“I couldn’t agree more,” said Andrew. “Nobody wants to live like that, and God would not ask you to. It’s funny. If I asked you what hell was like, you’d know in a minute—people have a much clearer idea of what hell is like than heaven.”
“Right. That’s because deep down I think we’re all sure there’s a hell but can’t believe there’s a heaven. And a lot of us are sure we are headed to hell.” Kate sounded serious. “There must be a reason that painters have painted pictures of hell over the centuries. I can’t recall a single painting of heaven.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” said Andrew. “But I can’t paint you a picture. I can’t draw to save my life.”
Kate smiled. “No? Okay then, why don’t you tell me something about heaven?”
“Anything,” Andrew replied. “Ask me anything.”
“So how many cable channels has He got?” She stopped dancing dead in the middle of the floor. “’Cause if He hasn’t got cable, I’m not going near the place. Understood?”
Andrew laughed and led her from the dance floor, the two of them taking stools at the intimate little bar at Chez Tess.
“You are really something,” he said, shaking his head. “Really something.” He gazed at her for a moment. “Okay . . .” He paused for a moment. “Okay. I want you to imagine you’re locked in a closet. For years.”
Kate smiled broadly. “I know all about that. You’re talking about my laboratory. Much as I love my work, sometimes that lab feels as confining as a prison cell.”
Andrew ignored the joke and plunged on. “And it turns out that during this incarceration, you give birth to a baby.”
“I do?”
Andrew nodded. “Yes, you do.”
“This is getting very weird,” Kate said. “Any idea who the father might be?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Andrew. He refused to be pushed off the topic at hand. “Stick with me here. You don’t know if you’re ever going to get out, but you hope so. In the meantime, you draw little pictures of dogs and trees and birds. You do this to show your baby, who has never seen any of it, what life is like out in the real world.”
Kate nodded slowly. “Okay . . .”
“And then one day,” Andrew continued, “the baby comes to you and says something like ‘Gee, trees and dogs and birds and houses in the real world are pretty small and flat, aren’t they, Mom?’”
The look on Andrew’s face intensified, and his eyes seemed to become an even deeper shade of blue. “And that’s when you realize that no matter how hard you try to draw the picture, you’ll never be able to get that baby of yours to imagine what reality looks like. Not until he sees it for himself. So until then, you tell your child you love him, and you ask him to trust you.”
Andrew paused to let the full weight of his words sink in. They were staring at each other, their eyes locked together. The only sound in the room was the tinkling of the piano keys.
“So,” said Kate after a while, “you’re telling me that heaven is the ultimate reality, huh? Is that what you tell your dying patients? How do they react to that?”
“No,” Andrew replied. “I don’t tell them that. That’s what I share with them. Because I go through it with them.” His face was still and solemn.
Kate’s eyes had not left his face. “I’ve never met anyone like you before,” she said. “You really believe this—you really believe in God—but you’re not one of those angry, pushy types. You know the kind of person I mean.”
Andrew knew where she was going, but he refused to pass judgment on anyone or their beliefs. “God makes Himself known to everyone in His own way, Kate,” he said gently.
“See,” she said. “That’s what I mean about you. You are so . . . understanding.”
As she spoke her face seemed to soften, and her eyes grew misty.
“You remind me of . . . I don’t know . . .” Her cheeks colored as she flushed with embarrassment. “I know this isn’t going to come out right.” She paused another moment or two, as if summoning up the courage to speak her heart. “You look like . . . love.”
She laughed and looked away, feeling silly and self-conscious at such a naked display of emotion. In that moment not one of her colleagues at the laboratory would have recognized her as the stern and severe Dr. Kate Calder.
Andrew took her by the hand. “That is the most wonderful thing that anyone has ever said to me.” Then he lowered his lips to her hand and kissed it lightly before leading her back to the dance floor.
Standing in the doorway of her kitchen, Tess saw the kiss and was not pleased. She really disliked it when one of her angels became emotionally involved in a case—and yet angels were naturally compassionate, so not getting involved was very difficult. Still, Tess did not like it.
“What is it with that boy?” she said aloud.
Behind her, Adam was slaving over a hot stove. He opened his mouth to answer her question (Adam always had an opinion on any subject you could care to name and he was not afraid to give it), but Tess stopped him. She stepped back into the kitchen and waved a threatening finger at the angel.
“I don’t need to hear from you,” she snapped. “You just keep stirring!”
Chapter Ten
When Tess stepped out of the kitchen a moment or two after yelling at Adam, her chef’s hat and kitchen uniform whites were gone. Now she was wearing a simple but elegant black evening gown under a dramatic red opera jacket. It was brightly decorated with shimmering spangles and sequins. No one who saw her then would have guessed that this well-dressed woman had been, just moments before, dressed in work clothes and laboring over the hot grill in the restaurant kitchen.
Monica saw her emerge in her finery but said nothing. Whatever Tess was up to would be sure to manifest itself shortly. Monica was more concerned about Norman Delmonico. Ever since taking his first sip of that rarest of wines, the 1870 Chateau LaFitte, he had not been able to slake his appetite.
