by Ginny Aiken
“Hi, Andie,” Allison says as she pulls out a chair to join us at the table. “Glory got to go home because Farooq had his hand in my stuff. The police don’t think she would care enough about my wallet to kill the guy. As if I would kill for twenty bucks.”
She looks about as worn as the saddle on the mule I rode. Come to think of it, that’s pretty close to how I’ve begun to feel.
I scan the room and notice another absence. “Don’t tell me they let the Russells go home too.”
“The Russells didn’t get to go home.” Miss Mona takes a long drink of green tea. “They’re being held over for another day. The police want them to look at some pictures tomorrow.”
Am I surprised? “And would those pictures include bearded, turbaned terrorists pretending to guard some phony-baloney guru?”
She smiles. “I think they might.”
I try to inject some humor into the situation. “Hey! I wanna look at pictures and go home too!” Lame, lame, lame. “Seriously, though. How’s anybody going to identify those men? Put a beard and a turban on the next Kashmiri guy, and who can tell what he looked like before? It’s the perfect disguise, you know.”
Allison leans forward, lowers her voice. “I can see those scary men killing Xheng Xhi.”
No joke. “I can see them stealing rough from the mines.”
“But, sugarplum, why’d they want to kill that nice Xheng Xhi or Farooq?”
It’s time to try out my looniest theory so far. “What if Xheng Xhi and Farooq were part of the smuggling ring?”
Miss Mona chokes on her water.
Allison drops her fork.
Aunt Weeby “oooohs!”
I go on. “What if the terrorists gave the stones to Xheng Xhi to get them down the mountain? What if Xheng Xhi gave them to Farooq to pass along?”
A look around the table tells me everyone’s on board. I nod. “That gorgeous houseboat sees a whole lot of foreign traffic. Anyone can play tourist and take the stones out of Kashmir.”
My auntie coos again. “You’re so good, sugarplum. You’ve solved the crimes. The smugglers must’ve had themselves some kinda nasty fight, and then, poof! The guys with the turbans killed the other two. Case closed.”
Just because Aunt Weeby likes my theory doesn’t mean it flies. “What do you think, Miss Mona?”
“It makes a lot of sense, Andie, my dear.” She takes another minute to think things through. “I suspect we all just happened to be in that age-ol’ wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Even the Russells,” Aunt Weeby says.
I slant her a look. “I detect a touch of disappointment.”
She waves. “Don’t pay me no never mind. My ol’ imagination plumb loves the idea of international intrigue and Interpol and the FBI. You know. So exciting. Like last—”
“Don’t go there! That was not exciting. It was awful. It’s way better to solve the problem right here in the Kashmiris’ backyard. Now I just have to convince the cops to let me go.”
That’s exactly what I do the next day. By noon, Mr. Smith brings me back to the hotel, I grab my backpack, my great-aunt, my boss, my makeup artist, and my Coach bag. An hour later, the four of us walk into the airport, rush the airline counter, and flash ID in relief.
“The nightmare’s really over,” I say on my way down the airliner’s aisle. “We’re going home.”
But you know it isn’t that easy. At the insistence of the Kashmiri authorities, I sign a sworn affidavit affirming my understanding that, should they deem it necessary, I will return for prosecution. If I try to dodge, Interpol will come chase me down. To arrest me, you understand.
I’m still a wanted woman.
1200
The trip home is a blur of airports and airplanes. Everyone sleeps on the flights; everyone, that is, but me. I’d hoped to let the exhaustion take over, and my body’s more than willing, but my mind refuses to get with the program.
I’m glad I’m no longer under the spotlight that shines on the prime suspect in a pair of murders, but I am the prime suspect in a case of self-deception.
My emotional response to Max’s flight makes me face truths I’d rather avoid. I don’t just find him attractive. He’s not just good-looking. And he doesn’t just drive me nuts because he’s dumb, since he’s really not so dumb at all.
It’s all about those “justs.” If I just found him attractive; if he were just good-looking; if he just irritated me, then I’d have no problem.
