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The hack pulled up in front of a mansion on Prairie Avenue, and Spence peered out the window at the Romanesque architectural style of Clifton Lark’s house. Although Spence’s parents owned one of the largest and finest homes in Riverport, the corner towers and red stone facade of the Lark house outshone it from the basement up.
With its prime location near downtown and the lakeshore, many of Chicago’s wealthy called the Prairie Avenue area home, evidenced by the structures he’d passed along the way. Down the street sat the mansion belonging to Marshall Field. While he was in the city, he planned to visit the man’s store—a scouting mission of sorts.
The dregs of a headache still lingered, but try as hard as it might, the pain couldn’t conquer his exhilaration. He left the hack, opened the wrought iron gate, and sauntered up the wide steps to the front door as if he belonged. According to the telegram in his pocket, he did.
A moment after Spence rang the bell, he was ushered inside by a butler who took his coat and hat, then led him to a sitting room with a roaring fire to sip coffee and wait for his host.
What a whirlwind few days. Due to Lark’s telegram being misplaced by a telegraph clerk, Spence had a mere two hours to prepare in order to catch the train that would get him here in time for his appointment. He’d thrown a few clothes into a valise, along with a copy of the proposal he’d given Mrs. Lark when she’d visited Riverport.
The whole time, Spence asked God to block his travel if the trip wasn’t in His plan.
On the train, he’d prayed for direction in dealing with Clifton Lark. If the door to a partnership between them shut, he trusted God had a better plan. For the first time, he left the situation in His hands.
Lark’s summons had come at an inconvenient time in his personal life. Would Phoebe forgive him for walking away from her at the river? For acting like that spoiled, self-centered man she had believed him to be? He hoped the letter of apology he’d written her would suffice until he saw her on Christmas Eve.
Juliet Lark entered the room, and Spence bolted to his feet. She was young—about thirty-five—intelligent, mature, and thoroughly familiar with her husband’s business.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Newland. Clifton is eager to meet you.”
“May I ask what changed his mind about seeing me?”
“I’ll let him explain.”
Mrs. Lark led him to a room on the first floor, where a secretary sat behind a desk. The man nodded, then continued typing as she opened the door behind him.
They entered an office with rich paneled walls. Dark curtains were drawn across the windows, and electric lights took the place of the sun to light the interior. A man about Spence’s father’s age sat at a round table to the right, opposite a large desk and bookshelves. When he saw them, he stood but remained in place.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Newland.” Dressed in a fine suit, and with thinning gray hair and a salt-and-pepper beard trimmed and neat, Clifton Lark resembled any other businessman of Spence’s acquaintance—with one exception. Haunted eyes darted to the door that his wife had shut with haste after she entered the room.
Lark blinked away whatever troubled him and gestured to the familiar object on the table. “I want to thank you for the cigar box.”
The gift had begun as a well-meaning bribe, but today Spence could truly say it was his pleasure to make it for the man. “You’re welcome, sir.”
“Please have a seat.”
Spence joined him at the table.
“You and your family impressed Juliet during her visit last month. She told me Newland’s department store and its owners met all her expectations.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lark.”
Even with the lighting from various lamps and wall sconces, Spence longed to pull back the heavy curtains and expose the room and everything in it to the sunlight.
“I’m sure you’ve wondered why I sent my wife last month and didn’t come myself,” Lark said.
“To be honest, yes, sir.”
Lark glanced at his wife, who nodded. “The truth is that, for the past year, I’ve rarely left this house.”
In Spence’s experience, there was only one reason a person would be confined to his home. “You’re ill?”
“In a manner of speaking. Are you familiar with agoraphobia?”
“Agora...”
Mrs. Lark pulled up a chair next to her husband and placed her hand in his. “It’s a mental condition, Mr. Newland. Several months ago, the doctors diagnosed Clifton as suffering from it.”
A mental condition? Had he tried to enlist the aid of a lunatic?
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Agoraphobia causes a terror of certain locations or situations. It keeps the patient from leaving a particular space or circumstance in which they feel safe. In my husband’s case, it’s this house.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Few people do. We try to protect him from those who wouldn’t understand.”
For some reason, they had decided he would. He turned to her husband. “Why tell me?”
“Your gift and Juliet’s report intrigued me, so I made inquiries into you and your family. From it, I learned of your childhood difficulties.”
Spence bristled. His past wasn’t a secret, but he’d worked hard to prove...
No need to stroll that path again.
“You know what it’s like to want to take part in the world and be unable to do so.”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“I hope you can also understand that my condition is something I prefer to keep from the public.”
Not only would it open up Mr. Lark’s character to ridicule, but news such as this could have a detrimental effect on his finances. “No one will hear it from me.”
The man opened the cigar box. “I realize your goal was to attract my attention with this, Mr. Newland, but you have a gift—a God-given one.”
Spence was realizing all the gifts lavished on him during his lifetime. A close family. The joy of music. Financial advantages. The strengthening of his body. Most importantly, the gift that would endure throughout all eternity. An everlasting gift of hope given by the One whose birth they prepared to celebrate.
Perhaps soon he would count two more—a woman whose frost had begun to melt and a little girl with a sunshine smile.
They spoke of one topic after another, none of them involving the financing of five-and-ten-cent stores. The man’s intelligence and sense of humor shone through the conversation, undamaged by his illness.
The clock on the wall chimed.
“Mr. Newland, I apologize for monopolizing the conversation for over two hours.”
When Clifton Lark rose, Spence interpreted it as a signal to leave, and rose also. “Not at all. This has been a pleasure. Thank you for inviting me.”
Mrs. Lark asked, “Won’t you stay for supper?”
“If you’ll forgive me, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I’d like to be in Riverport.”
“Of course. You want to be home with your family.”
And others. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you for coming. It isn’t often I interact with strangers these days. Learning about what you went through as a child and have accomplished as a man has given me a more optimistic outlook.” Mr. Lark walked with him toward the door and stopped a few feet away. “About your new stores—your proposal makes it difficult to say no, but until I can defeat this fear and see to my mental fitness, my doctors have advised that I not undertake any additional burdens.”
“I understand.” Spence shook the man’s hand. He turned to go, then stopped and faced his host. “Sir, I urge you to not make my mistake and take your healing onto yourself. I’ve only begun to understand that God works for His glory even in our weaknesses.”
Lark responded with a slow smile. “I do have something for you before you leave.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his waistcoat pocket. “This is the name and address of a close friend who lives down the street. He’s a good man, trustworthy and generous. I took the liberty of discussing with him your plan for the five-and-ten-cent stores. He’s interested in talking with you at his office this afternoon. I would suggest you see him before you return to Riverport.”
Spence stared at the sheet of paper Lark held out. His eyes widened at reading the name. The friend was no insignificant businessman.
