Sophie moved over to a small desk chair in the far corner of the room. Cindy should be here, she thought to herself. There were rules. Women students weren’t supposed to be out unescorted after dark. As she sat back and watched Isaac Knox, his kindness and concern focused completely on Ginger, an almost fatherly look on his face, she felt an acute sense of guilt. Unlike her friends, she would have preferred that he leave. She was selfish and would have to ask God to forgive her. Bowing her head and closing her eyes, she offered up the most heartfelt prayer she’d ever prayed. Ginger had to get well. She just had to.

  Two hours later Ginger opened her eyes and smiled. And then she was gone.

  1

  The Present

  Hildegard O’Malley gazed across her desk at the elderly man who had been shown into her office just a few minutes before. Even though he looked vaguely familiar, perhaps someone she’d seen on TV, someone she was supposed to like, his rather abrupt, almost imperial manner instantly put her off. He had snow-white hair and a pleasant, even kindly face, but thirty-two years spent in hotel management had taught her not to trust first impressions. Hildegard prided herself on her sixth sense about people. It was a must in her line of work. And the bottom line was, this man wasn’t what he appeared to be.

  For one thing, he hadn’t mentioned money. Most people who came to the Maxfield Plaza in downtown St. Paul to discuss holding a convention on the premises always talked money up front. After all, if you couldn’t afford the price, there was no point wasting each other’s time.

  “So, if I understand you correctly,” she continued, leaning forward and touching the tips of her fingers together, “you’d like to see our conference facilities.”

  “One of your larger meeting rooms.” His voice was deep and formal. A briefcase and a narrow-brimmed man’s fedora rested on the chair next to him. “I represent God’s church. The Church of the Firstborn.” He said the words proudly, as if she should know the organization. And to be honest, it did ring a faint bell somewhere in the back of her mind.

  “That brings me to my next question, Mr. —”

  “Purdis. Howell Purdis.”

  “Yes… Mr. Purdis. The Maxfield Plaza is a rather expensive hotel in which to hold a week-long meeting. Will your membership be staying here?”

  “Some will. Most won’t. I don’t have all the particulars.”

  “I see.”

  “Besides, money is no object.” He said the words dismissively.

  So that was it, thought Hildegard. He was wealthy. Or his church was. She glanced at his leather briefcase. It did look expensive. So did his dark suit, immaculate white shirt, and striped silk tie.

  “Our area membership is only about two hundred people.”

  “And, may I assume then that you are a minister?”

  “I am an apostle.”

  She had no particular problem with ministers, but apostles were a new one. Her uncle had been the pastor of the Lutheran church in die small southern Minnesota town where she’d grown up. Even though she was in her early sixties now, she still remembered how much she’d adored him. Religious nuts, on the other hand, were another matter. She wasn’t quite sure where Mr. Purdis fit on die spiritual continuum. Adjusting her sweater, she said, “Let me show you the Lindbergh Room. It’s just across the lobby in the north wing. I believe it will handle your needs quite nicely.”

  Silently, Hildegard led the way down a wide corridor and through die red marble, Art Deco lobby. The Maxfield Plaza had an unabashedly theatrical quality to it Sleek lines were mixed together with jazzy zigzag ornamentation. The bold geometric sunbursts and lightning bolts had always been a bit much for the more conservative locals, though everyone seemed to enjoy a periodic foray into its glamorous interior. Streamlined club chairs and couches were scattered in small conversational clusters throughout die lobby. The Maxfield was an exclusive four-star hotel, and on the National Register of Historic Places. Kings and queens had stayed within its walls.

  Passing Scotties, the Maxfield’s first-floor bar — and a favorite haunt of the downtown St. Paul theatre crowd — Hildegard made a sharp turn and then headed into another hallway, which led to a spacious banquet room near the rear of the building. She removed a set of keys from her sweater pocket and unlocked the door.

