To

      Dan and Sally Wigutow

      and

      Caroline Moore

      in appreciation for bringing

      Mrs. Miracle

      to life

One

      Need a new life? God takes trade-ins.

      —Mrs. Miracle

      Jake Finley waited impatiently to be ushered into his father’s executive office—the office that would one day be his. The thought of eventually stepping into J. R. Finley’s shoes excited him. Even though he’d slowly been working his way through the ranks, he’d be the first to admit he still had a lot to learn. However, he was willing to do whatever it took to prove himself.

      Finley’s was the last of the family-owned department stores in New York City. His great-grandfather had begun the small mercantile on East 34th Street more than seventy years earlier. In the decades since, succeeding Finleys had opened branches in the other boroughs and then in nearby towns. Eventually the chain had spread up and down the East Coast.

      “Your father will see you now,” Mrs. Coffey said. Dora Coffey had served as J.R.’s executive assistant for at least twenty-five years and knew as much about the company as Jake did—maybe more. He hoped that when the time came she’d stay on, although she had to be close to retirement age.

      “Thank you.” He walked into the large office with its panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. He’d lived in the city all his life, but this view never failed to stir him, never failed to lift his heart. No place on earth was more enchanting than New York in December. He could see a light snow drifting down, and the city appeared even more magical through that delicate veil.

      Jacob R. Finley, however, wasn’t looking at the view. His gaze remained focused on the computer screen. And his frown told Jake everything he needed to know.

      He cleared his throat, intending to catch J.R.’s attention, although he suspected that his father was well aware of his presence. “You asked to see me?” he said. Now that he was here, he had a fairly good idea what had initiated this summons. Jake had hoped it wouldn’t happen quite so soon, but he should’ve guessed Mike Scott would go running to his father at the first opportunity. Unfortunately, Jake hadn’t had enough time to prove that he was right—and Mike was wrong.

      “How many of those SuperRobot toys did you order?” J.R. demanded, getting straight to the point. His father had never been one to lead gently into a subject. “Intellytron,” he added scornfully.

      “Also known as Telly,” Jake said in a mild voice.

      “How many?”

      “Five hundred.” As if J.R. didn’t know.

      “What?”

      Jake struggled not to flinch at his father’s angry tone, which was something he rarely heard. They had a good relationship, but until now, Jake hadn’t defied one of his father’s experienced buyers.

      “For how many stores?”

      “Just here.”

      J.R.’s brow relaxed, but only slightly. “Do you realize those things retail for two hundred and fifty dollars apiece?”

      J.R. knew the answer to that as well as Jake did. “Yes.”

      His father stood and walked over to the window, pacing back and forth with long, vigorous strides. Although in his early sixties, J.R. was in excellent shape. Tall and lean, like Jake himself, he had dark hair streaked with gray and his features were well-defined. No one could doubt that they were father and son. J.R. whirled around, hands linked behind him. “Did you clear the order with...anyone?”

      Jake was as straightforward as his father. “No.”

      “Any particular reason you went over Scott’s head?”

      Jake had a very good reason. “We discussed it. He didn’t agree, but I felt this was the right thing to do.” Mike Scott had wanted to bring a maximum of fifty robots into the Manhattan location. Jake had tried to persuade him, but Mike wasn’t interested in listening to speculation or taking what he saw as a risk—one that had the potential of leaving them with a huge overstock. He relied on cold, hard figures and years of purchasing experience. When their discussion was over, Mike still refused to go against what he considered his own better judgment. Jake continued to argue, presenting internet research and what his gut was telling him about this toy. When he’d finished, Mike Scott had countered with a list of reasons why fifty units per store would be adequate. More than adequate, in his opinion. While Jake couldn’t disagree with the other man’s logic, he had a strong hunch that the much larger order was worth the risk.

      “You felt it was right?” his father repeated in a scathing voice. “Mike Scott told me we’d be fortunate to sell fifty in each store, yet you, with your vast experience of two months in the toy department, decided the Manhattan store needed ten times