The Heaven Trilogy (92 page)

Helen was now in
his
house, wandering around on those bare feet, shy, yet curious, spreading an air of expectancy wherever she stepped. And he was wondering why he should be so lucky to have her in his house.
Father, Father, what are you doing? What on earth have you done with this meddling of yours?

They talked only once of Glenn Lutz, and then only in the context of the danger he might pose. Jan wanted to call for police protection, but Helen would still have none of it. Glenn would not be a problem, she insisted. She'd come to tears when Jan had pressed for her reasoning and left it at that. Poor Helen! Poor, poor dear! Ivena held her for a few minutes and brought comfort. It would be all right— the police already knew of the attack and not even Lutz would be so mad as to try a repeat. So Jan told himself. But he did check the window every hour just to be sure.

Thoughts of the movie deal came only sporadically. He had talked to Roald midday and the man seemed pleased with himself. Everything was back on track. Just get better, Jan. We miss you.

After lunch Helen excused herself to the apartment for a nap. Ivena announced that she too must leave for a few hours. Her flowers needed her touch. Jan found himself alone in the house, reading through parts of
The Dance of the Dead
, trying to guess what Helen thought as she read.

The doorbell suddenly echoed through the house, startling Jan. A salesman, perhaps. He set the book down, walked to the door, and pulled it open. Karen stood there. Karen! Dressed in a pure white blouse and a navy skirt, stunning and more beautiful than ever.

Jan felt his jaw drop and he barely had the presence of mind to close it before speaking. “Karen!”

“Hi, Jan. May I come in?”

Come in?
Jan glanced back into the house instinctively. “Are you okay? Is there a problem?” she asked.

“No. No, of course you can come in.” He stepped aside. “You just . . . I just . . . Come in, please.”

She held his eyes for a moment and then stepped past the threshold and into the living room. Jan closed the door. “Roald told me what happened. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, really.”

She reached up and touched the head wrap very gently. “How bad is it? Shouldn't you be lying down?”

“Just a surface wound. I'll be fine, really.”

“You sure?” She searched his eyes, genuinely caring, he thought.

“Yes. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

Yes, that would be nice
, she said, and her voice carried sweet and lovely and terrible to Jan. He cut straight for the kitchen and pulled out a glass.
Yes, that would be nice
. Four years of affection were carried by that voice. He poured her a drink of iced tea and returned to the living room.

“Here you are,” he said, handing the glass to her. They sat—he on his chair, she on the adjacent couch. Her brown hair rested on her shoulders, curling delicately around soft cheeks. Her eyes avoided him in the silence, but they were speaking already, saying that she wanted to make amends. That she was sorry for her outburst and that her life was miserable without him.

Then they were looking at each other, frozen in the heaviness.
She's thinking that I'm fixed by her beauty,
Jan thought.
She's thinking that I'm speechless because of my deep love for her.
Her perfume was musky and strong.

“Jan.” Her eyes were moist. “Jan, I'm sorry. I am so sorry.”

“No, Karen. No, it's I who should be sorry. I had no right. I don't know what to say—”

“Shhh.” She put a finger to her lips and smiled. “Not now. And just know that if my imagination went wild it was because of my love for you. I would never hurt you. I don't want to hurt you.”

Jan sat still, immobilized by her words. What had Roald told her? That Jan had sent Helen away? Yes, that's what he'd told her. Anything less and Karen would be demanding to know where Helen was. She was not a weak woman.

But he could see that she'd been deceived yet again. And she deserved far more. He had to tell her now. But the words were not flowing so easily.

“You were being mugged and here I was imagining that you were off with this woman.” She laughed. “I should've known you better—forgive me. You were in the hospital and I was off steaming like a silly schoolgirl.”

Roald had made the situation impossible. Now she was making it unbearable. And to make matters worse, Jan just smiled. He should have frowned and told her some things. Instead, he was sitting there smiling like a gimp.
Yuk, yuk, how silly of you, Karen.

