The Red Gloves Collection by Karen Kingsbury Read Free Book Online Page B

grow up without a single memory of her daddy sitting beside her in church.”
    “That’s better than having her grow up knowing I’m a hypocrite.”
    Anne would sigh. “Okay, Earl.” She’d plant a kiss on his cheek. “But one of these days, God’s going to blow the roof off your safe little box and you won’t have any choice but to believe.”
    The memory faded.
    Yes, Anne had known how he felt about church. His whole family knew, because they felt the same way. If a person didn’t believe in God, they shouldn’t go. And Earl’s people didn’t believe. It was that simple. He bit his lip and pulled his jacket tight around his neck.
    If only he’d gone with her. Just once. What had he been thinking, denying her that simple pleasure? His belief system wasn’t the most important thing.
    Anne was. Anne and Molly and the rest of his family.
    Earl stared at his boots. Memories like that one came all the time these days. Morning, noon, night. It didn’t matter. Ever since he’d shoved the kid’s gift in his jacket there’d been one memory after another.
    He reached into his pocket and pulled out the brown bag. It was flatter than before, more wrinkled. Earl studied it—the trees, the angels, his name. He gave the contents a few gentle squeezes. What would a little girl buy for a mean old man like himself? Probably something homemade, like cookies or a tree ornament. Something childish like that. Whatever was inside certainly couldn’t make a difference in his life, couldn’t change him.
    So why was he hanging onto it?
    Open it, Earl. Open it.
    The voice sliced through Earl’s consciousness. It sounded like Anne. But that was impossible. Who else could …
    He spun around, staring first one direction, then the other. The damp alleyway glistened beneath the city streetlights, but it was completely empty. Where had the voice come from? And why now? It had been years since Earl had heard Anne’s voice that clearly. Certainly he’d never heard it over the cold winter breeze of a deserted back alley.
    The words played again in his mind.
Open it, Earl.
    This was ridiculous. He was obviously delusional. Maybe the cold was getting to him. Or his constant thoughts of death. Maybe he was fighting a virus. Whatever it was, he had no intention of standing there waiting for more voices. If the child’s gift was causing him that much grief, then fine. He would open the bag, and get it over with. Then he could toss it in the nearest bin and get on with dying.
    He started to pierce the brown paper with his fingers, but the girl’s drawings stopped him. A burst of air escaped his pursed lips. Dratted child. Why’d she have to give him the gift in the first place? He fumbled with the string around the mouth of the bag and finally worked out the knot.
    Leaning against the brick wall once more, he angled the bag toward the streetlight and peered inside. The darkness made it difficult to see, but it looked like a scarf, maybe. Or a wooly hat. He reached inside and felt a piece of paper. Earl’s hands were big and awkward, and the paper wrinkled as he pulled it out.
    What was this? He unfolded it and found a colored picture of an old wooden stable and a manger that glowed like the sun. Around it stood different crayoned characters Earl couldn’t quite make out. But the most striking part was the girl’s message, scrawled across the bottom of the page:
    Christmas miracles happen to those who believe. Love, Gideon
    Earl’s heart hesitated. They were the same words the girl had shared with him that first night when she worked at the mission. He blinked and read the words again. What was he supposed to feel? Sadness? Truth? Hope? Those things had died from his life years ago. Yet, something strange and unfamiliar stirred in his soul. Hadn’t Molly drawn a picture like that the Christmas before she—
    That was enough. He had promised himself he wouldn’t let the gift get to him. He folded the picture, careful not to add any