The Herald Angels Sing Page 4

  Chapter Five

  Pru rolled over and opened one eye on Christmas Eve morning, happy to see the sun hadn’t cracked the horizon yet. But it would soon, and once that happened, Waterford Farm would come to life. No matter the holiday, volunteers and staff would arrive to walk and feed the dogs, her uncles would show up for morning chores and the admin duties involved after a class of trainees left, and Grandpa would be heading into town for some kind of baked treats to warm up the kitchen.

  But not yet, so Pru took a moment to close her eyes and remember Gramma’s colorful, vivid story. As so often happened, the telling of the tale had exhausted the poor woman. Or at least, that’s what she’d claimed when Pru begged to find out how the mysterious Vi Brennan kept the pin. Did she not go to war and marry Timothy Donovan, or did they get caught and strapped by the disciplinarian who was their father? Why had Gramma never mentioned her?

  But Pru didn’t have those answers. Before Gramma finished, she’d started to drift off, then patted the bed longingly, sending Pru off to her own room.

  And Pru had gone to sleep thinking about that stickpin.

  Despite its history, or maybe because of it, this pin was the exact something old that would make Mom’s wedding day special. However, one shamrock was missing, leaving behind a sharp edge where it had been soldered on. In addition, the metal, certainly not gold, was rutted and tarnished, like it had been through the same war Violet and Timothy wanted to win.

  Maybe they could fix or save the pin somehow and make it pretty enough that Mom could wear it on her dress or maybe on the lapel of her pretty cream jacket she’d be wearing from the church to the reception. But when and how? The jewelry-repair shop in Bitter Bark was closed today and wouldn’t open until after the wedding.

  But Aunt Darcy’s fiancé, Josh, did construction and renovation, and he might have the tools they could use to fix the pin. Pru was certain she’d seen shamrock earrings in her grannie Annie’s jewelry box once. Maybe Grandpa would let her have them, and Josh could somehow use them to mend the pin.

  Liking this plan, Pru padded barefoot down the hall, happy to see Grandpa’s door was still closed tight. Rusty was no longer sleeping outside of it, which meant Grandpa got home okay last night—but late. Rounding the bend to the third-floor stairs, she almost plowed into Gramma Finnie coming down.

  “Oh!” They both drew back in surprise.

  “I was just coming up to get you,” Pru said. “I have an idea.”

  Gramma held out her hand, the pin in her palm. “I have a better one.”

  Pru laughed, mostly because Gramma Finnie had that spark in her eyes again. No matter what the idea was, it made her happy, so Pru was all in. “Tell me.”

  She leaned closer to whisper, “I did a little googlin’ instead of saying my morning prayers,” she admitted. “But one was answered anyway.” Giving Pru the pin, she fished her phone out of her bathrobe pocket, tapping the screen with her index finger with the ease and comfort very few eighty-seven-year-olds had.

  Pru fought another smile. She’d taught Gramma Finnie everything the old woman knew about technology, and it was a considerable amount.

  “There’s a place called Emerald Isle Jewelers that claims to be a ‘Claddagh specialist,’” she whispered. “They repair vintage jewelry and specialize in mid-century pieces from Ireland.”

  “Really?” That was too good to be true. “Are they open?”

  “Until three today, according to Google. And look here. ‘We do repairs while you wait.’”

  Pru scanned the screen and instantly found the address, and her heart dropped. Yep, too good to be true. “Who’s going to take us to Holly Hills on Christmas Eve?”

  “Me.”

  Pru choked. “I don’t think so.” Holly Hills was northwest, deeper into the Blue Ridge foothills and not the easy drive to Bitter Bark that Gramma Finnie could make in her Toyota Avalon.

  “Child, hear me out. It’s maybe two hours on a blue-sky day,” she insisted. “I know the streets from long ago, so we can skip the big highway or interstate. I can handle it.”

  “I don’t know, Gram—”

  “I need to.” She gripped Pru’s arm. “I really need to.”

  Pru’s heart tripped with love and the burning desire to make this woman happy. To see Gramma Finnie inspired and revitalized like she was that long-ago day in an Irish barn would be the best Christmas present to her whole family.

  Or her mother might kill her for even considering it.

