Whether you turn to the right or to the left,
your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying,
“This is the way; walk in it.”
Isaiah 30:21
1
Sometimes, Annabelle Archer thought she'd have done well in an old-fashioned novel, a bit like the one she was reading aloud to her youngest sister and two of her brothers. It would be written in an early 1900’s style, about the spinster older sister who sacrificed her dreams of career or marriage to help raise her orphaned siblings. Of course, no one would write it, because who wanted to read a story in which nothing ever changes?
Gasping—because she hadn't indulged in self-pity for months—Annabelle stifled the mangy, creepy-crawly feelings and turned the page of the storybook. She shifted so everyone could see the line drawing. Then, in her best voice, she continued to read. “‘The children lay on their backs in the cold, fresh snow. They each flapped arms and legs until Ned called, ‘Time;’ then each sprang to his or her feet to survey their new snow angels.
“‘Bitsy's was the smallest, of course, and a wreath of fallen pine cones formed a tiny halo just a few inches above her snow angel's head.’”
Brody tugged on Annabelle’s sweater. “What's a snow angel?”
“Duh.” Matt poked Brody's ribs. “It’s an angel you make out of snow.”
“Like a ice sculpture?” Brody asked.
“ An ice sculpture,” Annabelle corrected. “No. It’s something people make in the snow.”
Victoria clapped her hands. “Like a th’nowman.”
“Not quite.” Annabelle turned the book so the three youngest could see the picture again. “See? You lie on the snow and flap your arms to make the wings.”
Faith, pretending to read her own book, but obviously listening, said, “So it's really a no-snow angel.”
Annabelle laughed.
Matt pushed against Annabelle’s arm. “You ever made one, A'belle?”
“No. I've never been in the snow.”
“Then how do you know ’bout them?”
“Because I read.” A lot. Too much, probably. She ought to pay more attention to her brothers and sisters.
The two oldest boys stormed down the stairs, their shoes drumming like a herd of fifty horses on a boardwalk.
Annabelle winced. “Guys, quiet. Grandma’s asleep.”
Their grandmother would not be pleased.
“We know.” Liam tiptoed the last three steps. “That's why we asked coach to come pick us up. So you wouldn't have to load all the little kids in the car.”
Instead of the usual protests of being called “little” (Faith or Brody) or pleas to go for a ride (Matt and Victoria), all four of the said “little ones” looked at the front door.
“Where is he?” Victoria asked.
“Not here yet.'' Joe jerked his head at Liam. “Let's get snacks and water. And Annabelle, you'd better get the door. None of the little kids know the coach.”
“I don’t know him. Not that well.” Although she'd seen him plenty of times, at church.
“But you're a grownup,” Faith pointed out. “It's OK if you talk to strangers.” She closed her book and got to her feet, stretching her lithe fourteen-year-old frame.
Mattie tugged Annabelle’s sweater again. Most of Annabelle’s clothes were a bit stretched out of shape because of his habit. “Can you ask him if he's made a snow angel?”
Ask the handsomest man in town—the one who had no idea Annabelle Archer existed—anything? “No.”
“Then can you introduce me, so I can ask him?”
“No, Mattie. He'll be in a hurry.”
The bell rang, and Annabelle looked around. No Liam, no Joe, and no Faith, and three wide open pairs of eyes waiting for her to protect them from strangers.
Usually she'd have to tie up any one of them to keep them from answering the door. They never made such a fuss over a simple act.
Sighing, Annabelle stomped across the hall to jerk open the door.
Rick Stockton was just as good looking as he'd been the last time she'd stared at him during a church service. Longish dark hair
your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying,
“This is the way; walk in it.”
Isaiah 30:21
1
Sometimes, Annabelle Archer thought she'd have done well in an old-fashioned novel, a bit like the one she was reading aloud to her youngest sister and two of her brothers. It would be written in an early 1900’s style, about the spinster older sister who sacrificed her dreams of career or marriage to help raise her orphaned siblings. Of course, no one would write it, because who wanted to read a story in which nothing ever changes?
Gasping—because she hadn't indulged in self-pity for months—Annabelle stifled the mangy, creepy-crawly feelings and turned the page of the storybook. She shifted so everyone could see the line drawing. Then, in her best voice, she continued to read. “‘The children lay on their backs in the cold, fresh snow. They each flapped arms and legs until Ned called, ‘Time;’ then each sprang to his or her feet to survey their new snow angels.
“‘Bitsy's was the smallest, of course, and a wreath of fallen pine cones formed a tiny halo just a few inches above her snow angel's head.’”
Brody tugged on Annabelle’s sweater. “What's a snow angel?”
“Duh.” Matt poked Brody's ribs. “It’s an angel you make out of snow.”
“Like a ice sculpture?” Brody asked.
“ An ice sculpture,” Annabelle corrected. “No. It’s something people make in the snow.”
Victoria clapped her hands. “Like a th’nowman.”
“Not quite.” Annabelle turned the book so the three youngest could see the picture again. “See? You lie on the snow and flap your arms to make the wings.”
Faith, pretending to read her own book, but obviously listening, said, “So it's really a no-snow angel.”
Annabelle laughed.
Matt pushed against Annabelle’s arm. “You ever made one, A'belle?”
“No. I've never been in the snow.”
“Then how do you know ’bout them?”
“Because I read.” A lot. Too much, probably. She ought to pay more attention to her brothers and sisters.
The two oldest boys stormed down the stairs, their shoes drumming like a herd of fifty horses on a boardwalk.
Annabelle winced. “Guys, quiet. Grandma’s asleep.”
Their grandmother would not be pleased.
“We know.” Liam tiptoed the last three steps. “That's why we asked coach to come pick us up. So you wouldn't have to load all the little kids in the car.”
Instead of the usual protests of being called “little” (Faith or Brody) or pleas to go for a ride (Matt and Victoria), all four of the said “little ones” looked at the front door.
“Where is he?” Victoria asked.
“Not here yet.'' Joe jerked his head at Liam. “Let's get snacks and water. And Annabelle, you'd better get the door. None of the little kids know the coach.”
“I don’t know him. Not that well.” Although she'd seen him plenty of times, at church.
“But you're a grownup,” Faith pointed out. “It's OK if you talk to strangers.” She closed her book and got to her feet, stretching her lithe fourteen-year-old frame.
Mattie tugged Annabelle’s sweater again. Most of Annabelle’s clothes were a bit stretched out of shape because of his habit. “Can you ask him if he's made a snow angel?”
Ask the handsomest man in town—the one who had no idea Annabelle Archer existed—anything? “No.”
“Then can you introduce me, so I can ask him?”
“No, Mattie. He'll be in a hurry.”
The bell rang, and Annabelle looked around. No Liam, no Joe, and no Faith, and three wide open pairs of eyes waiting for her to protect them from strangers.
Usually she'd have to tie up any one of them to keep them from answering the door. They never made such a fuss over a simple act.
Sighing, Annabelle stomped across the hall to jerk open the door.
Rick Stockton was just as good looking as he'd been the last time she'd stared at him during a church service. Longish dark hair
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