by Lynne Gentry
“You don’t know him.”
“I know enough.” He tossed his gown on the table. “Americans roam our city with no regard for its fragile heritage. I don’t have to sit down to a meal with this foreigner to know that he is nothing but a treasure seeker.”
“Lawrence . . . I mean, Dr. Hastings is different.”
“He’s not a medical doctor, Magdalena.” Disappointment fractured her name.
“He’s a brilliant PhD—”
“Who plays in the sand for a living.”
“Who makes important discoveries for posterity.”
“Posterity and destiny are not the same. I want you to settle down. Have a good marriage and a stable home that keeps my grandchildren within easy reach. Chasing after a wanderer is no way to live.”
“And giving up medicine will break my heart.”
7
A BAD FEELING HAD PLAGUED Magdalena for days. Between thinking about possible viruses, the archaeologist, and her future as the wife of a proctologist, she was a distracted mess. She hadn’t heard from Lawrence since Father discovered them in the medical library. She’d thought her efforts to solve the mystery had meant as much to the American as his kiss had meant to her.
She’d been a fool to take up the cause of the archaeologist. Her foray into adventure had simultaneously opened a chasm between her and Father and closed the door to her ever finding happiness with Mutfi. What did it matter whether those children buried in the Tophet had died from plague or were sacrificed to appease Roman gods? Finding the answer after all these years would make them no less dead. And yet, she could not quit thinking about the different possibilities.
Father folded his paper. “Mutfi has been patient, Magdalena. What is your answer?” He’d served his question gently, as if it were honeyed tea meant to start her day off in the right direction.
“As you wish, Father,” she said with an edge of bitter resignation.
“Your unhappiness is my fault.” Father spoke with a humble regret she’d never heard in his voice before. “Without your mother around, I’m afraid I raised you to be independent, to think like a son.”
She lifted her chin, eyes smoldering with hurt. “But I’m not the son you wanted, am I?”
His shoulders slumped, and she knew that for the first time in her life she’d wounded him. “What kind of a father would I be if I did not secure my only child’s future?”
“Must it be with the colorectal surgeon?”
“I’d hoped when the time came for your marriage that you would not have to choose between being the surgeon you are gifted to be and becoming a happy wife, that the expectations would have changed.” Father tapped the table, weighing his words carefully. “But Mutfi’s ways will grow on us, I’m sure.”
“Like a polyp.”
Father stifled a chuckle. “I don’t want to force you into a joyless life, my daughter. The choice is yours. But I believe it’s possible to grow into feelings of love. I’m asking you to trust our traditions, Magdalena. An arranged marriage worked for your mother and me. It could work for you, too.” He kissed her forehead and left the breakfast table.
Tears seared her cheeks. Deflated, she lowered her head, and that’s when she noticed Lawrence’s picture on the front page of the paper. A lopsided grin split his tanned face, and the swimmer shard rested in his hand.
Archaeologist Toast of Egypt.
Egypt? She snatched the paper up and read his theory on the deaths of so many children buried beneath the Tophet in Carthage. Pandemic. Possibly originating at the Cave of the Swimmers.
What a fool she’d been to think she was a good judge of men. She dropped the paper and went in search of Father.
• • •
THE TAXI driver inched past the souk vendors closing their booths for the evening. Lawrence fingered the old book in his lap. It had taken a trip to Egypt to track down definitive information about the swimmer on the potsherd. He couldn’t wait to share what he’d learned with Magdalena. And if this brilliant discovery just happened to impress her father as well, he would be one step closer to convincing her to become his permanent research partner.
The cab turned onto a narrow residential street lined with trees heavy with winter oranges. Flat-roofed fisherman’s dwellings, whitewashed with quicklime and trimmed in the cobalt blue the ancients believed made them cooler during the torrid summers, stair-stepped down to the sea. A picturesque melding of modern and ancient that lent hope to his plans of a long-term relationship with Magdalena.
