A Greater Love

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY RACHEL ANN NUNES

  THIS VERY MOMENT SAMPLE CHAPTER

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  A GREATER LOVE

  a novel

  by

  Rachel Ann Nunes

  Copyright © 2010 Nunes Entertainment, LLC. Published by White Star Press 2012. ISBN 13: 978-1-939203-18-2. First electronic release 2010. Last updated July 2012.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission in writing from the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights.

  DEDICATION

  For TJ, who made it all possible.

  Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

  St John 15:13

  Chapter One

  Miguel Silva darted through the crowd at the outdoor flea market, making the usual rounds to beg for his breakfast—or steal it, if necessary. The gypsies and other Portuguese vendors watched him with well-placed mistrust and kept a close eye on their wares. This would be a morning of brisk business and barter, and in the afternoon the makeshift marketplace would be gone without a trace except for the garbage left behind.

  Slipping around a stall packed with handwoven sweaters, Miguel crouched into his chosen position opposite a large fruit stand. Small for his nine years, he made himself even smaller against the colorful orange tarp that formed the side of the music booth. The latest American music CD blared into the crisp November air from two small speakers attached to the roof of the stall.

  Wait, he told himself.

  The fruit man turned his head to help a black-clad lady adorned with several layers of gold jewelry, and in that instant Miguel crept close and grabbed at the tin box holding the morning’s proceeds.

  He had it!

  A strong, hairy fist closed around his wrist. “Gotcha!”

  Miguel jerked his hand away, leaving behind the treasure. The fruit man made a shooing motion toward him, glaring at him with dark eyes, but Miguel snatched two green apples from one of the baskets before plunging into the crowd. “Thief! Thief!” the man yelled.

  Miguel shot a glance behind him as the cries faded. He laughed. Stealing the apples was almost too easy. Too bad he didn’t get the money—that would have been better. For once Octávia would have been pleased, and that night they would have eaten a dinner fit for kings.

  His partial success making him sloppy, he barreled into the stocky figure of the uniformed police officer who patrolled the flea market. A black baton swung gently from a hook at his waist as his sharp eyes searched for potential troublemakers—like Miguel. “Get a move on, boy,” he said, not unkindly.

  “I ain’t done nothin’,” Miguel replied, hitching up his oversized pants. Once they had been blue but were now a dirty brown. He shivered and pulled his sweater down to cover the bread roll he’d stolen earlier and tucked into the top of his pants near the broken snap in front.

  The policeman’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, yeah? Then what’s that you’re hiding? And what’s bulging in your pockets?” He pointed to where Miguel had stashed the apples.

  Miguel bolted, fear making his feet fly as he dodged through the sea of somberly dressed people. Occasionally, he looked back to see if the policeman was following him.

  I’d like to see him catch me now, he thought.

  Even though it wasn’t likely, the idea made his stomach ache. Only once had he been careless enough to be caught. The police had taken him to a dingy orphanage whose matrons hadn’t approved of his attitude, and he’d spent most of his time there in trouble. Nothing he had known previously had been worse than those two long weeks before his Aunt Octávia had finally been found.

  “I thought you’d run off,” was all she said. That night she had surprised him with candy and extra bread. Sara, his little sister, had hugged him hard and cried.

  Now Miguel neared the edge of the flea market where Octávia waited, dressed in her usual black skirt and sweater. She watched with tiny jet eyes, skinny arms folded over her drooping bosom, as Sara asked people for money. Sara spotted him and smiled, and Miguel grinned back. When his sister smiled it was as if a light went on inside her, making him feel warm all over. Her eyes were another wonder—a deep brown, with tiny flecks of light gold dotting the dark pools, so large in her small face.

  “Come, Miguel.” Octávia’s thin lips also twisted into a smile, revealing black spots on her yellowish teeth. She held out her hand, beckoning. Reluctantly, Miguel approached, lowering his head and hunching slightly. He placed the roll and one of the apples into her outstretched hand.

  “What’s this?” she screeched, tugging on her large beak of a nose. The familiar gesture caused Miguel’s shoulders to shrink further and Sara’s smile to vanish. Both waited in frozen terror. Talon-like fingers dug into Miguel’s upper arm as Octávia’s voice lowered threateningly. “I told ya I wanted money! Or somethin’ of value.” Her voice sounded slurred from the alcohol she’d already consumed that morning, but her meaning was clear. She drew back a thick-veined hand and slapped him hard across the cheek. Miguel’s eyes filled with tears at the stinging pain, but he blinked, unwilling to let them fall.

  “I need more from ya. More! If ya can’t beg for it, steal it, but get it!” She brought her face close to his, and Miguel could see how the skin sagged into deep wrinkles. “Or maybe next time ya get picked up by the orphanage, I’ll let ya stay there.”

  Sweat broke out all over Miguel’s body, despite the crisp winter air. Octávia’s threats were worse than her wicked outbursts of temper. If he stayed in an orphanage, he would never see Sara again. He couldn’t imagine not being with Sara.

