A Cut Above

by Ginny Aiken

  The minute Max and I scramble out of the truck bed, Laura drags herself to the edge, and Max cradles her in his arms again. We hoof it off toward the hotel.

  Just imagine the impression we make when we walk into the luxe lobby. Uh-huh. The stench precedes us. It clears a path through the gathered guests. They give us a wide berth as I approach the front desk.

  “You!” the young male clerk exclaims before I even open my mouth. “You’re back. What do you want this time?”

  Embarrassment crashes into need. “Ah . . . sorry. Umm . . . we need help.” I wave toward Laura. “For her. She’s hurt.” The desk clerk doesn’t look convinced. I understand. We do look super-disreputable. I doubt I’d respond any differently in his position. But I can’t just quit. “And we need to contact the American embassy. Please don’t kick us out. We’ll leave as soon as we get some help.”

  I guess the promise of our immediate departure goes a long way. He picks up the phone, dials, and within seconds passes me the receiver. I plead our case, and finally relax at the promise of an embassy car to get us help—American help.

  The clerk takes the phone I hold out. “Thank you. We’ll be gone as soon as the embassy car gets here. We’ll go wait outside.”

  Evidently, the idea of our hanging out where hotel guests can get a good gander—plus a sniff—at us doesn’t appeal to him. “You don’t have to do that,” he says. “Let me show you to the office. I’m sure the young lady will be more comfortable there.”

  And while the office does offer more comfort and privacy, we don’t stay there long enough for it to make a difference. The embassy limo arrives in less than twenty minutes. We ease Laura into the broad backseat, Max and I join her, and we’re whisked off toward the international section of town, where the embassies are located.

  As beautiful as the Hotel de la Opera is, I can’t say I’m sorry to see the last of it. Maybe if I’d come back to the place under different circumstances, I would have left with better memories. As it is, between my close encounter with hotel trash and now my triumphant—not—return, I don’t think I’ll ever think of it with fondness.

  Our time at the embassy goes by in a blur. I know I call Rodolfo Cruz, and his sob of relief when I tell him his daughter’s safe is something I’ll never forget.

  “You were so right,” I tell Max as I step away from Laura while she speaks with her father. “The man was going out of his mind with worry.”

  Max shrugs. “It’s called love, Andie. Anytime someone we love is threatened, we suffer. A father’s love has to be an amazing thing. I don’t know it yet, but I sure hope God’s got that in his plans for my future.”

  A ripple of emotion runs through me at the thought of Max with an infant in his arms. But then, the reality of Rodolfo’s agony hits me with the stark contrast between the two possible extremes. “Aren’t you afraid of the pain? I mean, you just said you understood how much he must have hurt.”

  “Sure. But imagine the joy you get from loving someone that much. And that’s the only way to get loved back, too. I’d rather let myself love and trust God with the outcome at the other end.”

  I suck in a deep breath. He’s hitting me where it counts, right in the area where I’ve been limping all along.

  As I go on a mental scramble for a way to answer, Laura calls my name. “My father wants me to go with you. He thinks I’ll be safer in America.”

  “How’re we going to get you into the U.S.?” I ask. “You need a passport, documents, an airline ticket. How long do you think it will take you to get all that together?”

  “It shouldn’t take long at all. Papá’s going to arrange everything. He’ll tell the embassy attaché where he should go in our house in Bogotá to find my papers and the credit card he got me for school trips. He’ll follow us to Kentucky as soon as he gets back from the mine and goes home to get his papers, maybe even tomorrow. I can leave on the next flight out.”

  Laura’s composure strikes me again. She’s got me beat. “Just how old are you?”

  “I’m fourteen.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask before I realize what I’m saying.

  Max’s laughter explodes.

  Laura giggles. “Of course I’m sure. I’m fourteen years old. You can ask my father. He’ll tell you.”

  “I think, Andie, you can trust the girl.” Max snickers again. “Teenagers are usually very up-to-the-minute about their age. It’s not something they kid about.”

  “Yeah, well. That didn’t come out quite like I wanted.”

