A Season of Angels (19 page)

“I might have found you something,” she answered cryptically, “and then again I might not.”

“But you did,” he said, sounding confident. He leaned against the doorway and cupped his hands behind his head, as if he had it all figured out. His pose suggested that she needn't wrap the gifts since he knew everything she'd bought anyway.

“You were gone a long time,” he commented.

“Hmmm,” she said, bringing the Christmas wrap out from the closet.

“Where'd you go?”

“Andrew, honestly!”

“Did you know the golf store was having a sale?”

“That does it,” Leah said, throwing her arms in the air. “Scoot. I'm going to wrap these and I can't do it with you standing over my shoulder watching every move I make.”

“Yes, but you have some great moves.”

“Andrew, please, I'm serious. Scoot.”

“Aha. So you did buy me something!”

“Good-bye, darling.” She walked over to the door and closed it. The latch clicked softly into place.

Andrew stood stubbornly on the other side, refusing to leave. “You'll call me if you need anything, right?” he asked, sounding downright cordial.

“In a heartbeat.”

A minute passed, perhaps two, but no longer. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No, thank you. Andrew, why don't you go in and watch television for a while?”

“Nothing good's on.”

“What about football?”

“The game's over. How long is it going to take you to finish?”

“I can't rightly say.” Was it any wonder family and friends made fun of her gift-wrapping efforts? She used more tape than any three people. She couldn't wrap a single gift without being hounded by her husband, who behaved more like a six-year-old than a mature adult.

A long, slow release of breath followed her announcement. “I'm going to make a cup of hot chocolate,” he said, sounding as if he'd lost his last friend.

“Make two,” she called out. She'd finish up later. By some miracle she'd managed to wrap everything she'd purchased for him, including a box of golf balls. The man had a sixth sense when it came to ferreting out his gifts.

Andrew was carrying steaming mugs of hot chocolate into the living room by the time she'd put everything away. They kicked off their shoes and snuggled up together on the sofa.

“When's your doctor's appointment?” Andrew asked, rubbing his chin along the side of her head. Leah was convinced she'd told him no less than three times. “The twenty-third.”

He didn't say anything for a couple of moments. “How are you feeling?”

“Wonderful.” Leah smiled to herself. He was becoming a believer. Bit by bit, little by little, as each day passed. Like her, he was afraid to believe. Like her, he couldn't make himself not do so.

“You know what I was thinking this afternoon?” she said, tilting back her head so their eyes could meet. “I'd like to start attending church services again.”

“What brought this on?”

“I don't know. I realized it's been months since we last went to church. Far too long, and you know what? I miss it.”

“I've always loved singing Christmas carols,” Andrew said wistfully.

Leah nearly choked on her hot chocolate. “You can't sing.”

“I know,” he admitted readily, his eyes bright with silent laughter, “but that never stopped me.”

“I noticed.” She loved to tease him. It felt good to be together like this. “You wouldn't mind then if we went back to church?”

His eyes met hers. “Why should I? I think it's a good idea.”

Leah nestled back into the warm security of his arms.

“It seems we have a good deal to be grateful for lately.”

“Yes, it does,” she agreed.

The moment was peaceful and serene and Leah happily traipsed along the meandering path of her thoughts. They led her on the same well-traveled road she'd traversed so often, trying to picture what Andrew's and her child would be like. She hoped, boy or girl, that their baby would inherit her husband's love of life, his excitement and joy for the little things.

“Leah,” he said after a moment, “do you still believe you're pregnant?”

“I know I am. It's there—that confident feeling inside me. We're going to have a child, Andrew.”

“You realize you've got me believing it now too, don't you?”

“Yes, and that's even better.”

“This could be dangerous thinking for us both. We might be setting ourselves up for another major disappointment, and I don't think either one of us can take many more.”

“We aren't,” she assured him, not doubting, not even for an instant. “Here, feel,” she said, taking the hot chocolate and setting it aside. Then, reaching for his hand, she pressed his palm against her stomach, holding it there, her fingers pressed over his. “Now tell me what you believe.”

He was silent for what seemed like an eternity before he wrapped his arms around her and brought her tight against him, holding her as if he were suddenly afraid and needed someone to cling to.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I know,” he whispered, and when they kissed she realized he was trembling.

