A Season of Angels (10 page)

“My horn!” She joined her friend at the doorway.

“This is the weirdest thing I've ever seen in my life.”

“You?” Leah laughed. “I better find out what's going on here.” She grabbed her car keys and hurried across the yard.

“M
ercy, stop that right this minute.”

Mercy whirled around to find Shirley hovering over the trunk of Leah's car, her hands braced against her hips. Knowing she'd overstepped her authority, Mercy reluctantly complied. No doubt she'd done it this time and the archangel had dispatched Shirley to send her home.

“Did Gabriel send you?” Mercy demanded defiantly. If she was going to crash, she was going down in flames.

“No, I'm here to stop you before you get yourself into even bigger trouble.”

“I had to do something fast,” Mercy cried. “Andrew's worried because he can't find Leah.”

“What?”

Mercy should have known she'd need to explain. “Leah and Andrew argued this morning and now he feels terrible. He wants to talk to Leah but he doesn't know where she is.”

“We're not to get involved in any human's life,” Shirley chastised. “By the way, what's with that ridiculous song?”

“It was popular several years back, one Leah would recognize. I'm trying to tell her to hightail it home.”

Shirley folded her arms over her chest and impatiently tapped her foot. “You're courting trouble with this one. By heaven, Gabriel's going to be furious. Secular music, no less. You couldn't have come up with something more . . . spiritual?”

“ ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot' just didn't hack it. I was desperate. It worked, didn't it? Look, Leah's leaving now and two to one she's headed home.”

“You're placing bets now too?” Shirley said behind a smile. It wasn't unheard-of for a prayer ambassador on earth assignment to return home with a few minor bad habits. Some angels were known to have found gambling appealing.

“Are you with the God Squad Police Patrol or something?” Mercy blurted out impatiently. Shirley had the luxury of having everything falling neatly into place with her prayer assignment. The last she'd heard, Timmy's mother had agreed to date a fine, upstanding young man who'd make Timmy a great father.

She and Goodness should have it so easy. As for herself, Mercy was batting zero when it came to helping Leah, and from what she heard, Goodness wasn't in much better shape. If anything, matters had gotten progressively worse. In the last report from Goodness, Mercy had learned that Monica Fischer had stretched the truth in an effort to seek out Chet Costello. For a woman who prided herself on rigid honesty this was not an encouraging sign.

“I don't mean to sound so bossy,” Shirley explained, looking apologetic, “but Gabriel could have your wings for this.”

“My wings! I don't think so.” It would take a whole lot more than tapping out “Hit the Road, Jack” on a car horn for that to happen.

“I'm only trying to help you.”

“I know, but . . .”

A whoosh of warm wind accompanied Goodness, who arrived breathless and impatient, with her feathers ruffled with indignation. “What is going on with you two?” she demanded.

“Shirley decided to appoint herself as my guardian and—”

“I was watching out for your best interests.”

“Stop! Both of you!” Goodness cried, tossing her arms in the air. “I had to leave Monica and Chet at the worst possible moment for this.”

“Not really, we were—”

Goodness cut her off by stamping her foot. “Shall we all get back to our jobs? Humans are trouble enough without the three of us squabbling.”

“I was only looking to help,” Shirley offered with an injured look.

W
hen Leah pulled into her driveway, she wasn't sure what to expect. The business with her horn had ceased the moment she started the engine. Since Andrew took care of the maintenance on their vehicles it was something she should tell him. But how could she explain her horn going all weird on her?

The front door to the house opened even before she had a chance to climb out of the car. Andrew's large frame filled the doorway as he rushed out to meet her.

“Where were you?” he asked, his face tight with concern. “I must have made a dozen phone calls and sounded like a complete idiot looking for my wife.”

“I . . . I drove over to Pam and Doug's.”

“Pam and Doug,” Andrew repeated and stabbed his fingers into his hair as if to punish himself. “I should have tried them first—it makes perfect sense, the way you love those kids,” he said, steering her toward the house. He closed the door, shutting out the cold.

“You weren't ready to talk, remember?” Leah said. “You were preoccupied with the sports news and needed time to sort through your feelings. Or so you said.”

