“God can't expect you to spend every weekend in church, can He?” She'd joked with Jake about the subject a dozen times. But the bottom line was clearer than the sky above the city this past week. Jamie didn't want to go. And she didn't want anything to do with God.
Still, she'd bought Sierra a church dress.
That was better than the way she'd reacted a year ago when Jake started taking their daughter to church. He could still hear the frustration in her voice when they first discussed the issue.
“It's not right to fill her head with fairy tales,” she had lowered her voice to a whisper so Sierra couldn't hear her. “She doesn't need make-believe stuff about a God who”—she waved her hands—“who might not exist.”
Jake had stayed calm, his voice as quiet as hers. “What would it hurt? She'll draw pictures and sing songs and learn how to pray.” He took gentle hold of her shoulders. “Is that so bad, Jamie?”
“Yes.” She stepped backwards and planted her hands on her hips. “It'll only disappoint her if something bad happens and … and God turns out to be just another fantasy.”
“What if He isn't?” Jake had kept his distance, allowing her the space to process what he was saying. “What if God's real, Jamie. Do you really want to keep Sierra from knowing about Him? Just two Sundays a month?”
In the end Jamie had agreed—on one condition. “Don't bug me about it, Jake. I'll find something else to do those Sundays, but leave me out of it.”
Her words still stung, but she'd come a long way since then. For the past few months she would ask Sierra about Sunday school and listen while their daughter repeated her Bible story. Twice in the past month she'd even said she might attend Christmas service with them this year.
And now the pretty new dress.
Jake plugged in the curling iron and caught a glimpse of his simple gold wedding band. He loved her more than words could ever describe. Yes, Jamie's day of reckoning with God was coming. If his sense of the Lord's timing was right, it was coming soon. He slipped into a pair of new jeans and a pullover shirt.
“Sierra!” He leaned toward his open bedroom door. “Beauty parlor's open.”
“Goody!” She came running, all giggles and bouncing thick blonde hair. He never tired of her, never stopped marveling at the wonder of her life. She was only one day old when she first gripped his fingers, and he hers. In the days since, he'd yet to let go.
She wrapped her arms around his legs and hugged him. “I thought you'd never open.”
Jake patted her head. “We beauticians have to shave every now and then, you know.”
Sierra came to him and framed his jaw with her little-girl hands. “Mmmm. Nice and smooth. Mommy likes it that way.”
“That's what matters.” Jake grinned.
“Yep.” Sierra nodded. “Mommy says she likes her men clean and shaken.”
A chuckle simmered in his belly, but he stifled it. “You mean clean shaven?”
She thought for a moment. “Yep, that's it.”
“Okay, young lady, turn around.” Sierra did as she was told and faced the mirror. Jake took the curling iron and expertly wrapped it around an inch-wide section of her hair. He caught Sierra watching him in the mirror. Her smile faded some, and her mood seemed more somber than before. He held the curl in place. “What's wrong, sweetie?”
A small frown creased her brow. “I think we should pray for Mommy.”
“Okay.” Jake released the curling iron, and a single ringlet cascaded down Sierra's back. “How come?”
“Because, when Mommy bought me my pretty dress, she asked me about church.”
“She did?” Hope grabbed hold of Jake's heart as he sectioned out another piece of Sierra's hair. “What'd she say?”
“She asked me if it was fun, and I told her yes. It was the funnest thing in the world.” Sierra was careful to hold still. “Then she told me a secret. Just between me and her.”
“Really?” A secret? Jake tried not to seem too anxious as he slid the curling iron from Sierra's hair and watched a second ringlet fall alongside the first. “Can you tell me?”
Sierra gave a dainty shrug. “I guess so.”
“Okay then …” Jake gathered another section of Sierra's hair. “What did she tell you?”
“Well …” Their eyes met in the mirror again, and Sierra's looked deeper, wiser than her years. “She said sometimes she wishes she could go to church with us.”
