Against All Odds

by Hannon, Irene

  Easing the book off the shelf, he returned to the kitchen. As he sat at the table, he flipped the volume over to read the endorsement on the back from a well-known relationship expert, himself an author of a dozen books and host of a weekly radio program.

  “Monica Callahan has taken a popular axiom and turned it on its ear. We’ve all heard about the importance of walking the talk—practicing what we preach. Ms. Callahan presents a compelling case that the opposite is also true. That buying your wife flowers, or giving an employee a raise, or attending your child’s ballet recital isn’t enough. While those things do communicate that you care, Ms. Callahan contends that people need to hear the words too—because words are the window to the heart. I concur, and I highly recommend this book. It will improve every relationship in your life.”

  Intrigued, Coop opened the book and began to read. Less than twenty pages into it he’d already recognized his own behavior in two of the examples she’d used to illustrate her points.

  But then, why should that surprise him? Words had never come easy for him. After all, he’d had no example to follow. He didn’t remember his mother, and his father’s expressions of affection had been few and far between.

  The book covered that too, in a chapter devoted to reasons why people struggle with words. There was a whole list on page 102, and it included lack of role models.

  But a different reason jumped out at him.

  Fear.

  Coop frowned. He could see how fear might cause a verbal communication problem for some people, but he didn’t think it applied in his case. He attributed his reticence to prudence, and considered it an asset, not a liability. A reflection of strength. Independence, self-reliance, and autonomy were good things.

  But they can also be lonely.

  That unbidden—and unwanted—thought took him by surprise. In general, he shied away from introspection. It reeked of self-indulgence and narcissism, and he considered it a waste of time.

  Besides, it’s scary.

  Where in the world was that annoying little voice coming from?

  Irritated, Coop closed the book. Enough of this. He had too much on his mind to waste energy indulging in psychoanalysis, let alone try to deal with the double whammy of the “whys” behind Monica’s faith and his own reticence. He must be over-tired. That had to be the explanation for his uncharacteristic reflective mood.

  “Hey . . . it’s way past midnight. Why didn’t you wake me?”

  Startled, Coop glanced up. Mark was leaning against the door frame, stifling a huge yawn. His brown hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his shirt couldn’t be more wrinkled if it had spent the past two weeks crumpled into a ball in the corner of a suitcase.

  “You look like you could use some coffee.” Coop rose and poured him a cup.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I wasn’t that tired.”

  “Yeah?” Mark gave him a suspicious look as Coop handed him a mug of black coffee. “Why not? You were half comatose in Les’s office yesterday morning, and you haven’t had any sleep since then.”

  “Second wind, I guess.”

  Clearly unconvinced, Mark surveyed the table. His eyebrows rose when he spotted Monica’s book. “I see you’ve been doing some reading. Any good?”

  “Interesting.”

  “Must be, if it kept you going for”—Mark checked his watch—“forty-three hours, with only two hours of sleep.”

  “Why don’t you read it?” Coop rinsed his cup and set it on the counter, deciding that offense was the best defense. “You might learn a few things.”

  “Hey, I talk the walk. I know how to use words.”

  “Too many, sometimes.”

  “Very funny. Go get some rest. Maybe sleep will improve your mood.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my mood.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mark picked up the book and shoved it against Coop’s chest with a smug look. “And take this with you. It might help spice up your social life. Remember: women like guys who talk. You’re the one who could learn a few things.”

  Grasping the book, Coop turned his back and headed for the couch, dismissing the temptation to refute Mark’s assessment.

  Because once again, his partner was right.

  Six hours later, when the ringing phone brought Coop instantly awake, he felt a little more human. The restorative power of a few hours of sleep never failed to astound him.

  Swinging his legs to the floor, he joined Mark in the kitchen as the answering machine kicked in.

  “This is Salam Farah from the U.S. embassy in Kabul. I am trying to put a call through to Monica Callahan from her father.”

  As the accented voice spoke, Coop strode forward and checked the caller ID, a feature that had been added to her phone yesterday. The number on the digital display matched the one he’d memorized in David Callahan’s file. He picked up the handset.

  “Mr. Farah? Evan Cooper with the FBI. If you’ll hold a moment, I’ll see if Ms. Callahan is awake.”

  Depressing the mute button, he turned to find Monica in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. She was dressed in a loose-fitting pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, her hair tangled, her face makeup free. It was apparent the ringing phone had roused her too.

  “A call from your father.” Coop kept his finger on the mute button.

  “I don’t want to speak with him.” Her jaw firmed into a stubborn line.

  “What would you like me to say?”

  “I don’t really care.”

  Giving her an appraising look, Coop released the mute button. “Mr. Farah, Ms. Callahan would prefer not to accept her father’s call. However, I’d be happy to speak with him instead.”

  The room went silent.

  “Mr. Cooper?”

  “Yes, sir. Good morning.”

  The diplomat dispensed with the niceties. “How is my daughter?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “I understand she’s refused to go to a safe house.”

  Coop eyed Monica. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her shoulders were rigid.

  “That’s correct.”

