A Season of Angels (3 page)

“Not technically perhaps, but there you were, pretty as a picture gazing up at me, asking for a kiss.”

Monica bristled. “I most certainly was not.”

“It felt good to be in my arms too, didn't it?”

“I beg your pardon?” Monica stared at him in numb disbelief. Was the man so arrogant he actually assumed she'd hurl herself into open space on the off chance a man would catch her? He was being ridiculous and she took delight in telling him as much.

He was smiling when she finished, a cocky off-center smile that lifted the edges at one side of his mouth. “I'd say, from the look of you, having a man hold and kiss you is exactly what you need.”

This sounded like a threat to Monica, and she pinched her lips together and retreated a step. “You're disgusting!”

He raised his hands, palms up. “I'm just an innocent bystander. I was minding my own business, looking for nothing better than to drown my sorrows in a cold beer when you catapulted into my arms. The way I look at it, you should be thanking your lucky stars I was here to catch you.”

“You were headed toward the Blue Goose?” she asked, realizing now why he'd been so determined to cut through the crowd. He wanted a drink.

“Lady, after the day I've had, you'd need a beer too.”

“Don't,” she pleaded, urgently taking a step toward him.

He glared at her, and his beige trench coat fanned out at his sides. The cold cut through Monica, but it didn't seem to bother him. “Don't what?” he demanded impatiently.

“Drink. There are better ways of dealing with problems other than alcohol.”

“Lady . . .”

“My name's Monica. Monica Fischer,” she said, holding out her hand to him. He looked at it for a moment as if he were going to ignore it before reluctantly exchanging handshakes.

“And you're . . .”

“Sorry I ever met you,” he muttered.

“Please, let my friends and me help you,” she said, gesturing toward the ensemble standing on the risers, singing the last of the songs.

“Listen, all I want is a cold beer and some peace and quiet. I've been on a stakeout for the past twenty hours and I . . .”

“You're with the police?”

He hesitated, and it was evident by the way he glanced longingly toward the Blue Goose that he had other matters on his mind. “I'm a private detective,” he admitted. “There, does that satisfy you?”

“You must be tired,” she tried again, thinking fast, hoping to convince him of the error of his ways.

“And getting more so every minute. Good-bye, Marcia.”

“Monica,” she corrected. She hurried after him, convinced she owed him this much for having saved her from certain injury.

“Whatever,” he said, without looking her way. “Have a good day.”

“Has anyone ever talked to you about the direction your life is headed?” she asked, scurrying to keep pace with him. She was tall, but he was taller and it took two of her strides to equal one of his.

“Are you going to preach at me next? Trust me, the last thing I need now is a sermon.”

“Not if you promise me you won't drink.”

“Listen,” he said, stopping abruptly, “I'm trying to be as polite as I can, but my patience for this malarkey is long gone. I'm a responsible adult and I don't have a problem with alcohol, so if you don't mind, I'd prefer to be left alone.”

“You're drinking beer, aren't you, and it's barely afternoon,” Monica insisted. “Anyone who needs alcohol this early in the day must be addicted.”

“Fine, then, to satisfy you, I'll order coffee. There, are you happy?”

Monica knew a lie when she heard one. “Don't try to appease me with lies,” she said, glaring at him.

They'd crossed the street by this time and he continued to ignore her as much as possible, but Monica was making that difficult. She didn't know what was driving her to behave so uncharacteristically. Normally she wasn't nearly as aggressive; she was weak on evangelism, but this man desperately needed help and she was returning a favor. He'd saved her and now it was her turn to do him a good deed and rescue him, although it was clear he didn't appreciate or welcome her efforts.

They'd reached the Blue Goose and Monica hurled herself against the thick wood door, flinging out her arms until she stood spread-eagled across the entrance.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he demanded, glaring at her.

“I'm saving you from yourself.”

“Go save someone else, would you?” His eyes were formidable, cold and cutting, but Monica refused to back away.

“I'm doing this for your own good.”

He clamped his mouth closed and appeared to be counting to ten. His head nodded with each number and by the time he reached eight, his patience had evaporated. “Either you move or I'll be forced to move you myself and I guarantee you won't approve of my methods.”

Monica was saved from having to make a decision when the door opened and she was momentarily pushed to one side. By the time she'd turned around and recovered, her reluctant hero had disappeared. It didn't take her two seconds to know where he'd gone. For half a heartbeat she toyed with the notion of going inside the Blue Goose after him.

Defeated and mildly discouraged, Monica trudged her way across the street. The other choir members were mingling with the crowd, passing out invitations for the Christmas Eve service. The idea had been her father's and although Monica feared they might attract riffraff from the streets, she hadn't said as much. It wouldn't do any good to argue with her father, not when he had such a soft spot in his heart for street people.

