When Sara reached the street corner, she turned and threw something at his feet before disappearing: the apple. Grinning, Miguel scooped the bruised fruit from the pavement and took a bite. The white flesh tasted sweet but did little to sate the ache of hunger in his gut.
Nearby, he spotted a lady with two huge plastic grocery sacks filled to the brim with her day’s purchases. A good place to start. Then he noticed the policeman watching him openly and decided to move on; there would be no more success here today.
He left the noisy marketplace and traced his way along the cobblestone sidewalks, heading for the ferry that would take him across the River Tejo to Cacilhas. Once he finally boarded the ferry, it would take a good ten minutes to cross the river, and that meant hundreds of people sitting and waiting for him to ask them for money.
In the busy streets of Lisbon, shoppers and business people alike traversed the cobblestone sidewalks, some briskly, others lazily strolling. There were cars, too, racing wildly about in the narrow cobbled streets in an ordered confusion that Miguel well understood. He had studied it as he did everything he encountered.
Someday soon he would have a car, the long sleek kind with a top that rolled back in the summer, and it would be bright red, Sara’s favorite color. He smiled at the thought, and even his stomach seemed less empty.
Tall cement apartment buildings flanked both sides of the narrow road, so high that he could only glimpse a slice of the clear blue sky above. Small businesses opened out on most of the ground floors—clothing stores, bread shops, shoe outlets, jewelry stores, and the cafés that sold tantalizing pastries. He stopped for a moment, peering into the window of a pastry shop. Inside, the counter was lined with people eating breakfast pastries with obvious relish.
“Want to buy a flower?” A woman with silvery-gray hair stood near the entrance to the pastry shop. She carried a basket of fresh flowers and offered one to each passerby.
Miguel glanced one last time at the happy people inside the café, then turned away. “Hi, Senhora Ferreira,” he called to the flower lady.
“Hi, Miguel. How are you today?”
He lifted his chin, stifling the deep cough that rose in his throat. “Okay. Need a hand with your flowers?” Sometimes she would pay him almost as much as he could earn begging on the ferry—especially now that he was getting older. People didn’t give to him as readily as they did to Sara.
The woman shook her head ruefully. “Sorry. Not many buying today. Maybe in a month or so, closer to Christmas.”
Miguel had expected as much. While winter was always his most hated of seasons, early November was particularly bad; he suffered from the cold nearly as much as he did in December, but generosity hadn’t yet hit the populace like it did near Christmas. In December people remembered the poor; in November they forgot.
He waved farewell and continued his trek. The towering stone arch of Rua Augusta signaled his approach to the wharf. In summer, the wide walkway before the arch would be brimming with people in yellow-roofed booths selling odd trinkets, pictures, or chalk drawings. Artists covered the cobblestones with bright paintings to display their talents and passersby gave them money. Once, Miguel had bought a small gold-painted metal ship under full sail. It measured as long as his middle finger and was so shiny and beautiful, he had been unable to resist spending the precious escudos it cost to own such a prize.
He touched his shirt pocket under the sweater, comforted to feel the bulge. Yes, it was still there with his only other treasure—one far more valuable to him.
The arch of Rua Augusta led into the spacious commerce square near the wharf. At the entrance to the square, a man with a vendor cart nodded hello and tossed him a rolled newspaper cup full of roasted chestnuts.
“Thanks, Senhor Alferes!”
“Come back later on your way home. I’ll give you some for little Sara.”
“I will.” Miguel saluted the old seaman awkwardly before continuing past the metal trolley cars, standing out in bright orange-yellow contrast to the black-and-white design of the cobblestones. He broke open the shells and began to eat the hot chestnuts quickly. They warmed him, and he almost didn’t mind the cold breeze coming through the stretched parts of his dingy sweater.
He whistled as he passed the center of the open square, where a majestic metal statue of King Dom José on horseback rose high above the passersby on a massive stone pedestal. Beyond lay the wharf. Near the ferry station, a dark-haired, heavyset lady sold hot Belgian waffles. The smell wafted on the light breeze, calling to him. He tried not to look her way.
Getting aboard the ferry usually wasn’t difficult as Miguel was practiced at finding someone to buy him the necessary ticket. Searching the row of faces waiting at the ticket stand, he targeted a young woman with soft features. Underneath her long, gray winter coat, he glimpsed a brown wool skirt and matching blazer.
He sidled up to her. “Please, Senhora, do ya got some spare change? I need to get across the river.” He tried to look hopeful and embarrassed.
She shook her dark head once and stared away from him, distaste written on her pretty face. Miguel waited a little longer; sometimes conscience attacks occurred after the initial refusal. The cold breeze whipping into the open end of the station brought the woman’s shoulder-length hair forward into her face. She pushed it back impatiently and waved him on.
Miguel shrugged and walked away. It wasn’t the first time he had erred in choosing a mark, and it wouldn’t be the last. This time he targeted an older woman, very stout and dressed in mourning black. Strands of white softened the raven hair, pulled firmly into a tight bun. Some of these women dressed in black could be hard, but this one’s eyes seemed to rest on him sympathetically.
