by Davis Bunn
“Amazing.”
“I do so miss the old place.” She pointed to her right. “The far door was once my family’s abode. Isaac Newton lived there in another time.”
He glanced over, but saw nothing save shadows. Overhead, the stars were being erased by a sweep of coming rain.
“Henry the Eighth was one of the college’s main benefactors.” Her casual tone made it sound like the donation had arrived the previous week. “The colleges who protested Henry’s formation of the Anglican Church treated us like lepers. But Christ Church has always made a habit of going against the grain.”
From the outside, the church was just another door set in the quad’s far corner. Inside, however, a different realm was revealed. Adam waited patiently while one robed figure after another greeted Dr. Beachley. She was careful to introduce him, but Adam paid little attention to the stream of people, save for the smiles that wreathed all their faces. Dr. Beachley entered the main chapel surrounded by a bevy of professors who insisted upon settling her wheelchair by the dons’ high-backed benches and then made a space for Adam.
All save Dr. Beachley rose for the choir to enter, who were led by crimson-robed clergy. The only illumination came from soft lights upon the stained-glass windows and candles in tall crystal globes. Hundreds and hundreds of candles. When they were again seated, Dr. Beachley motioned him closer. “Most of this church hails from the fifteenth century. But the floor and pillars and some of the stained glass date from the original cathedral of Oxford, one of the first erected in England, so old the dates mingle with the dust.” She pointed at the huge round stained-glass window opposite them, of a knight in armor slaying a dragon. “Legend has it the glass was made while Saint George was still alive. Which between you and me is a bit of old rubbish.”
The all-male choir sang John Tavener’s rendition of “The Lamb,” the voices young and crisp and vibrant. The priest then rose and gave the packed hall a formal blessing. Dr. Beachley sighed in pure pleasure and patted his hand. “You have made an old lady very happy.”
The stone hall was built to the proportions of a different era, so tall the carved roof swam in the candlelight. The pillars were broad as redwoods. The floor flowed and rippled with the cur-rents of time. The hall was built as a long and narrow cross, with the pews set to face one another across the central aisle. The pews rose in stairlike order, the nave at the front and the choir at the far end by the doors. The nave was separated from the main hall by a thousand-year-old screen. The stained-glass windows were five stories tall. The audience rustled as they sat once more. The service continued in a cadence from a time beyond time. The choir and the priest both alternated between Latin and English. The seats, the screen, the altar, the speaker’s platform, the roof, were all stained by centuries of candle smoke. The Bible was big as a gilded sail and rested upon a stone eagle whose claws held a golden crown.
The rain arrived while the priest spoke. It fell and fell, a gentle river of the night. The priest ended his homily and the choir sang, “Oh hush the noise, ye men of strife, and hear the angels sing!”
Adam could not escape the rush of memories that flowed with the rain. The reminiscences fell in a constant cadence, the images passing in a wash of helpless regret. His father had vanished when he was four, just walked out one day and never returned. His mother had never lost her smile in front of Adam, but at night he could hear her weeping through the walls of their dismal apartment. Adam listened to his mother’s anguish and swore in a little boy’s manner that no one would ever hurt him like that. Never.
His mother had fled into the arms of her church. Every hour she did not spend with her son or working was given to church activities. And she worked all the time. She photographed babies for two local department stores, she photographed weddings, she shot photos for school yearbooks. She was quick and professional and never lost her smile, not even when facing a thousand sullen teenagers in a week that never seemed to end. Adam remembered how she hated doing school photos most of all, being reduced to an automaton on the other side of a camera. Yet even then she did not complain so much as state in her matter-of-fact way that she would be glad when the week was over. The week, the month, the year after year of a life that had been foisted upon her by a man who left and a son who loathed her church as a place for losers. That was how Adam described it, after running away from Sunday school at age twelve. A place he hated, because they wanted to teach him to forgive. And he would never forgive his father. Not in a hundred billion years.
His mother had been forced to give up her dream of becoming a freelance photographer, the next Eve Arnold, so that she could support them. She did what she had to in order to give them a steady income, even shooting high school students with their nose rings and tattoos and young hate. And when she came home, washed out and her eyes full of dead dreams, she would dredge up a smile for her son and say, “At least I’ve held on to what’s most important in this small life.”
And still the rain fell.
chapter 11
Over dinner that night, Kayla related Adam’s request to handle her investment funds. As she spoke, her father’s gaze remained upon his wife. Honor listened as intently as Kayla’s father.
Her father said, “You’re going to trust Adam with your capital?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“That is remarkable,” Honor said. “You have a thousand reasons not to trust any man ever again.”
“There’s something about Adam that reminds me of Geoffrey.” Kayla related seeing the photograph at the receptionist’s desk. “It’s not who he is, it’s what he once was. Arrogant. Aloof. Menacing even when he laughed.”
“That’s an actor for you,” her father said, but he sounded uncertain.
Honor said, “I don’t believe the man I met could ever have acted his way into such a role. Unless . . .”
