A Season of Angels (8 page)

“All right, all right,” Jody said, walking into the room. It amazed her how easily Timmy had accepted Glen. Her eyes met Glen's and he smiled at her. “You've got yourself quite a son, Jody. He's everything you said and more.”

“I like Glen, too,” Timmy announced. “I bet he'd make me a great dad.”

Chapter 6

“Y
ou're up bright and early,” Lloyd Fischer said when Monica came down the stairs early Sunday morning. It was still pitch dark and although Monica had tried countless times, she hadn't been able to get back to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, Chet Costello drifted, unbidden and unwelcome, into her thoughts, planting himself in her mind and refusing to go away.

If that wasn't bad enough, Monica was scheduled to sing with the choir that afternoon in downtown Seattle. She'd be near the Westlake Mall where she'd first met Chet. The tantalizing threat of bumping into him a third time had plagued her like an overdue mortgage payment.

“I couldn't sleep,” Monica mumbled, helping herself to a cup of coffee. She kept her back to her father, letting him know she wasn't interested in conversation. She didn't mean to be rude, but she didn't feel up to her usual cheerful chatter.

Her father generally woke around four on Sunday mornings, enthusiastic and eager to review his sermon and make any last-minute changes. He was the first one at the church, turning on the furnace so the building would be warm when the congregation arrived. He was a gentle spirit, her father, a man who brought joy to God's heart. His tendency to look at the bright side of an issue was often a source of contention between them, but it was a minor fault.

One of them had to maintain a realistic outlook on life and it was the role she'd chosen. Because of this, others tended to view her in a less than favorable light. Her father, on the other hand, was loved by all. He was a good shepherd to his flock, sensitive and gentle, steering them toward a deeper understanding of God's word.

Monica sluggishly stirred a teaspoon of sugar into the coffee. She wasn't looking forward to the outing with the choir, and had toyed with the idea of digging up a plausible excuse not to go. Knowing it would have caused a hardship for the others was her only hesitation.

No, she corrected, striving for honesty, that wasn't entirely true.

Some small, dark part of herself hungered to see Chet again. It pained and troubled her to admit that. The man had taken advantage of her, threatened her, and then, against her will, had blatantly kissed her. The mere thought of their last encounter brought a flash of heated color to her cheeks.

It mortified her to recall the way she'd responded to him, the way she encouraged his advance, the way her body had reacted to his. No decent woman would feel the things she had, Monica was convinced of that. Patrick had kissed her several times early on in their relationship, and what she'd experienced with him had been a small spark of tenderness. When Chet had kissed her, she'd felt as if she were standing in the middle of a forest fire.

“Are you feeling all right?” her father asked, studying her closely as she sat down at the kitchen table across from him.

Now was the perfect time to say she wasn't up to par.
That
was all she need do. Her father would be the one to suggest she not participate in the choir's performance that afternoon. Naturally she'd put up a token fuss, but he'd be adamant, insisting her health was more important, and the choir could make do without her.

“I'm fine, Dad,” she murmured. She braced her elbows against the edge of the table and sipped from the thick ceramic cup, wondering what it was about Chet that caused her to be so weak willed. It was unlikely that she would run into him, although, as luck would have it—not that she believed in such matters—she'd encountered Chet twice now within the same week.

Her father left and returned to the kitchen a moment later, dressed in his thick winter coat. He wrapped a wool scarf around his neck, slipped his hands into leather gloves, and announced, “I'm going over to the church.”

She acknowledged him with a nod, grateful she'd be alone for the next several minutes. Instead of worrying about the possibility of seeing Chet, she should be praying for him. The man was clearly in need of divine intervention. One look at him told her everything she needed to know about his shabby life and immoral habits. Their all-too-brief conversations had reinforced her suspicions. He was cynical, irrational, stubborn, and only heaven knew what else.

“Then why won't he leave me alone?” she asked out loud, surprising herself with the shrill sound of her own voice.