Andrew nodded. “I behaved like a fool. I'm sorry, Leah.”

“You? I was the one who owed you an apology.”

“You gave it,” Andrew reminded her, and something she couldn't read flared in his eyes, “Hell, I don't know what was wrong with me.”

“You needed your space,” Leah supplied, removing her coat and hanging it in the hall closet. “We all do at one time or another. I understand.”

“I should never have let you go. You wanted to settle matters then and there. I was the one who made everything so difficult.” He brought her into the circle of his arms and sighed as she relaxed against him. “I love you so damn much,” he said.

“I know,” she whispered. His fingers lovingly worked through the tangles in her hair. “I love you too. You're right, Andrew, I realize that now and I'm so sorry for the way I've treated you—”

“Hush,” he whispered, gently kissing her. “It's forgotten.”

“You're the most important person in my life.”

“I found the record book in the garbage. Do you mean it, honey? Can we stop worrying about a pregnancy and concentrate on each other?”

Leah understood what he was asking. He wanted her to let go of the frantic need she had for a child, to stop looking for a pregnancy to fulfill her as a woman.

She'd cheated her husband out of far more than she realized. All these years she'd been subtly and not so subtly telling him his love wasn't enough. Every time she'd dragged him to another doctor, to another fertility clinic, through another series of tests, she in essence said she found him lacking and that she needed something more. She tagged a condition onto her happiness, insisting she needed a child, the child he should give her.

Wrapping her arms around Andrew's neck, Leah slowly nodded. The dream was dead. It had been from the moment she realized what she'd done to him.

“M
om.” Timmy greeted Jody at the door the minute she walked into the house after work Monday morning. “A package came for me from Grandma Potter. Can I open it?” He was hopping up and down like a pogo stick, following her from one room to the next. “It's addressed to me.”

“A package?”

“It's probably for Christmas. You're not going to make me wait, are you?”

Jody moved into the family room and stopped short. Timmy hadn't exaggerated, the package was huge. She was curious herself. Gloria was very good at remembering Timmy on his birthday and Christmas, but she generally sent a check, claiming he should save for his college education.

“I don't think it'd do any harm to open it up,” Jody said, curious herself.

“I've got the scissors all ready,” Timmy said, racing into the kitchen.

“Don't run with scissors in your hand,” she warned.

“I'm not a kid!” Timmy chided, walking back with exaggeratedly slow steps.

“Sorry,” Jody said, smiling to herself.

The box had been carefully packaged, as if it contained something of exceptional value. Once the tape had been cut away they were able to peel back the cardboard lid. Timmy immediately starting digging when they discovered the box was filled with Styrofoam packing balls. The material flew in every direction. She laughed, watching her son virtually attack the present.

He bent over the top, his feet six inches off the ground. “There are a bunch of smaller boxes inside,” he called, lifting out the first of what proved to be several.

Jody lined them up on the coffee table and Timmy opened the largest one first. “What's this?” he asked, bringing out a trophy.

Jody was puzzled herself.

“Look, there's a letter in here for you.”

Jody took the envelope and ripped it open.

Dearest Jody and Timmy,

You're were right, Jody. Jeff is dead and it's time I accepted as much. Forgive an old woman who can't bear to believe that her only son is gone. The truth was too painful to accept. Painful for you and Timmy too, I realize.

It came to me the other day that now Timmy's growing up, he might be interested in having the things that once belonged to his father. Jeff's childhood treasures are his now and don't belong to a grieving mother. Take them, and treasure them, but most of all, remember Jeff.

“What's the trophy for?” Timmy asked, turning it upside down and examining the bottom. “This is weird, the way they put it together.”

Jody could barely speak for the tears in her throat. “Your father won that when he was twelve,” she said, holding onto the statue with both hands. “For soccer.”

“My dad played soccer?”

Jody nodded.

“I didn't know that.”

Jeff was wonderfully athletic, the same way Timmy was, but he'd concentrated on football and track in high school and college.

“Wow,” Timmy said, “look at this. It's really old.”

“It's your dad's report card from when he was in the first grade.”

