The Heaven Trilogy (5 page)

The man was handling himself with more authority than was customary. No one responded.

“Good, then. If you have any questions, I'll be in my office.” Borst nodded theatrically and retreated to the first door on the right. Kent swallowed the last of his champagne.
That's it, Borst, go to your office and do what you always do. Nothing. Do absolutely nothing.

“Kent.” He lowered his empty glass and found Mary at his elbow, smiling brightly. Most would tag Mary as chunky, but she carried her weight well. Her brown hair was rather stringy, which did not help her image, but a clear complexion saved her from a much worse characterization. In any case, she could write basic code well enough, which was why Borst had hired her. Problem was, AFPS did not consist of much ordinary code.

“Morning, Mary.”

“I just wanted to thank you for bringing us all here. I know how hard you've worked for this, and I think you deserve every bit of what you have coming.”

Kent smiled.
Brown-nosing, are we, Mary?
He wouldn't put it past her, despite the innocent round eyes she now flashed up at him. She went with the flow, this one.

“Well, thanks, Mary.” He patted the hand at his elbow. “You're too kind. Really.”

Then Todd was there at his other elbow, as if the two had held a conference and decided that he would soon hold the keys to their futures. Time to switch their attention from the bald bossman to the rising star.

“Fantastic job, Kent!” Todd lifted his glass, which was empty, and threw it back anyway. By the looks of it, Todd had a few hidden vices.

Kent's mind flashed back to the two-year stint during graduate studies when he himself had taken to nipping at the bottle during late nights hovering over the keyboard. It was an absurd dichotomy, really. A top honors student who had found his brilliance through impeccable discipline, now slowly yielding to the lure of the bottle. A near drowning on one of his late-night runs had halted his slippery slide back to Stupid Street. It had been midwinter, and unable to muscle through a programming routine, he'd gone for a jog with half a bottle of tequila sloshing in his gut. He had misjudged a pier on the lake for a jogging path and run right off it into freezing waters. The paramedics told him if he'd not been in such good shape, he would have drowned. It was the last time he'd touched the stuff.

Kent blinked and smiled at Todd. “Thanks. Well, I've got some work to finish, so I'll see you guys tomorrow, right?”

“Bright 'n' early.”

“Bright 'n' early.” He nodded, and they stepped aside as though on strings. Kent walked past them to the first door on the left, across from the one through which Borst had disappeared.

This was going to be all right, he thought. Very much all right.

HELEN HOBBLED along beside her daughter in the park, eyeing the ducks waddling beside the pond, nearly as graceful as she. Walking was a thing mostly of the past for her wounded legs. Oh, she could manage about fifty yards without resting up for a while, but that was definitely it. Gloria had persuaded her to see an orthopedic doctor a year earlier, and the quack had recommended surgery. A knee replacement or some such ridiculous thing. They actually wanted to cut her open!

She'd managed a few hours of sleep last night, but otherwise it was mostly praying and wondering. Wondering about that little eye-opener God had decided to grace her with.

“It is lovely here, don't you think?” Helen asked casually. But she did not feel any loveliness at all just now.

“Yes, it is.” Her daughter turned to the skating bowl in time to see Spencer fly above the concrete wall, make a grab for his skateboard in some insane inverted move, and streak back down, out of sight. She shook her head and looked back at the pond.

“I swear, that boy's gonna kill himself.”

“Oh lighten up, Gloria. He's a boy, for goodness' sake. Let him live life while he's young. One day he'll wake up and find that his body doesn't fly as well as it used to. Until then, let him fly. Who knows? Maybe it brings him closer to heaven.”

Gloria smiled and tossed a stick toward one of the ducks swaying its way in search of easy pickings. “You have the strangest way of putting things, Mom.”

“Yes, and do you find me wrong?”

“No, not often. Although some of your analogies do stretch the mind.” She reached an arm around her mother and squeezed, chuckling.

“You remember that time you suggested Pastor Madison take the cross off the church wall and carry it on his back for a week? Told him if the idea sounded silly it was only because he had not seen death up close and personal. Really, Mother! Poor fellow.”

