Miracles for Nick Read online

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  ImaJinn Books

  www.imajinnbooks.com

  Copyright ©2001 by Holly Fuhrmann

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Prologue

  "Ooh, la, la, what a handsome man you are, cheri,” the winsome blonde whispered in his ear.

  Nick Aaronson smiled as he caressed her cheek, reveling in the smooth contrast to his own callused hands. Life didn't get any better than this. “And just think, I'm all yours for tonight ... and for as many nights as you want."

  "Oh, but Nicky, it's not me you want.” The buxom French blonde had vanished, and in her place sat an elderly blonde woman smiling indulgently at him—at least she was smiling until Nick stood up in shock, dumping her from his lap.

  "You know, young man, that wasn't very gentlemanly of you.” The blonde stood and rubbed her rather well-padded posterior.

  "Who are you, and what have you done with Lola?"

  "Your dream woman's a fake blonde whose bust is larger than her IQ, and to add insult to injury, her name is Lola? That shows rather a lack of imagination, don't you think, Nicky?"

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm just a dream. You'll hardly remember me in the morning."

  "I don't think I could forget you."

  "Funny, most men we've worked with say the same thing.” The blonde didn't look very happy at the thought.

  "We?” Nick looked around the room, a small French bistro he'd visited about fifteen years before when he and a bunch of college buddies had spent a summer abroad. There was no one in the dream room but him and the blonde.

  "Wrongo,” came another voice behind him.

  Nick turned and saw two more elderly women sitting on the bar, wearing cancan outfits.

  "I told you we'd get to wear these again,” the redhead said.

  "Oh, I'm so glad. I don't know why Gracey finds them so offensive,” said a brunette whose clothing was a particularly grassy-shade-of-green.

  "Who are you, and what are the three of you doing in my dream? I want Lola back."

  "No you don't,” said the brunette.

  "You just think you do,” said the blonde who had joined the other two on the bar and, he noticed, was wearing a cancan outfit similar to the other two except for its banana color.

  "What you want is your own-true-love, and we're here to help you find her. We're your fairy godmothers, you see,” said the redhead whose red clothing clashed horrendously with her hair. She glanced down at her outfit and sighed. “I know they say redheads should avoid the color red, but I can't help myself. I do adore the color."

  "You could let your hair go back to its natural shade,” said the blonde.

  "Now, Blossom, you know I was born a redhead, and I plan to die a redhead."

  "Fairies don't die, Myrtle. And you and I both know your hair was as brown as dirt, just like Fern's."

  "Hey, my hair isn't a dirty brown, but yours would be if you didn't bleach it on a monthly basis, Blossom,” the woman in green said.

  "Why, Fern that's so unkind. I would never mention—"

  Nick would never know what Blossom would never mention because the redhead, Myrtle, shouted, “Girls, I've told you time and time again to let me handle the introductions. The two of you babbling away is enough to confuse anyone."

  Confused. Now that word aptly described the way Nick was feeling. This was just a dream—how he knew that he wasn't sure, but he did. And if it was a dream, he should be able to wake up.

  Wake up, he commanded himself to no avail. The three strange women still sat on the bar in their cancan outfits, watching him.

  "Now, Myrtle, how can you say we're confusing Nick?” the blonde, whose name was obviously Blossom, said.

  Fern, the brunette, piped in, “You're arguing just as much as we are."

  "Why, I never,” Myrtle said.

  "That's what you say about dyeing your hair, and we all know that's a lie,” Fern said.

  "Fairies don't lie,” Myrtle practically shouted.

  "Except maybe about dyeing their hair,” Blossom said, patting her bleached curls.

  "Um, ladies, I'm not sure why you're in my dream, but since I don't seem to be able to wake up, maybe you could take your argument elsewhere and bring Lola back? We were just getting to the good part."

  "Oh, no you weren't,” Myrtle said. “We're here to bring you to the good part, though."

  "And what part would that be?” Nick asked.

  "The part where you meet your own-true-love and find your happily-ever-after,” Myrtle said.

  "I don't want love. And I'm happy enough right now—at least I will be if you bring Lola back."

  "Sorry, no can do,” Blossom said, though she didn't sound the least bit sorry. “Lola's history and Glo—"

  Fern nudged the talkative blonde. “Blossom, don't spill the beans."

  The blonde looked crestfallen. “Sorry."

  "Now, Nick, you'll probably forget most of this by morning, but we just wanted to drop in and introduce ourselves,” Myrtle said. “You'll be seeing a lot of us in the weeks to come."

  "In my dreams?"

  "Oh, no dear,” the blonde started. “You'll see us—"

  "Blossom!"

  Blossom sighed. “You'll see us when you see us."

  "Good night, Nick,” the three said in unison.

  "Sweet dreams,” the redhead, Myrtle, whispered.

  Osborn Nicholas Aaronson woke up with a start. What a crazy night. He vaguely remembered three old—well, not old maybe, but certainly no spring chickens—three middle-aged ladies waving at him and dancing on a bar? No, that couldn't be right. He was dreaming about Lola, the woman he'd met when he was twenty in France. Three women such as these wouldn't be a dream, they'd be a nightmare.

