A Touch of Betrayal

by Catherine Palmer

  “Whoa, big brother,” Tillie said as she stepped into the foyer. “This is pretty incredible.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve never even seen your house,”

  Alexandra murmured as she began roaming the perimeter, peering out the windows and peeking into rooms. “Do you have any furniture?”

  “A house of your own, toto,” Mama Hannah said softly. “Now, like a baobab tree, you have roots.”

  Grant swallowed. Twin emotions rose inside him like a pair of rival warlords. On the one hand, he felt a sense of satisfaction. Yes, he mentally asserted, he owned this house. Of course he did. He was a responsible, hardworking man who knew how to invest well. He was a fine and upstanding member of society. An emblem of the landed gentry. A man of foresight, wisdom, and shrewd financial instinct.

  Roots? the other half of him bellowed. Roots! Grant Thornton had never wanted roots in his life. He was a vagabond, a restless sojourner on the tossing seas of existence. He was a gypsy. Freedom sang through his veins. Adventure was his middle name. Roots would choke and strangle and tie a man to his own grave.

  He’d sell the house immediately. Get rid of it, like a drowning man with a millstone tied around his neck. Cut it loose. Set himself free. Breathe again.

  “You amaze me,” Alexandra said, stepping again into the foyer. The golden afternoon sunlight lit up her hair and danced on her bronzed skin. “A man of many secrets. So what else have you got tucked away in your pocket, Grant? A Rolls-Royce in the garage? A membership in the cricket club?”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and discovered what he did have tucked away—the Maasai wedding chain. He fingered the silver links as he watched Alexandra stroll into the living room and move to the long bank of windows that opened onto the backyard. Give it to her, the responsible gentleman inside him commanded. Give her the chain, the house . . . your heart. Commit. Do it now.

  “It’s strange, you know,” Alexandra said. As he approached, she leaned toward the dusty panes and gazed out at the tangle of greenery. “You’re the man who doesn’t want to own anything except his two tents and seven socks. But suddenly your sister forces you to face the reality that you own an estate. I’m the woman who thinks she needs the millions her father left her, but suddenly I’m facing a future of financial ruin. Maybe even bankruptcy. It’s like we’ve traded identities.”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Grant studied her posture, trying to read it. The woman mesmerized him. He wanted to understand her, even though at times like this it seemed impossible. Traded identities? He couldn’t fathom it. How would it feel to be rich? to value wealth? to need money?

  And how would it feel to lose that bulwark of security?

  “You know what’s even odder?” Alexandra said, turning to him. “I’m sort of getting used to the whole idea of not having money. I’m thinking I’ll just be a regular person from now on. Average. I’ll shop at outlet malls, and I’ll buy bedsheets stamped irregular, and I’ll get my hair done at one of those places where you don’t need an appointment. I’ll be like everybody else and buy frozen dinners . . . and . . . and drugstore sunglasses . . . and . . .”

  Her shoulders slumped. She sank down onto the wide windowsill and stared at the parquet floor. “You don’t want things,” she whispered, “and I can’t imagine life without them. The picture looks so . . . bleak.”

  Grant walked over to her and knelt at her side. He took her hand and spread her fingers across his, palm to palm. “Things can’t fill a life,” he said. “Not my life anyway. People can.”

  She shook her head. “I told you I don’t trust people. My father—”

  “Your father was wrong, Alexandra. I’m sure he was a good guy, great businessman, made lots of money. But he was wrong about people. If you keep following his advice, you’re going to find out what emptiness really means.”

  He paused a moment and studied the miracle of her hand pressing against his. By all logic and common sense, Alexandra should be on a plane to New York right now. But she was here—warm, real, alive. Again, Grant’s anguished prayer of the night before echoed back through his thoughts.

  Had that prayer breathed in torment actually been heard? Was this moment his answer?

  “Take Jesus,” he murmured. “Alexandra, you talk about him as though he’s real to you. It’s like he’s a force in your life—someone even more important than your father. But his teachings, his stories, his life weren’t about things. They were all about people.”

  “But Jesus knew that people would let him down, Grant. One of his own inner circle betrayed him to the authorities. Even Peter couldn’t come through for his master. When a serving girl asked Peter if he knew Jesus, Peter denied him three times. Everybody failed Jesus, Grant. Everybody.”

