The Maddening Model (Hazards, Inc.)

by Suzanne Simms

  So much in life was a long shot, though, Simon mused as he shifted gears and steered the Range Rover around the next bend in the road. His career in the navy. His success as a businessman. Making his first million before he was thirty. Hell, most people never attempted in a lifetime half of what he had already accomplished.

  Still, something was missing.

  For a long time, he’d had himself convinced that it was something he didn’t want, didn’t miss and didn’t need. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Passion. Commitment. Desire. Dedication. Determination. He had taken the full range of his emotions and poured them into his business career. There had been blessed little left to give to a personal relationship, but the occasional woman in his life had always understood and accepted that. She’d had no choice.

  Women. They came in all shapes and sizes, some with intelligence and some without. Some were beautiful on the outside and some on the inside. Some were greedy, the kind who would do anything for fame and fortune. Some wanted a career. Some thought they were God’s gift to men. What he had never found, Simon realized, was a woman, the woman, of his dreams.

  What kind of woman would she be?

  A woman with integrity. A woman with honor. Someone with a keen intelligence, a generous heart and plenty of old-fashioned common sense. She would be mature and self-confident, but not egotistical. A sense of humor was a must, as well as a positive attitude about life.

  The woman of his dreams would love him and only him. She would be his wife, his best friend, his lover. She would excite him, make his heart pound like a brass drum, send chills down his spine with her kiss, her caress.

  Did such a woman even exist? Was there a Ms. Right for him? Or was he too demanding? Had he set his sights too high? Could he, would he, ever find a woman, the woman for him?

  “I suppose it’s not impossible,” Sunday ventured, interrupting his musings.

  Simon frowned. “What’s not impossible?”

  “Finding the Hidden Buddha, of course.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Simon allowed. He picked up the thread of their conversation and carried on, “In this part of the world, archaeologists always seem to be stumbling upon the ruins of a city buried under centuries of neglect, or an ancient temple overgrown with trees and vegetation.”

  “Lost to time, even to memory,” she murmured.

  “Shrouded in mist and usually inaccessible.”

  She looked at him wonderingly. “Tell me about the City of Mist.”

  He could explain it in a word. “Unspoiled.”

  “Go on,” Sunday said, encouraging him with her obvious interest in the subject.

  “Mae Hong Son was literally cut off from the outside world for centuries. The first road leading in or out of the valley was built during the Second World War. It wasn’t paved until 1968.”

  “Tell me more,” she urged, turning toward him and tucking one leg under her.

  “Two hundred years ago, Burmese settlers came across the border and settled in the valley. They built twin temples—Wat Chong Kham and Wat Chong Klang—and filled them with artifacts, religious treasures and rare pigeon’s blood rubies.” He hadn’t thought of it before, but Sunday’s hair was the color of the precious red stone. “The settlers called rubies ma naw ma ya, ‘desire-fulfilling stones.’”

  “I know that a large gem-quality ruby is thirty to fifty times more rare than a diamond, and much more expensive.”

  He gave a decisive nod of his head. “Which probably explains why a virtuous woman’s price ‘is far above rubies.’”

  “And why wisdom ‘is more precious than rubies,’” Sunday contributed.

  Simon kept his eyes on the road as they talked. “Some years later, in 1831, a training camp for elephants was established in the valley, and a third temple was built on Mae Hong Son’s highest hill. This temple housed a white marble Buddha.”

  “You make it sound...magical,” she said.

  “It is magical. And spectacular. And unlike any other place on earth,” Simon said, and he meant it.

  “‘Nobody told me that I should see temples on high places,’” she quoted.

  He crooked an eyebrow in her direction.

  “Horace Walpole. 1772,” she said. “According to Colonel Bantry, Walpole also said, ‘I have seen gigantic places before but never a sublime one.’” She smiled. “Perhaps today you’ll show me a sublime place.”

  * * *

  It was some hours later that Simon turned off the narrow road, brought the Rover to a complete stop, stretched his arms over his head and told Sunday, “We’re there.”