  Nick put all thoughts of disturbing dream ladies aside and glanced at his clock. He was awake twenty minutes early. Since it was useless to go back to sleep now, he got up. For once he'd get an early start.

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  Anxious to get an early start on the road, Glory Chambers placed her last business suit into the garment bag and zipped it with more gusto than zipping a bag should require.

  There. That was it.

  She looked around her empty penthouse apartment. She'd saved packing her business suits until last. Maybe it was symbolic. She was packing away her old way of life and getting ready to start a new chapter ... a better chapter, she hoped.

  Glory Chambers, vice-president of Michaelson's International, a woman with her future charted out to the Nth degree, was gone. Taking her place was Glory Chambers, restauranteur. This new Glory was footloose and fancy-free. She was going to learn to relax and take life easy as she built her little restaurant empire.

  She was tossing out her antacids and her jumbo bottle of aspirin. Life was going to be good and sweet. The fact she knew absolutely nothing about running a restaurant wasn't going to deter her. She'd been ready to make a change when an aunt she never knew existed bequeathed her the restaurant. Who was she to turn her nose up at fate?

  The old Glory might have been inclined to say that fate was only what you made of it, but this new Glory? No, this new Glory was ready to spread her wings and try new things. She might fail, but at least she would have tried.

  Once upon a time she thought she'd had the answers to everything in her life. That was until she found her husband in her bed with a blonde n
amed Cynthia whose bra size was probably larger than her IQ. That was the moment she discovered the marriage she thought was forever was over. The moment she discovered the man she thought she knew was a total mystery. That was the moment the old Glory was packed away and the new Glory emerged—this new Glory who was going to take risks and learn to relax.

  She picked up the garment bag and took one last look at the penthouse that represented all the things she used to be. Then Glory Chambers turned her back on that old life and marched her blue jean clad legs toward the U-Haul van that was taking her to her brand new life.

  Chapter One

  Glory Chambers surveyed her morning's work as she reached for her umpteenth cup of coffee. Her back might tell her she'd made some progress clearing out debris, but her eyes told her she'd made the merest dent. The Coffee House was still a ... she sighed, unable to think of even the slightest kind description for the small restaurant she'd inherited. The truth of the matter was The Coffee House was a wreck.

  The small bit of progress she had made was barely noticeable amongst that mess. Booths were unscrewed from the floor and lying on their sides, benches had ripped upholstery, and what serving ware remained whole was covered with a decade of dust and grime.

  The attorney who handled her aunt's estate told her it had been eight years that The Coffee House had sat vacant. At the rate she was going, it was going to take Glory at least that long to get it back up and running.

  Eight years and probably most of her savings.

  Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

  She took another sip of coffee and dangled her feet from the edge of the counter then brushed an unruly curl back from her face and surveyed her kingdom. What a mess.

  "What a mess,” a voice echoed.

  Glory swung around and saw three tiny women standing in the doorway smiling at her expectantly. They were that nondescript age that women reach—not quite ready for retirement, but certainly not just out of college. None of them could be over four and a half feet tall, but it wasn't their size that made them stand out, it was ... it was just about everything about them. One had crayon red hair and wore a pantsuit of almost the exact same shade. The one next to her had yellow—not blonde, yellow—hair and was wearing a bright yellow dress that flowed loosely over her well-padded body. The third was the tallest and had hair that didn't look as if it came from a bottle. Her worst offense was the puce green wind suit she was wearing.

  They were an odd trio, Glory mused. “Sorry. We're closed."

  "Of course you are, deary,” said the redhead.

  "But you won't be for long,” added the blonde.

  "Not with us around,” finished up the brunette.

  "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

  "We're the answer to your wish,” the redhead assured her. “I'm Myrtle, by the way. And these are my sisters, Blossom,” the blonde nodded, “and Fern,” the brunette followed course. “And we're here for the jobs."

  "What jobs?"

  "The ones you advertised for."

  "I never—"

  Myrtle thrust a section of newspaper into Glory's hand and pointed to a circled want ad. “Wanted. A cook, a waitress and a busboy for a new restaurant. See Glory Chambers, proprietor,” Glory read slowly. She handed the paper back to the redhead, Myrtle. “I don't know anything about this."

  "You are Glory Chambers?” Myrtle asked.

  "Yes, but—"

  "And this is your restaurant?"

  "Sort of, but maybe not for long. I was just thinking it might be wise to simply level this place and put the lot on the market."

  "Oh, no, that won't do.” The blonde, Blossom, looked on the verge of tears. “After all the time and effort we put into this—"

  "You put into this,” Myrtle corrected quickly. “After all your work, you can't just give up now."

  "Listen, ladies, I've been cleaning for two days and haven't made a dent. And that's just with the dirt and grime. This place needs new wiring, the gas line needs connected, the sink in the kitchen drips and—"

  "Little things, and now that we're here, they'll be cleared up in a moment,” Fern said.