“Really?” Jake swallowed and released another curl. He forced a light tone. “Then why doesn't she go?”
“Because she isn't ready yet.” Sierra bit her lip. “That's why we need to pray for her. So she'll get ready.”
Jake nodded. For a while he was quiet as he finished with Sierra's hair. Then he unplugged the curling iron and led Sierra to a chair near the foot of his bed. “C'mere, honey.” He sat down and pulled Sierra onto his lap. “Let's pray for Mommy now, okay? Then we can pray for her again at church.”
“Okay.” Sierra smiled at him and brushed her nose against his. Then she grew serious and closed her eyes, bowing her head just a bit. Jake closed his eyes too and listened. “Dear God.” Sierra's voice was small but strong. “Me and Daddy get ready for church really fast. But it takes Mommy a long, long time.” She hesitated. “Please help Mommy get ready very soon. So we can all go to church … like a family.”
Her last words caught on Jake's heart and hung there for a moment. He hugged Sierra and waited for the lump in his throat to go down. When it did, he kissed her cheek. “Good job, honey.” He slid her to her feet, stood, and took hold of her hand. “I bet God's working on that one right now.”
Sierra studied the sections of her hair that fell over the front of her shoulders. “It's not curly enough, Daddy.”
“Well, it'll have to do. We'll be late if we do more.”
“Okay.” She did a little huff and squinted at him. “Do the curlies in the back boing enough?” She took a few steps in front of him and looked up so that her hair fell nearly to her waist.
“Oh yes … they're the boingy-est curlies I've ever seen.” Jake caught up with her again. “Let's go … Don't wanna be late for the opening song.”
They walked down the stairs, and as they rounded the corner, Sierra stopped. “We have to swing hands, Daddy. Remember? We always swing hands.”
“That's right!” Jake opened his eyes wide, playing with her. “I almost forgot.”
Sierra giggled, and the rest of the way to the garage the two of them swung their joined hands. When they climbed inside Jake's truck, Sierra met his eyes and grinned. “‘Jesus Loves Me,’ right?”
“Right!”
Then, as they did every time they went to church together, they launched into a version of the song that would make a choir director cringe. But one Jake knew he would never forget.
Not if he lived a hundred years.
Sierra was tired when they got home from church, and Jake cuddled with her on the living room sofa until she fell asleep. Then he took her up to her room, crept back down, and called his father. It was something he tried to do every Sunday.
“Hello?”
“Dad … it's Jake.”
“Well, hey there!” His father sounded strong and bursting with life, the way he always sounded. “How was church?”
“Good. Sierra wore a new dress, and she colored a picture of Moses.” Jake crossed the living room and settled in an old recliner. Brownie, their lab, trailed behind him and dropped in a heap near his feet. “She prayed for Jamie today.”
“Really?” There was a hint of concern in his tone. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. She prayed Jamie would be ready to come to church one of these days.”
A moment passed before Jake's father spoke. “One of these days I believe she will. She's like a frightened bird, in some ways, isn't she?”
“Yes.” Jake smiled. “Afraid to stick her head too far out of the nest.”
“Afraid she'll fall, when really … if she'd only give
it a go, she'd fly. Just like the rest of us.”
Jake tried to picture that—his whole family flying together in faith. “It'll happen.”
“Yep.”
Jake heard his father draw a slow breath and could almost see him sitting at one of the kitchen barstools, phone cord stretched across the counter as he gazed out across his ranch. His words held the relaxed tone of someone at peace with God.
“How's work?”
“Good. Had another funeral last weekend.”
“Hmmm. Sorry to hear it, son. Anyone I know?”
“Nope. He was a proby, a young guy, dropped dead of a heart attack working the hose reel.”
“Lot of heart attacks this year.”
“Four.”
“That kind of thing keeps the chaplain busy. Funerals were always tough back when I did it. Some years were bad. Twenty, thirty men lost in a handful of fatal fires. Not usually so many heart attacks.”
“Makes Jamie worry about my health.”
