A Season of Angels (18 page)

“You seem so quiet,” Monica said after several moments of silence. She'd never seen the serious side of Chet. She'd seen him angry and frustrated, aroused and flippant, but never serious.

He didn't seem to hear her. “I don't think I ever realized how truly beautiful you are.”

Unaccustomed to compliments, Monica felt herself blush. Her heart was so full, it felt as if it were ready to burst. Love must do this to a woman, she decided, but she wouldn't change this incredible feeling for the world.

He leaned forward and reached for her hand, gripping her fingers hard with his own. “I've been doing some thinking.”

“About us?” Her chest tightened as though she already knew what he was going to say. In that same moment she recognized that no amount of arguing would change his mind.

Chet nodded. “It has to end, Monica. I never intended matters to go this far. You're bright and beautiful and someday you'll meet a—”

She stopped him from saying anything more by pressing the tips of her fingers against his lips. She knew her eyes were wide and pleading. They stung with the effort to hold back a wall of tears.

“Don't say it,” she pleaded softly.

His hand gripped her wrist and he closed his eyes as if this were causing him as much pain as he was inflicting upon her. He kissed her fingers and slowly moved her hand away.

She lowered her gaze. “There's this song,” she whispered in fractured tones, having trouble speaking. “Michael plays it on the piano. It's from some musical. I don't know which one . . . it's about two people who must end their affair, and the girl who's singing asks only one thing.”

“What's that?”

“All she wants is to choose the time and place where he tells her good-bye. She wants it to be on a Sunday at the zoo. I don't know why she chose there, but she did.” She forced herself to smile and realized a toddler would have seen through the effort. “I always thought that was the most ridiculous song. The only reason Michael played it was that he knew it irritated me, and now . . . now I think I understand.”

Chet didn't say anything for several minutes. Monica couldn't.

“The time is now,” he said. “It's over.”

She nodded. “At least let me choose the place. Not here in some fancy restaurant with half the world looking on. Let's go outside to the end of the pier. Tell me there you don't love me. Tell me there you never want to see me again.”

She didn't wait for him to agree or disagree, but stood, taking her coat. With her head held high, she walked out of the restaurant and down the long pier, stopping when she'd reached the farthest corner.

The wind blew hard against her as she stood at the railing looking out over the green, murky waters. It amazed her that she could be so outwardly calm and still hurt this badly.

For a moment she feared Chet would choose to leave her there alone, but she was wrong. Soon he joined her. Standing beside her, he braced his elbows against the railing, and looked out over the water. Dusk was setting, and a soft shade of pink brightened the horizon. The wind whistled softly in the background.

“I can't say I don't love you, if that's what you're looking for.” The words were almost accusing, tight with pain.

Monica's hands were buried deep in her coat pockets. She turned to study him. The wind slapped the loose tendrils of her hair about her face. “Why are you doing this?”

“Damn it, Monica, I don't want to argue. We both know all the reasons. We've been through all this. I'm not going to get involved in another debate with you. One of us has got to keep his head on straight. Do you think I'm enjoying this?”

“No.”

“Accept it, then. It's over before either of us has more cause for regret.”

So this was what it felt like to die, Monica mused. She closed her eyes as the pain worked through her heart, then slowly nodded.

“Michael's a good man.”

“I don't love Michael,” she said evenly. “I love you.”

He ignored her. “I ran a background check on him for you and he's squeaky clean. You couldn't ask for better husband material.”

“Don't, please,” she whispered fervently. She knew what he was doing, but it wasn't helping.

“If you're not attracted to Michael, fine. He's not the only fish in the sea. For that matter I'm not either. You'll fall in love again. Within a couple of weeks, maybe less.”

Monica's short laugh was filled with more tears than amusement. “Oh, Chet, don't you know me at all? Do you honestly believe I'm the kind of woman to walk from one relationship to another? Do you really think I'd ever marry a man I don't love?”

His lack of response was answer enough. “Just don't do anything stupid,” he warned.

“Like what?”

“Hell, I don't know, join a convent or something.”

“That's for Catholics.”

“I realize that, but knowing you, you'd convert just to spite me. There's too much passion in you for that, understand? You've kept it buried for too damn long as it is. You'll do fine,” he said starkly, turned, and started to walk away.

“Chet.”

He stopped, and his back and his shoulders stiffened, but he didn't turn around.

“Would you hold me, please. One last time.”

It looked as if he intended to keep on walking. He took one step, and then another. Monica bit down so hard on her lip to keep from calling for him that she tasted blood. Whatever it was that caused him to change his mind, she would never know.

