by Ruth Wind
"So have you." Her face was rosy with the cold morning, leaving her eyes sparkling. Samuel felt an answering rise of his spirits at the sight.
"I want you to meet someone," she said, dipping her head coyly.
Samuel frowned quizzically. She bit her lip and moved aside to allow the visitor entrance, as if she were nervous about the reception he would give. And in truth, he felt a distinct letdown at the thought of sharing her with someone else. Their time together was limited enough.
When he heard the unmistakable click of a dog's nails on the wooden floor, he grinned in relief. A huge, wolfish animal wandered in and immediately sat, the powerful shoulders squared as his bright eyes met Samuel's. The attitude was so utterly polite and expectant that Samuel felt compelled to offer a greeting. "Hello."
The dog looked at Lila. "Excuse me, Arrow." She gestured toward Samuel. "This is my friend Samuel. Samuel, this is Arrow."
The dog turned his white pointed nose back to Samuel—and smiled. There was no other word for it. And along with the smile, he made a small, high noise in greeting. Samuel inclined his head. "The pleasure is mine."
Arrow, evidently satisfied, settled down into a more normal dog posture as Lila moved the heavy cast-iron skillet to the top of the stove and unwrapped a pound of bacon from a cooler filled with ice. She glanced over her shoulder. "I was concerned you might not like dogs."
"That isn't a dog," Samuel replied, lighting a cigarette. "He's just taken that form for a day or two." He stood up and rounded the table, squatting to rub a hand over the thick salt-and-pepper pelt.
Lila nodded. "Huskies," she said as if that explained everything. "I always feel like they're in a class with dolphins and whales. Not really animals at all."
"Where did he come from?"
"He's my dog while I'm here." She lifted her expressive shoulders. "He'd always be my dog if I didn't live in Seattle."
"That's something I miss, being on the road," he offered. "Having pets."
"I would have figured you for one of those men who despise animal hair getting on the furniture and carpets."
"Oh, not at all." He chuckled. "I lived with sheep and goats, dogs and cats, as a child."
"We had horses and cows and dogs and cats." She grinned. "And rabbits and goats and birds."
The unbearably sweaty odor of bacon filled the air, and Samuel stood up. "Perhaps I will take a walk," he said. "In a few minutes you should check that coffee cake in the oven. I will be back soon." By the time he returned, the raw stink of the bacon would be gone.
To Samuel's surprise, Arrow stood up when Samuel slipped on his heavy coat, the long, curled tail waving unmistakably. "Is it all right if he comes with me?"
"Arrow, you traitor," she said with mock irritation. "I'm frying a whole pan of bacon for you, and you're gonna run off." She gave Samuel her impish grin. "Go ahead. He can eat it when you get back."
By noon the sun had taken the deepest chill off the day, and Lila comfortably worked dragging logs to the cabin in her flannel shirt. They had eaten and cleaned the dishes, made beds and swept the floors. Although both attended carefully to the tasks at hand, working with measured attention, the tension in the small cabin grew with the day. Lila found herself covertly watching him in odd moments. As he performed his chores, he chatted with Arrow, giving space in the conversation during which he appeared to listen seriously to the dog's answers. A lock of his coarse black hair, unruly with a fresh washing, repeatedly fell on his forehead, and he repeatedly brushed it away with his long, tawny fingers. The muscles of his thighs and arms tensed with iron shapeliness as he dragged back to the cabin bits of wood he could manage with his limitation. His heart-stopping, crooked smile flashed more regularly and even reached the shoe-black of his eyes as the morning passed. With each minute, the severe and arrogant Samuel Bashir receded further and further behind the gentle, humorous man who emerged in this comfortable place. As much as she liked the original, Lila was gratified to see the more relaxed man.
And it was no illusion. Samuel felt the hard layers of his cynicism chipping away like old paint in the fresh seaside air, in the simple surroundings of Lila's cabin and in her soothing presence. It was as if a restorative had been activated the night before, when he'd kissed her, and now he was regenerating at warp speed.
