Clay sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head as he leaned against his desk. “I see that Barbara brightened up your day this morning,” he remarked sardonically. He looked into what he clearly read as unadulterated rage in the eyes of his unwelcome visitor. “She has a flair for the dramatic. Did you know that she was an actress when I met her? Foolish woman, she gave up the bright lights of Hollywood to marry me. Obviously she hasn’t lost her flair.”
Marcus scowled. “She didn’t need any drama, Parmenter, she had pictures. What is it they say, a picture is worth a thousand words?”
Clay remained calm; it was an ability he exceeded at, having learned long ago how to turn off visible emotions. By staying calm, he was usually able to control every situation. Judging by the look on Marcus’ face—the glinting eyes unable to contain the obvious fury of a storm raging within him—Clay couldn’t afford not to be in control.
“Marcus, the pictures don’t mean anything. Trust me; nothing happened.” He spread his hands in front of him, as if gesturing that he had nothing to hide, and leaned back in his chair. “This is all just a huge misunderstanding. I think deep, down inside, if you’ll allow yourself to calm down and see it, you’ll know that I’m right. Nothing happened between Morgan and me.”
Marcus nearly laughed. “Is that the best you can come up with, that I should trust you to tell me that nothing happened between you and my wife?” He shook his head. “You were quite cozy, very much alone and up close and personal with my wife at Santoni’s, just the two of you. It’s obvious that Barbara didn’t think it was nothing. Seeing as I’m here, I may as well listen to whatever fairytale you would care to fabricate, but I warn you, I’m not in a charitable mood.” He couldn’t recall ever feeling such rage, such an unpleasant rush of adrenaline, and he wondered how it would feel if his fist just happened to connect with the other man’s finely chiseled nose.
“Marcus, you know how charming your wife can be.” Clay spoke quietly as he sought to diffuse the situation between them. The other man’s eyes bore so harshly into his that it was physically uncomfortable to hold eye contact. “She asked me to remove a charge nurse from Angela’s case, and how could I refuse? With your position on the Board, the endowments from your family, well, what choice did I have but to oblige her?”
“So far, you haven’t explained what you were doing in a bar with Morgan, or why you were in my wife’s face.”
“A little patience, please,” Clay continued, his voice nearly a monotone as he sought to keep Marcus’ mood from escalating. “I realized I had made a mistake by removing a competent nurse with an excellent record from a case purely on a beautiful woman’s whim, so I reneged. Morgan was livid! The truth of the matter is that she was telling me just what she thought of me when that picture was taken. While I know it might look bad, there was nothing to it. If your wife has ever strayed on you, let me assure you it wasn’t with me.”
Marcus closed his eyes and exhaled. The tension building in his chest felt like it might burst, he contemplated hitting the man to see if that would relieve his tension. He and Morgan had not slept together but a handful of times over the last few months. At first, he had chalked it up to the general malaise that going through the nightmare of having a critically ill child caused. In light of Barbara’s visit to his office, thoughts he wanted no part of were working their way deeply into his mind. He wondered now if their lack of intimacy had been due to another man entering the equation. He wondered further—though he really didn’t want to—if the child Morgan miscarried had been Parmenter’s.
“Marcus, as God is my witness, nothing happened between Morgan and me,” Clay assured him, truthful about the final outcome at least. He was usually a pretty good mediator and peacemaker, but was too close to the situation to be effective in dissipating it. “Sit down, man, and take a deep breath before you explode. Your face looks like you slept in a tanning bed for a week. I keep a bottle of scotch in my bottom drawer for the difficult moments life throws at us. I think you’ll agree that this certainly qualifies. Let’s have a drink, we’ll both feel better.”
Marcus wasn’t interested in having a drink, reasoning, or listening to anything else Clay had to say. He leaned forward against the desk and grabbed the doctor by his shirt, forcefully pulling him up and out of the chair. It helped to release some tension and he enjoyed the fleeting look of fear that flashed through the gray shadows in the other man’s eyes.
