“The beleaguered father is in desperate need of rescue,” Marc said, shaking his head. “You came in the nick of time.”
Taking Matthew’s hand, she started back out. “Come on, Matt. Let’s you and I go find something to do.”
“Daddy won’t play with me, Valerie. Will you play a game with me?”
Marc winced at that, watching the two of them retreat down the hallway.
“Your daddy has to work, Matt. It’s part of his job. That’s how he earns money.”
The plaintive little voice came back to him clearly—”But daddies have two jobs. One is to work and earn money; the other is to tend their kids.”
Marc stared at the computer screen for several seconds, then he sighed, filed off what he was working on, and turned off the main power switch.
An hour later, Marc finished his glass of milk, put the carton in the refrigerator, and started back for the study. As he entered the hallway, he heard the soft murmur of Matt’s voice from his bedroom. On a sudden impulse he turned back around.
Valerie and Matt were kneeling at the bedside, and Matt was saying his prayers. “And keep us safe when we cross the desert to go to Grampa’s house this summer. And bless Jody that her mom will be nicer to her. Name of Jesus, amen.”
He looked up at Valerie, who was smiling down at him, gave her an impish grin and an impulsive hug, then bounced into bed.
As she started to tuck his blanket over him, she asked, “Where does your grandfather live, Matt?”
“InWillard.”
“Willard? Is that in Utah?”
“Yup.”
“And you have to cross the dessert to get there?” There was a soft note of amusement in her voice.
“Yeah. And it’s really hot. Brett says if the car broke we’d die.”
“I’m sure your daddy would take care of you. And I think it’s called a desert, Matt, not dessert. Do you know what a desert is?”
“Sure.” There was the slightest trace of disgust at her question. “A desert is a big beach with no ocean.”
Valerie’s laugh filled the room, and Marc started to laugh too. He entered, shaking his head. “Where did you come from, kid?”
“He is a delight.” Valerie leaned down. “Do I get a kiss good night?”
He threw his arms around her and hugged her tight. As she straightened and stepped back, Marc moved next to the bed. Again the little arms came up and he sat down to receive the embrace. “Thanks for playing with me, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome, Son.” He smiled and tousled his hair. “After all, a daddy does have two jobs.” He kissed him, then took Matt’s blanket and spread it over him. “Now you go to sleep.”
Valerie was waiting at the door, watching him with a smile. As Marc turned, there was an exasperated cry. “Daddy!”
“What?”
He pointed to two bare feet sticking out from the bottom of the small blanket. “My feet are tucking out.”
“Sorry!” Marc said solemnly, returning to tuck the edge of the blanket under, then giving his son another quick kiss.
As he came out into the hall, Valerie was waiting. She was shaking her head, still chuckling softly to herself. “That’s quite a boy you have there Mr. Jeppson. I wish I could have had him in my creative writing class at college,” she said. “He has a gift for coining a phrase.”
Marc nodded. “Earlier he told me he couldn’t go outside because he had his bare feet on.”
They stopped where the doorway led into the kitchen and family room. She looked up at him. “Three games of Spit and two games of Uncle Wiggly, and you didn’t show one moment of impatience. I’m very impressed.”
He let out his breath, shaking his head. “It’s not that I wasn’t feeling it.”
“I’m sorry. I really came over to stop that from happening.”
“I know.” His face was turned in profile, and she watched as he sobered. “But Matt’s right. These last two weeks since I started with Alex, all I’ve done is work.”
“But you love it, don’t you?”
That brought him around to look at her closely.
“That night at the restaurant, when you talked about Claremont, I could see the frustration in your face. Now it’s gone. Even Mom has commented on it. She says this is more like the old Marc Jeppson she used to know. Happy, joking. She’s really pleased.”
“You’re right about the frustation. I still can’t believe it all. One night, thanks to a broken down old VW, Alex Barclay drops into my life and everything changes.”
