A Season of Angels (11 page)

“Don't make a big deal out of a few bucks,” he said as if he regretted the purchase.

When they came out of the store, Monica was surprised to find that it was snowing. She couldn't remember the weatherman mentioning snow. The fat flakes came down fast and furious and had already covered the sidewalk.

“I'd better hurry to the bus stop,” she said, anxious to get home before the weather made it impossible. She was already an hour later than she said she'd be.

By the time they'd climbed the steep hill to the bus stop, Monica was breathless. It seemed that everyone in town had decided to head for home at the same time. Within minutes it became clear she was in for a long wait.

“You go on,” she urged Chet. “I'll be fine.” But he refused to leave her and after waiting a half hour, Chet shook his head.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, “I'll drive you home myself.”

“But it's snowing, and the road conditions might make that impossible.”

“We'll wait out the craziness and once everything settles down I'll get my car out of the parking garage.”

He didn't leave room for her to argue, and she doubted he would have listened if she had. Chet steered her toward the exit and reached for her hand when it looked as if they might be separated in the crowd.

“Where are we going?” she asked while they were making their way down the street. The conditions were blizzardlike. They were bent nearly in half as they walked against the brunt of the storm.

Chet didn't bother to answer until they entered a redbrick building. In the foyer, he stamped the snow from his shoes and led the way to the elevator.

“Where are we?” she asked, obediently following him.

“My building, and before you get that outraged virgin look I promise I won't so much as touch you.”

“I'd better call my father or else he'll worry.” Monica sincerely doubted that he'd ever dated a woman who needed to check in with her family. She was pleased she couldn't read his thoughts.

“No problem,” Chet said. At his floor, he took her down a narrow, dark hallway. His office had his name painted on a milky white door. Chet inserted the key and opened it for her, letting her precede him.

The first thing Monica noticed was the calendar with a naked blond woman sprawled out on a blanket of black velvet. The year 1963 was printed in bold letters down the side. His desk looked as if it had weathered a war on the losing side. It was scarred and battered and so cluttered it was impossible to see any part of the surface. His chair came straight out of the 1920s. A row of antique slot machines lined one wall.

Chet made his way around her and Monica realized she'd been blocking the doorway. “This is my office,” he explained.

“Your calendar's for the wrong year,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

He laughed. “Only a woman would notice that.” He walked over to the other door and opened it. “Home, sweet home,” he said, gesturing for her to go before him.

Monica was just getting accustomed to the disarray in his office. She held her breath as she stepped into his living quarters, preparing herself for the worst.

She hesitated in the doorway. “It's not so bad,” she said, then realized she'd verbalized the thought. There appeared to be some order to his studio apartment, compared to the chaos of his office.

Dishes were washed and stacked on the drainboard and the only food on the counter was a bowl with three overripe bananas. The sofa was a large overstuffed one with a stack of laundry—she couldn't tell if it was clean or dirty—piled in one corner.

“The phone's by the television,” Chet said. “I'll make us some coffee.”

“All right,” she said, taking several tentative steps into the room and reaching for the phone. Her father answered on the second ring.

“I got caught in the snow,” she explained.

“I don't understand why you didn't leave with the others.” Her father was rarely angry, but he was close to being so now. “Just how do you propose to get home?”

“I'm an adult, Dad, I can take care of myself. Stop worrying. I'll call again if I run into any problems.” Rather than get into discourse that required explanations, she quickly ended the conversation. When she'd finished, Chet brought her a steaming mug of coffee.

“It's instant,” he said, and with one sweeping motion of his hand, he cleared the surface of the sofa.

Monica sat close to the edge of the cushions, cradling the mug with both hands, her back straight, her knees together. Rarely had she felt more out of place. She'd never been alone with a man in an apartment before and her sensibilities were badly shaken. Chet had promised to be a gentleman, and to her dismay she was sadly disappointed by his assurance.

“Relax,” Chet said, sounding irritated. “You look like you're waiting for me to pounce on you. I said I wouldn't touch you.”

She decided to ignore the comment. “Do you have any idea of how much snow is forecast?” she asked, looking for a means of light conversation. She wished now that she'd stayed and waited for a bus. No matter how tardy the transportation it would have saved them both this awkwardness.

