“Get out now!” someone shouted. “The building’s on fire!” I dropped the chairs I was moving for the dinner rush and ran outside with my dog, Tugger. On the sidewalk we saw firemen battle the flames.
As I watched our restaurant burn, I remembered that first day my husband, Rudy, had showed me the empty space that would become our business.
“Here’s the best part,” he’d said, pointing to shelves that circled the restaurant two feet from the ceiling. “They’re for model trains!”
“You want to get model trains?” I asked.
“No,” said Rudy. “That’s where we’ll put your angels.” I’d collected them for 40 years—porcelain, clay, glass. Rudy and I had never had room for them at home. I arranged my collection on those shelves—75 angels. I felt them watching over us, and our customers. We named the business for angels: Halo Pizza.
Now I watched our dreams—and my precious angels—go up in flames.
The fire was out by the time Rudy got there. “Follow me,” said the fire chief, walking us through the singed doorway. “There’s something you’ve got to see.”
The entire ceiling had caved in, every wall was water damaged. Yet there they were: 75 angels, perched on the shelves, perfectly untouched. Perfectly safe, just like us. Halo Pizza sure did live up to its name.
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