But it was also just the beginning. He knew that too, and a fleeting terror sliced through his mind. But the intoxicating lips of his new bride-to-be smothered him with a kiss, and the terror was lost.
For now, the terror was lost.
THE PHONE rang five times before Ivena picked it up. “Hello.”
“Morning, Ivena.”
“Good morning, Joey.”
“How's the garden?”
“Good. Very good.”
“And the flowers?”
“Growing.”
“The tests came back today, Ivena.”
She didn't respond.
“It's an unknown species.”
“Yes.”
“They're . . . extraordinary, you know.” He cleared his throat. “I mean very unusual.”
“Yes, I know.”
“My flower has taken root.”
Silence filled the phone.
“Ivena?”
“Then guard it well, Joey. It's not for everyone to see.”
“Yes, I think you're right. Do you want to hear what I found?”
She hesitated. “Not now. Come over and explain it to me sometime. I have to go now, Joey.”
“You okay, Ivena?”
“I've never been better. Never.”
“As a bridegroom rejoices over his bride,
so will your God rejoice over you.”
I
SAIAH 62:5 NIV
“I remember the devotion of your youth, how as a bride you loved me . . .”
J
EREMIAH 2:2 NIV
Three Months later
GLENN LUTZ stormed through the walkway between the Twin Towers like a bull, panting from the exertion, his hands red with blood. The passage was not air-conditioned and Atlanta's late-day heat pressed through his skin. He was slipping into the boiling waters of madness and there was no life preserver in sight. Even the violence he periodically delivered to some unsuspecting soul who crossed him no longer eased his fury. Detective Charlie Wilks had approached him three times in the last month, begging him to ease up. Well now he could expect another call, just as soon as the detective learned of the whipping he'd just administered. Beating the mayor's third cousin to a pulp had a ring of absurdity to it, which was perhaps why Glenn had not been able to resist.
Maybe one day he would take his whip to old Charlieânow there would be a smart move. His relationship with the man wasn't as cozy as it once had been. One of these days Charlie might forget their past altogether and send in a hit squad. Which was why Glenn
had
gone easy. Which was why he had left the preacher alone. Which was why he hadn't gone out with a Tommy gun and sawed through Jan.
Glenn slammed through the door to his office. “Beatrice!” She wasn't here. He swore, crossed to his desk and punched the intercom. “Beatrice, get in here. Bring a towel.”
He held his hands up, careful not to make too much of a mess. His knuckles glistened red; half of the blood was probably his own.
Beatrice walked in, took one look at his hands, and
tsked.
“You really should stop this nonsense, you know. Let her go.” She tossed him the white towel. “You have a luncheon tomorrow; you think people won't notice skinned knuckles?”
He wiped his hands without answering her. Beatrice was growing as bold as Charlie. She sat in one of the guest chairs across from his desk and studied him condescendingly, as if she were his mother. He slid into his chair. It was an odd relationship, this depending so completely on someone you detested so much. And in truth, besides Helen, she was his dearest friend. It was a horrible thought.
“But I take it you aren't going to let her go her way, are you?” Beatrice said.
“Her way is my way.”
“On occasion, obviously, or she wouldn't keep coming. But she is married to another man now. She's been married to him for two months, and I don't see divorce papers floating around anywhere. She's chosen him.”
Glenn crashed his fist on the desk. “She has
not
chosen him! He's a witch!”
“He's a religious man,” she corrected. “And I thought I was the witch.”
“Same thing. No one could have swept her off her feet like that.”
“Maybe it would be best if she was faithful to him. Best for you, that is.”
He stared at her and scowled.
They sat in silence for a few moments, she swinging one leg over the other with hands folded; he mulling over a mental image of his fists smashing into that long face.
“You should find yourself another woman, Glenn,” Beatrice said.
“And you should find yourself some sense, Beatrice. There is no replacement for Helen. You know that.”