  “Yeah, and he died for them anyway.” He let out a low laugh. “I’ve got no business preaching to you, but even a guy like me can see that Jesus had his focus in the right place. Sure, people let him down. They betrayed him. Some of them eventually killed him. But he loved them all, Alexandra. He loved them so much he was willing to die for them. Wasn’t he?”

  Her blue eyes fastened on him. “Sometimes you scare me to death, Grant Thornton.”

  “Likewise.”

  Tillie’s laughter filtered through the cavernous house. “There’s stuff in the attic, Grant! Oops!” She came to a halt just inside the living room door. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Whoa,” Graeme said, peering around his wife at the couple by the window. “Leave a tender moment alone, Tillie-girl.”

  Mama Hannah’s dark face peeped out from behind Graeme’s broad shoulder. “We will go outside and look at the garden,” she said.

  “It’s all right.” Grant stood and brushed off the knees of his jeans. “I want to get back to Tillie’s apartment and arrange transportation to my camp. It’s time I headed home.”

  “But, Grant,” Tillie exclaimed, “you should at least take a look in your attic! It’s full of things. All kinds of great stuff!”

  Grant looked at Alexandra and cocked an eyebrow. “Things? Stuff? Miss Prescott, I believe that’s your territory.”

  She laughed. “Au contraire. I’m a woman under conviction.” She held out her elbow. “Dr. Thornton, please take me away from this earthly paradise before I fall any further under its spell.”

  “This way, my dear.” He linked his arm through hers and escorted her toward the door.

  Behind them, Tillie gave an exasperated sigh. “You guys are weird, you know that? Really weird.”

  “A perfect duo,” Graeme said.

  “Ehh,” added Mama Hannah.

  Through a dusty bus window, Alexandra watched Mount Kilimanjaro slowly rise to dominate the landscape. After a restless night struggling with her fears and worries, she had awakened with the firm decision to accompany Grant back to his campsite. From there, she planned to join a walking safari—part of her original itinerary. If nothing else, the activity would keep her mind off her concerns.

  Earlier that morning she had telephoned the police, who agreed to turn her protection over to Grant Thornton— though they wanted her to check in with them on a regular basis. Then she called the United States consulate and the travel agency. When everything was in order, she and Grant said reluctant good-byes to the McLeods and Mama Hannah. Then they took a taxi to the Nairobi bus terminal.

  Alexandra had thought the train was crowded, but after interminable hours on the jam-packed bus, she doubted she would ever get the kinks out of her back and stand up straight. “How much longer?” she asked over the muffled roar of the engine.

  “The bus stop is just ahead. We’ll have to walk to camp.” Grant brushed at the powdery red dust that had settled on her cheeks and nose. “Think you’re up to a hike?”

  “The last time I walked to your camp it was a grueling marathon in blistering heat.”

  “Only a couple of miles this time.” He glanced down at her rubber sandals. “And now you’ve got t
hose great shoes.”

  “I call these my Firestones. You know, ‘Where the rubber meets the road.’” At his blank look, she giggled. “Boy, are you out of it, Grant. That’s an old tire slogan. I mean really old.”

  “I guess I’m a regular Rip van Winkle. You could probably carry on an entire monologue, and I wouldn’t have a clue what you were talking about. Home shopping network. Thigh toners. It’s a foreign language.”

  The bus pulled to a stop, and their fellow riders made way as Grant and Alexandra struggled down the aisle with their baggage. They stepped out into the searing late afternoon, and Grant gave the driver a wave.

  “Asante sana, bwana,” he called. “Tutaonana.”

  “Kwaheri daktari na bibi!” The driver grinned as he shifted the bus into gear. “Mungu akubariki!”

  When the bus pulled away in a cloud of red dust, Alexandra shouldered the single satchel into which she had condensed her luggage. “Hey,” she spoke up as she started down the path, “who’s speaking in a foreign language now? Thigh toners won’t do me a lot of good out here, but Mungu-angu-bangu sure has been popular.”

  “Mungu akubariki. It means God bless you.”

  “Mungu a-ku-bar-i-ki. God bless you.” As relief at escaping the confines of the bus surged through her, she threw back her head and whirled around in the sunshine. “Mungu akubariki!” she called up into the brilliant blue sky. “Hellooo, Africa! It’s me, Alexandra. Mungu akubariki, everybody!”

  Grant gave her a questioning look, but she didn’t care how silly she appeared to him. It felt great to be off that bus. Great to be back in the open air. Great to be free of the constant threat of attack, to be rid of ever-lurking guards and police reports, to be with Grant. She paused and glanced at the man who was striding along the path like some modern-day David Livingstone.

