Daniel and the Angel (3 page)

"For a small part of my fortune there are at least a hundred women, perhaps a thousand, who would be happy to
love
me."

The sparkle left her eyes and she gave him a long pensive look that made him feel uneasy. "Memories," she said so quietly that he wasn't certain he'd heard her right. "You can't buy memories. You have to make them."

"It takes money to do things that make memories."

"No it doesn't," she said, with a certainty that jarred him.

"Nothing in this world comes free."

"I assume from this conversation that money is important to you."

"At one time it was." He shrugged. "Now it's a means to an end."

"I see. So what do you do with all this money? Set up charities? Help the sick and poor?"

"No."

"Did you ever hear the expression 'You can't take it with you'?"

"Of course."

"Where I come from, wealth doesn't matter."

"Then it's probably a place I'd rather not visit."

She looked away and muttered, "I don't think that will be a problem." After an awkward silence, she began to pluck at the coverlet.

"Tell me where to find your family."

"I can't." She stilled. "You can't find a family that doesn't exist. I have no family."

He didn't know why he tensed inside, but he did. Something in her manner, something in the way she couldn't look him in the eye, said she was either lying or ashamed. He changed tack. "Where do you live?"

She was quiet. Too quiet. She was going to lie to him, and that angered him more than he cared to admit. He didn't want her to be like every other woman he'd known. He wanted her to be different. "Are you going to answer me?"

"I don't know."

He leaned over her, placing one hand on either side of her hips, and brought his face closer to hers. He looked right at her, just a few inches away. It was intimidation at its best. "I insist."

"No, you don't understand." She returned his look with one so innocent he almost fell for it. "I
am
answering you. I don't know where I live."

He straightened. "How convenient."

She stiffened as if he had slapped her. "You don't believe me?"

"No. I don't believe you."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want apologies, just answers."

"I wasn't apologizing. I'm sorry for you."

"Don't be." He turned and walked to the door and opened it. "I have everything I could ever want. I don't need anything."

"Except more money," she muttered.

He froze, then turned very slowly, scowling. "Tomorrow, Lillian, you will tell me the truth." Just before he closed the door, he added, "And drink the damn medicine."

She didn't drink the medicine. A short time later, she tiptoed down the dark staircase, her leather half boots in one hand, the other using the thick, smoothly polished banister to steady herself. She was still a little light-headed from the accident.

But not light-headed enough to stay here even another few hours.

She reached bottom and slowly made her way across the dark foyer until she felt the wood of the front doors. Leaning against them, she pulled on her boots, then, as quietly as possible, opened the door, blanching when the handle made a loud click in the eerie stillness of the mansion.

She stood frozen and listened. She heard nothing, then carefully opened the door a little wider and stepped outside.

It was freezing, colder than the highest and stormiest cloud in Heaven. She shivered and stared at the bleak darkness for an uncertain moment, then pulled her short woolen jacket even tighter around her. She took a deep breath and watched it turn to frosty mist in the night air.

Lilli closed her eyes and said a quick prayer, then ran down the front steps. In less time than it took a tear to fall, she had disappeared into the winter darkness of New York City.

3

Angels keep their ancient places,

turn but a stone, and start a wing!

'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces,

that miss the many splendoured thing.

—Francis Thompson

WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, SHE'S GONE?" D.L.
stood up and threw his napkin down on the breakfast table. He glared at his butler.

Gage stood just inside the double doors of the morning room, awkwardly holding the white silk shirt—the one she'd been wearing. "She's left, sir."

"Damn." He should have poured the medicine down her throat. He looked at the shirt. Or hid her clothes. He glanced up. "Find out if anyone saw or heard her leave. Check the entire block. Let me know immediately if you find out anything."

His butler turned to leave.

"Gage."

The man turned back. "Sir?"

"I'll take that." He nodded at the shirt. Gage looked at the shirt oddly, then handed it to him and left.

His attorney, Karl Wallis, removed his glasses,
polished them with a handkerchief, then put them back on and watched him curiously.

D.L. didn't care. He stared at the shirt. It carried the subtle tang of lemons.

"You need to find her, D.L."

He tossed the shirt onto a nearby chair and walked across the room, where he stood at the long windows, his hands in his pockets. He watched the snow falling lightly on the street corner below. "I know."

"About the release? Yes, well, that's good."

D.L. turned. "What release?"

"You need to have her sign a document of release." Karl began shuffling through some papers on the table. "I have it here somewhere. I was going to give it to you after we finished with the details of these contracts. Here it is." He waved a paper at him. "It releases you from any liability for the carriage accident."

