Angel's Child

By Kathryn Jensen

Even a rebel can make a miracle

THE MAN IN HER FUTURE

Angel wannabe Zach Dawson had one last job to do on earth find Caroline North a man to father her child. For the child she was to bear was destined for greatness, and the man who would love Caroline needed to be someone very special, certainly not a rugged bad boy looking for a shot at heaven.

THE FATHER OF HER CHILD

Then Zach did the unthinkable. He took Caroline in his arms and made love to her like no mortal man could. Now he was forced to tell her that he was not the man fated to love her forever. But how could he, since Caroline was with child his child !

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460874165

Kathryn Jensen

Kathryn Jensen lives in Maryland, happily sandwiched between two of the most exciting cities in North America — Washington, D.C., and Baltimore. But the Mid-Atlantic hasn't always been home. The many places in which she's lived — including Italy, Texas, Connecticut and Massachusetts — as well as others visited, have inspired over forty novels of adventure, romance and mystery beloved by readers of all ages.  Her books have hit the Waldenbooks Bestseller List, been nominated for the esteemed Agatha Christie Award and honored by the American Library Association as a Best Book for Reluctant Readers. She has served as a judge on the Edgar Allan Poe Award Committee and continues her advocacy for literacy among children and adults. While living in Europe as a young military wife, Kathryn's appetite for exotic destinations was whetted, and she has ever since loved to travel with her characters to foreign lands. Before turning to writing full time, she worked as an elementary school teacher, a department store sales associate, a bank clerk and a dance teacher. She still teaches writing to adult students through Long Ridge Writers' Group and the Institute of Children's Literature, correspondence schools that instruct in the craft of fiction and nonfiction for publication. She loves to share her three decades of experience in publishing with new writers.  Today she lives with her husband, Roger, on the outskirts of the nation's capital and visits her grown children and granddaughter as often as she can. Kathryn and Roger spend most of the summers aboard Purr, their classic Pearson 32' sailboat, cruising the Chesapeake Bay. When book deadlines loom, she keeps on writing on her laptop while Roger trims the sails. Their two cats, Tempest and Miranda (named in honor of Shakespeare's final play and its heroine), generally prefer to remain on land, although their mistress can't understand why! Kathryn is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Mystery Writers of America, Novelists Inc. and Sisters in Crime. Some of her favorite places to "get away from it all" are a guest house in Bermuda, called Granaway, once owned by a Russian Princess, and St. Thomas, in the gorgeous Virgin Islands. Ahhhh! Now if those aren't amazing backdrops for a romance, what is?

Book preview

Chapter 1

The August sun beat mercilessly down on Zane Dawson’s muscled shoulders and back. All around him, other men, stripped to the waist, their bodies glistening, cursed the blazing orange sphere overhead and wiped trails of sweat from sunburnt faces with sinewy forearms.

Temperatures rarely rose so high in Connecticut, even at the peak of summer. But thermometers in Hartford had rocketed to over 100 degrees for the eighth day in a row, breaking all records, and a man didn’t stop putting up a building the size of the E.P. Madison Commercial Towers just because of a heat wave.

Zane rolled up the blueprints he’d been checking and blinked droplets of perspiration out of his eyes, to more clearly observe his job site. His, he thought automatically, much as a medieval duke would have surveyed a village within his domain. He took his job personally.

Don’t look like no engineer I ever seen, a gruff voice taunted from behind him.

Zane laughed and poked the neon yellow construction helmet back from his forehead. He spun around to face Matt Trainer, his job foreman. A shirt and tie may be my usual uniform, but losing the fancy duds makes a hell of a lot of sense on a day like this.

The older man nodded, grinning. Worst heat I’ve known since that job I did down in Washington, D.C., ‘bout fifteen years ago. Same as this—humidity so thick you could cut it like a damn birthday cake. That’s on top of it bein’ 110 degrees in the shade.

