A Season of Angels (14 page)

In the last hour.

A variety of pink, red, and white blossoms had appeared as if by some miracle from the time she'd finished the dishes and wandered into the living room, until now, no more than an hour later. It wasn't that she didn't notice. One might have gone undetected, but not five. She could have sworn not a single one had been blooming an hour earlier.

Unexpected tears pooled in her eyes, the moisture hot and unwelcome. She brushed them away from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “It seems everything in this house is fertile except me,” she murmured aloud, and headed blindly toward the living room to await her husband's return.

S
itting on the kitchen counter, her knees crossed, her foot swaying like a too-fast pendulum, Mercy heaved a gigantic sigh. Getting those flowers to appear hadn't been an easy trick. She would have preferred African violets any day of the week over cacti!

Everything she'd done for Leah had backfired. The flowers were supposed to be a sign of hope. A way of telling her that all was not lost and that there was someone out there who'd heard her prayer and was working hard to see that it was answered. Well, it was back to the drawing board.

Perhaps what Shirley had suggested about Leah experiencing joy before she could find her peace was what it would take. First Mercy had to figure out a way to manage that, but if she could coax cacti into bloom, then anything was possible. Right?

“S
hirley.” Goodness shot across the darkened family room of Jody and Timmy Potter's house in a vapor of speed and excitement. “Give me five,” she cried, holding up her right hand for the other angel to slap. What a difference a few earth hours could make. For the first time since Goodness had accepted this assignment she was making progress. Real progress. Monica and Michael had gone to lunch together. It wasn't much but it was a start in the right direction.

“Oh, do be quiet,” Shirley whispered heatedly. “You know better than to be exuberant when there're children around. Timmy might very well hear you.”

“But I've got great news. Monica and Michael had lunch together and I arranged the whole thing without them suspecting. I tell you it was a work of art the way I got Michael to show up at the church office.”

“Please keep your voice down,” Shirley pleaded a second time, placing her finger against her lips.

“All right. All right, I'll do my best, but this news is too good to keep to myself.”

Shirley whirled around so unexpectedly that Goodness was caught by surprise. A sleepy Timmy Potter wandered into the room, rubbing his eyes. He was wearing flannel pajamas with silly-looking armed turtles.

Shirley moved behind him.

“Mom,” Timmy called.

A moment later Jody Potter appeared in a long flannel nightgown that had seen better years. Shirley had her work cut out for her if she planned to find this woman a husband any time soon. Her charge looked downright frumpy.

“Timmy, what are you doing up?”

“I thought I heard something.”

Jody turned on the light and searched the room. The minute her back was turned, Shirley and Goodness righted the floral arrangement and set the magazines in order. Both headed straight for the ceiling, hovering there.

Jody searched the room, finding nothing out of the ordinary. “There's no one here.”

“I thought I heard something,” Timmy said with a yawn. “But I guess not.”

“I guess not, too,” Jody said, placing her arm around her young son's shoulders and steering him back to his bedroom. “Unless, of course, it was God's own angels looking down and smiling on us.”

“You think it might have been?” Timmy asked excitedly, looking up. He paused and blinked, rubbed his eyes again, then looked back.

“Who knows?” Jody said and turned out the light.

M
onica's attitude toward Chet altered drastically over the next couple of days. He was still a scoundrel and a no-good rogue, but darned if she didn't miss him. There was no explaining it, no possible way of reasoning it out in her mind.

She tried to fill the emptiness that surrounded her with a flurry of activity. The night before she'd dragged out the Christmas decorations and gone about setting them around the house and office. Her father, impressed by her initiative, assumed this burst of energy was somehow connected with her long lunch with Michael. Monica didn't correct him.

Monica knew she wouldn't see Chet again and wondered if he missed her. She wondered how he looked upon their time together or if he'd given her as much as a fleeting thought in the days since they'd last been together.

She wore her hair down that morning and when she walked into the kitchen her father lowered the morning paper and smiled gently at her.

“Monica,” he said softly, “how nice you look.”

“Thank you.”

“Will you be seeing Michael again this afternoon.”

“I . . . I don't know.” How keen her father was on the young musician. He'd pegged Michael early on as the perfect husband for her. He was right. Her father generally was. How she wished she felt the same way about the earnest choir director. There was no question of what a fine man Michael was. Several of the eligible women at church would have gladly welcomed his notice. For now those attentions were sadly wasted on her.

