Leah grabbed her sweater and finished dressing. “How’s everything going in there?” she called out.
“Not good. He seems to need something.”
“What?”
Scotty apparently didn’t trust Andrew to properly relay the message. “I need my blanky . . . I need my blanky . . . I need my blanky.”
Leah retrieved the yellow monstrosity in record time and rushed back into the bathroom, where Andrew was holding Scotty over the toilet seat. The boy grabbed the blanket, and held it against his face. As soon as the blanket was in position, he released a long, grateful sigh and relaxed.
When Scotty finished, Andrew sagged onto the side of the bathtub. “What was that all about?”
“Pam said something about forgetting his toilet seat. He must have been terrified of being perched up there.”
Andrew looked at Leah and she looked at him and soon the two of them dissolved into giggles.
“I’m a big boy,” Scotty insisted, looking downright proud of himself, his laughter mingling with theirs.
Monica was convinced Michael would guess that Chet was hiding behind the door in the other room. Why Chet felt he needed to disappear, she could only speculate.
The man was a fool to show up at the church this way. She’d wanted to shout at him, and throw the entire contents of her filing cabinet in his face. Heaven knew he deserved that and far worse. Why, she should have slapped him silly.
She would have, too, if she hadn’t been so pleased to see him.
“Your hair looks especially nice today,” Michael said with glowing approval.
“Thank you.” Knowing Chet, it was probably all he could do to keep from leaping out from behind the door and commenting that he’d been the one to suggest the change.
“I’m playing the piano for the Methodists’ church cantata this evening,” Michael was saying. “Their regular pianist came down with the flu. I thought I’d stop by and see if you’d like to come along.”
“Tonight?” Monica asked, stalling for time. In truth she was looking for an excuse, anything to get out of this date, but nothing readily presented itself.
“I mentioned this evening to your father and he said you didn’t have anything planned,” Michael pressed.
“No, I don’t believe I do.” So her father had put him up to this. She should have realized that sooner.
Michael hesitated, glancing at her as if he were waiting for her to say something more. Uncertain, Monica steadily met his look.
“Did Lloyd mention anything about dinner?”
“Dinner?” She knew she was beginning to sound like a parrot. “Why, yes. Dad did say something this morning about having you over for dinner some evening. We’d be more than happy to have you join us, if you’d like.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight . . . why, sure . . . tonight would be perfect, wouldn’t it, since I’ll be there for the Methodists’ cantata.”
“What time?”
“Six,” she said automatically, willing to agree to anything that would convince him to leave faster. Knowing Chet was listening in on the conversation made matters ten times worse.
“Great,” Michael said, looking well pleased with himself, “I’ll see you around six, then. Would you like me to bring anything?”
“No. Everything’s under control. Good-bye, Michael,” she said, sitting back down at the typewriter, hoping he’d take the hint and kindly leave while her sanity was intact. She placed her hands on the keyboard until she noticed how badly she was trembling and immediately lowered them to her lap.
“I’ll look forward to this evening,” he said, reluctantly moving toward the door. He was looking for an excuse to stay, but she refused to give him one.
Despite her obvious signs of distress, she rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter.
“Your father claims you’re a fabulous cook.”
“I do a fair job,” she muttered. This was getting worse every minute and she didn’t know how much more she could bear.
“Good-bye for now.”
“Good-bye, Michael,” she said, closing her eyes in relief.
Michael left then and the door closed with a soft clicking sound. The instant he was gone, Monica leaped out of her chair, raced around her desk and into her father’s study. By the time she arrived she was both breathless and furious.
“Why’d you hide?” she demanded. “Of all the crazy things you’ve said and done in the last few weeks, this takes the cake.”
“It would have required awkward explanations,” was all he’d say.
“Well, he’s gone now.”
“So I see.” A frown darkened Chet’s face and he glared at her. “So you’re going to continue seeing him despite what I said.”
“What choice did I have?” she cried, throwing her arms into the air. “I said what I had to to get him to leave. Besides, what business is it of yours who I do or do not date?” How could he say such things to her when he was the one who’d put her in this predicament!
It took him a long time to answer. “You’re right, it’s none of my damn business.”
Monica was pleased that Chet did care, but she didn’t want him to know it.
“Michael’s not so bad,” he said after a moment, “it’s plain as day that he’s crazy about you.”
The man was full of surprises. First he demanded that she stay away from Michael and now he was urging her to see the other man.
Chet’s eyes were clouded as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I should never have come.”
He strode past her and in her heart Monica knew if he walked out the door she’d never see him again. She had to do something.
He was all the way across the room, his hand on the doorknob, before she found the courage to speak. “Don’t go.” She advanced a single step toward him and stopped.
Chet turned around slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. Gradually a grin danced its way across his lips. “You don’t want me to leave?”
Her tongue was trapped against the roof of her mouth and she shook her head, unable to say the words a second time. It had demanded every ounce of courage she possessed the first time.
His gaze narrowed into thin, disbelieving slits. “Why not?”