“Monica.” Michael Simpson, the director, edged his way around two altos and moved toward her. “What happened?”

“I lost my balance and fell off the riser,” she explained.

His eyes widened. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “A . . . someone caught me.”

“I'm glad you weren't hurt.” His smile was shy as he gently patted her hand. “I wanted to congratulate you on your solo.”

“But . . .”

“Your voice was never more pure.”

Monica gestured weakly. To accept the credit would have been wrong. “But another voice joined mine. Didn't you hear it? I swear it came out of nowhere.”

“Another voice?” Michael asked, frowning. “I only heard you, and you were magnificent. You really outdid yourself.”

“Monica, Monica.” The Reverend Fischer hurried to his daughter's side and clasped her hand between his. His eyes shone bright with tears. “I've never heard you sing more beautifully. You sounded so much like your mother. I'd almost forgotten what a stunning voice she had. This is God's gift to you, this voice.”

“But, Dad . . .” She stopped, not knowing how to explain. There had been another voice that merged with hers. One that didn't happen to belong to anyone in the choir. It didn't belong to anyone she knew.

“G
oodness, Goodness, Goodness,” Mercy said in that small chiding tone Gabriel had used with her so often in the past. “You were the one singing, weren't you?”

Goodness did not attempt to deny it. “I couldn't help it. ‘Silent Night' is one of my personal favorites.”

“But she heard you.”

“I know.” That part had been unintentional. Simply put, Goodness had gotten carried away with herself. But she had used considerable restraint. No one, however, seemed to appreciate that part. She could have used Barbra Streisand's voice. Barbra could really belt out “Silent Night,” or Judy Garland. Now, that would have caused a whole lot of comment. To her credit, Goodness had resisted, although on second thought, she did an excellent Carol Burnett.

“What if Gabriel hears about this?”

“Don't worry about it.” The archangel would eventually find out, Goodness knew. There would be no keeping it from him, but even that hadn't been enough for her to resist singing with Monica.

“He might take you off the assignment.”

“Not a chance. Gabriel's shorthanded as it is. If he was going to pull me off this prayer request it would be for something a whole lot more troublesome than singing.” The prayer ambassador was far more concerned by the consequences of her folly. Monica had fallen into the arms of that hard-nosed, disgruntled private investigator. If anything unsavory had happened, Goodness would have held herself personally responsible.

Chapter 3

“T
immy,” Jody Potter called from the compact kitchen. “Dinner's ready.”

“In a minute.” The nine-year-old kept his gaze level with the television as he worked the controls of the video game. “I'm just about to save the world.”

“Timmy, please, we go through this every night.” Jody's nerves were on edge and had been ever since she'd found the letter. The folded sheet of paper had slipped from Timmy's school binder when she'd set it on the kitchen counter the night before.

A letter to God, but this wasn't any ordinary letter. Timmy had asked for a father. Jody's first instinct had been to sit him down and explain that he already had a father. Only Timmy had no recollection of Jeff, who'd died when Timmy was barely ten months old.

Timmy had no way of knowing how proud Jeff had been of his son. How he'd insisted on holding him each night when he returned from the office and feeding him his last bottle. Timmy didn't remember that it was his father who'd sung him to sleep and then stood by his crib, gently patting his back. Her son couldn't possibly remember that Jeff had burst into tears of joy the night Timmy had been born.

What Timmy wanted now was a father who was alive. Someone who could throw a ball and catch better than she could, according to his letter. Someone who understood and enjoyed football. Someone who would be a friend.

What Timmy accepted far better than she did herself, Jody realized, was that Jeff was forever lost to them. Her son was looking for a replacement.

“I won,” Timmy cried, leaping to his feet, holding his hands high above his head while he danced around the living room.

“I'm relieved to know the world is safe at last,” Jody muttered, carrying the meat loaf over to the round oak table. “Can we eat now?”

“I guess.” From habit, Timmy hurried into the bathroom and washed his hands, drying them against his thighs as he joined his mother moments later.

They sat down at the table together and Jody passed the vegetables.

Timmy stared down at the bowl and frowned. “I hate green beans.”

“Take three.” Jody didn't know why she chose three, but it seemed a reasonable number and she was hoping to have a heart-to-heart talk with her son. A confrontation over green beans would be detrimental to her plan.

Timmy judiciously sorted through the vegetables until he'd located three stubby green beans. Then he carefully placed them on the edge of his plate where they were in danger of slipping unnoticed onto the tablecloth. He paused and glanced up at Jody, who pretended not to notice.

She waited until he'd drowned his slice of meat loaf in catsup and loaded his plate with fruit salad and mashed potatoes before she broached the subject of his letter.

