A Season of Angels (4 page)

Chet knew her type. The mission house down the street from his office was filled with do-gooders thinking their efforts with the derelicts and vagrants was going to make a difference. Chet felt sorry for them more than he did the street people they struggled to reach with their message.

Then why couldn't he stop thinking about her? The hell if he knew. The hell if he cared. One consolation, he wasn't likely to run into her again.

“O
f course I remember you, Mr. Lundberg,” Mrs. Burchell, the caseworker from New Life Adoption Agency, assured him over the telephone. “It's good to hear from you again.”

Andrew rolled the mechanical pencil between his palms, praying he was doing the right thing. “I'd like to know how difficult it would be for my wife and me to resubmit our application.” He leaned against the back of his chair. Leah had been on his mind all day and he was worried about her.

It was so unfair that they couldn't have children. What troubled him most was that there didn't seem to be any physical reason. They'd spent years, and thousands of dollars, working with fertility specialists. Leah's life was governed by that ridiculous book she kept. He swore she'd documented her temperature every morning for the last seven years.

Perhaps if they'd been able to pinpoint the problem as his, Leah might have been able to accept their situation.

“I have your file right here,” the caseworker went on to say. “I know you and your wife were terribly disappointed when Melinda Phillips decided to rescind the adoption of her infant son. It doesn't happen often, but unfortunately these girls do change their minds.”

“I understand,” Andrew said, not wanting to rehash the details. Having the birth mother change her mind had been much harder on Leah than on him. They'd gone to the hospital, their hearts filled with joy, only to return empty-handed an hour later. Afterward Leah had sat for hours alone in the nursery they'd so lovingly prepared. Nothing Andrew could say reached her. He'd been disappointed too and for a while there'd been a strain between them. Then one day he returned home from the office and discovered that Leah had dismantled the nursery. She calmly announced that she'd withdrawn their application from New Life and that they'd simply wait for her to become pregnant and bear a child of their own. She refused to subject them to that kind of torment again.

“I'll be happy to resubmit your names,” Mrs. Burchell said, “but I must warn you there are fewer babies available for adoption now than before.”

“How long would you predict?”

The caseworker hesitated. “I can't really say. It's different with every couple.”

“What about the Watcombs?” Andrew asked. “We went through the orientation classes with them three years ago.”

“Ah, yes, the Watcombs. Jessie and Ken, am I right?”

“Yes. Has their adoption gone through?”

“Not yet, but we're hopeful we'll have an infant for them soon.”

Andrew's hopes plummeted. The Watcombs were special people and he couldn't imagine any young mother not choosing them to rear her child.

“You were in the same orientation class as the Sterlings, weren't you?”

Andrew allowed the name to filter through his mind. “He was a fireman as I recall.”

“That's the couple. They adopted a baby girl last October.”

“That's wonderful.”

“I thought you'd be pleased.”

He was, of course, but a small part of him couldn't help being envious. Leah desperately wanted a child, and in an effort to reassure her he'd downplayed his own desire for a family. He loved his wife and would give anything for them to have a child.

“Do you still want me to resubmit your name?” Mrs. Burchell asked after a moment's silence.

“Please,” he said, his hand tightening around the receiver. If it took another five years or more, then that was just how long they'd need to wait. That he was doing this behind Leah's back didn't sit well with him, but some action needed to be taken, and this seemed the most logical choice. If they were chosen by a birth mother again, then they'd make the necessary adjustments. A child was welcome into their lives at any time. Love guaranteed.

F
or the life of her, Monica hadn't been able to forget the private investigator. Heaven knew she'd tried. He was little better than an alcoholic, drinking beer in the middle of the day. Not only that, he'd been arrogant, rude, and curt with her. He'd treated her as if she were a senseless child when she'd tried to help him.

Monica didn't understand what it was about this one man that intrigued her so. She'd gone to bed that night and dreamed of him. She'd woken breathless, her heart pounding double time. A woman had no control over her dreams, Monica assured herself. If she had, Monica certainly wouldn't have allowed that . . . man to touch her. The very idea was appalling. No, Monica corrected, closing her eyes and shaking her head, that wasn't the truth. It was the problem. She had thought about him touching her, kissing her. Her untamed imagination had taken over and she'd allowed it to happen in her dreams.

“There you are,” her father said, strolling into the living room. “I've been looking for you.” He settled down in the leather chair by the fireplace and reached for the evening paper. “I'm afraid I'm going to need you tomorrow afternoon.”