My problem is that I find him attractive, appealing, intriguing, and even charming—at times. He’s good-looking, decent, determined, and hardworking—not just at sports. And he drives me nuts because . . . well, just because he does. You see, I’m really and truly falling for the surfer boy.
Who’d a thunk?
My not-so-cool jealousy toward Glory springs from my feelings for Max, especially because I’m so scared of getting hurt again. I’ve avoided dating for years, ever since a disastrous experience in college. Back then I thought my boyfriend felt the same way I did. It turns out, my knack for science and math meant more to his grades than I did to his heart. My inability to tell the difference before I let my heart get in too deep is what scares me most.
No one wants to be used. Been there, done that. Not going there again.
What does all this have to do with Max? Max wants to work at the S.T.U.D. And that’s the thing. Would he go so far as to romance me to keep his job?
That’s what I don’t want to face.
How mature of me!
Am I ready to . . . fall in love? Could I fall in love with Max?
Yes. And yes.
A better question might be whether this is the Lord’s plan for my life or not. I have to believe God’s brought us together for a reason. Coincidence isn’t something I buy into.
I’m scared to put my heart on the line. Is my faith strong enough to let go of my jokes and snipes and superficial and totally false sense of control? Do I trust God enough to let him work in my heart? And Max’s?
Do I trust him enough to catch me and patch me up again if Max breaks my heart?
And here I thought I’d faced the trust thing awhile back.
Lord? When am I going to grow up for real? I left the baby-Christian stage behind years ago, at least that’s what I thought. But now . . . this Max thing has shown me some nasty bits I haven’t dealt with. Is this what it means to run the long “race” you want us to run? I guess growing up is a process that goes on forever, not something a person achieves one day.
I try—again—to find a comfortable fit in my uncomfortable airplane seat. Coming home to Kentucky hasn’t turned out the way I expected. I figured I was heading for a simpler life, not so many demands, and fewer challenges. Instead, my life’s more complicated than ever, and God continues to make me face things I would much rather continue to dodge for the rest of my life.
Then, while still deep in my serious thoughts, I’m back! Back in Louisville again.
Davina, the S.T.U.D. Network’s limo driver, meets us at the Louisville International Airport. The girl’s well over six feet, and I have to stretch up on tippy-toe to do it, but I hug her like there’s no tomorrow.
“Get a grip,” she says . . . minutes later. “You and your trips. You need a life, woman.”
Groan! “Not you too! I traded New York for Louisville to get a life. What’s wrong with this picture?”
Davina shakes her head. “Don’t you get it? Stay home. It’s all about those crazy countries.”
I’m stunned. That’s the most I’ve heard Davina say in almost a year. I suppose she does have a point. My bad experiences have all come when I’ve traveled to exotic places.
Well, most of them. There was that horrible day when I found the vendor who was killed in the S.T.U.D. vault last year. But why quibble?
I give her a crooked grin. “How about I wait for gemstones to come to me rather than try and hunt ’em down in their native habitat?”
Davina grins.
<
br /> Miss Mona cheers.
“Oh, phooey!” Aunt Weeby gripes. “What fun izzat?”
“Fun?” I wail. “How can you call it fun? I didn’t have fun! Not while I was grilled like a plucked chicken over two dead guys I didn’t even know. Maybe you should—”
Horror shuts me up. I’d almost told my crazy aunt she should try what she has just labeled fun. Can you imagine the international havoc the wacky woman could wreak?
I’m beginning to believe silence might truly be golden. “Um-hum-huh-hum-hum-humm . . .”
The others take my toneless music-making for what it is: a change of topic. On our way home, the talk turns local. Davina catches us up with what’s gone on at the network during our trip. Nothing’s changed, which makes me happy.
I can stand a whole lot of same-old, same-old right about now.
Since it’s Sunday, and comfort, warmth, and welcome rank way high in what I want, Sunday evening’s praise and worship hour at church is right up my alley. Aunt Weeby comes with me.
The familiar building, familiar songs, familiar faces, even the familiar structure of the service, soothes my dented nerves. By the time we’re ready to head home, I feel almost back to normal.