And with Alex came Jacqueline Ashby, she thought, then pushed it aside with a little shake of her head. “I’m glad for you.” She took a quick breath and started to move past him. “Well, you’d better get going again.”
Marc put out his arm, blocking her path. She looked up, a little startled. “Matthew and Brett are not the only ones I’ve been neglecting lately.”
“I’ve noticed that too,” she murmured.
“So maybe daddies have three jobs,” he said. “To earn money, to tend their kids, and to take the housekeeper’s daughter out for an ice cream cone and a long ride.”
Her laugh was soft and happy. “I think I like that job description.”
Marc stepped forward and gathered her in his arms. For a moment she was startled, then leaned forward into his arms. He just looked down at her, his face full of wonder. Then he kissed her, softly and with great tenderness.
When he pulled back, her eyes were shining, almost luminescent. Her lips parted, but she suddenly shook her head and laid it against his chest.
“What?”
She looked up, but again just shook her head. This time when he kissed her, she put her arms around him and returned it, with the same feeling of joy and tenderness she felt in him.
“I didn’t really come over with that in mind, either,” she said when they finally parted, her voice husky. He touched her cheek, and she laid her head against the palm of his hand. Then she straightened, put both hands on his chest and pushed him away. “Mother should be home with Brett in about ten or fifteen minutes. Why don’t you work on your report until she gets home? Then she can stay with the boys while you finish your third job.”
“Do you think she’ll mind?”
She managed to keep a straight face. “No, I don’t think she’ll mind.”
Chapter Fourteen
Unlike his study at home, which was warm, comfortable, and subdued, Alex’s office in the Barclay Enterprises warehouse building bordered on the flamboyant, the deliberately overstated. A huge driftwood sculpture stood in one corner, a full-grown stuffed cougar sprawled across its lower trunk. One whole wall was glass and held a small arboretum, complete with trickling fountain and stuffed birds in the trees. The opposite wall was papered with a textured burlap and held framed prints of horses, foxes, and hounds centered around a larger scene of the hunt progressing across English countryside. The desk was solid oak and massive, nearly taking the whole end of the office. A wooden mallard duck sat on one corner, opposite the phone and a picture of Ardith.
On the wall behind the desk, a plaque hung centered between a matched set of antique Derringers. It read:
Top Ten Distributor Award
Colt Arms Company
Barclay Enterprises
1984
Alex was leaning back in his chair, sipping a cup of coffee as he talked. When Marc pushed the door open and saw he was on the phone, he started to back out again, but Alex waved him in, setting down the cup. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Come in. I’m mostly listening anyway.”
Pulling one of the brown leather chairs around, Marc sat down. A folder was on the desk in front of Alex. It was the report he had turned in the day before yesterday—a day late. He sat back, watching Alex.
The president of Barclay Enterprises was dressed casually—light-blue flannel slacks, navy-blue pullover sweater. Marc smiled inwardly, thinking of the horrified look on Mary’s face when she saw his jeans, old Adidas te
nnis shoes, and comfortable sweatshirt. Marc had held out against her. “It’s Saturday. The office won’t be open. Alex said to come casual.”
At that moment, the door opened and Derek Parkin stepped in. Once again Alex motioned. He took the second chair and pulled it alongside Marc.
“Hello, Derek.”
“Good morning, Marc.”
Marc eyed him quickly. Though Derek hadn’t worn a suit either, he was Gentlemen’s Quarterly all the way. He smiled inwardly, as he turned back to Alex. Alex and Derek spent considerable time with the men’s fashion magazine. With Derek, Alex was both mentor and counselor, commenting on the style or cut of a suit, suggesting a special brand of shirt or shoes. Yesterday, he had even taken Derek to his very high-priced barber for a razor cut of his thick, dark hair. And yet with Marc, it was almost like Alex was secretly pleased that he neither cared for the latest fashions nor worried about whether he was in keeping with what others around him were wearing.
A movement caught Marc’s eye. Derek carried a folder identical to the one on Alex’s desk and had raised it briefly. “I finished your report last night.”
