A Season of Angels (15 page)

“It would have required awkward explanations,” was all he'd say.

“Well, he's gone now.”

“So I see.” A frown darkened Chet's face and he glared at her. “So you're going to continue seeing him despite what I said.”

“What choice did I have?” she cried, throwing her arms into the air. “I said what I had to, to get him to leave. Besides, what business is it of yours who I do or do not date?” How could he say such things to her when he was the one who'd put her in this predicament!

It took him a long time to answer. “You're right, it's none of my damn business.”

Monica was pleased that Chet did care, but she didn't want him to know it.

“Michael's not so bad,” he said after a moment. “It's plain as day that he's crazy about you.”

The man was full of surprises. First he demanded that she stay away from Michael and now he was urging her to see the other man.

Chet's eyes were clouded as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I should never have come.”

He strode past her and in her heart Monica knew if he walked out the door she'd never see him again. She had to do something.

He was all the way across the room, his hand on the doorknob, before she found the courage to speak. “Don't go.” She advanced a single step toward him and stopped.

Chet turned around slowly as if he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. Gradually a grin danced its way across his lips. “You don't want me to leave?”

Her tongue was trapped against the roof of her mouth and she shook her head, unable to say the words a second time. It had demanded every ounce of courage she possessed the first time.

His gaze narrowed into thin, disbelieving slits. “Why not?”

She shrugged.

“Come on, sweetheart, you can do better than that.”

“Don't call me that.” She backed away from him, as far as she could go, until her buttocks were pressed against the edge of her desk.

“What would you like me to call you?”

It was a mistake to have asked him to stay, a mistake to let him know how much of the time he dominated her thoughts. He made her weak where she'd once been strong, and she'd found no compensation for what she'd lost.

“I think you should go,” she whispered.

He cocked his thick brows at that. “You don't seem to know what you want, do you? You want me to stay, yet you invite that mild-mannered choirboy for dinner.”

“My father invited him.”

“Ah, your father,” Chet said thoughtfully. “Michael's the type of man he wants you to marry, isn't he? We both know what your daddy would think of the likes of me.”

“That's not true. My father isn't like that.”

“Sure,” he scoffed. “He'd welcome me with open arms. Don't kid yourself, Monica, we both know better. Listen, sweetheart, forget I was ever here, all right?”

“No. No, I won't forget,” she whispered heatedly. “I can't forget.”

She read the questions etched in his eyes and realized they were a reflection of her own. She didn't have any of the answers and apparently neither did he.

Walking toward him was the boldest thing she'd ever done in her life. Flattening her palms against the hard expanse of his chest, she slowly, reluctantly raised her eyes to his.

He didn't give her a chance to speak. His mouth came down on hers in a kiss that was as hot as it was wild. Instinct dictated her actions as she raised her arms and looped them around his neck, giving herself completely to his kiss.

His arms folded around her waist, greedily holding her against him as his mouth plundered hers. Her feet dangled several inches off the ground.

The kiss ended only when they were both desperate to breathe.

Monica was left stunned, her heart in a panic. It had always been like this between them, this craziness. Her head felt as if it were in its own orbit, spinning madly out of control. Emotionally she was a wreck, close to tears and trembling.

Chet's lips returned to hers in a series of long, slow kisses and her world righted itself. Everything slipped neatly back into place. Only when she lifted her head from his did outside influences overtake her.

For the love of heaven, they were in a church building, and yet she couldn't have left his arms in that moment for all the gold in the world.

“I've got to get out of here,” Chet whispered against her neck. He drew in a deep breath as if that would give him the necessary fortitude to ease her out of his arms.

“Not yet,” she pleaded.

The sound of voices in the yard outside was all the incentive they needed. They broke apart as if they'd been burned.

“That's my father,” Monica said, her gaze flying to Chet.

Chet jerked his head both ways. “I'll go out the window.”

“That's crazy.”

By the time she reached him in her father's office, he'd hoisted the window open and had one leg draped over the sill. “Meet me tonight,” he said.

“When?” she pleaded, glancing over her shoulder. “Where?”

“Never mind.”

“No,” she whispered frantically. “Tell me when and where.”

He smiled, and the look in his eyes was enough to cause spirals of heat to coil in her belly. He reached for her, kissed her once hard and fast and whispered, “I'll let you know.” With that he vanished.

The door opened and her father casually strolled inside, humming softly to himself. He looked surprised to find her standing there.

