“So,” Brooke announces to the rest of the group, “he’s getting out of prison soon and he wants a wife. Not just any wife—he has a list of forty things there.”
“Forty!” Sapphire frowns. “No one ever makes a list of forty qualities in a mate. That’d be impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible,” Blake reminds her.
“Possible for us, maybe,” Sapphire groans. “We’re angels.” She points to the sleeping Jack as bits of his dreams continue to show up on the monitor. “This one’s another story.”
“The qualities on the list are about one-third physical, one-third emotional and intellectual, and one-third spiritual,” Brooke continues. “And he’s crystal, crystal clear about it all. Plus, he’s willing to wait for the whole enchilada, even until the next lifetime if he has to. But his work and healing show he’s ready for her now. So now the question is, how are we going to find someone who fits all those things?”
Christopher reads each quality on the list aloud and types it into his computer. “Long hair. Beautiful. Intelligent. At peace with her world. Conscious. Has done her work. Not too fussy, is he?” Christopher starts to enter the next requisite attribute but stops. “Six feet tall. Is he over six feet tall? I guess he is, now that he’s standing up straight.” He finishes entering the information on his laptop and presses the return key.
As the new information appears on the screen, Blake studies it carefully. “Well,” he says, “it looks like there’s a woman in Idaho who matches every one of these things. Only one problem.”
“What’s that?” Brooke asks.
“Married! That’s obviously not going to work.” Brooke pauses for a moment. “Well, how married?”
Blake studies the screen. “Hmmmm, a tiny, tiny spark of love is still there, but the two are no longer a suitable team. They’re not on each other’s ballpark, I mean wavelength, and not interested in the same game anymore. At all.”
“Where are her angels?” Brooke asks. “Let’s talk to them.”
Christopher punches more information into the computer. Blake reads the results and then stands up, looking over his shoulder. “They’re right over there.”
Brooke follows the direction his finger is pointing. “Right over there” in such an enormous hall in this case equals about two football fields in Earth terms. When Brooke finally sees the cubicle he’s pointing out, she finds herself looking at an empty desk.
“She must be a night owl, too.”
At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Emily turns away from the door and pretends to be asleep. Sam crawls into bed and, after a moment, taps her on the shoulder. Emily ignores him and continues to pretend she’s asleep. At this point, since both of them know, it’s not really pretending; it’s out-and-out dissing.
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