"I am liable."

"Good God, man, never say those words to your attorney. You pay me a fortune to make certain that no matter what, you are never liable for anything."

He turned back around. "Odd," he said quietly. "I hadn't thought she was one to run away."

"What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just an observation."

Outside, snow drifted down on the few pedestrians who hurried along the slushy sidewalk. His mind flashed with the image of a woman with pale skin and even paler blond hair. A fragile, angelic-looking woman who was crying because she had lost everything. A woman huddled on the street with snowflakes sticking to her shivering form, as if each one were a small increment of the burden she carried.

A woman with no one. Some old, time-buried part of him seemed to understand the devastation of that kind of loneliness.

He suddenly felt his exhaustion. He hadn't slept at all after he'd left her. Every time he'd closed his eyes he saw her expressive face looking up at him with disappointment—a look that said he had ripped the stars from her eyes.

"D.L. Have you heard anything I've said?"

"You said I need to find her."

"Yes. Get this release signed, then she can go wherever she wants. And you won't find yourself in the middle of some legal action a year or so from now. We need her signature for you to be free and clear."

"Fine," he said in a clipped tone.

"My advice would be to pay whatever it takes to get it. She seemed a bit of a lost lamb, so I doubt it would cost you very much."

D.L. turned back around and strode over to the table. "Let's get these finished." He sat down but found that he listened to the terms of the deal with only half an ear. He couldn't rid himself of the niggling feeling that this woman might cost him much more than either he or Karl could imagine.

She had spent most of the day on a park bench, watching the world go by. Somehow, with all that had happened, she'd forgotten it was the Christmas season. But once the sun came up, New York City had awakened.

Horsecars decorated with Christmas greenery filled the streets and storefronts opened, festooned with lush ropes of cedar and laurel. Cheery red ribbons were the color of the season, and they trimmed the greens and windows of businesses and residences alike.

Lilli had taken refuge inside a large department store, because it was warm and sheltered from the light snow. But once inside, she had been caught up in the spirit of the season—the smiling faces in the crowds, greetings of "Happy holiday to you" and "Merry Christmas."

There were magic lanterns and fancy dolls, new-fangled electric trains that
chugged
and
chooed
and circled the store Christmas tree. It was festive and joyous and alive.

By the time the storm had stopped, she was smiling when she wandered to the park. Snow-covered trees and plants looked as if they'd been sprinkled with sugar. Ponds that had iced over took on the quality of frosted mirrors, and the fountains and birdbaths stood like stiff snow soldiers.

Before long the air sang sweetly with laughter and the jingle of brass and silver sleigh bells. She smiled, rather sadly, at the sound of the bells.
Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.

For most of the afternoon the sleighs dashed by, their runners whizzing on the fresh white snow and knocking down
keep off the grass
signs. She laughed at snowball fights and gave a misty little smile at a group of children, skates in hand, running for the skating pond with dire threats that the last one there would be a rotten egg.

But by evening, she was alone and the last one to leave the park. She felt like a rotten egg.

She was little more than an aimless wanderer in a foreign land. She had found a small bit of joy in the laughter of others, which had gotten her through a very long day, but by the time the sun had set, she had no idea what she was going to do. She huddled against the cold.

It was difficult to believe that one could be cold with all the clothes she wore. She took a deep breath, something that was nigh on impossible laced into this corset contraption. Her mortal underwear was the closest thing to Purgatory she'd ever come across.

The air was colder than the frostiest cloud, and she could feel the chill right through to her bones. She pulled her jacket even tighter and looked around.

The streets were edged with snow, and ice covered the curbside gutters. A delivery wagon rattled past, and a hansome cab was parked just a few steps away. Near the corner, a small boy hawked newspapers to the passersby. Everyone looked as if they had a place to go and were hustling to get there now that night had fallen.

She stopped and just stood there for a moment, feeling so lost and alone, aware that she had no place to go. She stepped back and looked upward, instinctively turning toward the Heaven that had been her home.

There were buildings all around her, so tall—as tall as seven stories, and she could barely see the stars twinkling in the night sky. She wanted to see those stars, wanted to reach out and touch them, to wish on them and hope that they would show her the way back to Heaven.

Finally she looked down, staring bleakly at the snow. The tears just fell until she had no more tears left. She wiped her eyes and cheeks, then took a deep breath.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned, then made her way toward a different area of the city, where immigrants, foreign and homeless as she was, were huddled on street corners or around small weak fires in alleys and on stoops.

She wondered how many of them were like her— fallen angels.