He rolled down the window. The scent of sun-kissed water hugged the hills overlooking the Mediterranean. To his right, gas lamps flickered at the gates of exquisite villas that boasted magnificent harbor views. It had taken a bit of flirting, but he’d finally convinced the starry-eyed nurse who’d ratted them out that if she cared anything at all about love, she’d give him Magdalena’s address.
The taxi driver deposited him in front of an eight-foot-high stone fence with a blue wrought-iron gate. Potsherd stashed in his pocket and book tucked under his arm, Lawrence watched bees buzz in and out of a cascading carpet of purple bougainvillea near the gate. Dr. Kader must have spent a small fortune on this property. What had Lawrence been thinking? There was no way an archaeologist dependent upon grants could ever come close to giving a woman anything half this magnificent. He should take his pitiful offerings and head back to the dig. He spun to retreat, but the taxi’s taillights were already at the bottom of the hill.
He’d be sorry the rest of his life if he made the safe choice and didn’t tell Magdalena she was one of the most intriguing discoveries he’d ever made. Lawrence pushed the intercom button.
The gate swung open. He walked the stone path to the enormous wooden door and knocked. To his relief Magdalena answered. Dark ebony waves brushed her bare shoulders. A gauzy white dress replaced her white coat. He loved how the fabric clung to the perfection of her curves. “You’re stunning.”
The colors of a stormy sea flashed in her eyes. “You’re too late.”
• • •
“WHO’S THERE, Magdalena?” Her father strode into the atrium as Lawrence stepped inside. After an awkward moment of the three of them silently staring at each other, Father announced, “We have guests, Mr. Hastings.” He took Magdalena by the elbow, intent on leading her back to Mutfi and his couscous. “Say good-bye, daughter.”
“Sir, I need to speak to Magdalena. It will only take a minute.”
“I said she’s—”
“Father, please. Does a minute really matter now?”
“Very well.” Her father reluctantly took a step back and crossed his arms. “You have one minute, boy.”
When Lawrence realized her father was not about to leave them alone, he moved in close enough that she could smell his pipe tobacco and whispered, “I’m sorry it took so long to get back to you.”
“You had time for newspaper interviews,” she snapped.
“I had to go to Egypt to find Almásy’s book and see what it would take to get access to the Cave of the Swimmers.”
She stepped toward him, her voice softening. “I thought you had taken my plague idea and—”
“I was trying to convince the Egyptian authorities to let me into the site. Here’s why.” He opened to a page of grainy photographs. “It’s our swimmer.”
“Really?” She took the book from him. “You’re right.”
“Look more carefully.” He pointed to the grouping in one of the photos. “He’s not a lone swimmer.”
Her gaze locked with his. “He’s part of a family.”
He nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “The Egyptian government assures me that someday soon they’ll grant access to the cave, and when they do—” He took her hand. “I want to have a good doctor with me. Someone who knows diseases.”
“How could she possibly do that,
young man? She can’t go flitting about the world.”
“Father, please.”
“I need you, Magdalena.” Lawrence let his fingers find hers. “You’re a brilliant, stubborn pain in my bum, but I can’t imagine life without you.” He kept his eyes on her. “I know you said our lives were incompatible, but we’ll work it out.”
“How?”
“I don’t know how for sure, but somehow. Maybe I can teach at a university close to your hospital and only do field research in the summers.”
Father started forward to usher him toward the door, then he hesitated and turned to her. “I’ve raised you to know what’s best in the long run, to be able to separate temporary feelings from permanent truth. The decision is yours, Magdalena.”
Lawrence held out his hand. “Mags?”
Magdalena stood between them, her heart torn in two directions. “I can’t.”
• • •
MAGDALENA LEANED against the veranda railing wishing for one last glimpse of the speechless archaeologist. She knew her safe choice had jabbed a needle into his heart, and she couldn’t bear the pain she’d inflicted.