With the new energy came greater awareness. His nerves leaped with roaring energy, sensitive to the cold air, the scents of spruce and brine, the glorious colors of autumn—and Lila. Her cheerful competence was as invigorating as the salty air, and the various pieces of her physical presence that he allowed himself to glimpse were as precious and perfect as the sky. He admired the fullness of her breasts, swaying seductively below her flannel shirt, and the constant movement of her small, quick hands, her dancing curls and long, slender thighs. Her laugh rang out sweetly in the still air, light and high.
He didn't allow himself to notice how deeply the spell she wove had affected him. Like all men, he'd often known a swift and pressing lust, and he simply classified this feeling as an odd manifestation of that. But he knew it was not. He had no words, not in any of his languages, to express this new thing growing inside of him, filling his every cell. It was just new, and there.
After they had dragged the wood to the side of the house, Lila carried a bowl of water into the cabin to wash her face and hands. Samuel wandered in behind her, feeling pleasantly spent with hard work, and sank down on the bed against the wall.
"Do you want me to warm some coffee?" Lila asked, rolling up her sleeves.
He shook his head slowly, resting against the wall, watching lazily and happily as she bent to splash her face with the cold water, using her hands to sponge away dust on her neck. Her eyes were closed, and one of her hands slipped beneath the T-shirt she wore below the flannel, dampening it.
Samuel suddenly had a clear vision of his lips doing the washing. He was suddenly so achingly hard that he had to shift on her bed, closing his eyes to shut out the dampness of her pale flesh.
"I think," he said after a minute, "it would be a good idea to go to town to make another call."
"Do you mind if I walk along with you? I'd like to get a book to read. Maybe they even have a chess set somewhere."
He looked at her, and all at once his mind was filled with regret. He minded, very much. He minded that he could not take her here, in this bed, to taste anew her inviting lips and lovely neck, that he would never know the softness of her against him or her whimpers of love in his ear. He minded deeply that he could not hope to ever sit down to ordinary meals with her in an ordinary place, just to watch her eyes sparkle as she told him of her day.
Aloud he said simply, "It would be good to have company."
"I don't suppose," she said hesitantly, "that you have a clean shirt you might loan me until I can get one in town? I keep a few things here, but somehow I only had one extra shirt."
"Of course."
He fetched one from his suitcase, hoping that by some miracle he had purchased a heavy sweatshirt. Of course there was nothing like that, but he found a cotton turtleneck his mother had sent him. It would be large on Lila, but warm. He stepped outside to allow her the privacy to change.
When she joined him, he noted that the deep azure tone of the turtleneck did wonderful things for her complexion—not all of which she would approve of, he was sure. He smiled.
"It's a little big, but thanks," she commented. Her eyes narrowed. "What's that secretive little grin about?"
He brushed a finger over the bridge of her nose and over her cheek. "Your freckles."
"Don't remind me."
He grinned. "They're charming."
She rolled her eyes. "Right. Charming as a kid who's seen a bit too much of the tooth fairy."
"No," he said, laughing. "Charming as in fresh and unspoiled." Before he could be tempted further, he turned on the path that led to the sea. "Come while the sky is clear."
They walked briskly in the chilly wind, and it didn't take lon
g to reach the abrupt edge of the small town. Standing by the phone, Samuel said, "Why don't you go on? I will meet you."
"All right. I'm going to stop and pick up a couple of T-shirts or something, but it won't take long. I'll meet you at the bookstore. It's right at the end of the street, on the left."
He dialed his number carefully, and when the connection was put through, ending on an odd, electronic noise, he dialed three more. His direct supervisor, a no-nonsense man by the name of Bob Grant, answered gruffly. After an exchange designed to further protect security, Samuel asked, "So, what news have you for me today?"
"Keep your head down for a bit longer. We're having a hell of a time sorting out this mess."
"I told you it is Hassid."
