The Spirit of Liberty Moon: A Novel

By Martha Williamson

This novel adaptation is based on one of the most moving episodes from the television drama that is watched by over 24 million people every week, "Touched by an Angel." This new story in the paperback series offers a rare glimpse into the ancient country of China-and into the hearts of those who dream of freedom. At the beginning of the story, Tess tells Monica and Andrew, "The courage of a single person can change history. But only if they answer the call when it comes." When beautiful Jean Chang encounters entrepreneur Edward Tanner, it is a signal that a journey of freedom and divine timing is about to begin. But when Jean's past catches up with her, will the power and might of China keep them from meeting their destinies?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Release date: Aug 21, 1999
• ISBN: 9781418556785

Book preview

THE SPIRIT OF LIBERTY MOON

00_TBAA_Spirit_of_Liberty_Moon_FINAL_0003_001

THE SPIRIT OF

LIBERTY MOON

Story and teleplay by MARTHA WILLIAMSON

MARTHA WILLIAMSON, EXECUTIVE PRODUCER

Novelization by DAVIN SEAY

Based on the television series created by

JOHN MASIUS

00_TBAA_Spirit_of_Liberty_Moon_FINAL_0003_003

Copyright © 1999 by CBS Broadcasting Inc.

All rights reserved. Touched By An Angel is a trademark of CBS Worldwide, Inc. Used under license. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson, Inc.

Scripture quotations are from the NEW KING JAMES VERSION of the Bible. Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982, Thomas Nelson, Inc., Publishers.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Seay, Davin.

   The spirit of Liberty Moon / story and teleplay by Martha

  Williamson ; Martha Williamson, executive producer ;

 novelization by Davin Seay ; based on the television series by

 John Masius.

     p. cm.—(Touched by an angel)

  ISBN 0-7852-7132-5 (pbk.)

   1. Williamson, Martha. II. Touched by an angel (Television

  program). III. Title. IV. Series.

PS3569.E237S55 1999

813'.54—dc21

99-22176

CIP

Printed in the United States of America

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 QPV 04 03 02 01 00 99

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Prologue

The sky was a brilliant blue, as deep and clear as a dream of heaven, hung over the alpine meadows like the vault of a vast cathedral. In the lake below, a reflection could be seen in the sparkling water, a bright patch of purple with a long tail that fluttered even though no wind was ruffling the lake’s surface.

Andrew ran across the meadow, trailing a line from a ball of string unraveling in his hands. Above him, the kite dipped and turned like a child at play, climbing ever higher, miraculously higher, into the brilliant sky where still no breeze had stirred. The string tugged between his fingers, and he played out the line, letting the kite freely soar.

Now you got it, Angel-Boy! came a warm, throaty voice behind him, and he turned to see Tess, her salt-and-pepper hair catching the sun’s rays and her broad smile beaming with a light all its own.

But . . . , said Andrew, out of breath from his fast dash across the meadow, there’s no wind, Tess . . .

Who said anything about wind? Tess laughed, squinting up at the kite as it glided through graceful figure eights across the cloudless expanse. It’s a God thing! Andrew shrugged and turned to follow Tess’s gaze heavenward. A God thing . . . of course it was.

A short distance away, on the crest of a knoll overlooking the lake and the snowcapped mountains, Monica sat on a mossy rock that seemed to have been placed there for just that purpose. Carefully, and yet with an assurance that comes In her lap she cradled a sketch pad and from an artist’s paint box at her side she dipped her brush into a bottle of jet-black ink. from experience, she layered the strokes of an ancient Chinese symbol across the thick, white paper. From broad to narrow, vertical to horizontal, the character began to take shape . . . the timeless balance of a timeless land.

As she worked, a white dove appeared, making its way across the sky, and Monica lifted her free hand without even looking up so the bird could land on her finger.

It’s my favorite word, Monica said as the cooing dove seemed to peer down at the paper. Windowsill. Not much to look at in English, I’ll admit, but in Chinese, why it’s practically a work of art. She said the word again, the lilt of her brogue caressing the sound. Windowsill.

Windowsill? Tess and Andrew stood beside her now, admiring her handiwork. Andrew held the kite, now a fragile, earthbound thing, as the bemused Tess shook her head. Now when do you ever imagine you’ll need to write down the word windowsill when we’re in China?

Monica put the finishing touch on her calligraphy and set down the brush, waiting as the warm sun dried the ink. It was so beautiful here. So peaceful. If she had the choice she might linger in this meadow forever. But, of course, that wasn’t up to her, and already she knew that they must be going soon.

Did you know, she said, turning to her fellow angels beside her, that the Great Wall of China is the only man-made structure you can see from the moon with the naked eye?

You mean you can’t see all those squiggly lines? asked Tess.

What squiggly lines? was Monica’s reply.

