A Season of Angels (16 page)

“Remember, Mommy and Daddy went to dinner,” Leah reminded him.

He nodded, but he didn't seem overly happy about it.

“I bet you're hungry,” Andrew said, lifting him onto his shoulders. Andrew waited until the aisle was clear and then led the way out of the theater. It was dark by the time they reached the parking lot and the stars glittered like a splattering of diamond dust tossed across a bed of shiny black satin.

“Want to make a wish?” Leah asked.

Scotty looked to the heavens and nodded. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, releasing it all at once. His eyes flew open and he grinned broadly.

“I bet he misses Diane and Jason,” Andrew said, unlocking the car door.

“Nope,” Scotty said. “I like you better.”

“Don't get a big head,” Leah warned her husband, under her breath. “He'd say the same thing to anyone who gave him horsy rides and took him to the movies.”

“Maybe so,” Andrew agreed, “but it's me he loves.”

“Auntie Leah too.”

Leah planted a kiss on his chubby cheek. “That's telling him, kiddo.”

It wasn't until much later, hours after they'd finished the dinner dishes, long after they'd read Scotty a story and tucked him into the guest bed, that the emptiness surrounded her.

The night was dark and moonless as Leah slipped out of her bedroom and wandered into the room where Scotty slept. Standing over his sleeping figure, she gazed down on this perfect child who belonged to her friend, and held the pain of her loss tight within her soul.

She finally moved and walked over to the closet. Standing on her tiptoes, she brought down the baby book she'd hidden there.

Sitting in the silence and the dark, she held the book in her lap and turned each empty page until she'd made her way through the entire satin-covered book. From newborn to the space for the high school graduation photo. When she'd finished, she pressed the book against her heart and rocked back and forth as if she were holding the long-awaited child in her arms.

Instead she clung to a hollow dream.

J
ody gasped.

Jeff alive! It wasn't possible. She could hear her mother-in-law continue speaking but the words were unintelligible and seemed to come from a far-off distance. It was then that Jody realized she'd dropped the phone and had backed away.

“Jody.” Glen was there and she turned and buried her face in his chest. “What is it?” he asked, his words as gentle as the arms that comforted her.

“Mom?” Timmy asked, picking up the receiver. Gloria continued talking, apparently not realizing anything was amiss. “Grandma says she needs to talk to you,” her son said.

Jody shook her head. “No. No, I can't, not now.”

“Tell your grandmother your mother will call her back later,” Glen instructed. He encircled her shoulders and led her back to the living room. Gently he lowered her onto the sofa cushions. “What happened?”

Speaking was beyond her. Tears filled her eyes and spilled like burning acid against her cheeks, scalding her skin.

“Are you all right, Mom?” Timmy asked, racing to her side. “Grandma said she didn't mean to upset you. She told me to tell you to call her the minute you're feeling better.”

“Did she say anything to you?” Jody demanded, gripping her son by the shoulders and making a careful study of his features. It was important that Gloria not say anything to Timmy. If her mother-in-law had made the outlandish claim to her son, Jody didn't know if she'd find it in her heart to forgive her.

“Say what?” Timmy wanted to know.

“I think your mother could do with a cold glass of water,” Glen interrupted. “Would you get it for her?”

“Sure.” Eager to help, Timmy hurried into the kitchen.

Glen's hands clasped Jody's. “What did Jeff's mother say to you?”

Speaking the words aloud was difficult. “She . . . claims Jeff's alive.”

Glen released a troubled sigh. “Is there any chance it's true?”

Jody shook her head. “None. His body was positively identified by dental records. The same thing happened the first Christmas after we buried him. Gloria insisted Jeff wasn't dead. We argued and our relationship has been strained ever since. She's never understood that I had to divorce Jeff in order to sell the property, especially when she insisted she would continue to support Timmy and me, but I couldn't do that. I couldn't financially drain her or my own parents.”

Glen sat next to her and gently patted her hand. “She sounds like a lonely old woman.”