"Yeah, but who hired him? The man doesn't work for pleasure." Samuel heard the scratch of a match and knew Bob was lighting one of his fat, black cigars. "We keep coming up with the Freedom League."
"No," Samuel said flatly. "My brother may be many things, but he would not contract to have me killed."
"You got any other ideas?"
Samuel sighed. His shoulder ached suddenly.
"The press has snooped out—or been given—the link between you and your brother, so we're dealing with some tricky questions."
"What about the woman?" Samuel asked harshly, meaning Lila.
Bob's long pause sent a ripple of warning through Samuel's belly. Bob grunted. "So far, so good, considering it's Hassid we're dealing with."
"I don't want her hurt."
"Neither do I. But we don't have a lot of time."
Samuel bowed his head, a vision of Lila, broken and bleeding on her beach, assailing him. "How long?" he asked.
"A week, tops."
"All right." His words were heavy. "Make the arrangements."
"Good man."
Samuel hung up without a reply, a soul-deep illness marring the bright day. After five years he would be forced by circumstance to betray his brother, a move he had avoided for three long years. Without Mustapha's money, the Freedom League would be sent scrambling to find funding elsewhere, an objective that would make it possible for The Organization to infiltrate and diffuse the terrorist group. And no one but Samuel would be able to bring his brother in.
Stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, he began to walk. Mustapha was misguided, probably weak, as well, but no matter what his superiors thought, Samuel knew Mustapha was no murderer.
With a blinding flash of understanding, Samuel finally realized what had been nagging him. If Mustapha had not hired Hassid to ferret out Samuel, then someone else within the Freedom League had done it—and therefore, Mustapha would not be far down their list of expendables.
Grimly he lit a cigarette and felt the smoke stir up the acids in his belly. He narrowed his eyes in thought. A week. In a week he would be done, one way or another, with this tangle of politics and peace, subterfuge and hope.
Less clear were the options he faced for the future—providing he had a future, which was not at all assured. His pursuit of physics had dead-ended. The Organization no longer fulfilled his hopes for it. What then was there?
As a child, filled with impatience and wonder and curiosity, he had never dreamed there would come a day that there was no right work for his hands. At forty he was aware only of what he did not want. It was hollow knowledge.
He reached the bookstore and found it to be a dim, musty place with a broad plate-glass window in front. Bits of carnival glass, carved candle-holders and blue-spotted enamelware covered the counters near the register, where a sturdy woman in spectacles sat reading. She glanced up, nodded and returned to her novel.
Beyond the counter spread a labryinthine tangle of bookshelves, stuffed to overflowing with paperbacks and school texts and every other kind of book imaginable. Impressed, Samuel wandered through the maze, forgetting the world outside for a moment as the old magic settled around him. He leafed through this text and that, smelling glue and dusty paper and ink. He read the spidery inscription on the flyleaf of a book of poetry, dated 1923, and scanned the index of a volume on trees of the world. He passed out of each alcove, intent on finding where Lila had disappeared, only to be caught by some other interesting binding or cover or title.
He finally discovered her in a back room, at the end of an aisle. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her coat flung to one side, her head bent as she read avidly. Even in the dim light her dark hair glistened at each bend of her many curls, and he could see the long fan of her extraordinary eyelashes flickering as she devoured the book in her lap. Smiling to himself, he joined her quietly, squatting before her. "Find something interesting?"
"You startled me," she said, slapping his arm. But it was a distracted gesture, and her eyes returned to the book. "This is incredible, Samuel. The numbers! Did you know that over sixty thousand men went on the beach at Normandy in one day!"
"I've heard something like that," he said, tongue in cheek.
"It's a tactical miracle!" She slumped against the wall, her pale eyes glittering, alive with a distant vision. "All those ships and planes and men and tanks. It's just incredible that they were able to coordinate such a huge invasion. Imagine!"
He chuckled at her wonder. "I would never have thought you to be an admirer of military maneuvers."
"Are you being a snob again, Mr. Bashir? Women don't like things having to do with the military?"