“He was smart, wasn't he?”

“Very smart.”

“You were too, weren't you, Mom?”

She nodded.

Timmy was hurriedly opening one box and then the next. “This stuff is really neat. I can keep it, can't I, forever and ever?”

“Of course.”

“I'm never going to forget my dad. Never,” he vowed, sitting back on his legs and releasing a slow, uneven sigh. “You know, Mom, it might not be such a good idea for you to get me another dad. Not when I already have one. It was just that until now he was a face in a picture you keep by the fireplace. But he was really a neat guy, wasn't he?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” she agreed, “he was someone very special.”

Timmy's eyes grew serious. “Then it'd be wrong to look for another dad.”

Chapter 8

M
onica was in a tizzy. Chet had seen her standing outside of the Blue Goose, and knew she'd sought him out. Her first thought was that she should adamantly deny everything. That, however, would be a lie and she prided herself on her honesty.

“Couldn't stay away, could you?” he said in that impertinent way of his.

“I'm sure you're mistaken,” she snapped. The buzz of traffic zoomed past her as she stiffly stood on the curb, waiting for the light to change.

Chet laughed, the sound mingling with those from the street and the busy holiday shoppers. The signal changed and she remained frozen, unable to move with the others.

“I imagine that's as close to the truth as I'm likely to get from you,” he said, and gripping hold of her elbow, escorted her across the street. He didn't tell her where he was taking her and she didn't ask. Although she had long legs, she had trouble keeping up with his brisk pace.

He steered her into Woolworth's and over to the lunch counter.

“What are we doing here?” she demanded, disliking the assumptions he was making.

He ignored her and slipped into a booth. She would have brought attention to herself if she'd continued standing so she uneasily claimed the seat across from him.

“You hungry?” he asked nonchalantly, reaching for the yellowed plastic-coated menu tucked behind the silver napkin dispenser.

“I . . . as a matter of fact I am, but . . .”

“The steak sandwich is excellent and they don't do a bad chicken-fried steak.”

“I'll just have coffee,” she told him. By all that was right she shouldn't be sitting with him. She barely knew the man and what she did know was a cause for a twenty-four-hour prayer vigil.

“Suit yourself.”

The waitress came, an older woman with gray hair in a pale pink uniform. She chewed gum and looked more worn than the linoleum in Monica's kitchen.

“I'll have a BLT on wheat, with coffee,” Chet ordered.

The waitress wrote down the order and looked to Monica expectantly.

“The same, only put mine on a separate ticket.”

The woman left, jotting down Monica's order as she went.

“I saw you outside the Blue Goose,” Chet announced casually.

It was all Monica could do not to cover her face with her hands. It mortified her to know he'd seen her standing outside the tavern, debating whether she should go inside or not.

“I know why you were there too.”

“You do?” Her rebellious gaze shot to his. She was certain he could see her pulse beating in the vein in her neck, the sound echoing in her ear like thunder.

Chet set the menu back in place and waited for the waitress to finish pouring their coffee before he continued. “You're curious about the same thing as me.”

“Which is?”

He smiled without humor, “I don't know if you have enough courage or honesty to admit it so I'll say it. We're both trying to figure out if what happened between us was real.”

Monica had entertained a whole spectrum of possibilities of what had happened when Chet had kissed her. She blamed him, then herself, and eventually her upbringing. Having lived a sheltered, protected life hadn't prepared her for the sensual magnetism she experienced at his touch.

“I certainly don't have any intention of allowing you to kiss me again,” she told him, the words ringing with disdain. It was important he understood this right now.

“Not to worry, I'm not exactly thrilled with the prospect myself. I'm curious, and you have to admit you are too, otherwise you wouldn't be here. Frankly, I can't figure out what it is about you that intrigues me so much.”

“I . . . I was wondering the same thing myself. You won't leave me alone either.”

Their sandwiches arrived and Chet tore into his as if he hadn't eaten in a week. Monica glared at him and pointedly reached for her napkin and spread it evenly across her lap. Bowing her head, she murmured a simple prayer of thanksgiving. When she'd finished, she lifted half the sandwich from her plate, holding it daintily in both hands. Chet had started on the second half of his before she'd taken the first bite.

