The Heaven Trilogy Read Free

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