Almost.
We get in my new Honda, and I drive home, a soothing Brahms CD in the player.
But before we’ve gone more than three blocks, the strident wails of a fire truck ravage the peace of the night. Wee-uh, wee-uh, wee-uh! Flashing lights approach in my rearview mirror, and I pull over to the shoulder to wait for the truck to pass.
Aunt Weeby reaches out and takes my hand. “Let’s pray.”
My aunt’s typical response to someone else’s distress adds to my sense of rightness. We pray for the rescue workers, the victims, everyone affected by the emergency. Once they’re gone, I get back on the road.
At the house, I make a beeline for my room. Aunt Weeby, however, hits the kitchen and makes a pot of her trademark cocoa. The scent draws me back downstairs.
“It’s always helped ease the ouchies away,” I tell her after I take my first sip. “And you know when I need it the most.”
“What makes you think you’re the one what needs the cocoa?” Aunt Weeby shakes her head. “I do confess, I had me a big ol’ scare in that there Kashmir hotel. I didn’t know if those cops would ever let you go.”
The events of the past few days have hit her hard. I put down my mug and wrap my arms around her. To my amazement, I feel her sobs under my hands. “Aunt Weeby! Don’t cry. Everything’s okay.”
She nods, but the sobs and tremors continue. I hold her until they’re gone.
With a quick swipe at her eyes, she puts on her regular, beaming smile. “Oh, don’t go paying this ol’ lady no never mind, sugarplum. I can’t believe I doubted the good Lord for even one smidgen of a minute.” She takes a shaky breath, then squares her shoulders and nods. “I confess I did. I didn’t know if he’d answer my prayers for you. I’m ashamed.”
Arms open wide, I stand back. “You’re human. That’s why the Lord forgives. And see? I’m fine! In my Tweety Bird jammies too. Nothing’s wrong with our world.” Let’s not mention that affidavit back in Srinagar I never told her I had to sign.
“I know you’re fine now, Andie, my girl. But I didn’t in that there hotel in Shrin . . . Shree . . . oh, who cares what that place is called? We’re home in Kentucky, and that’s what matters most.”
When she drains the last dregs of cocoa from her mug, I take hers and mine to the dishwasher. “What we both need most of all is a solid, long, good night’s sleep. We haven’t had any of that since we left home.”
“You’re right. I’m off to bed. God bless you, sugarplum.”
“See you in the morning!”
After a brief prayer, I fall into the deepest, most restful slumber I’ve known in days.
I wake up in the dark, unable to breathe from the elephant-sized weight on my chest. Another try for a breath of air brings no results.
Fear doesn’t help. My heart pounds harder with every gasp. The acrid stench of smoke stings my nostrils, and I want to know what idiot has decided to light up in Aunt Weeby’s house. Don’t they know . . .
Doesn’t the smoker know he’s risking . . .
I can’t breathe!
Where am I? Fool smoker’s risking the wrath of Aunt— “Smoker?” My eyes fly open, and even in the dark I see the smoke billows above me. Unless he’s a chimney in humanoid form, this is no smoker’s fault.
I drop off the bed, roll to the bedroom door, touch it, find it cool enough to open, and then bellow at the top of my agonized lungs. “FIRE!”
Aunt Weeby echoes my scream.
Seconds later, I’ve dragged myself to her room. We make our way to the window, throw it open, and suck in gulps of fresh summer air.
“Hurry!” I urge. “It’s a blessing we’re right above the front porch. Let’s go.”
“Wait!” She crawls back, to my horrified wonder, and retrieves her cell phone. “Time to use those taxes I’ve paid all these years, Andie, girl.”
She shoves the phone at me, and I dial 9-1-1. I throw a leg over the windowsill to crawl out onto the wide porch roof, and then help Aunt Weeby do the same.
When I notice the fear and tears on my aunt’s face, I know I have to come up with something goofy, and fast. I slip an arm through hers and lead her to the side closest to the drive.
