by Ted Dekker
“Stop it!” Karen said. “You’ve made your point, Roald. Don’t be asinine about it. It’s my engagement, not just Jan’s you’re talking so flippantly about. Have some decency.”
Roald and Jan stared at their plates and went back to work on their steaks.
“Now, while it’s true that a young woman staying with Jan could look off-color, we’re talking about a fluid situation here. I doubt if even your most conservative partners would come unglued about Jan helping a drug addict for a few days, woman or not. Let’s not make this more than it is.”
“Thank you, Karen,” Jan said. “I couldn’t have said it better.”
Roald didn’t respond immediately. Jan caught Karen’s eye and winked. “And don’t worry, Roald. She won’t be staying there long. As soon as I return I’ll get her the help she needs.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I spoke too quickly.” Roald smiled. “You’re right.” He lifted his glass for a toast. “Just looking out for you, my friend. No offense intended.”
Jan lifted his glass and clinked Roald’s. “None taken.” They drank.
“That’s better,” Karen said with a smile. “You do what needs to be done, Jan. Just remember that your big mansion there, as Ivena calls it, has room for only one woman.” She winked and joined them in the toast. “You just make sure she’s gone when we get back.”
“Of course.”
“Send her to the Presbyterian shelter on Crescent Avenue—give her to the Salvation Army—take your pick. But she can’t stay at the house,” she said.
“No. No of course not.”
They looked at each other in silence for a few moments.
“Well, then,” Roald cut in. “That’s settled.”
All three of them lifted bites to their mouths at the same time, and dinner resumed. It was a small caveat in an otherwise perfect trip, Jan thought. And Karen was right. He should settle the matter the minute he returned. He really should.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WHILE JAN sat in the expensive atmosphere of Delmonico’s in New York Friday night, Glenn Lutz sat alone at his own Palace bar, stewing. The room was mostly dark except the backlit bar itself. A half-empty bottle of rum stood next to his glass. It was his second for the day and it might not be his last. The bar had been carved from mahogany and stained a very dark brown. The decorator had wanted to paint it bright yellow, of all colors. That was before he’d fired her. He’d fired her, all right. Yes sir, he had fired that little freak, right after he’d bitten her lip. Now that had been a night.
Glenn remembered the occasion and tried to smile, but his face did not cooperate. The plan he’d settled on was a good plan, but it didn’t feel good just now. It had come on the dawning notion that he could cage any woman. Women as pretty as Helen, women who wouldn’t be missed. It wasn’t the caging of Helen that he really wanted, was it? No, it was her free spirit that attracted him most. The very fact that she did resist him with a tenacity that most wouldn’t dream of. Even the fact that she’d fled half a dozen times now. Each time his desire for her had swelled until now he could hardly stand it all.
So then, as much as he relished the idea of caging her or forcing her to return, he’d decided that he had to allow her to return on her own. He needed her to want him. It was the next step in this madness he’d given himself to.
The decision to let her free of her choosing was one he now doubted perhaps more than any he’d made in his life. Because there was always the chance that she would not come back, wasn’t there? If that happened he would go out with a machine gun and cut her and anybody near her down in one long staccato burst. Or maybe he’d just revert to the caging approach.
The plan didn’t prohibit him from removing obstacles that stood in the path between them, of course. Preacher-man, for instance. Good God, a preacher of all things. The house Helen had entered belonged to a Jan Jovic, he learned from Charlie down at the precinct that same night. And Charlie had heard about the man. He’d seen a news story about the man sometime back—a preacher who’d escaped from prison or something. A preacher? A preacher was trying to steal his Helen? Glenn had thrown the phone across the room when Charlie had told him.
As it turned out he was one of those foreigners who’d written a book about the war and made a bundle. The Dance of the Dead. Glenn’s first impulse was to make him dead. He’d learned all of this within thirty minutes of his return. It was then, after deciding that a preacher couldn’t be a threat to him, that he’d settled on the plan. He’d made one phone call to the preacher, and then he’d drowned himself in several bottles of rum.
He had spent the entire day pacing and sweating and yelling, completely immobilized from conducting any business. He’d forced himself to keep a lunch appointment with Dan Burkhouse, his banker and friend of ten years. It was Dan who’d lent him his first million, in exchange for some muscle on a nonperforming loan. Well, he’d killed the nonperforming loan, thereby implicating Dan, and making him a confidant by necessity. Besides Beatrice, only Dan knew the dirty secrets that made Glenn Lutz the man that he was. Of course, not even they knew the truth about his youth.
He had gone still dressed in his smelly Hawaiian shirt and between bites of snapper at the Florentine told Dan about his decision to let Helen come and go. If not for the private dining room his agitated tone would’ve raised some eyebrows for sure. The banker had shaken his head. “You’re losing perspective, Glenn. This is crazy.”
“She’s possessed me, Dan. I feel like I’m falling apart when she’s not with me.”
“Then you should get some help. The wrong woman can bring a man down, you know. You’re going too far with this.”
Glenn had not responded.
“How can one woman do this to you?” his friend pressed. “There’s a hundred women waiting for you out there.”
Glenn had glared at the man and effectively cut him off.