  “I’ll get more,” he promised, his voice croaking like the frog he had found last year in the woods near their shack. “I always do, don’t I?” He straightened, trying to fake a confidence he didn’t feel.

  Octávia’s sharp face transformed, becoming almost friendly. “Yeah, you do at that, Miguel. You was always one to get us what we need. I taught ya right. I’ll be expectin’ a load tonight.”

  Sara’s smile returned at the sudden shift in their aunt’s demeanor. Miguel felt a wave of relief. “You’ll get it, so lay off.” He dug into his pocket and held out the remaining apple to his sister, shooting a furtive glance in search of the policeman.

  “Hurry along,” Octávia said gruffly to Sara. “We gotta get to the subway before the morning crowd’s gone.” As the old lady turned away, she took a quick bite of the roll Miguel had given her. His stomach growled at the sight, but he would find more to eat later.

  Sara pushed her apple at him. “Keep it. I always get somethin’ to eat in the train station. Don’t worry ’bout me. Besides, I ate the last of the bread this mornin’.” She paused, wringing her thin hands as she always did when she was thinking. “Miguel . . . you know—don’t ya?—that Octávia don’t mean it. ’Bout the orphanage. She just talks like that when she drinks
.”

  “I know,” he said. He did know. Sometimes Octávia was the nicest person he knew—until she drank, which was getting to be all the time now. When she drank, her quick anger came to the surface all too easily. Each time she would tug at her nose and then explode.

  Resentment simmered in Miguel’s heart, but he wasn’t mad at Octávia exactly; he just hated the heavy knot of fear in his stomach. He forced the fruit back into Sara’s hand. “It won’t always be like this. One day real soon, we’ll leave Portugal, maybe go to Switzerland and find a good job. People do it all the time.”

  Sara’s lips curved upward in her angelic smile. “And then Octávia won’t gotta worry about buying us stuff ’cause we’ll have so much. She’ll be happy always. We’ll eat all we want and sometimes ride in a big boat.”

  Her words pushed Miguel’s fear into a tiny corner, almost out of reach. It was nice to know Sara shared his dreams, that one day they would be happy and free. She pressed his hand and flitted away, running to keep up with Octávia’s retreating figure.

  “I’ll bring ya somethin’ back tonight,” he called after her. Ever since he could remember, he’d kept a bit of the money he earned each day to buy something for Sara, risking Octávia’s anger when there wasn’t enough to pay for the liquor she craved. It was worth it. She was his sister and he would take care of her.

  When Sara reached the street corner, she turned and threw something at his feet before disappearing: the apple. Grinning, Miguel scooped the bruised fruit from the pavement and took a bite. The white flesh tasted sweet but did little to sate the ache of hunger in his gut.

  Nearby, he spotted a lady with two huge plastic grocery sacks filled to the brim with her day’s purchases. A good place to start. Then he noticed the policeman watching him openly and decided to move on; there would be no more success here today.

  He left the noisy marketplace and traced his way along the cobblestone sidewalks, heading for the ferry that would take him across the River Tejo to Cacilhas. Once he finally boarded the ferry, it would take a good ten minutes to cross the river, and that meant hundreds of people sitting and waiting for him to ask them for money.

  In the busy streets of Lisbon, shoppers and business people alike traversed the cobblestone sidewalks, some briskly, others lazily strolling. There were cars, too, racing wildly about in the narrow cobbled streets in an ordered confusion that Miguel well understood. He had studied it as he did everything he encountered.

  Someday soon he would have a car, the long sleek kind with a top that rolled back in the summer, and it would be bright red, Sara’s favorite color. He smiled at the thought, and even his stomach seemed less empty.

  Tall cement apartment buildings flanked both sides of the narrow road, so high that he could only glimpse a slice of the clear blue sky above. Small businesses opened out on most of the ground floors—clothing stores, bread shops, shoe outlets, jewelry stores, and the cafés that sold tantalizing pastries. He stopped for a moment, peering into the window of a pastry shop. Inside, the counter was lined with people eating breakfast pastries with obvious relish.

  “Want to buy a flower?” A woman with silvery-gray hair stood near the entrance to the pastry shop. She carried a basket of fresh flowers and offered one to each passerby.

  Miguel glanced one last time at the happy people inside the café, then turned away. “Hi, Senhora Ferreira,” he called to the flower lady.

  “Hi, Miguel. How are you today?”

  He lifted his chin, stifling the deep cough that rose in his throat. “Okay. Need a hand with your flowers?” Sometimes she would pay him almost as much as he could earn begging on the ferry—especially now that he was getting older. People didn’t give to him as readily as they did to Sara.

  The woman shook her head ruefully. “Sorry. Not many buying today. Maybe in a month or so, closer to Christmas.”

  Miguel had expected as much. While winter was always his most hated of seasons, early November was particularly bad; he suffered from the cold nearly as much as he did in December, but generosity hadn’t yet hit the populace like it did near Christmas. In December people remembered the poor; in November they forgot.

