Mr. Miracle Read online

  Mr. Miracle is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Debbie Macomber

  Excerpt from Starry Night by Debbie Macomber

  copyright © 2013 by Debbie Macomber

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Macomber, Debbie.

  Mr. Miracle : a Christmas novel / Debbie Macomber.—First edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-553-39115-2

  eBook ISBN 978-0-553-39162-6

  1. Guardian angels—Fiction. 2. Women college students—Fiction. 3. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 4. Christmas stories. I. Title.

  PS3563.A2364M75 2014

  813′.54—dc23 2014027142

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover illustration: Tom Hallman

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  A Note from the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Starry Night

  October 2014

  Dear Friends,

  Like many others, I’ve always been fascinated with angels. My father saw an angel shortly before he died. The angel arrived in the middle of the night in human form, dressed in farm clothes, and helped my dad back to bed. Dad described the angel in detail. Angels among us isn’t as far removed from reality as it might seem. Check out Hebrews 13:2 if you don’t believe me. It was that verse that inspired Mrs. Miracle and now … drumroll, please … Mr. Miracle.

  I owe a great deal to several people who made this entire project possible. First and foremost my agent, Theresa Park, and her incredible staff, Emily, Alex, Andrea, Abby, and Peter. And, of course, my two marvelous Ballantine editors, Jennifer Hershey and Shauna Summers, who encouraged and supported me through each phase of the writing process, along with my own amazing staff.

  So now, my wonderful readers, it’s your turn. I hope you enjoy the story of Harry Mills as he discovers the delights and pleasures of life on Earth along with its temptations and limitations. And then, of course, there’s his mission with Addie and Erich … oh heavens (pun intended), there I go again. Okay, I won’t say anything more. The story is for you to unfold by turning the page. I hope that you’re charmed by Mr. Miracle and that you, too, might find an angel or two in your own life.

  Your feedback is important to me. You can contact me through my webpage at Debbie​Macomber.​com or through Facebook. If you’re so inclined you can write me at P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366.

  Merry Christmas and may God bless.

  Prologue

  Well, well, well, Harry Mills mused as he glanced around the campus of Southshore Community College. So this is Earth. Students darted across the emerald-green landscape, scurrying toward their classes. The December sky was dark and overcast, threatening rain. Not uncommon weather for the Pacific Northwest, or so he’d been told.

  This is exactly what I expected, he thought a bit smugly. Until now he’d had, shall we say, a heavenly perspective. Yes, he was an angel, but unlike his fellow angels and good friends, Shirley, Goodness, and Mercy, he had the ability to mingle with humans without suspicion. What he enjoyed most was the fact that the humans were completely unaware of who he was and the work he’d been given. Harry was on a God-given mission—a trial mission that was the opportunity of an eternity and one he hoped would become a permanent job if he performed well.

  In preparation for his earthly visitation, Harry had carefully studied human behavior and had learned about ways to gently guide his charges. Of course, he knew all about free will, too, but frankly, he wasn’t overly concerned. Just how difficult could it be to give a nudge to those in need of a bit of subtle direction? Naturally, he was required to work under certain parameters—restrictions, actually—but he didn’t consider that a particular problem, either.

  What did concern Harry was that he’d been assigned a mentor, which in his opinion was completely unnecessary. He didn’t need anyone looking over his shoulder, watching his every move.

  As the spiritual coordinator for this part of Tacoma, Celeste Chapeaux had been assigned to oversee Harry. Her powers were above and beyond his own. While his role involved the students in his class, her sphere of influence reached far beyond as coordinator of an entire area, including the campus and surrounding neighborhood. Harry knew he wasn’t the only angel under her direction.

  For now, Harry was willing to play by the rules in order to prove himself. In time, Celeste would realize an angel of his knowledge and intelligence was capable of managing assignments on his own without supervision.

  Making his way across the campus, Harry was enthralled to see the brick walls of the three-story building with the ivy climbing to the top of the second floor. A more modern structure loomed to his left and housed the cafeteria known as the Hub. Celeste Chapeaux worked as a barista at the latte stand there.

  Catching sight of her, Harry paused. She was young. Very young. Too young. She wore her hair so short it stood straight up on end and was dyed the color of a pomegranate. And she had a diamond piercing in her nose! He’d been assigned the body of a middle-aged man. Well, perhaps even a bit over middle age, wise and mature. This couldn’t possibly be right. He knew that the bodies angels received were random, but still, it felt weird. He was expected to take direction from a woman barely out of her teens? This … this bejeweled, tattooed ruffian couldn’t possibly be his lead.

  She met his eyes, and it appeared that Celeste recognized Harry immediately. Her crooked smile told him she’d read his thoughts perfectly.