“Can ya spare a ticket?” he asked in his most polite voice. “I lost mine, and I gotta get home. Please?” The lie slipped off his tongue as easily as if he were telling the truth, but the cough and the shiver were real.
She studied him. He hoped his face was dirty enough to work the miracle. In the summer, after playing in the pond at Entre Campos, Miguel would have to rub a little dirt on his face before he went begging. He didn’t understand exactly what magic qualities the dirt held, but it always helped, especially with older ladies.
The amount of dirt must have been just right. “Yes, child,” she said. “Let’s go. I’ll buy you a ticket.”
He ducked his head. “Obrigado, Senhora.” Thank you. The fact that she would buy him a ticket instead of giving him the money to buy one himself didn’t escape his notice. But since what he really needed at this point was a ticket, he didn’t let her prudence bother him.
The ferry arrived, a happy three-level orange boat, decorated with large white-painted wooden rings along the side that resembled life preservers. Farther below, where the ferry hit the dock, huge black tires hung against its sides to soften the impact. A young man on the dock caught the thick anchor rope and expertly flipped it around a metal block, securing the ship. Miguel stared, fascinated as always by the worker’s deftness and ease.
The boat disgorged its occupants in a brief, frenzied wave. The passengers were an odd assortment of white, brown, and black, dressed in everything from elegant business apparel to plain, homey dresses. Many of the women carried large woven shopping baskets or plastic sacks. A few had toddlers tied to their backs and balanced heavy baskets on their heads, reminiscent of days gone by. Miguel toyed with the idea of trying to steal a wallet, but the kind lady’s eyes were on him. Maybe later.
On board, he allowed himself to be gradually separated from the lady. There was a rumbling sound of feet on the painted metal deck as people scrambled for seats. Miguel stood awhile at the edge of the boat, letting the gentle rocking sway through him. Without understanding why, he adored the sensation.
A fleeting memory came. Of his mother. A soft voice, the gentle caress, so much love. Miguel felt happy and sad and empty all at once. Oh, Mamãe!
Again he fingered his toy boat through his sweater.
There was something about sailing, about being free from the hard confines of land, that always brought the memories. If he had a real boat, he could sail away, perhaps to America where everyone was rich.
The wind’s icy fingers were stronger here, and he reluctantly forced himself away from the edge. Most of the passengers had headed for the hold or the main floor, protected from the cold breeze by metal walls and glass windows. Only the hardy headed up the stairs to the open half of the top floor.
When the men who sailed the ferry were nowhere in sight, Miguel plunged into the hold and started to work the crowd. He said nothing, simply stood in front of the seated people until they noticed him, his thin hand held out in a silent plea. Most people averted their eyes and pretended not to see but several gave him small coins, and to them he nodded his thanks. The many ladies who had pulled out their knitting seemed particularly loath to stop to find him a coin.
After completing his rounds on the main deck, he made his way up the stairs to the open part of the ferry. Two women sat near the edge, talking and gazing out over the water, their faces red with cold. One had long blonde hair, white skin, and blue eyes; the other was brown-skinned and black-haired, with brown eyes as dark as the chestnuts Senhor Alferes had given him. Both strangers were young and pretty. They reminded him of milk and chocolate, each as appealing as they were different. He walked up to the women and, holding out a cupped hand, stared soulfully into their faces.
“Oh,” the blonde woman said, startled. Her warm blue eyes showed pity and confusion. The unusual yellow color of her hair was rare in Portugal, and Miguel stifled an urge to touch the locks. Her hair looked so clean and his hand was so dirty.
Glancing at the Bibles each held in their lap, he almost couldn’t conceal a grin. The young women were church workers or nuns of some sort, though they were dressed in regular skirts and blouses. These types always made good targets. Last year one from France, a Sister Perrault, had taught a group of children living in the shacks, among them Miguel and Sara. There were others who had come and gone since then, but Sister Perrault remained his favorite. Not only had she taught him about Jesus, but also about what kind of foods he and Sara should eat to stay healthy. Often, she had slipped him money. Octávia had let him listen to her when he told her about that.
“Do you have any change?” the dark woman asked her friend.
“No, nothing,” the blonde said, in slightly accented Portuguese. “You?”
“No.”
Miguel heard the sincerity in their words and started to lower his hand, not hiding his disappointment. There were two flaws he had found with most religious people like these—either they didn’t have money to spare, or they would try to convert him to Jesus. Sometimes he went along with it, especially at Christmas time, in order to eat a good meal or two. But it never lasted. They always wanted him to go to church or school, which interfered with Octávia’s need for him to earn money.
“Oh, wait!” The blonde woman’s eyes lit up, and Miguel watched warily as she plunged her hand into the large leather handbag leaning against her leg. She pulled out a tube-like package of cookies wrapped in plastic. “Here.”
He took them carefully, almost afraid they weren’t meant for him. Then he stepped back out of her reach, in case she changed her mind. Ducking his head to them, he uttered a sincere thanks, not bothering to hide his excitement. His stomach, only partially satiated by the chestnuts, growled.