When he finished, Chet reached inside his pocket and brought out a small spiral pad. He flipped through several pages until he found what he was looking for.

“Your father's name is Lloyd Fischer, the Reverend Lloyd Fischer. You're an only child and your mother died when you were in your teens. Currently the church employs you as a full-time secretary. You play the piano on Sunday mornings and teach a Sunday school class. Your two best friends are married and live in another state. It's said that you miss them dearly and write often.”

Monica was so shocked it took an effort for her to disguise her distress. “How . . . how do you know all that?”

Chet grinned suspiciously. “I have my ways. I'm a private investigator, remember? Don't tell me you didn't find out what you could about me.”

“I most certainly did not.” She snapped her mouth closed before she added to the lie. She had looked up his name in the business directory and noted the address. His office was close to the Westlake Mall on First Avenue in a dingy part of town. The mission was situated on the same street and she'd mentally calculated which building was his. She'd looked his name up in the white pages as well and learned that his apartment was in the same building.

“So,” he said, pushing the empty plate aside and reaching for his coffee. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“For what?” She wasn't sure where he was leading, but she had no intention of continuing with this farce. Having lunch with him was about as far as she intended to go.

“Figuring out what's going on between us,” he said loudly as if she were hard of hearing.

“Keep your voice down,” she pleaded.

“The thing is,” Chet continued, “I'm not sure I like you. You annoy the hell out of me and at the same time I can't help thinking you could be a real woman if you'd let yourself go a little bit.”

Monica jerked her shoulders back and scowled at him. “You haven't exactly endeared yourself to me either, Mr. Costello. You're everything I
don't
want in a man.”

Instead of insulting him, her words appeared to do just the opposite. He grinned as if she'd stroked his ego with compliments. “Ain't it a bitch?”

Her head snapped back at the use of vulgarity. “Kindly watch your language.”

His grin was cocky in the extreme. “You want me so much you're practically frothing at the mouth.”

Monica's hands were shaking so badly she could barely open her purse zipper. She removed her wallet and carefully extracted a ten-dollar bill, which she set next to her plate.

“I don't believe there's anything more for us to say,” she said crisply.

Chet held up his hand. “Don't be so hasty. We've got several matters to discuss.”

Monica slipped out of the booth and dramatically tossed her purse strap over her shoulder. “I won't say it's been a pleasure,” she said, taking her gloves from her coat pockets. “Good-bye, Mr. Costello.”

She heard him swear and winced at his words as she walked away. His hurried footsteps sounded behind her before she left the store and reached the sidewalk.

“All right, I apologize,” Chet murmured impatiently, “I shouldn't have said that.”

The man was full of surprises. She certainly hadn't counted on him making amends any more than she'd expected him to chase after her. Monica wasn't sure how to react, or what she should do. She was more comfortable believing him to be a hopeless Neanderthal. His sincerity went against the assumptions she'd made about him.

“You want to go for a walk?” Chet asked before she had time to sort through her feelings. “It'll be a test of our control to see how long we can go without finding something to argue about.”

“Where do you suggest we walk?” Monica asked, as if that were her only concern. She looked up at him and found his deep, blue eyes intently studying her.

“The waterfront's as good a place as any. There're always lots of things going on down there.”

“All right.” Her words were little more than wisps of sound. She hurriedly looked away because she found his gaze mesmerizing and buried her hands in her pockets. Chet followed suit, his own hands waist deep in the pockets of his beige coat.

“You seem to know a lot about me,” she said as a means of opening the conversation, “it only seems fair for you to tell me something about yourself.” She wasn't sure, but this sounded like a good place for them to start. Her only concern was in knowing exactly what they were starting. She didn't know if she could be friends with this man, and anything else was impossible.

“I'm thirty-three and have never been married,” Chet said, cutting into her thoughts.

“Why not?”

“You're twenty-five and I didn't ask you that,” he barked, then seemed to regret his tart remark. “I never found a woman who'd be willing to put up with me.”