  Howell Purdis stepped inside, adjusted his rimless spectacles, and gave the room a thorough once-over. His eyes came to rest on the Deco chandelier high above his head. “This will do,” he pronounced, looking pleased. “I’ll want to order a buffet lunch for our noon meals. We follow the Levitical laws of clean and unclean meats.”

  “I’ll notify our food-and-beverage manager. He can help you with the particulars.”

  “Splendid.” Even though his movements were slowed by age, Purdis walked around the room with the ease of a man used to giving orders. After setting his briefcase and hat down on the front stage, he turned around to face her. “I will need a podium. The larger the better.”

  “That’s no problem. Now that you’ve seen the space, why don’t we go back to my office and I can get the paperwork started for you. I’ll need to know the date —”

  “This weekend.”

  “Oh … dear,” she said, shaking her head. “That will be a problem.” She began paging through the scheduling book. “That’s rather short notice, I’m afraid. I’m not usually the one who sets up these events, but I’m pretty sure we’re booked. There’s a large convention in town this weekend. The meetings are being held over at the Civic Center, but most of our rooms will be taken since we’re so close. It’s the Daughters of Sisyphus Society. Have you ever heard of the group?” She was attempting to be pleasant, though she could see he had little interest in anything but his own agenda.

  “No,” he said, his tone both annoyed and abrupt. “And you can stop pawing through your notes. Our meeting has already been scheduled by my assistant, Isaac Knox.”

  “Oh. I see,” she said, looking up. “Well, that does change matters. I assume you’ve been apprised of the cost.”

  “Cost? We’re not paying.”

  “Then, can you tell me who we should bill?”

  His eyes flashed at her. “Didn’t you hear me say I represented God’s church on earth? God doesn’t have to pay. You’re giving this to me free of charge.”

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. In all her years at the Maxfield, this was a new one. Of course, as the general manager, she’d been asked to donate space to various organizations and causes over 3the years, but to simply walk in and demand charity, well, this was a new one.

  “I have been given a commission, Miss O’Malley. ‘Go ye therefore into all the world, preach the gospel unto everyone.’ My job as God’s anointed is to be a witness to a sinful society. I am to preach His word. Your job is to help me!” His face had grown flushed.

  “You are part of a cult,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. So, her instincts had been right.

  “You didn’t hear me!”

  “Oh, but I think I did.” She backed toward the exit. “I’m sorry, Mr. Purdis, but this hotel does not give its services away free of charge.” An inner sense told her that the longer they talked, the more upset he would become. He already looked angry enough to eat glass. The smart thing to do was to get back out to the lobby. At least there, she wouldn’t be alone with his temper tantrum.

  “You are refusing me?” he said, his voice a mixture of astonishment and frustration.

  “I’m afraid so.” Thinking one more comment was in order, she added, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  He held her eyes.” ‘Whosoever shall not receive you, nor hear your words, when ye depart out of that house, shake off the dust of your feet. Verily I say unto you, it shall be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah in the day of judgment, than for that house.’ “ He picked up his briefcase and hat and walked slowly toward her.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Purdis.” She was put off by his pomposity, and yet she felt rooted to the floor by the intensity of his eyes.

  “You think the day of judgment is a long way off, don’t you, Miss O’Malley? Well, you’re wrong. The day of judgment is right now. It’s all around us. This hotel will not be spared. You may not believe me, but from this day forward, the Maxfield Plaza is cursed.”

  This was ridiculous, thought Hildegard. The man was clearly unbalanced. Even so, his words carried a frightening impact. She knew it was his intent to frighten, and much to her dismay, his fear tactic was working. She was about to answer his threat with one of her own when he charged past her out the door.

  2

  Much like twins raised together, Minneapolis and St. Paul had always been rivals. While St. Paul capitalized on its historic charm, Minneapolis projected a slick, more cosmopolitan image. Sophie often likened the two cities to loaves of bread. St. Paul was a hearty, old-world rye, while Minneapolis was an upscale French baguette. Both towns had pretensions, yet each was a singularly beautiful northern city, filled with lakes and a rich social history, and as the inhabitants liked to point out, good, solid, clear-thinking Midwestern folks. Sophie’s husband, Bram Baldric — a local radio talk-show personality — was periodically heard to comment that these stalwart folks were the same people who prided themselves on their independence as they lined up to gush hosannas at Rush Limbaugh on national radio and utter that battle cry of independent thought: “Ditto!”

