A Season of Angels Page 0,85

weather."

She pulled the thread through the material. "Thank you." The needlepoint was a means of occupying her mind, but she doubted that she'd ever finish this project. The Ten Commandments were filled with Thou Shalt Not and that was the way she'd viewed life. Her views had subtly changed, thanks to knowing Chet.

Her father claimed his favorite chair across from her and reached for his Bible. He opened it and silently read for several moments before he gently closed the yellowed pages and set the leather-bound book aside.

"I've waited now for three days for you to tell me why you're so low. I don't know that I have the patience to hold out much longer."

Monica set aside the needlepoint, not knowing where to begin or how. The pain was too fresh yet, too raw. She lowered her gaze to her lap and clenched her hands together. Her father was a patient man, and she prayed he'd understand her hesitation.

He gave her a few moments, then leaned toward her and gently patted her knee. "It's at times like these that I wish your mother were alive. She'd be much better at understanding what's wrong than I am. Funny, isn't it," he said with a sad sort of laugh, "I counsel people from all walks of life and I can't help my own daughter."

"Dad, it's not that."

"I know, love. If it will make it easier, you don't need to tell me there's a man involved in all this. I have eyes in my head. In the beginning I believed it was Michael, but it's obvious he's not the one." He reached for his handkerchief and methodically cleaned his glasses. "I apologize for playing the role of the matchmaker with you two. I should have known better. I'm an old man who would like grandchildren someday."

Monica closed her eyes to a fresh wave of pain. Now there would be no children, because there was no Chet. It was melodramatic to think she would never fall in love again, never marry. But right then that was exactly how she felt.

"Whoever this young man is I'd like to thank him," her father continued after a lengthy silence.

"You don't know him, Dad."

"It doesn't matter."

She was forever grateful he didn't play a game of cat and mouse, attempting to guess Chet's identity.

"For the first time since you entered your twenties you've taken your eyes off yourself. You've worked so hard to do the right thing, to be the perfect example of God's love to others. Soon you focused all your efforts on yourself and how good you were. It was then that you started to notice the flaws in others. It became a vicious circle and I couldn't seem to reach you with the truth."

Monica raised her gaze to his. "I don't understand."

"Forgive me for sounding like the preacher I am. You're my only child and I love you more than words can say, but there've been times I wanted to take you by the shoulders and shake you good and hard."

"For what?" Although she asked the question, Monica was well aware of the answer.

"For standing in judgment of others instead of trying to look at them through God's eyes," her father continued.

"The man, his . . . his name is Chet," she whispered, feeling she owed her father some explanation. "I met him downtown, the first time the ensemble sang. He was going into a tavern and I tried to stop him by telling him how wrong it was for him to drink."

Her father smiled at that and settled back in his chair. "I suspect he didn't listen to you."

"No, quite the opposite. He laughed." She did too then, at the memory. Softly, sadly. "We met again by accident later and several times more by design.

"I couldn't understand what it was I found so intriguing about him. He's not like anyone I've ever known."

"You've been raised in the church. Your experience with the world has been limited."

She reached for a tissue and twisted it between her fingers. "He's a former policeman and has lived a hard life. He's done things neither of us would ever dream of doing. He's been shot and sometimes carries a gun, although he doesn't realize I know that."

"A gun?"

"At first glance he looks rough and mean," she hurried to explain, "but on the inside . . . I don't think I could have found a better man to love. He was honest when he didn't need to be, and gentle. There