A Season of Angels (9 page)

“Let's go in the bedroom.”

“Why?” He kissed her neck and his hands sought her breasts. “You're my wife, I can make love to you any place I please, can't I?”

“I should take my temperature first. This might not be the best time of the month for us to be doing this. If we're going to make love let's do it when there's a chance I could get pregnant.”

The silence that followed her words was filled with tension. Leah didn't know what she'd said that was so terrible. Their lovemaking had always been arranged according to her menstrual cycle and her temperature, which signaled ovulation.

“Andrew?” she asked, not understanding.

He moved away from her and straightened his clothes. She noticed that his hands were shaking. The anger came off him in waves like heat shimmering off concrete in the hottest days of summer.

“It'll only take a moment,” she promised.

He kept his back to her. Still not understanding what she'd said, Monica sat up herself and straightened her own pajamas.

“It . . . it only makes sense if we're going to make love to do it at a time when I could get pregnant.”

At her words, Andrew vaulted off the sofa and stormed into their bedroom. It was rare for him to act this way and she instinctively followed, wanting to right the wrong.

“Don't you agree?” she asked softly, placing her hand on his arm.

He whirled on her then, eyes flashing with anger, his teeth clenched. “No, Leah, I don't agree.”

The force of his anger took her by surprise and she gasped and automatically stepped away from him. She couldn't remember him ever looking at her this way.

“I . . . I assumed you want a baby too,” she offered weakly.

“I do.” The words were hurled at her like sharp knives. “But not at the expense of everything else. It might come as a shock to you, but I'd appreciate being treated more like a husband and less like a robot. Every time we make love, all you can think about is making a baby. Did you ever stop to consider why we make love less and less often? Have you?” he shouted.

Leah had backed all the way across the room. Her backside was flattened against the wall. “I . . . I didn't notice we made love less often.”

“For the last seven years it's been sex on demand. Our entire love life is centered on what time of the month it is. If Mars is lined up with Jupiter or some such stuff.”

“That's ridiculous,” she said, wanting to defend herself.

“My thoughts exactly. We make love when you want, when you think there's a remote possibility you might become pregnant. It isn't love any longer, it's sex, and if that was all I wanted, I could get it on the street.”

Leah felt the color drain from her face. “You . . . you don't mean that.” It was a fear she'd lived with from the moment she realized she might never bear a child, that Andrew would eventually leave her. That he'd find another woman who could give him the family he wanted.

He tore out of his pajamas, dressing quickly. “I can't remember the last time we made love,” he said, jerking a shirt from the closet. The hanger swung with the force of his action. “Really made love,” he amended. “It isn't me you want, it's what I can give you, and if I can't, then I'm no use to you.”

“That's not true.”

Andrew didn't answer. He yanked on a pair of pants, then sat on the end of the mattress to pull on his socks and shoes. His shirt wasn't buttoned as he stalked past her, toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Leah asked, running after him. Tears blurred her eyes and it was difficult to speak normally.

“Out.”

“Andrew,” she cried, “please wait.”

His hand was on the door, his back to her.

“Don't go. You're right. I'm sorry, so sorry. Please.”

His shoulders rose and then relaxed. For the longest time he didn't move. She wasn't entirely sure he was breathing—she knew she wasn't. The only sound in the room was her soft whimper as she struggled not to weep.

“I won't be gone long,” he said, opening the door and walking out.

Leah flinched when the door closed, the sound exploding in the otherwise quiet room. She pressed a hand to her flat stomach and for a moment she thought she was going to be physically sick.

How long she stood there, paralyzed with pain, she didn't know. She couldn't guess. After a while she turned and headed for their bedroom. Slumping onto the edge of her mattress, she opened the drawer of her night stand and reached for the temperature chart she faithfully kept. Staring at them, her eyes filled with tears. After a moment, she walked into the kitchen. Her feet felt heavy and made small scuffing sounds against the floor as she listlessly made her way across the other room.

She opened the garbage compactor and tossed it inside. Along with the spiral pad, Leah felt as if she were throwing away her dreams.

It took her a moment to compose herself before she drew in a deep, stabilizing breath and reached for a dirty plate from their breakfast. She rinsed it off and blindly stacked it into the dishwasher.

C
het wasn't anywhere in the audience, at least not where Monica could see him. Relief swept through her as she looked out over the crowd of Christmas shoppers from her stance on the top riser. She hadn't approved of this Sunday afternoon outing. To her way of thinking a performance on Sunday wasn't proper for Christians. The way she interpreted the Bible, the Sabbath was a day of rest. Those who opted to spend their time shopping were breaking the observance of the Lord's day. She'd tried to reason with her father and Michael when they'd first planned this performance weeks earlier, but her objection had been overridden. Her father had claimed their singing was a way of spreading the message of love and joy. As usual, Monica had no argument.

