A Season of Angels Page 0,50

beyond them both. A divorcee with two teenagers to raise on her own, the cocktail waitress wasn't looking for another long-term relationship, and God knew he wasn't either. They were comfortable with each other.

"I have to get back before nine, otherwise my father will ask a lot of questions and I refuse to lie to him."

"For the love of heaven, you're twenty-five years old."

"I know. You don't understand."

Pressuring her wasn't going to help his cause any. The way he figured it, after he'd made love to Monica he'd be over whatever it was that attracted him so strongly, and would exorcise her from his thoughts and his life.

"I was thinking we could have coffee and talk," she suggested.

"People might see us."

She blinked. Obviously that thought hadn't occurred to her, and being seen with him would surely be cause for talk. That might put her father and her in an embarrassing situation. Monica loved her father too much to do anything that would hurt him in any way.

"We could find a dark corner somewhere," she suggested next.

This wasn't going to be nearly as easy as he'd assumed. "All right," he agreed, "on one condition. I want you to take the pins out of your hair."

She looked at him as if he were daft. Her fingers tentatively investigated the back of her head. "You want me to let my hair down?"

It should have been clear, but he nodded.

"Why?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"I suppose not, it's just that it's such an unusual request." Already her fingers were working at the pins, unfolding the thick knot of hair, which streamed over her shoulders in a warm cascade of dark chestnut. She kept her gaze lowered as though she felt foolish.

He was right. Her looks were substantially softened by the effect. She was lovely, more so than he would have guessed. Her face was fresh and scrubbed clean. It didn't take much to imagine what a little makeup would do for her already appealing good looks.

"Great," he said, when it became apparent she was waiting for him to say something. "You don't look like you're waiting to be thrown to the lions now."

"I beg your pardon," she said, her eyes snapping.

Chet laughed boisterously and reached for her hand. "Come on, let's go have that coffee before we start arguing."

"I'll have you know I dress this way for a reason. I'm trying to promote a meek and humble spirit. With the world the way it is, with girls looking to Madonna as a role model, I feel I should do my part to promote purity."

"Sweetheart, listen, you shouldn't knock those scantily clad outfits until you've tried one. Just promise me you'll let me be there when you do."

"I wish you wouldn't say things like that."

He probably shouldn't have. She was as skittish as a colt, as well he could understand. This was probably the most daring thing she'd ever done in her life, meeting him this way without her father knowing what she was up to.

"Do you want me to tell you how sorry I am?" he asked, as they made their way down First Avenue. A dingy cafe he frequented was about the only place he could think of where they'd have a bit of privacy.

"No."

Her response surprised him. He was thinking she'd demand an apology of him and then proceed to lecture him on the error of his ways. Perhaps there was hope for her after all.

The cafe was dreary, and he felt a bit embarrassed to be bringing Monica into such an establishment, but since she'd turned down the offer to visit his apartment, that didn't leave them with much choice.

He led her to a table in the back and called out his order for two coffees. The chef, Artie Williams, who was an old army cook, appeared from inside the kitchen. He wore a grease-smeared T-shirt and apron.

Artie glanced curiously toward Monica when he delivered two ceramic mugs. "You're out of your element with this girl, aren't you, Chet?" he said in his gravelly voice.

"Just pour the coffee and keep the commentary to yourself," Chet barked. He was having trouble enough breaking down Monica's barriers without his so-called friend's help.

Monica held the cup between both hands as if she were looking to warm her palms. "What would you like to talk about?" she asked, her eyes nervously avoiding his.

"Why'd you come?" he asked. He'd feel he was making progress if he could get her to admit to their attraction.

"I . . .