A Season of Angels (12 page)

“Mercy!” both Goodness and Shirley cried simultaneously.

“Come on, you guys, don't you know a joke when you hear one?” The petite angel drifted effortlessly upward, resting on the bridge.

Goodness wasn't sure of anything these earth days. Humans had frustrated her in the past, but she'd never had to deal with one as obstinate and foolish as Monica Fischer. There was a soft spot in her heart for preachers' children. Goodness was convinced Gabriel was aware of her feelings and that was what had prompted him to give her this particular assignment.

“I don't mean to change the subject, but are those submarines over there?” Shirley asked. She was dangling from the top of the communication tower and pointed to a series of seven fast-attack black boats docked in the murky, moonless waters at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. “I don't believe I'll ever understand how the human mind works. Imagine designing a boat that's supposed to sink.”

“Can we get back to the matters at hand?” Mercy asked. “I don't mind telling you I'm at my wit's end when it comes to helping Leah and Andrew.”

“You!” Goodness cried.

Shirley cleared her throat. “To be honest, I should tell you matters aren't going all that well for me either.”

“But I thought—”

“Weren't you saying—”

Shirley held up her hand, stopping them both. “Timmy's grandmother ruined everything for me. It's as bad now as it ever was. Jody turned down Glen's dinner invitation and Timmy believes if he becomes friends with Glen that he'll dishonor the memory of his father.”

Goodness felt sorry for her friend. They should have realized nothing is ever as easy as it seems, but then Shirley had been so smug about her assignment.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know,” Shirley admitted. “Glen's patient, but I wonder just how long he'll continue to invite Jody if she shows no signs of wanting to go out with him. Until the package arrived from his grandmother, Timmy was working with me, and we all know what an advantage it is to have a child on our side.”

“How long is it until Christmas?” Earth time always served to confuse Goodness.

“Three weeks,” Shirley mumbled, her wings sagging with discouragement.

“You've got plenty of time, just be patient and do what you can,” Mercy suggested. “You'll find a way, I know you will.”

Goodness didn't have any better ideas herself. Her own lack of success with answering Monica's prayer request was getting downright depressing. The preacher's daughter claimed she wanted a husband, yet she ignored the attention of the man most suitable. Instead she was flirting with disaster secretly meeting a private eye with an attitude problem.

“I'm doing worse than ever,” Mercy admitted grudgingly as if this were something new the others hadn't figured out yet. “Shirley had a great idea. She felt, and I'm in complete agreement, that if Leah could sample joy, then she might find the steps leading to serenity.”

“What's the problem?”

“Everything,” Mercy admitted, telling them about the scene in the hospital with the birthing class earlier that day. “I haven't figured out how to help her. Leah's more miserable now than when I first arrived.”

“I thought you told me she seemed more accepting.”

Mercy folded her arms. “Perhaps. It's difficult for me to tell. She's been overly burdened lately with work, the holidays, and the guilt of knowing how badly she's hurt her husband with her demands for a child. If anything, her grip on her pain has tightened—she holds it close to her heart so that it suffocates her happiness.”

“Poor Leah,” Shirley whispered, then turned her attention toward Goodness. “What about you? Are matters any better with Monica Fischer?”

“I'm growing more and more concerned about Monica,” Goodness said, sharing her own disappointment. “She hasn't given Michael the time of day and he's such a dear young man.”

“You sound as if you're attracted to him yourself.”

“I am. Well, who wouldn't be? He's dedicated and caring and a prince of a guy, not that Monica's noticed.”

“What about the private eye?”

Goodness tossed her hands into the air. “She continues to meet him on the sly. My guess is she's more attracted to him than ever.”

“What about him?”

Goodness cringed. “The more I know about Chet Costello the less impressed I am. He's lived hard and loved hard and it shows.”

“What does he want from Monica?”

Goodness didn't have the answer to that any more than she did the other questions. “As far as I can guess, she's everything he isn't. He doesn't share her faith, her interests, her values, yet he's attracted to those qualities. He carries the misery of his past with him, and as far as I can see he hasn't cared about anything or anyone for the last four or five years, himself included.”

“You know, there might be hope for him yet,” Shirley said. “Monica must think so too, otherwise she wouldn't continue seeing him.”

“How can you suggest such a thing?” Goodness demanded. To her way of thinking, any relationship between the two was doomed from the start. If anyone was capable of teaching Monica the lessons she needed to know, it would be Michael, not Chet.

“I don't have any suggestions for you,” Mercy told her. “I'm having enough trouble dealing with my own problems with Leah. I'm sorry I can't be of more help.”

“Don't fret,” Goodness said as a means of encouragement to her friends.

“We've got three weeks yet,” Shirley reminded them. “There's no need to panic. Anything can happen in that time, anything at all.”

“Right,” Mercy said, eyeing the aircraft carrier
Carl Vinjon.
Goodness recognized that gleam in her friend's eye. It spelled trouble. She had to be honest, she found the radar system downright attractive. And feeling as disgruntled as she did with humans and romance, Goodness didn't think she should be held responsible for what might happen.

“You're both right,” Shirley agreed, glancing toward the submarines. “Anything's possible.”

C
rews from all three Seattle television stations were at the Bremerton shipyard the following morning. The sky was filled with navy helicopters that circled overhead, and a no-fly zone had been declared.

The top navy brass converged on the area and the activity on Sinclair Inlet was unprecedented. No less than ten navy vessels circled the area. Three of the fast-attack submarines patrolled the waters.

“Can you tell us exactly what's happening here?” Brian Lewis asked Marilyn Brock, a reporter from Seattle's ABC television affiliate.