  She reached up and slowly removed her sunglasses. “Where?”

  Simon could hear the bewilderment in her voice. He tried to see the rugged mountain terrain, the steep forty-five degree slopes and the dense forests from her point of view. “I guess it does look like the middle of nowhere.”

  Sunday laughed as she tucked her dark glasses back into her handbag. “It is the middle of nowhere.”

  He hoped she was a good sport. “We’re going to enter the City of Mist the way everyone should.”

  “How’s that?”

  “On foot.”

  He’d obviously caught her by surprise. It was written all over her lovely face. “We’re walking?”

  “We’re walking.”

  “What about the Rover?”

  Simon grabbed his knapsack from the seat behind him. “We’ll come back for it later.”

  “And our belongings?”

  “Take only the necessities with you. The rest will be safe enough left in the vehicle. If there are any people around—”

  “You’re joking, of course,” she interjected.

  He had to admit they were the only human beings in sight. “If there are any people around, they won’t disturb our stuff.” He got out and locked the doors. “Follow me.”

  Sunday followed him.

  “By the way,” Simon said over his shoulder as an afterthought, “you aren’t afraid of heights, are you?”

  “No.” There was a pause. “Why?”

  “We cross here.”

  Sunday came up behind him. “Here?”

  “Here,” he said, pointing to the rope suspension bridge that began a few feet in front of them and ended in a shroud of white mist.

  Ten

  Sunday balked. “You expect me to walk across that?“

  Simon turned and looked at her. “I thought you said you weren’t afraid of heights.”

  “I’m not.” She let a moment pass. “Usually.”

  They were standing on the edge of what she assumed was either a precipice or a great gorge or some kind of canyon. It was difficult to tell since a thick, white mist—perhaps it was a layer of low-level clouds—hung over the entire landscape.

  She could make out dark shapes and shadows on the opposite side. Hills. Trees. A forest. From far below came the sound of rushing water, not that of a babbling brook or a meandering stream, but of a fast-running river.

  Directly in front of them was a bridge.

  The sides of the bridge were open, the handholds were woven of thick rope, and the floor, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast, was constructed of narrow wooden slats. The suspension bridge stretched from their side of the ghostly precipice to the opposite bank. The other sound she could hear, Sunday suddenly realized, was the stridulation of cords and cables swaying in the wind.

  “My God,” she exclaimed. “It looks like something out of an Indiana Jones movie.”

  “Yes, it does,” Simon agreed spiritedly.

  “What’s the name of the river below?”

  “That is the river Pai.”

  “Then the bridge is—”

  “Yup, it’s the bridge on the river Pai.”

  Sunday groaned. “How can you make a joke at a time like this?”

  There was a flash of teeth. “‘He who laughs at himself never runs out of things to laugh at.’”

  Sunday emitte
d a nervous laugh of her own, leaned forward from the waist and peered anxiously over the edge of the embankment. “How far down is it?”

  Simon’s answer seemed deliberately obtuse to her. “Far enough.”

  “I can’t see the other side,” she observed.

  He made a production of staring into the mist. “I’m sure it’s there. If it will make you feel any better, I’ll go first,” he volunteered.

  With a flourish of her hand, she said, “Be my guest.”

  Simon walked onto the suspension bridge. “The key to a successful crossing is developing a rhythm to your gait.”

  “A rhythm to my gait,” Sunday echoed, stepping onto the wooden platform after him. With the addition of their weight, the bridge began to sway from side to side. She sucked in her breath. “I wish it wouldn’t do that. It makes me dizzy.”

  “Don’t look down,” he recommended.

  “I’m not. I can’t see anything, anyway,” she grumbled.

  “Keep your eyes on me” came the clipped instructions.

  An irreverent question popped into Sunday’s head, but she didn’t voice it aloud. On exactly which part of him should she keep her eyes?