  “Welcome, Harry,” she said as she ground coffee beans. The scent of the roasted beans swirled around him. She pressed down the grounds and then twisted the small round container into the machine. She did this skillfully.

  “Take a seat,” she instructed, nodding toward the stool at the counter.

  Still befuddled, Harry frowned and muttered, “I’d rather stand.”

  “Whatever.”

  He arched his brows. “Whatever what?”

  “Whatever you want,” she returned, with that same off-center smile.

  The coffee machine made a horrendous noise, followed by a hissing sound that caught him unaware. Harry backed away before she set a freshly brewed Americano on the counter in front of him. He stared at the coffee, wondering what he was supposed to do with it.

  “Take a sleeve; and be careful, it’s hot.”

  “I don’t need a sleeve.” In fact, he wasn’t sure what she was talking about. Sleeve?

  She shrugged, again showing a decided lack of concern. “You have all the information on your assignment?”
>
  He nodded, raised the cup to his lips, and tasted the coffee. The liquid had to be close to the boiling point and burned his lips, not to mention that the cup was uncomfortably hot to hold. Too proud to let her see, he set the cup down and then jerked his hand discreetly by his side a couple times to shake off the sting.

  Celeste automatically handed him a paper sleeve, and, grumbling under his breath, Harry took it.

  “You’re stepping in, teaching the classic literature class.”

  Harry was well aware of his assignment.

  “Have you read Dickens’s A Christmas Carol?” she asked.

  “Who hasn’t?” he responded nonchalantly, wanting her to know he was well versed in human classic literature. Although he had reservations when it came to this particular story, especially the author’s depiction of the afterlife.

  “Who hasn’t?” Celeste repeated. “Probably ninety-nine percent of the students in your class.”

  “That goes without saying. Anyway, you and I both know Dickens got it wrong. I have serious doubts about an author who so flippantly portrays heavenly spirits in such a manner. As far as I’m concerned, Dickens has taken far too much literary license. The description of Marley’s ghost and the three spirits is beyond ridiculous. Someone needs to set the record straight. Humans don’t actually believe—”

  “Correcting misconceptions about heaven isn’t part of your job,” Celeste said, cutting him off.

  Harry was tempted to argue, but changed his mind. He could see it would do little good. Clearly she was opinionated and most likely unable to see reason. He’d heard about angels like this, ones who were given an earthly assignment and lost their heavenly perspective. Sadly, they got caught up in the temptations of Earth. That wouldn’t be a problem for him, of course.

  Celeste leaned against the counter, resting her folded arms there. “Am I detecting a bit of an attitude here?” she asked.

  Rather than answer, Harry posed a question of his own. “How is it you’re the one in charge?”

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Ah …”

  “Listen, Harry, while you were strumming away on a harp I was dealing with the likes of Columbus and Lewis and Clark. Do you have any idea how difficult it was to guide them?”

  He didn’t, and stared down at his coffee. “Playing the harp isn’t as easy as it looks, you know.”

  Celeste grinned as if to say he didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. “We need to work together, got that?”

  He straightened. It hadn’t been his intention to start off on the wrong foot. “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  The coffee had cooled down enough for him to take a cautious second sip.

  “As I said, all the necessary paperwork has been arranged. Your story is that you’ve accepted a transfer from Oregon State Community College. For your first assignment, you’re here to help Addie Folsom. She’s made a few bad decisions but is back living at home now and has enrolled in your class. Addie is dyslexic and has some serious doubts about her ability to learn. She never did well in school and fears she won’t be able to do so now. Your assignment is to show her that she’s smarter than she thinks and can succeed in her desire to work in the medical field. Her father was a chiropractor and she would like to follow in his footsteps. And then there’s her neighbor, Erich Simmons. As a young teen, Addie had a real thing for him. That relationship might require a bit of help on your end, but don’t worry. Most everything leading up to their interaction has already been set in place. Addie is going to need encouragement and a bit of direction. This first student is a test to see how well you manage before you’re given the more difficult tasks.”

  He nodded, having already familiarized himself with the young woman’s history. “I’m ready for this,” he assured his earthly guide.

  “Excellent. If you have any problems, come straight to me—don’t attempt to handle them on your own. That’s why I’m here. And let me warn you, with a human body, you’re about to experience …”

  “No need. I’ve got this covered. There won’t be any problems … I’ve been watching Earth for quite some time. I’m ready. Really, what could be so difficult about teaching a few eager students?”

  Harry might have been wrong, but it seemed Celeste’s eyes widened briefly as if she struggled to hold back a laugh.