“M
onica,” her father said, walking into the living room, his look contemplative. “Michael called again.”

The needle was poised in her fingers, ready to pierce the linen fabric. “I don't feel much like talking, Dad. Would you make my excuses?”

“I explained you were a little under the weather.”

She pulled the thread through the material. “Thank you.” The needlepoint was a means of occupying her mind, but she doubted that she'd ever finish this project. The Ten Commandments were filled with Thou Shalt Not and that was the way she'd viewed life. Her views had subtly changed, thanks to knowing Chet.

Her father claimed his favorite chair across from her and reached for his Bible. He opened it and silently read for several moments before he gently closed the yellowed pages and set the leather-bound book aside.

“I've waited now for three days for you to tell me why you're so low. I don't know that I have the patience to hold out much longer.”

Monica set aside the needlepoint, not knowing where to begin or how. The pain was too fresh yet, too raw. She lowered her gaze to her lap and clenched her hands together. Her father was a patient man, and she prayed he'd understand her hesitation.

He gave her a few moments, then leaned toward her and gently patted her knee. “It's at times like these that I wish your mother were alive. She'd be much better at understanding what's wrong than I am. Funny, isn't it,” he said with a sad sort of laugh, “I counsel people from all walks of life and I can't help my own daughter.”

“Dad, it's not that.”

“I know, love. If it will make it easier, you don't need to tell me there's a man involved in all this. I have eyes in my head. In the beginning I believed it was Michael, but it's obvious he's not the one.” He reached for his handkerchief and methodically cleaned his glasses. “I apologize for playing the role of the matchmaker with you two. I should have known better. I'm an old man who would like grandchildren someday.”

Monica closed her eyes to a fresh wave of pain. Now there would be no children, because there was no Chet. It was melodramatic to think she would never fall in love again, never marry. But right then that was exactly how she felt.

“Whoever this young man is I'd like to thank him,” her father continued after a lengthy silence.

“You don't know him, Dad.”

“It doesn't matter.”

She was forever grateful he didn't play a game of cat and mouse, attempting to guess Chet's identity.

“For the first time since you entered your twenties you've taken your eyes off yourself. You've worked so hard to do the right thing, to be the perfect example of God's love to others. Soon you focused all your efforts on yourself and how good you were. It was then that you started to notice the flaws in others. It became a vicious circle and I couldn't seem to reach you with the truth.”

Monica raised her gaze to his. “I don't understand.”

“Forgive me for sounding like the preacher I am. You're my only child and I love you more than words can say, but there've been times I wanted to take you by the shoulders and shake you good and hard.”

“For what?” Although she asked the question, Monica was well aware of the answer.

“For standing in judgment of others instead of trying to look at them through God's eyes,” her father continued.

“The man, his . . . his name is Chet,” she whispered, feeling she owed her father some explanation. “I met him downtown, the first time the ensemble sang. He was going into a tavern and I tried to stop him by telling him how wrong it was for him to drink.”

Her father smiled at that and settled back in his chair. “I suspect he didn't listen to you.”

“No, quite the opposite. He laughed.” She did too then, at the memory. Softly, sadly. “We met again by accident later and several times more by design.

“I couldn't understand what it was I found so intriguing about him. He's not like anyone I've ever known.”

“You've been raised in the church. Your experience with the world has been limited.”

She reached for a tissue and twisted it between her fingers. “He's a former policeman and has lived a hard life. He's done things neither of us would ever dream of doing. He's been shot and sometimes carries a gun, although he doesn't realize I know that.”

“A gun?”

“At first glance he looks rough and mean,” she hurried to explain, “but on the inside . . . I don't think I could have found a better man to love. He was honest when he didn't need to be, and gentle. There were any number of times he could have seduced me and didn't.”

“I see.”

The strain in her father's voice produced a small smile. She shouldn't have told him that part. Any father would have reacted the same.

“He's so damn noble I could cry . . . and have,” she said, clenching her fists.

“I take it he's the one who insisted you not see each other again?”

Monica nodded. “He never said he loved me, but I know he does. He loves me so much he was willing to send me away rather than take the chance of hurting me.”