  “You’re unflappable, remember?” Simon said, obviously attempting to buoy her confidence.

  She wiped her palms on her blue jeans. “Unflappable.”

  “No guts, no glory.”

  “No guts, no glory. No guts, no glory. No guts, no glory,” she repeated like a mantra.

  “How are you doing?”

  “How do you think I’m doing?” she told him feelingly.

  Her heart was lodged in her throat. Her hands were damp. Her stomach was doing acrobatics. Her legs were made of wobbly gelatin. She couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

  “Life is an adventure,” Simon called out to her. “Grab hold of it with both hands. Go for the gusto.”

  “Good grief, a pep talk,” Sunday muttered under her breath as she inched her way along.

  Simon halted, his feet planted solidly on the evenly spaced planks of the suspension bridge, then turned halfway around, swiveling from the hips, and held out his hand to her. “Trust me, Sunday. If you dare to take a chance, you will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.” Then he smiled at her and the fear that had plagued Sunday only moments before seemed to magically disappear.

  It was the darnedest thing.

  “Take my hand,” he urged.

  She took a step toward him and placed her hand in his. He was warm and solid, trustworthy and sure. He made her feel safe in a world that was often far from it.

  By the time they reached the opposite side, the sun had come out and the mist was quickly being burned off the hills. They stood on the summit and gazed back at the landscape: steep mountains, green forests, blue skies, a lingering cloud or two, the river Pai below.

  “I have something I want to show you,” Simon finally said in a secretive manner.

  They hiked down the incline, through a thicket of native trees, across a rocky creek bed and up the next hill. They stopped. There, stretched out before them, lush and green and gently undulating, was a high mountain meadow.

  “There is very little flat land in this region.”

  Sunday felt a vague sense of disappointment. The scenery was lovely, but somehow she’d expected more. “This is what you wanted to show me?”

  “Not exactly,” Simon answered as he prodded her closer to the field. “I want to show you a farm.”

  “A farm?” She was from Ohio; she had seen plenty of farms.

  “This is a very special kind of farm. It’s unlike any you have ever seen. I promise.”

  The meadow grass reached their knees; in some places, it was even hip high. Sunday looked closer. There were bits of color here, there, everywhere, in every shade of the rainbow.

  She frowned. “Flowers?”

  “There are flowers and vegetation of nearly all varieties that will grow at this altitude,” Simon explained. “But what I wanted to show you was—”

  They moved closer, and several of the specks of color rose in front of them and fluttered away.

  Sunday held out her hand and said in a hushed tone, “Butterflies.”

  “Butterflies,” Simon confirmed.

  “Hundreds of them.”

  “Thousands.”

  A breeze came up, and suddenly the butterflies were airborne, thousands upon thousands of fluttering wings in gray and brown, scarlet, coral red and pink, azure, shades of purple and lavender, canary yellow and jade. Some were as small as her smallest fingernail; some were as large as her palm.

  Sunday felt like laughing and crying at the same time. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Her throat constricted. The field of butterflies was unlike anything she had ever beheld. For several minutes, she didn’t speak, couldn’t speak.

  “Now I have seen a sublime place,” she finally said, turning to Simon. “You were right.”

  “Of course, I was right,” he claimed with a satisfied grin. Then he grew serious. “I made you a promise. I always keep my promises.”

  Their eyes met. They took a step toward each other. Simon reached for her. She reached for him. And there, in that magical place, that sublime place, they kissed again.

  This time he didn’t taste of strong coffee and dark rain, Sunday noted in the recesses of her mind, but of sunshine and meadow grass. Yet this kiss was just as seductive, just as addictive, just as heart-stopping as last night’s.

  Simon took her breath away. At first, she was acutely aware that they were standing in a field of butterflies on the top of a mountain in Thailand. Then she promptly forgot where she was, who she was, why she was here. The world began and the world ended within the circle of Simon’s arms.

  It was the sound of childrens’ laughter—high-pitched like the trill of songbirds, delighted and delightful, musical, carefree—that finally drove them apart.