She shrugged.
“Come on, sweetheart, you can do better than that.”
“Don’t call me that.” She backed away from him, as far as she could go, until her buttocks were pressed against the edge of her desk.
“What would you like me to call you?”
It was a mistake to have asked him to stay, a mistake to let him know how much of the time he dominated her thoughts. He made her weak where she’d once been strong, and she’d found no compensation for what she’d lost.
“I think you should go,” she whispered.
He cocked his thick brows at that. “You don’t seem to know what you want, do you? You want me to stay, yet you invite that mild-mannered choirboy for dinner.”
“My father invited him.”
“Ah, your father,” Chet said thoughtfully. “Michael’s the type of man he wants you to marry, isn’t he? We both know what your daddy would think of the likes of me.”
“That’s not true. My father isn’t like that.”
“Sure,” he scoffed. “He’d welcome me with open arms. Don’t kid yourself, Monica, we both know better. Listen, sweetheart, forget I was ever here, all right?”
“No. No, I won’t forget,” she whispered heatedly. “I can’t forget.”
She read the questions etched in his eyes and realized they were a reflection of her own. She didn’t have any of the answers and apparently neither did he.
Walking toward him was the boldest thing she’d ever done in her life. Flattening her palms against the hard expanse of his chest, she slowly, reluctantly raised her eyes to his.
He didn’t give her a chance to speak. His mouth came down on hers in a kiss that was as hot as it was wil
d. With a low, guttural sound, he sent his tongue searching deep inside her mouth. Instinct dictated her actions as she raised her arms and looped them around his neck, giving herself completely to the mastery of his kiss.
His arms folded around her waist, greedily holding her against him as his mouth plundered hers. Her feet dangled several inches off the ground.
The kiss ended only when they were both desperate to breathe.
Monica was left stunned, her heart in a panic. It had always been like this between them, this craziness. Her head felt as if it were in its own orbit, spinning madly out of control. Emotionally she was a wreck, close to tears and trembling.
Chet’s lips returned to hers in a series of long, slow kisses and her world righted itself. Everything slipped neatly back into place. Only when she lifted her head from his did outside influences overtake her.
For the love of heaven, they were in a church building, and yet she couldn’t have left his arms in that moment for all the gold in the world.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Chet whispered against her neck. He drew in a deep breath as if that would give him the necessary fortitude to ease her out of his arms.
“Not yet,” she pleaded.
The sound of voices in the yard outside was all the incentive they needed. They broke apart as if they’d been burned.
“That’s my father,” Monica said, her gaze flying to Chet’s.
Chet jerked his head both ways. “I’ll go out the window.”
“That’s crazy.”
By the time she reached him in her father’s office, he’d hoisted the window open and had one leg draped over the sill. “Meet me tonight,” he said.
“When?” she pleaded, glancing over her shoulder. “Where?”
“Never mind.”
“No,” she whispered frantically. “Tell me when and where.”
He smiled, and the look in his eyes was enough to cause spirals of heat to coil in her belly. He reached for her, kissed her once hard and fast and whispered, “I’ll let you know.” With that he vanished.
The door opened and her father casually strolled inside, humming softly to himself. He looked surprised to find her standing there.
“Monica.”
“Yes, Dad?” she said, still trapped in a sensual daze.
“You might want to close the window. It’s downright chilly in here.”
“Oh, sorry,” she said, lowering it as if it were nothing out of the ordinary to have it open in the middle of December.
“I’ll open the door for you,” Timmy cried, running toward the front porch, leaving Glen to untie the Christmas tree from the top of his car.
“Timmy has his own key,” Jody explained, catching the rope that Glen tossed down to her as he untied the tree.
Glen looked toward the front of the house. “He enjoyed himself this afternoon, didn’t he?”
Jody smiled and nodded. “I swear he was like a jackrabbit, leaping from one tree to the next, certain each time he’d found the perfect Christmas tree. It’s a miracle we were able to convince him to choose just one.”
“What about you, Jody?” Glen asked thoughtfully. “Did you have a good time too?”
It shouldn’t be so difficult to admit to the truth, but it was.
“I had a very nice time,” she said, keeping her eyes averted.
His laugh came unexpectedly. “Good girl,” he praised. “I knew you could do it.”
Jody laughed then too, because it was rather silly of her to hold out against the obvious.
Timmy returned, breathless and excited. “The door’s open,” he announced, eager to help in any way he could.
Her son was a marvel, Jody mused. Rarely had she seen him more animated. He’d laughed and chatted incessantly, until she was convinced he was going to drive Glen nuts. For a man who wasn’t accustomed to being around children, the attorney had been marvelous.
“Mom got the tree stand and all the decorations out last night,” Timmy told Glen, for about the fifth time. Actually Jody had lost count of the number of times Timmy had felt it was necessary to clue Glen in to this information.
Together, the three of them carried the Christmas tree around to the backyard.
“We’re going to need to cut off a couple of inches from the bottom,” Glen said, once they’d got the tree to the patio and recovered. The trunk was too wide for the stand. “Think you might be able to help me saw it off?” he asked Timmy.