Three modern cruise ships were anchored near the outline of the ancient port of Carthage. Their gleaming presence was a painful contrast between old and new. She peered over the balcony. Below were a few crumbling stone walls, a smattering of stubby pillars that resembled stalks of grass gnawed low by herds of camels. Ruins were all that remained of the two powerful empires that had fought long and hard to rule this part of the world.
What would be left of her by the time the proctologist finished reaming out the core of who she was? Eroding all of her hopes and dreams of doing something that mattered, of making a real difference?
Had it been her devotion to her father or her own lack of courage that had left her in ruins? She’d chosen safe, but all she felt was sorry.
Father emptied his glass, then snapped his fingers. Servants swarmed the patio. He stepped to the railing and put his arm around Magdalena’s shoulders. “Do you remember the soccer player?”
“Jabir?”
“He’s gone through two wives and all of his father’s money.” He kissed her cheek. “I have always had your best interest at heart. Give Dr. Zaman a chance.”
She said nothing and obediently followed him back to the table and slid into the seat across from Mutfi.
Uniformed men lit candles and torches, their actions filling the tense silence with a crackle of fire she wished would leap across the table and turn her into a pile of ash.
Finally, Mutfi spoke up. “When you are safely under my protection, you will not have to worry about coming in contact with men like Mr. Hastings.”
She started to correct him, to scream that it was Dr. Hastings, but decided there would be no gain to further souring her future husband’s disposition.
With perfect efficiency, servers loaded the table with an assortment of fruits, piles of thin brik pastries stuffed with meat, and enough steaming bowls of hot and spicy couscous to keep a harem of wives regular.
Mutfi ripped a stiff pita in half and dug into the slata michwaya, an appetizer of pureed roasted peppers, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and spices. “Magdalena, I think you should resign from the residency program upon the announcement of our engagement.”
She snapped to attention. “But we won’t marry for at least a year. I don’t see why I can’t finish.”
“I’ll have no argument from you on this.” He turned to her father. “Omar, it will take me years to undo the way you have spoiled her.”
By now the sun had set, and the breeze had gained a noticeable bite.
“She’s worked so hard, Mutfi. Surely there is no harm in completing what she has started.”
“Her time will be better spent preparing for her wifely duties.”
Father’s brows were knitted together as he slowly reached for a lamb shank. “A long time ago a Sufi—a holy man—returned from a great pilgrimage to Mecca. When he saw this very hill, the one upon which we sit, he knew he must build this house. Word spread of healings that came from the Sufi’s hands. People traveled from far away so that he could heal everything from their scorpion bites to rheumatism.” Father breathed in deeply, as if he were inhaling remnants of the Sufi’s powers. “A doctor has lived here ever since.” His gaze slid to Magdalena, and she saw tears glistening in his eyes. “And so it shall continue to be, right, my daughter?” He waved the lamb shank in her direction. “Go, Magdalena. Find the man who loves my daughter, the doctor.”
8
THE COBBLESTONE STREETS GLOWED in the lamplight as Magdalena hurried toward the Tophet. Shopkeepers, fresh from their afternoon naps, had pulled back the shutters and set their wares out for the onslaught of cruise ship tourists who frequented the cafés and shops in the cool of the evening.
As she neared the Tophet, the crowds thinned to a trickle, then vanished altogether. The growing distance between streetlamps meant she must rely upon the rising moon. She turned onto a gravel path. Moonlight dappled the loose stones crunching beneath her steps.
The graveyard of tilted stones had suffered years of neglect. In the far corner, she spotted the yellow glow of a lantern coming from a deep hole.
Magdalena made her way across the graves and peered into the coffin-sized opening in the earth. “Lawrence? What are you looking for?”
Lawrence started at her voice and lifted his head, dusting his hands, his eyes cautiously taking her in. “I could ask you the same thing.” He made no effort to come to her.