  “You need to change her mind.”

  “I understand, sir. We’re continuing to work on that.”

  “Until you succeed, use every means at your disposal to protect her . . . and give her my love.”

  “I will, sir.”

  The line went dead.

  Replacing the phone in its cradle, Coop turned to Monica. “He sends his love.”

  Bitterness tightened her features. “The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

  A few more seconds of strained silence ticked by as Coop studied her. He considered asking how she’d slept, but the dark circles under her eyes gave him his answer.

  What he really wanted to know was why there was such antipathy between father and daughter. It was difficult to draw too many conclusions from his brief phone conversation with David Callahan, but the man sounded sincerely concerned—and in the diplomat’s request to pass on his love to Monica, Coop was certain he’d heard a catch in his voice. Monica also seemed like a caring, empathetic person. It was puzzling. And Coop didn’t like unsolved puzzles.

  “I hate to impose, but would you mind if I borrowed your guest bath for a quick shower? We’ll check into a hotel as soon as the other security team arrives, but in the meantime I’d hate to show up at your church looking disreputable.” Mark’s request, delivered with a grin, eased the taut atmosphere.

  “Of course. Let me get you some towels.”

  As she disappeared down the hall, Mark edged closer to Coop. “Here’s your chance to work on the safe house. And find out what gives between her and her father.”

  Draining his cup, Mark followed Monica down the hall. Coop heard the murmur of voices, the closing of a door, and then Monica reappeared and headed for the coffeemaker. Propping a hip against the counter, Coop took a sip from his own mug, watching as she rested a hand on the Bible before filling a cu
p.

  “I noticed the Bible yesterday. Interesting place to keep it,” he remarked.

  “It’s a good way to start the day. It centers me.” She lifted the cup to her lips and looked at him over the rim. “I’m sorry if my insistence on attending church this morning is complicating things.”

  “We have it covered.” He watched, momentarily distracted, as her lips tested the temperature of the liquid. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  Her expression grew wary. “Depends on the question.”

  “It’s related to religion.”

  “Okay.” She dropped her guard a fraction.

  “My experience of Christianity is pretty much limited to an occasional visit to church for a wedding or funeral, but I seem to recall that one of the basic tenets is forgiveness. I’m having difficulty reconciling your obvious commitment to your faith with your bitterness toward your father.”

  Although his comment was met with silence—and a cold stare—he caught the flicker of conflict in Monica’s eyes. Apparently he wasn’t the only one having difficulty reconciling the two.

  “I guess you minded the question.” He cradled his mug in his hands and watched her.

  “I didn’t hear one.”

  “Touché.” He kept his tone casual and let a smile tease the corners of his mouth, hoping his relaxed approach would suggest conversation rather than confrontation. He was on shaky ground, and he knew it. But if understanding the rift helped him keep her safe, he’d risk pushing for information. “Let me rephrase. How do you justify your feelings toward your father in light of what your faith teaches?”

  She took a long, slow sip of her coffee as she considered his question. Coop half expected her to brush it off. But to his surprise, she responded. “I can’t. But I can’t help how I feel, either.”

  Coop let a few beats of silence tick by as he studied her. “You don’t strike me as the type to hold a grudge without just cause. What did he do to you, Monica?”

  The quiet question was laid on a foundation of steel, and the subtle arch of her eyebrows told him she’d picked up on that.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Mark takes long showers. And we don’t have to leave for church for a couple of hours.”

  “Why do you want to hear it?” She’d turned the tables on him.

  And he wasn’t sure how to answer. While there were security motivations behind his probing, in truth there were personal reasons too. But he couldn’t tell her that.

  Gripping his mug, he chose his words with care. “I’ve always believed you can never have too much information about anything—or anyone—you’re involved with.”

  She hesitated, as if debating her next move. “How about I give you the highlights?”

  He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. “Fair enough.”

  She took a seat at the table, and he moved to the counter to refill his cup. As he lifted the coffeepot, his gaze fell on the Bible. If he was a praying man, he’d be tempted to send a plea heavenward at this point, asking for God’s help and guidance. He could use both for the professional part of this assignment. Keeping Monica Callahan safe when she ventured out into the world was going to be a challenge.

  But he was also worried about his own safety—in the emotional, not physical, sense. He’d worked with beautiful women on other assignments. Had dated more than his share of gorgeous females. And while many had tried, none had ever managed to tap into his deeper emotions.

  Yet in one short day, the woman across the room—with zero effort—had breached the defenses around his heart.

  He didn’t know how she had accomplished that feat. All he knew was that he was on dangerous ground. And that if he wasn’t careful, he’d be tempted to violate his long-standing vow to keep his distance in relationships.

  Grasping the mug with one hand, he touched the Bible with the other. No question about it. Prayers would come in handy about now.

  6

  It didn’t take a PhD in communications to figure out Monica was already having second thoughts about her offer, Coop concluded as he took a seat at the table. Uncertainty flickered in her eyes, and wariness lurked in their depths. But he wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip away if he could help it.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your mother first?”

