Call Me Mrs. Miracle

  Nine

  It’s hard to stumble when you’re down on your knees.

  —Shirley, Goodness and Mercy, friends of Mrs. Miracle

  Holly gave the situation regarding Gabe and the robot careful thought during the sleepless night that followed their dinner. She’d asked Jake about it when Gabe was out of earshot.

  “There are still plenty left,” he’d told her.

  “But they’re selling, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, sales are picking up.”

  That was good for him but unsettling for her. If she couldn’t afford to pay for the robot until closer to Christmas, then she’d need to make a small deposit and put one on layaway now. She didn’t know if Finley’s offered that option; not many stores did anymore. She’d have to check with Jake. She dared not take a chance that Intellytron would sell out before she had the cash.

  While she was dead set against letting Jake purchase the robot for her, she hoped he’d be willing to put one aside, even if layaway wasn’t a current practice at higher-end department stores. If she made their lunches, cut back on groceries and bought only what was absolutely necessary, she should be able to pay cash for the robot just before Christmas.

  Tuesday morning she packed a hard-boiled egg and an apple for lunch. For Gabe she prepared a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, adding an apple for him, too, plus the last of the sugar cookies. Gabe hadn’t been happy to take a packed lunch. He much preferred to buy his meal with his friends. But it was so much cheaper for him to bring it—and, at this point, necessary, although of course she couldn’t tell him why. The leftover Chinese food figured into her money-saving calculations, too. It would make a great dinner.

  On her lunch hour, after she’d eaten her apple and boiled egg, Holly hurried to Finley’s to talk to Jake. She’d been uneasy from the moment she’d learned she wasn’t getting a Christmas bonus. She wouldn’t relax until she knew the SuperRobot would still be available the following week.

  Unfortunately, Jake wasn’t in the toy department.

  “He’s not here?” Holly asked Mrs. Miracle, unable to hide her disappointment.

  “He’s with his father just now,” the older woman told her, and then frowned. “I do hope the meeting goes smoothly. It can be difficult to read the senior Mr. Finley sometimes. But I have faith that all will end well.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke.

  Holly hoped she’d explain, and Mrs. Miracle obliged.

  “In case you didn’t hear, Jake went over the department buyer’s head when he ordered those extra robots,” she confided, “and that’s caused some difficulty with his father. J. R. Finley has a real stubborn streak.”

  Mrs. Miracle seemed very well informed about the relationship between Jake and his father. “The robots are selling, though. Isn’t that right?” she asked, again torn between pleasure at Jake’s success and worry about laying her hands on one of the toys. The display appeared to be much smaller than last week.

  “Thankfully, yes,” Mrs. Miracle told her. “Jake took quite a risk, you know?”

  Holly shook her head.

  “Jake tried to talk Mike Scott into ordering more of the robots, but Mike refused to listen, so Jake did what he felt was best.” Her expression sobered. “His father was not pleased, to put it mildly.”

  “But you said they’re selling.”

  “Oh, yes. We sold another twenty-five over the weekend and double that on Monday.” She nodded sagely. “I can only assume J.R. is feeling somewhat reassured.”

  “That’s great.” Holly meant it, but a shiver of dread went through her.

  “Several of our competitors have already sold out,” Mrs. Miracle said with a gleeful smile.

  “That’s terrific news.” And it was—for Finley’s. Parents searching for the toy would now flock to one of the few department stores in town with enough inventory to meet demand.

  “How’s Gabe?” Mrs. Miracle asked, changing the subject.

  “He’s doing fine.” Holly chewed her lip, her thoughts still on the robot. “Seeing how well the robot’s selling, would it be possible for me to set one aside on a layaway plan?”

  The older woman’s smile faded. “Oh, dear, the store doesn’t have a layaway option. They haven’t in years. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

  Holly wasn’t surprised that layaway was no longer offered, but she figured it was worth asking. Holly clutched her purse. “I…I don’t know.” Her mind spinning, she looked hopefully at the older woman. “Do you think you could hold one of the robots for me?” She hated to make that kind of request, but with her credit card temporarily out of commission and no layaway plan, she didn’t have any other choice. The payment she’d made on her card would’ve been processed by now, but she didn’t dare risk a purchase as big as this.

  “Oh, dear, I’m really not sure.”

  “Could you ask Jake for me?” Holly inquired. She’d do it herself if he was there.

  “Of course. I just don’t think I could go against store policy, being seasonal staff and all.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to do that, Mrs. Miracle.”

  “However, I’m positive Jake would be happy to help if he can.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “He’s rather sweet on you.”

  Sweet? That was a nice, old-fashioned word. “He’s been wonderful to me and Gabe.”

  “So I understand. Didn’t he bring you dinner last night?”

  Holly wondered how Mrs. Miracle knew about that, unless Jake had mentioned it. No reason not to, she supposed. “Yes, and it was a lovely evening,” she said. The only disappointment had come when Gabe asked him to help decorate the tree and Jake refused. The mere suggestion had distressed him. She hadn’t realized that the trauma of those family deaths was as intense and painful as if the accident had just happened. If it was this traumatic for Jake, Holly could only imagine what it was like for his father.