I sway. “Don’t we make a pretty sight out here in the middle of the night? Did you ever think we’d get to do a soft-shoe duo on the roof of the porch? So much for peace and quiet back here in Louisville.”
“I’m just glad we didn’t pick up our darling little Rio yet. He’s safe at Peggy’s.”
I shudder. Even though the bird’s shrieks are deafening, I couldn’t stand the thought of him getting hurt.
Minutes later, we hear the welcome wee-uh, wee-uh, wee-uh we’d heard earlier while on the road. I reach for Aunt Weeby’s hand again. “Let’s pray.”
She squeezes my fingers. “I wonder if someone’s heard the siren and is praying for us.”
“I don’t know how many people think the way you do, but I’d like to think someone’s praying.”
The firefighters screech to a stop before the house. A ladder rises. We clamber down—fast. Controlled chaos reigns for the next half hour.
Neighbors flood the street, curiosity leading the way. Hoses fill. Water shoots into the house. Then I remember. “My stones!”
Before anyone can stop me, I rush into the parlor, determined not to lose the collection I’ve worked on for the last fifteen years. The sight that greets me nearly sends me rushing back outside.
A wall of flames leaps out in the kitchen, licking the dining room doorway, scorching the wood, darkening the walls, filling the air with thick, dark smoke. I cough. My eyes burn and water from the dry heat.
But I’m determined, so I go on. My gems are stored in the dining room sideboard, and I refuse to let the collection go up in flames. I rush to the furniture piece, open the drawer with a hard tug, feel the scalding heat hard up against my face. I grab the gem trays, spin, and then run for the front door.
Behind me the furnace-heat grows greater, comes closer. And that’s when it hits me. For real. How stupid of me, to run in, risk my life for . . . for things. “Lord, help me, please!
I don’t want to die because I’m too dumb to let things go.”
The stench of burning fibers fills my nose. Heat follows me, my cheeks burning, my forehead hot, my neck seared.
“DOWN!” a firefighter yells the minute I step outside, grabs me, throws me to the ground, and rolls me from side to side. “Medic, please! I need a medic here.”
“Hey!” I cry. “Get off me.”
The rolling doesn’t stop. “As soon as I make sure the red in that hair in the back’s not from fire anymore.”
Aaaaack! “Help!”
“I’m trying, lady. Let me do my job.”
He moves my head again on the d
amp grass. Something sizzles as it goes out. “Oh! Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! I’m really on fire.”
The guy in the yellow slicker and hat gives me a disgusted look. “You’re about ten seconds too late for that. You were on fire. You’re not anymore.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, but the first thing I register is the smell of my burnt hair. “Am I bald now?”
The firefighter’s disgust knows no bounds. “Not by a long shot, and more important, you’re still alive and well enough to be a pain.”
The first thing I see when my rescuer splits is Aunt Weeby’s ravaged face. Guilt tastes bitter. I’ve caused her anguish one more time. Sobs wrack me.
That’s when I feel the stinging on the back of my neck. Little by little, it spreads.
An EMT rushes up and within seconds begins to swab my neck, ears, temples, and portions of my scalp with cooling, soothing cloths. I know sometime in my immediate future I’m going to look into a mirror and freak. But right now, the only thing that matters is my aunt.
The minute the medic takes a break from swabbing goo on my smarting neck and ears, I scramble to my feet and run to her side.
“Get back here!” the EMT yells.
I ignore her; I’ll be blistered but fine. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Weeby. I didn’t mean to upset you. I never thought—”
“What else is new?” Max asks. “You never think.”
“Where’d you come from?”
He gives me a disgusted glare. “You know my apartment’s only three blocks away. I was on my way home from going out to dinner, heard the sirens, saw them head this way, knew where you and Aunt Weeby live, and came to check it out.”
“Dinner? It’s kinda late for dinner.” Unless he went out for scorched shish kebab, my suspicious mind wants to know.
Could Max do something this horrible?
“It’s not so late,” he says. “It’s only eleven thirty. We got to talking, and I lost track of time.”
Okay. So maybe he didn’t come burn us out of house and home. Then another question zips through my head. Who’d you have dinner with?