And I’ll bet you didn’t see much shade, either, Zane added, thinking of some of his own experiences with uncooperative weather conditions at construction sites.

Starting in his teenage years, Zane had scrambled along scaffolding, welded girders and balanced on I-beams through driving rain, freezing blasts of wind and scorching heat. He’d labored alongside tough, good men who knew their jobs and the dangers that went with them.

Under the apt tutelage of veterans like Matt, he’d learned to cuss with exuberance and signal the passing of a pretty woman to his mates with a low, appreciative whistle. He’d hung out after hours at local bars, sharing cold beers and spicy stories of hot dates, more male fantasy than fact. He’d had a fine time growing up with the guys, enjoying their easy camaraderie...but then he’d wanted more.

Zane had enrolled in night classes at the local community college in Manchester, then transferred to the University of Connecticut, in nearby Storrs, where he’d eventually earned his engineering degree. These days, he was one of the youngest, most-in-demand construction engineers on the East Coast, working with top New England architects. Zane credited his early job-site experience for his ability to predict problems and deal with them effectively.

His professional status also gave him some nice perks. With a larger income, he could afford to drive a white BMW convertible with buff leather seats as soft as warm butter. He could treat an attractive woman to a meal at the best restaurant in Hartford or a lusty weekend on Cape Cod. He liked his new life, he liked his job—and, most of all, he liked that he was only thirty years old and had a long, long time to enjoy both of them.

Hey, Zane, Matt said, nudging him with an elbow, you listenin’, boy? I said, don’t you think we should haul up that generator about now? It’s almost quittin’ time.

Zane blinked, refocusing on the older man’s face. Matt had been the foreman on the first construction job he’d had, the summer of his junior year of high school, and he’d treated him like a son ever since. The fact Zane now had a degree and was his boss made no difference in their relationship. And, although the man was in his mid-fifties, he was wiry, strong, and had more savvy about putting up a building than anyone Zane knew.

Sure. He looked beyond Matt toward the crane operator, who seemed to be waiting for his signal. Take her up, Sid!

Suspending the most valuable pieces of their portable equipment aboveground was one way crews discouraged looting at construction sites. They still lost considerable building materials to after-hours theft, but replacing a generator could cost thousands of dollars and-days of valuable time.

Zane listened absently while Matt chattered on about his family. He was more concerned with the details of shutting down the site for the night than keeping up on family news. Shading his eyes, he watched the enormous steel box that weighed close to a ton soar effortlessly into the air at the end of a massive chain. He cupped wide hands around his mouth. Swing her over that way!

The operator didn’t seem to hear him.

Zane removed his helmet and waved it over his head. Over there, Sid! By the backhoe!

At last the man signaled that he understood. He threw the appropriate levers to maneuver the metal dinosaur. Slowly, with a grinding roar, the crane swung the dangling generator above the work site in a semicircular path.

Satisfied that everything was under control, Zane reached for his shirt and used it to mop up the sweat beading on his face and trapped in the clipped blond hairs on his head.

Guess I’m just about at my wit’s end with that boy, Matt finished, looking at Zane as if he expected a response.

Zane stared blankly at him.

You didn’t hear a word I said, did you? Matt asked, his irritated expression easing into a smile. "Good boy, you should concentrate on your work."

I’m sorry, what’s this about your son, Matt?

Just that my boy, the youngest one, Tony... he’s got himself mixed up with a bad crowd. Ever since school got out in June, he’s been hanging around these boys, some of ‘em are doing drugs, and I suspect at least one is selling. There has been a rash of break-ins and car thefts in our neighborhood. I can’t prove anything, but I’d swear that gang has something to do with ’em. Tony’s a good boy, but he’s just got too much time on his hands, and there’s another whole month before school starts up again.

Sounds like he needs a job, something labor intensive to drain off a little of that adolescent energy.

