A Season of Angels (Angels Everywhere #1)(46)

Chet had made his views on life plain. If anything she should be grateful that he’d put an end to this madness when he had. One small part of her, however, refused to conform. One small rebellious corner of her soul yearned for the discoveries he would have shown her.

The thought terrified Monica into accepting how far she’d slid toward sin.

Well, she was safe. He was out of her life now. Good riddance was all she could say.

A knock came softly from the outer door.

“Come in,” she snapped, then realized she sounded like an old shrew, and said it again, softer this time. Church secretaries weren’t supposed to be confrontational.

Michael opened the door and stepped inside. “Hello, Monica.”

“Hello,” she said, tossing the crumpled-up letter into the wastebasket.

“Your father said I’d find you here.” He stepped into the office, his stance doubtful. His gaze hesitantly met hers as if he were unsure of himself.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, working hard to keep the impatience out of her voice. All she needed now was for him to load her down with extra work. Having wasted a good portion of the morning writing Chet and telling him exactly what she thought of him left her with a backlog of unfinished church business.

“I realize it’s short notice but I’d like to take you to lunch, that is, if you’d let me.”

The invitation was so unexpected that she didn’t know what to say. “Lunch?” She had to look at her watch to check the time. The morning had sped past on the wings of her aggravation. “I suppose that would be all right,” she said without much enthusiasm.

“Great.” His eyes lit up and she realized what nice eyes Michael had. He loved his music and had done wonders for the church choir. It was because of his efforts that the small band had formed. He’d volunteered several hours a week to church work.

Monica liked Michael. She’d always liked him—there wasn’t anything to dislike about the young man. He was godly, principled, and sincere. Everything she should want in a man.

But didn’t.

“If you have no objection I thought we’d go to the House of Pancakes. They serve a decent lunch.”

“Sure.” The House of Pancakes. That was the problem. Michael was a wonderful man, God’s own servant. Humble, gentle, the perfect choice of a mate for a preacher’s daughter, only . . . only she’d dined on pancakes most of her life and she was ready for some salsa.

There’d been a trace of hot sauce in Patrick. That was what attracted her to Chet, she realized now. He’d been daring and fun and he’d made her laugh. He’d also badly wounded her pride.

“I’ll get your jacket for you,” Michael offered. “I wouldn’t want you to a catch a chill.” He took her navy blue wool coat from the rack and held it open for her.

Michael was a gentleman and Chet was a rogue. If she had a lick of sense, she’d cultivate the relationship with Michael and thank God there were still men like him in this sick and decaying world.

Since the House of Pancakes was only two blocks away, they decided to walk. Monica buried her hands in her pockets and struggled to keep her attention on what Michael was saying. His voice was a low monotone and she had trouble concentrating.

A car drove past, the same sick green color of Chet’s Impala, and she whirled around, wondering if it could possibly be him. Her heart leaped into double time at the prospect.

If it was Chet, it would do him good to see her with another man. If he’d come to apologize, as well he should, then she would accept nothing less than his pleading for forgiveness.

She held her head high, refusing to allow him to think he’d left her floundering in the wake of his crass behavior. But the sight of the car had been fleeting and she couldn’t be entirely sure it was him. More than likely it wasn’t. Men like Chet Costello didn’t know how to apologize.

It was Andrew’s night out with his friends, and Leah schlepped into the living room, carrying a book and a cup of coffee. The house was lonely without her husband. Empty. The contrast between her life and that of Pam, who struggled to squeeze in a few moments for herself, struck Leah once more.

What she needed was a hobby, Leah decided. Something that would take her mind off the fact that she didn’t have a child. Something that would occupy her time so she didn’t dwell on how hollow her life was. Perhaps she should do volunteer work. There were any number of worthy causes that would welcome her attention.

Maybe when the holidays were over, she decided.

She read the first chapter without much enthusiasm. Finally, she put the book down and wandered into the kitchen for a refill on her coffee and stopped abruptly in front of the sink. In the bay window she’d arranged a row of cacti she’d carefully nurtured over the years. Andrew teased her that if she forgot to water them, it wouldn’t matter. Five thick pink-and-turquoise pots each held a different variety of cactus, and each one had sprouted a flower.

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.