“For what?” He seemed to forget she had a job and even if she did work as the church secretary it was a demanding position. Her father would cover for her if necessary, but she would rather he asked first instead of volunteering her services, which was something he often did.

“Mrs. Ferdnand just phoned and she can't be a bell ringer for the shift she signed up to take last Sunday.”

“But, Dad.” Standing on a cold street corner and collecting charitable donations was the last way Monica wished to spend an afternoon. An hour never lasted so long and by the end of her shift she'd be frozen solid.

“I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary.”

“I know.” It was useless to argue with him. The man had the patience of Job and an answer for every argument.

“It's downtown so you'll be sure to get plenty of traffic,” her father added, reaching for the sports section of the newspaper and folding it open.

“Great.” She stabbed the needle into the fabric and set aside her needlepoint. After working on this Ten Commandment project for weeks she was only on the fourth commandment, which meant she hadn't a prayer of finishing before Christmas. She studied the tiny stitches. Ironically the one she was currently stitching stated Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother. God must have worked it out that way, sealing any argument she might have given.

“Are you all right?” her father asked her unexpectedly, momentarily setting the paper aside.

“I'm fine,” she said, then amended, “a little tired perhaps.”

“I thought as much. You don't seem to be yourself lately.”

“Oh?”

“I know this thing with Patrick hurt you and . . .”

“Patrick is a friend, Dad. He was never anything more. I don't know why you insist upon dragging his name into every conversation.” It was a white lie to suggest she hadn't cared about Patrick, but sometimes she found those necessary, although she was never comfortable stretching the truth.

“I noticed Michael talking to you the other day. He's a very nice young man.” He eyed her speculatively as if waiting for her to comment.

“Very nice,” she agreed. But Michael didn't stir her blood, he didn't make her heart throb and the thought of him kissing her produced not so must as a whit of excitement.

Her father was right, there was definitely something wrong with her.

The following afternoon, Monica was dressed in her dark blue suit, standing on the corner of Fifth and University, ringing her little heart out. Surely there was a reward awaiting her in heaven for this.

A man dressed in leather and wearing enough gold to strangle himself stopped and inserted a ten-dollar bill in the bright red pot. When Monica thanked him, he insisted upon “giving her five.” It took her a good three minutes to realize what he intended. He was simply looking to slap her hand. He ambled away, suggesting she get with it, whatever or whomever “it” was.

Okay, so she wasn't cool, if that was the current vernacular. Nor was she hip or groovy or several other words that came to mind. She was God's willing servant. All right, she wasn't so willing just then, but she was doing her part and that was all that mattered.

Her ears were cold and her fingers had lost their feeling and she had another half hour to go when it happened.

It was him.

The man who'd caught her in his arms three days earlier, the one she'd attempted to restrain from entering the Blue Goose. He was standing on the other side of the street waiting for the traffic to pass so he could cross. Everyone else would wait for the green light and the walk sign, but not him. Oh, no, he was too impatient for that.

She stopped ringing the bell, then started again with a vengeance, closing her eyes, hoping with everything in her that he'd simply walk past and not notice it was her.

Monica should have realized that would have been asking too much.

“Well, well, well,” he said, strolling all the way around her. “And who do we have here? Monica, am I right?”

She ignored him and stared straight ahead, jerking the small bell back and forth for all she was worth, her shoulders so stiff they ached.

“It's mighty cold to be standing outside for any length of time, isn't it?”

Monica didn't deign to answer him. A lady in a fur coat walked past and dropped a few coins into the red kettle. “Merry Christmas,” Monica said from pure habit.

“The same to you,” the private investigator answered.

“Please leave me alone,” she whispered.

“It seems to me I asked the same thing of you recently and did it help? Oh, no, you were convinced I needed to be saved.” He flung his hands into the air. “Hallelujah, brother.”

“Please.” She tried again.

“Not on your life, sister,” he responded.

“If you continue to pester me you'll leave me no choice but to contact the police and have you forcibly removed.”

“Threats?” He folded his arms over his broad chest and arched both brows in mock terror. “So you want to involve the authorities. Fine. Good luck finding a cop walking his beat. In case you weren't aware, the city's seriously understaffed, and this time of year is busier than most.”

Monica knew God was looking out for her when a city cop turned the corner just then, casually sauntering down the sidewalk. “Officer, Officer,” she called, wasting no time. “This man is bothering me.”

The policeman, who was tall and burly beneath his thick coat and cap, was casually swinging his billy club. “You troubling this young lady, Chet?”

