Page 43 of Spicy Nick

She’s joking but, on the other hand…maybe she’s not. There is precedent, after all. “I guess we’re thinking that the someone who gets to stay and play referee is me?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well, okay. If you’re sure?”

“Yep. I’m good.”

You certainly are, I think as I watch her go.

Finally,it’s time to call it a night. Everyone else has taken their very protracted leave. Kate stays to help me through most of the cleanup, and then she too disappears, heading upstairs for the night.

I wake Luna up, give her a little food and some water—using Sara’s bowls, because that feels like the right thing to do—then watch as she gulps it all down.

“You’ve got some big paw-prints to fill,” I tell her. She gazes up at me flashing her best doggie smile, and wagging her tail.But it’s obvious that she has absolutely no idea what I’m saying. Which is no more than I expected.

I open the back door and let her outside, so she can do her business. And while I’m standing on the patio, watching Luna nose around, inspecting the grass, I sense someone beside me. I glance to the side and just about jump out of my skin.

“Jeez! How did you get in here,“ I demand. A stupid question, but I’m caught off-guard.

“You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?” The angelic, flower-selling, hopefully not a phrogger, lumberjack wannabe inquires and, no. I don’t suppose I do.

“Why are you here?” I ask instead. He’s ditched the hat and vest in favor of a worn-in leather motorcycle jacket that he’s wearing over a t-shirt and jeans.

“That’s a better question,” he replies. “And there’s no reason to be upset. I just wanted to be sure our girl made it home all right.”

“Ourgirl? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Chill, dude. It’s a figure of speech—I know you’ve heard of those. But hey, speaking of which, you ever watch that movieThe Bishop’s Wife? Cary Grant, Loretta Young, David Niven? No? Ah, well. It doesn’t matter. Good film, though.”

“And here I thought you’d be more theWizard of Oztype,” I observe.

The angel shakes his head. “Nah, that was all you. Not a bad choice, however. Very Christmasy.”

“Christmasy how?” I ask, because damned if I can see a connection.

“Are you kidding me? No place like home, yellow brick road?”

“Still not seeing the connection,” I say.

“Oh, please. It’s obvious. Because all roads will lead you home?—”

“—At Christmastime,” I finish for him. “So I’ve heard. D’you think that’s really true?”

“Mostly,” he says, adding, “Of course, for most people, those roads don’t end up being quite as long as Scout’s was. Still, all’s well that ends well—right?”

“I’m not so sure about that,” I tell him. “She was pretty upset when she got back here the other day. Was that really necessary?”

“Sometimes it’s not a question of necessity.” The angel rocks on his feet, his hands shoved deeply in the front pockets of his jeans. “Sometimes, it just…happens that way. And, trust me, I’ve been there, too.”

“Yeah, but?—”

“Look it’s not always fun, but sometimes… Well, it is what it is. You know? Let’s just leave it at that.”

I nod in agreement, and we share a long moment of silent communication until Luna comes bounding up the stairs to join us.

“Right. Well. It’s time for me to go,” the angel says, bending to stroke the dog’s head. “I’ll be seeing you, Nick.”

“What? Why?” I ask, but he’s already gone.

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