A Season of Angels by Debbie Macomber Page B

choosing their life’s partners. There hadn’t been any explosion of—she hated to even say the word— passion between them. They’d drifted into marriage as a natural conclusion to a long-standing relationship.
    It was the way her romance had started with Patrick, but their relationship had fizzled out and died without Monica even realizing what had happened. What she’d hoped to hear had been a confirmation of the feelings she’d experienced since meeting Chet. Not that she’d ever consider marrying anyone like him.
    â€œI deeply loved your mother.”
    â€œI know that, Dad.”
    â€œI understand you’re impatient to be a wife yourself, and all I can say is that God will bring a man into your life in His own time.”
    Monica nodded and, returning to the stove, placed an iron skillet on the stove. “I’m in no rush,” she said, and even as she spoke, Monica knew that wasn’t true.
    â€œRemember what happened when Sarah decided to take matters into her own hands by giving Abraham her servant girl?”
    â€œI remember.”
    â€œDon’t make this a do-it-yourself project.”
    Monica laughed. “I won’t.”
    Her father was silent for a moment, then asked, “Michael’s certainly a nice-looking young man, don’t you think?”
    Monica resisted the urge to laugh outright. Her father couldn’t have been less subtle. The choir director was a couple of years younger than Monica, not that it mattered. He was reserved and quiet, and frankly, she couldn’t imagine spending the rest of her life with him. She liked Michael, and appreciated his efforts with the choir, but when she looked at him there wasn’t any spark, any sizzling attraction. She felt nothing.
    How she wished she could say the same for Chet. What she felt for him had to be immoral. It was immoral. Only that morning, when she was trying desperately to sleep, her thoughts had been full of Chet and the kiss they’d shared. The mere memory had turned her body into a traitor. Monica was convinced those feelings were ones godly women were never meant to experience.
    â€œAh, yes,” her father continued, blithely unaware of the route her unruly thoughts had taken. “Michael would make you a good husband. I’m an old man, and I don’t know much about romance, but my guess is that he’d very much like to get to know you better.”
    â€œHe’s a good man,” Monica agreed, unwilling to say anything more.
    â€œYou could do far worse.”
    Her father hadn’t a clue how true those words were. He approved of Michael, but she had no doubts of what the good reverend would think should she introduce him to Chet. Monica could well imagine the look of alarm that would come into his eyes. Naturally, he’d be gentle with his concern, but his response would be impossible to conceal.
    After she’d finished frying the bacon and eggs, Monica set the plate on the table and said, “I’m going upstairs to change.”
    Her father tossed a surprised look her way. “You’re not eating?”
    She shook her head.
    â€œYou’re sure you’re feeling all right?”
    At the moment Monica wasn’t sure of anything.
    â€œC ome sit with me,” Andrew invited. Leah’s husband was relaxing on the white leather sofa, his feet stretched out and propped against the end of the glass coffee table. He set aside the morning paper and held out his arms coaxingly to her.
    â€œI was going to wash the breakfast dishes,” Leah said, and hesitated.
    â€œDo them later.”
    â€œAndrew!” Her husband had the look about him that was unmistakable. He wanted her the way a man wants his wife and he wasn’t willing to wait much longer.
    â€œYes?” she asked, poising her hand against her hip and shifting her weight to one foot. “It’s barely ten o’clock in the morning.” She