Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Calm down. I’m joking.
From the numerous reports I’ve read, Angel has every right to appear offensive. Her neighbors and her have been unfairly targeted for years. I plan to fix the injustice tonight. I just need to wait for the VIP of the party to arrive.
If my source is correct, that won’t be for a few more hours, so I may as well spend the time reminding Angel that Christmas doesn’t mean she also can’t grieve. It is time to pause and give thanks for the love, hope, and joy of the people in our lives.
Although her parents are no longer with us, they gave her a lot for which to be thankful.
It is proven without a doubt when a lady with a whistly voice butts her hip with mine. “They grew up with her being a major part of their life.” Tears prick her eyes as she drifts them to Angel waiting in line for her face to be painted with over a dozen children. “If a mother was sick, Angel was on her doorstep first, offering to babysit. If a child grazed their knee, she patched up their wounds. She was the building’s resident aunt until that wretched witch flew in on her broom.”
“Mrs. Richler?”
Spit flies when she blows a raspberry. “She’s had it out for the McClymonts since she arrived. It isn’t greed that drives the world but envy. Angel’s mother was a true saint. A gift from God. Not many women could look at her without being stabbed with jealousy.” Her worldly eyes twinkle with fondness. “It was only right that her daughter inherited both her looks and spirit.” Her eyes return to me. They’re wet and full of emotions. “Her name suits her well.”
“It does,” I agree before I can stop myself.
She takes a moment to gauge the authenticity of my reply before returning her eyes to Angel, who is occupying the children’s time in the line with a hand-clapping game. “They’ve missed her as much as the rest of us have.” A sigh sinks her chest. “We thought the hotshots from Broadway would steal her from us. We had no clue it would be a building supervisor from hell.” She shifts on her feet to face me, alerting me to the fact she stands shorter than my chin. “How did you get her to agree to this?” She continues before I can fathom a reply that won’t see me leaving the fair in cuffs, much less issue it. “I’ve been trying to get her to attend since her parents’ deaths. Not even knitting her a Christmas sweater guaranteed her attendance.”
When she waves her hand down her hideous getup, it dawns on me who she is. Forcing residents into hideous sweaters once a year shouldn’t be enough to issue a tenant a warning, but Mrs. Richler is as scroogy as she is corrupt.
I hold my hand out in offering. “Christian. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Roach.”
Her whistles louden when she’s excited. As her hand slips into mine, she says, “Angel talks about me?”
“Ah…” Not wanting to break her heart, I nod. “She also showed me the sweater you made her.”
“She did?”
I cough up an imaginary pubic hair before nodding again. “Uh-huh.”
“Ohh…” I never thought I’d see an eighty-year-old face in the midst of ecstasy. I now can only wish to never see it again. “What did you think of the design?” Again, she beats me with her reply. “I knitted an extra one this year. My dear Reginald will be disappointed he missed the fair, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing it with you. Let me get it for you.”
“No!” I shout a little too loudly. Once my voice is back to a respectable level and I’ve returned Angel’s amused glare, I say, “I could never take dear Reginald’s beloved sweater. What if we have a sudden cold snap? I’d hate for him to get cold.”
She taps my arm with her rheumy hand. “It’s a little hard to get cold when you’re six feet under.” My eyes dart between her rapidly fading plump frame and Angel when she heads for the foyer of the building. “I’ll be right back!”
I consider my objectives for two seconds.
They all arrow toward the same result.
I need to leave. Now!
“We have to go.”
Angel has been seeking those words for the past four hours, but now that I’ve surrendered them, she appears disinterested. “But I’m two spots away from being a Christmas elf.”
She thrusts her hand at a boy who looks more like a Christmas devil than an elf.
Aren’t the pointy parts of an elf’s ears meant to be on ears?
This kid’s ears look like Satan’s horns.
I realize Mrs. Roach has been endeavoring to offload her hideous pubic-hair-phobia sweater onto an unsuspecting victim for hours when her entrance into the foyer of Angel’s building is quickly followed by her exiting it.