Daniel and the Angel (4 page)

"There is."

Lilli waited. Florie looked uneasy.

"I'm not going to like it, am I?"

Florie shook her head.

"Why?"

"Saint Peter has picked the mortal."

"From your tone, I suspect it might be easier to convert the Devil than teach this person a lesson."

"You can do it, Lilli. I know you can."

"Who is my miracle?"

Florie stared at her bare toes. "The financier D.L. Stewart."

Lilli's mouth dropped open. "Mr. I-Buy-the-World-and-Money-Is-My-Life Stewart?"

Florie nodded.

She groaned and stared at the altar. "You were right. This is the worst punishment yet."

"He can't be that bad."

Lilli snorted.

"Besides, look at the reward. It's the only chance you'll have. I pleaded and begged for you. Please, Lilli, just try."

She looked up to Heaven, then took a deep breath and raised her chin a notch. "I'll try. But this is truly difficult. I was joking when I said converting the Devil would be easier, but Florie," she said, sighing, "that's exactly what Saint Peter has asked me to do."

It took him a day and a half to find her.

He sat in his carriage, parked at the curb, and he watched her standing in front of the church doors. From her manner, she looked as if her burden had only increased, tenfold. Her shoulders weren't squared with determination, and in one gloved hand, her red hat dangled as if it were forgotten. She had the bewildered look of a bird that had fallen from its nest.

Then she saw him. Her face drained of color for the briefest of moments.

He walked up the steps toward her.

She swung her hat on her head and spent a long time tying the ribbons, looking everywhere but at him.

"Lillian." He tipped his hat.

"Mr. Stewart." She raised her chin and took a step.

One could have heard the rip a block away.

She froze, and her eyes grew wide as silver dollars. She looked over her shoulder.

He peered past her. Her dress was caught in the church doors. "Allow me." He opened the door and released her dress.

"Thank you." Nose purposely and humorously high, she descended the steps, her ripped hem dragging like a train behind her.

He watched her, biting back the sudden and foreign urge to smile. He moved to her side, his pace identical with hers.

She said nothing.

"Nice weather," he commented.

"If you like snow."

"I do."

"So do I."

He stopped at his carriage and opened the door.

She gave him a puzzled look.

"Get in."

"No, thank you."

"I wasn't asking."

"I could tell."

He took a deep breath, then gritted, "May I offer you a lift?"

"No. I wouldn't want to keep you. Time is money."

He said nothing but got inside and sat down, feeling suddenly disarmed. He pinned her with a stare meant to make her feel as uncomfortable as he did. To his surprise, something interesting passed between them: a challenge.

After a moment, she turned and sauntered away.

He tapped on the driver's box. "Follow alongside her, Benny."

The carriage moved right next to her, maintaining a slow pace that matched her stride perfectly.

She never made eye contact.

He slipped open the window and settled back against the carriage seat. "I've been looking for you."

"Why? No one for sale today?"

He wouldn't rise to that bait. "It's early yet."

"I would think that looking for me isn't very profitable."

"I have some spare time." He checked his gold watch. "It's ten
a.m.
The banks have been open for an hour. I've made nearly two thousand dollars in interest already today."

She tugged on her glove but never missed a step. "How nice for you."

"Do you want to know why I was looking for you?"

"No."

He watched her silently, tapping a finger against his thinned lips.

After a few more silent steps she stopped, plopped her hands on her hips in frustration, and looked right at him. "I don't understand you."

"Don't try."

She pulled her gaze away and stared down at her tightly clasped hands. "I think I might have to try."

He rested an arm on the window opening. "I have a proposition for you." He leaned a little closer. "Get in and we'll talk."

She looked up at the sky, then sighed. "I don't think I can do this."

"How do you know? You haven't heard my offer."

She shook her head. "I can't explain."

He paused to let the tension build. It was a tactic he used often. Time ticked by.

She just stood there.

"I'll give you a hundred dollars to get in this carriage right now."

Her eyes narrowed suddenly and sharply. She squared her shoulders and began to walk away again.

"Well?" he called out.

"I don't think so."

He watched her pass an alley crowded with immigrants. She said something to a woman holding a child, then reached into her pocket and handed the woman a bent tin can. The two of them spoke briefly, then Lilli turned around and went on her merry way.