“It seems to me I said something to Michael about coming over for dinner one night soon. You don't mind, do you?”

“Of course not, Michael is welcome anytime.” So this was to be the way of it. Her father would chart her romance for her, making excuses for the two of them to be together again.

“I'm sure he'll approve of the way you've done your hair,” he added, looking pleased.

She smiled weakly. “I'll see you in a few minutes,” she said, anxious to escape their conversation.

“You're leaving for the office so soon?”

“I . . . have several things I need to do first thing this morning.”

“I won't be in until later. I'm visiting Mrs. McWilliams,” he reminded her, downing the last of his milk and setting the glass in the sink.

The woman was an old and faithful church member who'd recently broken her hip. Lloyd visited her at least twice a week.

“I'll see you later, then,” Monica said, eager to make her escape. She walked across the yard to the old church building and let herself in by the side door that opened onto the sanctuary area. She'd been raised in this building, lived the majority of her life in the same house with the same people.

Instead of heading directly to the office, which was situated in the room at the rear of the church off the foyer, Monica paused and looked toward the altar. An unspoken prayer rose in her throat and she found herself moving toward the altar rail.

Monica kelt there and slowly bowed her head. “Guide his life, Father,” she whispered. The tears that filled her eyes came as a surprise and the remainder of the words were choked off in her throat. She wasn't sure how to pray for Chet. But God knew and she'd leave the man and the matter in His capable hands.

Several moments passed before she stood.

Her morning slipped past almost unnoticed. Typing was something of a chore with her hair continually falling in her face. It irritated her so much that she found two bobby pins in a desk drawer and clipped both sides behind her ears.

She was busy working on the bulletin for Sunday morning worship service when the door opened. Monica looked up from the computer and her pulse quickened. Quickened was a mild way of explaining what happened to her. Her heart was banging against her ribs with such force she wasn't able to do anything more than breathe.

“I see you took my advice about your hairstyle,” Chet said, and sauntered into the office as if he were right at home.

“What are you doing here?” She glanced anxiously toward her father's office, forgetting he wasn't there.

“Don't worry, he's off visiting Mrs. McWilliams.”

“How . . . how do you know that?”

Chet laughed lightly and rearranged the figurines that made up the nativity scene she'd set in a froth of angel hair, switching the camels and the mules. “I know just about everything there is to know about you.”

Playing a game of cat and mouse with him was beyond her. Chet was much too clever for her. “Why are you here?”

“To see you. Why else? I'm not exactly the type of guy who frequents churches.”

She was on her feet without knowing how she got there. Clenching her hands together in front of her, she drew in a steadying breath. “Why do you want to see me?”

“I figured I owed you an apology.”

His willingness to admit it surprised her. “Then I accept your regrets,” she informed him, sitting back down. “You don't need to trouble yourself further.”

“I came for another reason,” he said, easing himself onto the corner of her desk as if he had every right to do so.

“What's that?” Monica placed her hands on the keyboard, ready to resume her task although heaven knew she couldn't have typed had her life depended on it.

“You planning on seeing that milquetoast choir director again?”

“I . . . I don't believe that's any concern of yours.”

“Perhaps not, but if you do, you're cheating him and you're hurting yourself.”

Monica had taken about as much of his advice as she could tolerate. “What gives you the right to say those kinds of things to me?” she demanded.

“I know you, sweetheart.”

She hated it when he called her that and he knew it. He was purposely trying to irritate her.

“You've got fire in your blood, not milk. You've sampled desire. Now that you know what it is to be weak with wanting a man, you won't be able to accept second best. Not anymore—it's too late for that.”

“You have your nerve.”

“You're right,” he agreed readily enough, “I do.” He stood and walked around to her side of the desk.

Monica watched him, not knowing what to expect. Every nerve was at full attention. A siren was blaring in her head, blocking out all sensible thought.

When he reached for her, she didn't offer the least bit of resistance. As it never failed to do, his touch rippled through her, snapping her senses to life. He roughly lowered his mouth to hers where he planted desperate, hungry kisses.

