A Season of Angels

Page 21

Marilyn Brock pressed the earphone to her head. “As best we’ve been able to learn, the aircraft carrier Nimitz and the Carl Vinson have traded places. You heard me right, Brian and Carol, traded places. The Nimitz was docked at Pier 12 and is now in Pier 24, where the Carl Vinson was formerly docked.
“Also from what we’ve been able to find out, despite very tight security, an unidentified object showed on the radar screens this last evening. Reports are mixed. Some claim it was nothing more than a commercial flight off course, but others have said it was the silhouette of an angel.”
“An angel?” Brian Lewis repeated.
“You heard me right. This is definitely one for the record books.”
Chet had called himself every kind of fool. He’d waited around the area at the Westlake Mall for nearly thirty minutes and Monica had yet to show. After the tempestuous kisses they’d shared, she’d probably had her sensibilities so shaken she decided against seeing him again. It was just as well. Their relationship wasn’t headed anywhere.
Monica Fischer was little more than a passing fancy to him, but even as he said the words, Chet wondered if they were true. What she was to him remained a deep, dark secret, even to himself.
Well, there wasn’t any need to wait around here any longer. If she was going to meet him, she would have done so earlier. A cold beer would ease his disappointment, he decided, heading toward the Blue Goose.
“Chet, Chet Costello.”
He caught the tail end of his name and whirled around, searching through a mob of empty faces, seeking Monica. His heart gladdened when he caught sight of her making her way through the crowds, weaving in and around those who were going too slow to suit her.
She wore her hair up and tightly pulled away from her face. The severe style sharpened her features, but Chet was too pleased to see her to worry about the way she wore her hair or the drab, lifeless colors that made up her wardrobe.
She was breathless by the time he reached her. He stopped himself just in time, otherwise he would have wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground. As it was, his arms gripped hold of her elbows.
“I had trouble getting away,” she explained, smiling up at him, her pretty eyes revealing her relief. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”
“I was just about to give up,” he admitted. They were causing something of a distraction and Chet turned, looping his arm over her shoulder and guiding her across the street. He hadn’t a clue of how much time they’d have together, but he fully intended to make the most of it.
“Where are we going?” Monica asked.
Chet paused. “Do you have any particular place in mind?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Do you?”
He wasn’t sure she’d agree. “My apartment. You look half frozen and it’s the only place I can think of where we’ll have some privacy.”
Her steps slowed. “I . . . don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?” he asked. He’d perfected his innocent look until it was practically an art form. “I was thinking we could talk, and get to know each other a little better.” Sure he intended to talk, but there was a whole lot more on his agenda. Monica possessed a delectable body that she carefully disguised behind clothes that were at least one size too large for her. She needed to learn exactly what it meant to be a woman, and he was an able teacher. Ready and able. It had been a good long while since he’d been this strongly attracted to a woman. That worried him, but not enough to prevent him from seeing Monica. He’d sort through his feelings later once he’d coaxed her into his bed.
Generally Chet preferred to relieve his sexual frustrations with Trixie, a cocktail waitress who worked at the Blue Goose on weekends. They had a long-standing relationship, or better said, a long-standing understanding. They didn’t pretend to be in love, pretense was beyond them both. A divorcée 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 café 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 café 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 . . . don’t know. Michael asked me to stop by his house this evening and I had to make up this excuse and the whole time I was on the bus I kept thinking I must be crazy.”
“Then we’re both crazy,” he muttered, and sipped his coffee. It was hot, black, and thick. Just the way he liked it.
Monica sipped hers too, made a face, then reached for the sugar bowl. She added three heaping teaspoons before she sampled the liquid again.
“Where does that leave us?” she asked.
“I was thinking you could tell me.”
“I can’t.” She raised her eyes to his, then quickly lowered them. “No one’s ever kissed me the way you have.”
That didn’t come as any surprise to Chet. “That’s only the beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kissing is the tip of the iceberg. There are a dozen different directions we could go from there.”
She looked at him as if she hadn’t a clue what he was talking about and he realized what should have been obvious from the beginning. Monica Fischer, preacher’s daughter, was a virgin. He didn’t know there were any left in the world and damned if he hadn’t stumbled onto the last living one.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You look as if you just swallowed a basketball whole.”
“I feel that way.” He stood so abruptly that the chair shot two feet away from the table. Slapping a fistful of change on the table he reached for her arm, practically lifting her out of the chair. “Come on, we’re out of here.”
His grip was so tight, Monica’s toes barely touched the ground.
“Chet,” she cried, “what are you doing?”
“Getting you out of here.”
“Where are we going?” she asked. The way her voice struggled to stay even revealed the extent of her surprise.
“I’m taking you back to the bus stop.”
“Why?” She shook herself free of his hold and whirled around to face him.
“Because, sweetheart, I just realized something. You’re a virgin and I’m the last person you should be around.”
“Why?” she asked. Apparently she still hadn’t caught on.
“Because,” he said, having trouble keeping the anger out of his voice, although it was directed at himself, and not her. He was a bigger fool than he’d realized.
“Because doesn’t tell me anything.”
She was having trouble keeping pace with him, but Chet didn’t care. The sooner he was rid of her the better.
“Tell me what’s so terrible about being a virgin. Good grief, you make it sound like I’ve got a communicable disease or something.”