That’s just the trouble, Matt said with a sigh, there’s nothing much around for kids like him. Most stores and businesses ’round here hire college kids for the summer, and the fast-food joints have all the help they need.

Zane nodded, studying the familiar pattern of dents and scratches in his helmet as he turned it thoughtfully in his hands. Well, you’re the foreman, but if you want my opinion, I believe we could use at least one more apprentice on this job. We never have enough time to set up properly in the morning or to break down quick enough at the end of the day. One more pair of hands would sure make things easier on all of us.

Matt’s face lit up. I was hopin’ you’d say that. Thanks, thanks a lot.

Zane slapped his old friend on the back. No problem. Hey! He laughed. I’m just glad I don’t have kids to mess up my life the way they do every father’s.

You wouldn’t say that if you had ’em, Matt said, suddenly serious, a quiet but proud gleam in his steely eyes, There’s no way to explain how important a man’s children become to him.

I don’t know about that. A bunch of rug rats can cramp a guy’s style, if you know what I mean. Zane winked roguishly at the older man, and gave him a playful shove.

Even as his hand rebounded off Matt’s shoulder, Zane sensed that the sun’s glare had suddenly been blocked.

Heads up! someone shouted.

Zane! Matt! another man bellowed.

He immediately looked around for the cause of the alarm. Matt had been thrown off balance while they’d been horsing around, and he was stumbling backward, a surprised but amused look on his face. No harm there.

Then another motion, from somewhere above caught Zane’s attention. He shaded his eyes with his helmet and looked straight up.

For a fraction of a second, the dark shape over his head failed to register as being anything in particular. Metallic colored, beginnings of rust, squarish, solid...

Then Zane knew, with cold certainty, that it was the generator. And its hulking form seemed to be swelling, growing larger. His heart hammered in his chest. The sweat on his brow turned chill.

It’s not getting bigger, his brain telegraphed him urgently, it’s falling!

A ton of steel ... falling on top of him ... but he couldn’t make his feet move... and his body felt like an iron pilaster, immovably sunk in a cement foundation. The chain had snapped, and the generator was plummeting, and there was nowhere to go and no time to go in and...

Then Zane knew he was going to die.

The light in the nursery looked golden that day. It glimmered off the water of Long Island Sound, through the window hung with dainty ruffled curtains, and flung itself gaily, like an impish playmate across the pastel-print sheets of the baby’s crib. Caroline North stood with her hand resting on the crib’s railing, looking down at the spot where her baby’s head had lain, so sweetly, so softly, nestled amidst pink and blue balloons on linens she’d picked out herself.

A tear slid down her cheek, followed by another and another. The weight in her chest felt as if it were a lead anchor, pulling her down, down, down into the black crevice that had swallowed her up nearly a year before. Her three-month-old son, Jimmy, had fallen asleep one night. The next morning she’d been unable to wake him.

She recalled the doctor’s words, intended to comfort her. It’s not your fault, Mrs. North. It’s no one’s fault. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome is a catch-all medical term that’s not really definable. We understand only that something caused Jimmy’s heart to stop beating in the middle of the night. He died painlessly, if that’s any comfort to either of you.

Then her husband’s words, minutes later when they were alone with their grief... Not your fault, my ass. Didn’t I tell you he seemed restless? Didn’t I tell you to check on him? Rob’s anger stained his voice an ugly color, condemning her to guilt others said she shouldn’t feel.

But Caroline had checked on Jimmy. She remembered lovingly stroking the soft, pale fuzz on his little head and covering him loosely with his blanket, and he’d been fine. But Rob seemed to need someone to blame for his son’s death, and she was the only one available.

Caroline? a voice came from the kitchen.

She didn’t answer, couldn’t choke out a single word over the tears clogging her throat.

Suzanne Godfrey poked her head through the nursery door. Oh God, what are you doing in here? she whispered.

Just...just remembering. Caroline pressed her fingertips over her eyes, hard, to stop them from burning. It didn’t do any good.