“Oh?” Marc responded softly so as not to disturb Alex, still murmuring assent from time to time.
The sharp buzz of the intercom sounded. Alex leaned forward. “John, can you hold a second? Jackie’s buzzing me.” He punched a button, then another. “Yes, Jackie.”
There was a moment’s pause. “No, I’ll take it out there. Tell them to hold a minute.” Again there was the pop of buttons. “John, look I’ve got Jakarta on the line. Can I call you back? Okay, thanks.”
He stood up. “Sorry, but this should only take a minute or two, then we’ll get started.” He was out the door, and in a moment they could hear him again, faintly now.
Derek leaned forward, frowning slightly. Again he held up the folder. “Is the Saudi culture really that—” He paused looking for a suitable word—”orthodox?”
Marc nodded. “King Abdul Aziz came to power with the help of a strict, fundamentalist Islamic sect called the Wahabis. That fundamentalism still dominates the country.”
“So we’re going to have to pray to Mecca five times a day while we’re there?” he said, with obvious distaste.
Marc wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be irritated at Derek’s deliberate obtuseness. “If you were Muslim and didn’t comply, you might get a good whack across the bottoms of your feet, but no, Nasrani are not required to comply with Islamic rites.”
“Nasrani?”
“Yes, Christians. Literally, followers of the man from Nazareth.”
“Oh, but all the other stuff—no liquor, the ads—all of that is for real?”
“The religious police are very conscientious about protecting their society from the corrupting influences of the West. If you bring in magazines, even Time or Newsweek, they’ll go through and cut out any offensive advertisements, or black out such things as low-cut gowns.”
“And they really black out the pelvic area on panty hose packages?”
“That’s what they say. Anything with even remote sexual connotations is illegal.”
“No smoking, no drinking, veiled women? Sounds like a great place to spend a weekend.”
Marc took a quick breath. He and Derek did not work directly together much. And that was fortunate, for he found himself increasingly annoyed by the egocentric narrowness of the man. In spite of the smooth urbanity, Derek Parkin cared only for those things that fostered the position, pleasure, or patronage of Derek Parkin.
“Smoking is not banned,” Marc said quietly. “Many of the Wahabis voluntarily abstain, but the Islamic religion doesn’t forbid it like it does drinking liquor.”
“Who’s smoking and drinking liquor?” Jacqueline Ashby was standing at the door. She held a tray with a coffee pot and two cups. There was also a glass of ice and a can of Seven-Up.
“Oh, hi, Jackie,” Derek said, standing. Marc followed suit. She smiled, noticeably more warmly at Marc than Derek, then set down the tray. She took the coffee pot, poured two cups and turned to Derek.
“Black?”
He nodded and reached for the cup.
“And how about your Seven-Up, Marc? Cream and sugar, or would you prefer it black?”
He grinned good-naturedly. “On the rocks is fine, thanks.”
She handed him both the glass and the can of pop, then picked up the pot again and refilled the cup Alex had left on the desk.
“So who’s smoking and drinking?” Jackie asked again, taking a third chair.
“We were just talking about Marc’s report.”
She nodded. “That was very well done, Marc. I found it fascinating.”
“Thank you.” He was pleased by that. In addition to being an attractive woman, Jackie was quick, astute, and did not pass around compliments cheaply.
“If you do have to go to Riyadh, I’m glad I won’t have to go. Any place where it is illegal for a woman to drive a car, or even ride in a car with a man other than family members, you can leave me out.”
She had said it in fun, but Marc felt himself going on the defensive. He had always loved the Arabic culture, and in the last three weeks had become especially intrigued by the Saudis and what they had accomplished. “It’s not that bad. The status of women has gotten a lot of bad press, but in a way they are more protected than exploited. And great strides are being made. Several of the women of the royal family have done a lot for them in terms of education, work opportunities, that sort of thing.”
She sipped her coffee. “Do they really have banks just for women that are staffed solely by women tellers and clerks?”
