A Season of Angels (Angels Everywhere #1)(27)

“Let’s go in the bedroom.”

“Why?” He kissed her neck and his hands sought her br**sts. “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.

Chet 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.