Before another moment passed she was in his arms. His hold on her was hard and tight. Sobbing, she clung to him.

“You're a fool,” she told him, weeping so hard, she doubted he could understand her.

“I've always been one. Why change now?”

“Because I love you.”

“Yeah, well, that and two bits will buy you a cup of coffee.” He broke away from her so abruptly that she nearly stumbled backward. Gripping her hands with his, he raised her fingers to his mouth. “Dear God, I can't believe . . .”

“What can't you believe?”

“Nothing.” He closed his eyes and folded his fingers over hers. “There's so much I owe you.”

“But, Chet,” she pleaded, “don't you understand? I'm so grateful for you.”

“This is my gift to you.”

“What?” she sobbed, “breaking my heart?”

“No, letting you go before I screw up your life as much as I have my own.” He dropped her hands, and without another word, turned and walked away.

I
t was highly uncommon to get a summons from Gabriel while on prayer assignment, and Goodness was convinced she was about to be pulled off the case. She had her arguments all lined up. Good ones too. Matters were going much better than they appeared at first glance. She intended to explain everything, if only he'd give her the opportunity.

At last Goodness had something positive to report. Monica had come to her senses. It was no small task dealing with this human either. The preacher's daughter had been a challenge from the first, but Goodness had made progress. With some effort, she'd arranged the phone call from Donna Watkins, although she was disappointed that Monica had chosen to impress Chet instead of Michael with her new outfit.

“Goodness.” Gabriel greeted her upon her arrival. He was pacing, his massive hands clenched behind his back. “I'd like a progress report on Monica Fischer's prayer request.”

“I was hoping you'd ask,” Goodness said, eager to tell her side of the strange happenings. “There's a fine young man in her church by the name of Michael Simpson—”

Gabriel cut her off with a look. “I understand she's currently involved with Chet Costello. And from what I hear, you're responsible for the two of them meeting.”

“Was involved,” Goodness said quickly, steering the archangel away from the unfortunate incident of Monica literally falling into Chet's arms. “That's all behind her now.”

“You're sure about this?”

“You needn't worry about Monica and that shoddy detective any longer,” Goodness concluded, folding her hands and proudly flaunting her wings. “Michael Simpson has a good deal going for him. He's talented and dedicated. I'm sure that within a matter of days, Monica will—”

“Days?” Gabriel repeated.

“Perhaps it will take a week, but I'm confident Monica will come to her senses soon.”

Gabriel continued his pacing. “From what I can see of matters, Monica Fischer is deeply in love, and it isn't with Michael Simpson.”

“I'm sure this private detective was nothing more than a passing fancy.”

“You think so, do you?” Gabriel asked calmly. “Look at this and then tell me what you think.” With a wave of his arm, the walls of heaven slowly parted, followed by a rush of warm, humid winds. Mists swirled and Goodness squinted, having trouble locating Monica through the thick fog.

Soon the vista cleared. It took her a moment to recognize the stark interior of the old church. It was the very sanctuary where Goodness had met her friends—where Reverend Fischer tended his flock of faithful believers.

Monica was kneeling at the altar, her face buried in her arms as she openly sobbed. It was her tears and her prayers that had created the humid fog. The sounds of her pain rose pitifully toward heaven as if echoing from a sound chamber.

“She's changed,” Gabriel said gently. “Her hair is different.”

“Chet, he's the private detective—”

“I know him well.”

“You do?”

Gabriel nodded. “Is he responsible for the other things as well? I notice she's wearing an attractive dress and gold earrings.”

“Ah, I believe so.” Now didn't seem the time to mention Monica's lunch with Donna Watkins.

Gabriel's nod was thoughtful. “I suspected as much. As I recall, the last time I saw Monica, she was trapped in the web of her own righteousness. Am I wrong, or is she a little more willing to accept the differences in us all?”

“I couldn't really say, but I must explain, I did a bit of research on this private detective and I don't mind telling you, he's had a sordid past.”

“I see,” Gabriel commented with a decided lack of appreciation. This wasn't a good sign. “How far back did you investigate him?”

“The last couple of years.”

“Did you learn about his gunshot wound?”

“Ah, I wasn't aware he'd been wounded.”

“He nearly died. As I understand it, he stepped in front of a bullet to save his friend. He was willing to sacrifice his own life for that of someone he loved. Unfortunately it wasn't enough, his friend died.”

“Oh, dear.” The picture Gabriel painted of Chet was becoming clearer. Goodness's gaze slowly returned to Monica, kneeling at the altar railing, pouring her heart out in prayer. It rose like a sweet-smelling mist toward heaven. “What's she saying?”