“Why? Because of something that happened twenty years ago? Because you were called Peter then and were possessed by an adolescent obsession for her? You're no longer fifteen, Glenn. And Helen is no longer the prom queen. I could find you a dozen girls far better than her.”
“Uhhh!” He grunted and slammed both fists on the desk top once. Then twice. He frowned at her. “Do you know why I make in a single day what you'll never make in your entire life, Beatrice? I'll tell you why. Because I know how to get what I want, and you don't even
know
what you want! Because I
am
obsessed! And you are possessed.
I
own you. You remember that.”
She blinked at the reprimand.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, furious with her. In fact he did feel possessed at times, unable to function for the voices in his head. But it had been the same for as long as he could remember. When he first caught sight of Helen across the hall in junior high, for example, wearing her navy skirt and sucking on a lollipop.
Her image danced over the rope in his mind's eyes, blue skirt flapping in slow motion.
One, two, buckle my shoe; three, four, close the door; five, six, peek-a-boo, guess who I am; that's right, and you ain't seen nothing yet.
“I'm going to help her out,” Glenn said, shifting his eyes toward the glass wall on his left. It had been two months coming and now it was time. Charlie could go suck on a tailpipe. He'd played by the fool's rules long enough.
“You're going to help her out? And how are you going to help Helen out?”
Glenn did not look at her. “I'm going to give her a little motivation.”
“The movie deal?”
“Yes. But . . . more.”
He could hear her breathing in the stillness now. It was the way he said
more
, he thought. As in, much more. As in terribly much more. He faced Beatrice now, pleased that she had kept silent.
“They say that the path to some women's hearts runs through the skull,” he said quietly.
“They say that?”
“I say that.”
“Charlie won't sit by if you hurt the preacher.”
“Who said anything about the preacher?”
She shifted in her seat, all two hundred pounds of her, squirming. Glenn smiled and spoke softly before she could ask another question. “I'm telling you this so that you'll quit flapping your jaw, Beatrice. Soon this'll all be over. I'm going to force the issue. So you can shut your hole, and be a good witch.”
She stared him down, but not with her usual backbone. His power had softened her some, he thought. She still wasn't speaking.
“But yes, the movie deal. I want the movie deal done this week. Can we do that?”
“Maybe. Yes,” she said.
“I don't care what it takes, Beatrice. Anything, you understand?”
“Yes. This does not sound especially smart, Glenn.”
His hands trembled on the desk, but he said nothing.
“Does she know who you really are?”
Shut up, Beatrice! Shut up, you fat weasel!
Glenn bit his tongue to keep the thoughts from blurting out. “No. No, she doesn't know anything. And in truth, neither do you. Not even close.”
Beatrice stared at him for a full five seconds and then stood and left the room, waddling like a black duck.
Glenn exhaled slowly and rested his head back on the chair, thoughts of Beatrice already dismissed. It was Helen who filled his mind again. Helen, who had evaded him for so long. Helen, who was about to learn who her lover really was. Helen, that two-timing sick worm. Helen, sweet, sweet Helen.
HELEN SET the breakfast table carefully, humming absently. Outside, the morning birds chirped and skittered about the large willow's branches. It had rained in the night, leaving the air cool and the shrubs glistening, washed of the summer dust. A scattering of leaves drifted on the pool's glassy surface.
I'm home,
Helen thought.
This is my home.
It struck her that the tune she'd been humming was the old hymn Ivena often sang: “Jesus, Lover of My Soul
.
” Antique lyrics but a rather catchy tune once you let it set in. To think that two months ago she'd never even heard the tune. And now here she was, bouncing around Jan's kitchenâher kitchenâwearing a pink house robe, arranging place settings and orange juice for two.
She had heard of whirlwind romances before but hers and Jan's had been a tornado. A storybook affair, scripted perfectly with everything except the glass slippers. Even the wedding had been fanciful, under a bright sun in that very gardenâJoey's Garden of Edenâwith a minister and thirty or so witnesses, exactly four weeks to the day after Jan had asked for her hand. And these first seven weeks had drifted by in a hazy bliss. Nearly perfect.