“I know. It shouldn't upset me when she does these things, but it does. I thought . . . I hoped she was making progress. I know she's trying, but it's hard for her. Jeff was her only child and she loved him very much.”

“Here, Mom.” Timmy vaulted into the room with a glass of water. The liquid sloshed over the rim as he presented it to her. “Is she all right?” Timmy asked Glen.

He nodded. “I think so.”

“Grandma Potter's real nice,” Timmy explained, “but she's a little weird sometimes. She visits old ladies who talk to the dead people and it doesn't have to be Halloween.”

Jody, drinking the water, almost choked at Timmy's comment about Halloween. Leave it to a kid to put everything into the proper perspective.

“Your grandmother badly misses your father,” Glen explained, kneeling down so his eyes were level with the nine-year-old. “And when you love someone so very much it eases the pain to pretend they're still with you.”

“Grandma's been missing him a long time,” Timmy said solemnly, then looked to Jody. “My mom has too. Until you came along all she ever thought about was my dad and her garden.”

“How do you feel about that?” Glen asked.

“It bothered me a little because I'd like to have a dad who's alive and who can teach me the things a kid needs to know. I was kind of hoping you'd like me and my mom enough to stick around a while.”

“I like you both a whole lot,” Glen assured him.

“Enough to last through baseball season?”

Glen laughed and hugged the boy. “I'm sure I'll be around at least that long. Of course it's up to your mother if she wants to continue dating me.”

“She does,” Timmy said enthusiastically, “don't you, Mom?”

J
ody knew she shouldn't allow her conversation with Jeff's mother to upset her, but it had. There'd been similar discussions over the years.

Jody remembered vividly every detail of every long-ago conversation. One had ruined her Christmas, but she refused to allow it to happen a second time. She'd met a good, kind man and she wasn't going to allow her ex-mother-in-law's grief to interfere in celebration of the holidays.

If that was the case, Jody reasoned, why couldn't she sleep? The house was dark and quiet, and she wandered from room to room, unable to quiet that deep inner part of herself.

The pain, she realized, was as fresh now as it had been when she'd been forced to accept that Jeff was dead.

Her father had phoned from Germany with the news. He explained that he'd be bringing Jeff's body home for burial. She had written down the flight details on a slip of paper and calmly thanked him for dealing with these agonizing details. It wasn't until after she'd hung up the phone that the full impact of what her father had said settled over her.

Jeff was dead. The years of not knowing had come to an end.

The intolerable waiting was over. The haunting questions had been answered, but the sharp edges of her grief were only beginning. The agony of the unknown felt almost comfortable compared to the brutal loss of hope she'd suffered in exchange.

Until Jeff's remains could be positively identified—until she could place her husband's body in the ground and stand at his tombstone, there had always been hope, however slim, that he was alive. Now that had been stripped away from her and she was left to bleed.

Jody remembered how she ripped the flight information from the pad and folded it over and over again until it was a tight square, clenching it in her fist. She needed something to hold on to. All there was for her was a folded slip of paper that listed the information on the flight that was bringing her husband's body home.

For a long time she'd done nothing but sit and stare into the silence. Her heart had felt as if it had stopped beating.

It was then, Jody realized, that a part of herself had died. No one could endure this kind of emotional torture and possibly survive.

She was dead to all the happy dreams they'd shared. Dead to whatever the future would hold, because she couldn't share her tomorrows with the man she'd loved so fiercely.

Helen Chandler had arrived shortly after the call came from Jody's father. She walked into the house and softly called Jody's name. Jody had stared up at her mother, her eyes dry, her heart shattered. At first she didn't acknowledge her presence. No one could comfort her. Not even her own mother.

“He's gone,” Helen had whispered.

Jody nodded. She couldn't deny it any longer. The hope had been forever destroyed.

Her mother had attempted to console her, wrapping her arms around Jody's shoulders. But Jody held herself stiff and unyielding.

“Let him go,” her mother pleaded. “Let him rest in peace.”

“Peace?” Jody whispered. How could she possibly have peace now? She shook her head, refusing to release any part of her life with Jeff.

