Angels Everywhere - Debbie Macomber [95]
“I read your license, remember?”
He was losing it, Chet mused. He’d forgotten the old coot had caught him coming out of the side yard that night and had asked to see his identification.
“My daughter’s badly hurt, you know.”
For one wild second Chet assumed Monica had been injured and the fear that seared through him burned hotter than the bullet he’d taken years earlier.
“Life’s tough and then you die,” Chet stated unemotionally.
The man grinned as if he easily saw through Chet’s ploy. The grin irritated Chet. “Listen, I have work to do.”
“Monica claims you love her. Is that true?”
“No.” The pain of the lie pricked his heart, but he ignored it. “Listen, if you’re worried about what happened between us, let me assure you nothing did. Now, if you don’t mind I’ve got an appointment.”
“Yes, I suppose you do,” the reverend said, slowly getting to his feet. He extended his hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, young man. It’s plain to see why Monica thinks so highly of you.”
Chet’s chest tightened with a crippling ache as they exchanged handshakes. “You should be beating the hell out of me for having ever touched your daughter.”
The other man’s eyes gentled as he slowly shook his head. “I was young once myself, you know, and deeply in love. Monica’s a woman and old enough to know her own heart. I’m not here to judge you or my daughter. I came out of curiosity to meet you. And thank you.”
“Thank me?” Lloyd Fischer was offering him gratitude when Chet had expected condemnation.
“Oh, yes, you’ve helped Monica tremendously.” The minister looked older now than he had when Chet first saw him the fateful day he’d met Monica. Weary and burdened. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you,” he continued, “please don’t hesitate to come see me.”
“Sure,” Chet said, but a man who’d lived the life he’d lived, and done the things he had, didn’t make social calls to preachers.
He walked Monica’s father to the door, and opened it for him, anxious for him to leave. If Lloyd Fischer stayed much longer, Chet just might start to believe in the impossible.
“She’ll get over me,” he said.
The older man nodded. “I suspect you’re right. In due time. She loves you, and Monica’s a good deal like her mother when it comes to love.”
Chet hadn’t a clue what that meant and furthermore he didn’t want to know. His ladle of guilt was filled to capacity and overflowing.
“Good-bye, Chet. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.” He patted Chet’s upper arm as if he were little more than a schoolboy and then ambled out of the room.
Standing in the doorway, Chet watched as Monica’s father absently walked down the hallway, strolling past the elevator. He turned around, looking confused, when he reached the end of the hall.
Chet shut the door, leaned against the thick white glass, and closed his eyes. He smelled of stale liquor, hadn’t shaved in two days, and as a general rule looked like shit, and this man of God had thanked him for damn near deflowering his daughter.
There was something screwy somewhere, and the hell if Chet could figure out where.
He was dizzy again and decided it was probably due to the fact that he hadn’t eaten since the day before. The alcohol hadn’t helped.
After showering and fixing himself something to eat he felt better. He’d finished his scrambled eggs when the thought subtly presented itself to him. Monica was at the Mission House. Hadn’t her father said so himself?
“No,” Chet said out loud. “I will not go down there.” He reached for his television controller, his finger poised over the Power button.
“You’re a fool,” Chet muttered, already knowing there was no force on this earth that could keep him away.
He had no intention of talking to her. None. The picture windows in the place gave ample opportunity to view the inside without being noticed. He’d go down, check out what her father had said, and slip away without anyone being the wiser. It was something he’d done a thousand times before as