“Do you believe in destiny?”
“I believe we decide our destinies.” His eyes softened. “Have you decided yours?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “I don’t want to be safe anymore.”
A lopsided grin creased his face. “Have you been here before?”
“Every schoolchild tours the Tophet. But never at night.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to feel our way around, do the best we can, and let our imaginations fill in the gaps.”
She didn’t need to fill in gaps. She could see her life with Lawrence Hastings, one long, never-ending adventure, and she’d never felt so safe.
“Let me show you something.” He motioned her to the edge of the pit. Once she was seated, he put both hands upon her waist and gently lifted her to him, setting her feet on the ground next to him. His face hovered close to hers, his breath a warm, reassuring whisper of the future she wanted.
“Don’t move,” he said.
He squatted by the lantern and took a small brush from his shirt pocket. After a few quick strokes in the chalky limestone, a piece of pottery emerged. “Look.”
Magdalena squatted beside him. “It’s the rest of the swimmer family.”
He smiled and pulled the shard from his pocket. With the skill of a surgeon, he aligned the two pieces.
She lifted her eyes to his. “A perfect fit.”
Setting the shard on the ground, he leaned in and lightly cupped her face with his hands. The wind ruffled her hair as he brought his lips to hers. The first brush was soft. Her lips parted, and he pressed harder. She drank in the taste of sunshine and smoky oranges. Warmth spread through her cheeks, slid down her neck, and raced through her limbs. Expectations fell away, and she melted into his embrace.
His voice was a husky whisper when he finally pulled back. “When we get to the cave, we shall have to name our little swimmer family. What shall we call them?”
“The Hastings family.”
To continue with Lawrence and Magdalena to the Cave of the Swimmers, keep reading for an excerpt from Healer of Carthage!
HEALER
of
CARTHAGE
1
Dallas, Texas
TIME IS A COMMODITY first-year residents can’t afford to waste, Dr. Hastings.” Nelda, the chunky ER charge nu
rse, held out two charts. “Which one do you want? The diabetic with a necrotic foot ulcer? Or the questionable TB hacking his lungs out?”
What Lisbeth wanted was a bite of the tuna sandwich she’d just purchased from a vending machine, ten minutes off her feet, and a chance to read the letter burning a hole in the pocket of her white coat. But if she had any hope of catching a break in the next fifteen hours, tonight was not the time to spout off to the snarling brick house who had the power to make a thirty-hour call seem like sixty.
Frigid temperatures, combined with the loneliness of the holidays, had driven the uninsured of every age, sex, nationality, and state of mental duress into the county hospital. Regurgitated Jack Daniels, exhaust fumes, and too many nights on the streets fouled the emergency room air. Vagrants slumped in the upholstered chairs or lay sprawled across every inch of shiny floor tiles. Bearded men and frazzled women scrapped for an inch of real estate and clamored for the attention of a doctor.
The desperate begged for someone like her.
Lisbeth’s eyes flitted from the stale sandwich she clutched to the occupied gurneys lining both sides of the hall. A grizzled man wearing a filthy, oversize army jacket and combat boots without laces sat up, flashed a toothless grin, then coughed blood into a tissue.
So much for her appetite. Lisbeth slid her sandwich on top of the letter in her pocket.
“I haven’t got all night, Dr. Hastings.” Nelda waved a chart under Lisbeth’s nose. “Choose!”
Choices. Decisions she’d made that she could never undo. When she chose to go into medicine, Papa said he could see how she might enjoy saving the living after spending her childhood watching him resurrect the dead. He’d been supportive of her choice, even tried to share all he remembered of her mother’s medical career: First-year medical residents lived in a constant state of sleep deprivation. Days off were rare. And scariest of all . . . what kept her awake at night even when she wasn’t on call, the possibility that she’d screw up and kill someone.
“Which one?” Nelda barked in the voice that had earned her the nickname of Nurse Ratched.
