“Please do not worry.” He gave her a warm smile. “Perhaps you will feel better after eating your lunch.”
“Perhaps.” As she left the post office, Jess spotted the sign for Baghani Street. Her stomach knotted into a tight ball. Should she have lunch with Rick? What would he think she meant by it? Would it open a door better left shut?
Yes.
She turned around and started down the street in the opposite direction. It would be stupid to eat with Rick. Crazy to have anything more to do with the man.
On the other hand, what difference could a simple meal really make? She had eaten with him the night before, hadn’t she? And no doubt she would see him at Uchungu House again. If he had something he wanted to say to her, she knew she was going to have to listen to it eventually.
She stopped walking. In fact, she might as well hear him out in the middle of Zanzibar town, safely away from Splinter’s ears. Maybe they would just go at each other’s throats. Spill the whole past onto the table at Kilau’s Coffee House and be done with it.
Jess turned around and headed back down Kenyatta Road toward Baghani Street. When she rounded the corner, she spotted Rick at once. Leaning against the wall of the café, he was staring at the sidewalk. His face held a look of immeasurable sadness. She stopped again, suddenly in doubt. In the past, Rick had never been open with his feelings, never readable. A cocky grin had been his trademark, the perfect mask to cover his anger and rebellion.
Now, Jess felt she could see into his heart . . . but maybe she didn’t want to. She gripped her purse. She should leave. This was a mistake. There was nothing he had to say that she wanted to hear. Or was there?
“Rick,” she said softly.
He lifted his head. His blue eyes snapped to life, and a smile spread across his face. “Jessie. You came.”
She shrugged. “You gotta eat sometime.”
Rick led Jessie through the dim interior of the Kilau Coffee House and out into the sunlit courtyard. He couldn’t believe she had come. All morning, he had told himself she wouldn’t be there. Why should she? He had done nothing but hurt her. Even now, he was clearly a threat to her peace of mind. He had stood on the street, waiting, turning over in his thoughts the hundred wrong things he had done to her in their brief marriage, trying to prepare himself for her rejection.
And then she was there.
Thank you, Lord, he prayed as he seated Jessie at a small metal table beneath the gray branches of a frangipani tree. Please teach my mouth the right words to say to her. Speak to her heart through me.
“I’ve got to try one of those mango milk shakes,” she said. “That sounds outrageous.”
He sat across from her, memorizing the play of sunshine in her auburn hair. She had on a simple yellow knit polo shirt and a plain blue denim skirt, but he thought he’d never seen a woman so beautiful. Her fingers were slender and long as she held the menu—artist’s hands. Her skin glowed. Her eyes danced with life.
Rick felt like the teenager he’d been when they first met. Heart hammering, breath short, hands clumsy, he ordered a chicken sandwich. He doubted he could eat a bite. He was alone with Jessie. Beautiful, smart, intriguing Jessie. If he stood up, he’d probably fall flat on his face. He couldn’t even think of anything to say.
“I’ll have the curry plate,” she told the waiter.
Rick fumbled his napkin into his lap. “So . . . uh, how did your morning go? The school . . . think Splinter will like it?”
Her eyes clouded, and he knew he’d made a mistake. Don’t talk about her son, you idiot! She’s scared to death you’ll horn in on their relationship.
“I think it’s a pretty good school,” she said. “Mr. Ogambo is very proud of his teachers and curriculum. He says the students test well, too.”
“Good. That’s great.” He turned his water glass around and around on the metal table. Change the subject, McTaggart. Even the weather is a better topic than her son. He hadn’t been this nervous in years. He felt tongue-tied. Like a kid on a first date. “The . . . uh . . . the electric company? How did that go?”
“It’s going to take months. I might as well get used to kerosene lamps.” She shrugged. “I mailed some sketches to my publisher in London.”
“It’s great what you’ve done, Jessie. Your artwork.”
“Yeah. Well, that’s my living.”
“It’s more than that. It’s a gift.”
