A Season of Angels (Angels Everywhere #1)(87)

“Leah,” he called breathlessly. He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off the ground. His eyes were bright and his voice sounded as if he were about to burst into peals of laughter.

“What is it?” she pleaded.

He released her and his hands framed her face. “I love you, Leah, never more than I do this moment.”

She stared up at him, wondering at his craziness.

“You were right about us having a child. That feeling you claimed you had. It’s happening, sweetheart, just the way you said it would.”

“But Dr. Benoit said—”

“Mrs. Burchell phoned not more than two minutes after you left the house.”

The name was vaguely familiar to Leah, but she couldn’t remember from where.

“The lady from New Life Adoption Agency,” he filled in. “They have a child for us. She’ll be ready to leave the hospital first thing tomorrow morning. The mother’s already signed the adoption papers.”

“But we withdrew our names,” Leah cried, covering her mouth, unwilling to believe it was true.

“I asked that she reactivate our file weeks ago. We have a baby, Leah. A precious baby girl.”

Monica was right, Chet realized. She’d announced her decision to torment him and by heaven she’d done it. He’d close his eyes and he’d be damned if she wasn’t there like some ghost, pestering him until he ended up spending half the night dulling his mind with late-night television rather than attempt sleeping. The minute he tried, Monica was there, all sweet and soft, wrapping the tendrils of her love around his heart, reminding him of all he’d rejected.

He’d been trying to get hold of a moving company for the better part of the afternoon. Every one he called insisted on knowing his destination. That was the problem. They didn’t have rates for “any place that wasn’t Seattle.”

The bartender ambled over to where Chet was sitting. He was new, Chet noted, young and wet behind the ears. He’d introduced himself as Billy. Appropriate enough since he looked more like a kid than an adult. If Chet were the one serving up the liquor he’d have carded the youth.

“You want another cup of coffee?” Billy asked.

“Please.” Chet had given up on booze. The desired effect caused too many problems. True, he could drown his sorrows, as the saying went, but there was a heavy price to pay. Hangovers had never appealed to him.

“What do you think of the new big-screen television?” Billy asked. “The boss had it brought in this morning.”

“Nice,” Chet said, without looking. He wasn’t interested in making conversation. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d stopped in at the Blue Goose. It was a damn sight better than hanging around his place, he decided. Everything he’d managed to accumulate in the last thirty-odd years was packed and ready to go. He just didn’t know where he was headed yet.

The bar was deserted, Chet noticed, which was unusual this time of night. A couple was off in a dark corner and the two only had eyes for each other. Hands too, apparently. Other than the lovebirds and Billy, Chet was the only other customer. “Where is everyone?” he asked.

“Home, I guess. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“It is?” He’d lost track of the days. In the back of his mind he knew Christmas was close, but it was a day like any other as far as he was concerned.

“I don’t expect we’ll get much of a crowd this evening. Places like this generally don’t over the Christmas holidays,” Billy commented as if this were something he’d garnered in his vast experience tending bar.

“Guess not,” Chet mumbled, unwilling to be drawn into a conversation, but he could tell from the way the kid was hanging around that he wasn’t going to have much of a choice.

“You’d think Lou would close up shop,” Billy said next.

Chet sipped from his coffee. It was dark, thick, and potent enough to satisfy a Cajun.

“Apparently you don’t know Lou,” Chet commented.

“Not very well,” Billy agreed.

Thinking he might divert the kid’s attention, Chet swiveled around in his chair and concentrated on the television. The national evening news was on, forecasting gloom and doom. Chet had heard enough of that.

“Mind if I change the channel?” he asked.

“Be my guest,” Billy said, handing him the controller.

Chet worked his way through the stations. Nothing appealed to him, not even a rerun of a play-off football game telecast earlier that week.

“Hey, go back, would you?” Billy asked. “I have a friend who was picked up by the pros. He’s a defensive lineman for the Redskins.”

Disgusted, Chet handed the remote control back to the bartender. So much for that idea. Oblivious to Chet’s ugly mood, Billy punched the controller until he found the play-off game.

The kid focused his attention on the screen, which suited Chet just fine as long as he left him alone.

Before he realized it, Chet had turned around on his bar stool and was watching the game himself. So this was what his life had boiled down to—sitting in some bar on Christmas Eve, talking to a kid he didn’t know and didn’t want to know and watching reruns of old football games on television.

At halftime Billy disappeared into the back storeroom. Chet cradled the coffee mug in his hands and studied the television screen. The commentator was the well-known former coach of the Los Angeles Raiders, John Madden.