Clay wondered at his wisdom of having dissuaded Sherri from calling security. Marcus was a reasonable man; surely he would come to his senses if he, himself stayed calm.
The two men were nearly nose-to-nose as Marcus continued to grip the other man by the shirt, deeply wrinkling the crisp fabric beneath his grasping fingers. Clay had invaded the sanctity of his marriage—whether anything had actually happened or not—and deserved to know just how wrong his decision to even think of becoming involved with Morgan was.
“If I ever so much as catch you looking at my wife, you’ll be picking your teeth up off the floor!” Marcus threatened. “Just in case you don’t know, I’m a personal friend of the Chairman of the Board of this hospital, and I don’t have to depend upon his good graces for my livelihood. Jason and I are old family friends; we grew up together in Cincinnati. You get in my way, Doctor, and I promise you that I can and will take great pleasure in making things very difficult for you.” He released his hold on Clay’s shirt and the shaken doctor fell back into his chair. “Have I made myself clear?”
In an act of arrogant pride, Clay straightened his shirt, stood up and met the challenge in Marcus’s stare as he attempted to recover his dignity. “I’m not afraid of you, or your idle threats. Did you really think I’d feel threatened because you and Jason Everett are old buddies?” He laughed. “I’m not without my own connections. I don’t care who you know, or how you know them! I provide a valuable service to this hospital, and I’ve been appointed to numerous health care task forces by several Ohio governors. I am a highly respected physician while you’re merely a spoiled, little rich boy throwing a tantrum.”
Marcus found himself laughing—he couldn’t help it. The great Doctor Parmenter sounded like a pathetic school boy trying his best to stare down a bully so he could save his own rear end. If there was one thing Marcus wasn’t, it was a bully. That he had managed to come off as one amused him. “You might want to check out Desmond Cole’s name among Ohio political circles. He’s my father and a close, personal friend of Governor Litchfield.”
Clay raised his chin defiantly as he ignored that last remark. He looked him straight in the eye, grinning. “And just between us boys,” he taunted as he leaned in closer to Marcus, “I could’ve had Morgan if I truly wanted her, and I’m sure I still can.”
The next thing Clay knew, he saw a blinding flash of bright white light, followed by blue stars exploding before his eyes as Marcus punched him full-force in the nose. The force of the blow hurled him backward against his chair and propelled it into a roll that didn’t stop until it collided noisily with the credenza behind his desk. The credenza shuddered; several items fell from the top shelf and crashed to the floor. He felt a strange numbness, almost like Novocain, in the center of his face. When he touched his fingertips to his nose, he looked at them and saw they were crimson, dripping with his blood.
“Have a nice day,” Marcus quipped with a smile as he turned on his heel and opened the door.
As he emerged from Clay’s office, he couldn’t help but notice that Sherri was sitting at Brenda’s desk, and two other women were failing miserably at looking nonchalant as they stood in front of her. They glanced up at him curiously, then as if on cue simultaneously averted their gaze.
“You’re Sherri, aren’t you?” Marcus asked. She reminded him of a Morgan wannabe, a lovely young woman who probably thought that looks were all it took to succeed in life, to have one’s way and make her dreams come true.
Sherri nodded and immediately perked up, her face brightening becau
se Marcus Cole had remembered her name.
“Well, Sherri, you might want to get an ice pack for Doctor Parmenter,” he suggested while she sat bug-eyed and silent in her chair. He smiled at her and each of the other women who were now staring at him, all as equally wide-eyed as Sherri.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed your morning, ladies. Our own administrative assistants would be appalled at my behavior, not to mention my lovely wife, Morgan. In their honor, I apologize for my rudeness. I wish you all a very Merry Christmas.” Marcus smiled and made his way out into the hallway.
As he strode down the hallway of immaculate beige Italian-tile toward the elevator, Marcus noticed his hand was throbbing. He looked down at the scraped, reddened knuckles of his right hand and shook it as if that might alleviate the pain. He was able to move his fingers and doubted he had broken anything. The elevator doors opened and Marcus was disappointed he would not be riding alone. The other passenger was Brownie, his daughter’s second-favorite nurse.