“It’s a job.” She fiddled with her napkin for a moment. “It’s a good job. I’ve been very lucky.”
“You’ve been blessed. Blessed with talent and the determination to develop it.”
She leaned back and regarded him for a long time. The waiter placed their lunch plates on the table and refilled their water glasses. Jessie’s focus never left Rick’s face. Finally, she sat forward.
“You’re weird, you know that?” she said. “Very weird.”
“This is true. Sad but true.”
“No, I mean it, Rick. You’re not acting like you’re supposed to.”
“How am I supposed to act?”
“For one thing, you didn’t order a beer with your sandwich.”
“I don’t drink beer anymore.”
“No way. I don’t believe it.”
He chewed on a bite of his sandwich for a moment. It tasted like library paste. This was the opening he needed. Give me courage, Father. Help me speak honestly.
“I told you a lot had happened.” He swallowed and gulped down some water. “There’ve been changes in my life.”
“You don’t drink beer at all?”
“I don’t drink alcohol at all. I’ve been sober seven years.”
“And you’ve held onto this job, too. You once told me you never wanted a job with a salary and an office. You were always going to be free. Free as a bird.”
“The eagle has landed. Hard to believe, but I’m a responsible workingman, Jessie.”
“Yes, it is hard to believe. I didn’t think it was possible.”
“Nothing’s impossible with God.” He let out a breath. There, he’d said it.
She set down her fork, folded her arms, and cocked her head to one side. “You know, you sound an awful lot like your missionary parents, Rick. God this and God that. I thought you hated that whole litany. You said it was shallow. Fake.”
“‘When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child—’”
“‘But when I grew up . . . ,’” Jessie finished. “So, are you telling me you decided to follow in your parents’ footsteps? You took on their faith after all?”
“No.” He looked into her eyes. “That’s not what I’m telling you. That’s not how it is.”
“Whew, you had me worried for a minute there.”
“I’m following in Christ’s footsteps, Jessie,” he said. “Not my parents’. I don’t have their faith. I have my own. It just happens that they were right.”
“I wouldn’t have expected that. Not from you.”
“That day on the cliff-side steps, I told you there was more to my life than the years of wandering and drinking, the rescue by my brother, the university degree, and the job. Those are all things that happened to me. They’re not who I am.”
“Okay, then. Who are you?”
He took a deep breath. “Easier asked than answered. Back in the bad old days—after I hit rock bottom—I decided I had to stop drinking. I’d killed our marriage, and I’d just about killed myself. By trying to run my own life, I had destroyed everything—and everyone—I’d ever loved.”
Rick tried to read the look in Jessie’s eyes, but she averted them. When she said nothing, he went on. “I started going to meetings for recovering alcoholics. One of the first things I had to do was admit I was powerless and seek help from a higher power. I thought higher power was a strange term for God—until I noticed how others in the group interpreted it. In their minds, this higher power could be almost anything from Buddha to a guardian angel to a person’s inner self. So I went on a se
arch for this power—for the highest power.”
“And you found God.”
“He found me.” Rick bowed his head, praying he could break through the wall of bitterness and resentment around her heart—a wall built on the foundation of his mistakes. “God found me, Jessie.”
She started to reply and stopped. Then she shrugged her shoulders. “Go on.”
“One day in the middle of my search—at a point where I was clearheaded enough to realize what a total loser I’d become—I picked up a Bible at my brother’s house. I started thumbing through it. I read verses I’d read a hundred times before, heard in a thousand of my father’s sermons, memorized in Vacation Bible School. Boring, right? And then I read this one: ‘So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus. For the power of the life-giving Spirit has freed you through Christ Jesus from the power of sin that leads to death.’”
“You discovered your higher power.”
“I discovered Christ’s power. The Holy Spirit’s power. That power set me free, Jessie. ‘If your sinful nature controls your mind, there is death. But if the Holy Spirit controls your mind, there is life and peace. For the sinful nature is always hostile to God.’”
