A Season of Angels

by Debbie Macomber

  He shook his head. “What I’d appreciate more than anything is some time to myself.”

  “Sure,” she said, scooting off the leather sofa, “whatever you want. Take all the time you need. I was thinking of going out anyway.”

  He acknowledged her with an abrupt nod and continued to stare at the television screen. “That sounds like a good idea.”

  So he wanted her to leave, was willing for her to go. Leah hadn’t realized how deeply she’d injured Andrew’s pride or how she’d weakened the foundation of their marriage. It came as a painful shock.

  He didn’t say anything more to her when she left. Leah went about gathering her coat and purse as if she were going on an outing she’d looked forward to for weeks. Humming softly she called out cheerfully, “I won’t be late.”

  Not knowing where to go, Leah drove around for an hour before heading toward Pam’s house. Her college friend knew there was something wrong the minute she opened the door. Not that Leah would have been able to hide it.

  “Leah,” Pam said, alarm filling her eyes. “What happened?”

  Unable to speak, Leah shook her head from side to side.

  “Come inside. I’m sure it’s nothing a long talk and a strong cup of tea can’t help.”

  This was what Leah loved about Pam—the ability to solve any problem with a cup of tea and a stiff upper lip. Now that she was here, she wasn’t keen on talking. What she really needed was a friend, not a counselor.

  “It’s not all that bad,” Leah said, making light of her troubles as she followed Pam into the kitchen. The sink was stacked with dirty dishes and the cupboards were smeared with miniature fingerprints, a stark contrast to her own spotless kitchen.

  “Auntie Leah?” Scotty raced into the kitchen, clutching his stuffed dinosaur, the one she’d given him for his birthday a month earlier.

  “Scotty, you’re supposed to be asleep!” Pam said, hands on her hips.

  Leah scooped the three-year-old into her arms and hugged him close while he pressed happy kisses over her face. He was a sweet boy with deep blue eyes and a froth of unmanageable curls and Leah loved him as much as if he were her own.

  “How’s my darling?” she asked, setting him on the countertop and brushing the curls away from his forehead.

  “Look!” he said, proudly holding up his thumb.

  “It’s dry,” Pam explained. “Scotty has given up sucking his thumb, isn’t that right?”

  Scotty nodded eagerly and Leah carried him back into the bedroom he shared with his younger brother. Thirteen-month-old Jason was sound asleep, his knees tucked under his stomach, his small buttocks thrust into the air.

  “Shhh,” Scotty said in a loud whisper as Leah set him back in his bed, after maneuvering around a stack of plastic building blocks and several wooden puzzles. Pieces were scattered all about the area.

  “I’m very proud of you for not sucking your thumb,” she whispered.

  Scotty beamed with the praise. She kissed his forehead and tiptoed out of the room.

  Pam had the tea brewed by the time Leah returned. “Where’s Diane?” she asked about her friend’s oldest child.

  “Doug had to run an errand and she wanted to go with him. As you can see I haven’t gotten around to the dinner dishes. Sit down and tell me what’s upset you so much.”

  Leah didn’t know where to start, or if she should. It wasn’t easy to admit her failings. “Andrew and I had a spat, is all. We both needed some time to think matters through so I left.”

  “It’s nothing serious, is it?”

  Leah shook her head, discounting her concern. “I . . . I don’t think so. We’ll be fine.”

  Pam brought the china teapot to the table. “You’re sure?”

  “We rarely squabble and it upsets me when we do.”

  A series of short horn blasts interrupted their conversation. Although the sound was irritating there seemed to be a certain rhythm to it. Leah closed her eyes and listened carefully. If she hadn’t known better she’d swear it sounded like someone was tapping out “Hit the Road, Jack.”

  Pam sent a curious look Leah’s way. “Doug must need my help,” she said, “he’s certainly being clever about getting it.”

  “It sounds like . . .”

  “ ‘Hit the Road, Jack,’ ” Pam finished for her, snapping her fingers as she walked toward the door. She stopped abruptly and turned around, looking puzzled.

  “Is it Doug?” Leah asked.

  Pam shook her head. “It’s coming from your car.”

  This had to be some kind of joke. She set aside her tea and followed Pam. “Are you telling me my car’s making that weird sound?”

  “It’s your horn,” Pam insisted. “Just listen.”

  “My horn!” She joined her friend at the doorway.

  “This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “You?” Leah laughed. “I better find out what’s going on here.” She grabbed her car keys and hurried across the yard.

  “Mercy, stop that right this minute.”

  Mercy whirled around to find Shirley hovering over the trunk of Leah’s car, her hands braced against her hips. Knowing she’d overstepped her authority, Mercy reluctantly complied. No doubt she’d done it this time and the archangel had dispatched Shirley to send her home.

  “Did Gabriel send you?” Mercy demanded defiantly. If she was going to crash, she was going down in flames.

  “No, I’m here to stop you before you get yourself into even bigger trouble.”

  “I had to do something fast,” Mercy cried. “Andrew’s worried because he can’t find Leah.”

  “What?”

  Mercy should have known she’d need to explain. “Leah and Andrew argued this morning and now he feels terrible. He wants to talk to Leah but he doesn’t know where she is.”

