Dinner with Andrew

by Martha Williamson

  MY DINNER with ANDREW

  MY DINNER with ANDREW

  Story and teleplay by

  MARTHA WILLIAMSON,

  EXECUTIVE PRODUCER

  Novelization by

  ROBERT TINE

  Based on the television series created by

  JOHN MASIUS

  Copyright © 1998 by CBS Broadcasting Inc.

  All rights reserved. Touched By An Angel is a trademark of CBS Worldwide, Inc. Used under license. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Baby in the closet allegory courtesy of C. S. Lewis.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Tine, Robert.

  My dinner with Andrew / story and teleplay by Martha Williamson, executive producer; novelization [i.e., novelization] by Robert Tine; based on the television series by John Masius.

  p. cm.

  Based on a script from the TV series Touched By An Angel .

  ISBN 0-7852-7130-9 (pbk.)

  1. Masius, John. II. Williamson, Martha. My dinner with Andrew. III. Touched by an angel (Television program) IV. Title.

  PS3570.I48M9 1998

  813'.54—dc21

  98–19479

  CIP

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 QBK 03 02 01 00 99 98

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter One

  Monica had been standing alone for hours in the opulent lobby of the Park Place Palace Hotel, which was not the most comfortable place to be. With the passing of every minute she felt more and more out of place there in the lobby of what was perhaps New York’s most exclusive and luxurious hotel.

  It was just before lunchtime, and the lobby was crowded with travelers coming and going, checking in and checking out. In the midst of it all, Monica couldn’t help but notice the large contingent of New Yorkers known as “ladies who lunch.” The hotel was playing host to some kind of charity function, and nothing brought out the ladies who lunch like a good, fashionable cause.

  Most of these women were rich—either in their own right through inheritance and long generations of old family money or, as the “old” fortunes died out, through the more common path of fortuitous marriage to wealthy men who made their money themselves, for the most part on Wall Street or in New York’s exceptionally rich real estate market. And wealth conveyed instant prestige in a money-conscious place like Manhattan.

  The ladies who married their money were often different from those who had the good fortune to inherit. For one thing, the ladies who possessed the newer fortunes tended to be social in the extreme. At the beginning of the New York “season,” which ran from the early fall through Christmas and into the late spring, a certain segment of New York society knew, well in advance, the social events they would be attending over the course of the next four or five months.

  There were small luncheons and grand affairs, antique shows and masked balls, dinners and dances and museum benefits, auctions, receptions, book parties, galas, and other glittering events punctuating the cold winter months. Some events were more prestigious than others, and, of those, some towered over the season. The Winter Antiques Show, the Gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Collection, and Tables of Contents for the New York Public Library were very hot tickets. Being seen at these events was mandatory for everyone who was anyone— or who aspired to be someone in the rarefied air of New York City society.

  The social season coincided with the opera season, and whether one cared for music or not, everyone was expected to attend Alice Tully Hall at least three or four times during the season, much as one might have in the days of old New York. The ballet was on at the same time as well, so the social set spent a number of nights with the American Ballet Theater, again, whether they liked it or not. Certain Broadway shows were must-sees, but tickets were bought six months in advance to every new opening of the season. Who knew in March what the hot ticket would be in October?

  For the most part, the ladies who lunch were accompanied by their rich husbands if an activity was set for the evening. By day, their husbands went to keep up the family fortune, and the ladies and their special luncheons held the social field alone.

  Then, suddenly, it would all come to an abrupt end.

  By Memorial Day, at the absolute latest, the season in New York was over, and the ladies who lunch would have moved their whole lives to summer places like the Hamptons, discreet estates in the Hudson Valley, exclusive islands in the Caribbean, and to a couple of select spots in Europe. But by summer’s end they were ready to return to Manhattan and do it all over again.

  Oddly enough, for ladies who lunch, food was the least important element of the lunch itself. The social interaction was the most meaningful component of a charity luncheon, an exchange of intelligence important in society: gossip, of course—who was dating whom, or who was wearing which designer. Since everybody already knew which restaurants, clubs, and designers were in vogue that season, the most vital piece of information one could glean at a luncheon of this sort was the name of the next big thing. The next place to be seen, the next designer to be seen wearing—essential information, as anyone can see.

  The lunch itself was never much. A mesclun salad, a small piece of lightly grilled fish, a dab of green vegetable (preferably an exotic one— bitter broccoli rabe was the veggie of the moment), a sip of mineral water, and a thimble-size cup of espresso were about the most any one of them would consume.

  And while this all might sound shallow and vacuous, it served a very important function.

  The ladies who lunch were also passionately dedicated to a number of charities—the right charities, of course. And despite leading what many people considered superficial and rather frivolous lives, these ladies still managed to accomplish a great deal of good. A pack of ladies who lunch in full charity gallop could raise millions of dollars for a variety of good causes. Monica reflected on all this while she waited, telling herself that God could bring something good from the strangest of sources.