“Sweetheart, the weatherman didn't know about this. You don't honestly expect me to figure it out, do you?”

She didn't like the way he said sweetheart. He made the term of affection sound like an insult. “I'd rather you didn't call me that.”

“What?”

“Sweetheart.”

“Why not?”

“Listen here, honeybunch,” she murmured sarcastically, “I'm not your sweetheart or anything else.”

“I didn't say you were. Let's just forget it, all right?” He stalked over to the sink and dumped what was left of his coffee. “I'll see about getting you home now.”

One look out the window told her the snow hadn't let up in the least; if anything, it was coming down heavier. Chet wanted to be rid of her and she was just as eager to go. She didn't know what she was doing with a man who hung a picture of a naked woman in his office. She was out of her element and eager to get back where she belonged.

“I can take the bus.” She felt obliged to volunteer, but it was doubtful how much longer the transit would continue to run in the heavy snow.

Chet cast her a look that told her what he thought of that idea. “Come on, this might take a while.”

Monica bundled her coat around her and hurried after him. The wind was bitterly cold as it sliced through the open garage. Chet drove a battered Chevy Impala with a tail pipe that hung so low she wondered if he could make it over a speed bump. She couldn't imagine that the faded green was a factory color.

“My Mercedes is in the shop,” he said, unlocking the passenger door for her.

Monica let herself inside and searched until she found the seat belt, clicking it into place. Chet started the engine, which came to life with the roar of a lion, and pulled out of the parking space.

The streets were terrible, and the traffic was a nightmare, but Chet was an excellent driver and managed to avoid the worst of it. Monica breathed a sigh of relief as they left the congested downtown area.

Both were quiet for several minutes, and as they neared her neighborhood, Monica tensed. “It might be a good idea if you dropped me off a block or so before the house.”

“Why? You aren't wearing boots—your feet would be drenched within minutes.”

“I know, it's just that . . .”

“It'll save you having to make explanations if your father happens to see me.”

“Yes,” she murmured, appreciating that he'd said it for her. He drove a few more blocks, before pulling over to the side of the road. The church and parsonage were within sight, but it wasn't likely that her father would notice her with Chet.

Now that she was near home, Monica wasn't eager for her time with Chet to end. She clenched her purse in her lap with both hands. “Thank you,” she whispered, fingering the mustard-seed necklace. “For everything.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“I mean it,” she said, more adamant this time. “You didn't need to do this and I appreciate everything you went through . . . even when it didn't seem like it.” Only heaven knew how long it would take him to drive back into the city. The streets were difficult enough as it was.

Chet's hands were braced against the steering wheel, his gaze focused straight ahead. “I don't know that we solved anything.”

“You're not the monster I assumed,” she said, making light of her prejudices. Honesty, however, could be a burden. Now that she'd admitted as much, she wasn't sure where that left them. Monica didn't know and she doubted that Chet did either.

“You're not quite as prudish as I believed.”

They looked toward each other and a smile blossomed between them, slow and sweet. Time stood perfectly still, but it seemed impatient as if waiting for them to act. The stillness swelled around them, cutting off sound except the silent wonder of the falling snow.

Monica didn't know who moved first. It didn't seem that either of them had, when she found her mouth inches from his. Chet was motionless. She could barely feel his breath, barely feel her own. She should move, should turn away from him and flee while she could, but she couldn't make herself do it. Enthralled, she raised her hands and placed them on his shoulders. He felt solid and strong. Her touch was all Chet needed. He bent forward and claimed her mouth in a slow, leisurely exercise.

This wasn't the way it was before. It was much better . . . much worse. She dragged her mouth from his, frustration close to the surface, but she wasn't allowed to vent that or anything else. Before she could so much as draw in a stabilizing breath, Chet caught her face and brought her mouth back to his.

His need was urgent now and he kissed her again and again as waves of confusion assaulted her. A warm, dizzy feeling began to build within her, spreading throughout her body. The sensation flooded every cell. She was aware of everything about Chet, the taste, the feel, the masculine scent of him.

When they did finally ease away from each other, neither of them seemed to know what to say.

Slowly, Monica raised her eyes to his. His gaze revealed the extent of his confusion. The same bewilderment, the same questions, the same doubts.

