattern, the direction they came from, and what time of night.

  At an opportune moment, they’d grab the victim, strangle her with fishing wire, and rob her clean. They dumped the bodies in the brush and made their escape through back trails out to the street. The first two times, the gang pulled off their deed without a hitch. The third time, an off-duty police officer happened by and heard someone struggling in the bushes. He darted off the path into the bramble, and a gun battle ensued. The victim escaped with bruises on her neck, but the police officer and one of the gang members were killed in the fight.

  Megan wanted the death penalty.

  The cab jarred to a stop. “St. Andrews.” The cabbie put the car in park and didn’t turn around.

  “We’re here, honey.” Megan leaned over and gave Jordan a peck on his cheek. “Get your bag.”

  Jordan grabbed his backpack, climbed out of the cab, and looked back at her. “Don’t forget, okay?”

  Megan’s mind was blank. “Forget what?”

  “Mom!” Jordan’s shoulders slumped some. “My letter. Don’t forget to mail my letter.”

  “Right … sorry.” Megan gave a firm nod of her head. “I won’t forget.”

  “Promise?”

  Something desperate shone in his little-boy eyes, and Megan felt as if she were seeing him for the first time that morning. He was a great kid, really, and she loved him in a way that sometimes scared her. But then why didn’t she spend more time with him? She had no answers for herself, and suddenly she needed to hug him more than she needed air. Even if she missed her hearing.