Marilyn Brock pressed the earphone to her head. “As best we've been able to learn, the aircraft carrier
Nimitz
and the
Carl Vinson
have traded places. You heard me right, Brian and Carol, traded places. The
Nimitz
was docked at Pier 12 and is now in Pier 24, where the
Carl Vinson
was formerly docked.

“Also from what we've been able to find out, despite very tight security, an unidentified object showed on the radar screens this last evening. Reports are mixed. Some claim it was nothing more than a commercial flight off course, but others have said it was the silhouette of an angel.”

“An angel?” Brian Lewis repeated.

“You heard me right. This is definitely one for the record books.”

C
het had called himself every kind of fool. He'd waited around the area at the Westlake Mall for nearly thirty minutes and Monica had yet to show. After the tempestuous kisses they'd shared, she'd probably had her sensibilities so shaken she decided against seeing him again. It was just as well. Their relationship wasn't headed anywhere.

Monica Fischer was little more than a passing fancy to him, but even as he said the words, Chet wondered if they were true. What she was to him remained a deep, dark secret, even to himself.

Well, there wasn't any need to wait around here any longer. If she was going to meet him, she would have done so earlier. A cold beer would ease his disappointment, he decided, heading toward the Blue Goose.

“Chet, Chet Costello.”

He caught the tail end of his name and whirled around, searching through a mob of empty faces, seeking Monica. His heart gladdened when he caught sight of her making her way through the crowds, weaving in and around those who were going too slow to suit her.

She wore her hair up and tightly pulled away from her face. The severe style sharpened her features, but Chet was too pleased to see her to worry about the way she wore her hair or the drab, lifeless colors that made up her wardrobe.

She was breathless by the time he reached her. He stopped himself just in time, otherwise he would have wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground. As it was, his arms gripped hold of her elbows.

“I had trouble getting away,” she explained, smiling up at him, her pretty eyes revealing her relief. “I wasn't sure you'd still be here.”

“I was just about to give up,” he admitted. They were causing something of a distraction and Chet turned, looping his arm over her shoulder and guiding her across the street. He hadn't a clue of how much time they'd have together, but he fully intended to make the most of it.

“Where are we going?” Monica asked.

Chet paused. “Do you have any particular place in mind?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Do you?”

He wasn't sure she'd agree. “My apartment. You look half frozen and it's the only place I can think of where we'll have some privacy.”

Her steps slowed. “I . . . don't think that's such a good idea.”

“Why not?” he asked. He'd perfected his innocent look until it was practically an art form. “I was thinking we could talk, and get to know each other a little better.” Sure he intended to talk, but there was a whole lot more on his agenda. Monica possessed a delectable body that she carefully disguised behind clothes that were at least one size too large for her. She needed to learn exactly what it meant to be a woman, and he was an able teacher. Ready and able. It had been a good long while since he'd been this strongly attracted to a woman. That worried him, but not enough to prevent him from seeing Monica. He'd sort through his feelings later once he'd coaxed her into his bed.

Generally Chet preferred to relieve his sexual frustrations with Trixie, a cocktail waitress who worked at the Blue Goose on weekends. They had a long-standing relationship, or better said, a long-standing understanding. They didn't pretend to be in love, pretense was beyond them both. A divorcée with two teenagers to raise on her own, the cocktail waitress wasn't looking for another long-term relationship, and God knew he wasn't either. They were comfortable with each other.

“I have to get back before nine, otherwise my father will ask a lot of questions and I refuse to lie to him.”

“For the love of heaven, you're twenty-five years old.”

“I know. You don't understand.”

Pressuring her wasn't going to help his cause any. The way he figured it, after he'd made love to Monica he'd be over whatever it was that attracted him so strongly, and would exorcise her from his thoughts and his life.

“I was thinking we could have coffee and talk,” she suggested.

“People might see us.”

She blinked. Obviously that thought hadn't occurred to her, and being seen with him would surely be cause for talk. That might put her father and her in an embarrassing situation. Monica loved her father too much to do anything that would hurt him in any way.

“We could find a dark corner somewhere,” she suggested next.

This wasn't going to be nearly as easy as he'd assumed. “All right,” he agreed, “on one condition. I want you to take the pins out of your hair.”

She looked at him as if he were daft. Her fingers tentatively investigated the back of her head. “You want me to let my hair down?”

It should have been clear, but he nodded.

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“I suppose not, it's just that it's such an unusual request.” Already her fingers were working at the pins, unfolding the thick knot of hair, which streamed over her shoulders in a warm cascade of dark chestnut. She kept her gaze lowered as though she felt foolish.

He was right. Her looks were substantially softened by the effect. She was lovely, more so than he would have guessed. Her face was fresh and scrubbed clean. It didn't take much to imagine what a little makeup would do for her already appealing good looks.

“Great,” he said, when it became apparent she was waiting for him to say something. “You don't look like you're waiting to be thrown to the lions now.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, her eyes snapping.

Chet laughed boisterously and reached for her hand. “Come on, let's go have that coffee before we start arguing.”

“I'll have you know I dress this way for a reason. I'm trying to promote a meek and humble spirit. With the world the way it is, with girls looking to Madonna as a role model, I feel I should do my part to promote purity.”

“Sweetheart, listen, you shouldn't knock those scantily clad outfits until you've tried one. Just promise me you'll let me be there when you do.”

“I wish you wouldn't say things like that.”

He probably shouldn't have. She was as skittish as a colt, as well he could understand. This was probably the most daring thing she'd ever done in her life, meeting him this way without her father knowing what she was up to.

“Do you want me to tell you how sorry I am?” he asked, as they made their way down First Avenue. A dingy café he frequented was about the only place he could think of where they'd have a bit of privacy.

“No.”