Authors: T. Davis Bunn
Florian's Gate
© 1992 by T. Davis Bunn
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwiseâwithout the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
eISBN 978-1-4412-7087-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
All scripture quotations, unless indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version ®. NIV ®. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.© Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
www.zondervan.com
Reviewers acclaim T. Davis Bunn's
first novel,
The Presence
“Davis is a masterful storyteller. His first book promises to be an international bestseller. . . . It will leave you deeply and spiritually moved and challenged.”
K
EN
C
ORLEY
Full Gospel Business Mens
Fellowship International
Naples Chapter
“Bunn uses a fresh approach for fiction and turns readers toward the presence of God. Compelling writing blends humor with a stirring plot to make this book a good choice.”
Moody Monthly
“I admire its vivid characterization and conversational language, the sincerity of its message. Truly a parable.”
A
NTHONY
N
YE
, S.J.
Head of the Jesuit Diocese
London
“
The Presence
is a great novel portraying the power of the Lord in the life of a public official. It leaves me more determined than ever to seek His presence continually.”
L
AWRENCE
D
AVIS
Chairman North Carolina
Democratic Party
“. . . interesting, entertaining, inspiring and instructive. I highly recommend it.”
C
AROLYN
R. A
LBERT
Lutheran Libraries
“It's a great book.”
J
ACK
B
UNDY
Naples Daily News
“A well-written, gripping exploration of relationships, this story is one you will want to read and reread. I could hardly put it down.”
C
LYDIA
D. D
E
F
RESSE
Church & Synagogue Library Association
“His premises are fascinating . . . a major talent with great potential in our market.”
B
OB
H
UDSON
Co-Editor
A Christian Writer's
Manual of Style
“
The Presence
is powerful, refreshing. . . . We can look forward to more writing from Bunn. . . . There is great value in well-crafted fiction that embraces a Christian world view.”
L
IS
T
ROUTEN
Twin Cities Christian
T
HIS
B
OOK
I
S
D
EDICATED
T
O
M
Y
W
IFE'S
F
AMILY
AND TO
T
HEIR
P
OLISH
H
ERITAGE
.
CONTENTS
“And I said to the man who stood at the gate
of the year: âGive me a light that I may
tread safely into the unknown.' And he
replied: âGo out into the darkness and put
your hand into the hand of God. That shall
be to you better than light, and safer
than a known way.'”
M
INNIE
L
OUISE
H
ASKINS
Quoted by King George VI in his annual Christmas
address to the British nation in 1939, on the
eve of World War II.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
All antiques mentioned in this book do indeed exist. Prices quoted here are either the result of recent sales or current market estimates.
CHAPTER 1
Jeffrey Sinclair swung around the corner to Mount Street in London's Mayfair district and greeted the wizened flower seller with, “It looks like another rainy day, Mister Harold.”
The old man remained bent over his rickety table. “Too right, Yank. Mid-June and we ain't had a dry day since Easter. Don't do my rheumatics no good, s'truth.”
“How much for the white things up there on the shelf?”
“I can't say what're you on about now?” The man straightened as far up as he was able, shook his head, said, “Chrysanthemums, Yank. Chrysanthemums. Didn't they teach you anything?”
“I can't say that before coffee. How much for a bunch?”
“A what?” The man squinted at Jeffrey's double armful. It was an Edwardian silver punch bowl, chased in gold and sporting a pair of intricately engraved stags locked in mortal combat. It was filled with disposable diapers. “Got old Ling in there?”
“Yes.”
The old man snorted. “Better bed'n I've ever seen. How much that thing worth?”
“It's priced to sell fast at seven thousand pounds.” About twelve thousand dollars. “Maybe your wife would like it for her birthday.”
That brought a laugh. “The old dear'll be gettin' the same as last year, a pint at the pub. You're a right one, walkin' 'round these streets with a silver jug for a birdbath.”
“It's not a jug.” He spotted Katya walking toward them and felt his heart rate surge by several notches. She was sheltered within a vast gentleman's anorak, which she wore to hide the fancy clothes required for working in his shop. The hood framed a pixie face.
She greeted him with a smile that did not reach her eyes, said “Good morning, Mr. Harold.”
“Hello, lass.” Wizened features twisted into a delighted smile. “Been keepin' you waitin' again, has he?”
She shook her head, said to Jeffrey, “I'm doing research at the library this morning, and I need a book I left at the shop.” She peered into the vessel, asked, “How is Ling?”
“ 'Ere, let's have a look.” The old man's blackened fingers peeled back the upper layer, exposing a baby bird about three weeks outside the egg. “Blimey, he's a runt. What you figure him for?”
Jeffrey knew at a glance that he would have to reply. Katya had a way about her on days like this. She moved within an air of silent sorrow, a shadow drawn across unseen depths. Jeffrey could do little more than watch and yearn to delve beneath the surface and know the secrets behind those beautiful eyes. “Katya thinks it's a robin, but we're not sure.”
The bird was sleeping, its gray-feathered body breathing with the minutest of gasps. Its wings were nothing more than tiny stubs covered with the finest of down. It looked far too fragile to live.
“What's he eat?”
“The vet said we ought to buy this special formula, but we couldn't find it anywhere. So Katya's mixed up baby food with birdseed and some mineral drink. Ling eats enough of it, that's for sure.
“The girl's right, Yank. Never did trust them doctors.” He reached out one finger and nudged the little body. Immediately the bird leapt upright, its tiny beak opened just as wide as it could, its scrawny neck thrust out to a ridiculous length.
“Look what you did now.” Jeffrey's exasperation was only half-faked. “He'll drive me crazy until I can get the shop opened and his formula heated.”
The old man remained bent over the tiny form, a smile creasing his unshaven features. “Reminds me of how my
littlest one, Bert, used to go on. Lad could eat a horse. Mind you, he made a lot more noise than this runt, Bert did.”
“I've got to go now, Mister Harold.” Jeffrey said, and started down Mount Street. “Bring a bunch of those white ones by the shop, okay?”
“I would, Yank, if I could figure out what in blazes you're goin' on about,” the old man replied, turning back to his table. “Around these parts we sell flowers by the dozen.”
The bird kept up a continual high-pitched tweet the entire way down the block. Jeffrey handed the bowl to Katya, fished in his pocket, drew out and inserted the round ten-inch strong-box key in the special slot. He turned it once, punched the four numbers in the alarm box set in the red brick wall, turned it a second time, and sighed with relief when the locks unsheathed with a loud click. A year on the job, and he still got the jitters every time he had to open early.
Nine months previously he had forgotten the numbers, and while he was fishing around in his wallet and trying to remember what different sequence he had written downâsubtract one, add two, do the first last, whateverâthe sky had split open and the gods of war had been set loose. Alarm bells shattered the quiet of the six o'clock street, lights flashed, and a loud wailing began to slide up and down the scale. The racket caused him to drop his wallet into the slush of yet another half snow, half rain that had turned his first winter in London into a seemingly endless grayish hue. Heads popped out of louvered windows to scream abuse. The police raced up with yet more flashing lights and wailing sirens, and it was only after another half hour of browbeating from all sides that Jeffrey managed to break away, slip inside, and begin another day at the office.
That morning all went as it should, except for Ling's endless cry and Katya's silent distance. Ling had been named by Katya, who had said The Ugly Duckling was too long for something that tiny. Katya was his sort-of girlfriend. The sort-of was from her side, not his. As far as he was concerned,
today would have been a fine time to set up house. This morning, in fact. Right now, not to make too big a point of it. But he couldn'tâmake a point of it, that isâsince Katya made it perfectly clear that she wasn't interested.