It was just her luck that they knew each other.

“Bothering this woman? Me? You know me better than that,” Chet answered, beaming Monica a cocky smile. “I've got more important things to do.”

“That's what I thought.”

“He refuses to leave,” Monica supplied huffily.

“Now, listen, miss, I know Chet's a sorry-looking alley cat, but he's harmless. Let me assure you, you're in no danger from him.”

“Thanks, Dennis,” Chet said and dipped his head slightly.

“That's simply not true,” Monica tried again, more adamantly this time. “I politely asked him to leave and he refused.”

Dennis bounced the billy club against his open palm a couple of times. “Chet, stop pestering this pretty young lady.”

“Sure thing.”

Dennis touched the tip of his hat. “He'll leave you alone now, miss.” With that he strolled away.

“You aren't going to leave, are you?”

“Trust me, sweetheart, he's got better things to do than listen to you making a fuss over nothing. This is a public sidewalk, there's nothing Dennis can do but ask me to move on, which he's already done.”

“Why do you insist upon doing this?” Monica demanded, straightening her shoulders. She forced herself to look directly ahead and away from him, because looking at Chet caused her stomach to flutter as if she were coming down with the flu.

“Hey,” he said, raising both hands, “I'm paying you back for what you did the other day.”

“I was trying to help you.”

“You were a major pest. Now you know how it feels.”

“If you're looking for me to apologize, then—”

“No, thanks.” He walked all the way around her once more, then stood directly in front of her, hands on his hips. “You know, you might really be something in the looks department if you ever decided to wear makeup.”

Monica ignored the comment.

“A little blush and eye liner aren't tools of the devil, you know.”

She pursed her lips to restrain herself from chastising him the way he deserved.

“My, oh, my, look at that sour puss. I was right the first time.”

“About what?” she demanded before she could stop herself.

“What you really need is to be kissed, and sweetheart, I'm the man to do it.”

Chapter 4

C
het never intended to kiss Monica. He'd taken delight in teasing her and she was easy game. Her face flushed with color, brightening her cheeks, and her eyes snapped with outrage, challenging him. Chet was ready to laugh and walk away when a Metro bus came rushing down the street, the thick tires spraying the sidewalk with a shower of icy, muddy water.

Monica, standing as close to the curb as she was, would receive the brunt of the spray. Thinking quickly, Chet caught her by the shoulders and whirled her around. The bus passed and the muddy water sprayed him against the back of his legs. He grimaced as the icy liquid soaked through his trousers at his calves.

“What are you doing?” Monica demanded.

Her back was against the brick building and she was breathing hard. Her breasts rose up and down and her hands clenched at the lapels of his trench coat as though to push him away. When she moistened her lips as if she fully expected him to follow through with his threat, it was his undoing. He felt as if a fist had been plowed into his gut. He didn't want to kiss her any longer, he
needed
to.

“No, please,” she blurted out, sounding as if she were near panic.

“Relax,” he whispered coaxingly. “This isn't going to hurt in the least.”

She jerked her head to one side but he caught her by the chin. By all that was right he should have released her then, but the temptation was too strong, too sweet and piercing to ignore.

Slowly he lowered his mouth to hers with the confidence of years of experience. His lips cut off her gasp of protest, and the strong pressure of his mouth opened hers to him. She tasted good, damn good, a hell of a lot better than he expected. When his tongue entered her mouth, her nails dug into his coat, and then she amazed him and quite possibly herself with a soft, womanly sigh of pleasure. Chet slanted his head and kissed her with months of pent-up passion.

He didn't mean to be so demanding, but he couldn't stop himself.

With effort, Chet forced himself to break off the intensity of the kiss and wean himself away from her with a series of short, nibbling ones. With a reluctance he didn't dare question, he lifted his mouth from hers. He would have enjoyed continuing this experiment and given the opportunity, a hell of a lot more.

Monica's chest was heaving and her eyes were closed. Her head was slightly lowered but not enough to disguise the soft, feminine look about her. He noticed that half the pins were missing from her hair so that it fell haphazardly over one shoulder. Hell, he didn't even remember doing anything more than plowing his hands into the thick fullness and positioning her head so he could kiss her properly.

Her eyes slowly opened and she looked slightly dazed and definitely pale. She gazed at him steadily for just a moment and then quickly lowered her eyes. Her slender throat moved up and down as she swallowed and it seemed that she was getting ready to speak.

“I . . . wish you hadn't done that.”