Now she was pleased it had been overridden because it gave her an opportunity to see Chet again—if she did. It didn't feel good to admit that, but Monica was tired of fooling herself. She needed to see him again, just once more, to banish him from her mind, to prove there could never be anything between them.

The performance went well, although Monica was preoccupied searching the sea of faces for Chet's. No doubt he was entertaining himself in the Blue Goose, the bar he chose to frequent. It would serve him right if she walked right in there and demanded to talk to him. She could embarrass him the way he had her.

Sneaking away from the others, however, proved to be more difficult than she anticipated.

“Are you coming?” Michael asked her. He was tall and so thin the first thing she thought of whenever they met was that someone should feed him.

Monica looked up at him, her mind a blank. She hadn't been listening to the conversation and hadn't a clue what he was talking about.

“To Sherry's,” he elaborated when she didn't respond right away. “She's invited the ensemble over for hot cider and cookies.”

“I . . .” Her gaze darted to the Blue Goose. “I have an errand to run first, but I'll be there shortly.”

“An errand,” Michael repeated. “Downtown?”

She said in a no-nonsense tone, grateful he didn't quiz her about what she was doing, especially in light of her earlier protests about abusing the Lord's day. “I won't be long . . . you go on ahead with the others. I'll be at Sherry's within the hour.”

“You mean you aren't going back with everyone else?”

The man seemed to have a comprehension problem. “Yes,” she said forcefully. “I already explained I have an errand I need to run.” Then feeling mildly guilty for the outburst, she added, “I won't be long.”

“Perhaps we should wait for you.”

“No,” she said quickly. She could well imagine what the others would think if they saw her walking into a tavern. “I appreciate the offer, but that isn't necessary.”

Michael looked as if he weren't sure what he should do, which only served to irritate her further. “Perhaps I should stay with you.”

“Michael, please, that isn't necessary.” The man seemed intent on thwarting her, which aggravated her so much she was barely civil. “I'll see you within the hour.” Not waiting for any further arguments, she turned and abruptly walked across the street to the Westlake Mall.

The crowds were thick and the moment she was free to leave, she escaped the shopping mall and hurried across the street. Making certain none of the other choir members had lingered, she walked purposefully toward the Blue Goose.

Her hand was on the door when she realized what she was doing. She was willing to walk into an establishment that practiced iniquity in the lowest form, in order to locate Chet. A man who plagued her thoughts from the moment they'd met. Something was dreadfully wrong with her.

She turned, practically running in her eagerness to escape, stopping only when she came to the street. She felt someone move behind her.

“I thought as much. You were looking for me, weren't you?”

There could be no mistaking the voice. It belonged to Chet Costello.

Chapter 7

I
t must have taken Jody forty-five minutes to persuade Timmy to go to bed, and then only after Glen agreed to help her tuck him in.

“I'm not tired,” Timmy insisted as Jody pulled back the sheets of his twin bed. “I want to talk to Glen.”

“About what?” Jody knew the instant the words escaped her lips that she'd walked right into that with both feet.

“All kinds of stuff. I need to know what kind of dad he's going to be. After all, God sent him, didn't He?”

A gigantic hole for her to fall in would have been welcome just then. Her son had a knack of knowing exactly what to say that would embarrass her the most. “Timmy, please.”

“I don't really need to be tucked in,” Timmy told Glen, sounding mature for his years. “I just wanted to show you my stuff.” Something that he'd spent every available moment doing since Glen had arrived. Timmy had dragged out his baseball mitt and bat and his beloved baseball card collection for Glen to inspect. The poor man hadn't had a moment's peace in over an hour.

“Good night, Tim,” Jody said sternly, standing in the doorway, her hand on the light switch.

“ 'Night, Mom. 'Night, Glen.”

Jody felt as though her cheeks were red enough to guide ships lost in the fog. She barely knew Glen and already her son was announcing what a great father he'd make. There was no help for it, she was forced to explain.

“I'll get you that coffee now,” she said, leading the way into the compact kitchen and reaching for a mug. Her back ached from holding it so straight and stiff. She didn't know how she could possibly explain. “I apologize for what Timmy said earlier.”

“About what?”

“You know, about you making him a great father. He's at the age now where he misses a man in his life.”

“I imagine his friends talk about their dads.”

Jody nodded. “Recently Timmy wrote a letter in school to God asking for a father. Apparently he looks at you as the answer to his prayer because . . . well, because you're the first man I've dated in a long while and . . .”

“That explains the comment about God sending me,” Glen said as he carried the two steaming coffee mugs to the table.

“I suppose.” Jody reluctantly admitted that much. “I didn't want you to feel pressure because of what he'd said and I certainly didn't want you to think that . . . that I'd put him up to it.”