I think, Andrew added, "she means borders.

International boundaries."

Exactly, said Tess with a snort. All those lines folks draw to keep themselves in . . . and to keep others out. That wasn’t God’s idea. No sir. See, the Father made some things that were never supposed to stay put. Like ideas. Important ideas. She pointed to the kite in Andrew’s hands. You take that little bit of cloth and sticks and string, for instance. An idea might not be much more than that. But you put a wind underneath it, and all of a sudden, that little notion is gonna take right off and fly. And it’s gonna go where it needs to go, without bothering about somebody else’s border. Because that’s what it was made to do.

She turned to both of them with the loving yet challenging look a mother might share with her child as he takes his first step, or a captain with his crew on the verge of a new voyage. That’s what we’re about to do . . . be the wind under somebody’s wings. Of course, she added with a sigh, whether they fly or not . . . well, that’s up to them. All we can do is give them the chance.

Chapter One

The Manhattan morning was a busy blur of workaday rituals—a quick cup of scalding coffee, a mad rush for the uptown express, and a crush of commuters all hurrying to their offices and cubicles honeycombing the midtown skyscrapers, their deep shadows cast wide by the rising sun.

Perched serenely on the second-floor cornice of a gleaming office building, Tess, Monica, and Andrew surveyed the surging masses, watching intently for someone special, a face in the crowd set apart for a purpose. Monica looked up, past the skyline and the heavy, hanging traffic fumes to where a dove flew, straight and true . . . high above the hustle below.

Across the street from the plaza of the high-rise, a bus lumbered to its stop, its passengers scattering in every direction. All, that is, except one.

Her name was Jean Chang, and as the angels on the ledge above caught sight of her, a quickening passed between them. Here she was. This was the one they had come for. And it was here, on a routine morning at an anonymous street corner in an uncaring city, that the story would begin to unfold.

Jean stood silently for a moment as pedestrians pushed around her. Her lustrous black hair, held loosely at her neck, caught the sun’s muted rays, and her dark eyes, almond-shaped and earnest, watched as a security guard walked to the flagpole in the plaza and began hoisting the ropes to raise the Stars and Stripes. As Monica watched, she saw a flush of color pass over Jean’s pale and perfect complexion. Something, the angel could see, was stirring in this beautiful, young Asian woman: an immigrant’s pride, a reminder of hard-won freedoms, the blessings of liberty—renewed again at the sight of the waving flag.

This isn’t about flags or countries or politics, Tess explained, as if looking through a window into Monica’s own thoughts. This is about human hearts. Monica turned and smiled. She knew better than to be surprised or to question her supervisor’s gifts and abilities. Their work had always been about trusting and believing that the Almighty would provide the guidance they needed as their situations required.

Like that silly, purple kite that Andrew had flown, now held carefully in Tess’s hands, Monica knew it would do no good to ask why or what it was for. In time, plans and purposes would be revealed . . . even for a child’s toy being carefully cradled by a wise angel.

On the street below, a series of events began to unfold with all the precision of a well-rehearsed play. Jean, suddenly stirred from her reverie, began to hurry across the street, worried now about being late for work. As she crossed the plaza, a sleek, black limousine pulled to the curb. The driver jumped out and hurried around to the side, but before he could reach the door, his passenger had pushed it open and stepped out into the street, his ear glued to a cellular phone.

I’m not interested in what they’re doing over at Good Fun Toys, Edward Tanner snapped back at the voice on the line, then listened impatiently as he began to move across the plaza. He was tall, with dark hair, and a confident air set into his finely chiseled features.

Still perched forty stories high, Tess chuckled. This is gonna be good.

Monica watched carefully as Edward began to move toward the lobby doors, looking past his expensive, tailor-made suit, with its French collar and glittering gold cuff links. She ignored his quick, no-nonsense tone of voice as he drove home his point over the phone. Look, he continued, we’re only gonna consider this if it makes sense internationally. He listened before interrupting again. —I know, I know. Alex is pushing China, but I’m leaning toward Mexico. No . . . I’m not making a move until I get all the facts . . .

Beyond the clipped edge of his words, past all the trappings of conspicuous success, Monica thought she saw something. It was a flicker, a glow—faint but unmistakable—at the core of this handsome, and supremely self-assured young entrepreneur. He’s a good man, she said softly, trying to convince herself as much as Tess and Andrew. There’s a warm heart beating inside him. But it’s hidden. Like a diamond in a pile of ashes. She turned to look at Tess again. It’s going to take some work to find it.

There’s a lot of work to be done here, replied Tess with an enigmatic smile as she pointed back down to the street. Watch.

As Edward made a beeline for the lobby, Jean also crossed the plaza, heading toward the tall glass doors. For a moment it seemed as if the two might collide, but at the last moment,