  “Did you know Jake and his father leave New York every Christmas Eve?” Mrs. Miracle whispered.

  It was as if the older woman had been reading her mind. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Jake and his father leave New York every Christmas Eve,” she repeated.

  Holly hadn’t known this and wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Isn’t that a shame?”

  Holly shrugged. “Everyone deals with grief differently,” she murmured. Her brother handled the loss of his wife with composure and resolve. That was his personality. Practical. Responsible. As he’d said himself, he couldn’t fall apart; he had a boy to raise.

  Sally had been sick for a long while, giving Mickey time to prepare for the inevitable—at least to the extent anyone can. He’d loved Sally and missed her terribly, especially in the beginning. Yet he’d gone on with his life, determined to be a good father.

  Perhaps the difference was that for the Finleys, the deaths had come suddenly, without warning. The family had awakened the morning of Christmas Eve, excited about the holiday. There’d been no indication that by the end of the day tragedy would befall them. The shock, the grief, the complete unexpectedness of the accident, had remained an unhealed wound all these years.

  “He needs you,” Mrs. Miracle said.

  “Me?” Holly responded with a short laugh. “We barely know each other.”

  “Really?”

  “We met last week, remember?”

  “Last week,” she echoed, with that same twinkle in her eye. “But you like him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I guess I do,” Holly admitted.

  “You should invite him for a home-cooked dinner.”

  Funny, Holly had been thinking exactly that. She’d wait, not wanting to appear too eager—although heaven knew that was how she felt. And of course there was the problem of her finances….

  “I’d like to have Jake over,” she began. “He—”

  “Did I hear someone mention my name?” Jake said from behind her.

  “Jake!” She turned to face him as his assistant moved away to help a you
ng couple who’d approached the department. From the corner of her eye, Holly saw that the husband and wife Mrs. Miracle had greeted were pointing at the Super-Robot. Mrs. Miracle picked up a box and walked over to the cash register to ring up the sale.

  “Holly?” Jake asked.

  “I need to put Intellytron on layaway but Mrs. Miracle told me you don’t do that,” she said in a rush.

  “Sorry, no. I thought you were going to use your Christmas bonus to purchase the robot this week.”

  “I’m not getting one,” she blurted out. She was close to tears, which embarrassed her.

  “Listen, I’ll buy the robot for Gabe and—”

  “No,” she broke in. “We already talked about that, remember? I won’t let you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…I just won’t. Let’s leave it at that.”

  He frowned but reluctantly agreed. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it.”

  “That’s the way it has to be.”

  “At least let me hold one for you,” Jake said before she could compose herself enough to ask.

  “You can do that?”

  Jake nodded. “Sure. I’ll set one aside right away and put your name on it. I’ll tell everyone on staff that it isn’t to be sold. How does that sound?”

  She closed her eyes as relief washed over her. “Thank you. That would be perfect.”

  “Are you all right now?” He placed his hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture.

  “I’m fine. I apologize if I seem unreasonable.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do?” Holly wasn’t convinced she could explain it herself. She just knew she had to do this. For Gabe, for Mickey…and for herself. The robot had become more than a toy. It was a symbol of her commitment to her nephew and her desire to give him the Christmas he deserved.

  She saw that the department was busy and she was keeping Jake from his customers. “I have to get back to the office,” she said.

  He grinned. “Next time maybe you could stay longer.”

  Holly smiled back. “Next time I will.”

  “I’ll call you. You’re in the phone directory?”

  She nodded, hoping she’d hear from him soon. “See you, Jake.”

  “See you, Holly.”

  As she walked toward the elevator, Mrs. Miracle joined her. “Mr. Finley suggested I take my lunch hour now,” she said as they stepped into the empty car together. “What I feel like having is fried chicken.”

  “Fried chicken,” Holly echoed. “My mother, who was born and raised in the South, has a special family recipe but she hasn’t made it in years. I can’t even remember the last time we ate fried chicken.” In this age of heart-healthy diets, her mother had focused on lean, low-carb meals.

  “A special recipe?” Mrs. Miracle murmured. “I’ll bet it was good.”

  “The best.” Now that she thought about it, Holly figured she might have a copy in her kitchen. “Mom put together a book of family recipes for me when I left home. I wonder if she included that one.” Fried chicken was the ultimate comfort food and would make a wonderful dinner when she invited Jake over—sometime in the new year.

  “She probably did. That sounds just like her.”

  “You know my mother?” Holly asked, surprised.

  “No…no, but having met you, I know she must be a very considerate woman, someone who cares about family and traditions.”

  What a lovely compliment. The kind words helped take the sting out of her employer’s refusal to give Holly a Christmas bonus. Lindy Lee was a modern-day Scrooge as far as Holly was concerned.

  That evening, as dinner heated in the microwave, Holly searched through her kitchen drawers for the notebook where her mother had written various recipes passed down through her family.