  And it hits me again how often that happens with me. Gotta backtrack and say what I really should have said—if I’d taken the time to think it through. “What I really meant is how impressed I am. You act much older, much more mature than fourteen.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Your mother and father have done a great job with you.” Her smile turns wistful. Details click into place. I wince, since I realize what she’s about to say before she says it. And my heart aches for her.

  “My mother died a long time ago.” Her soft voice trembles. “My father’s the one who takes care of me.”

  I have to fight down the lump in my throat. “I’m so sorry about your mother. But your father’s done great with you. I can’t wait to tell him myself.”

  She looks away. “I hope you do tell him. I hope you can.” Max and I look at each other. I turn back to Laura. “What do you mean, you hope I can?”

  She shakes her head, but doesn’t face me. I want to prod, to push for an answer, but Max’s hand on my arm holds me back.

  “Give her time,” he whispers.

  “Okay.” I shake my head. “But I can’t get rid of a funny feeling . . .”

  I don’t get the chance to think any more about that funny feeling, even though I’m unable to ditch it along the way. My old friend Mr. Sloan walks in, wrinkles his nose, and sends us to clean up. I feel like a rascally two-year-old.

  His wife stops by to check with me, since she’s been drafted to play the part of personal shopper for Laura and me. Mr. Sloan himself goes after clothes for Max.

  Once we’re dressed in decent garments again, I make sure

  Mr. Sloan understands my firm determination—although he might call it mule-headedness—to help Anita and Enrique and their neighbors. Laura gets her passport from the messenger, who’d gone to the Cruz household for it, and Max and I are given emergency ones to take the place of the ones my purse snatcher and Doña Rosario’s crew took. We get whisked into the limo again, and then zipped off to the airport. On our way there, I turn to Mr. Sloan.

  “How is your military guard?”

  The embassy attaché shakes his head. “That was terrible. But he is recovering. The nicked bone will heal, but the worst part is the amount of blood loss caused by the bullet wound. He’s in a cast these days, and will have to wear it for a good while.”

  “I felt awful, having to leave him there. After all, he did come to make sure I was okay.” Then I remember my irritation at all the “babysitting” going on. “I wasn’t so happy to have a shadow along with me”—I look at Max—“especially since this one doesn’t seem to get too far from me, but I appreciate the guard’s efforts on my behalf.”

  Mr. Sloan gives me a rueful smile. “I’ll tell Wayne. He’s been beating himself up, thinking up possible outcomes, each one worse than the last.”

  “He didn’t have to use too much imagination to come up with kidnapping and a dirt cell. But I doubt he could’ve imagined the cart and the bike and the pigs.”

  “Pigs?” Mrs. Sloan asks.

  We take turns telling our tale, and while we do, I notice how quiet Mr. Sloan gets. When we have his wife in stitches, and we wind up our tale with our disgraced return to the glam Hotel de la Opera, I fall silent too.

  His distraction piques my curiosity; the little niggling feeling in the back of my mind catches my attention again.

  “What aren’t you telling us?” I realize how little time we have left with him, so
I’m not willing to beat around the bush.

  He stares out the window. Hmm . . .

  “I don’t know for sure,” he says after a minute or two. “But there’s always been whispers about the Lopez family—Doña Rosario’s father’s side. I don’t know if it’s fear or respect, but people around Colombia make a point to not cross them.”

  I scoff. “After I negotiated the emerald buy she wanted, and especially now that we’ve snuck out of her rotten little hole-in-the-ground and taken Laura with us? I’ll say we’ve crossed her.”

  “Who would have known you’d come up against Rosario Lopez Carrasco? When I first met you, all I had to deal with was a stolen purse and passport. And the hotel’s accusations of your mischief in their back alley—as they put it.”

  With my head back against the leather upholstery, I close my eyes and sigh. “I know, I know. Those were the good old days. She’s one scary lady.”

  Max makes a choked sound. “Lady? You’re giving her a lot more credit than I would. She’s a thug. Never thought I’d see the day I’d call a woman of her age that, but there you have it.”

  “Thug?” Laura asks.