Helen smiled at the memory. Fact of it was, few Christians knew the cost of discipleship. It would have been a fine object lesson. “Yes, well, Bill's a fine pastor. He knows me now. And if he doesn't, he does a fine job pretending as though he does.”

She guided her daughter by the elbow down the path. “So you leave tomorrow, then?”

“No, Saturday. We leave Saturday.”

“Yes, Saturday. You leave Saturday.” The air seemed to have grown stuffy, and Helen drew a deliberate breath. She stopped and looked around for a bench. The closest sat twenty yards away, surrounded by white ducks.

Gloria's voice spoke softly at her elbow. “You okay, Mother?”

Suddenly Helen was not okay. The vision strung through her mind, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Her chest felt stuffed with cotton. She swallowed hard and turned away from her daughter.

“Mother?” A cool hand encircled her biceps.

Helen fought back a flood of tears and narrowly succeeded. When she spoke, her voice warbled a bit. “You know that things are not what they seem, Gloria. You know that, don't you?”

“Yes. I know that.”

“We look around here, and we see all sorts of drama unfolding about us— people marrying and divorcing and getting rich and running off to Paris.”

“Mother . . .”

“And all along, the drama unfolding in the spirit world is hardly noticed but no less real. In fact, it is the real story. We just tend to forget that because we cannot see it.”

“Yes.”

“There are a lot of opposites in life, you know. The first will be last, and the last, first.” Gloria knew this well, but Helen felt compelled to say it all, just the same. To speak like this to her only daughter. “A man finds the whole world but loses his soul. A man who loses his life finds it. A seed dies, and fruit is born. It is the way of God. You know that, don't you? I've taught you that.”

“Yes, you have, and yes, I do know that. What's wrong, Mother? Why are you crying?”

“I am not crying, Honey.” She faced Gloria for the first time and saw her raised eyebrows. “Do you see me weeping and wailing?” But her throat was aching terribly now, and she thought she might fall apart right here on the path.

She took a few steps into the grass and cleared her throat. “Death brings life. In many ways, you and I are already dead, Gloria. You know that, don't you?”

“Mother, you
are
crying.” Her daughter turned her around as if she were a child. “You're trying not to, but I can hear it in your voice. What's wrong?”

“What would you think if I were to die, Gloria?”

Gloria's mouth parted to speak, but she said nothing. Her hazel eyes stared wide. When she did find her voice, the words came shaky.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it's a simple enough question. If I were to pass on—die—and you buried me, what would you think?”

“That's ridiculous! How can you speak to me like that? You're nowhere near dying. You shouldn't think such thoughts.”

The tension provided Helen with a wave of resolve that seemed to lighten her emotion for the moment. “No, but
if
, Gloria. If a truckdriver missed his brakes and knocked my head off my shoulders—what would you think?”

“That's terrible! I would feel terrible. How can you say such a thing? Goodness! How do you think I would feel?”

She looked directly at her daughter for a few seconds. “I didn't say
feel,
Honey. I said
think.
What would you suppose had happened?”

“I would suppose that a drunken truckdriver had killed my mother, that's what I'd think.”

“Well, then you would think like a child, Gloria.” She turned away and feigned a little disgust. “Humor me in my old age, dear. At least pretend that you believe what I've taught you.”

Her daughter did not respond. Helen cast a sideways glance and saw that she had made the connection. “Mother, there is no end to you.”

“No. No, I suppose there isn't, is there. But humor me. Please, darling.”

Gloria sighed, but it was not a sigh of resignation—it was a sigh that comes when the truth has settled. “All right. I would think that you had been taken from this world. I would think that in your death, you had found life. Eternal life with God.”

“Yes, and you would be right.” Helen turned to face Gloria and nodded. “And what might that be like?”

Gloria blinked and turned to the pond, lost in a hazy stare. “It would be . . .” She paused, and a smile curved her lips ever so slowly. “. . . like what we saw yesterday. Laughing with God.” Her eyes grew wide, and she faced Helen.

“So, then, would you want me to find that?”