It was like asking the boy if he liked popcorn. Timmy beamed with pride as he solemnly nodded his head. “Sure, I can do it.”
“I know you can,” Glen said, affectionately patting his shoulder.
“While you’re busy with that, I’ll put on some hot chocolate,” Jody said, pushing open the sliding glass door. The tears that stung her eyes were unexpected. She wasn’t entirely sure what prompted them, nor was she sure she wanted to know.
The changes in Timmy had been revealing. Yes, it was Christmastime and yes, he was excited, but it made her realize how rare those times were. Generally Timmy involved himself in his video games and didn’t show much enthusiasm for anything else—with the one exception being baseball, which he dearly loved.
Between sniffles, she brought the milk out of the refrigerator and set a pan on the stove, furious with herself for the weakness of tears.
Glen appeared unexpectedly and she twisted her head away, praying he wouldn’t notice. “That’s quite a boy you’ve got there,” Glen said. “I swear he’s another Paul Bunyan.”
“He’s certainly had the time of his life.” She was grateful that the hot chocolate gave her an excuse to keep her back to him.
Glen moved behind her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. Jody froze, unaccustomed to a man’s touch.
He bent forward and kissed the side of her neck.
“Where’s Timmy?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Putting the saw away.” Glen turned her so that they faced each other. He frowned when he saw her tear-bright eyes and slid his thumb across the high arch of her cheek. “Bad thoughts?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Let me help.” Then, before she could protest, he lowered his mouth to hers. It was hardly enough pressure to call it a real kiss. Gradually he increased the intensity, deepening the contact. Jody felt like a rag doll, limp and unresponsive. The kiss was sweet and undemanding, but Glen was the first man to touch her since Jeff. Doubts blew against her with hurricane force winds until she pressed her hands against his chest and broke the contact. Later she’d analyze her feelings toward Glen, but for now it was too new.
Glen sighed softly. “It would be very easy to fall in love with you.” He continued to hold her until he heard Timmy’s approach.
Once her son was back, Glen carried the tree into the house, and with a good deal of ceremony, set it in the living room. When it was in place in front of the large picture window, they sat back and sipped hot chocolate.
Unwilling to rest, Timmy sorted through the boxes of decorations. It seemed with every one, he found something he needed to show Glen. Each discovery involved a lengthy explanation.
Glen’s patience surprised her, and she told him so.
“He’s a great kid,” Glen said. “Who wouldn’t like him?”
“Can we decorate the tree now?” Timmy asked, standing in the middle of three strings of lights. Wires were wrapped around his feet and another strand was draped over his shoulder as he grinned broadly in their direction. “You aren’t going to make me wait until Christmas morning to see my presents, are you? I’m much too old to pretend I believe in Santa Claus.”
“It’s tradition,” Jody said, as means of an argument.
“Oh, phooey. I still have to pretend I believe in that silly kid stuff for my grandma, but it’s downright embarrassing. I just hope none of my friends find out about it.”
“Sometimes there are things a man has to do,” Glen said, and Jody marveled that he kept a straight face.
>
“Can we decorate the tree now?”
“Sure,” Glen agreed, setting aside his empty mug.
“It’ll be our best tree yet, won’t it, Mom?”
Jody was saved from answering by the phone. She left the pair to untangle the strings of lights and took the call in the kitchen.
“Hello.”
“Jody, dear, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Hello, Gloria.” It had been a year or longer since she’d last spoken to her former mother-in-law. “Did you get my letter?” Jody asked, glancing guiltily into the living room. There wasn’t any reason for her to feel the least bit contrite for dating Glen or for kissing him, but she did, as if she’d been unfaithful to Jeff’s memory.
“I have some very important news,” Gloria said, ignoring the question.
“Who is it?” Timmy wanted to know.
“Just a minute, Gloria,” Jody said, and placed her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s your Grandma Potter,” she explained. “I’ll let you talk to her when I’m finished. I’ll call you in just a minute.” When Timmy was gone, she replaced the receiver at her ear. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. You were telling me you had something important to tell me?”
“My dear, it’s the most wonderful news. Brace yourself because what I’m about to tell you will come as a shock. Jeff’s alive.”
Twelve
Monica paced her bedroom, wondering what, if anything, she should do now that she was home. Her evening with Michael had been miserable. Michael couldn’t be blamed for that; he’d been sweet and considerate, wanting to please her.
When he’d arrived for dinner, he’d presented her with a potted pink poinsettia, which riddled her with guilt. Throughout the meal he’d praised her efforts while her father looked on approvingly. Monica was a fair cook, but the pot roast and mashed potatoes and gravy were nothing to brag about.
The cantata, while inspirational, had seemed to drag. Every note was torture and Monica knew why.
She was looking for Chet, half expecting him to slip into the pew next to her at the Methodist church. It was just like something he’d do. Monica had sat through the entire program with her stomach in knots, wondering when and where Chet would show up.