  He waved farewell and continued his trek. The towering stone arch of Rua Augusta signaled his approach to the wharf. In summer, the wide walkway before the arch would be brimming with people in yellow-roofed booths selling odd trinkets, pictures, or chalk drawings. Artists covered the cobblestones with bright paintings to display their talents and passersby gave them money. Once, Miguel had bought a small gold-painted metal ship under full sail. It measured as long as his middle finger and was so shiny and beautiful, he had been unable to resist spending the precious escudos it cost to own such a prize.

  He touched his shirt pocket under the sweater, comforted to feel the bulge. Yes, it was still there with his only other treasure—one far more valuable to him.

  The arch of Rua Augusta led into the spacious commerce square near the wharf. At the entrance to the square, a man with a vendor cart nodded hello and tossed him a rolled newspaper cup full of roasted chestnuts.

  “Thanks, Senhor Alferes!”

  “Come back later on your way home. I’ll give you some for little Sara.”

  “I will.” Miguel saluted the old seaman awkwardly before continuing past the metal trolley cars, standing out in bright orange-yellow contrast to the black-and-white design of the cobblestones. He broke open the shells and began to eat the hot chestnuts quickly. They warmed him, and he almost didn’t mind the cold breeze coming through the stretched parts of his dingy sweater.

  He whistled as he passed the center of the open square, where a majestic metal statue of King Dom José on horseback rose high above the passersby on a massive stone pedestal. Beyond lay the wharf. Near the ferry station, a dark-haired, heavyset lady sold hot Belgian waffles. The smell wafted on the light breeze, calling to him. He tried not to look her way.

  Getting aboard the ferry usually wasn’t difficult as Miguel was practiced at finding someone to buy him the necessary ticket. Searching the row of faces waiting at the ticket stand, he targeted a young woman with soft features. Underneath her long, gray winter coat, he glimpsed a brown wool skirt and matching blazer.

  He sidled up to her. “Please, Senhora, do ya got some spare change? I need to get across the river.” He tried to look hopeful and embarrassed.

  She shook her dark head once and stared away from him, distaste written on her pretty face. Miguel waited a little longer; sometimes conscience attacks occurred after the initial refusal. The cold breeze whipping into the open end of the station brought the woman’s shoulder-length hair forward into her face. She pushed it back impatiently and waved him on.

  Miguel shrugged and walked away. It wasn’t the first time he had erred in choosing a mark, and it wouldn’t be the last. This time he targeted an older woman, very stout and dressed in mourning black. Strands of white softened the raven hair, pulled firmly into a tight bun. Some of these women dressed in black could be hard, but this one’s eyes seemed to rest on him sympathetically.

  “Can ya spare a ticket?” he asked in his most polite voice. “I lost mine, and I gotta get home. Please?” The lie slipped off his tongue as easily as if he were telling the truth, but the cough and the shiver were real.

  She studied him. He hoped his face was dirty enough to work the miracle. In the summer, after playing in the pond at Entre Campos, Miguel would have to rub a little dirt on his face before he went begging. He didn’t understand exactly what magic qualities the dirt held, but it always helped, especially with older ladies.

  The amount of dirt must have been just right. “Yes, child,” she said. “Let’s go. I’ll buy you a ticket.”

  He ducked his head. “Obrigado, Senhora.” Thank you. The fact that she would buy him a ticket instead of giving him the money to buy one himself didn’t escape his notice. But since what he really needed at this point was a ticket, he didn’t let her prudence bother him.

  T
he ferry arrived, a happy three-level orange boat, decorated with large white-painted wooden rings along the side that resembled life preservers. Farther below, where the ferry hit the dock, huge black tires hung against its sides to soften the impact. A young man on the dock caught the thick anchor rope and expertly flipped it around a metal block, securing the ship. Miguel stared, fascinated as always by the worker’s deftness and ease.

  The boat disgorged its occupants in a brief, frenzied wave. The passengers were an odd assortment of white, brown, and black, dressed in everything from elegant business apparel to plain, homey dresses. Many of the women carried large woven shopping baskets or plastic sacks. A few had toddlers tied to their backs and balanced heavy baskets on their heads, reminiscent of days gone by. Miguel toyed with the idea of trying to steal a wallet, but the kind lady’s eyes were on him. Maybe later.

  On board, he allowed himself to be gradually separated from the lady. There was a rumbling sound of feet on the painted metal deck as people scrambled for seats. Miguel stood awhile at the edge of the boat, letting the gentle rocking sway through him. Without understanding why, he adored the sensation.

  A fleeting memory came. Of his mother. A soft voice, the gentle caress, so much love. Miguel felt happy and sad and empty all at once. Oh, Mamãe!

  Again he fingered his toy boat through his sweater. There was something about sailing, about being free from the hard confines of land, that always brought the memories. If he had a real boat, he could sail away, perhaps to America where everyone was rich.

  The wind’s icy fingers were stronger here, and he reluctantly forced himself away from the edge. Most of the passengers had headed for the hold or the main floor, protected from the cold breeze by metal walls and glass windows. Only the hardy headed up the stairs to the open half of the top floor.