“Ah, you're fine.” Jim Bryan had been one of the toughest firefighters FDNY ever had. But his voice conveyed a mixture of deep faith and gentleness. Jim gave a sad chuckle. “Besides, not one of us goes home until God makes the call.”
Jake leaned back in the chair. “How's the horses?”
“Anxious for fall. Summer's been hot.”
“The jet ski got a lot of use, that's for sure.”
An easy quiet filled the lines for a moment. “When are you coming up?”
“Maybe next weekend. Jamie wants to get out of the city for a few days.”
“I'd love to have you. We could ride all morning and later on whip up our famous barbecue chicken and salsa.”
“Don't forget football.”
“That's right. Starts Monday night, doesn't it?”
“At Denver.”
“Okay, let's plan on Saturday morning.”
“I'll let you know if anything changes.” The front door opened and Jamie walked in. Their eyes met and they shared a smile. “Hey, Dad, gotta go. Thanks for the chat.”
“Let me know about the weekend.”
“Okay.” Jake stood and headed back to the kitchen. “I love you, Dad. Take care of yourself.”
“Love you too.”
Jake hung up the phone and leaned against the counter. His eyes found Jamie's once more. “Hi.”
“Hi.” She came toward him, one hand hidden behind her back. Her face was tanned from their time on the water Friday, and she looked as beautiful as she had the day he married her. “How was church?”
“Good.” He leaned sideways and tried to sneak a look at what she had in her hand. She shifted her body so he couldn't see, and his eyes met hers again. “Sierra drew a picture of Moses.”
“Very nice. Never too many pictures of Moses.” Jamie raised her eyebrows appreciatively, a teasing smile turning the corners of her mouth.
Jake didn't have to see what was behind her back to know Jamie was up to something. She came closer until their toes were touching.
“I have something for you.”
“Really?” Jake made a subtle move for whatever was behind Jamie's back, but she took a step back and lowered her chin, her eyes big and flirty.
“Now, now. You can't peek.”
Jake thought about making another grab for the gift. He loved times like this, when he and Jamie could play. “Okay.” He closed his eyes and held out one hand. Almost instantly, he felt her place something cold there. “Can I open?”
“Yes, silly.” A lighthearted laugh came from her. “You can open.”
He did, and there in his hand was a painted six-inch ceramic figurine of a firefighter with a guardian angel poised just behind him. The details were intricate and carefully painted. No wonder she was later than usual. “Jamie … it's beautiful. Did you paint it?”
Their eye contact held for another beat, and she stared at him, clearly enjoying his reaction. “The little guy kinda looked like you.” She grinned. “So I gave him your dark hair and blue eyes.”
“And there's my angel, right over my shoulder, looking out for me.”
“Yep. Let's put it where I can see it, okay?”
Jake slipped his hand along the base of her neck and wove his fingers into her hair. “Thank you.” He brought her face to his and kissed her. Then he pulled away from her and took a few steps toward the kitchen sink. The small shelves on either side were part of the cupboards, the place where Jamie kept knickknacks they'd gathered over the years.
He set the painted statue on the lowest shelf to the right of the sink. “There.” He stepped back. “That way we can see it whenever we're in the kitchen.”
Jamie tucked herself against Jake, just beneath his arm. She studied the figurine again. “Do you think it's true?”
“What?” Jamie wore a white tank top, and Jake ran his fingers along her bare arm.
“The guardian angel part.” Jamie lifted her eyes to his. “Do you think it's possible?”
“Of course.” Jake smiled at her and kissed her forehead this time. “I don't go out the door without an angel bigger than that hanging right beside me.”
“I hope you're right.” A fine layer of tears gathered in Jamie's eyes. “Because I've kinda kept a secret from you.”
“A secret?” Was she going to tell him the thing about wanting to go to church, about almost being ready, the story Sierra shared with him that morning? He let his eyes take in everything about her. “What secret?”
