A Season of Angels Page 0,100

kinda thinking maybe he wouldn't mind coming by and seeing me every once in a while."

"We'll wait until after Christmas and ask, okay?" The real attraction for Glen had always been Timmy and she sincerely hoped the attorney would maintain contact with her son.

The doorbell chimed.

"Who could that be on Christmas Eve?" Jody wondered out loud.

"I'll see," Timmy said, running toward the front door.

"Timmy," Jody called out after him. "Let me answer that."

She was too late. Her son enthusiastically threw open the door as if he expected Santa Claus to be on the other side.

"Hi," he was saying cheerfully by the time Jody reached the door.

"Hello," Jody said automatically, then gasped as she recognized the man standing on the other side of the screen door. In that moment, she swore her heart stopped dead. She flattened her palm over it and the room started to sway. Staggering two steps, she reached for the door to keep herself from collapsing.

"Mom, what's wrong?"

"Timmy," she said on the tail end of a strangled sob, pulling her son protectively toward her. "This is your father."

Leah had shed so many tears over the last seven years that she discovered that her fountain was dry. A numb feeling attached itself to her as she walked toward her car. She was barren. There was no child to swell and stretch her womb. There never would be. And yet . . . and yet she couldn't make her heart believe what surely was the truth.

The joy she'd felt these last two weeks, believing she was pregnant, was gone. All she could do was live day by day with the emptiness in her heart.

Now she must tell Andrew.

Naturally they'd both pretend it didn't matter, there was nothing else to do. They'd reassure each other and go on, one day into the next, through Christmas, pretending. All the family would be celebrating and she'd have no choice but to make believe all was well with her.

She drove home in a daze, parked her car in the driveway, and walked like a zombie into her house. She moved without direction or will, walking around the perfection of her home, stopping in front of their designer Christmas tree.

Her gaze rested on the beautifully wrapped gifts. Her one thought was to locate the Baby's First Christmas ornament she'd purchased for Andrew, remove it before he unwrapped it on Christmas morning.

Her search became frantic as she sorted through the presents. They'd both suffered enough.

Suddenly she was blinded by tears and couldn't locate the gift, couldn't recall which package contained the ornament. She tossed one gaily wrapped present after another aside, her chest heaving with sobs.

Collecting herself, her hands shaking almost uncontrollably, she methodically sorted the packages into two piles. Hers and Andrew's. Then one by one she tore open his presents until she'd located the silver ornament.

Taking it with her, she walked into the kitchen and threw it in the garbage. The champagne was on ice. She paused, picked it up, and with drops of water leaving a glistening trail across the floor, she carried that to the garbage as well.

The garage door sounded in the distance, signaling Andrew's return. His steps sounded eager as he approached the door leading to the house.

Leah was frozen, immobile.

Andrew walked into the kitchen and stopped when he saw her.

She didn't need to say a word. He came to her and wrapped her in his arms.

Leah woke the following morning, her throat dry and chest heavy. Her eyes stung. Andrew rolled over and tucked his arm over her side, scooting closer, cuddling her spoon fashion.

"Don't go to work today," he suggested. "I'll stay home with you."

"It's Christmas Eve. The hospital is already short-staffed."

"For once, think about yourself instead of that damned hospital."

The short fuse on his temper was the first indication he'd given her of his own bitter disappointment. In some ways having him release his frustration freed Leah.

"I'm all right now," she whispered.

"Call in sick," he pleaded.

"I need to work. It'll help." As if there was anything capable of easing this constant ache. It continued day after day, dull and constant, a steady, ever-present reminder that she was less of a wife, less of a woman.

Despite Andrew's protests, she dressed in her uniform, and even managed to down a cup of coffee before she left the house. Andrew walked her out to her car, looking weary and burdened. His hands were buried in his pockets.

"I'll meet you back at the house at four," he said. "I told