Her daughter's eyebrows narrowed in question for a fleeting moment, and then she nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I would.”

“Even if finding it meant losing this life?”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

Helen smiled and drew a deep, satisfied breath. “Good.”

She stepped close to Gloria, put her arms around her daughter's waist, and pulled her close. “I love you, Sweetheart,” she said and rested her cheek on her daughter's shoulder.

“I love you too.”

They held each other for a long moment.

“Mother?”

“Yes?”

“You're not going to die, are you?”

“Someday, I hope. The sooner the better. Either way, our worlds are about to change, Gloria. Everything is turning inside out.”

CHAPTER FIVE

KENT WOKE at 6 A.M. on Friday, instantly alert. His plane departed at nine, which gave them two hours to dress and make their way to the airport. He flung the sheets aside and swung his legs to the floor. Beside him, Gloria moaned softly and rolled over.

“Up and at 'em, Sweetheart. I've got a plane to catch.”

Gloria grunted an acknowledgment and lay still, milking the waning seconds for the last of sleep, no doubt.

Kent walked under the arch into their spacious bathroom and doused his head under the tap. Fifteen minutes later he emerged, half dressed, expecting to make a trip to the kitchen to ask Gloria about his socks. But he was spared the jaunt downstairs—he would not find Gloria down there because she was still in bed with an arm draped over her face.

“Gloria? We have to leave, Sweetheart. I thought you were up.”

She rolled toward him and sat up groggily. “Oh, goodness! I feel like a freight train hit me.”

Her complexion looked rather peaked, at that. He sat beside her and ran a finger under her chin. “You look pale. Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Stomach's a bit upset.”

“Maybe you have a touch of the flu,” Kent offered. He rested a hand on her knee. “Why don't you take it easy. I can get to the airport alone.”

“I wanted to take you.”

“Don't worry about it. You rest up. We have a big trip tomorrow.” He stood. “The twelve-hour flu has been making the rounds at the office. Who knows? Maybe I brought it home. Do you know where my navy silk socks are?”

Gloria motioned to the door. “In the dryer. Honestly, Honey, I'm fine. You sure you don't want me to take you?”

He turned and gave her a wink. “Yes, I'm sure. What's a trip to some lousy airport? We have Paris to think about. Get some rest—I'll be fine.” Kent bounded down the steps to the laundry room and rummaged around until he found the socks. He heard the clinking in the kitchen and knew then that Gloria had followed him down.

When he rounded the refrigerator, Gloria was scooping grounds into the coffee machine, her pink housecoat swishing at her ankles. He slid up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. “Really, Honey. I have this handled.”

She dismissed the comment with a flip of her wrist. “No. I'm feeling better already. It was probably that asparagus I ate last night. You want some coffee? The least I can do is send you away with a decent breakfast.”

He kissed her on the neck. “I'd love some coffee and toast. Thank you, Sweetheart.”

They ate together on the dinette set, Kent neatly dressed, Spencer rubbing sleep from his eyes, Gloria looking like she had risen from her coffin for the occasion. Coffee gurgled, porcelain clinked, forks clattered. Kent eyed Gloria, ignoring the concern that whispered through his skull.

“So, you have tennis today?”

She nodded. “One o'clock. I play Betsy Maher in the quarterfinals.” She lifted a white cup to her lips and sipped. “Assuming I'm feeling better.”

Kent smiled gently. “You'll be fine, Honey. I can't remember the last time you missed a match. In fact, I can't remember the last time you missed anything due to illness.” Kent chuckled and bit into his toast. “Man, I remember the first time we played tennis. You remember that?”

His wife smiled. “How could I forget with your reminding me every few months.”

Kent turned to Spencer. “You should've seen her, Spencer. Miss Hotshot with her tennis scholarship trying to take on a runner. She might have been able to place the ball where she wanted, but I ran her into the ground. She wouldn't stop. And I knew she was getting tired after the fourth set, because I could barely stand up and she was over there wobbling on her feet. I'd never seen anybody so competitive.” He glanced at Gloria. Some color had come back into her face.