  “Crook, criminal, bad guy—gal, woman . . . whatever!” I shrug. “She’s bad news, that’s for sure. And I can’t put enough space between us fast enough for my liking.”

  The limo rolls to a stop. Mr. Sloan glances out the window. “It looks like you’re getting your wish, Andrea. We’re at the airport. Your flight should leave in about an hour and a half.”

  A pinprick of light goes on at the end of the tunnel my trip has become. “Louisville, here we come!”

  The long flight? It went by in a blink. At least, that’s how it felt. I did doze off, but I didn’t sleep through the whole thing. I spent more time praying than I did sleeping. And I thanked God for his mercy and protection over and over again.

  Our row had three seats, and Max and I agreed to put Laura between the two of us in the emergency-exit row seats we chose for their extra leg room. I took the window, while he took the aisle.

  When we land on American soil, I have to fight my impatience. We can’t very well haul Laura through the mass of lemmings fighting to leap out over the cliff—oh, wait. They’re just getting off the plane.

  When they’re finally gone, an attendant waves to us. “The wheelchair is waiting for you.”

  An airport employee helps Max with Laura, then guides us out into the concourse, where we’re met by one of those airport golf-cart thingies for travelers who need help.

  Oh yeah. We need help, all right. More than I can list.

  We chug down the concourse, people staring at us. At the luggage area, the cart dumps us . . . er, well, not really, but we’re helped off, and we take a seat to wait for our rescuers.

  Not for long.

  “Sugarplum!”

  “Andie, dear!”

  I look at the two women rushing our way, and to my horror, I choke on emotion. That same emotion blinds me with tears. By the time I run into their wide-open arms, all three of us are crying, sobbing, a mess.

  But, oh! What a wonderful mess. This one I like.

  Finally, once I’m able to dredge up enough composure to speak again, I pull away from my Daunting Duo. “I’m never doing this again. You hear?”

  “I hear, I hear,” Aunt Weeby says, still holding on to me. “I hear,” Miss Mona echoes, but with less oomph. “What is it you won’t do again? Cry?”

  Now them’s fighting words. I pull away, plant my fists on my hips, and glare. “Don’t you do that to me, Miss Mona. You know I love you, and I love working for you, but you know perfectly well what I mean. I won’t be chasing off after gems to all the weird corners of the world anymore.”

  “Andie—”

  “Nope. No arguments allowed.” I shake a finger at her. “Not again. You want gems to sell on-screen? Well, then, you make sure we get super-duper, big-time vendor traffic at the S.T.U.D. I’m not facing foreign loonies again. Not on their turf, I’m not.”

  “Oh, dear . . .”

  “My goodness . . .”

  “Ladies,” Max says, humor in his voice. “I think it’s time to get Laura to the hospital.”

  I ignore him and march off, leaving him to follow with Laura. Not to mention, the two elderly women who should bring up the rear. Somewhere in the line of vehicles at the curb I’m sure I’ll find the studio’s limo.

  But no matter how hard I have to fight them, I’m determined not to give. I’m home now. And I’m so thankful the Lord’s brought me back, alive and well. Now I just have to pray, day after day, that he’ll agree with me and see fit to let me do my thing on-screen.

  No more close encounters of the international intrigue kind.

  Please.

  1300

  The orthopedic specialists decide to operate on Laura’s leg right away. So this morning I’m meeting Max at the hospital. During the course of our adventure—ahem—we’ve grown close to the girl and don’t want her to face surgery alone. If I were in her place, I’d hate to be in a foreign hospital, facing a surgeon and his knife all on my own. Rodolfo’s flight isn’t due into Louisville until later on today, and the doctors feel it’s best for them to perform the surgery right away, and he’d agreed when the diagnosis was reported to him the night before.

  When I arrive in Laura’s room, I find Miss Mona, Aunt Weeby, and Max gathered around her bed. “You guys are early birds.”

  Aunt Weeby gives me a hug. “You’d better not be calling this sweet child a worm, sugarplum.”

  “Not even because I found her underground.” I shake my head, wonder about my aunt’s view of things, then reach to hug Laura. “All I meant is you guys are up early today.”

