A Season of Angels Page 0,103

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.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Chet Costello," the TV commentator said.

Chet's head snapped up. He was losing it. The television was actually talking to him.

"Yes, I'm talking to you," John Madden said again. "You're the biggest fool I've ever seen."

By that time Chet was on his feet. He stared down at his drink, thinking the kid had played a cruel joke on him and laced it with some mind-bending drug.

"Quit looking at your drink," the former coach told him. "It's only coffee."

Other men claimed to see pink elephants, but not Chet. Oh, no, that would have been too easy. He had to have some voice come out of a television to chastise him.

"You're in love with Monica Fischer, and she's in love with you. So what's the problem? You think you're being noble, don't you? Wrong. You're a fool."

Chet had had enough. He didn't need this. Slamming his cup down on the bar, he started out the door.

"Go ahead and run," the voice said, sounding so close he swore he could feel the breath against the back of his neck. "It's what you've been doing for most of your life."

"Shut up," Chet shouted.

The couple in the back of the room glared over at him, and Billy, who was hauling a box of pretzels to the front, stopped in his tracks.

"Something wrong?" the kid asked.

Chet shook his head and slammed out of the bar. "Damn," he muttered, running his hand down his face. It was worse than he imagined. Monica had decided ruining his sleep wasn't bad enough, now she'd taken on his waking hours as well.

He was putting an end to that right now. With purpose directing his steps, he walked to the parking garage and drove to her house.

The streets were full of parked cars. The Blue Goose might be less than busy, but Lloyd Fischer's church was doing a bumper business. Light spilled out of the church, and the parsonage was dark, all but one small light in the front of the house. Music filled the night, traditional Christmas carols played on an old-time pipe organ.

Chet found a place to park on the street, half a block down from the church. Several people were walking toward the building. There was a family with two small children in tow, and an older couple, holding hands, smiling up at each other.

Chet stayed where he was, hidden in the shadows. One thing he knew, he wasn't walking into that church. He was deciding what he was going to do when he spied Monica coming out of the parsonage. The porch light went on as the light in the living room was extinguished. Her silhouette was framed in the warm glow of the single bulb on the porch.

She seemed to be in something of a hurry, Chet noted. Rushing across the street, he met up with her on the sidewalk.

She stopped when she saw him. Surprise worked its way across her features, starting with her eyes and then her mouth. She opened it as if to say something, then closed it again. She hugged sheet music against her breast and seemed to be waiting.

Chet didn't know what he intended to say. It was too damn hard not to bring her directly into his arms, hold her against him, and breathe in her softness.

"Whatever you've done has got to stop," he said between clenched teeth.

"Done?" she echoed, and blinked as if she didn't understand what he was saying.

"Leave me alone," he ordered.

She nodded once and waited, apparently for an explanation.

"I can't eat or sleep, and now I'm hearing voices as well."

"Voices?" The edges of her mouth quivered with amusement. "And what did these voices say?"

"That I was a fool for walking away from you." Chet rammed his fingers into his hair.

Monica smiled boldly at that and Chet swore he'd never seen a woman more beautiful. He shouldn't have come, and now that he was here, God help him, he didn't know how he was ever going to leave.

"I wish I could claim credit for that, but I can't," she said softly. "Dad told me he suspected you were drinking heavily. My guess is that it was the liquor talking."

"Not this time," he argued. "I haven't had a drop all day."

"I can't help you, Chet," she