happy rumble. Bayroo held her mother’s hand.
“I’m okay, Mom.” Bayroo’s smile was drowsy. “I’m all right. I—” Then, eyes shining, she rose on one elbow, looked where I stood had I been there to see. “Auntie Grand, I told Mom you saved me.” Kathleen stood up so quickly her chair fell to the floor. “You’re here?
Oh, Bailey Ruth, thank you. I wish we could tell the world—” I touched a finger to her lips. “It’s our secret, Kathleen. I came to say good-bye.”
The wheels clacked, the Express thundering toward the rectory, just as it had on Thursday evening. I had no time left.
“Good-bye.” I threw a kiss to Bayroo. “Good-bye. I love you.” I rushed outside, hurrying up to grab the handrail, and was swept up into the Express. I looked down at the lights below, watched until I could see them no longer.
Good-bye, dear Adelaide. Good-bye.
C H A P T E R 1 9
The Rescue Express thundered into the familiar red-brick station. I was the last passenger to disembark. The other travelers seemed to follow a well-known drill, dropping their ticket stubs down a chute attached to the office, gathering their luggage, and hurrying away, faces shining, voices merry.
I slowly crossed the platform, passing carts laden with luggage ready for other departures. I’d not had time to pack even a satchel when I’d jumped on board on my way to help Kathleen. Perhaps the haste of my departure would excuse my mistakes.
Except there had been so many. I pushed away memories. Certainly I had intended to honor the Precepts.
Wiggins strode toward me.
My steps were lagging. I looked here, there, everywhere, admiring the dash of gold in the arch of clouds, the trill of birdsongs, the sweet scent of fresh-mown grass, the sound of a faraway choir with voices lifting in joy.
Foreboding weighed upon me, heavy as midnight gloom.
Wiggins boomed, “Bailey Ruth, where’s your get-up-and-go?” He sounded genial.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
I risked a look.
Wiggins’s stiff cap was tilted back atop his bush of curly brown hair. His round face was bright and eager, his muttonchop whiskers a rich chestnut in the sunlight. His high-collared white shirt was crisp, his gray flannel trousers a bit baggy, but his sturdy shoes glowed with bootblack.
“Welcome home.” His voice was warm. He gestured toward the station. “A few formalities, then you’ll be free to go.” Would I be free to return to the Department of Good Intentions?
We passed a crystal wall and I glimpsed my reflection. I’d given some thought to my appearance. I wanted to appear businesslike.
Not flighty. I was confident the gray wool pantsuit was appropriate and the Florentine gold of the silk blouse and small gold hoop earrings and crimson scarf almost matched the glow of Heaven. Here I was, Bailey Ruth Raeburn, red hair curling softly about my face, green eyes hopeful though uncertain, home in Heaven.
We walked together into his office. I settled on the bench as he hung his cap on a coat tree. He settled into his oak chair and slipped on his green eyeshade.
I looked out the bay window, admired the shining tracks. Finally, I forced myself to look at him. His eyes were grave.
“I’m sorry to say—”
My heart sank.
“—that never in my experience as stationmaster have I encountered a rescue effort so fraught with—” He stopped, apparently at a loss for words.
I twisted a gold button on my jacket.
He appeared perplexed and muttered to himself, “A flying crowbar. The airborne cell phone. That shocking episode with the mayor.
Destruction of the police station’s computer system, and”—a heavy sigh—“Officer Loy.”
G h o s t at Wo r k
I started to rise. It would be easier for all concerned, especially me, if I slipped away, left him to regain his composure.
He made a swiping gesture with his hand.
I sank back onto the chair.
His brows beetled in a frown. “However.” He cleared his throat.
That rumble was familiar. Just so had he prefaced our many encounters on earth.
His tone was judicious. “As I should have recalled from my earthly days, good often comes out of difficult circumstances. I returned to earth and do you know what happened?” I feared I knew all too well.
“I Reverted.” His roar capitalized the verb. Wiggins slammed his fist on the desktop. “So how can I be critical when an emissary caught up in the stress of the moment makes unfortunate choices?” I hoped this was a rhetorical question.
He swept ahead. “There’s no denying your shortcomings.” My nod was heartfelt.
“You were inquisitive.” It was a pronouncement.