  “The ladies called to ask me for a ride,” Max added. “I couldn’t turn them down, could I?”

  I hug Miss Mona and chuckle. “Oh boy! You’re setting yourself up for trouble if that’s your reasoning. Who knows what these two will ask you next?”

  “I’ll deal.” He opens his arms wide. “Don’t I get a hug too?”

  The Daunting Duo’s sighs in stereo echo against the walls. Their excitement crackles in the air. Max’s eyes dance with mischief.

  What’s a girl to do with a crew like this?

  Hug the guy, that’s what.

  Then he kisses my head.

  Now it’s my gasp that resonates around the room. I look up, and see Max fight to keep a laugh from busting out. The rat. He knows exactly what he does to me. I’m in trouble now— Oh, what am I thinking? I’ve been in trouble when it comes to this man from the minute I laid eyes on him the day of our first show together. I might even have been in trouble when Miss Mona went undercover and behind my back to scour the country for a cohost for my show. Not that I’d wanted one.

  Don’t know that I want one even now.

  But Max? Hmm . . . maybe he’s a bonus.

  Then again, when I think about it, Miss Mona might not have been out there hunting cohosts after all. She might have been auditioning romantic interests for me, since she and Aunt Weeby were getting antsy, and I wasn’t showing any likelihood of pairing up. Scary, scary thought. But a way too likely possibility.

  Good grief. Just look at the rapturous expressions on Aunt Weeby’s and Miss Mona’s faces. Those two have known all along what they were up to. And I’m beginning to suspect Max has been a too-willing victim.

  What does that really mean?

  “. . . Earth to Andie!” the rat says.

  I’m saved from my embarrassment by the arrival of a nurse and an orderly who will be taking Laura down to the OR. Her eyes widen and she tenses visibly. I lean over the steel railing on the bed, give a squeeze to her shoulder, then whisper, “I’ll be praying for you.”

  She gives me a look full of gratitude. “You’ve all been so nice to me. And you don’t even know me.”

  I blush. “Oh, you know. It’s that ‘whatever you do for the least of these my brothers, you do it for me’ thing.”

 
“Then I’m glad you did it for me.”

  She’s wheeled out, and we all follow, watching her go. Once the whisper of the closing elevator door fades, we turn to each other. “What next?”

  Miss Mona squares her shoulders. “I think we should go down to the waiting room outside the operating room, like the surgeon told us to do. That way we’ll be closer to her. For when he comes out after he’s done, you understand.” She pushes the elevator button.

  “That poor little thing . . . ” Aunt Weeby says. “When’d you say her daddy was coming, Mona?”

  “He should be here this evening.”

  If nothing goes wrong. If Doña Rosario doesn’t get to him.

  Worse yet: if she doesn’t set her goons to do her dirty work for her. If, if, if. Too many ifs to deal with. My funny feeling keeps getting funnier by the second.

  As we step into the elevator, Max turns to me. “Now that we’re out of Colombia, Andie, how about you tell me what you did with the emeralds?”

  “Then or now?”

  He looks exasperated. “Start out with ‘then.’ We’ll go on from there.”

  I shrug. “The lining of my walking shoes was easy to lift up, then stick back down. They started life out with a super-duper extra-special gel cushion in each heel. I think you’ll agree there was no contest between the cushions and the emeralds.”

  His eyebrows crash into his hairline. “You mean you were walking on a fortune the whole time?”

  “What else would you have had me do? At least I knew where the stones were. And Doña Rosario didn’t find them when she strip-searched me, did she?”

  The Daunting Duo looks aghast. Aunt Weeby goes pale. Miss Mona goes green around the gills, then turns and takes two shaky steps to the window, her back toward us.

  “Hey!” I say before they comment. “I’m okay, you guys. The strip search didn’t hurt anything more than my pride.”

  While Aunt Weeby looks unconvinced and Miss Mona’s back stiffens even more, neither one comments. I’m not dumb enough to think the subject’s dead. I’ll be hearing more about it at some later time. Let’s see how long I can put off that hearing.