The Heaven Trilogy (87 page)

“And these emotions that are driving you insane, they are the same sentiments that put Father Micheal on the cross. They are the same that Christ himself showed. For God so loved the world, Janjic. Is this the love with which you love Helen?”

He stared at her stupidly.

“I swear, Janjic, you can be thickheaded at times. You are feeling the love of the priest; the love of Christ. It's not coming from your own heart. Have you ever considered the likelihood that you aren't meant to marry Karen? Then I'll tell you now, you can't marry Karen.”

“Because of this minor inconsistency with Helen? Don't be—”

“No! Because God wouldn't want you to marry Karen. It's better to break off now before you have a covenant with her. Or do you consider an engagement the same as a covenant marriage?”

“No.”

“Well then. You must follow this love God has placed in your heart for Helen. And you must do so without any offense to Karen.”

“How on earth can I pursue a relationship with an unbeliever?”

“Did God command Hosea to take Gomar? I'm not suggesting you marry the girl, anyway. But there is more here than meets the eye, Janjic. Consider it a word from God.”

It struck him as clearly as the mountain air in that moment. Could it be? He'd seen that brief vision of the flowered field and heard the weeping. Perhaps it was more than a casual act of God's grace to reveal it. Perhaps it was God's
intent
that he love Helen! And not just as a poor lost soul, but as someone his heart ached for.

The notion flooded Jan with a sudden sense of ease. It took the craziness out of his turmoil, lent him validity. Ivena must have seen the change in him because she was smiling.

“You think Helen is
meant
to be loved by me,” he said. “It's why you approve.”

“In as much as Christ loves the church, I think so.”

“And Christ loves the church with this mad, passionate emotion?”

Ivena stood and walked to the bookcase on the opposite wall. “Would you like to see something, Janjic?”

A blue vase holding a single flower rested on the third shelf. A brilliant white bloom with red-trimmed petals, the span of Jan's hand. She pulled the flower from the base and faced him like a schoolgirl presenting her carnation.

“Do you smell it?”

It was the strong fragrance he'd smelled walking in. “I smell something. Your perfume, I thought.”

“But I'm not wearing any perfume, Janjic.”

Jan stood and walked toward the flower. Immediately the scent strengthened in his nostrils.

“Now you smell it,” she said, smiling.

“That's impossible.”

“But true. It is a lovely scent, isn't it?”

“And it all comes from the one flower? Naturally?”

“Yes.”

Jan studied the petals. They seemed oddly familiar. She handed it to him and he held it up to the light.

“Where did you find this?”

“I'm growing them, actually. You like it?”

“It's stunning.”

“Yes. I think I may have stumbled across a new species. I've already given Joey one for analysis.”

“You don't know the name?” he asked, turning the flower in his hand. The petals were like satin. The scent reminded him of a very strong rose.

“No. They're the result of a rose graft.”

“Amazing.”

Ivena smiled wide, like a proud child. “Yes. The aroma is like love, Janjic. Unless a seed dies and falls to the ground it cannot bear fruit. But look at where it all leads. It's a sweet scent begging to be taken in. Not something you can just ignore, is it?”

Jan placed his nose near a petal and sniffed again. The flower's fragrance was so strong it brought water to his eyes. He returned it to the vase and retreated to his chair.

“So you think I should love Helen?”

He shook his head. “They'll blow their tops.”

“Who will?”

“Karen, for one. Roald, the leaders, the employees—everyone.”

“But you can't pretend. That would be worse.”

Then he remembered why he'd come here in the first place. “She's gone.”

Ivena turned. “She'll come back.”

“You're sure? How can you know that?”

“I can't. But she's a woman and I'm telling you, she'll be back.”

They sat and talked about what they should do then. Should they call the police? And tell them what? Jan said. That this girl named Helen had returned to her lover, which was not a good thing because Jan Jovic—yes, the famous author Jan Jovic—had a crush on her. But it wasn't a crush because it was God's love, which both was and wasn't like a crush. The same but different. Maybe. Yes, that would go over nicely.