Monica had no idea how long they stared. The air crackled with static electricity, with sexual tension.

“You better get inside,” he said, and his voice sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of a deep well.

She nodded and turned away from him. Her hand was on the car door when he spoke again.

“Will the choir be downtown again any time soon?” he asked brusquely.

Monica wasn't so dense not to know what he wanted. He was asking to see her again. She shook her head and not daring to look at him, she said, “I was planning to do some Christmas shopping though.”

“When?”

The question shouldn't have been so difficult. Her plans had been nebulous at best. Sometime over the next weekend, but that seemed far too long to wait to see Chet again. A whole week was out of the question.

“Monday night,” she said, still not looking at him. “Around six.” Not waiting for a sign of confirmation from him, she hurriedly climbed out of the car. Walking as fast as she could, she rushed toward the house, not looking back until she reached her front porch. Only then did she chance a look over her shoulder.

Chet was parked in the same spot, she noted, waiting for her to make it safely inside the house.

Chapter 9

J
ust when everything was straight in her mind, this had to happen, Jody mused as she drove home from work Tuesday afternoon. The snow that had taken Seattle by surprise on Sunday had melted away Monday morning to a dirty slush that filled the side streets.

Jody's route from the house to the office had been traveled so often she could almost do it blind. She avoided the busy intersections by taking a side street that led her past Providence Hospital.

For reasons she couldn't explain even to herself, she pulled into the hospital parking lot and climbed out of her car. Glen had asked to take Timmy and her out for pizza Thursday evening, and she'd put him off, claiming she had to check her schedule. He'd seemed surprised and disappointed, but he hadn't questioned her further.

Timmy claimed he didn't want another father, not now, not after he'd carefully gone through Jeff's items. For the first time his natural father was real to him. It didn't seem right to start another relationship now.

The nativity scene had been up for several days and she'd driven past it for the last seven years without ever stopping. Now seemed the perfect time. Now seemed the worst possible moment.

She walked over and stood before the manger scene, and breathed in the serenity.

“Jeff,” she whispered, “help me.” She didn't honestly expect him to hear her, nor did she believe it was possible for him to respond to her despondent prayer. Yet she reached out to him, because she wasn't sure which way to turn.

“You'd like Glen,” she whispered. “He's the kind of man you would have called a friend.”

The only sounds that returned to her were from the traffic in the streets.

This wasn't helping, Jody realized. Nor was it hurting. She took a few more minutes to soak in whatever comfort she could before returning to the car.

Timmy was waiting for her. Every day she called the babysitter when she left the office and Timmy walked down the block, unlocked the house, and was there when she arrived home a few minutes later. It made him feel less of a kid and more of a young adult. Less of a Timmy and more of a Tim.

The lights shone from the windows as she pulled into the driveway. Timmy was in the family room, the football video game blaring from the television screen.

“Glen called,” he told her when she joined him.

“Did you bring in the mail?”

“It's on the counter. Nothing interesting, just bills.”

Jody sorted through the small stack, disappointed not to receive so much as a single Christmas card. Her own had yet to be mailed.

“Are you going to call Glen back?” Timmy wanted to know as he expertly manipulated the game control.

“In a minute.” She scooted the ottoman over to her son, who was kneeling on the floor, intent on his game. “Can we talk?”

“In a minute, Mom, I'm just to the good part.”

“Are you ready to save the world again?”

He broke his concentration long enough to cast her a disgruntled look. “You can't do that with football.”

“Oh.”

Apparently having lost, he groaned and set aside the controller. “Okay,” he said, looking at her expectantly. “I'm ready.”

“Glen wanted to take us out to dinner one day this week. What do you think?”

Timmy's eyes brightened with enthusiasm before his gaze slid to the row of trophies he'd set out the night before on the fireplace mantel.

“I don't need another dad.”

“I remember you said that earlier, I just wanted to be sure you meant it.”

Although he looked disappointed, Timmy said, “I meant it. You'd better call Glen back and tell him no.”

Timmy was unusually quiet during dinner, but Jody wasn't up to much conversation herself. After she'd finished the dishes, she phoned Glen, and was grateful when his answering machine came on. It was a cowardly thing to do, but she left a message on his recorder declining his offer to take Timmy and her to dinner.

