Gabriel's Mission. Margaret Way
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Chloe Cavanagh who was proving such a handful Lucas feared he had suffered a temporary burnout. In fact he was feeling a loss of power in his lower right wing.
“It’s not as though Chloe isn’t a fine compassionate young mortal with considerable spirituality, but she’s becoming something of a danger to herself,” he told his brilliant audience. “She has a tragic history you see.” Lucas went on to tell them Chloe had lost a sibling, a brother, Timothy, when she was six and the child barely eighteen months, leaving the family desolate. Then some two years ago tragedy struck again like a lightning bolt. Chloe’s parents were involved in a car crash that killed her father and put her mother into a coma from which she hadn’t emerged for months on end. The mother, still locked in a waking dream state, was now in a nursing home being cared for while Chloe tried to balance her career as a journalist in the high-powered world of network TV with being there for her mother.
Mr. Bliss was faced with a decision. To counsel Lucas and allow him to continue? Or allow Lucas a long rest and appoint a replacement. There were many positive angels he could rely on to do the job. Angels who wouldn’t collapse under the strain.
As Mr. Bliss looked around thoughtfully a glowing young face distracted him. Titus, of course, his garments radiating a flawless blue light. Angels’ beautifully sculptured tranquil features were seen mostly through a luminous haze rather like a vapour, but for some reason Titus’s sparkling face was almost flesh and blood. He glowed, with his burnished rose-gold curls, brilliant blue eyes and a tracery of gold freckles that danced across his nose. Curious to have freckles in this perfect realm where the sun spilled only adoration onto God and His heavenly kingdom. Mr. Bliss had the feeling there might be much to learn about young Titus’s past. Was it possible he had had an earthly life?
Even as Mr. Bliss considered a dip into Archives, Titus spoke up. “Please, Mr. Bliss, can’t you give us little guys a go?”
There it was again. Those unusual words. Guys? Of course Titus liked reading about life on earth. Didn’t they all!
Mr. Bliss folded his long, beautiful fingers together, the expression on his wonderful classic face not without sympathy. “Hmm. Not possible, young Titus, I’m afraid. I’m not saying not ever but not just yet.”
“It could be the answer,” Lucas suddenly interjected in a very deep mellow voice like a gong, reminding Mr. Bliss Lucas must be many thousands of years old. “I do realise Titus has had no experience but he’s so full of pep he just might be able to keep up with Chloe.”
Mr. Bliss’s singular eyes that were very dark but sparkled with light, began to sharpen and glow. “I rarely if ever send anyone so young, Lucas,” he pointed out gently.
“You started young, Mr. Bliss,” Titus piped up.
Another thing that struck Mr. Bliss as odd. How did Titus know? “So I did,” Mr. Bliss admitted.
There were chuckles all ’round, tender smiles for Titus.
“What joy it must be to be a guardian angel!” Titus exclaimed, bright curls abob. His expression was one of radiant hope.
Mr. Bliss pondered. Titus was an extremely helpful and cooperative young angel, given to playful games perhaps but excellent at supervising the cherubs. The experience of taking charge of a mortal life might catapult him into real responsibility, earn him his three-quarter wings. Really Titus wasn’t all that different from himself at the same state of transformation.
“All right, Titus,” Mr. Bliss announced to a rippling wave of applause and a familiar swishing of wings. “The position of guardian angel to Miss Chloe Cavanagh is yours as of now.”
Titus strove to control the great flame of excitement that sent far-distant memories raying through his mind.
While the cherubs played ball with the low-hanging silver stars, Titus embarked on his great flight to earth, accelerating through the vast sea of clouds with a rhythmic swishing of his wings, revelling in the freshness of the wind, the extraordinary smell of earth’s atmosphere as he entered it. While he watched the play of glittering golden sunlight on the near side of the planet, he was conscious of being happier than he had ever been in his experience. Maybe he had overdone the surging speed of descent. Even Heaven didn’t seem real.
“Hold on, Chloe,” he called in a sweet ecstasy, his glowing blue garments suddenly reflecting a white light. “I’m your guardian angel now. You can call upon my power.”
To keep Chloe safe would be his great mission.
A great wave of love engulfed him. Not so much glory, but something of a different lustre; warm, human affection.
The soul remembers.
CHAPTER ONE
IT was well after nine-thirty when Chloe finally made it back to BTQ8, thinking she mightn’t have a job at the end of the day. In the year since he had become Managing Director of the Brisbane link in the national network, McGuire had been reducing numbers at the drop of a hat. Downsizing, he said, in the quest to achieve better results. Not being a fan of McGuire’s, Chloe chose to ignore the fact the TV station had been staging a remarkable comeback from near disaster under her old mentor, Clive Connor, who had since been moved on with a very generous redundancy package. She had never taken to McGuire, Clive’s successor, but the Big Guys loved him. He was the Golden Boy with a big future in the industry. The man who could do no wrong. This might very well be her day to get the shove. The third monthly meeting she had missed in a row when she always started out with the very best intentions.
Hunching her shoulders against the heavy tropical downpour, Chloe dashed across the station car park and into the main building, struggling with her brolly which, being cheap, was playing up. When she looked up, McGuire was coming towards her. Six foot three of raw animal power. He had shoulders like a front rower which he had been apparently at University. She wouldn’t have cared to be his opposite number. She didn’t like men who were so dark, either. So in-the-face uncompromisingly male. For a man of Irish ancestry he was almost swarthy with thick jet-black hair he wore short to discourage the curl, a bronze skin and, it had to be admitted, rather fine near-black eyes with eyelashes most women would die for.
Chloe raised her hand and before she could help herself gave him a cheeky wave. Where for the love of mike was her sense of survival? Gone with the great wind from Hell that had blown away her entire world.
“Cavanagh, you’re late,” McGuire said with a touch of gravel, amused and irritated by the sort of cockiness she usually exhibited with him. He moved to join her, watching her fiddle with a floral umbrella that looked more like a child’s sunshade, then flip back her trademark mane of red hair. It was pouring outside and her hair curled extravagantly in the humid heat. Corkscrew locks spilled forward onto her forehead and flushed cheeks. She looked ravishing, like a heavenly illumination in a Medieval manuscript where the artist used precious pigments and gold inks. All that was missing was the bright halo and she sure didn’t deserve that. Three missed meetings in as many months. It made him so damned mad. Exaggeration. Exasperated. For some reason that evaded him, he had a soft spot for Cavanagh. Maybe it was the look of her, the finely constructed frame he would like to give a good shake. She appeared so light, so fragile, so feminine, the tender curves of her breasts, the willowy waist and delicate hips, the ballerina legs. Yet there was something strong about her, something supple and resilient that shone through the lightness. Of course he knew her tragic background, and that smote him. Not that she would ever confide in him. He was well aware of her hidden antipathy. Almost a revulsion, he sometimes thought, like a princess under siege with the barbarian at the gate. She had been ready to dislike him before he had ever been given the chance to open his mouth. He had no hand at all in Connor’s sacking. Poor old Clive had brought it all on himself.
Chloe looking up at McGuire towering above her suddenly coughed, making him aware he had been staring. “In my office in ten minutes,” he clipped off.
“Right, Chief.” She just barely refrained from saluting him. What had stopped her? Perhaps because McGuire had swung back on her. Lord, for a big man he was remarkably light