“Hello, Mr. Cole,” Brownie greeted, eyeing the other man’s hand warily. “What happened to your hand? That looks painful. Did you have an accident?”
Marcus sighed, got in the elevator, and then looked at Brownie. He had only seen him once or twice, Angela raved about him, and even his brother had commented that the male nurse was friendly and pleasant. “I’m sure it’s nothing an ice pack and some ibuprofen won’t fix.”
“What floor would you like?” Brownie was standing in front of the elevator’s panel of buttons as the doors closed.
“Lobby, please.” Marcus smiled at Brownie and looked up above the doors at the digital, glowing cyan colored lights that indicated which floor the elevator was on. The car unexpectedly lurched, and suddenly stopped. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.
“Nothing to worry about, it does this sometimes,” Brownie reassured him. “It usually starts back up in a few seconds.” He looked at Marcus’ hand again before he made eye contact with him. “Are you alright, Mr. Cole? If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem upset. Is there anything I can help you with? Do you need to go to the ER for an x-ray of your hand?”
Marcus wished the elevator would start again so he wouldn’t have to continue this embarrassing inquisition about his hand. He couldn’t tell Brownie that he’d punched out the Chief of Staff for putting the moves on his wife. “I don’t think so,” he replied. “Let’s just say it hasn’t been the best possible day so far.”
“How are you and Mrs. Cole? I’m sure you are both thrilled to have Angela home. She’s a beautiful little girl, your Angela, and very special in the eyes of God.”
Marcus was growing impatient with the stalled elevator; his hand hurt and he did not want to make small talk, not while he needed some answers from Morgan. “How could you know that my daughter is ‘special in the eyes of God’?” he asked tersely, feeling somehow violated by the remark. “Never mind, shouldn’t we ring an alarm or something so that the maintenance people, or whoever takes care of this damned thing will know there’s a problem?”
As Marcus watched, a golden glow began on the elevator’s floor at Brownie’s feet before rising upward across his body and illuminating his face. He could only stare at the young man before him who was glowing.
“Don’t be alarmed. In a few moments, you’ll be on your way.”
“I….” Marcus didn’t know what to say. “Who are you?”
“You know me as Brownie. What you don’t know is that I’m an angel of God, which is why I know Angela’s status with Him. Do you believe in God, Marcus?”
“Of course,” Marcus managed, annoyed. “Did you say you’re an angel? Why have you revealed yourself to me?”
“You have a very special daughter, Marcus. So many prayers were offered up for your daughter’s healing throughout the course of her illness. Those prayers touched the heart of God who spared her life, unlike another little girl some years ago who grew up in Heaven instead of remaining with her family. Unfortunately, her surviving twin sister blames herself to this very day because of some careless words that slipped out during an argument over a board game.”
“I don’t understand,” Marcus replied honestly.
“What I have to say won’t take long. I know you’re in a hurry, so forgive my being blunt. You and your wife weren’t among those who prayed for Angela to be cured, or who looked to Him for strength to endure. Oh, in the beginning you cried out to God to heal your daughter, but in time even that stopped. In fact, it’s been a very long time since you’ve looked to Him for anything. Isn’t that correct, Marcus?”
Caught off guard, Marcus didn’t know what to say. He had been raised in church, regularly attended Sunday school and vacation Bible school every summer. He had been active in church activities and youth groups, and at one time had come very close to accepting Jesus as his savior. Then he discovered girls, the ones who didn’t go to church or have problems with provocative movies encouraging sex, and steamy make-out sessions in the back seat of his expensive, ‘chick magnet’ car. They didn’t say “no” to his insistent hands, or worry about sin.
He graduated from high school, headed off to college and drifted away from the teachings and beliefs of his parents, and from God. He and Jackson had both been raised by parents who prayed, tithed, supported the church and read the Bible often. While Jackson had maintained a lasting relationship with God, Marcus had not.