Gabriel stood behind Goodness. “She's thanking God for teaching her about love, for giving her the short time she had with Chet. Her heart is filled with gratitude.”

Goodness frowned. “Gratitude comes with tears?”

“Very often it does,” Gabriel admitted with a beleaguered sigh. “It seems to me you've taught Monica Fischer what she needed to learn.”

“But I did nothing.” Goodness was more confused than ever. Her efforts had all been geared toward Michael. “The changes are due to Chet Costello, not me.”

“I know. Maybe we should look at him.”

Goodness pressed her lips tightly together. “He's probably in a bar somewhere.”

“He is.” The picture of Monica faded and was replaced by one of Chet slouched atop a bar stool, nursing a shot glass. His shoulders were hunched forward and he ignored any attempts at conversation the bartender made.

“You notice he isn't in any church,” Goodness felt obliged to point out.

“I realize that.”

A cocktail waitress ambled to his side and whispered something. “That's Trixie.” Goodness felt it was important that Gabriel know how well informed she was. She hadn't slouched in her duties.

“I know all about Trixie as well.”

“Then you must be aware of their ongoing relationship,” Goodness supplied.

“It's over and has been from the moment Chet met Monica,” Gabriel said absently. “He's doing it again, you see.”

“Drinking?”

Gabriel slowly shook his head. “No, he's sacrificing himself for another. He loves Monica, but he doesn't believe he's right for her. It seems to me that a man who's twice put the good of someone else before his own deserves something more than pain.”

“He deserves love,” Goodness whispered, watching Trixie.

Goodness thought she heard Gabriel groan. “Not Trixie,” he said impatiently.

“Who, then?”

“Monica Fischer.”

Goodness felt knocked off-balance. “You couldn't possibly mean that the good Lord intends to answer Monica's prayer for a husband with Chet Costello?”

Gabriel laughed, the rich and full sound echoing like a Chinese gong. “My dear Goodness, that's what He intended all along.”

Chapter 15

J
ody swore she didn't sleep except in ten- or fifteen-minute snatches the entire night. It had been like this when Jeff had first disappeared. Mentally and physically exhausted, she'd fall into bed, immediately slip into a druglike sleep only to jerk awake minutes later. The pattern was back.

Jeff was alive.

Jeff was dead and buried. Buried and mourned.

Resurrected.

The next morning, when the alarm rang, Jody was tempted to call into work sick. The only thing that kept her from doing so was the idea of facing the day at home alone with her doubts—a day alone with her fears. Alone. It held no appeal.

Sensing her mood, Timmy was extra quiet. He dressed for school while she cooked his breakfast and drove him to the bus stop.

“Have a good day,” she told him as he climbed out of the car.

“You too, Mom.” With that he was gone, hurrying to meet his friends.

The traffic into the city was heavy, but Jody barely noticed. She drove by rote, her mind wandering from one inane topic to another. When she pulled into her assigned spot in the parking garage, she was surprised to realize where she was and had no memory of the commute.

At least while she was at the office she could occupy her thoughts with matters other than Jeff's mother. Despite everything, a small part of her—no, she corrected, a very large part of her—had been wounded by the things Gloria had said.

Why should it matter that her mother-in-law would tell her dead son what a terrible wife Jody was?

Somehow it did.

It unsettled her that Gloria's opinion of her was so important. Jody had been a good wife. No woman could have possibly loved Jeff more. No woman could have grieved harder, or longer—except, possibly, his mother.

Because of Timmy it was impossible for Jody to isolate her life the way Gloria had. Because of Timmy she was forced to deal with the present. She'd done a good job, or at least she assumed she had until her son had written his letter to God. Timmy needed her, not to look back and weep with her pain, but to stand tall and proud and to point the direction of their future.

Jody had no more than settled down at her desk, her thoughts more confused than ever, when Glen Richardson arrived. She looked up at the attorney's warm, concerned face, and felt an immediate sense of serenity.

He had a calming affect on her and had from the first. It hadn't taken long for him to become a good friend, and she'd never needed one more.

“How'd it go with your mother-in-law?” he asked, sitting on the edge of her desk.

Jody averted her gaze. “Not good.”

“She's a lonely old woman.”

“I know,” Jody said, “but somehow that doesn't make this any easier.”

Glen's eyes were sympathetic. “I'm sure it doesn't. How's Timmy?”

“Great. He's checking the water in the tree stand every morning just the way you said. I swear, he's brought every kid in the neighborhood home to show them the Christmas tree he cut down by himself.”

“Hey, don't I get any credit?”