  “I checked the weather already,” Gramma added. “A dusting of snow to fall by afternoon, but we’ll be home and making the Christmas Eve bread pudding by then. No one will even miss us.”

  “My mother and Trace will.”

  Gramma leaned closer. “She promised not to ask too many questions so you can surprise her. We can leave now, be there when the jeweler opens, and home by noon. We’ll stay in touch by text, for sure, and trust me, child, your mother will have the best something old a Kilcannon lass could dream of wearing at her wedding.”

  “Did Vi wear it?” Pru asked.

  Gramma’s eyes closed for a moment. “You want to know? I’ll tell you on the road.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “Aye, ’tis.” She grinned. “So, we can go on our little adventure?”

  “Like Vi and Finnie?”

  Gramma stared at her for a moment, then sighed, putting one hand on Pru’s cheek. “Child, you are my heart and soul.”

  Pru patted the knotted knuckles, certain this small breaking of the rules was worth it. “Meet me at the kitchen door in ten minutes, and don’t make a sound.”

  It took Gramma fifteen, but while she dressed, Pru wrote a note to Grandpa explaining that they’d be back by noon at the latest and not to worry. It was way too early to text Mom, so she would after seven. But if they dallied one more minute, Grandpa would come clomping down the stairs looking for coffee and insist on driving them. Then Gramma Finnie wouldn’t have her adventure, and it would be like any other errand to run.

  They hustled to the garage, where Gramma’s pristine, rarely driven sedan was kept along with Dad’s SUV. As they climbed in and Gramma slipped the key into the ignition, the two exchanged a gleeful look.

  “I can’t remember you looking this happy in a long time, Gramma Finnie.”

  She gave a slow smile. “May the road rise up to meet us and the wind be at our back.”

  “A fine Irish blessing for our trip.” Pru held up her fist to bump knuckles. “Now, drive.”

  Gramma turned the key and looked over her shoulder…barely. “Is the garage door wide open?”

  Oh boy. “Yes. Can’t you see?”

  “Just making sure.” Her little shoulders squared, and she lifted up to look again. “Yes, there we go. It’s open.”

  She hit the gas—a little hard—but backed out, and off they went with the rising sun and Waterford Farm firmly in the rearview mirror.

  An hour and a half later, they were completely lost.

  “I can’t tell if the GPS isn’t working out here, or if this road isn’t even on any map, Gramma.” Pru frantically tapped her phone, turning it around, looking up for a road sign, but they hadn’t seen one since Gramma Finnie had insisted on taking a shortcut that bypassed the “traffic” in Bitter Bark. Which was maybe seven cars on Christmas Eve, when most of Bitter Bark was closed.

  “No one knows about this route, not even those satellite leprechauns.” Gramma Finnie leaned forward a little to squint at the road that was just this side of gravel instead of asphalt. “It used to belong to a Quaker family that moved here in the sixties. Anyway, it’s a private pass and wouldn’t be on that phone map.”

  She slowed to a stop at the intersection of a country road and a dirt path, looked left and right, and closed her eyes. “Left. I feel like it should be left.”

  “You feel like it?” Pru jabbed the phone screen again. “I feel like we need to listen to Google Maps.”

  Gramma reached ove
r and patted her hand, pushing the phone onto Pru’s lap. “What’s the fun of that boring woman tellin’ you where to go, child? I’ve lived here since 1954. I could walk to Holly Hills. Seamus and I used to go there every year for the Christmas festival. Nothing like Holly Hills at Christmastime.”

  “I know,” Pru agreed. “I wanted to make a family outing this year again, but Mom was so busy with the wedding, I didn’t even ask. That town sure takes its name seriously.”

  Holly Hills drew Christmas lovers the way Bitter Bark attracted families with dogs. From October to January, the Carolina mountain village was decorated to the nines for the holiday. “I love that Santa is on every corner, and all the elves walking around, and I read somewhere that they have three million lights or some crazy thing.”

  “Aye, and enough mistletoe to risk a rise in the birthrate nine months later.” Gramma raised a brow and shot her a look. “And I speak from experience.”

  Pru giggled and settled into the seat, and the moment. “So you and Grandpa Seamus used to come here?”