Cold, tired, and hungry, she finally stopped and leaned against a brick building where the scent of German sausages made her mouth water and her stomach growl. A group of families swarmed nearby, taking shelter under an awning over a side door in the alley.

The children, bundled in thin blankets and knit mufflers, watched her from frightened eyes and pale faces. A baby wailed. It had a hungry sound.

Hunched over a meager fire, a woman was cooking. She turned and looked up at Lilli. Something passed between them, something female. Something spiritual.

The woman reached over and poured steaming liquid into a dented tin can. She turned back to Lilli and held it out.

With tears in her eyes, Lilli shook her head. "Feed your children."

The immigrant woman frowned, then with a pride and determination that belied her circumstances, she walked up to Lilli and pressed the can into her hands.
"Fröhliche Weihnachten.
Merry Christmas."

Lilli thought she might cry, but she managed a weak smile and to choke out a "Thank you." The woman rushed back to her children and meal.

A few minutes later, huddled on a chilly stoop where damp snow drifted down and stuck to her clothes, Lilli sipped the sour German soup that was so warm and welcome she felt as if it had spilled from God's own table.

She gave a prayer of thanks. Watching the snow drift before her eyes, she sat there, a little lost, very cold, and so weary of heart, of mind, and fast getting weary of spirit.

Then she heard them. Bells. Church bells, ringing out like a chorus of archangels—clear and clean and calling to her.

There was no one near the church when she arrived. She walked up the steps, almost afraid to try the closed doors, afraid they'd be locked to her as Heaven was.

But the doors opened easily and she entered the massive church, where candlelight, warmth, and peace welcomed her. She walked toward the altar, stopping a few feet away. She sat in the center of the second pew.

She closed her eyes, seeking some small part of what she'd had. Here, in God's house, she felt some distant tie to Heaven, so here she sat.

A minute or so later, her eyes grew unbearably heavy. She untied the ribbons on her bonnet and removed it, letting her hair fall free and loose. Then exhaustion and cold and hunger finally took their toll.

Lilli lay down and fell asleep.

"Pssst!"

She was warm and tired, so very tired.

"Pssst!"

A pesky fly, she thought. Still half asleep, she swatted at it.

"Lilli! Wake up!"

"Florie . .." Lilli muttered, then snuggled deeper into her clothing.

"Lilli! Wake up!"

She opened her eyes, fully awake, then sat up quickly and shoved the hair from her eyes. "Florie? Is that you?" She reached out to hug her friend, but her arms held thin air. She blinked at Florie's image, then sagged back against the hard pew. "I forgot. I'm mortal now. I can't touch you."

The same emotion glistened in both their eyes.

"I can't hug you."

"I know."

"Florie." She looked down at her hands. "I'm so scared."

"Wait. Don't you see what's happening? I'm coming to you in a dream. You know, the angel coming to you in a dream thing? Lesson 103?"

"I remember. I never could get that right either."

"Wait! Give me a moment. Okay. Now watch." Florie took a deep breath, then fluttered her wings until she was hovering above Lilli. "Here goes. . . Behold! I bring you tidings of great joy!"

Lilli burst out laughing.

Florie stopped fluttering and lit onto the back of the front pew; her wings rippled for a second, then drooped as she dangled her legs over the edge and gave Lilli a small smile. "I suppose that's been overused, hasn't it?"

"I miss you."

"I miss you too." Florie sat up a little straighter, then smiled brightly. "But I do have good news! Well, I think it's good news," she said, chewing a nail.

"What?"

"Saint Peter has relented."

"I get to come back?"

"Well, not exactly. At least not right now. But he said that if you can perform a miracle—just one— here on Earth, then you can come back to Heaven."

"But I can't create a miracle in Heaven. How can I make one here?"

"I don't think that in your case, Lilli, it would make any difference where you were."

"I suppose that's true. Now I must think of a miracle," Lilli said thoughtfully.

"Actually, that's not necessary."

"Why?"

"Saint Peter's decision was based on a more specific sort of miracle."

Another chance. She had one last chance. Lilli gripped the edge of the pew and leaned forward. "Anything. I'll do anything, Florie, if it means I can go back."

"That's good."

"So. Tell me. What's the miracle?"

"It's a lesson. You have to teach a mortal to give from his heart."

She thought about that for a moment, then remembered the kindhearted German woman who'd given her the soup. There were people like her, many of them, in a place like New York City. She looked up at Florie and grinned. "I can do that."

Florie was suddenly quiet.

Lilli looked at her. "You look as if there's more to this specific miracle."