Timmy was sound asleep when the doorbell chimed. Jody glanced at her watch, wondering who'd be dropping by unannounced at this late hour. She hesitated, then realized anyone who intended to do her harm wasn't likely to ring the doorbell first.

Glen stood on the other side of the door.

“Glen.”

“I know it's late, but do you have a moment?”

“Of course,” she said, stepping aside.

A blast of cold air accompanied him as he stepped into her house. He rubbed his hands together and cast her an apologetic look.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“If you don't mind,” he said, continuing to look uneasy. “I shouldn't have come.”

Jody felt a twinge of guilt over the way she'd rejected his offer to take Timmy and her out for pizza. It had been a cowardly thing to do.

“Please, sit down,” she said, motioning toward the kitchen table while she assembled a pot of coffee and waited for the liquid to drain through.

Glen stood until she'd finished with the coffee before he took a seat himself. Jody guessed that this didn't have anything to do with manners. He seemed preoccupied and nervous.

“I'm not exactly sure what I want to say,” he began, stretching his arms across her tabletop. “I don't doubt that I'm making a fool of myself. I seem to do that when it comes to dealing with women.”

“I'm sure that's not true.” Jody's guilt was mounting until it was a palatable thing. Glen was one of the nicest men she'd ever known.

“I guess the real reason I'm here is to ask you what I did wrong.”

“You didn't do anything wrong.”

“I realize I was rushing you and if I haven't already apologized for that, then I am now. I . . . it's just that I think the world of you and Timmy, and knowing I'd done something—”

“Glen,” she said, interrupting him. “Believe me, please, it isn't anything you said or did. Timmy received a package from his grandmother, Jeff's mother, with things that had been Jeff's as a boy, and now . . .”

“And now,” Glen finished for her, “Timmy feels another man in his life would be betraying his father's memory.” Glen grew silent for a moment, then slowly he leveled his gaze on her. “More important, so would you. I know how much you loved Jeff,” he continued, his voice gaining conviction, “that was one of the things that attracted me to you the most. You're not the kind of woman who'd give her heart lightly, and when you do, it means something.”

The compliment made her uncomfortable.

“That appeals to me, Jody, because I'm that kind of person myself. I didn't fall in love until recently and it's been hell getting over that relationship. Love means more to me than being sexually compatible. It means being an important part of your life as you'll be in mine. It means encouraging you to be everything you've ever wanted to be, sharing in your triumphs and comforting you in your failures. It means giving you the courage to try again. That's what love is all about.”

Jody didn't know what to say. She wasn't likely to meet anyone like Glen in a good long time. A man who looked outside himself was a rarity. He'd spoken of his broken relationship and the pain it had brought him, and yet he was willing to trust again, willing to love again.

“I've been thinking about marriage for a long time,” Glen went on. “And because of that I've put unnecessary pressure on you and Timmy. I want you to know how sorry I am.”

“Please,” she said, “don't apologize again. It isn't anything you've done.”

He stood as if sitting had become intolerable. “I want you to know I don't plan on taking Jeff away from you and Timmy. It would be impossible. All I'm asking is that you give me a chance to prove myself to you. All I'm asking is that you make room in your life for me.”

Jody recalled the way her son's eyes had lit up when she mentioned the outing with Glen and how that expression had gradually faded as he looked at the trophies that had once belonged to his father. Like her, Timmy had assumed having dinner with another man would betray Jeff's memory.

Glen plowed his hand through his hair. “I realize men aren't supposed to react to rejection like this. We're supposed be flippant and to take it on the chin and all that. Forgive me, Jody, if I've made you uncomfortable. I hope I haven't embarrassed you, but I wanted to speak my piece. I figured I'd better do it while I had the courage.” He turned and walked out of her kitchen.

He was at the front door before she stopped him. “Glen?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for stopping by. You've given me something to think about. I'll . . . probably see you at the copy machine soon.”

He nodded and his soft, dark eyes held hers captive. “I can be patient, Jody, I just haven't proved it yet, but I promise you I will.” With that, he turned and let himself out the door.

“H
ere they come.” Bonnie Stewart stuck her head in the labor room door where Leah was stripping the sheets from the bed. Her patient had recently delivered a healthy eight-pound baby girl, her third child. The labor and delivery had gone smoothly and mother and father were delighted with their latest addition.

