Angels Everywhere - Debbie Macomber [87]
“Very often it does,” Gabriel admitted with a beleaguered sigh. “It seems to me you’ve taught Monica Fischer what she needed to learn.”
“But I did nothing.” Goodness was more confused than ever. Her efforts had all been geared toward Michael. “The changes are due to Chet Costello, not me.”
“I know. Maybe we should look at him.”
Goodness pressed her lips tightly together. “He’s probably in a bar somewhere.”
“He is.” The picture of Monica faded and was replaced by one of Chet slouched atop a bar stool, nursing a shot glass. His shoulders were hunched forward and he ignored any attempts at conversation the bartender made.
“You notice he isn’t in any church,” Goodness felt obliged to point out.
“I realize that.”
A cocktail waitress ambled to his side and whispered something. “That’s Trixie.” Goodness felt it was important that Gabriel know how well informed she was. She hadn’t slouched in her duties.
“I know all about Trixie as well.”
“Then you must be aware of their ongoing relationship,” Goodness supplied.
“It’s over and has been from the moment Chet met Monica,” Gabriel said absently. “He’s doing it again, you see.”
“Drinking?”
Gabriel slowly shook his head. “No, he’s sacrificing himself for another. He loves Monica, but he doesn’t believe he’s right for her. It seems to me that a man who’s twice put the good of someone else before his own deserves something more than pain.”
“He deserves love,” Goodness whispered, watching Trixie.
Goodness thought she heard Gabriel groan. “Not Trixie,” he said impatiently.
“Who, then?”
“Monica Fischer.”
Goodness felt knocked off-balance. “You couldn’t possibly mean that the good Lord intends to answer Monica’s prayer for a husband with Chet Costello?”
Gabriel laughed, the rich and full sound echoing like a Chinese gong. “My dear Goodness, that’s what He intended all along.”
Fifteen
Jody swore she didn’t sleep except in ten- or fifteen-minute snatches the entire night. It had been like this when Jeff had first disappeared. Mentally and physically exhausted, she’d fall into bed, immediately slip into a druglike sleep only to jerk awake minutes later. The pattern was back.
Jeff was alive.
Jeff was dead and buried. Buried and mourned.
Resurrected.
The next morning, when the alarm rang, Jody was tempted to call into work sick. The only thing that kept her from doing so was the idea of facing the day at home alone with her doubts—a day alone with her fears. Alone. It held no appeal.
Sensing her mood, Timmy was extra quiet. He dressed for school while she cooked his breakfast and then drove him to the bus stop.
“Have a good day,” she told him as he climbed out of the car.
“You too, Mom.” With that he was gone, hurrying to meet his friends.
The traffic into the city was heavy, but Jody barely noticed. She drove by rote, her mind wandering from one inane topic to another. When she pulled into her assigned spot in the parking garage, she was surprised to realize where she was and had no memory of the commute.
At least while she was at the office she could occupy her thoughts with matters other than Jeff’s mother. Despite everything, a small part of her—no, she corrected, a very large part of her—had been wounded by the things Gloria had said.
Why should it matter that her mother-in-law would tell her dead son what a terrible wife Jody was?
Somehow it did.
It unsettled her that Gloria’s opinion of her was so important. Jody had been a good wife. No woman could have possibly loved Jeff more. No woman could have grieved harder, or longer—except, possibly, his mother.
Because of Timmy it was impossible for Jody to isolate her life the way Gloria had. Because of Timmy she was forced to deal with the present. She’d done a good job, or at least she assumed she had until her son had written his letter to God. Timmy needed her, not to look back and weep with her pain, but to stand tall and proud and to point the direction of their future.
Jody had no more than settled down at her desk, her thoughts more confused than ever, when