“Monica.”

“Yes, Dad?” she said, still trapped in a sensual daze.

“You might want to close the window. It's downright chilly in here.”

“Oh, sorry,” she said, lowering it as if it were nothing out of the ordinary to have it open in the middle of December.

“I
'll open the door for you,” Timmy cried, running toward the front porch, leaving Glen to untie the Christmas tree from the top of his car.

“Timmy has his own key,” Jody explained, catching the rope that Glen tossed down to her as he untied the tree.

Glen looked toward the front of the house. “He enjoyed himself this afternoon, didn't he?”

Jody smiled and nodded. “I swear he was like a jackrabbit, leaping from one tree to the next, certain each time he'd found the perfect Christmas tree. It's a miracle we were able to convince him to choose just one.”

“What about you, Jody?” Glen asked thoughtfully. “Did you have a good time too?”

It shouldn't be so difficult to admit to the truth, but it was.

“I had a very nice time,” she said, keeping her eyes averted.

His laugh came unexpectedly. “Good girl,” he praised. “I knew you could do it.”

Jody laughed then too, because it was rather silly of her to hold out against the obvious.

Timmy returned breathless and excited. “The door's open,” he announced, eager to help in any way he could.

Her son was a marvel, Jody mused. Rarely had she seen him more animated. He'd laughed and chatted incessantly, until she was convinced he was going to drive Glen nuts. For a man who wasn't accustomed to being around children, the attorney had been marvelous.

“Mom got the tree stand and all the decorations out last night,” Timmy told Glen, for about the fifth time. Actually Jody had lost count of the number of times Timmy had felt it was necessary to clue Glen in to this information.

Together, the three of them carried the Christmas tree around to the backyard.

“We're going to need to cut off a couple of inches from the bottom,” Glen said, once they'd got the tree to the patio and recovered. The trunk was too wide for the stand. “Think you might be able to help me saw it off?” he asked Timmy.

It was like asking the boy if he liked popcorn. Timmy beamed with pride as he solemnly nodded his head. “Sure, I can do it.”

“I know you can,” Glen said, affectionately patting his shoulder.

“While you're busy with that, I'll put on some hot chocolate,” Jody said, pushing open the sliding glass door. The tears that stung her eyes were unexpected. She wasn't entirely sure what prompted them, nor was she sure she wanted to know.

The changes in Timmy had been revealing. Yes, it was Christmastime and yes, he was excited, but it made her realize how rare those times were. Generally Timmy involved himself in his video games and didn't show much enthusiasm for anything else—with the one exception being baseball, which he dearly loved.

Between sniffles, she brought the milk out of the refrigerator and set a pan on the stove, furious with herself for the weakness of tears.

Glen appeared unexpectedly and she twisted her head away, praying he wouldn't notice. “That's quite a boy you've got there,” Glen said. “I swear he's another Paul Bunyan.”

“He's certainly had the time of his life.” She was grateful that the hot chocolate gave her an excuse to keep her back to him.

Glen moved behind her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. Jody froze, unaccustomed to a man's touch.

He bent forward and kissed the side of her neck.

“Where's Timmy?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Putting the saw away.” Glen turned her so that they faced each other. He frowned when he saw her tear-bright eyes and slid his thumb across the high arch of her cheek. “Bad thoughts?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Let me help.” Then, before she could protest, he lowered his mouth to hers. It was hardly enough pressure to call it a real kiss. Gradually he increased the intensity, deepening the contact. Jody felt like a rag doll, limp and unresponsive. The kiss was sweet and undemanding, but Glen was the first man to touch her since Jeff. Doubts blew against her with hurricane-force winds until she pressed her hands against his chest and broke the contact. Later she'd analyze her feelings toward Glen, but for now it was too new.

Glen sighed softly. “It would be very easy to fall in love with you.” He continued to hold her until he heard Timmy's approach.

Once her son was back, Glen carried the tree into the house, and with a good deal of ceremony, set it in the living room. When it was in place in front of the large picture window, they sat back and sipped hot chocolate.

Unwilling to rest, Timmy sorted through the boxes of decorations. It seemed with every one, he found something he needed to show Glen. Each discovery involved a lengthy explanation.

Glen's patience surprised her, and she told him so.

“He's a great kid,” Glen said. “Who wouldn't like him?”