“We were supposed to write someone for Christmas,” Timmy explained after she mentioned having found it. “I'm too old for this Santa Claus stuff so I went straight to the source. It was silly anyway, the post office won't mail a letter to God. The teacher made a fuss about it and now you are too. What's the big deal?”

“Nothing,” Jody was quick to assure him. “It's just that I hadn't realized you wanted a father so badly.”

“Every kid does,” he said. “Don't they?”

“I guess.” Jody's own father had died a year earlier and she missed him still. It had been a crushing emotional blow she hadn't expected. Her father's heart attack had taken the family by surprise. Just a week earlier, he'd been in for his yearly physical and was given a clean bill of health. Both Jody and her mother had been rocked by shock and grief. She'd assumed because her father had lived a long, full life that death would be easier to accept. That hadn't been the case any more than it had been with Jeff, whose death had come without warning.

“I don't mean to be rude, Mom,” Timmy continued, burying a green bean deep in his pile of mashed potatoes, “but you can't throw a ball worth a darn and I need to practice. Mr. Dillard said I had a chance of being a really good player someday.”

“I see.”

“You're not ugly either. I bet there's some man out there who'd be willing to marry you.”

Jody had to stop and think about that one. Her son wasn't intentionally insulting her. In his eyes, he'd paid her a high compliment. “I'm sure there is someone who'd be willing to take a chance and marry me,” she said after a moment.

“You think so?” How eager he sounded. He scooted to the edge of his seat, propped his elbows against the table, and looked solidly at her. “Could you find and marry him before Christmas?”

“Timmy, be serious, Christmas is less than a month away.”

“You mean it'll take longer than that to get me a dad?”

“Yes, I'm sure it will.”

“How much longer?”

Jody shrugged, not knowing how to answer. “I . . . I don't know if I'm ready to be married again.”

“Why not?” Timmy asked, his eyes wide and innocent. “Rick Trenton told me his mom's been married three times. You've only been married once. I was thinking about that and it doesn't seem right. You're a lot prettier than Rick's mom and she's already had two more husbands than you.”

“It doesn't have to do with how pretty a woman is.”

“Then what does it have to do with?” He cocked his head to one side, awaiting her answer.

Jody wished she knew. “Marriage is a complicated business.” Much more complex than she could adequately explain to a nine-year-old boy who seemed to think she could find a husband on a grocery store shelf. She was about to suggest signing him up for Big Brothers when Timmy buried his fork in his meat and added, “Besides, I was thinking about you having a baby. I've decided I wouldn't mind if I had to share my bedroom. Rick's mom just had another baby and she let me hold him, and you know what, I kinda liked it.”

“How does Rick feel about having a little brother?”

“He thinks it's cool, especially since he's got two little sisters. Rick said you don't get a choice if it's a boy or a girl when babies are born. I don't know how I'll feel about a sister instead of a brother, but I decided I'd do what Rick does.”

“And what's that?”

“Take what he gets.”

Jody set her fork aside, her appetite gone. “That's a mature attitude,” she murmured, wondering what she was going to do next. Timmy was serious. He wanted a father. Now he was talking about a brother or sister too.

“Then you'll start looking for a new dad for me?” His big brown eyes studied her carefully as if her decision was a momentous one.

“I'll think about it,” Jody said thoughtfully. “Now eat your green beans.”

“I already did.”

“They're buried in your mashed potatoes,” she said, waving her fork at him. “Now eat.”

“Aw, Mom.”

It wasn't until after nine that night, when Timmy was sound asleep in his bed, that Jody walked over to the bookcase and took out the bulky photo album. She sat in the overstuffed chair that had been Jeff's favorite and held the book against her breast in the dim light.

For several moments she closed her eyes. It had been almost a year since she'd last looked at the pictures. Twelve long months since she'd tortured herself with the memories. Timmy was right. It was way past the time for her to pick up the pieces of her life instead of dwelling in the past. A sob swelled in her throat as she tried to figure out how she was ever going to give up loving Jeff.

“T
hat's Timmy's mother,” Gabriel said in quiet, somber tones.

Shirley looked down upon the young mother and her heart ached. “She seems to be crying. What's happened to make her so sad?”

“She's thinking about Jeff, her husband who died,” the archangel explained.

“Why does she torture herself this way?” It made no sense to Shirley that this young woman would continue to torment herself with memories.

“Jody is the problem,” Gabriel continued. “She continues to hold onto her husband. Before you can answer Timmy's prayer you've got to deal with Jody. She must learn to trust enough to willingly let go of the past and reach toward the future. If she doesn't, she'll never be ready for the man God has for her.”

“But it's been over eight years, doesn't she realize what she's doing to herself and to her son?”