“I didn't.” Glen sat down and crossed his legs, relaxing against the chair. He appeared more amused than concerned. “He's a wonderful boy. You've done a good job raising him.”

“Thank you.” His words made her proud, but at the same time she realized that she'd failed her son in some way, otherwise she would have recognized his need for a man in his life. Her father had served that purpose for Timmy until his death and the void had been deeply felt by her young son.

“I'm honored that Timmy thinks I'm good father material,” Glen added between sips of coffee.

“It helped that you had a signed Ken Griffey, Jr. baseball card,” Jody teased, then grew serious. “I thought I should explain why Timmy's so eager for us to get to know each other better.”

The lines that fanned out from Glen's eyes relaxed as he set aside his mug and reached for her hand. “I'm just as eager to know you and Timmy better, but I'm an adult and it wouldn't be considered cool to let it show. I realize we've only been acquainted a short while, and it's much too soon to be thinking along the lines Timmy is, but . . .” He hesitated and his eyes studied hers, his look intense. He seemed to be weighing his words carefully, then shrugged and added, “Oh, what the hell, you can think what you want, but I like you, Jody, I like you a lot, and I think Timmy's a great kid. I haven't made it a secret that I'm strongly attracted to you.

“As far as I'm concerned the fact that you have a son who's looking for a father is an added bonus. I want a family, and have for some time. I'd be pleased if we both started thinking along those lines.

“There, I've said it and I've probably shocked you, but we're both mature adults, capable of handling the truth, don't you think?”

Jody didn't know what to say. She felt overwhelmed and apprehensive. She stood abruptly, nearly toppling her chair in her haste. “I'm flattered, really flattered, but . . . it's too soon, much too soon for us to be thinking along those lines.”

“Of course it is,” Glen agreed patiently. “I'm sorry, Jody, I didn't mean to upset you. You're right, of course, I got caught up in Timmy's enthusiasm. Forgive me.”

“There's nothing to forgive.”

Glen hadn't done anything more than sample his coffee, but he stood and carried the mug to the sink. “I should be going.”

Jody nodded, but immediately felt guilty. Glen looked a little like Timmy after she'd had to tell him no when it was something he really wanted.

“Would you be willing to see me again, or have I completely terrified you?” he asked when he reached the front door.

Jody couldn't see how she could refuse. “I'd enjoy going out with you again.”

The defeated puppy-dog look was replaced with a wide smile. “I'll give you a call some time tomorrow, then.”

“That'd be fine.”

Glen opened the door and paused. “Would you be willing to see me if it weren't for Timmy?”

Jody laughed softly. “Probably.”

She was rewarded with another warm grin that lit up his eyes. He took a small step toward her and then stopped abruptly and exhaled a long, deep breath. “I'd very much like to kiss you, but I'm afraid that might be pushing matters. We'll do this your way, Jody. I'm a patient man, especially when the prize is one of such value. Good night and thank you for one of the most enjoyable evenings of my life.”

“ 'Night.” She stood at the door and waited until he'd reached his car. Once he pulled away, his headlights illuminating the dark street, Jody closed the door and leaned against the heavy wood.

Glen had nice eyes, she decided. The eyes of a man she could trust, who wouldn't rush her into something she wasn't ready for. The eyes of a man who was well acquainted with pain and disappointment himself.

After a few moments she walked over to the mantel in the family room where Jeff's picture rested. She stared at his familiar features, the features she loved so dearly. Even after all these years, he had the power to stir her.

Reaching out, she traced her fingers over the outline of his jaw, waiting for the swell of emotion that generally accompanied such moments. To her surprise none came. Not guilt. Nor doubt. Jeff smiled benignly out at her and perhaps it was her imagination, she was sure it must be, but he seemed to approve of Glen, approve of the job she'd done raising Timmy. It seemed he was telling her that even in death he would always love her.

L
eah heard the door shut. Andrew had returned after being away most of the day. She closed her eyes, and took a moment to compose herself before she faced her husband. He was right and she knew it. Having a child had become an obsession with her, so much so that she was systematically destroying the most important relationship in her life.

Stepping out of the kitchen, she watched as Andrew sat down in front of the television and reached for the remote control.

“I . . . I thought that must be you,” she said, which sounded silly since it couldn't have been anyone else.

“As you can see, it's me.” His words were as stark and cold as they had been earlier. It wasn't a good sign.

“Can we talk?” she asked, tentatively stepping into the room.

“I don't know that there's anything more to say.”

The fact that they were having this conversation with his back to her said far more than any words they might have spoken.

“I'm sorry, Andrew,” she whispered, struggling not to break into tears. She hated any kind of discord between them. They'd always been so close, she didn't think anything could destroy their love. She feared now that she might be wrong.

“You've already apologized, you don't need to do it again.” The newsclips from the game between the Seattle Seahawks and the San Diego Chargers were playing and the noise of the game filled the room.