“Can we decorate the tree now?” Timmy asked, standing in the middle of three strings of lights. Wires were wrapped around his feet and another strand was draped over his shoulder as he grinned broadly in their direction. “You aren't going to make me wait until Christmas morning to see my presents, are you? I'm much too old to pretend I believe in Santa Claus.”

“It's tradition,” Jody said, as means of an argument.

“Oh, phooey. I still have to pretend I believe in that silly kid stuff for my grandma, but it's downright embarrassing. I just hope none of my friends find out about it.”

“Sometimes there are things a man has to do,” Glen said, and Jody marveled that he kept a straight face.

“Can we decorate the tree now?”

“Sure,” Glen agreed, setting aside his empty mug.

“It'll be our best tree yet, won't it, Mom?”

Jody was saved from answering by the phone. She left the pair to untangle the strings of lights and took the call in the kitchen.

“Hello.”

“Jody, dear, it's so good to hear your voice.”

“Hello, Gloria.” It had been a year or longer since she'd last spoken to her former mother-in-law. “Did you get my letter?” Jody asked, glancing guiltily into the living room. There wasn't any reason for her to feel the least bit contrite for dating Glen or for kissing him, but she did, as if she'd been unfaithful to Jeff's memory.

“I have some very important news,” Gloria said, ignoring the question.

“Who is it?” Timmy wanted to know.

“Just a minute, Gloria,” Jody said, and placed her hand over the mouthpiece. “It's your Grandma Potter,” she explained. “I'll let you talk to her when I'm finished. I'll call you in just a minute.” When Timmy was gone, she replaced the receiver at her ear. “I'm sorry to interrupt you. You were telling me you had something important to tell me?”

“My dear, it's the most wonderful news. Brace yourself because what I'm about to tell you will come as a shock. Jeff's alive.”

Chapter 12

M
onica paced her bedroom, wondering what, if anything, she should do now that she was home. Her evening with Michael had been miserable. Michael couldn't be blamed for that; he'd been sweet and considerate, wanting to please her.

When he'd arrived for dinner, he'd presented her with a potted pink poinsettia, which riddled her with guilt. Throughout the meal he'd praised her efforts while her father looked on approvingly. Monica was a fair cook, but the pot roast and mashed potatoes and gravy were nothing to brag about.

The cantata, while inspirational, had seemed to drag. Every note was torture and Monica knew why.

She was looking for Chet, half expecting him to slip into the pew next to her at the Methodist church. It was just like something he'd do. Monica had sat through the entire program with her stomach in knots wondering when and where Chet would show up.

After she returned home, she wondered if he'd come for her, as he'd said he would, but as the night ripened, she was further burdened with uncertainty.

Fortunately, her father had gone to bed early. She hadn't been fooled. Lloyd Fischer was hoping she'd invite Michael in for a cup of coffee and had afforded them the necessary privacy to talk. Monica, however, had made her excuses, thanked Michael for a lovely evening, and then quickly slipped inside the house.

Waiting for Chet was intolerable. The not knowing. Twice now she'd ventured through the house, turning lights on and off as she tiptoed from one room to the next, fearing she'd wake her father.

At ten, she sat on the end of her bed, depressed and miserable. She picked at her fingernails, which she kept square and neatly trimmed. Although she'd often admired women with beautifully manicured nails, she personally thought of them as vain. The Bible has a good deal to say about vanity and a good many other things, including . . .

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knocking sound against her bedroom window. Monica flew off the bed and was breathless by the time she boosted open her window and stuck out her head.

“Chet?” she whispered as loud as she dared, leaning out. “Is that you?” She was eternally grateful that her father's room was at the front of the house, opposite her own.

“Are you expecting anyone else?”

She heard Chet, but couldn't see him. “Where are you?” she demanded, squinting into the inky black night. Shadows flickered here and there in what little light the moon offered. Still she couldn't locate him, and yet he sounded incredibly close.

He appeared then, like an apparition, and stood directly in front of her. For a moment they did nothing but stare at each other. Monica's heart was positioned somewhere between her chest and her throat and felt like a concrete ball.

Chet's look was unreadable. This private investigator was superbly talented at hiding his feelings.

Her own were as plain as a first-grade primer, she was sure of it. She was so pleased to see him it would have been impossible to disguise even a small part of her feelings.

His eyes darkened with intensity before he framed her face with his hands and gently pressed his mouth to hers. Monica sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck. The upper part of her body was thrust out the window so that her waist was pressed against the sill.