  “Oh yes. He loved to sing carols on the way over,” she said. “Want to?”

  “Sure. “Jingle Bells”? “All I Want for Christmas”? I guess “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” would be in poor taste.”

  She snorted. “What’s poor taste is a carol without the true meaning of Christmas. I love the old hymns.” She cleared her throat, sat up straighter, and barely skirted a pothole. “Hark! The herald angels sing…”

  Pru cringed at the near miss, then joined in full force. “Glory to the newborn king.”

  “Peace on earth and…mercy!” Gramma slammed on the brakes so hard, Pru jerked forward. The seat belt smashed her collarbone and chest, trapping her gasp as she smacked her hands on the dashboard as the car came to a complete stop.

  “What the—”

  “Did you see it?” Gramma whipped around and looked at her, unfazed by the sudden stop.

  “See what?”

  “That dog!” She turned around and looked over her shoulder. “There’s a dog on the side of the road.”

  Pru yanked at her seat belt, the need to take action zinging through her. “Is it hurt?”

  “I don’t know. But I don’t want to back up in case it runs behind us.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Back there, behind that big pine tree. Black and white.”

  Without waiting for more, Pru climbed out, leaving the car door open as she peered into the bushes, her heart rate kicking up as she searched.

  “Hey, puppy,” she called. “Anyone out here?” She glanced around the deserted rolling hills, not a house or car in sight. Had Gramma imagined the dog? Or had she seen something else? A deer? Bobcat? Good heavens, there were bears out here.

  Maybe jumping out of the car hadn’t been the best idea she’d ever had. Still, if it was a dog? It was the only idea. “Doggo? Come here, boy. Girl.” She snapped her fingers, her gaze scanning for any movement. “Pooch?”

  “I had treats in the glove box.” Gramma Finnie came trotting around the back of the car with a spring in her step Pru couldn’t remember seeing for months. Maybe longer. Her eyes glistened with enough inner joy to wipe away all of Pru’s second thoughts.

  Gramma waved a cookie in the air. “Treat!” she called. “What dog doesn’t respond to that?”

  Uh…a stray.

  “Treat!” she yelled again.

  Sure enough, there was a rustle in the bushes next to them. Pru turned, using her body to shield Gramma while she searched the foliage and waited, barely aware she held her breath.

  They both jumped at the sharp, loud bark right before a two-toned face peered out from the bushes.

  “Oh!” Pru exclaimed as Gramma went closer to the animal, holding out her treat.

  “And what have we here?” she cooed. “Quite possibly the most beautiful thing these old eyes have ever seen.”

  “Speaking of eyes…” Pru inched closer, too, mesmerized by the set of eyes staring back at her. One was as blue as the skies over Waterford Farm on a midsummer day, the other a golden brown, both trained on Gramma and her treat. “Wow, that’s a beautiful dog.”

  “Oh, she—or he—sure is.” Gramma crouched over, still offering the cookie. “Are you a good one, too?”

  They both knew dogs as well as people, and had this one been dangerous, it would have likely growled or bared its teeth by now. But Two Eyes just took a few more steps and relaxed its jaw into the closest thing to a smile.

  Gramma set the treat on the ground, and the dog snatched it up in a second, then two arresting eyes looked up for more.

  “Ah, yes, this is a fine border collie we’ve got here.” Gramma reached out her hand, and the dog came closer, letting them see that she—Pru was guessing the gender but not sure—was bedraggled and dirty, with mud on her paws and dirt giving the white of her coat a grayish-brown tint. Her face was black with a white stripe down the front and a white snout, which somehow highlighted the mismatched eyes.

  But she wasn’t undernourished, that was for sure. On the contrary, that was one fat dog.

  “Come here, darlin’,” Gramma coaxed, getting another treat from her pocket. That’s all it took to get the dog to give up all fear, head straight to Gramma Finnie to eat out of her hand…

  And give Pru a clear view of a big belly, the cause of which didn’t take a DVM degree to determine. “Definitely a girl,” she said softly. “With a decent-sized litter on the way.”

  “In the family way, are ye?” Gramma slid her hands around the dog’s face, then made a small squeal. “Thank the Lord, there’s a collar and tag.” She glanced at Pru. “I was scared she’d been abandoned.”