  Whether residents of Minneapolis or St. Paul, or that vast Minnesota never-never-land known simply as outstate, Minnesotans and their independent thought sometimes gave Sophie and Bram a bad case of indigestion.

  A dear friend of Sophie’s once observed that if you traveled to say, Cleveland, for instance, you knew immediately if someone in town hated your guts merely because you were black, red, green, fat, liberal, gay, poor, or any other social class or color that didn’t quite cut the current societal mustard. Yet, in the Twin Cities, all the good citizens merely smiled. Smiled and smiled. And then smiled some more. Thus, a person never really knew where he stood. But, as Minnesotans were quick to point out, that didn’t matter as long as everyone was pleasant about it.

  Remember your manners and be sure to smile as you twist the knife. Otherwise, your Sons of Norway membership might be revoked. Not that there wasn’t a lot of good in Minnesota. More good than bad. And that was the dilemma.

  Both Sophie and Bram had deep roots in the Twin Cities, and yet each had begun to feel a certain strain with the relationship. Recently, they had begun to talk of getting away. Not just a vacation this time, but of trying someplace new. Of course, it was just a pipe dream. Bram was at the beginning of another two-year contract at the station. And Sophie was entrenched at her job as well. It was hardly the time to think about such a drastic life change.

  As they walked the two blocks from their favorite downtown parking garage to the Maxfield Plaza, the hotel Sophie’s parents had owned for over thirty years, Bram and Sophie continued their running conversation. It was late September. The maples and elms in the park across the street had already turned colorful shades of red and gold, scattering their bright confetti onto the grass.

  “I suppose moving to Key Largo and making a living selling sand candles on the beach is out of the question,” said Bram as he slowed his pace so that his wife wouldn’t have to sprint. He was nearly a foot taller. The height difference was never more apparent than when they went for walks together. What was a leisurely stroll for him was a mad dash for her.

  She slipped her arm through his, looking up into his handsome face. “You know what this restlessness is all about, don’t you?”

  “No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “This is a midlife crisis, darling. The fact that we’re headed to my birthday celebration tonight only proves my point.”

  “Your big forty-four finger birthday.”

  “Exactly. And you’ll be forty-eight next month.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Stopping at the light, Sophie grabbed her sun hat as a gust of wind nearly blew it away. A late-summer thunderstorm was approaching from the west. The humidity was high, and so was the temperature.

  When the light turned green, they continued on across the street.

  “Are you really that tired of your job?” asked Bram, his voice growing serious.

  Sophie had been the managing editor of an arts magazine for several years. It was a good living. Reasonably interesting work. But her real love was her part-time job as a restaurant reviewer for the Minneapolis Times Register. Not that it paid many bills. Yet cooking, eating, reviewing restaurants, writing about food — that had always been her passion. Working for Squires Magazine was moderately lucrative, and the arts had always been an interest, though less so in the past year. “I’ve got nothing to gripe about,” she said, turning the corner and seeing the Maxfield come into view. It was an impressive gray-brick building with black streamline trim, rounded corners, and high, twin towers overlooking a center courtyard garden. A terra-cotta sunburst frieze surrounded the main entrance. To Sophie it had always seemed like something from another century. Since it was built in 1930, it just about was.

  “Did you remember to bring your mother’s present?” asked Bram, his right hand shooting into the pocket of his suit coat.

  “It’s right here,” she assured him, patting the strap of her large sack purse.

  “When you were a kid, you must have hated having the same birthday as your mom.”

  ‘True. That’s why we’re planning our own private party when we get home.” She squeezed his hand, giving him her best come-hither look.