“I'm so pleased you came,” she whispered again and again between frantic kisses. Her fingers were in his hair and her mouth was working against his, her need urgent.

The power Chet held over her was frightening. Each time they were together a little more of her restraint was stripped away. A little more of her control.

By the time they broke apart, Monica was gasping and trembling. She was aware of every part of her body his hands had touched. Her face, her shoulders, her neck. She felt a deep, physical hunger that shook her to the core.

“How was your date?” he asked.

She shook her head, not wanting to discuss Michael.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he demanded, refusing to allow her to brush off the question. His hands held her face prisoner, and his eyes burned into hers.

“I was miserable.”

His shoulders relaxed and he rewarded her with a shockingly thorough kiss. Before she had time to recover, he hoisted himself inside her bedroom.

Monica backed away from the window, and sank onto the edge of her mattress, her knees too weak to support her.

Chet glanced about the starkly furnished room and frowned. “Let's get out of here.”

“Where would we go?”

“My place.”

“I don't think that's such a good idea.” Where she gathered the strength to refuse him she never knew. She folded her hands in her lap and concentrated on drawing in deep, even breaths. If ever she needed a clear head it was now.

Chet was pacing the room, restless and agitated. “We can't stay here.”

“Why not?”

“Monica, be reasonable. Your father's—”

“On the other side of the house. He's a sound sleeper, he won't hear anything, and if he does, well, I'm twenty-five years old and if I care to invite a man into our house, then that's my business.”

Chet's smile lacked amusement. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm in your bedroom, and inviting me to stay is a little like inviting the fox into the henhouse.”

“Is your place any safer?”

He laughed softly at that. “No, but it'll ease my conscience. In the time it takes us to get there I just might find the strength to keep my hands off you. But I doubt it. You've got me so tied up in knots, it's a wonder I'm able to do my job.”

Monica wasn't in any better condition herself. Brushing the hair from her face, she forced herself to think rationally. That, she soon realized, was a mistake. “As far as I can see we have absolutely nothing in common,” she mumbled under her breath, discouraged and depressed.

“Except we're so damn hot for each other we're both about to break out in a heat rash.”

“A relationship built on physical attraction is doomed from the beginning.”

Chet nodded. “I couldn't agree with you more.”

“So,” she said, straightening her spine, searching for the necessary resolve to do the right thing. “Where do we go from here?”

“The logical choice is to bed. It'd help matters tremendously, don't you think? It's what any other couple would do in like circumstances. We just might be able to put this foolishness behind us and get on with our lives.”

His words felt like a cold slap in the face. “That's the most ridiculous thing you've ever said to me,” Monica managed despite her outrage. “I'm not some bimbo you can use to satisfy your carnal cravings and then toss aside. Dear heaven.” She moaned, covering her face with both hands. “I can't believe we're having this conversation.”

“All right, all right,” Chet whispered, kneeling down in front of her. He pried her hands away from her face, clasped them in his own and kissed her knuckles. “You're right, it was a stupid thing to suggest. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that.”

Leaning forward she rewarded his honesty with a lengthy kiss, one that gained in intensity and momentum until they were both sprawled across the top of her mattress, their arms and legs entwined.

“You shouldn't have done that,” he whispered, his voice husky and low. He was struggling for control and for that matter so was she, but it felt so wonderfully good to be in his arms. Better than anything she'd experienced in all her twenty-five years.

“I better leave,” he whispered.

“Not yet.” She ran her tongue along the underside of his jaw, loving the taste of him; the scent of rum-and-spice aftershave enveloped her. She burrowed more completely into his embrace. For a moment she thought he intended to push her away, but instead he released a long, slow sigh and held her tightly against him.

“Monica . . . Stop,” he muttered between clenched teeth, “otherwise I won't be held responsible for what happens.”

Monica smiled to herself, knowing he'd never do anything to hurt her. Where the assurance came from she couldn't be sure, but she felt it as strongly as she did his arms around her.

“I knew it would be a mistake to come,” he mumbled, seemingly to himself.

Monica continued to move her mouth over his throat. Her tongue made small circular movements against his jaw and over his ear.

“You're playing with fire,” he said, his voice stiff with resolve.

“I know,” she assured him.

“A man can only take so much of this.” The words were barely audible.

“I know that too.”