  To his relief, his backdoor approach worked. The barest hint of a smile tugged at her lips, and her tense grip on her mug relaxed.

  “Mom was great. We were best friends as well as mother and daughter, and there’s no one I admire more. She didn’t have a college degree, but she was smart and had an exceptional facility for languages. Wherever we lived, she became conversant in the local dialect within months. After she and dad divorced, she was able to turn that into a lucrative career as a translator.”

  “How old were you when they separated?”

  “Ten.”

  “That must have been tough.”

  To his surprise, she shook her head. “Actually, it wasn’t. Dad was never around much anyway. He traveled a lot, and he worked long hours when he was in town. After the divorce, Mom and I came back to the U.S., and for the first time in my life I had a permanent home. That meant a lot to me. Stability is very important to children.”

  “So are two parents.”

  “Not if they’re unhappy. Kids pick up those vibes.” She took a sip of coffee and gave him an assessing look. “I get the feeling you didn’t grow up in an ideal environment, either.”

  His fingers tightened on his mug. “Why do you say that?”

  “There was a touch of melancholy in your voice when you mentioned two parents.”

  Jolted, Coop struggled to maintain a neutral expression, buying himself a few seconds by sipping his own coffee. Either she was very good or he was slipping. When soliciting information, he was always careful to get more than he gave. Yet she’d picked up some subtle, revealing nuance. A “proceed with caution” warning began to flash in his mind.

  “My mom died when I was three, so I have no memories of a mother.” He recited the bare facts impassively.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “You play the hand you’re dealt. I survived. At least both of your parents were living.”

  “True.” She traced a circle of moisture on the table with one finger. “But death might have been easier to accept than rejection.”

  The soft, pain-laced words told Coop they were getting close to the heart of the rift.

  “You think your father rejected you?” His gentle response was more statement than query.

  “What else should I think?” Bitterness darkened her green irises. “When forced to pick between career and family, my father picked career.”

  “What do you mean by ‘forced’?”

  Twin furrows appeared on her brow. “Sorry. Bad word choice. My mother’s request was reasonable—and long overdue. After being dragged around to hot spots all over the world for years, she finally gave my father a choice. Take a domestic State Department job or end the marriage. At the time, we were in Tel Aviv. We’d been in Beirut before that, and there was talk Baghdad would be the next move. Mom wanted more stability— and safety—for me. My father chose to stay overseas. End of story.”

  “And you’ve resented him ever since.”

  “Do you blame me?” Her eyes flashed, daring him to challenge the validity of her feelings.

  “No. But that was a long time ago. His concern now seems genuine.”

  “Too little, too late.”

  “Are you saying he didn’t keep in touch after the divorce?”

  “He provided child support, if that’s what you mean. And he always sent a check for my birthday and Christmas.” Her tone was dismissive.

  “You mean he had no personal contact all those years?”

  She wadded a paper napkin into a small, tight ball. “On rare occasions he’d stop by to visit me,” she conceded, “but the encounters were always awkward. My father may be a
great diplomat, but he had no idea how to relate to his own child. Or his wife. He’s a very emotionally enclosed guy. The kind of person who never lets anyone get close.”

  That description fit his own father to a T, Coop reflected. But there’d been a valid reason for his dad’s withdrawal. Not that it was any consolation to a child suddenly bereft of a mother and in desperate need of love and nurturing. All Coop had understood was that joy and warmth had disappeared overnight from his life.

  “What are you thinking?”

  At the prompt from Monica, Coop wiped all expression from his face. He had a feeling she was again seeing more than he intended to reveal. “Why do you ask?”

  “You were far away for a minute. In a place that wasn’t very happy.”

  He shifted in his chair, beginning to regret he’d opened this whole can of worms. Her intuitive ability was unsettling. “I suppose we all have some memories from our childhood that wouldn’t be suitable material for a Norman Rockwell painting. My dad wasn’t the most demonstrative guy, either.”

  “But he didn’t walk out on you.”

  “No.”

  The conversation lagged. Coop took another sip of his cooling coffee, listening as Mark shut off the shower. He’d gotten the information he wanted. And he better understood Monica’s bitterness. Though years had passed, the hurt and betrayal she’d felt when her father chose career over family remained. And it was possible she nursed a sense of guilt, believing the marriage had been sacrificed to give her a more stable childhood. That was a boatload of emotion to haul around for twenty-plus years.

  But if the exchange had given him insights into Monica, it had also opened his eyes to a few things about himself. Monica’s description of David Callahan as emotionally enclosed and unwilling to let anyone get close not only fit his own father, it fit him too. And he wasn’t sure he liked being put in the same category as those two men.

  “You know, I was lucky in a way.”

  Monica’s unexpected comment deflected the disturbing direction of Coop’s thoughts, and he latched on to it. “How so?”

  “My mom countered my dad’s rejection as best she could. She gave me absolute love and did everything she could to bolster my self-esteem. Plus, she helped me establish a firm foundation of faith. No matter what happens, or how other people treat us, I came to believe we’re always loved by God unconditionally. And that we’re called to follow his example.”