Contrary to popular belief, restaurant critics are not gluttons—they can’t afford to be. They eat in fine restaurants almost every night of the year, and despite any enthusiasm they have for their jobs, they have to pace themselves, to rein in their desires or risk jading the palate completely.
Typically, a restaurant critic like Norman dined in the company of at least two or three friends. He would taste food from their plates as well as his own, and he might return to the restaurant three or four times before filing a review.
But this night was different—and the food at Chez Tess was decidedly unusual. In fact, it was completely out of the realm of anything he had ever experienced. The food was so good that the normally restrained Norman Delmonico was unable to control himself. From the first taste of the first piece of bread, he had fallen victim to the exquisite—the heavenly—flavors of Tess’ cooking. They had overwhelmed him, washing away any reserve, consuming him in a fever of pure, mad immoderation. He had worked his way through the prix fixe menu in an ecstatic feeding frenzy, eating with both hands, cramming the food into his mouth as if he hadn’t tasted nourishment in six months or more.
The sight disconcerted Monica, and while she knew the maxim about the customer always being right, she felt obliged to say something to him. She approached the arrogant food critic with some trepidation.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said softly, not wanting to scare him. Delmonico had his face down close to the plate like a dog—Monica half expected him to growl if she got too close to his dinner. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, sir, but you really shouldn’t eat so quickly. There’s plenty more where that came from. Really there is. Take it slowly, please, sir.”
Delmonico looked up but didn’t stop chewing. “I can’t help it,” he said, his voice filled with bliss. “This isn’t food,” he declared. “This is life itself. I have never eaten—never experienced anything like this, not here in New York, not in Europe, not the Far East. The chef is a genius—”
“Oh, yes,” Monica agreed, “she i
s that.”
“The textures, the aroma,” Delmonico raved on, “the indescribable fluidity of flavors. It’s the most astonishing meal of my life. This is the finest restaurant in the city—never mind the city, there’s probably no better place anywhere in the world.”
He looked up at Monica, gazing at her beseechingly. “I must have more, young lady. What else have you got back there?” He peered over at the table where Kate and Andrew had been sitting. “What did those people have?”
“They had veal, sir,” said Monica.
“I didn’t see veal on the menu.”
“It was a substitution,” said Monica sheepishly. “Made in the spirit of hospitality, you understand.”
“Then be as hospitable to me, young lady,” Delmonico ordered. “Bring me the veal as well.”
“Yes, sir,” said Monica, withdrawing quickly, leaving Delmonico to his delirious, gluttonous rapture.
Tess was aware of the situation with Delmonico, but she had to leave that in Monica’s hands. She was more concerned with Andrew’s predicament—that’s why she had emerged from the kitchen. Decked out in her finery, she marched into the restaurant, striding past the food critic, crossing the dance floor—she ignored Andrew and Kate, the two of them still dancing and talking— making straight for the piano.
The rather pallid dance music that was dribbling out of the instrument did not suit her purposes at all. She gave the baby grand a purposeful, swift kick and instantly the music changed, shifting from the ambling, rhythmic tinkling to a more forceful arpeggio, and then into the introductory bars of a song.
Tess knew that she had to send a message to Andrew, and there is no better way to get your point across in a situation like this than through a song. Singing in her rich, deep, smoky voice, Tess launched into the old Bergman/Legrand standard—an old song, but one with lyrics fresh and fitting to the situation at hand.
“What are you doing the rest of your life,” Tess sang slowly and soulfully. “North and South and East and West of your life. . . I have only one request of your life, that you spend it all with me.”
Andrew and Kate continued to dance. If she heard the lyrics of the song, she gave no indication. Her eyes were closed, her cheek was resting on his shoulder, and the look on her face suggested that while her body was in the restaurant, her mind was somewhere far, far away.
“All the seasons and times of your days, all the nickels and dimes of your days,” Tess sang on. “Let the reasons and rhymes of your days all begin and end with me.”
Just as Tess intended, Andrew got the message. With Kate still in his arms, the two of them moving slowly on the dance floor, Andrew picked up the thread of the conversation.
“So,” he said, “let’s say you didn’t have five years to live. What would you do if you only had one night left to live?”
Kate opened her eyes, as if awakening from a dream. She laughed at Andrew’s question. “Life and death . . . ,” she said. “There seems to be a theme to this evening. It’s hard to imagine having such a good time with this subject coming up over and over again.”
“Come on,” said Andrew. “Tell me what you would do if this were your last night on earth.”
Kate laughed again. “Oh well,” she said, “that’s an easy one. “If this were my last night on earth there is only one thing I could do.”
“And that is?” Andrew asked.
“I think I’d have to kill myself,” Kate said tartly. “There would be nothing else for me to do.”
Andrew frowned. There was, he knew, no greater waste of life and emotion than to give in to despair. Suicide was the ultimate act of despair, the final insult against hope.
“Why?” he asked.
Kate smiled mischievously. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Try me.”
“I’ve done it,” Kate said. The triumph and jubilation in her voice were plain. “I have found a gene sequence. I really found one.”
Tess continued to sing. “I want to see your face, in every kind of light, in fields of gold and forests of the night . . .”