In the end they agreed that they could do nothing else themselves. Not tonight at least. They would pray that God would protect Helen and reveal his love to her. And that Jan would hear God's voice and not run amok in his own emotions. Actually that last prayer was Ivena's, but Jan found himself agreeing with it. God knew that he was walking on new ground here. The grounds of love.

JAN NEARLY called in sick Thursday morning. Helen hadn't returned and he'd slept only three hours, half of it on the couch. In all honesty, he was sick, but it wasn't the kind of illness Karen would understand. At least not while it was directed at another woman. He finally dragged himself in at ten, if for no other reason than to save himself the agony of waiting.

The employees were looking at him with questioning eyes, he thought. They knew, they all knew. Their soft smiles and gentle frowns were saying so. The frowns he may have imagined, but then again maybe not. According to Betty's admission—which he was still trying to dismiss—they were practically laying odds on his sanity.

Karen bounded into his office within five minutes of his arrival, humming and moving to her tune. Thank goodness she was not so well connected with the gossip on the lower floors. He smiled with her as best he could, and listened patiently as she talked about her trip.

It had been a smashing success, by her telling; one to put in her portfolio. It was not only the reprint agreement with the publisher, it was eight—count them, eight—television appearances in the next two months and that was not including the tour to kick off the new edition. Jan was happy for her, and the news did distract him slightly. He found enough resolve to keep Karen in a state of general ambivalence about him, he thought.

But his thinking proved incorrect.

She flashed two tickets in her hand. “It's all set, Jan. We have first-class tickets to New York on the five-thirty flight tomorrow.”

New York!
He'd forgotten. “I thought the dinner was Saturday.”

“It is, but I thought we could make a weekend of it. Roald won't be there, you know.”

Suddenly it was all too much. He did smile; he did do that, but evidently not with enough muster to fool her. In fact, he couldn't be sure it didn't come off as a frown, if his heart was any judge. Karen dropped the hand holding the tickets to her side, and he knew that she'd seen through his facade.

She closed the door and slid into one of the guest chairs. “Okay, Jan Jovic. What's wrong?”

“What do you mean?”
She means why is your face sagging, dummkopf
.

“Something's up,” she said, staring straight at him. “All day you've been wearing this plastic smile. I could walk in here and tell you that Martians have just landed on Peachtree Street and you'd smile and tell me how nice that was. You are as distracted as I've seen you. So what's up?”

Jan looked out the window and sighed.
Father, what am I doing? I do not want this.
He faced her again. She looked at him with her head tilted, beautiful in the morning rays that streamed through the window. Karen was a treasure. He could not imagine a woman as lovely as her. Except Helen. But that was absurd! Helen was off with another man! For that matter she might not even return. And if she did return, how could he possibly entertain thoughts of love for such a woman?

Father, I beg you! Deliver me from this madness.

“Jan, tell me.” Karen was pleading with a woman's knowing voice now. She knew something already, by intuition.

He looked into her eyes, and suddenly he wanted to cry. For her, for him, for love. For all it was said to be, love had turned him into a worm this week. His eyes stung, but he refused to cry in front of her. Not now.

“Helen's gone again,” he said.

She sat back and crossed her legs. “Sure, we agreed she would go. And that's a problem?”

“Yes. Actually it is.” He could not look at her directly.

“Jan . . . She's just one girl.” Her voice was soft and soothing. “Lost, wandering, hurt, sure. I can understand that. But our ministry goes way beyond this one person.” She leaned forward and put her open palm on the desk for his hand. He took it. “It'll be okay, I promise.”

He could not carry on any longer. He could not. “She's not just one girl, Karen.”

The room fell to a terrible silence. “And what does that mean?”

He looked into her eyes and tried to tell her. “She means more to me. She . . .”

Karen removed her hand and sat straight. “You've fallen for her, haven't you?” Her eyes misted over.