“He's been found, Jody. Jeff's coming home.”

Perhaps Jeff's body had been located, Jody reasoned, but she was more lost now than ever. And she doubted that she would ever find her way again.

How much time had passed since that disastrous day, Jody wondered. Four years? Or was it five? Like so much else in her life, she'd lost track. She moved, one day into the next, dragging her pain with her, the weight almost more than she could bear.

It wasn't until Timmy had written the letter to God that she realized what she was doing to herself and to her boy. It had shocked her into taking action.

For the first time since Jeff's death, she was making a new life for herself and for her son, and she couldn't, wouldn't, let that be ruined. It had taken her this long to find her footing and she wasn't going to allow anyone to topple her again.

Chapter 13

A
ngels rarely wept. It happened so seldom, and only while they were on earth duty. Mercy had heard tales of angel tears, but never experienced the phenomenon herself. It was an unpleasant experience. Now they came as a surprise, misting her gaze. She brushed them aside, feeling Leah's pain as deeply as if it were her own as the young nurse clenched the empty baby book against her bosom.

Mercy had done everything possible, but she hadn't been able to help. It was the most frustrating case she had ever encountered.

If only Mercy could sit down and talk to Leah, face to face. If only Mercy could explain to this woman of the earth that she must find serenity within herself before her prayer could be answered. But that was impossible.

And so they both wept.

Leah cried silent tears standing guard over her friend's child while Mercy wept openly, unable to contain her sorrow at this feeling of helplessness.

“M
arried.” The word went through Chet like a bullet, with much the same effect. He bolted off the bed and stood, the sour taste of panic filling his mouth.

“It seems the logical thing to do,” Monica said, her voice as sweet as chocolate-dipped caramels.

Chet rubbed his hand down his face, hoping that would set matters straight in his mind. It didn't. If anything, his thoughts filled with pure terror. “Sweetheart, in case you haven't figured it out, I'm not the marrying kind.”

“That's the point,” Monica continued softly, “I'm not either. It seems we're perfect for each other.”

“You're not the marrying kind? Don't be ridiculous.” She remained on the bed, so beautiful he had to force himself to look away. Otherwise he just might find himself considering her ridiculous suggestion. Much more of this sexual teasing they'd been exchanging and he'd find himself agreeing to just about anything.

“I'm twenty-five years old and have never been asked,” she reminded him.

“Michael's chomping at the bit, waiting for the opportunity,” Chet muttered. He couldn't believe he'd said that, not after the fretful evening he'd spent thinking about Monica cheek to cheek with the other man. He quickly glanced about the room, making sure he wasn't leaving anything behind, such as his heart and a good portion of common sense. He looped his leg over the windowsill, eager to make his escape before he found himself actually discussing the possibility of marriage. The mere thought sent cold chills down his spine.

“You're leaving?” Monica was kneeling on top of the mattress. Her eyes were wide and pleading. “Don't go. Please.”

The “please” had cost her a good deal, but Chet knew that if he didn't make his escape then and there, it would be too late. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd find himself agreeing to this asinine scheme of hers.

As it was, their ongoing relationship continued to confound him. He'd never meant to see her again after she'd lectured him on the misery brought on by the evils of alcohol. Little by little he'd knowingly allowed himself to be drawn to this preacher's daughter. They'd been a hair's breadth from making love only moments earlier. She didn't seem to realize how close they'd come.

“I should have realized,” she said in a small, pitiful voice, “that you wouldn't want to marry me.”

Chet groaned inwardly. He was prepared to slip into the night as unnoticed as when he'd first arrived, but she'd managed to do it again. This woman knew exactly which cords to pull to reach him. It happened like this each and every time they met. Much more of this and she'd have the threads wrapped so securely around his heart there'd be no escape.

“It isn't that,” he said, his back to her. Looking at her was dangerous, especially now with her lips swollen from his kisses and her hair all mussed up. He'd never known a woman who looked more beautiful when her hair wasn't combed.