“The secret that I need you, Jake Bryan.” Her voice fell to a choked whisper. “I couldn't bear it if something happened to you.”
“Ahh, Jamie.” Jake wrapped his other arm around her and pulled her into a hug. She was always like this after a firefighter funeral. But for some reason, the one last week seemed to bother her more than the others. “Nothing's going to happen to me, honey.”
“It better not.” She muttered the words against his neck. Her tears fell on his shoulder and left a wet area on his pullover.
“It won't.” He drew back and kissed her, more slowly this time. “I promise.”
They stayed that way awhile, Jake kissing her, savoring the feel of her in his arms and believing with all his heart that the words he'd told her were true. Sure, fighting fires in New York City was dangerous. But for that matter, so was driving and walking and breathing. No bad thing was headed Jake's way, he was sure of it.
After all, he and God had a deal.
SIX
SEPTEMBER 10, 2001
The pace had been crazy since Eric Michaels stepped off the airplane at La Guardia Saturday afternoon.
Many of Koppel and Grant's top clients sensed that recent downward shifts in the market might be a precursor to something bigger. Dozens of them were demanding reports on safer stocks, technology and pharmaceuticals, defense and service sector holdings. Eric hadn't worked his way to the top by being wrong. In fact, his track record on investments was practically unmatched in the business. But in a sluggish market like this, Eric worked fifteen hours a day either researching or developing instinct. Weekends were no different.
It was Monday, and so far his day was like any other when he was in Manhattan. Up at five-thirty, three miles on a treadmill in the hotel basement, weight lifting for another twenty minutes, followed by a quick shower and a light breakfast. The entire time he was mentally calculating which segments of which portfolios could be diversified or sold for the purchase of a single stock.
Thoughts of Laura and Josh were relegated to the flight home on Thursday.
Koppel and Grant's New York office was located on the sixty-fourth floor of the World Trade Center south tower. The company leased space from an insurance company and kept a staff of just fifty-six people. The smaller the overhead, the more profits at the top. That was R. Allen Koppel's attitude. And Allen ran the company, no question about it. Robert Grant III had passed away two years earlier. His name stayed on the company stationery, and no one had taken his place.
Eric h
oped someday the position would be his. Koppel, Grant, and Michaels. Or even Koppel and Michaels. Either way it had a certain ring to it, a ring that kept Eric up at nights even when he had to be back at the office in a scant five or six hours. Yes, Koppel ran the show. But since Grant's death, Eric had become increasingly important to the firm. The decisions they would make that week had more money riding on them than any they'd made in so short a time. That's why Eric was in New York: Koppel needed him.
And the knowledge of that felt better than anything Eric could imagine.
At eight o'clock sharp he stepped off the elevator at the sixty-fourth floor, turned right down one hallway and then another, until he came to a heavy walnut door with a brass plate that read “Koppel and Grant.” Eric stared at it for a moment and caught his reflection in the polished metal. There I am … right where I belong. It's my company … and one day the sign will say so.
He breezed inside and walked past the secretary.
She looked up briefly. “Mr. Koppel's in his office.”
“Thanks.” The secretary was new, but Eric never broke stride. Secretaries at Koppel and Grant were paid modestly and expected to keep busy. Overtime hours were part of the job. Secretaries who didn't like the work conditions were replaced. Eric visited the New York office at least once every six months, and he rarely walked past the same secretary twice.
He spent the rest of the day with Allen, crunching numbers and making decisions about the portfolios of a dozen top clients. Sometime after eight o'clock that evening, Allen pushed back from his desk.
“That'll do it for today.” A grin spanned the short distance from one side of Allen's face to the other. “Lets go meet some women.”
Allen was thin and wiry, a diminutive man who ate little and drank less. He was fifty-three, and Eric figured the man weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds with his designer suit, dress shoes, and leather portfolio. He was so thin his shoulders and elbows looked knobby even through his clothes. The three wives he'd married and divorced had been nothing more than short-term mistresses, because his first love was without question Koppel and Grant.
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