The Heaven Trilogy (2 page)

One Year Earlier

Week One

THE CITY was Littleton, a suburb of Denver. The neighborhood was best known as Belaire, an upper-middle-class spread of homes carefully spaced along black streets that snaked between bright green lawns. The street was named Kiowa after the Indians who'd long ago called the plains their own. The home, a two-story stucco topped with a red ceramic tile roof—affectionately called the Windsor by the developer—was the most luxurious model offered in the subdivision. The man standing at the front door was Kent Anthony, the holder of the hefty mortgage on this little corner of the American dream.

In his left hand, a dozen fresh-cut red roses moved to a gentle breeze, starkly accenting the black, double-breasted suit that hung from his narrow shoulders. He stood a lanky six feet, maybe six-two with shoes. Blond hair covered his head, close cropped above the collar. His eyes sparkled blue above a sharp nose; his smooth complexion cast the illusion that he was ten years younger than his true age. Any woman might see him and think he looked like a million bucks.

But today was different. Today Kent was
feeling
like a million bucks because today Kent had actually
earned
a million bucks. Or maybe several million bucks.

The corners of his mouth lifted, and he pressed the illuminated doorbell. His heart began to race, standing right there on his front porch waiting for the large colonial door to swing open. The magnitude of his accomplishment once again rolled through his mind and sent a shudder through his bones. He, Kent Anthony, had managed what only one in ten thousand managed to achieve, according to the good people in the census bureau.

And he had done it by age thirty-six, coming from perhaps the most unlikely beginnings imaginable, starting at absolute zero. The skinny, poverty-stricken child from Botany Street who had promised his father that he would make it, no matter what the cost, had just made good on that promise. He had stretched his boundaries to the snapping point a thousand times in the last twenty years and now . . . Well, now he would stand tall and proud in the family annals. And to be truthful, he could hardly stand the pleasure of it all.

The door suddenly swung in and Kent started. Gloria stood there, her mouth parted in surprise, her hazel eyes wide. A yellow summer dress with small blue flowers settled graciously over her slender figure. A queen fit for a prince. That would be him.

“Kent!”

He spread his arms and smiled wide. Her eyes shifted to the hand holding the roses, and she caught her breath. The breeze swept past him and lifted her hair, as if invited by that gasp.

“Oh, Honey!”

He proudly offered her the bouquet and bowed slightly. In that moment, watching her strain with delight, the breeze lifting blonde strands of hair away from her slender neck, Kent felt as though his heart might burst. He did not wait for her to speak again but stepped through the threshold and embraced her. He wrapped his long arms around her waist and lifted her to meet his kiss. She returned the affection passionately and then squealed with laughter, steadying the roses behind him. “Am I a man who keeps his word, or am I not?”

“Careful, dear! The roses. What on Earth has possessed you? It's the middle of the day!”

“
You
have possessed me,” Kent growled. He set her down and pecked her cheek once more for good measure. He spun from her and bowed in mock chivalry.

She lifted the roses and studied them with sparkling eyes. “They're beautiful! Really, what's the occasion?”

Kent peeled off his coat and tossed it over the stair banister. “The occasion is you. The occasion is us. Where's Spencer? I want him to hear this.”

Gloria grinned and called down the hall. “Spencer! Someone's here to see you.”

A voice called from the hallway. “Who?” Spencer slid around the corner in his stocking feet. His eyes popped wide. “Dad?” The boy ran up to him.

“Hi, Tiger.” Kent bent and swept Spencer from his feet in a great bear hug. “You good?”

“Sure.”

Spencer wrapped his arms around his father's neck and squeezed tight. Kent set the ten-year-old down and faced them both. They stood there, picture perfect, mother and child, five-three and four-three, his flesh and blood. Behind them a dozen family pictures and as many portraits graced the entryway wall. Snapshots of the last twelve years: Spencer as a baby in powder blue; Gloria holding Spencer in front of the first apartment, lovely lime-green walls surrounded by wilting flowers; the three of them in dwelling number two's living room—a real house this time—grinning ear to ear as if the old brown sofa on which they sat was really the latest style instead of a ten-dollar afterthought purchased at some stranger's garage sale. Then the largest picture, taken two years earlier, just after they had purchased this home—house number three if you counted the apartment.