“Then what is it?” she asked. From the nearness of her voice he knew she'd moved off the bed and was standing almost directly behind him.

Nothing but the truth would satisfy her, Chet realized, yet he hesitated, knowing she'd argue with the devil himself.

“Tell me exactly what it is then,” she demanded, and he noticed she was regaining some of her natural pluck.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he said, knowing she disliked the affectionate term, “I'm not good enough for you.”

Until he'd met Monica his life had been reduced to wild weekends, blown paychecks, and cheap thrills with a cocktail waitress. He'd been shot, beaten, and chased down by a jealous husband. Not exactly pick-of-the-litter husband material for a minister's daughter, but there was no telling Monica anything. He'd learned that the hard way.

“Don't say that.” Her arms came up under his and she looped her hands on his shoulders, then flattened the side of her face against his back. She felt so good and warm pressed to him that for an instant he was nearly swayed.

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” she insisted. “Don't you realize how much you've taught me? I was a prude until we met and now I know what it means to be in love. You've made me proud to be a woman.”

“Lessons rarely come cheap.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Her arms slipped away from him and Chet was eternally grateful. He slipped out of the window, landing with a thud on the hard ground below.

Turning around to face her was a mistake in what was proving to be a long line of tactical errors. Her eyes were bright with tears and her lower lip was trembling. Something sharp and painful twisted in his gut. He could deal far easier with her anger than he could her tears.

“I'm not going to marry you, Monica,” he told her harshly. “So get that idea out of your head right now. It's just not going to happen.”

She was silent for a moment, then nodded. “You can't get much clearer than that. Good night, Chet.” Her voice was soft and a little broken.

She had her hooks in him good and deep. The best thing for him to do was to get out while the getting was good. Working as a private investigator, Chet had developed a sixth sense for these things. The time to leave was about five minutes ago.

“I'll see you around,” he tossed over his shoulder. He waited for her to close the window, but she didn't and he was left to wonder exactly how long she stood there watching him.

Fighting himself he made it all the way to his car, which he'd parked two streets over. He didn't want anyone to see his vehicle and connect Monica with him.

He unlocked the door and sat in the front seat and battled with himself until he accepted that he wasn't going to be able to leave matters unfinished between them.

He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, climbed out of the car, and retraced the same route he had taken only moments earlier. He came by the side of the darkened church and toward the back side of the house where Monica's bedroom was situated.

Her room was dark. He hesitated, then carefully made his way to the window, tapping lightly against the glass pane. He heard her climb out of the bed and pull up the sash.

Neither of them spoke right away. It was as if they were both unsure of what to say. After coming all the way back, Chet hadn't any more of a clue than when he left the car. Apparently Monica didn't either.

“I volunteered to be a bell ringer,” she whispered. He couldn't see her face as clearly as he would have liked, but he could tell from the soft catch in her voice that she'd been crying.

Damn fool woman. She should have known better than to fall in love with the likes of him.

“When?” he found himself asking, already anxious to see her again. They were playing a no-win game, but for the life of him Chet couldn't make himself walk away from her.

“Tomorrow afternoon between two and three.”

“Same street as before?”

“Yes.” The last part was barely discernible. “Chet,” she said more clearly, but he heard the hesitation in her voice. He heard the pain too, but ignored it as best he could, which was near impossible.

“Yeah?” he prompted when she didn't immediately continue.

She was kneeling, he noticed, her face only a short distance from his own. “Do you . . . are you in love with me?”

It didn't take him long to respond. “I don't know.” It was the honest-to-God truth. What did someone like him know about love? Damn little to be sure.

“You can't be any more articulate than that?” The righteous ring was back in her voice and he found himself smiling.

“I like you,” he said, realizing what an inadequate phrase that was.

“In other words I turn you on?”

He wasn't sure he liked her vernacular, but he wasn't in any position to be arguing since he was the one who'd taught her everything she knew about the sexual part of her nature. He never figured she'd be such a fast learner.

“It's more than that,” was about all he was willing to admit.

“How much more?”