“Monica,” her father pleaded, “why didn't you bring him to meet me?”

It was a question that had plagued her as well. One she'd repeatedly asked herself the last few days. Chet had claimed he wanted it to end before there were more regrets, but she'd stewed in them for days. She feared Chet had assumed she was ashamed of him and that simply wasn't the case.

“I don't know why I didn't introduce you. I guess I was afraid you'd think ill of him, or me.”

“But, Monica, you love this man. That would have been enough of a character endorsement for me. Your mother and I raised you and if you can't judge a man's worth by now then you wouldn't be our daughter.”

“Oh, Dad, I wish I'd done so many things differently and now it's too late. Forgive me for not trusting you. I've been wrong about so much.”

Her father patted her knee once more. “There's a special man for you. Remember how hurt you were when you learned Patrick was engaged.”

Patrick. She'd nearly forgotten about him. It was laughable to think she'd been anything close to loving her former boyfriend. Her pride had been hurt at Patrick's surprise announcement. Far more than her ego was involved this time, and Monica sincerely doubted that she'd ever be the same again.

Chapter 16

“H
ey, man, you don't look so good,” Lou, the Blue Goose bartender said as he poured Chet another shot glass of Kentucky bourbon.

“If you're looking for a pretty face,” Chet muttered, “call Trixie.”

“You got the flu?”

“Yeah,” Chet said, thinking that would get Lou off his back. He wasn't interested in company or conversation.

“Then get the hell out of here,” Lou continued. “No one wants to be sick for Christmas.”

Christmas. It was just another day like all the others as far as Chet was concerned. Christmas was for families and he didn't have one. No one bought him gifts, and there certainly wasn't anyone he cared enough to buy one for other than . . . His thoughts came to a grinding halt.

Funny how a woman could mess up a man's mind. He'd known Monica what . . . two, three weeks? He'd lost count and within that short amount of time she'd managed to worm her way into his heart until she was like a virus that had spread to every part of his body.

He couldn't eat or sleep for want of her. He couldn't close his eyes without his head filling up with thoughts of her. Nor could he get the image of her out of his mind. The one of her standing at the end of the pier, the wind ruffling her hair, her beautiful eyes bright with tears . . . and love. A love so damn strong it was like a torchlight beaming directly at him.

That final picture of her would haunt him to the grave. He didn't know how he was going to get through the rest of his life without her.

The rest of his life.
Chet nearly laughed out loud. What life? That was the real question. He was sick to death of the endless lies, the constant need for charades, flirting with disaster.

That's how it'd started with Monica. A game, because she irritated him. One diversion too many and this time he was paying the piper in spades.

The empty days stretched out before him, followed by cruel nights staked out in some dark alley or a cheap hotel room crawling with loneliness.

The rest of his life was reserved in hell. He was born there and had spent a good majority of his carelessly lived existence there, except for one brief furlough with a preacher's daughter. Just long enough for him to taste what could have been his, so he'd know exactly what it was he'd thrown away.

He emptied his drink, slapped the money down on the bar, and stood. The room spun and he shook his head, hoping that would help. It was too damn early in the afternoon to be drunk.

When he left the Blue Goose the cold hit him like a sharp claw. He squinted in the sunlight, cursing it as much as he cursed himself. The only person he had to blame for this was himself.

This was what he got for involving himself with a missionary. He'd known from the first time he kissed Monica that something like this would happen. It hadn't stopped him from seeing her again. It hadn't stopped him from caring. Nor had it stopped him from nearly screwing up her life.

The walk back to his office did him good. He was beginning to think he might be able to pull himself together and accomplish something by the end of the day, when he strolled past the department store window. Santa was there, and a long line of kids were waiting for him to listen to their wish lists. A little boy was squirming in his lap.

Something about the kid reached out and grabbed Chet by the gut. Perhaps it was the boy's eyes, maybe it was the color of the kid's hair, which was close to his own. It came to Chet then as unwelcome pain. If his life had been different, he might have had a son.

That fantasy along with everything else had been destroyed years ago when he'd been brash and naive enough to believe in justice and truth. Years ago before Tom was murdered, before he hadn't been able to save his partner.