Monica smiled to herself. “I guess you could say the same thing about me. I don't seem to communicate very well with men. I thought I did, but I was wrong.”

“That sounds like you're speaking from experience. I take it someone's hurt you.”

She shook her head. “We're talking about you, remember?”

He frowned as if he found the subject boring and was much more interested in her. “What do you want to know about me?”

She shrugged, not knowing what to say. “Where'd you go to school, that sort of thing, and how you got into the detective business.”

“All right,” he said, releasing a beleaguered sigh. He seemed eager to get this part over so he could learn what he wanted to know about her. “I graduated from the University of Washington with a degree in criminology and took a job with the local police force. After a few years I decided I'd rather strike out on my own.”

Monica speculated that there was a great deal missing in this story, but she didn't feel she should pressure him for details, not when she was unwilling to supply the missing pieces of her own story.

“Did you enjoy police work?”

“Yes and no. When I was shot—”

“You were shot?” Monica couldn't hide her alarm. She studied him for any evidence of permanent injury, and her heart raced at a furious pace.

“It was little more than a flesh wound, nothing to worry about physically, at any rate.” He hesitated as if he'd said more than he intended, more than he wanted her to know.

“What do you mean?” she probed, not willing to drop the subject.

“Nothing. We'll leave it at that, all right?” The way he said it told her she wouldn't get any more information out of him. Knowing that he'd been physically injured had a curious effect on Monica. A strange sick feeling attacked her. Knowing he'd suffered terrible pain greatly distressed her.

They reached the waterfront, the day was cold and gray, and the angry sky reflected on the waters of Puget Sound. The sidewalks were crowded with the heavy tourist and Christmas traffic.

“What made you decide to become a private investigator?” she asked as they stood at the end of the pier. The wind buffeted her and she turned her back on its force. Chet, however, leaned against the rough wood railing, his hands clenched.

Chet glanced her way. “You aren't going to like the answer to this one.”

“I asked the question, didn't I?” His attitude irked her.

“All right, since you asked, I'll tell you. A shapely blonde with loose morals and legs that reached all the way to her neck—”

“You're right,” Monica cut him off, “I don't want to hear the rest.”

“That's what I thought.”

They strolled back to the sidewalk and turned into a small shop that specialized in seashells, tacky souvenirs, and gaudy jewelry. Curious, Monica moved to a crowded aisle, no particular destination in mind. She found a paper Japanese fan with a brightly painted dragon and spread it open, fluttering it in front of her face.

Chet grinned and she lowered the fan. Slowly the amusement drained from his eyes and darkened to a shade as deep and dark as a moonless night. His sudden enmity unnerved her and she quickly snapped the fan closed and returned it to the table, wondering what she'd done that had displeased him so.

His hand stopped her. “You're beautiful when you choose to be,” he said.

His words confused her as much as his look.

She turned hurriedly up another aisle and paused at a rack of necklaces. Taking one, she slid the chain against the palm of her hand until she reached the pendant. A mustard seed was framed in a glass teardrop. The scripture verse about faith the size of a mustard seed leaped into her mind.

“Faith is an amazing thing,” Chet surprised her by saying.

That he'd know the verse shocked her. “You've read the Bible.”

He made a gallant effort not to laugh and failed. “I'm not a heathen, Monica, even if I've been known to frequent seedy bars and sleep with immoral women.”

“I see.” Embarrassed now by his honesty and her assumptions, she started to leave the shop. To her surprise, Chet took the necklace from her hand and carried it to the front of the store.

“What do you believe in?” she asked as they waited to make the purchase.

“Do I need to believe in anything?”

She could tell that the question made him uncomfortable. “Everyone has a belief system, whether he acknowledges it or not.” She sounded far more versed in the subject than she was. Her own had been so clearly defined for her from the time she was a child.

He didn't answer her for a long, silent moment. “I believe life's a bitch,” he said as he paid for the necklace.

Monica bristled, but then she'd asked and he'd told her.

He moved behind her and put the necklace around her neck. The glass teardrop felt cool against her skin. “Thank you,” she whispered, touched that he'd bought it for her.