“No, you don't,” he returned, sounding far more cocky than he intended. Insolence was part and parcel of his job. He didn't like it in himself, but he didn't know how to stop.

“Please, will you leave me alone now?”

“Is that what you really want?”

She nodded, but refused to meet his eyes.

He stepped away from her and she immediately went about tucking her hair back into place, her hands trembling so badly that Chet had to resist offering to help.

“It was just a kiss,” he said in a weak effort to comfort her, although he was beginning to feel he was the one who needed reassurance. This woman was completely unaware of what a powerful punch she packed. She'd felt good in his arms, as if that was where she was supposed to be. The thought didn't sit well with Chet. Nor was he keen on admitting how difficult it was to walk away from her.

“I . . . think it would be best if you left,” she said, struggling valiantly to compose herself. She refused to look up at him.

Chet's mind was sluggish and his pulse still hadn't returned to normal. He nodded, unable to think of anything more to say. As he moved away from her, he found the small, silver bell she'd dropped on the sidewalk. Stooping, he retrieved it for her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You're sure you're all right?”

She nodded and Chet stepped away from her, walking backward. He bumped into a lamp post, his shoulder hitting it hard enough against the steel column to jar him. Sucking in a deep breath, he rubbed his hand over the tender spot, turned, and walked away.

He didn't want to think about what had just happened. He'd kissed a woman who, for all intents and purposes, was living the life of a nun. It shouldn't have been this good. One kiss should have been enough to cure him of ever thinking about her again. He could tell right now that it wasn't going to happen that way.

By the time Chet returned to his office, he discovered he was shaking like a leaf. He'd faced danger a dozen times, hell, more than that, but no encounter with life or death had left him so jittery that he needed to sit down. It took a morally uptight missionary intent on saving the world to reduce him to this.

“O
h, Leah, look,” Pam Hewitt said, holding up a thick cable-knit sweater the color of winter wheat. “Doug would love this.” She checked the price tag and then slowly shook her head. “Unfortunately I can't afford two hundred bucks for a sweater.”

“I thought we were shopping for a party dress for you,” Leah reminded her friend. They'd known each other since university days and kept in close contact although they weren't able to get together often. Pam had temporarily traded in her nurse's uniform to be a full-time housewife and mother to her three youngsters. Leah loved each one, but Scotty, the just-turned three-year-old, held a special place in her heart. The baby Andrew and she were to have adopted had been born around the same time. Somehow Leah had transferred to Scotty all the love she had for the child that was to have been hers. She gave Pam's three children gifts every Christmas and invented excuses for outings with them, but it was Scotty who ruled her heart.

“I hate Christmas parties,” Pam muttered, folding the sweater and setting it back on the table. She ran her hand over the top and sighed expressively. “I was thinking I'd cut down the fancy maternity dress I wore a couple of years ago and—”

“Absolutely not,” Leah insisted. “We're going to find you a dress that will make you feel like a queen for Doug's Christmas party.”

“That will take some doing,” Pam muttered. “Two years at home with the kids and I'm afraid I've lost it.”

“Lost what?”

“I don't know how to explain it,” Pam admitted slowly. “I think a part of the brain starts to deteriorate after so many years of dealing with diapers, bottles, and potty training. It's like you're on the children's level for so much of the day that you lose the ability to communicate with other adults.”

“All this tells me is that you need to get away more often.”

“That's probably true,” Pam agreed, “but you wouldn't believe the trouble it is to find a baby-sitter, especially on weekdays.”

“What about taking some time for yourself while the kids go down for their naps?”

Pam laughed softly as they headed toward the escalator. “Nap time is like an oasis in the middle of the day. I treasure every moment of that hour, but lately even that time's been robbed from me. I'm sewing Scotty and Jason Batman pajamas and that's the only free time I have to do it.”

“Batman pajamas?”

“They're crazy about him and Spider-Man.”

“Why don't you sew in the evenings?” Leah suggested. It made perfect sense to her since the three were generally in bed by eight.

Pam laughed and shook her head. “Because, my dear friend, I'm too pooped. Honestly, I head for bed no more than an hour after the kids. I never dreamed I'd be in bed before nine. Remember me, the original night owl? Trust me, kids will do that to you.”

A pang of envy struck Leah at the thought of her life being dominated by the demands of a houseful of children. Then again, the grass always appeared greener on the other side of the fence. More than once, Pam had said how much she envied Leah her freedom.

Freedom. True, she often had time on her hands, but for what?

“I'm on a budget, you know,” Pam complained when they reached Nordstrom's second floor.

