A Season of Angels Page 0,84

with you standing over my shoulder watching every move I make."

"Yes, but you have some great moves."

"Andrew, please, I'm serious. Scoot."

"Aha. So you did buy me something!"

"Good-bye, darling." She walked over to the door and closed it. The latch clicked softly into place.

Andrew stood stubbornly on the other side, refusing to leave. "You'll call me if you need anything, right?" he asked, sounding downright cordial.

"In a heartbeat."

A minute passed, perhaps two, but no longer. "Do you want something to drink?"

"No, thank you. Andrew, why don't you go in and watch television for a while?"

"Nothing good's on."

"What about football?"

"The game's over. How long is it going to take you to finish?"

"I can't rightly say." Was it any wonder family and friends made fun of her gift-wrapping efforts? She used more tape than any three people. She couldn't wrap a single gift without being hounded by her husband, who behaved more like a six-year-old than a mature adult.

A long, slow release of breath followed her announcement. "I'm going to make a cup of hot chocolate," he said, sounding as if he'd lost his last friend.

"Make two," she called out. She'd finish up later. By some miracle she'd managed to wrap everything she'd purchased for him, including a box of golf balls. The man had a sixth sense when it came to ferreting out his gifts.

Andrew was carrying steaming mugs of hot chocolate into the living room by the time she'd put everything away. They kicked off their shoes and snuggled up together on the sofa.

"When's your doctor's appointment?" Andrew asked, rubbing his chin along the side of her head. Leah was convinced she'd told him no less than three times. "The twenty-third."

He didn't say anything for a couple of moments. "How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful." Leah smiled to herself. He was becoming a believer. Bit by bit, little by little, as each day passed. Like her, he was afraid to believe. Like her, he couldn't make himself not do so.

"You know what I was thinking this afternoon?" she said, tilting back her head so their eyes could meet. "I'd like to start attending church services again."

"What brought this on?"

"I don't know. I realized it's been months since we last went to church. Far too long, and you know what? I miss it."

"I've always loved singing Christmas carols," Andrew said wistfully.

Leah nearly choked on her hot chocolate. "You can't sing."

"I know," he admitted readily, his eyes bright with silent laughter, "but that never stopped me."

"I noticed." She loved to tease him. It felt good to be together like this. "You wouldn't mind then if we went back to church?"

His eyes met hers. "Why should I? I think it's a good idea."

Leah nestled back into the warm security of his arms.

"It seems we have a good deal to be grateful for lately."

"Yes, it does," she agreed.

The moment was peaceful and serene and Leah happily traipsed along the meandering path of her thoughts. They led her on the same well-traveled road she'd traversed so often, trying to picture what Andrew's and her child would be like. She hoped, boy or girl, that their baby would inherit her husband's love of life, his excitement and joy for the little things.

"Leah," he said after a moment, "do you still believe you're pregnant?"

"I know I am. It's there - that confident feeling inside me. We're going to have a child, Andrew."

"You realize you've got me believing it now too, don't you?"

"Yes, and that's even better."

"This could be dangerous thinking for us both. We might be setting ourselves up for another major disappointment, and I don't think either one of us can take many more."

"We aren't," she assured him, not doubting, not even for an instant. "Here, feel," she said, taking the hot chocolate and setting it aside. Then, reaching for his hand, she pressed his palm against her stomach, holding it there, her fingers pressed over his. "Now tell me what you believe."

He was silent for what seemed like an eternity before he wrapped his arms around her and brought her tight against him, holding her as if he were suddenly afraid and needed someone to cling to.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I know," he whispered, and when they kissed she realized he was trembling.

"Monica," her father said, walking into the living room, his look contemplative. "Michael called again."

The needle was poised in her fingers, ready to pierce the linen fabric. "I don't feel much like talking, Dad. Would you make my excuses?"

"I explained you were a little under the