Leah, who was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, wiped her hands against her thighs. “I was hoping we could talk,” she said, lowering herself onto the far side of the sofa across from him.

“Leah, listen,” Andrew said sharply, “I'm not good company at the moment. If we're going to talk it should be when we're both in the right frame of mind.”

She could never remember Andrew being like this. They rarely disagreed and when they did, both were eager to resolve their differences.

“When do you think you'll be in the right frame of mind?” she asked, swallowing her pride.

“I don't know. I just need some time to put my thoughts together. I probably shouldn't have come back to the house, but it's cold and I wasn't keen about spending the rest of the day and evening sitting in my car.”

“Of course you should have come back here. I'm glad you did. Do you want me to get you a cup of coffee? Some dinner?”

He shook his head. “What I'd appreciate more than anything is some time to myself.”

“Sure,” she said, scooting off the leather sofa, “whatever you want. Take all the time you need. I was thinking of going out anyway.”

He acknowledged her with an abrupt nod and continued to stare at the television screen. “That sounds like a good idea.”

So he wanted her to leave, was willing for her to go. Leah hadn't realized how deeply she'd injured Andrew's pride or how she'd weakened the foundation of their marriage. It came as a painful shock.

He didn't say anything more to her when she left. Leah went about gathering her coat and purse as if she were going on an outing she'd looked forward to for weeks. Humming softly she called out cheerfully, “I won't be late.”

Not knowing where to go, Leah drove around for an hour before heading toward Pam's house. Her college friend knew there was something wrong the minute she opened the door. Not that Leah would have been able to hide it.

“Leah,” Pam said, alarm filling her eyes. “What happened?”

Unable to speak, Leah shook her head from side to side.

“Come inside. I'm sure it's nothing a long talk and a strong cup of tea can't help.”

This was what Leah loved about Pam—the ability to solve any problem with a cup of tea and a stiff upper lip. Now that she was here, she wasn't keen on talking. What she really needed was a friend, not a counselor.

“It's not all that bad,” Leah said, making light of her troubles as she followed Pam into the kitchen. The sink was stacked with dirty dishes and the cupboards were smeared with miniature fingerprints, a stark contrast to her own spotless kitchen.

“Auntie Leah?” Scotty raced into the kitchen, clutching his stuffed dinosaur, the one she'd given him for his birthday a month earlier.

“Scotty, you're supposed to be asleep!” Pam said, hands on her hips.

Leah scooped the three-year-old into her arms and hugged him close while he pressed happy kisses over her face. He was a sweet boy with deep blue eyes and a froth of unmanageable curls and Leah loved him as much as if he were her own.

“How's my darling?” she asked, setting him on the countertop and brushing the curls away from his forehead.

“Look!” he said, proudly holding up his thumb.

“It's dry,” Pam explained. “Scotty has given up sucking his thumb, isn't that right?”

Scotty nodded eagerly and Leah carried him back into the bedroom he shared with his younger brother. Thirteen-month-old Jason was sound asleep, his knees tucked under his stomach, his small buttocks thrust into the air.

“Shhh,” Scotty said in a loud whisper as Leah set him back in his bed, after maneuvering around a stack of plastic building blocks and several wooden puzzles. Pieces were scattered all about the area.

“I'm very proud of you for not sucking your thumb,” she whispered.

Scotty beamed with the praise. She kissed his forehead and tiptoed out of the room.

Pam had the tea brewed by the time Leah returned. “Where's Diane?” she asked about her friend's oldest child.

“Doug had to run an errand and she wanted to go with him. As you can see I haven't gotten around to the dinner dishes. Sit down and tell me what's upset you so much.”

Leah didn't know where to start, or if she should. It wasn't easy to admit her failings. “Andrew and I had a spat, is all. We both needed some time to think matters through so I left.”

“It's nothing serious, is it?”

Leah shook her head, discounting her concern. “I . . . I don't think so. We'll be fine.”

Pam brought the china teapot to the table. “You're sure?”

“We rarely squabble and it upsets me when we do.”

A series of short horn blasts interrupted their conversation. Although the sound was irritating there seemed to be a certain rhythm to it. Leah closed her eyes and listened carefully. If she hadn't known better she'd swear it sounded like someone was tapping out “Hit the Road, Jack.”

Pam sent a curious look Leah's way. “Doug must need my help,” she said, “he's certainly being clever about getting it.”

“It sounds like . . .”

“ ‘Hit the Road, Jack,' ” Pam finished for her, snapping her fingers as she walked toward the door. She stopped abruptly and turned around, looking puzzled.

“Is it Doug?” Leah asked.

Pam shook her head. “It's coming from your car.”

This had to be some kind of joke. She set aside her tea and followed Pam. “Are you telling me my car's making that weird sound?”

“It's your horn,” Pam insisted. “Just listen.”