Mercy had done everything possible, but she hadn’t been able to help. It was the most frustrating case she had ever encountered.
If only Mercy could sit down and talk to Leah, face to face. If only Mercy could explain to this woman of the earth that she must find serenity within herself before her prayer could be answered. But that was impossible.
And so they both wept.
Leah cried silent tears standing guard over her friend’s child while Mercy wept openly, unable to contain her sorrow at this feeling of helplessness.
“Married.” The word went through Chet like a bullet, with much the same effect. He bolted off the bed and stood, the sour taste of panic filling his mouth.
“It seems the logical thing to do,” Monica said, her voice as sweet as chocolate-dipped caramels.
Chet rubbed his hand down his face, hoping that would set matters straight in his mind. It didn’t. If anything, his thoughts filled with pure terror. “Sweetheart, in case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not the marrying kind.”
“That’s the point,” Monica continued softly, “I’m not either. It seems we’re perfect for each other.”
“You’re not the marrying kind? Don’t be ridiculous.” She remained on the bed, so beautiful he had to force himself to look away. Otherwise he just might find himself considering her ridiculous suggestion. Much more of this sexual teasing they’d been exchanging and he’d find himself agreeing to just about anything.
“I’m twenty-five years old and have never been asked,” she reminded him.
“Michael’s chomping at the bit, waiting for the opportunity,” Chet muttered. He couldn’t believe he’d said that, not after the fretful evening he’d spent thinking about Monica cheek to cheek with the other man. He quickly glanced about the room, making sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind, such as his heart and a good portion of common sense. He looped his leg over the windowsill, eager to make his escape before he found himself actually discussing the possibility of marriage. The mere thought sent cold chills down his spine.
“You’re leaving?” Monica was kneeling on top of the mattress. Her eyes were wide and pleading. “Don’t go. Please.”
The “please” had cost her a good deal, but Chet knew that if he didn’t make his escape then and there, it would be too late. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d find himself agreeing to this asinine scheme of hers.
As it was, their ongoing relationship continued to confound him. He’d never meant to see her again after she’d lectured him on the misery brought on by the evils of alcohol. Little by little he’d knowingly allowed himself to be drawn to this preacher’s daughter. They’d been a hair’s breadth from making love only moments earlier. She didn’t seem to realize how close they’d come.
“I should have realized,” she said in a small, pitiful voice, “that you wouldn’t want to marry me.”
Chet groaned inwardly. He was prepared to slip into the night as unnoticed as when he’d first arrived, but she’d managed to do it again. This woman knew exactly which cords to pull to reach him. It happened like this each and every time they met. Much more of this and she’d have the threads wrapped so securely around his heart there’d be no escape.
“It isn’t that,” he said, his back to her. Looking at her was dangerous, especially now with her lips swollen from his kisses and her hair all mussed up. He’d never known a woman who looked more beautiful when her hair wasn’t combed.
“Then what is it?” she asked. From the nearness of her voice he knew she’d moved off the bed and was standing almost directly behind him.
Nothing but the truth would satisfy her, Chet realized, yet he hesitated, knowing she’d argue with the devil himself.
“Tell me exactly what it is then,” she demanded, and he noticed she was regaining some of her natural pluck.
“Listen, sweetheart,” he said, knowing she disliked the affectionate term, “I’m not good enough for you.”
Until he’d met Monica his life had been reduced to wild weekends, blown paychecks, and cheap thrills with a cocktail waitress. He’d been shot, beaten, and chased down by a jealous husband. Not exactly pick-of-the-litter husband material for a minister’s daughter, but there was no telling Monica anything. He’d learned that the hard way.
“Don’t say that.” Her arms came up under his and she looped her hands on his shoulders, then flattened the side of her face against his back. She felt so good and warm pressed to him that for an instant he was nearly swayed.
“Nothing could be further from the truth,” she insisted. “Don’t you realize how much you’ve taught me? I was a prude until we met and now I know what it means to be in love. You’ve made me proud to be a woman.”
“Lessons rarely come cheap.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her arms slipped away from him and Chet was eternally grateful. He slipped out of the window, landing with a thud on the hard ground below.
Turning around to face her was a mistake in what was proving to be a long line of tactical errors. Her eyes were bright with tears and her lower lip was trembling. Something sharp and painful twisted in his gut. He could deal far easier with her anger than he could her tears.
“I’m not going to marry you, Monica,” he told her harshly. “So get that idea out of your head right now. It’s just not going to happen.”
She was silent for a moment, then nodded. “You can’t get much clearer than that. Good night, Chet.” Her voice was soft and a little broken.
She had her hooks in him good and deep. The best thing for him to do was to get out while the getting was good. Working as a private investigator, Chet had developed a sixth sense for these things. The time to leave was about five minutes ago.