Now he lifted the bottle and chugged at its mouth. The liquid burned down his throat but he didn’t flinch. He would suck it dry, he thought. Tilt it up and suck at the bottle until it imploded. Or just stuff the whole thing into his throat. No pain, no gain. And what was paining now? His chest was paining because Helen had driven a stake through his heart, and regardless of what that old witch Beatrice told him, he did still have a heart. It was as big as the sky and it was burning like hell.
He yanked the bottle from his mouth and hurled it against the mirrored wall. It shattered with a splintering crash. Don’t be such a melodramatic lush, Lutz.
The phone shrilled in the dead silence and he bolted upright. He scrambled for it, grasping for the tiniest thread that it might be Helen.
“Lutz.”
“Glenn.” It was the witch. Glenn slumped on the bar.
“I’ve got a phone call for you. You may want to take it.”
“I’m not taking phone calls.” The phone clicked in his ear before he could slam it in the witch’s ear. She’d disconnected him. That was it! He was going to walk over there right now and— “Hello?”
The voice spoke softly in the receiver and Glenn’s heart slammed up into his throat. He jerked upright.
“Hello?”
His voice wavered. “Helen?”
“Hi, Glenn.”
Helen! Glenn’s heart was now kicking against the walls of his chest. Tears flooded his eyes. Oh, God, it was Helen! He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to beg for her.
“You’re mad at me?” she said quietly.
Glenn squeezed his eyes and fought for control. “Mad? Why did you leave? Why do you keep leaving?”
“I don’t know, Glenn.” She paused. By the sound of her voice she was near tears. “Listen, I want some stuff.”
“Who are you with?”
“No one. I’m staying in this man’s house with the lady I told you about, but she went home to water some flowers or something. She’ll be gone for a few hours.”
“You think I don’t know? You think I’m useless here, waiting for you to com
e crawling home!” Easy, boy. Play her. Lure her.
He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “I miss you, Helen. I really miss you.”
She remained silent.
“What did I do to make you leave? Just tell me,” he begged.
“You hit me.”
“You don’t like that? You don’t like being hit like that? I’m sorry. I swear, I’m sorry. I thought you liked it, Helen. Do you?”
“No.” Her voice was very soft now.
“Then, I’m sorry. I swear I won’t do it again. Please, Helen, you’re killing me here. I miss you, sweety.”
“I miss you too, Glenn.”
Really? Dear Helen, really? Tears slipped down his cheek.
“I want to come, Glenn. But I want you to promise me some things, okay?”
“Yes, anything. I’ll promise you anything, Helen. Please just come home.”
“You have to promise me that you’ll let me come whenever I want.”
“Yes. Yes, I swear.”
“And you’ve got to promise me that I can leave whenever I want. Promise that, Glenn. You can’t force me to stay. I want to stay, but not if you force me.”
He hesitated, finding the words difficult. On the other hand, she already had the power. And what was in a promise but words? “I promise. I swear you can leave whenever you wish.”
“And I don’t want you to hit me, Glenn. Anything else, but no hitting.”
This time everything within him raged against the absurdity of her request. Letting her go was one thing, but she wanted to castrate him as well? He was slipping, he thought. “I promise, Helen.”
“You promise all of those things, Glenn. Otherwise I don’t think I can come.”
“I said I promise! What else do you want? You want me to cut off my fingers?” Easy, easy. He lowered his voice. “Yes, I promise, Helen.”
She hesitated and he wondered if he’d lost her on that last one. He felt panic swell in his chest.
“Can you send a car?” she asked.
“I’ll have a car there in two minutes. I have one just down the street.” She didn’t respond. “Okay, Helen?”
“Okay.”
“Okay. You won’t be sorry, Helen. I swear you won’t be sorry.”
“Okay. Bye.” The phone clicked off.
Glenn set the receiver in its cradle with a shaking hand. Exhilaration coursed through his veins and he gasped for breath. He uttered a small squeaking sound and skipped out to the middle of the room and back. When he went for the phone to call Buck, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely dial the number.
She would be here in fifteen minutes! Oh, so many preparations to make. So many, so many he could hardly stand it.
THERE WERE three flowers now, each the size of small melons, brilliant white and edged in red, twice as large as any other flower in the greenhouse. Joey inspected each part of the plant with delicate fingers. He’d always reminded Ivena of a jockey, very lean and short, hardly the type you might figure for a renowned horticulturist. He looked more the average gardener than the scientist with his frumpy slacks and cotton shirt.
“What do you make of them?” Ivena asked.
The small man pried through the petals and grunted. “Boy they sure do put off their aroma, don’t they?”
“Yes. Have you seen anything like them?”
“And you’re saying that you didn’t make this graft? ’Cause this is definitely a graft.”
“Not that I remember. Heavens, I’m not that forgetful.”
“No, of course not. Has anybody else had access to this greenhouse?”
“No.”
“Then, we’ll assume that you made this graft.”
“I’m telling you—”
“For the sake of argument, Ivena. It certainly didn’t just appear on its own. Either way, I’ve never seen a graft like this. We’re looking at several weeks’ worth of growth here and—”
“No. Less than a week.”
