The Red Gloves Collection by Karen Kingsbury Page B

the mail, he drove to the bank, opened a savings account, and deposited the entire amount. He wanted nothing to do with it. The check was blood money—money bought and paid for with the lives of Anne and Molly.
    That night back at his parents’ house he knew it was over.
    He could no longer play the game, no longer get up each morning pretending there was a reason to live, a reason to come home at the end of the day. If not for his parents he would have bought a gun and ended his life. Certainly he wanted to die. Wanted it more than anything. But he was afraid to kill himself, afraid such a move might hurt his chances at getting into heaven.
    And getting into heaven was his only hope of seeing Anne and Molly again.
    But if he couldn’t kill himself, at least he could stop living. Stop pretending.
    As his parents slept that night he reached under his pillow and pulled out the red gloves. He still slept with them near his face, pretending he could smell Anne within the fibers, though her gentle scent had long since faded. In the closet he found an old duffel bag and filled it with a few jeans and T-shirts, a raincoat, a pair of boots, and the red gloves. Then he opened his wallet, slipped a photograph of Anne and Molly inside, and shoved it in his pocket.
    For the next hour he took a final look at the house he’d grown up in, the box of artwork Molly had made for him, the photographs that lined the walls. It was over, all of it. Earl’s injuries had healed by then, but the man he’d been had died right there on the street beside Anne and Molly.
    He scribbled a note to his parents telling them not to look for him. “I can’t do this anymore,” he wrote them. “Forgive me. I love you both.”
    An hour later he was at the train station and by the next morning he was halfway to Portland.
    “ I had planned to find a quiet place where no one knew me, sit down, and wait for death.” Earl stared out the window of the mission. “But it didn’t work that way.”
    D. J.’s voice was kind. “It usually doesn’t.”
    “It took me a while to get smart about the streets. They stole my wallet, my clothes, my sack. Over time I lost just about everything from my old life. But not the red gloves. Never them.” Earl shifted his gaze back to the mission director. “Until this past November. Someone found me under a tarp and took them off my hands while I slept.”
    “Ah, Earl. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
    Earl fumbled in his pockets, his eyes locked on D.J.’s. Then he pulled out the red gloves and held them up. “These are the gloves. At least I think they are. They look … exactly the same.”
    The mission director stared at them for a moment. “I don’t understand.”
    “Me, either.” Earl lifted the gloves higher. “This is the gift I got from Gideon.”
    Confusion spread across D.J.’s face. “The gloves your wife made?”
    “I think so. They don’t have her initials, but they’re the same in every other way.” Earl let the gloves fall slowly to his lap. “That child couldn’t have possibly known what they would mean to me. I still can’t imagine where she found them. But I know this: Her gift saved my life. She made me want to live again.”
    “And now? Now you want to help Gideon? Is that right?”
    Earl could feel the sorrow lining his face. “That little girl loved me. For no reason at all she loved me.” He swallowed, searching for the right words. “The gift she gave— I can’t explain it but it was a miracle.”
    D.J. nodded. “I have no doubt.”
    “You know what she said?” Earl’s tone was filled with awe. “She told me Christmas miracles happen to those who believe.”
    A smile eased the sadness in D.J.’s eyes.
    “She told me about her perfect Christmas, and then she said none of that would matter if she could get a Christmas miracle.”
    “That’s Gideon.”
    “Well.” Earl drew a deep breath. “Sounds like Gideon could use a miracle about now.”
    The mission director was