Oh, honey. Suzanne dashed across the room and brought her into the reassuring circle of her arms. Don’t do this to yourself. Come on, let’s get you out of here.

Weeping copiously, Caroline allowed her friend and business partner to gently lead her out of the nursery and into the kitchen. Suzanne sat her down at the small, oak table, set a box of tissues on the table in front of her and put the teakettle on to boil.

I’m making us both some tea, she stated in a firm voice that also said, You will drink it and pull yourself together, and everything will be all right.

Caroline reached for a tissue and blew her nose, then willed away the piercing ache in her heart. I had to go in. I heard a sound, like a baby’s cry, and I had to look at his crib to convince myself he wasn’t really there.

It’s been a whole year, honey. Jimmy’s gone.

I know...I know. Caroline sighed.

Look, it’s your day off. The shop doesn’t need you. Hell, it practically runs itself most of the time. Denise is tending the cash register right now. Denise McDaniel was the high school girl who came in on Fridays and weekends to help them at the Silver Whale, the gift shop they’d bought and ran together. Located on Water Street in Mystic, Connecticut, it catered to thousands of tourists who flocked all summer long to the New England town to visit the famous Mystic Seaport, a restored version of an eighteenth century whaling town.

What’s your point? Caroline asked, between sniffles.

The point is, on your day off you should be outside enjoying the beautiful weather. Go to the beach and take a long swim. Buy a ticket for a boat ride with the tourists. Order a pint of those fried clams you love. Get back into living again!

Caroline shook her head.

Why not?

I don’t feel as if... How could she explain what was tearing at her heart, without sounding as if she were looking for pity? I don’t deserve to be happy or—

You don’t deserve happiness ever? Suzanne broke in, sitting down across from her. "Is that it? You let your baby die—as if there was any way you could have prevented it—so now you have to pay for it the rest of your life? What a warped view of life!"

Of course I don’t think that, Caroline objected. It’s just too soon to forget.

Suzanne pulled her chair around to face Caroline’s. She clamped her hands over the knees of Caroline’s blue jeans. "Listen to me. You’ll never forget. No one expects you to. But you should open yourself up to meeting people who can bring some joy into your life again."

If you mean men, no thanks.

They’re not all insensitive jerks like Rob.

The teakettle began whistling violently. Caroline launched herself out of her chair, glad to have a reason to move. I’m sure there are some nice men in the world, she admitted. But have you ever thought that those are the ones I might want to avoid?

Suzanne stared at her. Now you’ve totally lost me.

If I meet someone I really like and he likes me, he might expect me to marry him.

Now that would really be horrible, she said with a wry twist to her lips.

And he might want a family.

So?

Caroline lifted the teakettle off of the burner. "I’m not going to have another child. I can’t risk the same thing happening again. It would kill me," she finished woodenly.

Suzanne nodded slowly. I understand how you must feel. But does the doctor say it’s likely?

No promises, one way or the other. Suddenly Caroline felt drained by the mere thought, compelled to sit down again. She collapsed back into her chair, leaving Suzanne to pour steaming water over tea bags in two mugs.

So, maybe just date casually, have a good time. And if sex rears its ugly head, Suzanne said dryly, there are ways of not getting pregnant these days.

I know, but what if something goes wrong? Or what if I fall hopelessly in love and then I can’t give this man the family he wants? He’d leave me just like Rob.

Nobody will leave you ‘just like Rob.’ He’s a cruel, selfish, twisted little man.

Caroline started trembling, first in her toes, the shivers traveling up through her limbs until her entire body was shaking uncontrollably. But I really believed he cared about me. I thought we’d be together forever.

"Well, I never liked him, Suzanne said abruptly, dunking the tea bags fiercely. But we won’t go into that. The point is, you deserve someone much better than Rob could ever have been for you. But if you don’t ever leave the shop or this apartment, you’ll never find him."

