Wonders Never Cease (26 page)

Natalie could feel him watching her, but she kept her eyes fixed on the gift bag in her lap.

“I'd like to ask you something,” he said softly. “It's a bit personal.”

“Okay.” Her voice seemed too high and the word sounded childish.

“Why does a fine woman like you share a roof with a man she doesn't love?”

Natalie turned and looked at him, and tears began to well up in her eyes. “You wouldn't understand.”

“You might be surprised what I understand.”

She wiped the corners of her eyes.

“Maybe you felt alone in the world,” Emmet said. “Maybe you felt old and tired and afraid about the future. Your husband didn't love you anymore, and maybe you wondered if another man ever would. Then Mr. Kemp came along; he paid attention to you; he made you feel wanted, and that felt real good. It wasn't love—you knew that—but it was the best you could find. Only now it's not enough anymore. It never was, but now you know better.”

She winced. “It sounds so pathetic when you say it.”

“Sounds pretty human to me. Foolish, but human—the two often go together.”

Natalie watched his eyes as he spoke; they were clear and dark and as penetrating as ice picks—but there was no coldness or meanness in them. “Emmet, I want to tell you something,” she blurted out, much to her own surprise—but there was something about his eyes that seemed to draw the words out of her. “That book—it's a fake.”

“I know that.”

“There was no angel. Kemp did it. He made the whole thing up.”

“I know that too.”

“You know? Then why—”

“I wanted to know if you'd tell me. I'm glad you did.”

“I had nothing to do with it, Emmet—I swear it. I only found out a few days ago, and by then it was too late. I wanted to tell someone, but Kemp said if I told anyone they'd think I was part of it too.”

“And he'd probably let 'em think it. The man has the conscience of a jackal.”

“It would mean my job—my whole career. I have Leah to think about, especially now. I feel like such a coward. I'm so sorry, Emmet.”

“Why apologize to me?”

“I don't know. I had to apologize to somebody. I guess I just wanted to hear you say, ‘It's all right.'”

“It's not all right—but it's not your fault either.”

“What should I do?”

“Well, I can tell you one thing: I'd get as far away from that man as I could if I were you—and I'd be sure and take my daughter with me.”

Natalie said nothing.

“What's the matter?” Emmet asked.

“I can't pay the rent without him. I can't even pay the deductible on this MRI.”

“Is that the problem here? Is that what's holdin' you back? Money?”

She didn't answer.

Emmet rested a hand on her forearm and whispered, “It's a hard thing to walk away from a man when you don't see another one on the horizon. It's hard to take the right path when you don't know where it might lead you.”

“Thanks,” she said. “That's not much help, but it's good advice.”

“You don't need advice, Natalie—you just need a little more self-respect.”

Just then the door to the procedure room opened and a nurse stepped into the waiting room. “Natalie Pelton?”

Natalie snapped to her feet. “Here.”

The nurse smiled warmly. “Leah did just fine—she's a real trouper. We're just letting her rest for a few minutes—we want to let the sedative wear off a little before we release her.”

“What about the MRI? Has the radiologist read it yet?”

“We sent it to the radiologist and he's already reviewed it.”

“And?”

“He forwarded it on to one of our staff neurologists.”

She stiffened. “Why? What's wrong?”

“The neurologist would like to see you.”

“Why? Tell me!”

“I don't have that information, Ms. Pelton. You'll have to speak to the neurologist.”

“All right,” she stammered. “I'll make an appointment for next week.”

The nurse put a hand on her shoulder. “No, Ms. Pelton—now.”

34

W
elcome back on this fine Thursday,” Oprah said as the applause died down and the camera moved in for a tight shot of the host and her guest. “This is our fourth conversation with writer and movie star Liv Hayden, author of the new book
It's All About You
. Liv, thanks for joining us again.”

“It's a privilege, really,” Hayden said. Then she turned to the audience and asked, “Is this a wonderful woman or what?”

The audience poured out their appreciation.

Kemp aimed the remote at the TV and turned up the volume a little. He took a quick glance at his watch—what time was that MRI again? Three, three thirty, something like that . . . He had time to catch part of the show. Shoot, they'd probably have to spend at least an hour filling out paperwork and insurance forms anyway—no sense rushing over there just to sit like a lump in some waiting room. Sure, he could TiVo the show and watch it later, but when? Not when Natalie was around—that would just lead to another fight, and he didn't need the grief right now. Besides, the show was live; his brilliant plan was coming to fruition right before his eyes, and he deserved the chance to watch it happen in real time.

He settled back on the sofa.

Oprah looked out at the audience. “Folks, Liv Hayden's colossal new book
It's All About You
was just released today—it's officially in bookstores right now. Liv, do you think you're ready?”

“I think so. We're doing a big book signing over at the—”

“I mean are you ready for the new platform? Are you ready for the influence?”

“I'm not really sure,” Hayden admitted humbly. “It feels like such an awesome responsibility. I didn't ask to be a messenger—I didn't want this role—it was just given to me.”

“And I'm the one who gave it to you,” Kemp said to the TV. “So why don't you just stick to the message the way I wrote it?”

“Tell us what else we can expect from the book,” Oprah said. “What else did the angel say to you? Come on, Liv—whet our appetites.”

Hayden wiggled her eyebrows. “Well—we talked about love.”

Someone shouted “Woo!” from the back of the audience and a wave of eager laughter rippled across the studio.

Kemp sat up a little straighter.

“You're kidding,” Oprah said. “An angel talked with you about your love life?”

“About my lack of a love life,” Hayden corrected.

“Excuse me? You're Liv Hayden—you've had more men than any three women I know.”

“Quantity isn't quality,” Hayden said. “I think the angel knew that. He told me I was lonely.”

“Are you?”