“Apparently not. He's got the neighborhood believing he's a regular lumberjack. He wanted to wear his plaid shirt and boots to school this morning. It seems he's got an image to live up to now.”

Glen chuckled, but then his eyes grew serious. “I hope you don't mind, but I bought Timmy a baseball mitt for Christmas. I realize it was presumptuous of me to do something like that without talking to you first.”

Jody wasn't sure how she felt about Glen giving them presents. It was thoughtful, yes, but baseball mitts were expensive and it seemed to imply that there was something more than mere friendship.

“The mitt he showed me is too small for his hand,” Glen explained. “I'm surprised his coach let him play with it. If Timmy's going to pitch, and he certainly seems to have his heart set on that, then he'll need a properly fitting mitt.”

“It was very kind of you, Glen.”

“But?” He scooted off her desk, and seemed to be waiting for her to chastise him.

“Timmy will think he's in heaven.” Jody couldn't make herself berate Glen. She wouldn't have known Timmy's mitt was too small if Glen hadn't told her. If anything, he'd proved Timmy's point. Her son needed a father's loving guidance.

Glen looked at his watch. “I better get back to my office. I have to be in court later this morning.”

“Thanks for stopping by.”

“No problem. How about dinner one night this week?”

Before Jody even thought about what she was doing, she nodded.

This was a pivotal moment for her.

She'd welcomed another man into her life, calmly accepted his companionship. She had taken for granted that she would see Glen again and soon. More earth-shattering was how much she was looking forward to spending more time with him.

Some of what she was feeling must have leaked into her eyes, because Glen didn't leave. Slowly, he walked around to her side of the desk, claimed a second chair, and sat down next to her.

“What just happened?” he asked, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “Something clicked in your mind just now. I could see it as plain as day. Tell me what it was.”

“I realized how pleased I was that we're dating.”

He laughed, and Jody was certain he didn't understand the significance of what she was saying. For the last seven years she'd lived her life in limbo. The still, shadow-filled existence had become a shelter to her. It had protected her from exposing her heart to any additional pain. What she had missed in all those years, wrapped in a cocoon of safety, didn't bear thinking about.

Now here, out of the blue, like a miracle, was a man who'd gently pushed and prodded his way past the barriers of her resolve. A man who hadn't asked her to stop loving Jeff. He hadn't attempted to push her dead husband out of her life. All he'd asked was that she make room for him.

“Glen?”

“Yes.” He reached for her hand, holding it lightly in his own.

Where she found the courage, she didn't know. Didn't question. All at once it was there, like the warming rays of dawn at the end of a long, cold night. “Would you like to marry me?”

At first her words were met with a shock-filled silence. Glen looked at her as if he suspected he hadn't heard her correctly. “Did you just say what I think you did?”

Jody had never been more embarrassed in her life. She hadn't a clue what had prompted her to ask such a thing. All at once the thought was there, and the words had tumbled from her lips like awkward chunks of ice over the edge of a pitcher. She wanted to reach out and jerk back the question, but before she had a chance to do or say anything more, Glen spoke.

“I would consider it the greatest honor of my life to be your husband and Timmy's stepfather.”

“I shouldn't have—”

“You should have,” Glen interrupted with feeling. “I just never dreamed this would happen so soon.” He looked at his watch once more and she could see the regret work its way into his eyes.

“We'll talk about it later,” she promised.

“Set the date, Jody. We can shop for an engagement ring this weekend.” How eager he sounded, how pleased.

Maybe it wasn't such a crazy idea after all. She'd waited so long and here was an opportunity of a lifetime. Here was a chance of finding happiness and she was grabbing hold of it with both hands.

Yes, it was happening so fast, but that was the way she wanted it. If she had too much time to think about remarrying, she might find an excuse to change her mind.

“Let's get married in January, after the holidays,” she blurted out, as Glen headed for the door.

He turned around and flashed her a smile that rivaled the noonday sun. “January it is.”

“Y
es!” Shirley did a leap into the air off the filing cabinet, both hands raised in jubilation. A stack of papers went flying in all directions and Jody whirled around.

“What was that?” she asked as the papers fluttered to the ground.

Another woman in the office said, “It's that damn heating vent. It sends out a rush of hot air every now and again.” She rolled her chair over to Jody. “Here, let me help you pick those up.”

Jody looked up and frowned. The heating vent wasn't anywhere near the filing cabinet.

Shirley stayed plastered against the ceiling, her hands covering her mouth. “Oops,” she whispered.

“Don't you think we should contact the maintenance man?”

“Naw,” the other woman said. “It doesn't happen that often.”

“Hey,” Jody murmured, “look at this. It's a feather. How do you suppose a feather got in here?”