He forced himself to keep walking until he reached his building. His office lacked welcome, but Chet had wasted enough time already. He had work to do.

He sorted through his mail and tossed it unopened into the garbage. Reaching over the top of his desk, he pushed the button for his answering machine. A series of impersonal beeps followed. No one wanted him, not even his clients.

What he needed, Chet decided, was a change of scene. He should have left this stinking city years ago. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure what it was that had prompted him to stay.

His mind made up, he pulled the phone from its jack, stuck it in the bottom desk drawer, and then searched through his filing cabinet for his lease, wishing he could remember the terms.

A knock sounded at his door.

“It's open,” he shouted, shuffling though his papers. He made decent money, but had never gotten around to hiring himself a secretary. He wished now that he had.

“I'm looking for Chet Costello.”

“You found him.” He looked up and damn near swallowed his tongue. It was Monica's father.

Lloyd Fischer grinned in recognition. “So it was you? I was guessing, you see. Monica didn't give me your surname. Then again, I didn't ask.”

“What can I do for you, Reverend Fischer?” Chet asked crisply. He wasn't going to put up with an interrogation. Fact was, he wasn't up to much more of anything.

“We're working at the Mission House,” the older man explained, looking around the room. His eyes revealed neither approval nor disapproval, just mild curiosity.

“What can I do for you?” Chet pressed a second time.

The question seemed to take the reverend by surprise and he reverted his attention to Chet. “I'm not exactly sure. Would you mind if I sat down?”

“I was just on my way out.” The last thing Chet wanted was a lengthy conversation with Monica's father.

“This won't take more than a couple of minutes,” he said, and helped himself to a chair.

The reverend was being deliberately obtuse, and Chet gritted his teeth with impatience.

“When was the last time you saw my daughter?”

“Tuesday.” Chet made a point of looking at his watch as if he needed to be someplace important soon. “If Monica didn't give you my name, how'd you find me?”

“I read your license, remember?”

He was losing it, Chet mused. He'd forgotten the old coot had caught him coming out of the side yard that night and had asked to see his identification.

“My daughter's badly hurt, you know.”

For one wild second Chet assumed Monica had been injured and the fear that seared through him burned hotter than the bullet he'd taken years earlier.

“Life's tough and then you die,” Chet stated unemotionally.

The man grinned as if he easily saw through Chet's ploy. The grin irritated Chet. “Listen, I have work to do.”

“Monica claims you love her. Is that true?”

“No.” The pain of the lie pricked his heart, but he ignored it. “Listen, if you're worried about what happened between us, let me assure you nothing did. Now, if you don't mind I've got an appointment.”

“Yes, I suppose you do,” the reverend said, slowly getting to his feet. He extended his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, young man. It's plain to see why Monica thinks so highly of you.”

Chet's chest tightened with a crippling ache as they exchanged hand shakes. “You should be beating the hell out of me for having ever touched your daughter.”

The other man's eyes gentled as he slowly shook his head. “I was young once myself, you know, and deeply in love. Monica's a woman and old enough to know her own heart. I'm not here to judge you or my daughter. I came out of curiosity to meet you. And thank you.”

“Thank me?” Lloyd Fischer was offering him gratitude when Chet had expected condemnation.

“Oh, yes, you've helped Monica tremendously.” The minister looked older now than he had when Chet first saw him the fateful day he'd met Monica. Weary and burdened. “If there's ever anything I can do for you,” he continued, “please don't hesitate to come see me.”

“Sure,” Chet said, but a man who'd lived the life he'd lived, and done the things he had, didn't make social calls to preachers.

He walked Monica's father to the door, and opened it for him, anxious for him to leave. If Lloyd Fischer stayed much longer, Chet just might start to believe in the impossible.

“She'll get over me,” he said.

The older man nodded. “I suspect you're right. In due time. She loves you, and Monica's a good deal like her mother when it comes to love.”

Chet hadn't a clue what that meant and furthermore he didn't want to know. His ladle of guilt was filled to capacity and overflowing.

“Good-bye, Chet. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.” He patted Chet's upper arm as if he were little more than a schoolboy and then ambled out of the room.