“At the risk of sounding pathetic—yes, I'll admit it. I've been busy—my film career has demanded my complete attention for years. A career can be hard on relationships.”

“I know something about that,” Oprah said.

So did the audience—they applauded in agreement.

“The angel told me that I've been searching for a special man all my life, but I haven't found him yet. He told me he would help me find him.”

Encouraging applause from the crowd.

Kemp grinned. “Don't thank me, ladies—it's the least I can do.”

“Did the angel tell you how you'll recognize this man when you meet him?”

“As a matter of fact, he did. The angel told me exactly what he looks like—he even told me what he'll say.”

Oprah leaned closer.

Hayden shook her head. “And that's all I'm going to tell you.”

The audience let out a disappointed groan.

Hayden turned to the audience. “C'mon now—if I describe this man on national television I'll have every look-alike in America knocking on my door. I don't need that kind of distraction; I have to find this guy.”

“Do you want to find him? Are you ready for a new relationship?”

“I think it's time,” Hayden said. “There's only so much a career can give you. Besides, the angel said this will be the perfect man for me—my one true love. How often does a girl get a tip like that?”

Kemp was grinning from ear to ear. It was perfect—everything he had told her was locked into her memory, right down to the description and password.
You beautiful genius
, he said to himself. He was a true visionary—that's what set him apart from the other partners. The other three couldn't see past Hayden's money; Kemp was the only one clever enough to realize that he could have Hayden herself.

“I understand,” Oprah said, “so I won't press you for any more details. Good luck finding this perfect man, Liv—you deserve him. Okay, let's change the subject. What else did the angel tell you—when you weren't discussing your love life, that is?”

“Well—he told me that it's very important to love yourself.”

“Good girl,” Kemp said. “That was in the script—keep going.”

“The angel said that by loving yourself, you demonstrate to other people that you're a lovable person. In some mysterious way, by loving yourself you give other people permission to love you.”

The audience responded with a solemn “Hmmm.”

Kemp nodded with satisfaction. “Almost verbatim—now that's more like it.”

Then Hayden looked thoughtfully into the air above Oprah's head. “But now that I think about it, there was something else.”

Kemp stiffened.

“The angel said that it actually works the other way around. He said that when someone loves you, it proves to you that you're lovable—and that frees you to love someone else. He said that the more you feel loved, the more loving you become.”

Kemp jumped to his feet. He hurled a sofa pillow at the TV and knocked a potted philodendron to the floor with a crash. “There you go again! Stop ad-libbing, woman! Just tell it the way I told you!”

Oprah paused. “That sounds like another one of those paradoxes.”

“You're right,” Hayden said, “it does.”

“
She's
the paradox!” Kemp shouted. “She's supposed to be an actress, but she's got a memory like a third grader at a spelling bee!”

“You know,” Oprah said, “those thoughts seem so different that they almost sound like two voices.”

“It's funny you should mention that,” Hayden said. “There was a second voice.”

Kemp's jaw dropped.

“I just remembered something this morning, and I wasn't sure I should tell anyone.”

“Remembered what?” Oprah asked.

Kemp sank back down on the sofa. “Yeah—remembered what?”

“It just came back to me—there was a second angel.”

Oprah blinked at her. “
Two
angels?”

“Oh, no,” Kemp moaned. “What now?”

“There were two of them,” Hayden said. “It was all jumbled together at first, but now it's becoming clear to me. It was just one voice at first; then there were two voices; then two faces.”

Kemp shook his head in disbelief. “Where's she going with this?”

“Did the voices sound different?” Oprah asked.

“One of them sounded deeper, I think.”

“Older, maybe?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure.”

“Are angels different ages?” Oprah looked at the audience for an answer, but no one seemed to have one.

“I don't know,” Hayden said. “I never thought about it before.”

“What about their faces?”

“I couldn't see them clearly. They were mostly silhouettes—it was like staring into the sun. But I did notice one thing.”

“What's that?”

“One of them was white—the other one was black.”

35

E
mmet returned the mop to the wall hook and draped his pair of yellow rubber gloves over the edge of the pail. All of a sudden the custodian's closet grew dark and he heard the door click shut behind him. He turned in the darkness and looked down at the floor; he could see the silhouette of two shoes dividing the sliver of light below the door into a dash-dot-dash. A moment later there was the click of a light switch and a single overhead bulb illuminated the face of a very angry man.

“You,” the man growled in a guttural tone.

“Mr. Kemp,” Emmet said. “We got to stop meeting like this, you and me. Folks will start to talk.”

“It was you, wasn't it?”

“Beg pardon?”

“The second angel—the black one—it was you. It had to be.”

Emmet slowly smiled.

“How dare you,” Kemp sputtered. “You had no right to go poking your nose where it didn't belong.”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” Emmet said.

“I had a plan. You weren't part of it.”

“Seems to me that movie star could say the same to you.”

“You knew what I was doing, didn't you? You figured it out that night when you walked in on me. When I upped her medication again—when I went on my break to let it take effect—you came in after I left. You put on the white gown—you stood in front of the light—you put your own two cents' worth in before she had time to go back into her coma. I'll bet you did it every night.”

“I thought the woman could use a second opinion. It's a hospital, after all.”

“You idiot! Do you have any idea what you've done?”

“I believe I do. Do you?”

“My plan was perfect and you almost ruined it.”

“You call that ‘perfect'? Feeding the woman a lot of nonsense and makin' her believe a messenger of the Lord told it to her?”

“Nobody asked you.”

“Nobody asked you either, but you jumped right in feet-first—so I did too.”

“You sly old fox,” Kemp said. “Wandering around the ICU night after night, pushing your little mop and bucket like a doddering old fool, pretending to be just some half-wit trying to make enough money for bus fare back to East L.A.”