  “Let me see.” Pru closed the space and crouched down, getting a whiff of filthy dog. “Not abandoned, but not exactly loved.”

  “Might have been lost for a while.”

  “Poor baby.” Pru stroked her head, making sure the dog was completely comfortable with all this attention before attempting to read the collar tag. But the dog didn’t take her eyes off Gramma Finnie, staring up as if she’d found her spirit animal, earth angel, and best friend all in the same creature.

  And Gramma looked back at her with the same expression.

  Pru angled the metal tag, but couldn’t see anything on it. “Oh man,” she muttered as she turned it over, hoping for a phone number or ID of some kind. There had been words imprinted, but they were impossible to read.

  She tugged it closer and brushed away some knotted fur. “I can’t read it. It’s almost all worn off.” Pru grunted in frustration as she searched for the collar latch under all the fur. “Let me look in the sunlight.”

  She snapped off the collar and turned to get full light on the cheap metal tag. Time and wear had faded the letters, but she could read some of them. A Q? The rest of the top word was completely missing. “Something that starts with B, then something something and an L, then something and a U, maybe an E.”

  “Blue.” At the sound of Gramma sighing the word, Pru looked up to find her face-to-face with the dog, their noses practically touching. “It says Blue.”

  Technically, it didn’t, but—

  “What a beautiful name for you and that one blue eye, sweet lassie girl.”

  “I don’t think the dog’s name is—”

  “Blue. It’s perfect for her. She’s Blue. My Blue.”

  Her…wait a second. “She’s also super pregnant, lost, and filthy.” Pru mustered her best General Pru voice, which she didn’t have to use very often on Gramma Finnie. Her uncles sometimes, but rarely Gramma. But that was not Adventure Finnie, who seemed like a slightly different woman today. “We can’t keep her, Gramma.”

  She straightened and turned to Pru. “But didn’t we come to find something old, something new, something borrowed and…” Her brows lifted.

  “Something blue,” Pru finished.

  “For a wedding with dogs, I can’t imagine what could be better than a dog named Blue.”

&nb
sp; “Her name could be Blunder for all we know, and that’s exactly what keeping her would be.”

  “Surely you canna leave her?” Gramma’s brogue always grew thicker when something upset her.

  “Of course not, but she has a collar, Gramma. That most likely means she has an owner. So, we’ll take her to the closest house and find out who owns her and return her. Then we’ll go to Holly Hills and get that pin fixed, and then we’ll go home.” Because today’s shenanigans didn’t leave that much room for error.

  “Child, you know abandoned dogs are a problem out here,” Gramma Finnie said. “Garrett was just talking about it at Sunday dinner. People—if you can call them that—do leave dogs, especially pregnant ones.”

  “They wouldn’t leave a dog with a collar that can be traced,” Pru said, still trying to be the voice of reason.

  “Garrett said it was why he calls this ‘beagle season’ for rescues. Those are hunting dogs that people pay to use for the season, then they don’t want the expense of keeping them up.” She shook head in disgust. “But we found you, Blue.”

  “We don’t know she’s been abandoned. She’d be spayed if she’d been a hunting dog. The males aren’t neutered, but the females are. And border collies aren’t hunting dogs. They don’t have it in them to hurt a fly.”

  Gramma was too busy showering the dog with love to listen to reason, but that didn’t stop Pru from trying.

  “We need to try and find her owner.”

  Gramma tsked. “We don’t have time to spend the day searching for an owner, lass.”

  Well, that much was true. But still, the idea of just walking off and keeping a collared dog was unthinkable. They had to at least try to find a local who knew the dog.

  The dog nestled up next to Gramma, making a whimpering sound of true adoration.

  “Aye, Blue. I love you, too.”

  Pru corralled all common sense since her great-grandmother had lost hers. “Look, let’s do a search of the area by car for the nearest house and ask. If we can’t find an owner, we’ll bring her with us to Holly Hills and ask around. If we still don’t have an owner, then we’ll take her home and see if she’s chipped, or Uncle Garrett can post her picture on one of his lost dog sites. If no one claims her, then…”