  All the women in the room were dressed to the nines, in clothes that were the last word in the latest fashion, couture that cost in the thousands. Needless to say, Monica felt that she stood out for being underdressed in her simple white shirt and khaki slacks. Her discomfort was further compounded by the fact that she had absolutely no idea why she was there in the first place.

  So she stood there, feeling ever more self-conscious, taking in the action around her, rocking from heel to toe, wondering why she had been called to that place at that time and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in such a sophisticated crowd. She need not have worried, of course—none of the ladies who lunch even noticed her. She was far and away, down beneath their supremely sensitive social radar.

  Monica scanned the room one more time and finally found, to her immense surprise, a friendly face. She felt a warm feeling of relief wash over her and she smiled brightly, threading her way through the crowd to reach her newfound friend.

  Monica’s friend was not one of the ladies, though. Rather it was a bird, a gorgeously colored parrot sitting on his perch in the middle of the lobby, watching the hubbub with much the same apprehension that M
onica had. He looked as if he, too, would rather be elsewhere.

  “Hello,” Monica whispered gently, keeping her voice low so as not to startle the beautiful bird. “I must say, you’re looking very lovely today.” She glanced around the room. “It’s nice to see somebody else who’s wondering what he’s doing in a place like this . . .”

  The parrot looked at Monica with something approaching comprehension, as if he understood that the two of them just did not belong there. He raised his beautiful red and green wings slightly, shrugging as if saying, “What are you gonna do?”

  “How lovely you are, though,” Monica continued. “Such beautiful plumage . . .”

  Monica had not noticed that Tess had made her way through the throng and was now standing directly behind her, looking highly amused as Monica continued to rattle on to the parrot.

  “It’s rather a tony crowd, don’t you think? And so well dressed—it’s like a fashion show, isn’t it? I feel a little underdressed, actually. You sir, however, you put the whole lot of them to shame in those lovely feathers of yours. How long have you been here at this very grand hotel, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Tess heard the question and could not resist. She leaned in close to Monica’s ear.

  “Five years!” she chirped.

  Monica yelped and jumped as if she had been pinched, then whirled around to find Tess. Her supervisor was smiling broadly, vastly amused by the trick she had played on the unsuspecting angel.

  “Oh, Tess!” cried Monica. “You frightened me half to death. I think my heart stopped beating for a second.”

  “Sorry, baby,” said Tess, laughing out loud. “When I saw you yakking away to that bird I just couldn’t resist. You’d have done it yourself if you’d caught me.”

  “Very funny,” Monica grumbled, feeling her own feathers ruffled by Tess’ little prank. “Though I doubt I’d actually dare.”

  Tess continued to laugh heartily. “Oh, baby, if you could only get a look at your face!”

  Monica stood her ground. “Well,” she said sternly, “you’d start talking to birds, too, if you’d spent hours standing around here. I thought I’d go mad having to wait for so long.”

  Tess stopped laughing, and she frowned slightly. “Hours?” she said. “You’ve been here that long already? Where is Andrew?” There was a little growl in Tess’ voice, a sound that the angels under her supervision had come to know and dread.

  “Andrew?” Monica replied. “I don’t know where he is. I guess I thought he would be with you. And while we’re on the subject, what are we doing here anyway, Tess?”

  Tess shook her head slowly. “I wish I knew. Oh, I do not like these last-minute things. I do not,” she said emphatically. “There’s no time to do your homework. Shooting from the hip like this . . . something’s always bound to fall through the cracks.”

  Monica nodded. It was no secret that Tess ran a very tight ship. But both Monica, the caseworker, and Tess, her supervisor, knew that as angels they were required to work on a need-to-know basis. It had always been that way. Angels don’t know everything . . . but God does.

  Tess turned and looked at the crowd. She looked less than impressed with what she saw. The fashionable ladies were everywhere, chatting, twittering like flocks of well-dressed birds, no one paying the slightest bit of attention to Tess and Monica. Not one of those women was aware that they were in the presence of two extraordinary creatures. While Tess looked older than Monica, she gave no indication of just how ancient she really was.

  Tess had been sent by God to earth thousands of years before. Her first assignment on earth had been in ancient Rome. She had been a minor functionary in the royal palace of Augustus Caesar, an official who just happened to have been set down in the very heart of the known world. Tess had been the emperor’s food taster— an important but dangerous post. The Romans of that era had a genuine knack for the use of poisons, and it was one of the most popular ways of doing away with unpopular emperors. Fortunately, she had never taken a dose of poison for her employer—Augustus had been nothing less than beloved of his subjects.

  In the succeeding centuries she had worked all over the world and had encountered all kinds of people. Tess had met the famous and the lowly, the saintly and the direst of sinners. She had done God’s work tirelessly and had known inspiring triumphs and heartbreaking defeats when humans would not open their hearts to hear the message of God. She took no pride in her successes, just as she refused to carry the burden of those moments of defeat. God’s work went on, and she trusted that His words would never return void without accomplishing what they were sent out to do.

