A Season of Angels Page 0,12

gotten killed, and Chet had accepted responsibility for the loss of his friend. The incident continued to haunt him. There were certain things in life a man didn't put behind him, and this was one.

For reasons he couldn't explain, the erstwhile missionary drifted back into his mind, with her warm, pleading gaze and her soft, sweet mouth.

"You know, what she really needs is to be kissed," he said aloud. "None of this pansy stuff of holding hands and gazing longingly into each other's eyes either."

Lou glanced his way and without comment continued to polish the sleek wooden surface of the bar. After a moment, he paused and scratched his head. "You looking to talk?" he asked.

"Hell, no."

"That's what I thought." The bartender resumed his task.

Remembering the way she'd flung herself against the tavern door produced another burst of laughter. The buttons of her jacket had strained with the effort until she resembled a martyr tied to the stake. She had nice, full breasts, although heaven knew she did everything she could to disguise the fact that she was a woman. If he ever did have the opportunity to kiss her, which was highly unlikely, the first thing he'd do was pull the pins from her hair. It was a travesty to keep it twisted away from her face that way. She'd have thick, luxuriant hair and he'd run his fingers through it. He imagined she'd put up a fuss at that. Anything remotely related to sensual pleasure was sure to be sin, pure, unadulterated sin.

Chet knew her type. The mission house down the street from his office was filled with do-gooders thinking their efforts with the derelicts and vagrants was going to make a difference. Chet felt sorry for them more than he did the street people they struggled to reach with their message.

Then why couldn't he stop thinking about her? The hell if he knew. The hell if he cared. One consolation, he wasn't likely to run into her again.

"Of course I remember you, Mr. Lundberg," Mrs. Burchell, the caseworker from New Life Adoption Agency, assured him over the telephone. "It's good to hear from you again."

Andrew rolled the mechanical pencil between his palms, praying he was doing the right thing. "I'd like to know how difficult it would be for my wife and me to resubmit our application." He leaned against the back of his chair. Leah had been on his mind all day and he was worried about her.

It was so unfair that they couldn't have children. What troubled him most was that there didn't seem to be any physical reason. They'd spent years, and thousands of dollars, working with fertility specialists. Leah's life was governed by that ridiculous book she kept. He swore she'd documented her temperature every morning for the last seven years.

Perhaps if they'd been able to pinpoint the problem as his, Leah might have been able to accept their situation.

"I have your file right here," the caseworker went on to say. "I know you and your wife were terribly disappointed when Melinda Phillips decided to rescind the adoption of her infant son. It doesn't happen often, but unfortunately these girls do change their minds."

"I understand," Andrew said, not wanting to rehash the details. Having the birth mother change her mind had been much harder on Leah than on him. They'd gone to the hospital, their hearts filled with joy, only to return empty-handed an hour later. Afterward Leah had sat for hours alone in the nursery they'd so lovingly prepared. Nothing Andrew could say reached her. He'd been disappointed too and for a while there'd been a strain between them. Then one day he returned home from the office and discovered that Leah had dismantled the nursery. She calmly announced that she'd withdrawn their application from New Life and that they'd simply wait for her to become pregnant and bear a child of their own. She refused to subject them to that kind of torment again.

"I'll be happy to resubmit your names," Mrs. Burchell said, "but I must warn you there are fewer babies available for adoption now than before."

"How long would you predict?"

The caseworker hesitated. "I can't really say. It's different with every couple."

"What about the Watcombs?" Andrew asked. "We went through the orientation classes with them three years ago."

"Ah, yes, the Watcombs. Jessie and Ken, am I right?"

"Yes. Has their adoption gone through?"

"Not yet, but we're hopeful we'll have an infant for them soon."

Andrew's hopes plummeted. The Watcombs were special people