She resisted him at first, attempting to jerk her mouth from his, but he wouldn't allow it, trapping her face. Her stand against him was pitifully weak, and soon she was as much a participant in the exchange as he was.

Slowly he eased himself away from her. “Heaven help me,” he whispered and Monica was convinced he didn't mean this as a prayer.

Something attracted his attention and he jerked his head around. “Someone's coming,” he whispered.

Monica was too startled to do anything.

“Whoever it is, get rid of them,” he instructed, slipping behind the door that led to her father's office.

Get rid of them
, Monica thought in panic. She wasn't accustomed to playing these ridiculous cops-and-robbers games. She hadn't a clue of what to say or do.

The door opened just then and Michael strolled inside. He smiled at her warmly. “I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time.”

“Bad time,” she repeated with a phony laugh. “Of course not. Come on in, Michael.”

Chapter 11

“Y
ou're sure you don't mind?” Pam asked, leading Scotty by the hand into Leah's house. “After all the trouble I've gone through for this silly Christmas party of Doug's, who'd believe my baby-sitter would come down with the flu? At the last minute, no less. It was the oddest thing. One minute she was fine and the next she was sick.”

“You should have brought over Diane and Jason too,” Leah said.

Pam laughed outright at that. “Even my mother won't take all three at once.” Flustered and in a rush, she set everything down on the sofa and started unpacking the items she'd brought along for her middle son. Sorting through the brown paper sack, Pam removed Scotty's pajamas, an extra set of clothes for the morning, his stuffed dinosaur and a tattered yellow blanket. “He's mostly given up his blanky, but he might need a bit of security to sleep in an unfamiliar bed.”

“I'll make sure he has it with him.”

“I brought along some extra training pants,” Pam said, setting out a stack of them.

“I don't wet,” Scotty said, his fists braced against his small hips. “I'm a big boy.”

“I forgot his potty seat,” Pam cried. “Oh, well, you'll just have to hold him over the toilet.”

“Don't worry, Scotty and I'll figure everything out as we go. Isn't that right, bud?”

“Right.” She held out her hand for him to slap, which he did with enthusiasm, his arm making a high arch into the air.

Pam straightened and held back her hair with both hands. “I hope to heaven that's everything. Here's the number where Doug and I'll be,” she said, pulling a slip of paper from her coat pocket. Getting down on her knees, she wrapped her arms around her three-year-old. “Promise me you'll be an extra good boy for Auntie Leah?”

Scotty clung to her neck and planted a wet kiss on her cheek.

“We're going to have a great time, aren't we, Scotty?” Leah urged, knowing how bad Pam felt to be leaving him in an unfamiliar setting.

Scotty nodded, but looked uncertain when his mother left. Pam was halfway out the front door when she turned back. “He probably needs to go now.”

“Pam,” Leah said, ushering her friend out of the house, “scoot, otherwise you'll miss your hair appointment.”

“I'm hurrying—”

“Stop looking so worried. Everything's going to be just fine.”

Scotty was standing at the window, his mouth pressed to the cold glass as he watched his mother pull out of the driveway. He looked at Leah and his bottom lip started to tremble.

“Scotty, how about helping me with lunch?” she asked, holding out her hand. “You can decide what to fix for Uncle Andrew, all right?”

The boy shook his head, smearing his lip prints from one pane to the next.

“Are you hungry?”

Once more Scotty shook his head. “I want my mommy.”

“She's going out to dinner with your daddy and his friends from work.”

“I want to go too.”

“This dinner is only for mommies and daddies.”

Apparently this wasn't what Scotty wanted to hear because the tears started in earnest. He was breaking her heart, standing with his back to the window, rubbing his eyes and sobbing softly. She couldn't bear to see her godson weeping so pitifully, so she lifted him into her arms to comfort him. Scotty buried his face in her shoulder, snuffling into her expensive cashmere sweater. Leah smiled to herself and shook her head. This was what it meant to be a mother, to be loved and needed. She'd treasure every moment of the time with this precious little boy.

It took Leah only a few moments to get Scotty interested in helping her assemble sandwiches. Andrew arrived about the time the boy was licking the jelly off the knife and sticking it back inside the jar.

“So we have company,” he said, removing his jacket and hanging it on the peg just inside the door.