The ladies smiled as he left. Miguel forgot them as he rounded the corner near the stairs. He sank to the floor, ripping the package open greedily. Never did he refuse or throw away food except for the rare occasions when he was given more than he could hoard, but cookies were a special treat. There were ten all together, as round as his palm and thick and sugary. He shoved one into his mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly. Then he forced himself to eat more slowly, savoring the taste. When four of the ten cookies had disappeared, he refolded the cellophane around the remaining six and stored them carefully in the sleeve of his sweater to share later with Sara. Already his stomach felt more comfortable.
After working the ferry for another three runs, he found an isolated spot in the commerce square on the stairs under the huge statue of the horse and its kingly rider where he could count his money. Nine hundred and twenty escudos in all, plus ten thousand from a wallet he had managed to steal from a well-dressed man who had ignored him completely. Nearly eleven contos! Octávia would be pleased.
Miguel fingered the rich black leather of the wallet. When he had caught a glimpse of the man’s sorrowful black eyes, like deep pits, he had surprised himself by feeling a little remorseful about stealing the wallet but quickly buried the qualms. The man would never miss the money, but to Miguel it was life.
“That’s the child!” A woman’s shout burst through his reverie.
He looked up and saw a woman tugging on the arm of a policeman. Her finger pointed directly at Miguel.
“He was begging on the ferry. You have to do something about it.” She clicked her tongue. “Such a disgrace.”
The policeman approached, but Miguel jumped to his feet and tossed a mocking grin at the pair before disappearing into the crowd. The streets were his element; no one could catch him now.
END OF PREVIEW. If you would like to purchase A Greater Love, please click here. Or continue to the next page to read more about the author and her books. Thank you!
About the Author
RACHEL ANN NUNES (PRONOUNCED NOON-ESH) learned to read when she was four, beginning a lifetime fascination with the written word. She still reads everything she can lay hands on, from children’s stories to science articles.
She began writing in the seventh grade and is now the author of over thirty published books, including the popular Ariana series, The Huntington Family series, Eyes of a Stranger, and Saving Madeline. Her novel Before I Say Goodbye won the 2011 Whitney Award in the general fiction category. Imprints, An Autumn Rain Novel (2010), Fields of Home (2008), and The Independence Club (2007) were all Whitney Award Finalists. Her picture book Daughter of a King was also voted best children’s book of the year in 2003 by the Association of Independent LDS Booksellers.
Rachel and her husband, TJ, live in Utah Valley and are the parents of seven awesome children—three boys and four girls. Rachel writes Monday through Friday in a home office, but she takes frequent breaks from writing to read or swim with her kids.
Rachel also writes mainstream romance under the name Rachel Branton and urban fantasy under the name Teyla Branton. To learn more about these titles, please see the list of books below or visit TeylaRachelBranton.com. You can join her pen name mailing list here. To read about upcoming Rachel Ann Nunes titles, visit http://www.RachelAnnNunes.com or join her emailing list here.
BOOKS BY RACHEL ANN NUNES
Autumn Rain Novels (Paranormal Romance)
Imprints
Shades of Gray
Final Call
Line of Fire
Blinded
Romantic Suspense
Eyes of a Stranger (Autumn Rain series prequel)
Women’s Fiction
Flying Home
Fields of Home
Saving Madeline
Before I Say Goodbye
The Gift of Angels (novella)
A Greater Love
A Heartbeat Away
Huntington Family
Winter Fire
No Longer Strangers
Chasing Yesterday
By Morning Light
The Independence Club
Ariana Series (and Spin-off)
Ariana: The Making of a Queen
Ariana: A Gift Most Precious
Ariana: A New Beginning
A Glimpse of Eternity: The Story of Ariana’s Daughters
Rebekka Series
This Time Forever (also Mickelle #1)
Ties That Bind
Twice in a Lifetime
Mickelle Series
This Time Forever (a
lso Rebekka #1)
Bridge to Forever
Deal for Love Series (Romantic Suspense)
A Bid For Love
Framed For Love
Love On The Run
Deal For Love: 3 Book Set
Romance
To Love and to Promise
Tomorrow and Always
Where I Belong
A Greater Love
This Very Moment
In Your Place
For Children
The Problem With Spaceships: Zero G
Daughter of a King
The Secret of the King
UNDER THE NAME RACHEL BRANTON
Lily’s House Series
House Without Lies
Tell Me No Lies
Your Eyes Don’t Lie
Hearts Never Lie
Lily’s House Novellas
Cowboys Can’t Lie
Noble Hearts
Royal Quest
Royal Dance
Lisbon's Misadventures (Picture Books)
I Don't Want To Eat Bugs
I Don’t Want to Have Hot Toes
UNDER THE NAME TEYLA BRANTON
Unbounded Series
The Change
The Cure
The Escape
The Reckoning
The Takeover
Unbounded Novellas
Ava’s Revenge
Mortal Brother
Lethal Engagement
Set Ablaze
Colony Six
Sketches
Short Stories
Times Nine
Table of Contents
Copyright
Title Page
Book Description
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
The Gift of Angels Page 11