  “We’re not to get involved in any human’s life,” Shirley chastised. “By the way, what’s with that ridiculous song?”

  “It was popular several years back, one Leah would recognize. I’m trying to tell her to hightail it home.”

  Shirley folded her arms over her chest and impatiently tapped her foot. “You’re courting trouble with this one. By heaven, Gabriel’s going to be furious. Secular music, no less. You couldn’t have come up with something more . . . spiritual?”

  “ ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ just didn’t hack it. I was desperate. It worked, didn’t it? Look, Leah’s leaving now and two to one she’s headed home.”

  “You’re placing bets now too?” Shirley said behind a smile. It wasn’t unheard-of for a prayer ambassador on earth assignment to return home with a few minor bad habits. Some angels were known to have found gambling appealing.

  “Are you with the God Squad Police Patrol or something?” Mercy blurted out impatiently. Shirley had the luxury of having everything falling neatly into place with her prayer assignment. The last she’d heard, Timmy’s mother had agreed to date a fine, upstanding young man who’d make Timmy a great father.

  She and Goodness should have it so easy. As for herself, Mercy was batting zero when it came to helping Leah, and from what she heard, Goodness wasn’t in much better shape. If anything, matters had gotten progressively worse. In the last report from Goodness, Mercy had learned that Monica Fischer had stretched the truth in an effort to seek out Chet Costello. For a woman who prided herself on rigid honesty this was not an encouraging sign.

  “I don’t mean to sound so bossy,” Shirley explained, looking apologetic, “but Gabriel could have your wings for this.”

  “My wings! I don’t think so.” It would take a whole lot more than tapping out “Hit the Road, Jack” on a car horn for that to happen.

  “I’m only trying to help you.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  A whoosh of warm wind accompanied Goodness, who ar
rived breathless and impatient, with her feathers ruffled with indignation. “What is going on with you two?” she demanded.

  “Shirley decided to appoint herself as my guardian and—”

  “I was watching out for your best interests.”

  “Stop! Both of you!” Goodness cried, tossing her arms in the air. “I had to leave Monica and Chet at the worst possible moment for this.”

  “Not really, we were—”

  Goodness cut her off by stamping her foot. “Shall we all get back to our jobs? Humans are trouble enough without the three of us squabbling.”

  “I was only looking to help,” Shirley offered with an injured look.

  When Leah pulled into her driveway, she wasn’t sure what to expect. The business with her horn had ceased the moment she started the engine. Since Andrew took care of the maintenance on their vehicles it was something she should tell him. But how could she explain her horn going all weird on her?

  The front door to the house opened even before she had a chance to climb out of the car. Andrew’s large frame filled the doorway as he rushed out to meet her.

  “Where were you?” he asked, his face tight with concern. “I must have made a dozen phone calls and sounded like a complete idiot looking for my wife.”

  “I . . . I drove over to Pam and Doug’s.”

  “Pam and Doug,” Andrew repeated and stabbed his fingers into his hair as if to punish himself. “I should have tried them first—it makes perfect sense, the way you love those kids,” he said, steering her toward the house. He closed the door, shutting out the cold.

  “You weren’t ready to talk, remember?” Leah said. “You were preoccupied with the sports news and needed time to sort through your feelings. Or so you said.”

  Andrew nodded. “I behaved like a fool. I’m sorry, Leah.”

  “You? I was the one who owed you an apology.”

  “You gave it,” Andrew reminded her, and something she couldn’t read flared in his eyes, “Hell, I don’t know what was wrong with me.”

  “You needed your space,” Leah supplied, removing her coat and hanging it in the hall closet. “We all do at one time or another. I understand.”

  “I should never have let you go. You wanted to settle matters then and there. I was the one who made everything so difficult.” He brought her into the circle of his arms and sighed as she relaxed against him. “I love you so damn much,” he said.

  “I know,” she whispered. His fingers lovingly worked through the tangles in her hair. “I love you too. You’re right, Andrew, I realize that now and I’m so sorry for the way I’ve treated you—”

  “Hush,” he whispered, gently kissing her. “It’s forgotten.”

  “You’re the most important person in my life.”

  “I found the record book in the garbage. Do you mean it, honey? Can we stop worrying about a pregnancy and concentrate on each other?”

  Leah understood what he was asking. He wanted her to let go of the frantic need she had for a child, to stop looking for a pregnancy to fulfill her as a woman.

  She’d cheated her husband out of far more than she realized. All these years she’d been subtly and not so subtly telling him his love wasn’t enough. Every time she’d dragged him to another doctor, to another fertility clinic, through another series of tests, she in essence said she found him lacking and that she needed something more. She tagged a condition onto her happiness, insisting she needed a child, the child he should give her.

  Wrapping her arms around Andrew’s neck, Leah slowly nodded. The dream was dead. It had been from the moment she realized what she’d done to him.

  “Mom.” Timmy greeted Jody at the door the minute she walked into the house after work Monday morning. “A package came for me from Grandma Potter. Can I open it?” He was hopping up and down like a pogo stick, following her from one room to the next. “It’s addressed to me.”