He dipped his head and looked at her over his wire-frame glasses. “This from the woman who doesn’t even remember grafting the plant? I’m just telling you what my eyes see, Ivena. You decide what you want to believe.”
She nodded. He was wrong, of course, but she let it go.
“Even with a few weeks’ growth, these flowers are extraordinary. You see there the stamen reminds of the lily, but these white petals lined in red—I’ve never seen them.”
“Could they be tropical?”
“We’re in Atlanta, not the tropics. I did my thesis on tropical aberrations in subtropical zones, and I’ve never come across anything like this.”
He touched and squeezed and humphed for a few minutes without offering any further comment. She let him examine the bush at his pace and searched her memory again for the grafting he’d insisted she must have done. But still she knew that he was wrong. She’d no more grafted the vine into the rosebush than she’d won the Pulitzer recently.
Joey finally straightened and pulled off his glasses. “Hmm. Incredible. Would you mind me taking one of these flowers to the Botanical Gardens Lab? It has to exist. I’m just not placing it here. But with some analysis I think we can. May take a couple weeks.” He shook his head. “I’ve never even heard of a vine like this taking off from a rosebush.”
“You want to cut one off ?”
“Just one. You have plenty more coming along behind these. They are flowers, not children.”
“No, of course they aren’t. Yes, you may. Just one,” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE LONELINESS had struck Helen after two hours with Glenn while Ivena was off attending her flowers. Thing of it was, she was even high at the moment, but the emotion still swept through her bones like an unquenchable tide. Sorrow.
Somehow things had gotten turned around in her mind. This wasn’t the Palace as Glenn liked to call it. This was feeling like a dungeon next to Jan’s house. She had left the white palace for the dirty dungeon—that’s how it felt and it was making her sick. Worse, she had left a prince for this monster.
She’d rolled on the bed and thought about that. The preacher wasn’t her prince. He couldn’t be. They were like dirt and vanilla pudding; you just don’t mix the two. And it was clear who was who.
Not that Jan wasn’t a prince—he was; just not her prince. He could never be her lover. Imagine that. What would they say to that? Helen winning the heart of a famous writer who drove around in a white Cadillac. A shy, handsome man with hazel eyes and wavy hair and a real brain under those curls. A real man.
Given just the two of them without all this mess around them, she might even have a shot with him. She might not be Miss Socialite, but she was a woman, and one who had no problem reading the look in a man’s eyes. Jan’s looks were not the roving kind she was used to, but there was light there, wasn’t there? At times she thought it might be pain. Empathy. But at other times it had made her heart beat a little faster. Either way, each time they had been together his looks had come often and long. That much was enough, wasn’t it?
He likes you, Helen.
He’s married.
No, he’s not. He’s engaged.
Goodness, just imagine having a man like that on your arm! Or imagine someone like that actually loving you. That last thought felt absurd, like the drugs were talking, and she pushed the nonsense from her mind.
But the sorrow wouldn’t budge, and the thoughts returned five minutes later. But what if, Helen.
What if ? I would die for a man like that! I’d be happy to just sit with him and hold his hand and cry on his shoulder. And I would love him until the day I died, that’s what if. And not just a man like that, but Jan.
But then again, she was the dirt and he was the vanilla. She’d never deserve a man like that. There was no mixing the two.
She’d stayed another hour and then left the big pig facedown on the floor, passed out next to a small pool of his own vomit.
She’d returned still intoxicated,
and to her relief Ivena was still gone. She climbed under clean sheets and passed out without removing her clothes.
Ivena was upstairs cooking breakfast when she awoke. It gave her time to shower and change before presenting herself with as much confidence as she could muster. If Ivena knew anything about her little escapade to the dungeon, she didn’t show it.
Helen spent most of the day walking around the house in a daze and for the most part Ivena let her be. Jan’s home really did feel like a palace, and in a strange way she felt like dirt on its floor. But she could clean up, couldn’t she? The notion brought a buzz to her mind. What if ?
And Jan was coming home tonight.
JAN PARKED the Cadillac on the street and walked up the path to his home two days later, on Sunday evening. Darkness had quieted the city, bringing with it a cool breeze. The cicadas were in full chorus, chirping without pause, ever-present but invisible in the night. The oak cross hung undisturbed above his door. In living we die; In dying we live.
The trip to New York had come off as well as they had planned in most regards and better than they had imagined in others. They’d signed the deal on Saturday, deposited the million dollars with some fanfare, and decided to stay in the Big Apple through Sunday. Jan had called Ivena and been informed that nothing had happened. At least nothing that he should concern himself about. Ivena had not elaborated. She’d made some flower deliveries on Friday evening—a few late customers to catch before the weekend—but otherwise she and Helen had mostly sat around talking and growing tired of remaining in a house that was not her own.
He withdrew his key and opened the front door. Dim light glowed from the far hall leading to the bedrooms, but the rest of the house lay in darkness. He flipped the switch that controlled the entryway lights. They stuttered to life.
“Hello.”
Silence.
“Ivena!”
Jan walked into the living room, still holding his overnight bag. Had they left? He flipped another switch and the room stuttered to life. No sign of the women. “Ivena!”