  “No one ever anticipates problems,” she told him, taking her index finger and drawing circles on the counter as if she needed time to recover her composure, “but they do come up on occasion. I want you to know I’m here to answer your questions and help you maneuver through this foreign landscape. What you viewed from heaven is one thing; living among humans is entirely different.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be just fine.”

  “We’ll see,” she whispered.

  That almost seemed like a challenge to Harry. Perhaps he was being overconfident. He needed to remember that she was the one with experience.

  “Any other words of advice you wish to pass along?”

  She seemed both surprised and pleased by his question. “As a matter of fact, there are. Don’t ever forget that the world is in a fallen condition. Humans, as attractive and awesomely created as they are, tend to believe that events occur in their lives randomly, with little or no meaning. They often overlook the obvious, that God is in control.”

  “In other words, their spiritual understanding is limited?”

  “You got that right.”

  “I know that.”

  “Fantastic.” Her smile was as bright as a 100-watt light-bulb.

  “Anything else?” He was eager to be on his way, find his classroom, and get started.

  “A word of caution: Do what you can to never cross Dr. Conceito.”

  “Who?”

  “The college president. He won’t cut you any slack. In fact, stay away from him entirely if you can.”

  “Okay. Is that it?”

  “Remember, human understanding is limited, and furthermore, you’re about to experience …”

  “Yes, yes, I know.”

  She smiled again as if keeping a secret. “And whatever you do, unless it is an absolute emergency, you must not cross the line. You say you’re familiar with the parameters of your mission, now prove it.”

  Harry raised his hand to stop her before she said anything more. “No problem.” Really, this assignment—during the Christmas holidays, to boot—was going to be a piece of rum-soaked fruitcake. A real delight. He was absolutely convinced of it.

  Rushing out of the Hub, Harry eagerly started toward his classroom. The meeting with Celeste could have gone better, he thought as he took a shortcut across the lawn.

  “You!”

  The sharp command in the man’s voice caught Harry up short. He stopped and glanced up to find a distinguished-looking man, dressed in a coat with a starched white shirt and fashionable tie, his arm outstretched, pointing directly at him.

  Harry flattened his hand over his chest. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. I saw you walk across the lawn.”

  “Ah … yes.”

  “Did you read the sign?”

  “The sign?”

  “The do-not-walk-on-the-grass sign.”

  “Oh … I guess I overlooked it.” Extending his arm, Harry introduced himself. “Harry Mills.”

  The other man frowned and ignored his hand. “Harry Mills from Oregon State Community College?”

  Harry nodded and lowered his arm. “Yes, one and the same.”

  “Don Conceito, the college president. Come to my office. It looks like I’m going to need to review the campus rules with you.”

  Chapter One

  This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. Six years out of high school, Addie Folsom had envisioned returning home loaded and driving a fancy car. Instead, she was limping back in a twenty-year-old Honda with close to three hundred thousand miles and her tail between her legs.

  So much for the great promise of mov
ing to Montana and walking into a get-rich-quick opportunity. She’d left Washington State with such high hopes … and ended up living in a leaky trailer and waiting tables in a run-down diner. It took all six of those years for Addie to admit she’d made a very big mistake. Pride, she’d learned, offered little comfort.

  Oh, she’d returned home for visits at least a couple times a year. When asked pointed questions about her work in the silver mine, she’d made sure her answers were vague.

  Then, last summer, her chiropractor father had died unexpectedly of a heart attack.

  Addie had adored her dad as a child, but the moment she’d hit her teen years, their relationship had deteriorated. She hadn’t repaired things before he’d passed away so suddenly. In retrospect, she suspected she and her father were too much alike. Both were stubborn and headstrong, unwilling to admit when they were wrong or make the effort to build bridges.

  They’d argued far too often, her mother stepping in, seeking to make peace between her husband and her daughter. How sorry Addie was for the strife between them, now that her father was gone.

  For now, she was home for good. Addie parked in front of the single-story house where she’d spent the first eighteen years of her life. She loved that it had a front porch, which so many of the more modern homes didn’t. Normally, the Christmas lights would already be up. Her father had always seen to that the Friday after Thanksgiving. This year, however, the two arborvitae that bordered each side of the porch seemed stark and bare without the decorative lights.

  Her mother must have been watching from the living-room window, because the minute Addie climbed out of the car, the front door flew open and Sharon Folsom rushed out with her arms open wide. “Addie, Addie, you’re home.”

  Addie paused halfway up the walkway and hugged her mother close.

  Sharon Folsom brought her hands up to Addie’s face and smoothed back her dark brown hair. Her mother’s chocolate-brown eyes, a reflection of her own, held her gaze with an intensity of longing.

  Addie found she couldn’t speak. It felt so good to be home, to really be home.