Scotty looked at her husband as an unknown entity, his big dark eyes following Andrew's movements around the kitchen as Leah explained Pam's sorry predicament.

“Peanut butter and jelly?” Andrew grumbled under his breath, eyeing their lunch.

“That was what Scotty wanted us to have.”

“You sure he didn't suggest pastrami on rye?” Andrew mumbled out of the corner of his mouth.

“Scotty made the peanut butter and jelly all by himself,” Leah said, urging her husband to compliment the boy on his efforts. There was more peanut butter on the countertop than the bread, but Scotty had done it himself and beamed with pride.

“So I noticed.” Andrew skeptically lifted one corner of the bread. The peanut butter was spread so thin the white bread showed through. He looked at Leah and they both burst into laughter. It wasn't especially funny, but they seemed to find it so.

Scotty studied them as if he didn't know what to make of the two. Leah kissed his chubby cheek and set the sandwich and a small glass of milk down on the table. Moving out the chair, Scotty climbed onto the seat. He knelt on the cushion and leaned against the glass tabletop, his small hands circling the glass.

“Apparently lunch is served,” Andrew said, bowing and gallantly gesturing for Leah to take her place at the table. He held out the chair for her, then seated himself.

After sampling the sandwich, Andrew eyed Leah. “Is Scotty choosing the dinner menu as well?”

“Hot dogs and macaroni and cheese,” Scotty said with his mouth full of food.

Andrew looked at Leah and there was something so crestfallen in his eyes that she couldn't help it, she burst out laughing. Andrew didn't know what she found so funny, but soon he was laughing too. Scotty, who hadn't a clue of what was going on, joined in, milk dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.

M
ercy looked down upon the scene from where she was lounging on top of the double-wide refrigerator. Her scheme had worked beautifully, although she did feel mildly guilty about inflicting Pam's baby-sitter with the virus.

Scotty's visit with Leah and Andrew was going much better than she'd anticipated. So well that it was all Mercy could do not to stand up and cheer. The sound of Leah and Andrew's laughter brightened the room like floodlights on an empty stage.

The kitchen radiated with the warmth of their happiness. The dim, dark pall of melancholy faded as the joy was slowly released, circling the room with tails of light. The gloom, discouragement, and despair that marked this house lifted like dissipating fog over the Golden Gate Bridge revealing the sound structure of this marriage, and the deep, profound love Leah and Andrew shared.

This was what Mercy had waited for so impatiently.

Joy.

Her gaze wandered closely over Leah and the emotion she read in the young woman's face deeply stirred her soul. At last they were making progress. The light was on, the mist had lifted.

It was a beginning.

T
he lunch was over and Leah lifted Scotty from the chair, washed his hands and face, and carried him into the guest bedroom. Knowing his penchant for amusing himself instead of napping, she sat in the rocking chair and held him in her lap. Scotty chose a book and she read to him until he dozed off.

For a long time after Scotty was asleep, Leah continued to hold him, enjoying these rare moments of peace and the ecstasy of having a child in her arms.

Kissing the top of his curly head, she was amazed at all Pam managed to do with a houseful of preschoolers. Scotty had only been with her a couple of hours and already she was emotionally and physically exhausted.

Andrew arrived just then, leaning indolently against the door frame, his face wide with a saucy grin. “It looks like you could use a nap yourself.”

“No one ever told me toddlers could be so exhausting,” Leah admitted.

“Here,” Andrew whispered, gently lifting Scotty from her arms. “Let's put him to bed.”

Moving around her husband, Leah turned back the sheets and Andrew carefully laid the sleeping child onto the mattress. Covering him with the quilt, Leah bent down and kissed her godson's forehead.

Neither Andrew nor Leah were in any hurry to leave the room. Standing next to her husband, she nestled in the warm security of Andrew's arms, her head resting against the solid wall of his chest.

“He's really something, isn't he?” Andrew said softly, so as not to disturb Scotty's sleep.

“He's a ball of energy.”

Andrew kissed the side of her neck. “Come on, I think we could do with a nap ourselves.”

From the way he made the suggestion, Leah knew resting was the last thing on her husband's mind. She caught his eye, and whispered regretfully, “Andrew, we can't.”

“Why not?”

“Scotty might wake and—”

“Do you think Doug and Pam worry about that? Besides, I can be real quiet, and with some effort so can you,” he whispered, steering her toward their bedroom.