Caroline looked on sadly as Suzanne finally quit drowning the paper pouches of apple-cinnamon herbs and brought the two fragrant mugs to the table. She longed to feel whole again, to be able to laugh and go dancing, take long walks on the beach while holding hands with someone special, do all of the other things she loved to do. But enjoying the company of other people seemed impossible as long as she carried the terrible pain in her heart that hadn’t left her since Jimmy died.

They sat, drinking their tea in companionable silence. Eventually Caroline felt a thin ray of light slip into her heart. The darkest spells lasted less time these days, but they always came back. She smiled dimly at Suzanne across the table.

Suzanne said softly, Every time I introduce you to a nice man, you panic and find ways to avoid seeing him when he asks you out. One of these days, you’ll have to learn to trust again.

I guess. But I don’t know how. Sometimes I think I’ll never get over Rob’s defection. She concentrated on taking measured breaths, and gradually found she could control the trembling.

How can I trust another man to stay with me and be strong enough to love me through tragedy as well as the good times?

He’s out there, you have to believe he is, Suzanne said. I didn’t think I’d ever find a man who understood me, with all my crazy moods. But along came Ralph, and the three years we’ve been married have been the happiest of my life.

Caroline smiled, genuinely pleased for her friend. Suzanne and she had met in high school and knew each other better than their own families did. Suzanne had gone through some rough times, too, but quiet, intelligent Ralph Godfrey had come along and Suzanne had never looked back.

I know he makes you happy. He’s a good man, Caroline murmured.

And yours is out there somewhere, honey. You just have to let him find you.

Caroline took one last deep, soul-cleansing breath. Well, about all I can manage right now is lunch. How about we hit the Captain’s Table and splurge on a double order of fried dams with french fries.

Suzanne threw back her head and laughed as she stood up. Add a side of coleslaw—and I’ll swear I’m in heaven.

Before Zane could actually see anything, he could feel his surroundings. It was as if every inch of his skin had been exposed and was being caressed by the softest breeze. The heat of the construction site seemed to have evaporated into the air, leaving only the fresh, coolness of a forest glade. He tried to remember what had happened just before the sudden darkness. He recalled the generator, only a few feet above his head, closing fast.

Oh God, he groaned, "I am dead."

But he couldn’t tell where, exactly, being dead had landed him.

There was no light at all to help him see anything around him. If there was a heaven or a hell, how could he tell which he was in? Maybe being dead was just a nothingness, an endless nothingness.

How depressing, he thought. Immediately he was assaulted by a wave of regret for all the time he’d wasted and all the things he’d left undone...and dreams he’d had as a kid and sworn he’d never give up... dreams that would never be realized now.

Aw, bell...

No, a voice stated, that’s not where you are.

Zane blinked once, and a soft gray light filtered through the darkness. He blinked twice more, and the light grew stronger. Concentrating on the action, he squeezed his eyes shut then opened them wide—and the light intensified, but there was still nothing but the light—no people, no objects, no trees, not even clouds.

Where...am I? he asked hesitantly.

We don’t need to label places here, the voice said. But if it makes you more comfortable you can think of this as one area of Heaven, since that was the word in your mind.

He laughed uneasily. Whew, thought maybe...well, you know.

Yes, we know. You didn’t always follow the path of goodness, did you?

Guess not, Zane admitted with a nervous laugh. He couldn’t help picturing the women who’d come into, and just as quickly left, his life. There was an embarrassingly long list. But heck, he’d never lied or intentionally set out to hurt any of them. They’d had a good time, too. A damn good time, if he recalled correctly.

Be that as it may, the voice said, as if the entity behind it had read his mind, you are here and you need to do your part.

My part?

Yes, you see, you are—since you need labels—an Angel of the Third Tier.

Me, an angel?

It’s either that or—

Never mind, consider me your man...I mean, angel, Zane amended quickly. So what does the third-tier business mean?