Kayla studied the woman seated across from her father. In the distance, a single light glimmered deep in the night-shrouded valley. The fire in the living room crackled softly. The refrigerator hummed and then went silent. Kayla finished the thought in an almost whisper. “Unless something has changed him.”
“Something immensely powerful,” Honor agreed.
Kayla studied her father’s wife. The unspoken question hung in the air between them; if that immense change had created a man she could trust.
“Adam also told me he wants to help the company.”
“His investment suggestions were first-rate,” Peter said.
“No. He wants to use the money you gave him and hire a detective to go after MVP.”
Peter was rocked back in his seat. “The young man’s offer makes Joshua’s desire to fire him almost sadistic.”
Honor asked, “What is Joshua after now?”
“He’s canvassing the board as we speak. Looking for a majority that will back his plan to begin massive layoffs. And he’ll start with Adam.”
“I don’t ever want him in this house again.”
“Honor. Please.”
“He’s as desiccated as a museum artifact. He’s bloodless. I would rather see—”
“Honor.”
Kayla watched the exchange, saw how Peter’s wife con-trolled herself with genuine effort. And liked her immensely as a result. Kayla said, “Adam knows he might be fired and still wants to do this. He thinks he could do it outside the firm and buffer the company, even if they do find out.” She hesitated, then added, “He thinks I should use the same detective and try to locate Geoffrey.”
“What a splendid idea,” Honor said. “Track the louse down and demand your money.”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” Peter said. “You’d be accusing the man of a crime on a different continent, with no genuine liability or proof to hand.”
“There’s another problem. I burned all my photos of Geoffrey.”
Honor said, “I have some. On my computer. You sent us several. I’ve kept them all.” She smiled triumphantly. “And I still say i
t’s a splendid idea.”
That evening his mother phoned on his cell phone. Her news left him tossing and turning most of the night. She had called to tell him of yet another dream. One that resonated more strongly than any before.
The next morning, when the phone rang as he prepared for breakfast, Adam assumed it was his mother calling with yet another helping. Instead, Peter Austin said, “Look here, I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday. But I thought, well, Kayla told us last night of your most remarkable proposal. I can’t say which touched me more deeply, your offer to assist my daughter or your offer to assist my firm.”
“I meant it,” Adam said. “Every word.”
“I personally am all in favor of giving both of your proposals a go. As for investing Kayla’s funds, I assume she has told you about Geoffrey Rambling?”
“A bit.”
“Our firm is at least partly to blame. We agreed to finance their expansion, but only if Kayla hired an experienced business manager. Of course, we had no idea his résumé would prove to be a bald fabrication, beginning with his name. At the time, Geoffrey Rambling seemed to be . . .”
“Ideal.”
Peter’s tone hardened with the iron frustration of a father wronged. “As financial officer, Geoffrey had cosignatory rights over the company accounts. Which granted him the access required to siphon off the money not yet invested.”
“Which he did.”
“Every cent. He was complete, I grant you that. He even went so far as to empty the office cash box.” Peter hesitated, then said, “I suppose she told you that they were engaged to be married.”
Adam rubbed the ribs over his heart. “Kayla skipped that bit.”
Peter sighed. “Keep it between us, that’s a good lad.”
“When did all this go down? The theft.”
“About ten months ago. Kayla kept it secret from even me until September. She was determined to make a go of it, although in much-reduced form. She almost did. Which, given the fact that she has no former business experience, and this is Africa we’re talking about, is nothing short of astounding.”
“So her trusting me with the project capital . . .”
“I take as a very good sign.” Peter’s tone became briskly professional. “Which brings us to your very kind offer to help us with this matter of hiring an outside investigator. Joshua has been adamant that our taking any steps to investigate the opposition would be more than futile, it would be dangerous. He is certain this group has spies inside our organization. They will know as soon as any such steps are taken. To go public with such news, especially if they have physical evidence, would be disastrous.”
“The fact that you’re only doing it to protect yourself from them—”
“Means less than nothing, since we ourselves have no hard proof.” Peter hesitated, then went on, “I must warn you, young man. You may well not have a job after Monday.”
“Kayla said as much.”
“There is no further money coming from the company.”
“I’ve gone without before.”
“In that case, Kayla will be coming in to see you, and bringing some documents you might find of interest.”
“Thanks for trusting me. That means a lot.”
“If there is anything I can ever do to help you however small, you need only ask.”
“That’s not why I’m doing this.”
“I understand. And that is why I make this offer.”
Kayla left at mid-morning and drove the old Mercedes to Adam’s boardinghouse. They took over the kitchen table and went to work, or at least Adam did. Kayla sort of drifted. Her night had been disturbed repeatedly by dreams of Geoffrey, and she’d woken up feeling drugged. Kayla gave Adam the name of an investigation agency her father had said came highly recommended. Adam used his new cell phone and spoke to the agent manning the office that Saturday morning. He ran through the proposed project with terse confidence. He then hooked Kayla’s laptop to the kitchen phone and transferred the photos of Geoffrey Rambling that Honor had supplied. Adam then contacted the broker suggested by her father and arranged for the account to be set up and the investments to be made. Kayla watched as Adam went online a second time and transferred the funds from her bank to the new brokerage account. She stowed away the handwritten documents giving her the access codes without even looking at them.