  Then the chant began: “Sawat-dii, Simon! Sawatt-dii, Simon!” Greetings, Simon!

  “Don’t tell me,” Sunday speculated with a bemused smile. “You’ve been here before.”

  They were surrounded by a dozen children of all ages, faces smiling, a few behind shy giggles, arms raised, dressed in brightly colored hats and vests, pantaloons and woven jackets.

  “In my wanderings I stopped and lived with this hill tribe for a few months,” Simon offered as an explanation as they were carried along on a human tide toward the thatch-roofed village.

  Sunday watched as he spoke to the children in their own dialect, as they responded to him, chatting with him animatedly, vying for his attention, eagerly seeking to be the one honored to walk beside him, to lead the way.

  The village itself was a smattering of bamboo huts built on stilts. There was a single dirt street down the middle of the primitive town, not by design, but as a result of innumerable feet wearing away the grass and the underbrush. There were soybean fields beyond the village, and forests beyond the fields. An old man and woman were sitting side by side on the porch of their house, a smoking brazier in front of them. The scent of cooking hung heavy in the air.

  Simon gave a respectful nod of his head as they passed, and Sunday followed suit. After all, this was Simon’s place and Simon’s people, in essence. She was merely a visitor.

  They came to a second bamboo hut. A man slightly older than Simon emerged, and they greeted each other like long-lost brothers, clasping each other by the hand and shoulder in a ritual embrace, speaking in excited voices, gesturing toward the meadow she and Simon had just traversed.

  Simon motioned to her. Sunday stepped forward to stand beside him. “This is the headman of our village,” he told her. “His name is Tget.” A woman came out of the hut and joined them. “This is Tget’s wife. Her name is Siri.”

  Siri gave a polite bow, smiled and spoke one of the few English words she knew. “Wel-come.” Then she beckoned with her hand. “Maa.” Come.

  Simon slipped off his dusty cowboy boots. Sunday u
ntied her walking shoes. They were left behind at the bottom of the porch steps. She knew it was considered good manners to remove any footwear before entering someone’s home or a temple.

  The four of them sat cross-legged on a woven floor mat. Simon and Tget spoke of recent events in the village. Siri offered them water, a courtesy in Thai and hill-tribe cultures. Occasionally, Simon translated part of the conversation for her.

  Later, they shared a meal of rice, cooked beans and some kind of baked root that tasted a little like a sweet yam. Tget and Siri escorted them to the front porch where they sat and watched the sunset together. Music and singing followed to celebrate Simon’s homecoming. Then the fires were allowed to burn low in the braziers, exhausted children were put to bed and families retired for the night.

  Tget spoke again, and Simon turned to her. “The village has invited us to stay. My old house has been made ready. Would you like to spend the night in Houi Sia Tao?”

  “It’s a great honor to be asked, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a great honor to be asked,” Simon confirmed.

  “I would love to stay,” she replied.

  He replaced his cowboy boots, and Sunday, her shoes, and then the four of them walked through the village to what had been Simon’s home for a few months. There were fresh wildflowers tied to the front of the bamboo door and fragrant grass mats covering the porch floor. Inside was a small, low table, a lighted brass oil lamp, pillows to sit on, a carved chest, two sleeping mats and a stack of neatly folded blankets.

  Simon’s voice was modulated. “I have thanked Tget and Siri for this honored house, for preparing our welcome, for the fresh wildflowers, for the baskets of fruit and bread, for the polite offer of water and the special rice cakes.”

  Sunday bowed discreetly and said to the hill-tribe man and woman, “Thank you very much. You have been most kind to this farang.“

  “We will remove our shoes again before entering the house,” Simon told her, and they did.

  Then Tget began to speak.

  As he spoke, he took a strand of smooth stone beads from around his neck—the beads were the colors of the rainbow, the colors of the butterflies in the field—and recited what sounded to Sunday like some kind of blessing.