  It had taken a while for the two angels to actually meet. Tess and Monica didn’t become a team until 1,939 years after Tess’ arrival in ancient Rome. They met a long way from Rome too—in rural New Jersey, on the night when Orson Welles from the Mercury Theater was scaring the daylights out of the entire country with his radio broadcast War of the Worlds.

  That first encounter between Monica and Tess was not a pleasant one. Tess had been forced to reprimand Monica after she had added to the panic of the night by making an annunciation to an already spooked bunch of people. It was then that Monica learned a valuable lesson: Timing is everything.

  The unfortunate first meeting between Tess and Monica was all in the very distant past now, and the two of them worked well together—despite Tess’ penchant for practical jokes. Although there were times when Tess lost patience with Monica, she cared for her charges deeply and was proud of the progress Monica had made over the years.

  Monica scanned the crowd and this time— and with some relief—saw someone she knew. Andrew was making his way toward them almost at a run, as if he were in a terrific hurry.

  “There he is!” said Monica, pointing at Andrew.

  “And doesn’t he look nice?” said Tess.

  In contrast to Tess and Monica, Andrew did look as if he belonged in the luxurious lobby of the Park Place Palace Hotel. He was dressed in a faultlessly fitted, dove gray, double-breasted suit and a crisp white shirt. At his throat was a perfectly knotted, tasteful silk tie.

  “Hi,” said Andrew, walking up to them. “I finally made it. I was worried there for a moment. I got the call to be here at the very last minute.”

  Tess looked him over from head to toe like a sergeant examining a soldier on a parade ground.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “whatever it is, whatever’s going on here, you certainly dressed for it.”

  “Thanks,” said Andrew. He looked from Monica to Tess. “So what is it? What is this all about?”

  “What is what?” Tess demanded.

  A slight look of puzzlement appeared on Andrew’s face. “The assignment, Tess. What is it?”

  Tess threw her hands up in disgust. “You don’t know? Doesn’t anyone know? Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

  Monica was as puzzled as the other two angels. “What is happening here?”

  But Andrew was clueless. “I don’t know. Is something going on, or did we get called here for no good reason?”

  The frustration in Tess’ voice was plain to hear. “I got word that you needed help, Andrew,” she told him. “And you needed it in a great big hurry, too.”

  Monica nodded. “So did I.”

  Although primarily an Angel of Death, Andrew often assisted Monica and Tess with their assignments. He could, however, revert to his official capacity at any time (even if he was in the middle of working on a case with Tess and Monica).

  Andrew shrugged. “I don’t need any help. I mean, not that I know of. I just got a message to show up here and wait. I figured it was going to be something sudden—a heart attack or something like that.”

  He looked around the crowded room, puzzlement still showing on his face. “It’s funny, though,” he added. “I usually know at least something about the case beforehand.”

  Tess shook her head and looked disgusted. “See what I mean, Miss Wings?” she said to Monica. “Just what I
was saying a minute ago— when you shoot from the hip, something is going to slip through the—”

  “You!” The word came from across the room and was loud enough to cut through the general noise in the room.

  Tess, Monica, and Andrew turned to see a woman bearing down on them. She could have been the prototype of a lady who lunches. She was dressed as lunching lady par excellence, clad in a stunning piece of Chanel couture that was part of the uniform of the upper echelon of this already elite group. Her blonde hair was perfectly coiffed, her nails and makeup looked as if they had been applied by professionals.

  In addition, there was a no-nonsense attitude about the woman, a sense that she was quite comfortable issuing orders and had no conception that they might not be obeyed instantly. It was plain that she exuded that air of command shared by very rich women and very high-ranking military officers.

  “You!” she repeated, plucking at Andrew’s sleeve. She paid not the slightest attention to either Monica or Tess. “Well, thank goodness I’ve found you. You have no idea what a bind I’m in—and you are the one who is going to get me out of it.”

  Andrew was nonplussed by the sudden attention. “Uh, yes ma’am,” he said. “Can I, uh, help you with something?”

  “Besides saving my life?” the woman said. “No, that will be quite enough for one day.”

  Andrew smiled. “As you wish, ma’am.” He was something of an expert in saving lives— though not in any way that the woman could have imagined.

  She thrust out a perfectly manicured hand.

  “Jackie Cysse,” she said. She spoke as if those two words, that name alone, spoke volumes. When Andrew did not respond immediately she repeated her name again. “Jackie Cysse.” She sounded a little on the impatient side.

  “Ah . . . ,” said Andrew, not quite sure what to say next. Though, somewhere in the back of his mind the name “Cysse” did sound vaguely familiar.

  “I know you,” Jackie Cysse said, her eyes narrowing as she peered at Andrew. “I’m sure I do. Don’t I?”