Adam then led her into the front parlor, the one used by the students, and said, “Mom called last night. She’s had another dream.” He leaned his elbows on his knees and began describing what his mother had told him to the frayed carpet at his feet.
As she listened, Kayla felt an immense need to simply get away. She was on her feet before Adam even finished speak-ing. “How long do you need to get ready?”
He blinked with slow confusion. “What?”
“Your mother called last night because it was urgent, right? And you felt the same sense of resonance as before?”
“I guess so.”
“Yes or no, Adam. This is too important for fiddling.”
“Yes. All right. I felt it.”
“So go pack your bag. I’ve got the car. We’ll be gone over-night.” She made sure he was fully focused on her, then asked, “I don’t have to worry about you taking advantage of the situation, do I?”
“No,” he replied. “You don’t.”
“So hurry.”
“What about you?”
“We’ll stop by the house on our way out of town. It’s in that direction.”
“You know where to go?”
“I think so. We’ll see.”
Adam rose and started for his room to pack his things. Then he turned back. She watched him taste that remarkable smile of his. “Thanks, Kayla. A lot.”
She stood in the empty front parlor and stared at the dust motes dancing in the gloom.
Just friends.
She turned at the sound of gentle thumps proceeding across the front hall. The professor appeared in the doorway, leaning heavily upon her walker. “You are looking lovely this morning, Miss Austin. Have you come for tea?”
“No, actually, Adam and I . . .” She could not quite make out why she blushed at the words. “He needs help doing something for his mother.”
“I gather she is unwell. Is it serious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How sad. And how very good that he has you to offer aid in his hour of need.” She was so bowed over the walker that she had to twist her neck in order to look at Kayla. “Are you two an item? Do they still say that these days?”
“I don’t . . . No. No. We’re not.”
“Ah.”
The space between them was suddenly a vacuum that drew out the words, “I have to return to my work. In Dar es Salaam.”
“Love is such a dreadful impossibility. Such a treacherous task, to defy the world and offer one’s heart.” Her eyes sparked. “But Adam is so very fortunate nonetheless. To have a young woman who understands the trial and the loss he faces. It must mean the world to him.”
“He’s a good man.”
“That he most certainly is. He made an old woman very happy last night.” Dr. Beachley started to turn away, then added, “If you would permit me to offer one small bit of advice.”
“Of course.”
“I suspect he already has feelings for you. Oh, I am well aware that I hardly know either of you. But I suspect our young Adam cares more than he realizes.”
“I can’t see why.”
“Can’t you? How very curious. Do you see yourself as so very unappealing?”
“More like damaged goods.”
“Yes, of course. The dire consequences of living in this jagged age. But you see, my dear, Adam is bound to you by that most remarkable bond. You know his pain. You understand what shapes his world. Whether you know it or not, whether he realizes it yet. He needs you.” She made a slow process of turning back to the door. “Even if you feel you have none to give, you offer the young gentleman hope. Hope
of a tomorrow beyond the looming maw of dank earth that awaits his mother. Hope of a future where he might stand where you are now. Making plans. Living your passions. Striving to patch over the fractures this life can make in one’s most precious dreams.”
Kayla would have protested that she had nothing of the sort to offer anyone, if only she could have found the breath. As it was, she was fortunate to find the chair before her legs gave way.
Adam found her seated on the horsehair sofa, staring blindly at the sunlight splashing upon the window. “Let’s hit the road.”
chapter 12
Adam drove because Kayla asked him to. The car was a magnificent beast of leather and chrome and polished burl and purring engine, with squared-off edges and thick sofa-style seats and less than twenty thousand miles on the clock. Even the turn signal ticked with stately calm. It was a vehicle made for Oxford, magnificent in a peculiarly dated way.
Driving on the opposite side of the road was far less difficult than Adam had feared. He simply followed the flow. They soon left the Ring Road and the Saturday shopping traffic behind. Kayla limited her conversation to a few terse directions. Adam could see something was bothering her. He feared it might have to do with her offer to accompany him on this new quest. But he felt no need to ask anything just then. Since his arrival in Oxford, his world had been filled with mystery and few solid answers.
The only thing he could say for certain was that he did not feel alone. Adam shared the morning’s vulnerability with as strong a woman as he had ever known. He was thrilled by the prospect of spending the day in her company. He tried to remind himself that Kayla was leaving for Africa in just seven days. But driving this wonderful car down an increasingly empty road, headed toward a destination that made no sense whatsoever, left him wanting to shout out loud.
The sky had cleared after raining all night long. A strong wind blew across a crystal clear sky. The morning light bathed a distinctly English landscape, beautiful in a vacant wintry manner. Once they were into the rolling hills and quieter ways, Kayla said, “Tell me what your mother said.”