“You sound like your dad.”
“My parents laid a foundation of faith in my life. I rejected it. Then I discovered my own path to the truth. It just happened that the truth I found was the same truth they’d been trying to show me all along. What I believe in is not a copy of my parents’ religion, Jessie. My faith in Jesus Christ is my own.”
She let out a deep breath. “Whew! Boy, you are different. I didn’t know how different until now.”
“‘Those who become Christians become new persons. They are not the same anymore, for the old life is gone. A new life has begun!’ I didn’t make that up. It’s in Corinthians—and I believe it.”
Jessie stirred her fork around and around in her curry. Rick watched, waiting, concerned that he might have pushed her farther away than ever. He’d never been much good at sharing his faith with people. As Andrew Mbuti had reminded him, Rick was forever tactlessly shoving his Bible in his friend’s face. But they’d known each other for years, and Andrew still had no personal faith in Christ. With others he met, Rick found it awkward to talk about religion. Still, he wanted to tell people what had happened to him. He wanted to tell Jessie most of all.
“A brand-new person?” she said, lifting her head. “That kind of lets a person off the hook for the past, doesn’t it?”
“No. That comes when the people who were wronged are able to forgive. And just because I’m a new creation doesn’t mean I’m perfect. Paul could have been writing my life story when he said, ‘When I want to do good, I don’t. And when I try not to do wrong, I do it anyway. . . . Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin? Thank God! The answer is in Jesus Christ our Lord.’”
“Set free.” Jessie stared blankly at her plate, as though the words had beckoned her into another world. Rick studied his wife and wished he could read her thoughts. Did she understand what had happened to him? Did she see the difference in his heart?
“Jessie?” he asked in a low voice. “I need to repeat what I said to you on the cliff. Can you forgive me?”
“Oh, Rick, I—” She looked up and sucked in a breath. “Rick, it’s Omar Hafidh. He’s coming this way.”
“Who?” He turned to see a tall muscular man working his way between the tables in the courtyard. “Who’s Omar Hafidh?”
She grabbed his hand and held on tightly. “I’m not sure, but I think . . . I mean, well—” her gaze met his—“he may be a murderer.”
NINE
Jess looked up into the olive green eyes of Omar Hafidh and decided that at this moment she didn’t care whether Rick was a con artist or a bona fide Christian; she was thankful to have his hand to squeeze. The towering African had traded his long cotton loincloth for a white shirt and dark trousers. A pair of mirrored sunglasses perched in the tight curls on his head. He stopped at the table, studied Rick for a moment, and then turned to Jess.
“Ms. Thornton,” he said without a smile. “I have found you.”
“You were looking for me?” She asked, trying to calm the terror that was making her voice quaver. “Was there something you wanted?”
“Someone would like to meet you.” He stepped aside to reveal a pale, thin-boned man with a pair of small eyes that looked like hard brown pebbles. His hair had been slicked straight back from his high forehead and plastered into place with greasy pomade. The unsettling scent of roses drifted around him as he edged up to the table.
“Delighted to meet you, I’m sure,” the man said in a clipped English accent as he held out a thin, long-fingered hand.
“This is Giles Knox,” Omar informed Jess. “He has come from Nairobi to speak with you.”
Jess took the man’s cold fingers and gave them a quick shake. “I’m Jessica Thornton.”
“Delighted, I’m sure,” he said. “I have spoken with Mr. Hafidh about Uchungu House. I understand you’re the new owner.”
Jess nodded. Rick’s hand felt warm and secure. She squeezed tighter in spite of herself. “Dr. bin Yusuf left me his house, yes. Why do you ask?”
“May we join you?” Before she could answer, the man slid into a chair and hefted a black leather briefcase onto the table. “My dear Ms. Thornton, I am the owner of Knox Galleries—Nairobi, London, Paris, New York. My galleries display only the very finest in native African art, and as I’m certain you can imagine, Dr. bin Yusuf ’s work is highly prized by collectors. Mine is the only gallery he permitted to display his paintings and sculptures. Of course I sold everything he left with me on consignment. The man was brilliant. A genius. I understand you’re an artist as well, Ms. Thornton?”
