A Season of Angels (Angels Everywhere #1)(72)

He didn’t say anything for a couple of moments. “How are you feeling?”

“Wonderful.” Leah smiled to herself. He was becoming a believer. Bit by bit, little by little, as each day passed. Like her, he was afraid to believe. Like her, he couldn’t make himself not do so.

“You know what I was thinking this afternoon?” she said, tilting back her head so their eyes could meet. “I’d like to start attending church services again.”

“What brought this on?”

“I don’t know. I realized it’s been months since we last went to church. Far too long, and you know what? I miss it.”

“I’ve always loved singing Christmas carols,” Andrew said wistfully.

Leah nearly choked on her hot chocolate. “You can’t sing.”

“I know,” he admitted readily, his eyes bright with silent laughter, “but that never stopped me.”

“I noticed.” She loved to tease him. It felt good to be together like this. “You wouldn’t mind then if we went back to church?”

His eyes met hers. “Why should I? I think it’s a good idea.”

Leah nestled back into the warm security of his arms.

“It seems we have a good deal to be grateful for lately.”

“Yes, it does,” she agreed.

The moment was peaceful and serene and Leah happily traipsed along the meandering path of her thoughts. They led her on the same well-traveled road she’d traversed so often, trying to picture what Andrew’s and her child would be like. She hoped, boy or girl, that their baby would inherit her husband’s love of life, his excitement and joy for the little things.

“Leah,” he said after a moment, “do you still believe you’re pregnant?”

“I know I am. It’s there—that confident feeling inside me. We’re going to have a child, Andrew.”

“You realize you’ve got me believing it now too, don’t you?”

“Yes, and that’s even better.”

“This could be dangerous thinking for us both. We might be setting ourselves up for another major disappointment, and I don’t think either one of us can take many more.”

“We aren’t,” she assured him, not doubting, not even for an instant. “Here, feel,” she said, taking the hot chocolate and setting it aside. Then, reaching for his hand, she pressed his palm against her stomach, holding it there, her fingers pressed over his. “Now tell me what you believe.”

He was silent for what seemed like an eternity before he wrapped his arms around her and brought her tight against him, holding her as if he were suddenly afraid and needed someone to cling to.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I know,” he whispered, and when they kissed she realized he was trembling.

“Monica,” her father said, walking into the living room, his look contemplative. “Michael called again.”

The needle was poised in her fingers, ready to pierce the linen fabric. “I don’t feel much like talking, Dad. Would you make my excuses?”

“I explained you were a little under the weather.”

She pulled the thread through the material. “Thank you.” The needlepoint was a means of occupying her mind, but she doubted that she’d ever finish this project. The Ten Commandments were filled with Thou Shalt Not and that was the way she’d viewed life. Her views had subtly changed, thanks to knowing Chet.

Her father claimed his favorite chair across from her and reached for his Bible. He opened it and silently read for several moments before he gently closed the yellowed pages and set the leather-bound book aside.

“I’ve waited now for three days for you to tell me why you’re so low. I don’t know that I have the patience to hold out much longer.”

Monica set aside the needlepoint, not knowing where to begin or how. The pain was too fresh yet, too raw. She lowered her gaze to her lap and clenched her hands together. Her father was a patient man, and she prayed he’d understand her hesitation.

He gave her a few moments, then leaned toward her and gently patted her knee. “It’s at times like these that I wish your mother were alive. She’d be much better at understanding what’s wrong than I am. Funny, isn’t it,” he said with a sad sort of laugh, “I counsel people from all walks of life and I can’t help my own daughter.”

“Dad, it’s not that.”

“I know, love. If it will make it easier, you don’t need to tell me there’s a man involved in all this. I have eyes in my head. In the beginning I believed it was Michael, but it’s obvious he’s not the one.” He reached for his handkerchief and methodically cleaned his glasses. “I apologize for playing the role of the matchmaker with you two. I should have known better. I’m an old man who would like grandchildren someday.”

Monica closed her eyes to a fresh wave of pain. Now there would be no children, because there was no Chet. It was melodramatic to think she would never fall in love again, never marry. But right then that was exactly how she felt.

“Whoever this young man is I’d like to thank him,” her father continued after a lengthy silence.

“You don’t know him, Dad.”

“It doesn’t matter.”