“I called the studio and explained what happened to you. They extend their best wishes.”

He nodded. “Thank you. I . . . Thank you.”
Now, Jan! Now
. “Maybe you should tell that to Roald. I'm not sure he's so understanding.”

“Oh, I don't know. He's just concerned for you. The logical one, you know. For him it's a simple matter of mathematics. Deals like this come to the church only once every decade or so—you can't blame him for overreacting when something looks like it might interfere.”

“He threatened to withdraw his support,” Jan said.

“He did, did he? You see, he is overreacting. And maybe I had something to do with that. I think I convinced him that you had gone off the deep end with this woman.” She smiled apologetically. “It was plain silly.”

Now, Jan. You must tell her now!
“Yes, but it still concerns me. Am I supposed to think that every time Roald doesn't agree with something, he'll threaten to withhold his support?”

“No.”

“So then why would he make such a statement?”

“I'll talk to him about it.” She paused. “But he
was
faced with this nonsense that I fed him. You shouldn't be so hard on him.”

“Perhaps. But I don't see his right to threaten me. What if it were true? What if I had fallen for . . . well, for a woman like Helen, for example? Am I to assume that if I step over the wrong line I will be punished like a child?”

“No.” Karen had tightened slightly. Or maybe it was just his imagination. “No, you're right. Like I said, I'll talk to him.” She lifted her glass and let the liquid flow past her lips. She was lovely; he could not deny the fact. And she was a strong woman, though not strong enough to let his comment about Helen pass, hypothetical or not.

She spoke, smoothing her skirt, looking down. “It isn't true though, is it, Jan?”

“What isn't true?” he asked. He knew of course, and his heart was hammering in his chest.

“You're not in love with this woman.” She looked at him. “With this Helen.”

He would have answered. Sure he would have. What he would have said he'd never know, because suddenly it was neither his voice nor Karen's speaking in the stillness. It was another.

“Hello.”

They looked toward the basement entrance together. She stood there with her blond hair in tangles, smiling innocently. Helen.

Helen! Heat washed down Jan's back. He shot a quick glance at Karen, who was staring, stunned. She'd never met Helen so she could not know . . .

Then Helen changed that as well. She walked forward and extended her hand to Karen. “Hi, I'm Helen.”

Karen stood and mechanically reached out her hand. “This is Karen,” Jan said.

“Hi, Karen.”

“Hello, Helen,” Karen returned. But she wasn't smiling. Jan rose from his seat and they stood there awkwardly, Karen to his right and Helen to his left, staring at each other in very different ways. Helen as if wondering what the big deal was, and Karen as if she'd just been stabbed in the back with a ten-inch bowie. It was an impossible moment, but Jan knew that there was no chance of rescuing it.

And then he knew something else, staring at these two women side by side. He knew that he loved the woman on the left. He loved Helen. Somehow seeing them side by side, there was simply no question of it. It was the first time that he'd held both in his mind and seen their places in his heart. To Helen he was even now giving his love, and to Karen his empathy.

He cleared his throat. “Helen's staying with me for a few days while she gets back on her feet. I'm sorry, I should have told you.”

Karen glared at him. “Back on her feet? And here I thought it was you who was receiving all the attention. Or is that bandage something you picked up at the dime store?”

“Karen . . .” He shook his head. “No, it's not like that—”

“Then what is it like, Jan? You take me for a fool?” The daggers from her eyes tore at his heart.
No, Karen! It's not like that! I do care for you!

But you love Helen.

“Please—”

“Save your breath.” She was already walking for the front door. “If you need me, do us both a favor and call Roald.” Then, with a slam of the door, she was gone.

For a long moment Jan and Helen just stared at that closed door in silence. “Maybe I should go,” Helen finally said.

“No! No, please don't leave me.”

“She seemed so . . . hurt.”

“But it's not you. It's me. It's my love for you.”

She thought about that for a few moments, and then she came to him and put her head on his chest. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“No, don't be.” He stroked her hair. “Please don't be.”