“I haven't got a clue,” her friend said, handing her a stack of papers.

Shirley left before she caused any further damage and ascended directly toward the golden light of heaven, exhilarated with this unexpected turn of events.

To her delight Gabriel was waiting for her.

“Come in, come in,” he greeted her. He was a magnificent angel, tall and regal looking, an impressive sight after a steady stream of men of the earth. For a fraction of a second Shirley admired the strength and power exuding from him.

“You're here to report about Timmy Potter?” Gabriel asked in a no-nonsense tone.

“That's right,” Shirley said, nodding. “My mission's accomplished, Timmy's mother became engaged to Glen Richardson this morning.”

“Glen Richardson,” Gabriel repeated. He walked over to the desk where the cumbersome volume was stored and flipped open the thick book. He ran his finger down the page until he found Glen's name, then looked up at Shirley and frowned.

“He's a wonderful man and will make Timmy an excellent father,” Shirley hurried to say. She strained her eyes to read what Gabriel seemed to question, but wasn't able to see anything beyond the archangel's massive hand.

“You need to return to earth right away,” Gabriel continued. “There's been some misunderstanding. Jody and Timmy are going to need you. The winds of trouble are brewing.”

“You can't tell me anything more than that?” Shirley asked. She should have known it wouldn't be this easy, especially since she was so new at this.

“There's nothing more I can tell you,” Gabriel said, and she heard the regret in his voice.

“But . . .”

“Go,” Gabriel said, spreading his massive wings. “You have work to do.”

F
or years Leah had avoided the infant sections of department stores. Now she found herself drawn to them as if a magnet were luring her in their direction.

She was supposed to be Christmas shopping, instead she wandered about looking at beautifully crafted cribs, lovingly running her hand over the polished wood railings. The joy that blossomed in her heart was strong.

She was going to have a baby.

After all these years she was about to bear a child. Her waiting, her pain had come to pass.

Andrew's words of warning echoed harshly in the back of her mind. How she wished she could find some way to explain the deep certainty she experienced. She yearned to rub away his doubts and lend him the assurance she'd felt from that very first morning.

Soon she would be able to look him in the eye and tell him her body was nurturing his seed. For years she'd carried this dream with her, of watching her husband's expression when she told him he would soon be a father.

Nothing could have pleased her more than to purchase a complete layette right then and there, but she didn't want to risk another confrontation with Andrew. They had all the baby furniture they'd ever need in storage. Once Dr. Benoit had confirmed her pregnancy, there'd be plenty of time to set up a nursery.

Her appointment wasn't until the twenty-third, but she was fortunate to get one as quickly as that, so she wasn't complaining. Seeing the doctor that close to Christmas had its advantages. That way she wouldn't need to wait long to make the announcement to both sets of parents. If she saw Dr. Benoit any sooner, she'd never have been able to keep the happy news to herself.

Andrew's mother would be thrilled. Her own, too, of course, but her parents had plenty of grandchildren, while Shirley Lundberg impatiently waited for her first.

Leah had had names picked out for years. If they had a girl her name would be either Sarah, Hannah, or Elizabeth. A son would be named Isaac, Samuel, or John. Few understood the significance or what had prompted her decision.

The names were Biblical. Leah shared a good deal in common with the three women. Sarah, Hannah, and Elizabeth had been barren too, but God had heard their prayers and answered them with the birth of their firstborn child. As it happened, all three were boys, and those were the names she'd chosen for her own child, should she bear a son.

Deep in her heart, Leah felt this child was a miracle. He was a testament to faith. Over the years her hope had grown weak and faltered, but God had listened. He'd heard her cries. Even when it seemed all that was returned to her was the echo of her own sobs, God had been faithful.

Unable to leave the infant department without purchasing one small item, Leah opted for a beautiful sterling silver Christmas tree ornament for Andrew with Baby's First Christmas beautifully inscribed in the silver. Technically she was a year early, but she was eager for Andrew's reaction when he opened this gift. By then he'd know for certain she was pregnant.

As she suspected, her husband was waiting for her when she arrived home from her Christmas shopping spree. He trailed behind her from the garage all the way into the guest bedroom, where she stored the unwrapped gifts.

“How'd the shopping go?” he asked, following close on her heels.

Leah set her purchases on the bed and tossed him a saucy smile over her shoulder. “Very well, thank you.”

“Did you buy me anything?” One thing she'd always loved about Andrew was his childlike attitude toward Christmas. He was like a little kid about presents. He played silly guessing games with her, checked out the packages under the tree as often as he dared, and shook his gifts until they were in danger of being broken.