“I didn't mean for things to go so far,” he whispered. He rolled away from her and changed their positions so that they were lying on their sides, facing each other.

Monica's head was cradled in his upper arm, their mouths separated by scant inches. Their breath merged and mingled. Her thigh met his. She was happier than she could remember being in a good long while. Monica would have been utterly content to stay exactly like this for the next hundred years.

Being here with Chet like this forced her to acknowledge how incredibly lonely she'd been in the last few years. Her mother had died and her friends, the only two she considered good friends, had both married and moved away. Funny she hadn't realized how empty and pointless her life had become. Nor had she realized what poor company she was to herself and others.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Their eyes met and she found him openly studying her. She quickly averted her gaze. “I didn't realize how downright good a man could feel.”

He laughed softly and kissed the tip of her nose. “That's very honest of you.”

“I couldn't very well deny it.”

“You could, and have,” he said. His fingertips grazed her temple, softly caressing her face. “I'll be honest too. You feel damn good in my arms. Tonight,” he whispered, “while you were with Michael, I was like a caged animal.”

“He doesn't mean anything to me,” she rushed to explain.

He closed his eyes and nodded. “I know, but it didn't make any difference. There was this band around my chest that tightened every time I thought about the two of you together. Yet I know in my heart Michael's a better man than I'll ever be.”

“Don't say that,” she pleaded, feeling the panic rising in her voice. His next suggestion might be that they not see each other again and she couldn't bear that.

“Monica, listen—”

“No. No, don't say it. I have an idea.” The words rushed out on top of each other.

“An idea for us?”

She nodded and bent forward and kissed him, using her tongue in all the ways he'd taught her until they were both panting and clinging to each other.

“As you said,” she whispered, her chest heaving, “we seem to get along fabulously well on the physical level.”

He chuckled. “That, my dear, is putting it mildly.”

“It seems to me that we could learn to communicate on other levels as well.”

He went still and raised his gaze to hers. She swallowed and forced herself to smile. His eyes narrowed.

“I was thinking that, well, if we feel so strongly about one another then we should . . .”

“Should what?” he prodded.

Monica gathered her courage and blurted it all out at once. “That we should get married.”

“L
eah,” Andrew whispered in the darkened theater.

Leah's gaze reluctantly left the screen, where a Walt Disney animation film was playing.

Her husband pointed to Scotty, who was curled up in his lap. The toddler was sound asleep. Husband and wife shared a meaningful smile. Andrew reached over and stole a handful of popcorn from her box.

“Do you want to leave?”

She shook her head, surprised he'd ask. “This is the very best part. Besides, Scotty will want to know what he missed.”

The older grandmotherly type in the row in front of them turned around and glared pointedly at Andrew.

“My husband apologizes for disrupting the show,” Leah whispered.

“So does my wife,” Andrew added.

The woman huffily turned around and Leah smothered her laughter as best she could. Her husband certainly wasn't helping matters any. He was making faces at the old biddy, which caused Leah to giggle all the more.

The woman turned around once again and Leah nearly choked in her effort to keep from laughing outright. Once she'd composed herself, she scooted down in her seat and leaned her head against Andrew's shoulder. She hadn't laughed this much in one day since . . . she couldn't remember when. It didn't matter, she was laughing now and it felt incredible. When had she allowed her life to become so cheerless? Time had slipped between her fingers with barely a notice.

Scotty was a delight, and she loved him until her heart felt as if it would burst. He would be about the same age as the baby they'd wanted to adopt. In some unexplainable way, Leah had transferred the love she had stored in her heart for the child taken from her. Pam must have understood that because she and Doug had asked Leah and her husband if they'd be Scotty's godparents.

In the last couple of years they'd done their duty and bought Scotty birthday and Christmas presents, but that had been the extent of their commitment. He held a special place in her heart, but Leah realized now that she'd cheated Andrew and herself out of the pleasure this child could bring into their lives.

Loving Scotty frightened her. She feared she might become overly attached to her friend's son. The pain of the lost adoption had cheated her out of enjoying Scotty the way she should. She'd feared that if she became overly attached, he'd be taken from her too.

The movie ended and the lights came up. Scotty yawned and, sitting up, rubbed his eyes.

“How you doing, big boy?” Andrew asked.

Scotty blinked several times, as if he'd forgotten where he was and who he was with. A look of panic came into his eyes as he glanced around the theater, and then to Leah.