“I do children’s picture books.”
“An illustrator. How very nice for you. How charming.”
Jess glanced at Rick. He was clearly assessing the situation, his blue eyes shrewd and alert. Surprisingly, she felt thankful for the man, even grateful for his recurring presence in her life. As he unknotted her stiff fingers and wove them through his, a sense of peace slipped around her shoulders like a warm cape.
“Sir, as you can see, Ms. Thornton and I are having lunch,” Rick said. “What exactly do you want from her?”
“Well.” The man ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “Well, you do come directly to the point, don’t you? Ms. Thornton, in my long and pleasant association with Dr. bin Yusuf, I came to realize he stored a great many paintings and sculptures at Uchungu House. In fact, I believe the entire house is filled with his work. Filled! I have only had the pleasure of seeing it once, but I believe you have Storm at Sea—the bird hovering over the ocean? The wind in the lone palm tree?”
“It’s in the sitting room.”
“The sitting room! Oh, dear heaven.” He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “Ms. Thornton, as an artist yourself, you surely understand the desirable qualities of such paintings. To leave them unprotected . . . to have them hang unseen . . . unappreciated! It’s a tragedy!”
Jess was beginning to catch the trend of the conversation. “I’ve been concerned about the safety of the paintings, too. But clearly Dr. bin Yusuf wanted his artwork stored at his own house, or he would have placed it in your galleries a long time ago.”
“What my uncle wanted no longer matters,” Omar said. He had not taken a chair. Standing like a bodyguard beside the slick gallery owner, he crossed his arms over his massive chest and stared at Jess through hooded green eyes. “Ahmed Abdullah bin Yusuf is dead.”
“I’m aware of that, but I’m attempting to respect Dr. bin Yusuf ’s wishes.”
“Why?”
“Because I admired him. I want to honor his memory. He did leave me his house, after all. The least I can do is try to preserve some of its unique heritage.”
“The least you can do to honor such a great artist,” Giles
Knox said, “is to place his paintings in a secure and protected environment. Surely you must be aware that a house by the sea—complete with humidity, insects, and crumbling plaster—is hardly an ideal setting for works that deserve preservation.”
“Are you interested in preserving the paintings?” she asked. “Or do you want to sell them?”
“Well, of course I—” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Of course I wish to preserve Dr. bin Yusuf ’s art for posterity. This is my ultimate priority. These works simply must be removed from the house.”
“And?”
“Additionally, it would be my honor and privilege to assist you in placing such fine work in the hands of collectors who would be able to care for it in the manner it deserves.”
“You want to sell the paintings,” Jess said.
“And the sculptures.” Giles Knox gave her a little smile. “For their safety.”
“For the money.”
“That, too.”
“And what is Mr. Hafidh’s interest in all this?”
Omar stared at her. “My mother owns some of her brother’s artworks. She does not wish to keep them. Knox will take the canvases for a price, but he tells me that if he can offer the whole collection to a buyer, my mother’s paintings will be worth more.”
“That is correct,” the gallery owner affirmed. “You see, Ms. Thornton, I have among my clientele a certain . . . collector. This gentleman lives in the United States. Los Angeles, California, to be exact. The man is a rather wealthy entrepreneur who has elected to invest in an impressive collection of African art. He is particularly fond of Dr. bin Yusuf ’s work, and in past years he has purchased nearly everything I was able to obtain.”
“And now that the artist is dead,” Jess said, “the art is worth a lot more, and the collector wants it all as an investment.”
“You are correct.”
“I don’t see how one man thinks he can pay the kind of price those paintings and sculptures should fetch. We’re talking about a lot of money, Mr. Knox.”
A Whisper of Danger Page 13