Kent saw them all in a glance, and he immediately thought a new picture would go up now. But on a different wall. A different home. A much bigger home. He glanced at Gloria and winked. Her eyes grew as if she'd guessed something.

He leaned down to his son. “Spencer, I have some very important news. Something very good has just happened to us. Do you know what it is?”

Spencer glanced at his mother with questioning eyes. He nimbly swept blond bangs from his forehead and stared up at Kent. For a moment they stood, silent. Then his son spoke in a thin voice. “You finished?”

“And what is
finished
supposed to mean? Finished what, boy?”

“The program?”

Kent shot Gloria a wink. “Smart boy we have here. And what does that mean, Spencer?”

“Money?”

“You actually finished?” Gloria asked, stunned. “It passed?”

Kent released his son's shoulder and pumped a fist through the air. “You bet it did! This morning.”

He stood tall and feigned an official announcement. “My friends, the Advanced Funds Processing System, the brainchild of one Kent Anthony, has passed all tests with flying colors. The Advanced Funds Processing System not only works, it works perfectly!”

Spencer grinned wide and whooped.

Gloria glowed proudly, reached up on her tippytoes, and kissed Kent on his chin. “Splendid job, Sir Anthony.”

Kent bowed and then leapt for the living room. A catwalk spanned the two-story ceiling above; he ran under it toward the cream leather furniture. He cleared the sofa in a single bound and dropped to one knee, pumping that arm again as if he'd just caught a touchdown pass. “Yes! Yes, yes,
yes!”

The Spanish-style interior lay immaculate about him, the way Gloria insisted it remain. Large ceramic tile ran past a breakfast bar and into the kitchen to his right. A potted palm draped over the entertainment center to his left. Directly before him, above a fireplace not yet used, stood a tall painting of Christ supporting a sagging, forsaken man holding a hammer and spikes.
Forgiven,
it was called.

He whirled to them. “Do you have any idea what this means? Let me tell you what this means.”

Spencer squealed around the sofa and jumped on his knee, nearly knocking Kent to his back. Gloria vaulted the same cream leather sofa, barefooted, her yellow dress flying. She ended on her knees in the cushions, smiling wide, waiting, winking at Spencer, who had watched her make the leap.

Kent felt a fresh surge of affection seize his heart. Boy, he loved her! “This means that your father has just changed the way banks process funds.” He paused, thinking about that. “Let me put it another way. Your father has just saved Niponbank millions of dollars in operating costs.” He thrust a finger into the air and popped his eyes wide. “No, wait! Did I say millions of dollars? No, that would be in one year. Over the long haul,
hundreds
of millions of dollars! And do you know what big banks do for people who save them hundreds of millions of dollars?”

He stared into his son's bright eyes and answered his own question quickly before Spencer beat him to it. “They give them a few of those millions, that's what they do!”

“They've approved the bonus?” Gloria asked.

“Borst put the paperwork through this morning.” He turned to the side and pumped his arm again. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”

Spencer slid off his knee, flopped backward on the couch, and kicked his legs into the air. “Yahoo! Does this mean we get to go to Disneyland?”

They laughed. Kent stood and stepped toward Gloria. “You bet it does.” He plucked one of the roses still gripped in her hand and held it out at arm's length. “It also means we will celebrate tonight.” He winked at his wife again and began to dance with the rose extended, as if it were his partner. “Wine . . .” He closed his eyes and lifted his chin. “Music . . .” He spread his arms wide and twirled once on his toes. “Exquisite food . . .”

“Lobster!” Spencer said.

“The biggest lobster you can imagine. From the tank,” Kent returned and kissed the rose. Gloria laughed and wiped her eyes.

“Of course, this does mean a few small changes in our plans,” Kent said, still holding up the red bud. “I have to fly to Miami this weekend. Borst wants me to make the announcement to the board at the annual meeting. It seems that my career as a celebrity has already begun.”

“This weekend?” Gloria lifted an eyebrow.

“Yes, I know. Our anniversary. But not to worry, my queen. Your prince will be leaving Friday and returning Saturday. And then we will celebrate our twelfth like we have never dreamt of celebrating.”

