“Hi, Goldie,” he greeted, now wearing his bib overalls and coat with the wool collar.
“You made a great Santa tonight,” she complimented. “I watched you with the kids. You really made ‘em believers.”
“Nice of you to say,” he said, closing one of the back doors, then the other. “Maddie and Dean let me change clothes in their office behind the registration counter. Congratulations, by the way, on the big story you broke about the Banyans. Everybody’s talking about it.”
“I’m glad it didn’t hurt tonight’s festivities.”
“Aw, Sparkledove doesn’t rise and fall on the actions of a couple of bad apples. It’s all the good apples that matter.”
“I guess so,” she agreed.
“So, will you be heading off to Columbus soon? Or would you rather go back to your own time in New York City?”
She looked at him as her eyes widened and jaw dropped.
“W-what did you say?”
“I said, are you going to head off to Columbus soon? Or would you rather go back to your own time in New York City?”
She looked at his scruffy white hair, barrel chest, white beard and swallowed hard.
“If you tell me you’re the real Santa Claus, I am gonna totally lose it.”
He smiled. “No. Not quite. But Idoknow who you are and where you really came from.”
She looked at him with a dazed expression while he put his calloused hands inside the pockets of his winter coat and nodded in the direction she’d just come. “C’mon. Let’s walk a little.”
They turned and started to head back down River Street. She went along because he clearly possessed answers she wanted.
After several silent seconds, she asked, “Who are you? I mean,really?”
“To the townspeople of Sparkledove, I’m Stu Frey, rancher and supplier of meat. To you, I’m an angel who can answer some of your questions.”
“An angel?”
“You were asking Father Fitzsimmons whether or not they were real in Clara’s Gifts, remember?” he reminded. He held out an arm. “Want to pinch me to see if I’m real?”
“I believe you,” she said, acceptingly. “There have been so many other weird things that have happened to me in this town, why not go walkin’ with an angel who has a ranch and plays Santa Claus?” She looked at him, suddenly concerned. “Is this place real? Am I dead?”
“I assure you, this place is very real, and no, you’re not dead. You’re in Sparkledove, Colorado, on December 11th, 1942. But you’re also in a coma back in twenty-first-century New York City, and have been for seventeen days.”
“A coma,” she realized. “IthoughtI could’ve been in a coma! I mean, I considered it days ago. B-but, why here? Why now? How can I be in two places at once?”
“Where do you think people go when they die, Goldie?” he asked.
“I-I guess they go to heaven… or, or hell. I mean, if they go anywhere at all.”
“Oh, they go somewhere. God said they would. For some, it’s pretty clear. It’s either paradise or eternal damnation. Then, there are people like you. Souls on the bubble. Staying with Markie Santina for so long was a bad choice. You enabled him. Supported him in everything from suggesting he buy a second condo in your building to hide things, to double-checking his books. Pretty damning stuff, Goldie. But then, you go to Vegas to help a grieving aunt. Or anonymously assist a burdened mother at an airport. Or you fight bigotry and preserve a man’s dignity in a bus terminal. You even helped a young couple become more aware of unprejudiced bias. Nobody is ever totally good or evil. Still, the measure of a person’s deeds usually points one way or another. But not you, Goldie. You’re fifty-fifty. So, you were sent here.”
“To 1942?”
“To purgatory, and a set of problems.”
“W-wait a minute,” she said, pausing. “Are you tellin’ me—I’m in purgatory?”
“Where do you think purgatory is, Goldie?” Stu asked. “Some middle plane of existence between heaven and hell?”
“I-eh-I dunno.”
