A Season of Angels by Debbie Macomber

eager to review his sermon and make any last-minute changes. He was the first one at the church, turning on the furnace so the building would be warm when the congregation arrived. He was a gentle spirit, her father, a man who brought joy to God’s heart. His tendency to look at the bright side of an issue was often a source of contention between them, but it was a minor fault.
    One of them had to maintain a realistic outlook on life and it was the role she’d chosen. Because of this, others tended to view her in a less than favorable light. Her father, on the other hand, was loved by all. He was a good shepherd to his flock, sensitive and gentle, steering them toward a deeper understanding of God’s word.
    Monica sluggishly stirred a teaspoon of sugar into the coffee. She wasn’t looking forward to the outing with the choir, and had toyed with the idea of digging up a plausible excuse not to go. Knowing it would have caused a hardship for the others was her only hesitation.
    No, she corrected, striving for honesty, that wasn’t entirely true.
    Some small, dark part of herself hungered to see Chet again. It pained and troubled her to admit that. The man had taken advantage of her, threatened her, and then, against her will, had blatantly kissed her. The mere thought of their last encounter brought a flash of heated color to her cheeks.
    It mortified her to recall the way she’d responded to him, the way she encouraged his advance, the way her body had reacted to his. No decent woman would feel the things she had, Monica was convinced of that. Patrick had kissed her several times early on in their relationship, and what she’d experienced with him had been a small spark of tenderness. When Chet had kissed her, she’d felt as if she were standing in the middle of a forest fire.
    â€œAre you feeling all right?” her father asked, studying her closely as she sat down at the kitchen table across from him.
    Now was the perfect time to say she wasn’t up to par. That was all she need do. Her father would be the one to suggest she not participate in the choir’s performance that afternoon. Naturally she’d put up a token fuss, but he’d be adamant, insisting her health was more important, and the choir could make do without her.
    â€œI’m fine, Dad,” she murmured. She braced her elbows against the edge of the table and sipped from the thick ceramic cup, wondering what it was about Chet that caused her to be so weak willed. It was unlikely that she would run into him, although, as luck would have it—not that she believed in such matters—she’d encountered Chet twice now within the same week.
    Her father left and returned to the kitchen a moment later, dressed in his thick winter coat. He wrapped a wool scarf around his neck, slipped his hands into leather gloves, and announced, “I’m going over to the church.”
    She acknowledged him with a nod, grateful she’d be alone for the next several minutes. Instead of worrying about the possibility of seeing Chet, she should be praying for him. The man was clearly in need of divine intervention. One look at him told her everything she needed to know about his shabby life and immoral habits. Their all-too-brief conversations had reinforced her suspicions. He was cynical, irrational, stubborn, and only heaven knew what else.
    â€œThen why won’t he leave me alone?” she asked out loud, surprising herself with the shrill sound of her own voice.
    She leaped from her chair and paced the compact kitchen. Absorbed in her thoughts, Monica continued walking about the room, circling the wooden table a number of times. She’d prayed long and hard for God to send a man into her life, but she hadn’t asked how she was supposed to recognize him.
    How she wished her mother were alive. Esther Fischer had always seemed to know what to do even in the most awkward of situations.
    Her father looked