She leaped from her chair and paced the compact kitchen. Absorbed in her thoughts, Monica continued walking about the room, circling the wooden table a number of times. She'd prayed long and hard for God to send a man into her life, but she hadn't asked how she was supposed to recognize him.

How she wished her mother were alive. Esther Fischer had always seemed to know what to do even in the most awkward of situations.

Her father looked surprised to see her when he returned fifteen minutes later. His nose was red and his cheeks bright with color from the short walk from the church to the parsonage.

“It's a beautiful morning,” he announced cheerfully, removing his gloves, one finger at a time.

It could be blizzard conditions and her father would say the same thing. Sundays were beautiful to him no matter what the weather, because he was leading his flock in worship.

“Dad,” Monica said, walking over to the refrigerator and taking out a carton of eggs and a package of bacon. She set them on the counter and then purposely turned around to face him. “When you met Mom, how did you feel? I mean did you have an inkling that this was the woman you'd eventually love and marry?”

If her father thought her question was out of the ordinary, he gave no indication. “I saw your mother for the first time in church.”

“I know.” She loved the story of how her parents had met while in the college-age Sunday school class. Her mother's family had recently moved into the area and Esther had felt shy and awkward that first Sunday.

Her father had been captivated by the beautiful young woman and had wanted to claim the empty seat beside her. Unfortunately several of the other young men had shared the same idea. While they were arguing about it, Esther had quietly stood and moved over to the chair and sat next to Lloyd. It wasn't a wildly romantic story, but Monica had enjoyed hearing it again and again as a young girl. It had deeply impressed her that her mother, although she was only nineteen at the time, had the presence of mind to choose such a wonderful man as Monica's father.

Monica doubted that she had such finely tuned discrimination herself, and after meeting Chet she was convinced of it.

“Did I know that first Sunday I was going to love your mother?” her father repeated her question slowly, his look thoughtful. “It's funny you should ask about her. I was just thinking about her myself and how she loved cold, crisp mornings such as this.”

“How soon after you met did you realize you were going to love her?” Monica pressed, anxious now.

Her father poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. “It would sound romantic if I said I did that first Sunday, wouldn't it? Don't get me wrong, I was attracted to Esther from the moment I laid eyes on her. Any young man with a lick of sense would have been. She was lovely then and more so as the years progressed.”

“You dated for several years, didn't you?”

“Yes, those were difficult times. We weren't married until four years later, after I'd completed seminary.”

“I know that. What I want to know is when you realized you were in love with her.”

He sat down at the table and rubbed his hand over his face.

Monica laughed. “It shouldn't be this hard, Daddy.”

He nodded, his dark eyes intense. “I was trying to think back and it's been more years than I care to count. As best as I can remember, falling in love was a gradual process for me. Your mother and I saw a good deal of one another and I always enjoyed her company. It just seemed to me that she'd make a good pastor's wife and so I asked her to marry me.”

“I see.” Monica didn't bother to hide her disappointment. She'd been looking for something that hadn't been there. Her parents, while deeply in love, hadn't shared any great passion for each other. To the best of her memory she couldn't remember them doing more than holding hands in public.

Her disappointment must have shown because her father looked at her and asked, “This troubles you?”

“Oh, no. I . . . I was just wondering, is all. It isn't important.” Only it was.

Even when they were young and in love her parents had been sensible and prudent when it came to choosing their life's partners. There hadn't been any explosion of—she hated to even say the word—
passion
between them. They'd drifted into marriage as a natural conclusion to a long-standing relationship.

It was the way her romance had started with Patrick, but their relationship had fizzled out and died without Monica even realizing what had happened. What she'd hoped to hear had been a confirmation of the feelings she'd experienced since meeting Chet. Not that she'd ever consider marrying anyone like him.

“I deeply loved your mother.”

“I know that, Dad.”

