So, of course, I am not proud.

I FOLLOWED THE RULES THIS TIME.

Oh. Quickly. Make that lower case.

However, I feel I am entitled to admit to pleasure. This time I didn’t break a single Precept. Not one. I came to Earth, assisted my charge, and was now awaiting the arrival of the Rescue Express for my return to Heaven. Admittedly, my path had been smoothed by Ogden, a rail-thin seventeen-year-old with a shock of black hair, thick glasses, and an affinity for electronic gadgets. We’d saved his father from a false accusation of embezzlement, and I hadn’t had to appear once. Ogden, with assistance from me, had traced the peculations to a squinty-eyed accountant with a penchant for ponies. Of course, Ogden was unaware of my participation. His electronic sophistication made it easy to use a false identity to send him txt msgs that exposed the thief.

I’d learned more than I ever wanted to know about the new electronic world from Ogden, all about a computer pen that turned handwriting into a computer file, a card that wirelessly downloaded photos from his digital camera, and even a robotic pet-Willie-who talked and responded to Ogden’s mood. In the trap I helped him set, he’d filmed the entire matter on a small video camera with sound. That had been my suggestion, txtd of course. I’d first become familiar with the cameras through my association with the Adelaide Police Department. I quite missed not having appeared this time as Officer M. Loy (a tribute to famed film star Myrna Loy, the better of half of Nick and Nora with William Powell). All uniformed officers carried such cameras. A picture with words is worth its weight in gold in a courtroom. All in all, my mission had been a resounding success.

Thanks to Ogden, my good behavior should convince Wiggins to remove me from probationary status.

“Yee-hah.”

Upturned faces from the revelers on the terrace brought home to me that I had shouted aloud. Oh dear, a clear violation of Precept One.

However, libations were flowing and, after that short, startled pause, voices lifted again in intense conversation, punctuated by occasional guffaws.

No harm done.

The Rescue Express would be here soon, and I would report my outstanding conduct to Wiggins. Yet I felt restless and vaguely dissatisfied. I’d succeeded with my mission, but I’d never really felt I’d been here, hands on.

Because, of course, I hadn’t.

I’d not appeared in person. I hadn’t swirled into being, donning lovely clothes simply for the sheer delight of them. I hadn’t talked to anyone. I’d never had a chance to pop here and there. No car chases. No confrontations. No challenges.

To be quite honest (always a desirable intent for emissaries), this perfect mission had been bor-ing.

BOR-ing.

Without volition-I assure you I didn’t deliberately flaunt Precept One again-I groaned aloud. “I’d been BOOMS.”

Fortunately the sound of my voice was lost in a rattle of castanets. Still, what I had spoken aloud appalled me. Was I succumbing to the assault of txt msgs on the English language?

What a dreadful prospect for a former English teacher. Obviously, the solution was to clear out the electronic cobwebs, immerse myself in the real world as opposed to the virtual reality that reminded me of Plato’s shadows on the wall.

Truth to tell, I’m a gregarious sort. I like for things to be lively. My husband Bobby Mac (the late Robert McNeil Raeburn) said I added more fizz than champagne to any occasion. Believe me, Bobby Mac and I on Earth had fizzed as brightly as July Fourth sparklers. In Heaven… Oh yes. Precept Seven. I will only say you have much to look forward to.

I swooped nearer the terrace. The party was bright with a Latin theme, serapes for tablecloths, the terrace bordered by luminarias, colorful maracas for party favors, and, of course, the best in Latin music. What harm would it do if I joined the revelers? I deserved a little recreation.

I landed behind a potted palm and swirled into being in a floral tunic and skirt, red plumeria vibrant against a black background. I chose slingback sandals until I spotted a cunning pair of black crocheted shoes and switched.

In no time at all, I was dancing a samba with the attractive fellow whose pink nose indicated too much golf under a July Oklahoma sun. “… and my lie was right at the edge of the sand trap…”

I made admiring murmurs and thrilled to the music. I soon realized many of the guests were from out of town, present for a members-guest golf tournament. That eased my concern about a hostess wondering who in the world I might be. I was soon in demand as a partner. I will confess that I dance rather well. (Stating an accurate observation in no way indicates pride.) I sambaed, rhumbaed, tangoed, and cha-chaed.

It was such a joy to once again be with people. I knew my time was almost up. The Express was scheduled for midnight, and I intended to be high in the sky, ready to swing aboard. I still had an hour to play.

Would it be safe to say that Fate intervened? Was it written in the stars that I should drop into this evening’s party? Or had Wiggins considered possibilities and felt no need to dispatch another agent in the expectation that when en route to the Express and with time on my hands, I couldn’t possibly resist the temptation of a party? Was Wiggins that crafty?

I pictured Wiggins, stiff dark cap riding high on brown hair, broad, open face still youthful despite a walrus mustache and muttonchop whiskers, white shirt high-collared, gray flannel trousers sturdily upheld by broad suspenders. Yes, he had a turn-of-the-century formality about him (the early twentieth century), but Wiggins often surprised me with a glint of humor.

Certainly I was on the most innocent of errands when I strolled to the ladies’ lounge to check on my hair. Red hair is distinctive, and I was afraid that last vigorous tango had left me looking as if I’d stepped out into an Oklahoma wind. (It isn’t vain to want to appear at your best.)

Moreover, a quick glance in the mirror would remind me to be thankful that I always appeared as I had been at twenty-seven, even though I’d been considerably older when I departed the earth. It is one of Heaven’s thoughtful aspects that we are seen as we were at our best. I found twenty-seven splendid. There are many other cheerful surprises in Heaven, such as the way that joy can be seen in colors. For example, imagine an incandescent violet with… Oh. Sorry. Precept Seven again. One of these days you will see for yourself.

As I crossed the hallway, a dark-haired woman in her thirties bolted toward the door of the ladies’ lounge. She gave a hunted look over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide and strained. The hand reaching for the knob trembled. She yanked open the door and entered the lounge.

Quick footsteps sounded behind me.

I paused to admire a tapestry, one of those dun-colored, pretentious representations of an English hunting scene.

A plump blonde in a pink palazzo jumpsuit, her face creased in concern, opened the door. I saw the convulsive start of the dark-haired woman. As she turned, her low-cut beige blouse slipped from one shoulder, revealing a purplish-red bruise on her upper arm. She gasped and yanked the blouse up, hiding the mark. The door closed.

I disappeared. In an instant, I was in the mirrored anteroom with its comfortable tufted-satin hassocks. I still get a thrill when I move through a solid wall. It gives me such a sense of freedom.

One hand still clasped to her blouse, the brunette sank onto a hassock and gave a travesty of a smile. “Hi, Joan. I haven’t seen you in a long time.” Her voice was brittle. “I heard you and Jack went to Alaska. Did you have a good time?”

“What happened to your arm, Eleanor?”

“My arm? Oh.” A strained laugh. “Just one of those odd accidents. I’m fine.”