Andrew shared her joy, even if he wasn’t quite sure what she had achieved. She looked so plainly happy that he could not help but feel the bliss radiating from her face. “So you’ve discovered a gene for a disease?”
“Almost,” Kate replied. “It’s like finding the map. All I have to do now is let it lead me to the treasure. It’s just a matter of time. But I’m just about there. Finally, after all this time . . .” Kate shrugged. “So if I died tonight without seeing my work through to its completion, I would be devastated. Wouldn’t you be?”
Andrew nodded. “I can understand that, I guess. But I don’t like talk about suicide. You should never give in to despair and hopelessness, you know.”
“I’ll try not to . . . at least not until my work is done. That’s the most important thing. That’s all I can focus on.”
“And when you stand before the candles on a cake, oh let me be the one to hear the silent wish that you make.” Tess brought the song to a soft, gentle close.
Kate’s statements evoked a series of complicated emotions in Andrew. She needed a little time, not the five or six years she thought she had; maybe just a matter of weeks, perhaps even days. But no angel, not even the Angel of Death, had power over life and death. If he had some kind of power, Andrew would be loathe to use it, even to grant this small wish that could lead to such a great discovery. He knew that God did not make mistakes, though His plan did not always seem clear to angels or humans.
“How much time do you need?” Andrew asked. “How long would it take to follow your map to the treasure?”
“A few weeks,” said Kate. “Maybe a month, perhaps two. That’s why I’m so big on security these days.”
“Why? What difference does it make?”
Kate laughed again. “What difference does it make? Andrew, it makes all the difference in the world.”
“How so?”
“Don’t be so naive,” Kate retorted. “If somebody got hold of those notes now . . . somebody like Beth, she could claim the work as her own. It wouldn’t take her much time at all to use my work to identify the gene and take all the credit for herself.”
“How much time would it take if you and Beth worked together?” Andrew asked gently.
The joy faded in Kate’s face and a coldness came into her eyes. “You don’t get it, do you? If we worked together, we would share the credit. That just is not an option, Andrew. Don’t you understand?”
She could feel her anger building like a head of steam. She had been so happy a moment ago that it made her fury more intense. There was a bitter taste in her mouth and she seemed to spit out her words.
“I’m sorry, Andrew,” she said caustically. “I know it doesn’t sound very religious or heavenly, but I want the credit. I’ve worked for it. I deserve it. It’s mine.” She broke from the embrace and turned her back to him. “I wish I hadn’t told you,” she said. “I really wish I hadn’t. I think I’d better be going now.”
“I’ll see you home,” said Andrew hurriedly. He knew he had to spend more time with her. There were things she had to work out this very night before it was time to take her to her real home.
Kate stopped him. “No,” she said coldly. “Remember our deal? I arrive alone. I leave alone.”
She stalked back toward the table, intending to grab her purse and leave. It was plain that the evening was over—and it had ended in the disappointment and mortification she had more or less anticipated at the outset.
“Kate,” said Andrew as he followed her back to the table, “I have to tell you. I have a secret too.”
Oh God, Kate thought, here it comes. The inevitable. “Let me guess. You’re married, right?”
“No.”
“You’d be surprised, you know,” said Kate bitterly. “That’s the secret I usually get to hear.” She reached the table, picked up her purse, and turned toward the door, ready to leave.
“P
lease,” said Andrew. “At least stay and finish your champagne . . . and hear my secret.”
Kate struggled with herself for a moment or two, then permitted her curiosity to overwhelm her anger and her bitterness. She sat down and faced Andrew across the table like a hostile witness. For Kate the magic had gone out of the evening. Suddenly, she looked tired and depressed.
“Okay,” she said wearily. “Tell me.”
Andrew took a moment to frame his thoughts. “Kate, I know this is going to sound crazy,” he said slowly, “but there was a reason that you bid so hard and spent so much money at that auction today. A reason beyond your own understanding.”
Kate nodded and almost—but not quite— broke into a smile. “Don’t give me that. I know exactly why I bid on you.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, I know.” She allowed herself a smile. “It was silly and petty, but it was some tangible way of proving to Beth—and myself—that I was always going to win. And I did.”
Andrew shook his head. “No, that wasn’t it at all,” he said emphatically. “You may think it was, but—”
“I know why I did it, Andrew,” said Kate angrily.
“Not consciously. The reason is that people who are about to die sometimes find themselves having dinner with Death.”
If he had expected Kate to be shocked or surprised at his words, he was disappointed. Instead, she shrugged off what he had said, paying little attention, refusing to let it sink in. Kate was not going to be swayed. She would not share credit with anyone. Why should she? She had done the hard work, she had put in the long hours. She deserved every bit of recognition that was due to her.
“Well, I guess,” she said, shrugging, “that’s probably true if you want to get psychological. I mean, you’re the death and dying counselor, and maybe I sensed that, since I’m going to die in the near future.” She was silent a moment, as if thinking about what to say next, whether she should say it at all. “You know what I think about death, Andrew? Maybe it’ll interest you, seeing as it’s your stock-in-trade.”
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