NEVER BEFORE had Helen felt so chosen. It was how she came to see the meeting with Karen. She'd been chosen by Jan. Not chosen as Jan's girl, necessarily, or even as the woman who belonged in this crazy scenario. Just . . . chosen. To think of it beyond that led only to confusion. And whom had
she
chosen? Glenn or Jan?

Jan.

On Thursday, Jan emerged without the head wrap. It had been a week since his attack; four days since his hospital visit; three days since Helen's return. The two-inch cut above his right ear was healing remarkably well. He carried himself like someone who'd just discovered a great secret, and Helen caught him looking at her strangely on occasion, as if there was something in her eyes that threw him for a loop. At times he seemed to have difficulty keeping his gaze from her. Not that she minded. Goodness, no! She didn't know what to do with it, but she certainly didn't mind.

He made mention of a man named Roald a few times, a man associated with his work. Something about the fact that Roald would just have to adjust. They seemed busier that day, eager for the day to run its course. Several times she heard Jan and Ivena talking in soft tones, and she let them have their space. If the talk concerned her, she didn't care. Actually, it probably did concern her—what else would they be discussing concerning the police and Glenn? But hearing this she wanted to interfere even less.

She continued her reading of
The Dance of the Dead
, and it struck her that the central character in the book was perhaps the most profound person she'd heard of or read about. The fact that his name was Jan Jovic and that he was in the next room talking to Ivena, the mother of the daughter, Nadia, was difficult to believe. The fact that he had winked at her no less than three times that very day was mind numbing. She had winked back, of course, and he'd turned red each time.

Ivena left at five o'clock, after a long talk with Jan in the backyard. They were up to no good, those two. “I will see you tomorrow, Helen,” she announced wearing a grand grin. “Behave yourself and don't let Janjic out of your sight. He is trouble-prone, you know.” She winked.

“I wouldn't dream of it, Ivena.”

Jan walked up behind her. “We're not children, Ivena.”

“I know. And this is supposed to comfort me?”

They laughed and Ivena was off in her little gray Bug.

She'd been gone for less than ten minutes before Jan entered the living room and made his grand announcement. “Helen, I think that you owe me a date. Am I right?”

She laughed nervously. “I guess.”

“You guess? Either I am right or I'm not, my dear. Which is it?”

“You're right. I did stand you up, didn't I?”

“Well then, shall we?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“To where?”

“Ah, but that would ruin my surprise.”

“Wearing this?” she asked, indicating her jeans and T-shirt.

“You look lovely.”

She stood, smiling nervously. “You're saying that you want to take me on a date now? Right now?”

“Yes. That's what I'm saying.”

“You're sure?”

“I insist. Have I given you any other impression since you first came back?”

“No.”

He smiled very wide. “Okay, then.” He stretched out his hand.

Helen touched it . . . then took it. “Okay, then.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

IT HAD been a bad week for Glenn Lutz. A very bad week indeed.

Homicide detective Charlie Wilks and another cop, Parsons, sat across from him in black suede guest chairs, the only furniture in the office other than his desk. They sat with crossed legs, their hands in their laps, avoiding his direct glare, isolated in the top story of the East Tower. They, like the Atlanta sky beyond the great glass wall to their left, wore a gray pallor of death.

Glenn was losing his patience with them. In fact, he'd lost his patience long before their arrival, when Beatrice had first informed him that Charlie needed to see him. It meant that the slime-ball preacher had whined like some two-bit hooker.

“So you receive one call from some lowlife preacher and you come whimpering to me? Is that all the esteemed Atlanta police force is good for these days? Can't you go find yourselves a cat to haul from a tree or something?”

“If we were talking about one call from some lowlife preacher, we wouldn't be here and you know it, Glenn,” Charlie returned. “We interviewed him in the hospital and we checked the guy out. He's one of the most popular religious figures in America.” The detective nodded to a copy of
The Dance of the Dead
sitting on Glenn's desk. “A fact you seem to have familiarized yourself with already.”