  “A package?”

  “It’s probably for Christmas. You’re not going to make me wait, are you?”

  Jody moved into the family room and stopped short. Timmy hadn’t exaggerated, the package was huge. She was curious herself. Gloria was very good at remembering Timmy on his birthday and Christmas, but she generally sent a check, claiming he should save for his college education.

  “I don’t think it’d do any harm to open it up,” Jody said, curious herself.

  “I’ve got the scissors all ready,” Timmy said, racing into the kitchen.

  “Don’t run with scissors in your hand,” she warned.

  “I’m not a kid!” Timmy chided, walking back with exaggeratedly slow steps.

  “Sorry,” Jody said, smiling to herself.

  The box had been carefully packaged, as if it contained something of exceptional value. Once the tape had been cut away they were able to peel back the cardboard lid. Timmy immediately starting digging when they discovered the box was filled with Styrofoam packing balls. The material flew in every direction. She laughed, watching her son virtually attack the present.

  He bent over the top, his feet six inches off the ground. “There are a bunch of smaller boxes inside,” he called, lifting out the first of what proved to be several.

  Jody lined them up on the coffee table and Timmy opened the largest one first. “What’s this?” he asked, bringing out a trophy.

  Jody was puzzled herself.

  “Look, there’s a letter in here for you.”

  Jody took the envelope and ripped it open.

  Dearest Jody and Timmy,

  You’re were right, Jody. Jeff is dead and it’s time I accepted as much. Forgive an old woman who can’t bear to believe that her only son is gone. The truth was too painful to accept. Painful for you and Timmy too, I realize.

  It came to me the other day that now Timmy’s growing up, he might be interested in having the things that once belonged to his father. Jeff’s childhood treasures are his now and don’t belong to a grieving mother. Take them, and treasure them, but most of all, remember Jeff.

  “What’s the trophy for?” Timmy asked, turning it upside down and examining the bottom. “This is weird, the way they put it together.”

  Jody could barely speak for the tears in her throat. “Your father won that when he was twelve,” she said, holding onto the statue with both hands. “For soccer.”

  “My dad played soccer?”

  Jody nodded.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Jeff was wonderfully athletic, the same way Timmy was, but he’d concentrated on football and track in high school and college.

  “Wow,” Timmy said, “look at this. It’s really old.”

  “It’s your dad’s report card from when he was in the first grade.”

  “He was smart, wasn’t he?”

  “Very smart.”

  “You were too, weren’t you, Mom?”

  She nodded.

  Timmy was hurriedly opening one box and then the next. “This stuff is really neat. I can keep it, can’t I, forever and ever?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m never going to forget my dad. Never,” he vowed, sitting back on his legs and releasing a slow, uneven sigh. “You know, Mom, it might not be such a good idea for you to get me another dad. Not when I already have one. It was just that until now he was a face in a picture you keep by the fireplace. But he was really a neat guy, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, sweetheart,” she agreed, “he was someone very special.”

  Timmy’s eyes grew serious. “Then it’d be wrong to look for another dad.”

  Chapter 8

  Monica was in a tizzy. Chet had seen her standing outside of the Blue Goose, and knew she’d sought him out. Her first thought was that she should adamantly deny everything. That, however, would be a lie and she prided herself on her honesty.

  “Coul
dn’t stay away, could you?” he said in that impertinent way of his.

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken,” she snapped. The buzz of traffic zoomed past her as she stiffly stood on the curb, waiting for the light to change.

  Chet laughed, the sound mingling with those from the street and the busy holiday shoppers. The signal changed and she remained frozen, unable to move with the others.

  “I imagine that’s as close to the truth as I’m likely to get from you,” he said, and gripping hold of her elbow, escorted her across the street. He didn’t tell her where he was taking her and she didn’t ask. Although she had long legs, she had trouble keeping up with his brisk pace.

  He steered her into Woolworth’s and over to the lunch counter.

  “What are we doing here?” she demanded, disliking the assumptions he was making.

  He ignored her and slipped into a booth. She would have brought attention to herself if she’d continued standing so she uneasily claimed the seat across from him.

  “You hungry?” he asked nonchalantly, reaching for the yellowed plastic-coated menu tucked behind the silver napkin dispenser.

  “I . . . as a matter of fact I am, but . . .”

  “The steak sandwich is excellent and they don’t do a bad chicken-fried steak.”

  “I’ll just have coffee,” she told him. By all that was right she shouldn’t be sitting with him. She barely knew the man and what she did know was a cause for a twenty-four-hour prayer vigil.

  “Suit yourself.”

  The waitress came, an older woman with gray hair in a pale pink uniform. She chewed gum and looked more worn than the linoleum in Monica’s kitchen.

  “I’ll have a BLT on wheat, with coffee,” Chet ordered.

  The waitress wrote down the order and looked to Monica expectantly.

  “The same, only put mine on a separate ticket.”

  The woman left, jotting down Monica’s order as she went.

  “I saw you outside the Blue Goose,” Chet announced casually.

  It was all Monica could do not to cover her face with her hands. It mortified her to know he’d seen her standing outside the tavern, debating whether she should go inside or not.