During his college days as a business major at Harvard, Marcus lost whatever remaining, waning interest in religion he’d had; it was simply gone one day. Upon hearing Brownie’s words, he realized that despite what he had been taught as a child, as an adult he lived his life without giving God much thought, let alone gratitude for his affluence.
“What do you want from me?” Marcus asked as feelings of conviction made him suddenly ashamed and uncomfortable. He longed to be out of the elevator and away from Brownie and his all too knowing scrutiny. “I prayed for my daughter, and I thanked God when we got the news that Angela was cured.”
“I suppose a ‘thanks, God; I owe you one,’ is better than nothing at all,” Brownie said in his mild, non-accusing voice. “I’m not here to judge you, nor do I mean to be harsh with you. It is my mission, among other things, to let you know that while you’ve put God on a backburner in your busy, successful life, He has not done the same with you. A man who lives without God is not only living foolishly, he’s living without hope for today, for eternity, for what else is there to believe in if not God? Many men foolishly believe that God is a crutch used by the weak to get through life. Others believe that they are totally self-made, that they’ve done it all completely on their own, with no one to answer to—or to thank—but themselves.”
“I haven’t done that,” Marcus defended but it sounded lame to his ears.
“Haven’t you?” Brownie asked simply. “You’re from a wonderful family and you’ve never fallen on hard economic times. Where do you suppose that came from? Ask your father, as Desmond Cole knows the truth and he will tell you so! Yes, you’re a successful businessman in your own right, the envy of many men! And you’ve been blessed with a very special child.”
“I’m not the only man ever born into a wealthy family. I don’t see why I should feel guilty for my success,” Marcus argued defensively. “I’m a good person, Brownie, and an honorable man! I support charities and do my best to help when I can!”
Brownie knew that Marcus, like so many others, did not understand. Still, he had an assignment and must do as he had been commanded. “God blesses whomever He chooses to bless whether they be sinner or saint, whether they believe in Him or not; it’s just the way He is.”
With racing thoughts, Marcus could only stare into the haunting eyes; the illuminated face he now realized belonged to an angelically beautiful young man.
“I can only reveal myself to those whom He selects. Marcus, there’s more to happiness than how much money you have, what kind of car you drive or the square footage of the structure yo
u call home. Money itself doesn’t heal. Yes, it buys medical care and comfort, but there is so much more to it than that! I don’t know why so many humans just don’t see that. Money can give you a comfy life while you’re here on earth, but what about your soul? Think about it, Marcus, give it your attention as if it were a business proposition that could change your financial status, examine your heart and see what’s in your soul. Your very life depends on it, so don’t treat your business ventures better than your soul.”
Suddenly, the glow surrounding Brownie grew in intensity into a bright, white shimmering light that reminded him of sparklers. Marcus squinted and within seconds he saw the man-angel disappear before his very eyes. He was alone when the elevator doors opened unceremoniously to the lobby of the hospital. Marcus wasn’t sure how long he had stood there trying to digest what he had seen and heard when an unfamiliar voice called out to him.
“Are you alright, young man?” an elderly woman with a few streaks of brown still showing in her short, gray hair asked him. She was a volunteer wearing a light-blue smock with the hospital’s crest, and a photo ID fastened to the pocket. She peered at him with curious, grandmotherly eyes. “Sir?”
Marcus wasn’t sure what to make of what had transpired in the elevator, or the fact that his hand no longer hurt. The woman’s query about his condition seemed to snap him back into the reality of the world he lived in where few people believed that God sent His angels to deliver messages to mankind—sometimes in an elevator.
Marcus looked into the concerned features of the pale, frail-looking woman and smiled. Her name tag identified her as Helen McCoy. The skin on her face was thin, almost transparent, and some spidery, reddish capillaries were visible just beneath the surface. “I’m fine, thank you for asking,” he told her and emerged from the elevator car feeling strangely different.
BROWNIE: An Angel's Visit Page 32