“Would you stop?” Leah demanded, laughing. “We haven't even gotten to the women's section yet and already you're convinced you aren't going to find anything.”

“My old maternity dress isn't all that bad.”

“Pam!” Leah braced her hands against her hips and glared at her friend. “Now I understand why Doug insisted I go shopping with you. He knew darn good and well that you'd end up buying something for everyone else and nothing for yourself.”

“Did you see that darling pinafore,” Pam said, pointing toward the children's section. “Diane would look like an angel dressed in that.”

Leah looped her arm through Pam's and steered her in the opposite direction. “I'll tell you what I'm going to do.”

“What? Hog-tie me and force me to try on several dresses?”

“Close. I'm taking you directly to the dressing room and bringing the party dresses in to you.”

Pam's shoulders sagged with defeat as they entered the dressing room area. “All right, just try to find something reasonably priced, will you?” Leah opened the white louvered door and gently pushed her friend inside.

Pam stuck out her hand and waved her index finger. “Check on the sale rack first. I'll feel better about spending so much money on myself if the dress is discounted.”

“Never you mind,” Leah argued. “I'm not even going to let you look at the price tag.”

“But, Leah—”

“Don't even try to argue with me. I'd have thought you'd know better by now.” Smiling to herself, Leah left the dressing room.

“My hips aren't nearly as slender as they used to be either,” Pam called after her. “You'd better start with a size twelve instead of a ten . . . better make that a fourteen.”

Leah stopped long enough to roll her eyes, then headed for a rack of newly arrived fashions. It took less than five minutes to find a wide selection that would suit her friend.

“M
ercy, where are you?” Goodness called, frantically circling Nordstrom's like the second hand of a clock gone berserk.

Mercy turned around to find Goodness, her wings all aflutter, breezing six feet off the ground, close to a state of panic.

“I need to talk to you right away,” Goodness said breathlessly.

“Over here,” Mercy called, wondering what could possibly have gone wrong so quickly. “I'm on the light fixture.”

Goodness soared to her side, rustling the dress display and toppling a mannequin. Apparently feeling guilty, she scooped up the lifeless form and set it back into place to the horror of a sales clerk who gasped and placed her hand over her heart to watch a lifeless form right itself.

“Goodness,” Mercy shouted. “Would you stop before you get us both into trouble?”

“I need help,” Goodness blurted out for the second time, joining Mercy who was dangling from the light fixture.

“So soon? You just received the assignment. What could have possibly gone wrong?”

Goodness, who was easily flustered, looked helpless and confused. She cast a pleading look at Mercy. “I knew I was in way over my head when Gabriel first gave me this assignment, but I wanted to help Monica Fischer. You know I'm a sucker for romance, and finding her a husband didn't sound as if it would be the least bit difficult.” She stopped long enough to draw in another deep breath. “Now the poor girl's more confused than ever and I'm afraid it's all my fault.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing . . . well, obviously it's something, but . . . oh, dear, I'm afraid I've made a terrible mistake.”

“I take it this has something to do with finding Monica a husband?”

Goodness nodded energetically. “I found the most suitable young man who has a wonderful heart for God. He directs the choir and he's half in love with her already.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“Monica isn't the least bit excited about him. She has this dangerous attraction for that . . . that private eye. They're completely incompatible. Why, a union between the two of them will never do, and I fear I'm the one responsible for them meeting.”

Mercy frowned. “Goodness, when will you ever learn?”

“Me!” Flustered, she wrung her hands and eyed her fellow angel. “You don't think I know that was you riding up and down the escalator just now?”

“You couldn't have known that was me.”

“Let's just say I made an educated guess,” Goodness said confidently. “A woman's being treated with smelling salts and two kids are telling everyone what they saw, and it sounds to me as if they were describing you. Who else do you know with long, blond hair, deep blue eyes, and magnificent wings? You know better than most that children's spiritual eyes have yet to close. You were taking a terrible chance.”

“Ah . . .”

“Just as I thought. Mercy, what are you going to do if Gabriel hears about this? You know he will eventually. Why, he could pull you off of this assignment in nothing flat and with good reason.”

“But he won't,” Mercy said with utter confidence.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he'd never have assigned me to this prayer request if he had anyone else to send. We both know that.”

“But he might never give you another assignment if you continue to do crazy stunts like that.”

“Sure he will. Gabriel has a soft spot in his heart for the three of us. I venture to say we're his favorites, although he'd never let us know that.”