Chet knew her type. The mission house down the street from his office was filled with do-gooders thinking their efforts with the derelicts and vagrants was going to make a difference. Chet felt sorry for them more than he did the street people they struggled to reach with their message.
Then why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? The hell if he knew. The hell if he cared. One consolation, he wasn’t likely to run into her again.
“Of course I remember you, Mr. Lundberg,” Mrs. Burchell, the caseworker from New Life Adoption Agency, assured him over the telephone. “It’s good to hear from you again.”
Andrew rolled the mechanical pencil between his palms, praying he was doing the right thing. “I’d like to know how difficult it would be for my wife and me to resubmit our application.” He leaned against the back of his chair. Leah had been on his mind all day and he was worried about her.
It was so unfair that they couldn’t have children. What troubled him most was that there didn’t seem to be any physical reason. They’d spent years, and thousands of dollars, working with fertility specialists. Leah’s life was governed by that ridiculous book she kept. He swore she’d documented her temperature every morning for the last seven years.
Perhaps if they’d been able to pinpoint the problem as his, Leah might have been able to accept their situation.
“I have your file right here,” the caseworker went on to say. “I know you and your wife were terribly disappointed when Melinda Phillips decided to rescind the adoption of her infant son. It doesn’t happen often, but unfortunately these girls do change their minds.”
“I understand,” Andrew said, not wanting to rehash the details. Having the birth mother change her mind had been much harder on Leah than on him. They’d gone to the hospital, their hearts filled with joy, only to return empty-handed an hour later. Afterward Leah had sat for hours alone in the nursery they’d so lovingly prepared. Nothing Andrew could say reached her. He’d been disappointed too and for a while there’d been a strain between them. Then one day he returned home from the office and discovered that Leah had dismantled the nursery. She calmly announced that she’d withdrawn their application from New Life and that they’d simply wait for her to become pregnant and bear a child of their own. She refused to subject them to that kind of torment again.
“I’ll be happy to resubmit your names,” Mrs. Burchell said, “but I must warn you there are fewer babies available for adoption now than before.”
“How long would you predict?”
The caseworker hesitated. “I can’t really say. It’s different with every couple.”
“What about the Watcombs?” Andrew asked. “We went through the orientation classes with them three years ago.”
“Ah, yes, the Watcombs. Jessie and Ken, am I right?”
“Yes. Has their adoption gone through?”
“Not yet, but we’re hopeful we’ll have an infant for them soon.”
Andrew’s hopes plummeted. The Watcombs were special people and he couldn’t imagine any young mother not choosing them to rear her child.
“You were in the same orientation class as the Sterlings, weren’t you?”
Andrew allowed the name to filter through his mind. “He was a fireman as I recall.”
“That’s the couple. They adopted a baby girl last October.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
He was, of course, but a small part of him couldn’t help being envious. Leah desperately wanted a child, and in an effort to reassure her he’d downplayed his own desire for a family. He loved his wife and would give anything for them to have a child.
“Do you still want me to resubmit your name?” Mrs. Burchell asked after a moment’s silence.
“Please,” he said, his hand tightening around the receiver. If it took another five years or more, then that was just how long they’d need to wait. That he was doing this behind Leah’s back didn’t sit well with him, but some action needed to be taken, and this seemed the most logical choice. If they were chosen by a birth mother again, then they’d make the necessary adjustments. A child was welcome into their lives at any time. Love guaranteed.
For the life of her, Monica hadn’t been able to forget the private investigator. Heaven knew she’d tried. He was little better than an alcoholic, drinking beer in the middle of the day. Not only that, he’d been arrogant, rude, and curt with her. He’d treated her as if she were a senseless child when she’d tried to help him.
Monica didn’t understand what it was about this one man that intrigued her so. She’d gone to bed that night and dreamed of him. She’d woken breathless, her heart pounding double time. A woman had no control over her dreams, Monica assured herself. If she had, Monica certainly wouldn’t have allowed that . . . man to touch her. The very idea was appalling. No, Monica corrected, closing her eyes and shaking her head, that wasn’t the truth. It was the problem. She had thought about him touching her, kissing her. Her untamed imagination had taken over and she’d allowed it to happen in her dreams.
“There you are,” her father said, strolling into the living room. “I’ve been looking for you.” He settled down in the leather chair by the fireplace and reached for the evening paper. “I’m afraid I’m going to need you tomorrow afternoon.”
“For what?” He seemed to forget she had a job and even if she did work as the church secretary it was a demanding position. Her father would cover for her if necessary, but she would rather he asked first instead of volunteering her services, which was something he often did.
“Mrs. Ferdnand just phoned and she can’t be a bell ringer for the shift she signed up to take last Sunday.”
“But, Dad.” Standing on a cold street corner and collecting charitable donations was the last way Monica wished to spend an afternoon. An hour never lasted so long and by the end of her shift she’d be frozen solid.