Standing in the doorway, Chet watched as Monica's father absently walked down the hallway, strolling past the elevator. He turned around, looking confused, when he reached the end of the hall.

Chet shut the door, leaned against the thick white glass, and closed his eyes. He smelled of stale beer, hadn't shaved in two days, and as a general rule looked like crap, and this man of God had thanked him for damn near deflowering his daughter.

There was something screwy somewhere, and the hell if Chet could figure out where.

He was dizzy again and decided it was probably due to the fact that he hadn't eaten since the day before. The alcohol hadn't helped.

After showering and fixing himself something to eat he felt better. He'd finished his scrambled eggs when the thought subtly presented itself to him. Monica was at the Mission House. Hadn't her father said so himself?

“No,” Chet said out loud. “I will not go down there.” He reached for his television controller, his finger poised over the Power button.

“You're a fool,” Chet muttered, already knowing there was no force on this earth that could keep him away.

He had no intention of talking to her. None. The picture windows in the place gave ample opportunity to view the inside without being noticed. He'd go down, check out what her father had said, and slip away without anyone being the wiser. It was something he'd done a thousand times before as part of his job. He was good at this sort of thing.

With purpose directing him, Chet locked up his office, and when the elevator didn't arrive fast enough to suit him, he took the stairs.

The mission was only a few doors away from his own building. It amazed Chet how easily he was able to find Monica in the crowd of workers. There seemed to be some sort of Christmas party going on. He spied Lloyd Fischer serving turkey with all the trimmings to a long line of derelicts.

Monica was in another part of the room with the children. Apparently she was telling them a story. A handful of kids were sitting on the floor looking up at the book she was holding. A toddler was fidgeting in her lap, reaching for her dangly earrings.

This was what hell must be like, Chet decided. To stand hidden in some corner and view the woman he loved so much it defied reason, and know he would never have her. Hell was watching her hold a child in her arms, and realizing she would never hold
their
child.

She was pale, Chet realized with regret, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. No wonder her father was concerned. Monica wasn't faring any better than Chet was himself. He wanted to shake some reason into her, but that was part of his hell too. He would never touch her again.

Coming here had not been one of his most brilliant ideas. He took a step back, and then another, and was ready to turn and walk away when Monica's gaze suddenly, unexplainably, locked with his.

Chet read her shock and watched the book she was holding tumble unnoticed from her fingers and fall to the floor.

Chet's heart faltered. He couldn't turn and walk away. Then she'd know his game. Then she'd know he'd purposely been spying on her. He had to do something and do it fast.

His shoes made harsh sounds against the sidewalk as he slammed into the Mission House door. He walked past the soup kitchen and moved directly to where Monica was sitting with the children. He braced his feet and glared down at her, sneering.

“Tell your father to stay away from me,” he ordered coolly.

Monica's eyes widened with shock.

Not giving her a chance to recover, he turned and walked out, leaving the door to slam in his wake.

J
ody let herself into the house that evening, same time as always. Timmy was sitting on the carpet in the family room, occupied with his video game.

“I'm home,” she told him, walking into the kitchen.

“Hi, Mom,” he called out. “Grandma called.”

Jody's blood ran cold. “Grandma Potter?”

“Yes. She wants you to call her right away. She said—oh, darn—”

“What did she say?” Jody asked, hoping to hide her anxiety. It was times such as this that she regretted ever having purchased Timmy the video game system.

“Grandma said if you didn't call her right away that she would call you.”

Jody wasn't up to another confrontation with Gloria.

“Glen's coming over for dinner,” Jody announced, watching for her son's reaction, hoping to gain confidence in his enthusiasm to spend more time with the attorney. “I thought I'd make spaghetti.”

“Sure. He'll like that.” Timmy's gaze didn't waver from the television screen, his attention rapt.

Inviting Glen to dinner so they could talk to Timmy together about their engagement had been Glen's idea. Jody had immediately seen the wisdom of it, although now she wished she'd discussed the matter of her remarrying with her son much sooner.

Jody didn't doubt that Timmy would be thrilled. After all, this was what he wanted. His nine-year-old heart had yearned for a father, and his desire was what opened her eyes to the way she'd isolated her life.

“You want to help me set the table?” she asked, although it was an hour or longer before they'd eat.