Sometime later, Leah woke to the sounds of someone hopping up and down at the foot of her bed. She rolled onto her back to find Scotty doing a marvelous impression of a kangaroo.

“Hi, Scotty.”

He was holding onto his front with both hands, his eyes wide and appealing.

“Scotty?” she asked, sitting up, clenching the sheets to her breasts. “Do you need to go potty?”

“That would be my guess,” Andrew said, yawning. “Come on, fellow, I'll show you the way.” Lifting the boy into his arms, Andrew carried him to the bathroom.

Leah grabbed her sweater and finished dressing. “How's everything going in there?” she called out.

“Not good. He seems to need something.”

“What?”

Scotty apparently didn't trust Andrew to properly relay the message. “I need my blanky . . . I need my blanky . . . I need my blanky.”

Leah retrieved the yellow monstrosity in record time and rushed back into the bathroom where Andrew was holding Scotty over the toilet seat. The boy grabbed the blanket, and held it against his face. As soon as the blanket was in position, he released a long, grateful sigh and relaxed.

When Scotty finished, Andrew sagged onto the side of the bathtub. “What was that all about?”

“Pam said something about forgetting his toilet seat. He must have been terrified of being perched up there.”

Andrew looked at Leah and she looked at him and soon the two of them dissolved into giggles.

“I'm a big boy,” Scotty insisted, looking downright proud of himself, his laughter mingling with theirs.

M
onica was convinced Michael would guess that Chet was hiding behind the door in the other room. Why Chet felt he needed to disappear, she could only speculate.

The man was a fool to show up at the church this way. She'd wanted to shout at him, and throw the entire contents of her filing cabinet in his face. Heaven knew he deserved that and far worse. Why, she should have slapped him silly.

She would have, too, if she hadn't been so pleased to see him.

“Your hair looks especially nice today,” Michael said with glowing approval.

“Thank you.” Knowing Chet, it was probably all he could do to keep from leaping out from behind the door and commenting that he'd been the one to suggest the change.

“I'm playing the piano for the Methodists' church cantata this evening,” Michael was saying. “Their regular pianist came down with the flu. I thought I'd stop by and see if you'd like to come along.”

“Tonight?” Monica asked, stalling for time. In truth she was looking for an excuse, anything to get out of this date, but nothing readily presented itself.

“I mentioned this evening to your father and he said you didn't have anything planned,” Michael pressed.

“No, I don't believe I do.” So her father had put him up to this. She should have realized that sooner.

Michael hesitated, glancing at her as if he were waiting for her to say something more. Uncertain, Monica steadily met his look.

“Did Lloyd mention anything about dinner?”

“Dinner?” She knew she was beginning to sound like a parrot. “Why, yes. Dad did say something this morning about having you over for dinner some evening. We'd be more than happy to have you join us, if you'd like.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight . . . why, sure . . . tonight would be perfect, wouldn't it, since I'll be there for the Methodists' cantata.”

“What time?”

“Six,” she said automatically, willing to agree to anything that would convince him to leave faster. Knowing Chet was listening in on the conversation made matters ten times worse.

“Great,” Michael said, looking well pleased with himself, “I'll see you around six, then. Would you like me to bring anything?”

“No. Everything's under control. Good-bye, Michael,” she said, sitting back down at the computer, hoping he'd take the hint and kindly leave while her sanity was intact. She placed her hands on the keyboard until she noticed how badly she was trembling and immediately lowered them to her lap.

“I'll look forward to this evening,” he said, reluctantly moving toward the door. He was looking for an excuse to stay, but she refused to give him one.

Despite her obvious signs of distress, she tried to concentrate on the computer screen.

“Your father claims you're a fabulous cook.”

“I do a fair job,” she muttered. This was getting worse every minute and she didn't know how much more she could bear.

“Good-bye for now.”

“Good-bye, Michael,” she said, closing her eyes in relief.

Michael left then and the door closed with a soft clicking sound. The instant he was gone, Monica leaped out of her chair, raced around her desk and into her father's study. By the time she arrived she was both breathless and furious.

“Why'd you hide?” she demanded. “Of all the crazy things you've said and done in the last few weeks, this takes the cake.”