He should have known she wouldn't leave that alone. “I don't know,” he said, raising his voice more than he'd intended. His words seemed to echo like thunder in the silence of the night. All they needed now was to wake her old man. “I just don't know,” he repeated, softer this time. “Listen, Monica, it doesn't help to phrase the same question in different ways, the answer's going to be the same. I don't know about love. I've never been in love before, so how am I supposed to know if what I feel for you is any different than what I've felt in the past?”

“But surely you've had some experience with love.”

His laugh was low and husky. “Experience I've got, lots of that, but mainly it's of the physical nature.”

“In other words if . . . if we'd made love, then you might be able to tell me exactly what your feelings are towards me.” The stiff indignation was back as inflexible as always.

“Not exactly.” It did his heart good to hear the outrage in her voice, although he'd never known a woman who could irritate him faster. By the same token he'd never known a woman who did the other things to him she did either. The problem was, he still hadn't figured out whether he liked it or not. Mostly he liked it, he reasoned, otherwise he wouldn't keep coming back for more.

“I have my principles, Chet Costello, and I can tell you right now that I refuse to sleep with any man until after we're married.”

Laughing was a gross error and he knew it, but he couldn't help himself. He could have had her any number of times. The only thing that had stopped him was knowing that neither one of them would be the same afterward.

Monica was innocent in the ways of men and he refused to take from her what rightly belonged to another. His thoughts were abruptly ended when Monica slammed the window shut, practically in his face.

Her eyes glared out at him accusingly.

He shouldn't have laughed and knew it even as the amusement escaped his throat. As means of an apology, he pressed his fingertips to his lips and then set his open hand against the cold windowpane.

Monica's angry gaze held his in what little light the moon afforded. After a moment, she pantomimed his action and poised her hand on the other side of the glass against his.

Reluctantly, he dropped his hand and turned away from her while he had the strength. He didn't know where the relationship was leading and as far as he could see they were striding down a dead-end street, but for the life of him he couldn't make himself terminate it. Maybe he did love her; he didn't ever want to think about the consequences of that.

“Young man.”

The voice startled Chet. He was getting sloppy in his old age, otherwise he'd never have been heard cutting through her side yard. Chet whirled around to find a thin man standing on the front lawn, dressed in a robe and slippers, holding a flashlight. It could only be Monica's father.

Chet drew in his breath and waited.

“I'd like to know exactly what you're doing on my property this time of night?” Lloyd Fisher demanded, aiming the flashlight into his eyes, blinding him.

I
t was happening, Leah thought. She woke to the buzzing of the alarm and even before she opened her eyes she realized how queasy her stomach was. Was it possible? Could she be pregnant?

Mentally she tried to calculate the dates of her last menstrual cycle, and couldn't. Sometime the first part of November, she guessed. It would help if she hadn't tossed her notebook in the garbage.

It was wishful thinking, she finally decided. Or the flu. Probably a nasty virus, she mused, yawning.

“Morning,” Andrew said, cuddling her. His hand automatically slipped over her abdomen as he scooted closer to her side. Leah savored his warmth. “Did you sleep well?”

“Hmmm.”

“Me too.”

Leah smiled. Their routine was the same every morning. It was these small things, these everyday habits that had become a part of the structure of their marriage.

After Andrew had gone to make the coffee, Leah decided to take her temperature for old times' sake, not that it would tell her anything.

Two minutes later she was studying the normal reading and calling herself a silly goose, grateful Andrew hadn't caught her with the thermometer in her mouth.

“I think I'll just have yogurt this morning,” Leah said when she entered the kitchen.

Andrew studied her. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I'm fine,” she assured him, taking a carton of blueberry-flavored non-fat yogurt out of the refrigerator. The bread popped up from the toaster and Andrew spread a thin layer of butter over the warm surface.

“You look a little pale,” he commented, removing the lid from the strawberry jam. He smeared a thick coat over the toast and carried his plate and cup of coffee to the table.

“I do?” Her voice rose with a dash of excitement she couldn't hide. She brought her yogurt with her and joined him.