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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."

Chapter 12

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.

After she returned home, she wondered if he'd come for her, as he'd said he would, but as the night ripened, she was further burdened with uncertainty.

Fortunately, her father had gone to bed early. She hadn't been fooled. Lloyd Fischer was hoping she'd invite Michael in for a cup of coffee and had afforded them the necessary privacy to talk. Monica, however, had made her excuses, thanked Michael for a lovely evening, and then quickly slipped inside the house.

Waiting for Chet was intolerable. The not knowing. Twice now she'd ventured through the house, turning lights on and off as she tiptoed from one room to the next, fearing she'd wake her father.

At ten, she sat on the end of her bed, depressed and miserable. She picked at her fingernails, which she kept square and neatly trimmed. Although she'd often admired women with beautifully manicured nails, she personally thought of them as vain. The Bible has a good deal to say about vanity and a good many other things, including . . .

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knocking sound against her bedroom window. Monica flew off the bed and was breathless by the time she boosted open her window and stuck out her head.

"Chet?" she whispered as loud as she dared, leaning out. "Is that you?" She was eternally grateful that her father's room was at the front of the house, opposite her own.

"Are you expecting anyone else?"

She heard Chet, but couldn't see him. "Where are you?" she demanded, squinting into the inky black night. Shadows flickered here and there in what little light the moon offered. Still she couldn't locate him, and yet he sounded incredibly close.

He appeared then, like an apparition, and stood directly in front of her. For a moment they did nothing but stare at each other. Monica's heart was positioned somewhere between her chest and her throat and felt like a concrete ball.

Chet's look was unreadable. This private investigator was superbly talented at hiding his feelings.

Her own were as plain as a first-grade primer, she was sure of it. She was so pleased to see him it