A Season of Angels Page 0,71

what your feelings are towards me." The stiff indignation was back as inflexible as always.

"Not exactly." It did his heart good to hear the outrage in her voice, although he'd never known a woman who could irritate him faster. By the same token he'd never known a woman who did the other things to him she did either. The problem was, he still hadn't figured out whether he liked it or not. Mostly he liked it, he reasoned, otherwise he wouldn't keep coming back for more.

"I have my principles, Chet Costello, and I can tell you right now that I refuse to sleep with any man until after we're married."

Laughing was a gross error and he knew it, but he couldn't help himself. He could have had her any number of times. The only thing that had stopped him was knowing that neither one of them would be the same afterward.

Monica was innocent in the ways of men and he refused to take from her what rightly belonged to another. His thoughts were abruptly ended when Monica slammed the window shut, practically in his face.

Her eyes glared out at him accusingly.

He shouldn't have laughed and knew it even as the amusement escaped his throat. As means of an apology, he pressed his fingertips to his lips and then set his open hand against the cold windowpane.

Monica's angry gaze held his in what little light the moon afforded. After a moment, she pantomimed his action and poised her hand on the other side of the glass against his.

Reluctantly, he dropped his hand and turned away from her while he had the strength. He didn't know where the relationship was leading and as far as he could see they were striding down a dead-end street, but for the life of him he couldn't make himself terminate it. Maybe he did love her; he didn't ever want to think about the consequences of that.

"Young man."

The voice startled Chet. He was getting sloppy in his old age, otherwise he'd never have been heard cutting through her side yard. Chet whirled around to find a thin man standing on the front lawn, dressed in a robe and slippers, holding a flashlight. It could only be Monica's father.

Chet drew in his breath and waited.

"I'd like to know exactly what you're doing on my property this time of night?" Lloyd Fisher demanded, aiming the flashlight into his eyes, blinding him.

It was happening, Leah thought. She woke to the buzzing of the alarm and even before she opened her eyes she realized how queasy her stomach was. Was it possible? Could she be pregnant?

Mentally she tried to calculate the dates of her last menstrual cycle, and couldn't. Sometime the first part of November, she guessed. It would help if she hadn't tossed her notebook in the garbage.

It was wishful thinking, she finally decided. Or the flu. Probably a nasty virus, she mused, yawning.

"Morning," Andrew said, cuddling her. His hand automatically slipped over her abdomen as he scooted closer to her side. Leah savored his warmth. "Did you sleep well?"

"Hmmm."

"Me too."

Leah smiled. Their routine was the same every morning. It was these small things, these everyday habits that had become a part of the structure of their marriage.

After Andrew had gone to make the coffee, Leah decided to take her temperature for old times' sake, not that it would tell her anything.

Two minutes later she was studying the normal reading and calling herself a silly goose, grateful Andrew hadn't caught her with the thermometer in her mouth.

"I think I'll just have yogurt this morning," Leah said when she entered the kitchen.

Andrew studied her. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," she assured him, taking a carton of blueberry-flavored non-fat yogurt out of the refrigerator. The bread popped up from the toaster and Andrew spread a thin layer of butter over the warm surface.

"You look a little pale," he commented, removing the lid from the strawberry jam. He smeared a thick coat over the toast and carried his plate and cup of coffee to the table.

"I do?" Her voice rose with a dash of excitement she couldn't hide. She brought her yogurt with her and joined him.

The toast was poised in front of Andrew's mouth and he slowly lowered it to his plate. He didn't say anything for several moments. "How late are you?"

"I don't know. I threw away my notebook, remember?"

"Surely you can figure it out."

"Can you?"

He shook his head. "I guess not. It doesn't matter though, does it? If