“I . . . Yes.”

“I knew it!”

“Karen, I . . .”

Now she was red. “How
dare
you?” She said it trembling and Jan recoiled. “How could you slobber all over a tramp like that?”

“I'm not slob—”

“How dare you do this to me!”

“Karen, I—”

“I
love
you, you big oaf ! I've loved you for three years!” Now she had slipped into rage and he knew he'd made a very big mistake in telling her. “We're engaged, for God's sake! We went on television and promised our love in front of half the world and now you're telling me that you've fallen for the first bimbo that struts in front of you? Is that it?”

“No, Karen! That's not it! It was beyond me.”

“Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me. You couldn't help it, could you? Did she crawl up at the bottom of your bed to keep you company at night?” Tears ran from her eyes now. “And what do you suppose this means for our engagement?” she demanded.

“I had to tell you the truth.”

“What am I supposed to tell the studio? Did you even think of that before inviting this pathetic bimbo into your house? What should I tell them, Jan? Oh, yes, well Jan is no longer speaking on the martyrs. He's writing a new book; a personal guide to live-in bimbos. In fact, he's living with one now.
That
will go over huge, I can assure you! Roald will fry you!”

Jan was too stunned for clear thoughts, much less words. He only felt like curling up and dying.
I do not mean to harm you, Karen! I am so very sorry. Karen
,
please . . .

“You think you can make this movie without me? You're a fool to throw it all away!”

She suddenly stood. Her hand came across the desk and landed with a loud
smack
on his cheek. His head jerked to the side. Without saying another word Karen spun around, pulled the door open, and walked from the office.

“Karen! Please, I . . .” Nothing else came.
You love her, tell her that. You do love her! Don't you?

He heard the loud slam of the suite's front door.

For a full ten seconds Jan could not move. Nicki ran in, glared at him, and then ran out after Karen. To tell the world.

His face stung, but he barely felt it. He just sat there in a daze, looking with a blank, watery stare. Then he lowered his head to the desk and let the tears come. He was dying, he thought. Life could not be worse. Nothing, absolutely nothing could possibly feel as sickening.

But he was wrong.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“We all have some of Karadzic swimming under the surface.
We have all spit on the face of our Creator. Thinking that we have not is self-righteous arrogance—which is itself a form of spitting.”

The Dance of the Dead, 1959

JAN PULLED into his driveway at seven, just as dusk darkened the sky over Atlanta. Helen had been gone for one day now and his world had caved in on itself.

He'd already shut the car door when it occurred to him that he could have pulled into the garage. There was no longer anyone to sneak past. He turned and walked for the front door.

He saw the white paper pegged to his door when he rounded the corner and it made him stop. A note? His heart bolted in his chest. A note!

Jan dropped his briefcase, bounded up and ripped the paper from the tack that had been shoved into the post. It was a full sheet with faint lines, the kind found in any full-size notebook. He tilted the sheet into the moonlight and dropped his eyes to the bottom.

Helen
.

It was signed by Helen! His fingers trembled.

Help me please
.

I'm so sorry. Please come. I need you
.

The top of the west tower. Hurry, please
.

Helen
.

A drum took to Jan's chest. Dear God! Helen! He ran for the car, threw the door open, and fired the engine.

It took Jan ten minutes to reach the Towers—enough time for him to wet his steering wheel with sweat and spin through a dozen reasons why coming here was a bad idea, not the least of which was Glenn Lutz. The man had threatened Jan directly on the phone, and there was no guarantee that the note hadn't been written by him rather than Helen.

But she was almost certainly in trouble. He could have taken the note to the police, but he'd never quite lost his skepticism of the authorities, not since Bosnia. And going to the police would make this a public affair; he was quite sure he wasn't ready for that. Not with Helen.

In the end it was his heart that kept his foot on the pedal. He
wanted
to go. He had to go. Helen was there, and the thought of it made him throw reason to the wind.