He tapped on the carriage roof again. "Stay with her, Benny." When his carriage was directly beside her, he leaned back again and counted to five before he said, "Two hundred."

"No, thank you."

"Five hundred."

She shook her head.

"A thousand."

She ran into a streetlight and stepped back quickly —as if she hadn't done it.

He did smile. "Two... thousand."

She spun around.

He couldn't tell if she was stunned or horrified.

"You're serious?"

"Very serious."

"Two thousand dollars?"

"Yes."

She gave him a direct look. "Cash?"

"Yes."

"Now?"

"Yes."

She walked over to the carriage and held out her hand, palm up.

He opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk, then peeled some money from a roll of bills and put them into her hand.

"Count it, please."

"What?"

"You need to count the bills into my hand. Just to make certain it's correct. You wouldn't want to make a mistake."

Irritated, he snatched the money from her and counted each bill.

"Thank you."

"Get inside." He held the door.

"Wait just a moment." She hurried past him.

"Now," he called out.

She waved him away, already halfway back to the alley, and stopped in front of a child, who looked up at her with eyes too big in a thin and pale face. She put a hundred-dollar bill in his small hand and closed his fingers around it. She then did the same with each person huddled in the alley. Finally she stood in front of the woman with the baby and handed her the rest of the bills. "Merry Christmas.
Fröhliche Weihnachten."

The immigrants gaped at the bills in their hands, then looked at her as if she were God's own angel. He caught a whisper of a smile on her lips as she spun around and walked back to the carriage.

Standing in front of him, she raised her chin. "Okay, Mr. Stewart. I'm ready now."

He didn't know if he wanted to strangle her or congratulate her. He just stood there, surprised. Again. And he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. Silently, he helped her inside, climbed in, and closed the door.

They sat there measuring one another. Another kind of challenge. She appeared inordinately proud of herself. He could tell by her expression.

He waited a moment, letting her bask in her victory. Casually, he looked out the window, then said, "I would have paid more."

"Would you have?" she asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Interesting." She cocked her head and tugged on her glove. "I thought you needed a lesson on how to treat people." She leaned forward, propping an elbow on her knee and her chin on a fist. She looked right into his eyes. "I'll tell you a secret."

"What?"

"I would have come for nothing."

4

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers,

For thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

—Hebrews 13:2

L
ILLI SAT IN A LARGE LEATHER WING CHAIR IN HIS STUDY
and looked at the paintings, the rich mahogany and brass furnishings, the long windows that looked out over the street two stories below, and the snow that was falling again outside. She looked at everything. Except him.

"Lillian."

She turned.

He didn't look at her. He sat at his desk, his chair turned to the side and his gaze fixed elsewhere. He had all the appearances of a man who did indeed have the world at his feet. There was no denying that D.L. Stewart had power. His stance, his manner, his surroundings, even his voice exuded it.

He picked up a gray-marbled fountain pen and tapped one end on the desk blotter, then absently flipped the pen and tapped its other end. "You said something that caught my attention when you were here before."

She didn't say anything. But she did wonder what she could have said that would be of interest to such a powerful man.

He continued: "You claim there are things money can't buy."

"There are."

"I don't agree."

She started to say something, but he raised his hand. "Let me finish. I don't agree, but I like challenges."

"I could tell," she whispered.

He gave her a stern look that said he wanted her quiet. She gave him what he wanted.

"I find what you said very intriguing."

"Oh? So what are you saying?"

"I'm giving you the opportunity to prove your point."

"I don't understand."

"You claim that you have no place to go."

She nodded. "It isn't a claim. It's the truth."

"If that's the case, then this is simple. I'm offering you a place to stay. You, in turn, will attempt to prove your theory correct." He swung his chair around and leaned an arm on his desk, pinning her with a dark stare that could intimidate Saint Peter himself. "Prove to me that there are things in this world that money cannot buy."

"Why? Why this? And why me?"

He leaned back with a bored look that she sensed was calculated. "For entertainment."

"But you called this a challenge."