He raised his eyebrows, half in confirmation, half in apology, for that had been exactly his thought. Spreading his hands, he smiled. "Guilty."
"History, especially in this century, cannot be understood without a thorough grounding in the wars that have been waged. And the World Wars, in particular, are just amazing in terms of sheer numbers."
Her chin lifted, but the point of her pink tongue flitted out to contain the forgiving grin on her lips. "But I also have a brother who is a fanatic. He can cite the stats for every major battle in any American war you care to name."
He laughed.
Lila felt her heart constrict at the sound of the rich notes. Something within her knew it had been a long, long time since this man had allowed himself the freedom of laughing. The awareness warmed her. After standing up, she bent to pick up the stack of books she'd collected. "I found something for you," she said, pulling out a worn paperback edition of Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury.
"Ah," he said, nodding. "The man of wonder."
"Yeah. And I found something for myself." She showed him a copy of essays by Einstein. "I flipped through it. Very interesting character."
"And this?" He tapped the fat volume she'd been reading.
She laughed. "Oh, I'm hopelessly addicted," she said, showing him the cover, Great Battles of the Twentieth Century.
"I see," he murmured.
And as they made their way toward the front of the store, she knew his simple words signaled his comprehension of her need to keep herself occupied somehow rather than embarrass herself by trying to seduce him again. To that end she also purchased a deck of cards, since there was no chess set to be had. When he insisted upon paying for the books, she wandered over to a table of assorted goods. A pair of horseshoes, joined together by two short chains, rested amid the enamelware. Grinning to herself she grabbed it, the chains and a loose metal ring jangling as she hurried over to the counter. "Do you know what this is?" she asked Samuel.
"No."
"Good." She gave it to the clerk. "We'll take this, too."
"What is it?" Samuel asked.
"You'll see."
They stopped at the grocers on the way out to replenish their supplies, then walked in silence down the bluff to the beach. At the sight of the phone booth, sitting isolated in the parking lot, Samuel's face hardened as if he'd suddenly been reminded of something grim.
As they reached the shore, walking along the lapping edge of the waves, she finally took his arm. "I know that you aren't free to talk about your work, Samuel," she said, keeping her eyes trained high o
n the bluffs. "But I'd like to help you. At least I can listen."
"There is not much to tell."
"Is Hassid going to kill you?"
"He has already tried," he said ruefully. "He will try again."
"Isn't there something you can do? Some place you can go?"
"Not now. A year ago, perhaps I might have been able to. Now I am needed."
She swallowed. Back in Seattle his dangerous aura had been exciting. Now, with his strong arm below her fingers and the particular scent of his cologne in her nose, she couldn't bear the thought of something happening to him. A twist of foreboding wrenched her heart, and with it came anger.
"Let me get this straight," she said, stopping suddenly. "Once you leave here, someone's going to kill you—or try. And you aren't going to do anything about that because of some duty?"
His face went stony, his eyes as hard as obsidian. He said nothing.
"And," she continued in the same sarcastic tone, "I'm supposed to go back to Seattle when this is all through and just pretend everything is perfectly normal."
"I tried to keep you out of it, Lila."
"But even in Seattle the trouble was the same as it is now." She took a step closer and raised her hands to his face. "Your mouth says one thing, and your eyes say something else."
Samuel clenched his fists in an effort to avoid touching her. A wind whipped her curls around her face, the dark strands accenting the passionate light in her green eyes. Her small fingers were chilly against his jaw, and the supple, inviting curves of her body were bare inches from his own. Behind them the sea rhythmically pounded, echoing the roar of feverish disquiet within him. An ache rose in his belly, and he tore himself away from her gentle touch. "I cannot help what I feel," he said harshly, "only what I do."
"Samuel—"
"No!" He whirled. "I tried to keep you out. I told you to drive away from the airport, and you did not. Now, within a day or two, someone will notice that you are missing and your house will be searched. It will only be a matter of time before someone remembers where this little place is."