“Yes. It is forbidden for women to come in direct contact with strange men. That’s one reason why they wear veils. A male doctor may examine a woman patient, but only with another woman in the room. That’s true if she is fully dressed and getting only an eye exam.”
“And you call that progress?” Derek exclaimed.
Realizing that he was on the verge of becoming evangelical, Marc deliberately caught himself and shrugged. “That’s an interesting question. The Saudis want our technology and twentieth- century advancements, but they’re leery of some of our other exports.”
“Like what?” Derek demanded.
“An overpermissive society that breeds insolent, irresponsible children. Media that is obsessed with sexuality and promiscuity. Men who are steeped in alcohol, immorality, and self-indulgence.” Derek flushed at that, but Marc went on steadily, almost as though to himself. “Alcoholism, drug abuse, child and spouse neglect, armed war in the streets of every city. Actually they’re anxious to leave quite a few things strictly to us Americans. I guess that does make them sound a little primitive.”
“Hear, hear!” Alex said enthusiastically, pushing the door open.
Marc looked up, startled.
Alex moved to his chair and sat down. “You’re one hundred percent right, Marc. And if we are going to work with the Saudis, we’ve got to remember that difference between them and us.” He raised one eyebrow as he looked at Derek. “If we don’t, we could lose everything.”
“I never said they were primitive,” Derek said sullenly. “Archaic is a better word, I think.”
Marc bit back a retort, opened the can of pop, and poured it over the ice, aware that Jackie was watching him with open interest. Finally she turned to Alex. “Well, whatever it is, primitive or archaic, I think you got the right person to help us deal with it.”
“I agree,” Alex said, nodding. “And with that, let’s get on with it. Jackie knows why the Saudis are of such peculiar interest to Barclay Enterprises right now. I think it’s time we bring you two up to date on what is starting to shape up.”
“Excuse me.”
The man and woman bent over in the flower garden straightened and turned around. Their seventeen-year-old daughter playing with a pure white Persian kitten on the lawn nearby also looked up.
“I…I seem to be lost.” He had a deeply lined face
, a thick head of white hair, and spoke with a pronounced accent. His black suit was definitely not American.
The man working in the yard smiled encouragingly and stepped carefully out from among the flowers. “What are you looking for?”
“I think I got on the wrong bus.” It was said hesitantly, almost apologetically. The stranger took a watch from his vest pocket and squinted at it. “Oh, dear. I think I am not going to make it.”
Jonathan Taggart, engineer and chief designer of the VSM-430 radar system, set down his hoe and walked over to the man. “Where is it you were going?”
“To synagogue. It is Shabbat.”
“Which synagogue?”
“Temple Beth El.”
Taggart wrinkled his face, perplexed. “Temple Beth El?” He turned to his wife. “Mildred, do you know of a synagogue in town?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t remember seeing one.” Charlene now moved to join her mother, stroking the kitten gently. She also shook her head.
“I have the address here.” The old man took out a slip of paper and handed it to Taggart.
“But this is in Long Beach! You’re in Cypress. Long Beach is fifteen or twenty miles from here.”
The old man smacked his forehead. “Oi vavoi! I thought it did not feel right. But the city is so big. I could not tell. I… Could you show me where to catch a bus? The services start at ten.”
Taggart shook his head slowly. “I never ride the bus. I don’t know the schedules at all. And to get to Long Beach?” He turned to his wife. “Do the busses here even go to Long Beach?”
Mildred came over to stand next to her husband, and laid her hand on his arm. “Why don’t we take him, Jonathan? It’s already nine thirty.”
“Oh, dear lady, I did not mean to ask for that.”
“No,” Taggart said, brightening. “Mildred’s right. We’ll take you. Even if we could find a bus, you’d never make it in time.”
“But such an imposition. It would not be right.”
“Nonsense,” Mildred said firmly. “We’d be delighted. It’s a beautiful Saturday morning. The ride will be delightful.” She looked to her daughter. “Charlene, would you like to go?”
Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Page 70