  "Not quite a moment,” Myrtle added. “Now, if my two talkative sisters will be quiet and let me finish.” The two other women hushed right down, and Myrtle cleared her throat. “Now, Ms. Chambers, my sisters and I would like to apply for the positions advertised in the paper. Fern will be the cook—"

  "But, Myrtle.” There was a wealth of argument in the brunette's two words.

  "—Blossom here will be the dishwasher, assistant cook and busboy,” Myrtle continued as if she hadn't heard her sister's protest.

  "Bus fair ... um, buswoman,” Blossom said.

  "And, you and I, Glory dear, will wait the tables. We'll get red uniforms, of course, to go with our red hair, and—"

  "Ladies, I do appreciate the offer, but you see, most of my money is sunk into the restaurant. I can't afford to hire help. I don't know how this could have gotten into the paper. I didn't place the ad."

  "Now, don't you worry about ads and money. We'll pitch in cleaning this place up and stick with you the first few weeks you're open. If after that things don't work out, we'll leave without a word. But, I suspect this place is going to be busier than you anticipate, and things are going to work out just right. You've got a prime location, and I'm sure all those courthouse employees will be over all the time."

  "That's what I'm afraid of,” Glory muttered.

  "Pardon?"

  "Never mind.” Courthouses were full of attorneys, and after the ugly divorce her husband and his attorney had put her through, Glory had pretty much had enough of the entire species. The fact that the restaurant was across the street from whole courtrooms of attorneys definitely was not in its favor.

  "Listen, ladies, it's a sweet offer, but the three of you can't afford to put all the time and effort into getting this place running and take a chance of not getting paid."

  "Oh, sweetheart, the money isn't why we want to work here,” Blossom said.

  "We're financially independent,” Fern added.

  A phrase from a long ago economics class flashed through Glory's mind—there is no such thing as a free lunch. She doubted there was any such thing as free employees either. There was always a catch. “Really ladies—"

  "You can't afford to say no,” Myrtle said.

  "But can I afford to say yes?” Glory had a sinking feeling as she watched the three women watching her expectantly.

  "What could possibly be wrong with free help?” Fern asked.

  "I can think of a few things,” Glory said.

  Before she could begin a list, Myrtle jumped in. “Let's just play this by ear. We'll pitch in today, and if you don't like our work, you can fire us."

  "And if it does work out?"

  "Then we'll be back tomorrow."

  Something told Glory she was probably going to regret her decision. The old Glory might have shown more caution, but this new Glory decided to throw caution to the wind. She extended her hand to Myrtle, who was obviously the ringleader of the three. “Deal."

  * * * *

  "Deal,” Nick said, standing and shaking hands with the opposing council. “We appreciate your willingness to settle."

  Grudgingly the gray-haired attorney took Nick's hand and shook it. “It wasn't exactly willingness. You had us over a barrel, and you knew it."

  "All's fair in love and war."

  "And this certainly wasn't love, and last I heard courtrooms weren't exactly war zones."

  Nick took no pleasure in winning this particular case, especially when the attorney he was facing was Bill Richards. Bill had offered Nick his first job and had been a close friend since. Disappointing Bill shouldn't have bothered Nick—he was just serving his client's best interest after all, and that was what he was paid to do. But telling himself that did little to make him feel better. “Can you think of a more apt description for them?"

  "Halls of justice, heavy emphasis
on the justice, Nick. Do you really think justice was served here today?"

  "Serving my client is what I'm here for. Your client caused him irreparable harm, and seeing him compensated was justice in my book."

  "There's not going to be a trial, so you can save your summations. You and I both know that justice was not served here today."

  "If you're not happy with our deal, we could still take it in front of a jury."

  "Like I said, you had us over a barrel."

  Nick watched as Bill walked from the small meeting room. He'd never admit it to Bill, but he didn't feel quite right about how things had worked out, either. But, he was an attorney. His job was to represent his client to the best of his ability. There was nothing that said he had to like his clients, or even approve of their actions, just that he had to do his best.

  Bill's client's car had hit Nick's client. Of course, Nick's client had been inebriated, but Bill couldn't prove it. Hell, Nick couldn't prove it, but he knew it and so did everyone else involved in the case. But, Nick's client would walk with a permanent limp because of the accident. And for that he would be compensated—royally compensated. Whether or not he deserved it.

  The entire case left Nick feeling like a stereotypical ambulance-chasing attorney. Well, he'd done his best this time, and if it left a bad taste in his mouth, then he'd just have to...

  That was just it. Nick didn't know what to do about it. He loved the law, but recently there had been something missing. He wasn't quite sure when it had started—a brief image of old women in cancan outfits flitted through his mind, but he ignored it, just as he planned to ignore the feelings that were plaguing him.

  He was an attorney. Not the judge or the jury. His job was simply to serve his client's best interest. That would have to be enough, he sternly warned himself.

  But a small voice inside him whispered, as he left the courthouse, “Don't you wish you could recapture your old enthusiasm, that old driving belief that you are making a difference?"

  He wished he could have a case that he could really care about and a client he could really believe in.

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