"It is." He raised the pen and twirled it before his eyes. "You see, while you are trying to show me the things that money cannot buy, I, in turn, will show you just exactly what money will buy. Each of us will be out to prove our point."

"What are the stakes?"

He looked surprised, then laughed loudly and genuinely. There was no sardonic tone to his laughter this time. It had a rusty sound, as if he didn't do it that often.

"Name your price."

She shook her head. "You only think in terms of money."

"Name your reward then."

She thought about her circumstances and her goal. This almost seemed too easy, as if his whole plot was playing into her hands.

Perhaps her years in Heaven had earned her a small modicum of divine help.

Perhaps the carriage accident had knocked her senseless.

"Anything?" she asked.

There was something wicked in his eyes when he answered, "Absolutely anything."

"If I prove you wrong, you will—personally, once a week—find and create an opportunity for someone who has no hope. Someone like those people I gave your money to today." She watched for his reaction.

"Fine."

She froze. He had agreed too easily.

"What do you get out of this?"

He said nothing but stared at a legal paper in his hand. He seemed to be thinking deeply.

After a long silence, she cocked her head and said, "Mr. Stewart?"

He looked up.

"You haven't answered me,"

He gave the paper another look, then seemed to come to a decision and quickly set it aside. "I'll get companionship." His tone was clipped, and he braced his hands on his desk and stood up quickly, then shuffled some papers. "I have an engagement to attend tomorrow night and another a few days later. You will accompany me." He turned away then, his back to her, and he stared out the window.

She watched him standing there stiffly, unwilling to look at her. "That's it? I just go with you?"

"Anywhere I ask."

She stood up. "Okay. We have a deal."

He tugged on the bellpull and the butler entered. He faced the man, but his gaze was on her. "Show Miss Lillian to the gold suite, Gage."

Lilli had the uneasy feeling that she had just jumped in a lake with her hands and feet tied.

"See that she has anything she wishes." He paused, a silence filled with meaning, then added, "Anything that money can buy."

The gold suite was just that—gold. The bed was gold. The walls had panels that were covered in gold-flecked wallpaper, then wainscoted in gilt. The high ceiling was coffered and painted with a scene that showed a golden sunrise, and rich golden oak flooring was covered with huge imported silk rugs designed in various shades from deep to light golden yellow.

The rug fringe? Golden silk. Lilli bent down and examined more closely the motif in each rug, half expecting the pattern to be interlocking dollar signs. She straightened, somewhat relieved when she saw only an obscure floral design.

She crossed the room and opened a door that led to a dressing room, three quarters of which was paneled in mirrors, all gilt framed. Through another door with golden handles shaped like dolphins was a private bath of pale yellow marble with gold dolphin fixtures and—

"Good heavens ..." she muttered. "A gold sink!" She stared at it and at the gold-framed mirror above it with a dazed look of disbelief.

Then she saw something reflected in the mirror. Her mouth dropped open and she blinked twice, then spun around.

The water closet was a golden throne.

One second she gaped, the next she burst out laughing, and every time she looked around the room she laughed harder, until finally she had to sag back against the sink.

This had to be a joke. It was too ludicrous not to be.

But as she stood there, she knew that no one could deny the massive amounts of money it must have taken to decorate this suite. Everything was of the highest quality. What had been ridiculously funny only moments before was not funny any longer. It was a sad example of stupid waste and opulence. Worse yet, a cockeyed sense of values.

She straightened and left the room quickly, feeling oppressed, uncomfortable, and suddenly rather pessimistic about her chances of ever being able to teach D.L. Stewart anything.

Once in the bedroom, she just stood there and stared around her. Every piece of furniture, every painting, every bit of the room from the fireplace to the bric-a-brac was coldly flawless. Expensive. Priceless.

The minutes passed, one by one, time revealing what she hadn't understood before. The man who owned this house, this room, needed to learn more than just how to give from his heart. He was so lost, had his values so skewed, that she wondered if he could ever find any joy or happiness in just living. If he even understood the human spirit or the things that truly mattered in the world.

She lay back on the bed, with its plush down bedding, expensive silk drape, and hand-carved posts. She stared up at the canopy with a sense of grief so very deep it touched her in a way nothing had before.