  “What would you think of homemade fried chicken for Christmas?” Holly asked Gabe. It wasn’t the traditional dinner but roast turkey with all the fixings was out of her budget now. If Gabe considered her fried chicken a success, she’d serve it again when Jake came over.

  “I’ve had take-out chicken. Is that the same?”

  “The same?” she repeated incredulously. “Not even close!”

  “Then I’ve never had it.” He shrugged. “If it’s not frozen or out of a can Dad doesn’t know how to make it,” Gabe said. “Except for macaroni and cheese in the box.” He sat down at the computer and logged on to the internet, preparing to send an email to his father, as he did every night. He hadn’t typed more than a few words when he turned and looked at Holly. “What’s for dinner tonight?”

  “Leftover Chinese. You okay with that?”

  “Sure.” Gabe returned to the computer screen.

  Ten minutes later, he asked, “Can you invite Jake for Christmas dinner?”

  “He won’t be able to come.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s going away for Christmas.”

  Gabe was off the internet and playing one of his games, jerking the game stick left and right as he battled aliens. “Why?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I will.” Apparently he’d won the battle because he let go of the stick and faced her. “You’re going to see him again, right? You want to, don’t you?”

  Even an eight-year-old boy could easily see through her.

  “I hope so.”

  “Me, too,” Gabe said, then added, “Billy wants me to come over after school on Friday. I can go, can’t I?” He regarded her hopefully.

  The boys had obviously remained friends. “I’ll clear it with his dad first.” Holly had been meaning to talk to Bill before this. She’d make a point of doing it soon, although she wasn’t looking forward to contacting him.

  The good news was that she’d found the recipe in her mother’s book.

  Fried Chicken

  (from Debbie Macomber’s Cedar Cove Cookbook)

  The key to crisp fried chicken is cooking at a high temperature. Stick a candy or deep-frying thermometer in the chicken as you fry to make sure the oil temperature remains between 250º and 300ºF.

  1 whole chicken (about 3½ pounds), cut into 10 pieces

  1 quart buttermilk

  2 tablespoons Tabasco or other hot sauce

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  Salt and pepper, to taste

  2 large eggs

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  Vegetable oil or shortening

  Rinse chicken. In a large bowl or resealable plastic bag, combine buttermilk and Tabasco. Add chicken pieces, turn to coat. Refrigerate, covered, for at least 8 hours and up to 16, turning the pieces occasionally. Remove chicken from buttermilk; shake off excess. Arrange in a single layer on large wire rack set over rimed baking sheet. Refrigerate, uncovered, for 2 hours.

  Measure flour into large shallow dish; whisk in some salt and pepper. In a medium bowl, beat eggs, baking powder and baking soda. Working in batches of 3, drop chicken pieces in flour and shake dish to coat. Shake excess flour from each piece. Using tongs, dip chicken pieces into egg mixture, turning to coat well and allowing excess to drip off. Return chicken pieces to flour; coat again, shake off excess and set on wire rack.

  Preheat oven to 200ºF. Set oven rack to middle position. Set another wire rack over a rimmed baking sheet, and place in oven. Line a large plate with paper towels. Pour oil about ½ inch up the side of a large, heavy skillet. Place skillet over high heat; let pan warm until oil shimmers.

  Place half of chicken, skin-side down, in hot oil. Reduce heat to medium and fry 8 minutes, until deep golden brown. Turn chicken pieces; cook an additional eight minutes, turning to fry evenly on all sides. Using tongs, transfer chicken to paper towel–lined plate. After draining, transfer chicken to wire rack in oven. Fry remaining chicken, transferring pieces to paper towel–lined plate to drain, then to wire rack in oven to keep warm.

  Serves 4 to 6.

  Ten

  May you live all the days of y
our life.

  —Mrs. Miracle

  Emily Merkle smiled to herself. This latest assignment was going well. She enjoyed the ones that took place during the Christmas season most of all. She hadn’t expected the romance between Jake and Holly to develop quite this quickly, so that was a bonus. Those two were very good together—and good for each other.

  She attached her name badge to her sweater and hung her purse in the employee locker, then headed up to the toy department. She’d grown fond of Jake Finley. He was a kindhearted young man, a bit reserved, to be sure, but willing to take a risk he believed in. The robots were one example of that, his pursuit of Holly another.

  Walking toward the elevator, she saw J. R. Finley, who’d just come into the hallway. He stopped, and his eyes automatically went to her badge.

  “Mrs. Miracle,” he said thoughtfully. He seemed to be mulling over where he’d heard it before.

  “Mr. Finley,” she said in the same thoughtful tone.

  “To the best of my recollection, we don’t have an employee here at Finley’s named Miracle.”

  Emily was about to identify herself, but before she could, J.R. continued.

  “I pride myself on knowing the name of every employee at the Thirty-fourth Street Finley’s. Including seasonal staff.” He narrowed his eyes. “Just a minute. I remember my son mentioning you earlier.”

  “The name is Merkle,” Emily told him. “Emily Merkle.”

  Finley shook his head. “Can’t say I’m familiar with that name, either.”

  “If you check with HR, I’m sure—”