A Season of Angels (Angels Everywhere #1)(25)
“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.