And she began to cry. She turned over and buried her head in her arms, sobbing painfully and pitifully. Not for herself, a fallen angel, but for Daniel Lincoln Stewart, a fallen soul.

D.L. closed his carriage door and looked up. Lilli was watching him from an upstairs window. The drape drifted back and he watched it for a moment longer, then went up the snowy steps, fighting another smile—his second that day.

The front doors swung open wide and early.

Gage must be looking for a raise, he thought, then recalled it was near Christmas—that time of year when every servant, delivery boy, and elevator operator began to fawn, hoping for a large tip.

But to his surprise it was Lillian who met him at the doors. She was wearing her jacket and gloves, her hat tied beneath her chin in a shredded velvet bow.

He frowned and glanced back up at the window. "Weren't you just upstairs?"

She nodded.

He looked down the front steps. There were eight of them. He knew the main staircase had to have at least forty steps. How in God's name had she managed to meet him at the front door?

She was flushed and perhaps a little out of breath.

He shook his head, then gestured to her clothing. "Going somewhere?"

"Yes. We both are."

"I see. Why?"

"You said I'm supposed to prove my theory. Well, I'm ready."

"For what, exactly?"

"Your entertainment."

He gave a her long, pointed look.

She stared back at him from eyes that were a little too red.

"Have you been crying again?"

She looked down. "I had something in my eye."

"Both of them?"

She raised her chin, a sign of defiance. "Yes."

He crossed his arms with equal stubbornness.

Unfazed, she held out an old cloth valise. "Here."

"What's this?"

"It's a surprise."

He took the valise.

She stood there, silently waiting.

He stood there, silently amused.

It began to snow again, and she looked up at the sky. "Come," she said finally, and she threaded her arm through his, all but dragging him down the steps. They reached bottom just as his brougham disappeared around the corner and down the drive to the carriage house.

"Wait here. I'll call for the carriage."

"Oh, no." She tugged on his arm. "We'll walk."

"It's snowing."

She smiled up at him. "I know. That's the best part. Now come along."

A few minutes later he was walking down the sidewalk, valise in one hand, her arm holding his, while she chattered about the snow and the scenery and the sleighs that passed them by. She hummed a Christmas tune and smiled at people, wishing perfect strangers "Happy Christmas."

She grasped his hand and pulled him across the street to the park. Singing about bells and angels, she led him down a snowy path to a clearing, where a pond had frozen and the surrounding trees and bushes were heavy with white snow.

She plopped down on a park bench up a hill across from the pond and patted the spot next to her. "Sit here."

He bent down and dusted off the snow, then sat. "Is
sitting on a snowy park bench your idea of entertainment?"

"Of course not." She took the valise from him and set it on her lap, snapped it open, and burrowed inside. A second later she looked up, grinning. She pulled out an old pair of ice skates and dangled them in front of his face. "Yours," she said, then dropped them in his lap.

He stared at them.

She pulled out another pair. "And mine."

"This is the surprise?"

She nodded. "And it's absolutely free."

"Where did the skates come from?"

"I borrowed them. For free," she said smugly. "Now go ahead. Strap them on." She bent down and fit her feet into the skate clamps, then buckled the leather straps. She lifted one foot, examining the skate as if it were a glass slipper. "Not bad."

She stood up and planted her hands on her hips. "You haven't put them on yet. I thought you said you liked challenges."

He bent down and strapped on the skates.

An instant later she was walking down the path to the pond. He glanced up. She sauntered away like a conquering queen. From the way she carried herself, one would never know she still had a large rip in her skirt and that the rear shoulder of her jacket was shredded from the accident.

Funniest thing. For the first time in too many years to count, he wasn't bored.

"Better hurry," she called out over her shoulder in a singsong voice. "The last one there has to give a thousand dollars to the poor!"

And for the third time that day, he smiled.

"What do mean, we have to pay a dime?" Lilli stared dumbfounded at a park official in a blue uniform coat. He stood inside a small toll booth that had been hidden by the trees and bushes.

The man leaned forward from the window in his booth. "The skating pond has a ten-cent toll."

She could hear someone coming down the path. She didn't want to turn around and see triumph in D.L. Stewart's dark face. Directly behind her, she heard his skates crunch in the snow.