His eyes sparkled mischievously, and he turned to Spencer. “Excuse me, sire. But would Sunday or Monday suit you best for a ride on the Matterhorn?”

His son's eyes bulged. “The Matterhorn?” He gasped. “Disneyland?”

Gloria giggled. “And just how are we supposed to get to California by Sunday if you're going to Miami?”

Kent looked at Spencer, sucking a quick breath, feigning shock. “Your mother's right. It will have to be Monday, sire. Because I do fear there is no carriage that will take us to Paris in time for Sunday's games.”

He let the statement stand. For a moment only the breeze sounded, flipping the kitchen curtains.

Then it came. “Paris?” Gloria's voice wavered slightly.

Kent turned his head toward her and winked. “But of course, my queen. It is, after all, the city of love. And I hear Mickey has set up shop to boot.”

“You are taking us to
Paris?”
Gloria demanded, still unbelieving. The giggle had fled, chased away by true shock. “Paris, France? Can—can we
do
that?”

Kent smiled. “My dear, we can do anything now.” He lifted a fist of victory into the air.

“Paris!”

Then the Anthonys let restraint fly out the window, and pandemonium broke out in the living room. Spencer hooted and unsuccessfully attempted to vault the couch as his parents had. He sprawled to a tumble. Gloria rushed Kent and shrieked, not so much in shock, but because shrieking fit the mood just now. Kent hugged his wife around the waist and swung her in circles.

It was a good day. A very good day.

CHAPTER THREE

THEY SAT there, the three of them, Gloria, Helen, and Spencer, in Helen's living room, on overstuffed green chairs, the way they sat every Thursday morning, preparing to begin their knocking. Gloria's right leg draped over her left, swinging lightly. She held folded hands on her lap and watched grandmother and grandson engage each other with sparkling eyes.

The fact that Spencer could join them came as one of the small blessings of homeschooling. She had questioned whether a boy Spencer's age would find a prayer meeting engaging, but Helen had insisted. “Children have better spiritual vision than you might think,” she'd said. It only took one meeting with Helen for Spencer to agree.

At age sixty-four, Gloria's mother, Helen Jovic, possessed one of the most sensitive spirits harbored in the souls of mankind. But even the most dimwitted soul who'd read her story would know why. It was all there, penned by her late husband, Jan Jovic—the events of that fateful day in Bosnia as told in “The Martyr's Song” and then the rest of the story written in
When Heaven Weeps
.

Gloria knew the story perhaps better than she knew her own for the simple reason that it was written and her own history wasn't. How many times had she read Janjic's story? She could clearly imagine that day when a handful of soldiers including Jan Jovic entered the small village in Bosnia and tormented the peaceloving women and children.

She could imagine the great sacrifice paid that day.

She could see the heavens opening.

And above all she could hear the song. “The Martyr's Song,” penned now and sung throughout the world by many devout believers.

That day had forever changed Jan Jovic's life. But it was only the beginning. If you knew how to listen, the Martyr's Song could be heard today, still changing lives. Helen's life, for example. And then her daughter Gloria's life. And now Spencer's life.

When Jan had died Helen was still quite young. She'd been left alone to find solace with God. And nothing seemed to bring her that solace like the hours she spent shuffling about the house, hounding heaven, drawing near to the throne. The shuffling used to be pacing, an insistent pacing that actually began many years ago while Gloria was still a child. Gloria would often kneel on the sofa, combing the knots from her doll's hair, watching her mother step across worn carpet with lifted hands, smiling to the sky.

“I am an intercessor,” Helen told her young daughter. “I speak with God.”

And God spoke to her, Gloria thought. More so lately, it seemed.

Helen sat flat footed, rocking slowly in the overstuffed green rocker, her hands resting on the chair's worn arms. A perpetual smile bunched soft cheeks. Her hazel eyes glistened like jewels set in her face, which was lightly dusted with powder but otherwise free of makeup. Her silver hair curled to her ears and down to her neck. She was not as thin as she had been in her early years, but she carried the additional fifteen pounds well. The dresses her mother wore were partly responsible. She could not remember ever seeing her mother wear slacks. Today the dress was a white summer shirtwaist sprinkled with light blue roses that flowed in soft pleats to her knees.