It means you’re just starting out. You must serve in the third tier before you can rise to the second.

Like being an apprentice welder.

A what?

Never mind, Zane said. Go on. I shouldn’t keep interrupting.

We understand, you’re curious. After you’ve served as both a third-tier and second-tier angel, you move on to first tier. And after that you are fully and eternally accepted into Grace.

And that’s good, right?

It’s the best.

So, I should go for it, Zane said thoughtfully. "What if a person doesn’t make it? I mean what if I screw u—I mean mess up somehow?"

That would be very unfortunate, the voice said, with a tragic overtone.

Oh. Zane felt a chill slither through his soul, like a serpent cutting through shallow water at the edge of a brackish pond. Then another question occurred to him. Who are you?

The source of light seemed to thicken and sway before his eyes. I am many things. The Zoroastrians of many millennia ago called me the Archangel Meher, the Angel of Mercy and Light. I comfort the soul and bring peace to those who have suffered or been wronged.

I see, he said, not at all sure that he did. So, what do I have to do, to do my part?

Look down there, the voice directed.

The endless flow of pure white light that had covered everything around him, seemed to thin in one small area. Zane peered into wisps of mist. A figure moved haltingly across his line of vision. A woman. A slender, dark-haired woman of about his age—thirty, give or take a year or two. There was something familiar about her, although he was sure he’d never met her before.

She stopped beside a piece of furniture, and it took him a moment to recognize it as a baby’s crib. Resting one palm delicately on the rail, she peered down into it—and began to weep. Her grief pierced through him, as if he were feeling the pain tormenting her.

Why’s she so upset? Zane asked.

Her baby died.

Zane nodded. Yes, he could feel her loss. That’s terrible.

For her, it seems so... certainly, the voice allowed without emotion.

The ache in Zane’s heart intensified as he witnessed the young woman overtaken by helpless sobs. Isn’t there someone to be with her at a time like this?

It’s been over a year. She’s having trouble recovering from the loss of her child. The voice paused, as if wanting to give Zane more time to absorb the tragic scene before him. Her husband blamed her for their son’s death. He left her a month after it happened.

Zane involuntarily flinched. The bastard, he muttered, then remembered who he was talking to. Sorry.

It’s all right. Your reaction is appropriate, if poorly worked.

Tell me, Zane began hesitantly, what will happen to her? I mean, she won’t become so desperate that she’ll... you know, try to commit suicide or anything, will she?

The longer he looked at her, the more appealing she seemed to him. Her dark brown hair framed her face in soft chin-length waves. Her eyes, although blurred with tears, were the color of rich coffee before milk is added. She was petite, maybe a little too thin to be healthy, and he wondered if she’d lost a lot of weight in the past year, mourning her son. Somehow he knew it had been a boy.

Her life is in the balance right now. You see, Zachariah, there are certain directions a mortal’s life may take, depending upon his or her destiny. Ultimately it’s the choices a person makes for him or herself that determine the course of that person’s life.

Zane only half heard what the Archangel had said. He hadn’t gotten past the name. Zachariah? You called me Zacharias.

Yes. That is your name now.

Another change to get used to. What a shame. He’d really liked his name. He sighed. Okay, so far I know I’m dead. I’m a rookie angel and my name is Zachariah. So what does that woman have to do with me?

Why, she is your assignment, of course.

My assignment, he repeated. He had a feeling in his gut, or at least where his gut used to be, that this afterlife stuff was going to be even more complicated than his time as a mortal. You mean, I’m like her guardian angel?

There you are. You’re catching on fast. Was it his imagination or did Meher sound just a little sarcastic?

"But...but what can I possibly do for a woman who has lost her child and husband? What sort of comfort can I give her?"

The voice assumed a musical quality, as if it were chuckling up a scale of notes. "Oh, you can do quite a lot for her. You see, she’s destined to remarry, very happily. And she will