  He grinned back. “The champagne is on ice even as we speak.”

  They entered through one of the front glass doors just as an elderly man barreled out the door directly next to them. Sophie did a double take, watching as he climbed with some difficulty into a waiting limousine. The door was immediately shut. “Nuts,” she said under her breath.

  “Something wrong?” asked Bram, noticing the rapt expression on her face.

  “I don’t know.” She felt a bit disoriented. “That man looked so familiar. Just like —” She stopped and then shook her head. “But… he’d be so old now. It couldn’t be him.”

  “Couldn’t be who?’

  She watched the limo pull away from the curb and slip into traffic. Wouldn’t that be a coincidence? Tomorrow night, Sophie was planning to attend a reunion with four of her best friends from her days at Purdis Bible College. They hadn’t all been together in the same room in over twenty years. Wouldn’t it be strange if the head of die church she once belonged to was in town? Shaking off a feeling of déjà vu, she said, “My eyes must be playing tricks on me.” She looked up at Bram with a pained expression and added, “It comes with age.”

  “Hey, you’re not so old.”

  “You mean I’m not as old as you are.”

  “I mean,” he said, putting a finger under her chin and tipping her face up to his, “that you’re as beautiful today as the day I first met you. And you always will be.” He kissed her, right there in the middle of the lobby, with everyone watching.

  As he stepped back one of the bellboys began to clap. “Go for it, Mr. Baldric.”

  Bram gave a small bow.

  “Come on,” said Sophie, hoping no one had seen her blush. “We’re going to be late.”

  Two hours later, after finishing the birthday dinner catered by the Zephyr Club, the four-star restaurant located near the top of the Maxfield’s south tower, Sophie and Bram took their after-dinner coffee and strolled into the living room. They stood for a moment next to the windows, looking out at the sprawling Mississippi River fifteen stories below them. An occasional burst of lightning illuminated the darkening sky, though the storm was still a fair distance away.

  “Time to open presents,” called Henry Tahtinen, Sophie’s father, herding everyone into the living room.

  After singing “Happy Birthday” — some singing in Finnish and some in English — and blowing out all the candles, Sophie and her mother sat down on the couch to open presents. The entire family had been invited to the Tahtinens’ private residence at the top of the south tower. There was Bram’s daughter, Margie. Her boyfriend, Lance. Rudy, Sophie’s son, had skipped one of his classes at the university in order to attend. His friend and lover, John Jacobi, was also in attendance. And Sophie’s Aunt Ida, her uncle Harry, and her cousin Sulo had all driven down from Bovey, a small town in northern Minnesota.

  As the gifts were opened, Henry and Pearl beamed at each other across the brightly wrapped presents. After forty-five years of marriage, they were still very much in love. Pearl and Sophie were the same height — five-foot-two — and both had roundish figures that tended to overweight. Pearl’s hair had gone completely gray many years ago, while her husband’s had remained brown, with just a bit of salt and pepper around the temples. They both looked radiantly happy tonight. Too radiantly happy, thought Sophie. She wondered what was up.

  Finally, after all the presents were oohed and aahed over and the hilarity had died down, Sophie’s father called for quiet. Making his usual grand birthday gesture, he walked up and handed his wife an envelope. Then, stepping over to his daughter, he dropped a similar envelope into her lap.

  “Your turn first,” he said, nodding to his wife.

  Pearl blushed. “Oh, Henry. You shouldn’t have. I just know it’s much too expensive.”

  “If a man can’t buy his wife a damn fine present on her sixty-fifth birthday, what good is he?” He winked at Bram.

  Pearl slipped a brochure out of the envelope. “What is it?” She gasped as she read the writing on the front cover. “Henry! This is too much!”

  “It’s what we’ve talked about for years, Pearlie. We’re not waiting any longer.” He stuck his cigar back into his mouth.

  “What is it?” asked Sophie, attempting to restrain her curiosity. It wouldn’t be appropriate to rip the paper out of her mother’s hand, not that it hadn’t occurred to her.