“I understand you're impatient to be a wife yourself, and all I can say is that God will bring a man into your life in His own time.”

Monica nodded and, returning to the stove, placed an iron skillet on the stove. “I'm in no rush,” she said, and even as she spoke, Monica knew that wasn't true.

“Remember what happened when Sarah decided to take matters into her own hands by giving Abraham her servant girl?”

“I remember.”

“Don't make this a do-it-yourself project.”

Monica laughed. “I won't.”

Her father was silent for a moment, then asked, “Michael's certainly a nice-looking young man, don't you think?”

Monica resisted the urge to laugh outright. Her father couldn't have been less subtle. The choir director was a couple of years younger than Monica, not that it mattered. He was reserved and quiet, and frankly, she couldn't imagine spending the rest of her life with him. She liked Michael, and appreciated his efforts with the choir, but when she looked at him there wasn't any spark, any sizzling attraction. She felt nothing.

How she wished she could say the same for Chet. What she felt for him had to be immoral. It
was
immoral. Only that morning, when she was trying desperately to sleep, her thoughts had been full of Chet and the kiss they'd shared. The mere memory had turned her body into a traitor. Monica was convinced those feelings were ones godly women were never meant to experience.

“Ah, yes,” her father continued, blithely unaware of the route her unruly thoughts had taken. “Michael would make you a good husband. I'm an old man, and I don't know much about romance, but my guess is that he'd very much like to get to know you better.”

“He's a good man,” Monica agreed, unwilling to say anything more.

“You could do far worse.”

Her father hadn't a clue how true those words were. He approved of Michael, but she had no doubts of what the good reverend would think should she introduce him to Chet. Monica could well imagine the look of alarm that would come into his eyes. Naturally, he'd be gentle with his concern, but his response would be impossible to conceal.

After she'd finished frying the bacon and eggs, Monica set the plate on the table and said, “I'm going upstairs to change.”

Her father tossed a surprised look her way. “You're not eating?”

She shook her head.

“You're sure you're feeling all right?”

At the moment Monica wasn't sure of anything.

“C
ome sit with me,” Andrew invited. Leah's husband was relaxing on the white leather sofa, his feet stretched out and propped against the end of the glass coffee table. He set aside the morning paper and held out his arms coaxingly to her.

“I was going to wash the breakfast dishes,” Leah said, and hesitated.

“Do them later.”

“Andrew!” Her husband had the look about him that was unmistakable. He wanted her the way a man wants his wife and he wasn't willing to wait much longer.

“Yes?” she asked, poising her hand against her hip and shifting her weight to one foot. “It's barely ten o'clock in the morning.” She didn't know why she was making excuses, she was as eager for him as he was for her. This was a good time of the month as well, her temperature would confirm that, but she hadn't taken it yet that morning.

“So? Who cares about the time?” he asked, holding his arm out to her. “Does the clock have to chime a certain number of times before I'm allowed to make love to my wife?”

“No.” She walked toward him, her steps slow and provocative. When she was close, Andrew gripped hold of her waist, and gently lowered her onto his lap.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are lately?”

Leah smiled and shook her head. “Not since yesterday morning.”

His hands stroked the length of her arms, his touch light and gentle. “Then I need to make up for lost time, don't I?”

“By all that's right, you should do penance.”

“Oh?”

She looped her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead to his. Andrew's hands were busily working open the fastenings of her robe. After ten years of married life, Leah's body was well acquainted with that of her husband's.

Their kiss was slow, sultry, and thorough. She was breathless and panting by the time Andrew dragged his mouth from hers.

“You taste good.”

“So do you,” she whispered, her eyes closed.

His hands left her breasts and eased aside the elastic of the silk bottoms of her pajamas to stroke her flat stomach sensuously.

Andrew groaned as she moved against him, and kissed her again and then again, each one growing more intense in length and need.

“You know what I want?” he whispered hoarsely close to her ear, panting.