Leah's shift had been over half an hour earlier and she'd hoped to be long gone before the birthing-class tour group arrived. There was something about ten pregnant woman parading through the labor and delivery rooms that left a sour taste in her mouth.

She was being unfair, Leah realized, but meeting with these groups had always been a painful experience for her. Dealing with the mothers-to-be, one and often two or three at a time, was challenge enough. A roomful tested the very limits of her patience.

“I'll be out of here in nothing flat,” Leah tossed over her shoulder. Bonnie didn't know the extent of Leah's dislike for these predelivery tours, but she was aware enough to warn her the little darlings were on their way.

“Leah, hello.”

Once Leah had been asked to be a guest speaker for one of the birthing classes and she'd talked briefly about labor and delivery and answered an hour or more of questions. As luck would have it, the tour guide was Jo Ann Rossini who'd been the instructor for the class Leah had visited. Jo Ann walked into the room with ten or more women, all in varying stages of pregnancy.

“Ladies, this is the nurse I mentioned earlier. I sincerely hope one of you is lucky enough to go into labor during Leah's shift. Leah Lundberg is one of the most wonderful labor coaches you're likely to meet.”

Leah appreciated Jo Ann's kind words, but she was eager to escape.

“I'll be out of your way in just a moment,” Leah said, bundling up the sheets and stuffing them in the laundry basket.

“There's no need to hurry. You'd probably do a much better job of giving a tour around the labor room than me,” Jo Ann insisted.

“Leah's shift was over a half hour ago,” Bonnie said, coming in. Leah was so grateful she could have kissed her fellow nurse, not that staying beyond when they were scheduled was anything out of the ordinary. It was part and parcel of her job, which, despite everything, Leah loved.

“Would you mind if we asked you a couple of questions?” A timid voice rose from the back of the group. The girl didn't look to be any more than eighteen, with eyes the size of poker chips. Her hand rested on her protruding stomach, which she rubbed as if to reassure her unborn child.

“I've only got a few moments.”

“My mother said only a woman who's been through labor and birth can fully appreciate what it's like for another woman,” one of the other mothers-to-be added loudly. She was large and brusque and looked as if she wanted to punish her husband for getting her into this predicament. “Don't you think that's true?” she added on a brash note.

“Ah . . .” This definitely wasn't an area Leah wanted to address. “A doctor doesn't have to experience a festering cut to know how to treat one,” she said, making sure no emotion bled into the words.

“How long can we expect the labor to last?” came another question. This one was less intrusive.

“It's different with every woman, as individual as we each are. I've seen women who suffer little more than a few twinges of pain, and others who feel like they're giving birth to a grand piano. Labor can last anywhere from a few minutes to days.”

“That long?” It was the same timid voice that had spoken earlier.

“Just remember the vast majority are within the normal range.”

“Thank you, Leah,” Jo Ann said, stepping forward. “We appreciate your taking the time for this. I know you're on your way home so we won't keep you any longer. Remember Leah,” Jo Ann said, speaking to her class. “Because once you've had her with you during labor you aren't likely to ever forget her.”

“One last question.” The same brassy woman who'd spoken earlier did so again. “Tell us how many children you've had yourself.”

Leah looked at the other woman, her gaze connecting with hers. “None,” she said, then turned and walked out of the room. Her steps gained speed as she hurried down the hallway, tears blurring her eyes.

“B
remerton,” Shirley said, joining Mercy on the deserted flight deck of the aircraft carrier
Nimitz.
Bright stars dappled the crisp December night like beacons from home. “Why in the name of heaven did you decide we should meet here?”

“I like ships, especially navy ones.”

Goodness shared a meaningful look with Shirley. “You haven't done anything, have you?”

Mercy's eyes widened as if she were offended by the suggestion. “Good grief, I know better than to move ships around.”

“Gabriel wouldn't ignore that,” Shirley said, folding her arms and glancing approvingly toward Mercy as if to say she appreciated the maturity Mercy revealed.

“Gabriel, nothing,” Mercy said, “I don't plan on tangling with the U.S. Navy. They can be real sticklers about that sort of thing, although it would be fun just once to—”