“No, all she knows is the pain. Your assignment is to gently guide her toward the joy that awaits her and Timmy.”

“And you expect me to accomplish this before Christmas?”

Gabriel didn't look any more pleased about this time restraint than Shirley. “I can't spare you any longer.”

Shirley's wings stretched to their full reach, then folded over themselves once more. She'd assumed this would be a cushy assignment. After all, she'd only been serving as a prayer ambassador for a short while. The other cases she'd been given had been far less complicated.

“I . . . might not be able to help her,” Shirley murmured.

“Apparently God the Father feels otherwise, or He wouldn't have personally requested you for Timmy's prayer.”

“But how can I reach Jody when others have failed? How can I show her she doesn't have to stop loving Jeff, only open up her heart and her life to the love God has ready and waiting for her?”

“You'll think of something, only . . .” Gabriel hesitated and leveled his strict gaze on her. “You're not to pull the tricks you have in the past, understand?”

“Yes,” Shirley agreed. “I won't misplace a single thing,” she promised.

“That's what Goodness and Mercy told me earlier. I don't know what it is about you three, but you worry me more than all the other prayer ambassadors combined.” He wiped his hand across his face, and briefly closed his eyes. “Just do your level best to stay out of trouble.”

C
het Costello sat down at the bar in the Blue Goose and ordered a cold draft beer. He glanced over his shoulder to be sure that pesky little missionary hadn't decided to follow him inside. Seldom had he met a more aggravating woman.

“What's plaguing you?” Lou asked from the other side of the bar. He polished the mahogany surface with a clean rag, his hand making wide circular movements as he studied Chet. “You look like you've lost your best friend.”

“You would too if you'd sat up all night in the cold.”

“You were on a case?”

“No,” Chet returned sarcastically, “I enjoy spending my nights in a freezing car peeking at a couple through binoculars. These infidelity cases have always thrilled me.”

“No need to bite my head off.”

“Then don't ask stupid questions.” His little run-in with the do-gooder hadn't done anything to improve his mood. He'd encountered a hundred pious souls just like her over the years, each one convinced he needed to be saved from himself. He'd had it with that religious garbage years ago, and hadn't darkened the door of a church since his mother had died ten years earlier. He had no intention of changing his ways now.

He laughed out loud, the sound echoing like a sonic boom around the almost empty bar.

“What's so funny?” Lou asked, eager to share in the humor.

Chet paused, the beer bottle poised in front of his mouth. “She said there were better ways of settling problems than booze.”

“Who?” Lou asked, bracing both hands against the edge of the bar and grinning, waiting for an explanation.

“Never mind.” Chet wasn't in the mood to talk. She'd gotten under his skin, he realized, somewhat surprised. What was her name again? Marcia, no Monica. With her clear, dark eyes and her prim and proper ways, she was desperate to save him from the clutches of demon alcohol.

Part of the problem was how good she'd felt in his arms, all soft and feminine. The last time he'd held a woman had been . . . longer than he cared to think about, Chet realized. It was this job, he decided, that soured him on relationships. No one was faithful anymore, not according to the statistics he'd collected. The child custody cases were the worst and he'd sworn off those. After he'd left the police department years earlier, he'd floundered for a bit before deciding to work as a private investigator. What a crock of bull this had turned out to be. The time was fast approaching when he'd need to find something else. He wouldn't go back to the force, not after Tom's death. He didn't trust himself, not anymore. His partner had gotten killed, and Chet had accepted responsibility for the loss of his friend. The incident continued to haunt him. There were certain things in life a man didn't put behind him, and this was one.

For reasons he couldn't explain, the erstwhile missionary drifted back into his mind, with her warm, pleading gaze and her soft, sweet mouth.

“You know, what she really needs is to be kissed,” he said aloud. “None of this pansy stuff of holding hands and gazing longingly into each other's eyes either.”

Lou glanced his way and without comment continued to polish the sleek wooden surface of the bar. After a moment, he paused and scratched his head. “You looking to talk?” he asked.

“Hell, no.”

“That's what I thought.” The bartender resumed his task.

Remembering the way she'd flung herself against the tavern door produced another burst of laughter. The buttons of her jacket had strained with the effort until she resembled a martyr tied to the stake. She had nice, full breasts, although heaven knew she did everything she could to disguise the fact that she was a woman. If he ever did have the opportunity to kiss her, which was highly unlikely, the first thing he'd do was pull the pins from her hair. It was a travesty to keep it twisted away from her face that way. She'd have thick, luxuriant hair and he'd run his fingers through it. He imagined she'd put up a fuss at that. Anything remotely related to sensual pleasure was sure to be sin, pure, unadulterated sin.