Nearly.
“Good morning, dear.” Helen started and spun to his voice. Jan stood less than a step from her, smiling warmly, dressed to kill in a crisp white shirt and a red tie. A dusting of gray swept along the sides of his wavy dark blond hair, disheveled above those bright hazel eyes. Her handsome Serb.
He stepped forward and kissed her forehead. “How's my peach tree?”
She chuckled and kissed his chest without answering. He was like this alwaysâloving and warm and saturated with passion for her. His love leaked from every pore of his body. And she was not worthy of it. Not she.
“Good morning. Sleep well?”
“Like a baby. You know I still haven't had the dreamânot once in three months. Twenty years like clockwork, and then you walk into my life and the dreams end. Now tell me you're not a gift from God himself.”
“What can I say? Some of us have it and some of us don't. I made us some breakfast,” she said, grinning. He slid onto his chair at the table's head and lifted his glass of orange juice with a wink. “And you most definitely have it.” He took a long drink and set the glass down with obvious ceremony and a long sigh.
“Perfect,” he said. “It's the perfect drink for the occasion.”
“Occasion? What occasion?”
“It's been seven weeks. Seven. The number of perfection, you know. They say that if your first seven weeks go without a hitch, you're in for another seven years without a single conflict.”
She smiled. “I've never heard any such thing,” she said.
“Hmm. Maybe because I made it up. But it's a good saying, don't you think?”
She joined him, laughing now despite herself. “You see things too simplistically, honey.”
Honey.
She was calling this man such an endearing term and it suddenly struck her as odd, in light of what he did not know. But he was that and more. Far more. A perfect man. He was looking at her now, across the table as he often did, obviously pleased at the sight of her. She tried not to notice, but failed with a blush.
She directed the conversation to more rote matters. “So what do you have on your plate today?”
“Today. Today it's business as usual, but I have to fly to New York on Friday.”
Helen blinked. “Again? You were just there three days ago.” Her heart quickened at the revelation.
“Yes, I was. And I'm sorry to leave you alone in the house again so soon. But Delmont Pictures called last night and insisted we make this meeting. I'm sure it's nothing. You know these movie people; everything's always urgent.” He grinned as if she should find some amusement in that. But her mind was already nibbling at the notion of having another weekend alone.
“Perhaps Ivena could come and stay the weekend with you,” Jan suggested, biting into his cereal.
“No. No, I'll be okay.” Helen returned his smile. “I might as well get used to it. It comes with marrying a star, I suppose,” she teased.
He tossed his head back and laughed. “Nonsense. And if you married a star, then I married a queen.”
She giggled with him and picked at her breakfast.
Oh, dear Jan, please do not leave me alone!
“Besides,” she said, “I'm not sure Ivena would cotton to being torn away from her garden for a whole weekend. Is it just me or is she obsessive?”
Jan chuckled. “She is taken with it, isn't she? You know, since our marriage I don't think I've even been in her greenhouse. In fact I've only been in her house once or twice. We really should visit her more often.”
“She visits us all the time. I think she likes it that way. But still, she seems to have changed.”
“In what way?”
“I don't know. She always seems to be in a hurry to get home. Preoccupied.”
“I haven't noticed. But then my mind's been on another woman these past few months.”
“Well, at least you've got that right.” They laughed and picked at their breakfast.
“You're all right when I leave you, aren't you, Helen?” Jan asked.
“Yes, of course. Sure, of course. Why wouldn't I be?”
He grinned. “A beautiful woman like you? If another man even glances in your direction while passing on the street, you tell me. I will discipline him, I promise. With my belt or a paddle.”
“Don't be silly. You'll do no such thing.” He was such a lovely man. In moments like this he could take her breath away with those crazy comments.