  Grant was the best part of all.

  Thank you, God, her heart sang out. I don’t understand why I’m still in Africa . . . or what I’m supposed to do next . . . or what plans you have for me. But thank you! Thank you for this moment. Thank you for Grant Thornton.

  “There ought to be a song about that mountain,” she said as she appraised the snowy peak. “I’m going to make one up and shout it at the top of my lungs.”

  “No fears about Jones jumping out of the bushes?”

  She sobered for a moment. “Jones. Do you think he really did leave Kenya?”

  “I hope so. But I’m not letting down my guard, just in case he’s still in the country.”

  “Well, tough beans if he is.” She swung around again. “At this moment, I feel like I could haul off and knock that jerk straight to kingdom come. Just let him set a foot on this path, and he’ll regret it.”

  Chuckling, Grant scratched his chin. “All right then, get set to shout. There’s already a Swahili song about Mount Kilimanjaro, and here it goes. Are you ready?”

  “Let us go to heaven,” she said, repeating Mama Hannah’s phrase.

  Grant taught her the chant, a trilling cry echoed by a low-pitched response. By the time they spotted the campsite in the distance, they were singing so loudly even the flies were reluctant to bother them.

  “Kili!” Alexandra shouted.

  “Kilimanjaro,” Grant echoed in a deep bass.

  “Mlima!”

  “Mrefu.”

  “Mlima.”

  “Mrefu.”

  And they sang together on the grand finale—“Katika Africa!”

  “Now I know three Swahili words,” Alexandra said as they sauntered the last few yards toward the tents. “Mlima means ‘mountain.’ Mrefu means ‘tall.’ And katika means ‘in.’ And that doesn’t even include Mungu akubariki, ‘God bless you.’”

  “I award you an A-plus on your first lesson.” He squinted toward the campsite. “Hold up a second—who’s that?”

  Alexandra stiffened, fear knifing through her. In the long afternoon shadows cast by the acacia trees, she couldn’t distinguish anything unusual. “Where?”

  “Beside my tent.” He stepped protectively in front of her. “Who’s there? A-ing’ai o-ewuo?”

  “Nanu kewan—Kakombe.”

  “It’s Kakombe,” Grant said, relief evident in his voice. “My buddy from the kraal.”

  He slung an arm around Alexandra’s shoulders and strode toward the tents. The lanky young Maasai man emerged from the gloom to greet them with outstretched hands. He and Grant spoke quickly. Alexandra recognized the mention of Mama Hannah, and she noted the discussion of the missed Eunoto, but she could make neither head nor tail of the rhythmic Maasai dialect.

  Instead, she studied the body language of the two men. They chatted rapidly and with eager animation, their words overlapping as they finished each other’s sentences. Kakombe often touched Grant on the arm or hand, a gentle gesture that expressed total confidence in their relationship. Grant laughed easily, now and then laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Though the men were as comfortable together as brothers, they could not have been more opposite in appearance.

  Grant wore his Levi’s and chambray shirt like a second skin. His sun-streaked brown hair clustered at his collar in a rumple of loose curls, and his only adornment was a ballpoint pen stuck in his pocket. The tanned arm that hung over Alexandra’s shoulder glistened with pale, coarse hair, and a utilitarian watch glinted at his wrist.

  Kakombe—a dark mocha to Grant’s paler latte—was draped in bead necklaces, chokers, and earrings. Chalky paint, elaborately streaked to reveal the dark skin beneath, covered his arms and legs. His hair had been parted from ear to ear and then tightly cornrowed to create a magnificent ocher-plastered headdress. In his right hand he carried his six-foot spear and a long peeled stick. With his left, he pointed repeatedly in the direction of the kraal.

  “Alexandra, you won’t believe this!” Grant exclaimed suddenly. “The elders decided to postpone the Eunoto.”

  “Really? That’s great!”

  “No, that’s unbelievable. Maasai warriors have been gathering at the kraal for some time. The ceremony was set to go off as scheduled. But when I left for Mombasa with you and Mama Hannah, they decided to put the whole thing on hold. In fact, they’re not going to start anything until after the next rainfall.”

  “Grant, they’re showing you the greatest respect.”

  “Kakombe says the elders want me to record the ceremony. With many of the Maasai children attending school now, and more and more men going to Nairobi to work, they’re afraid the traditions might be forgotten.”

  “So you’re more than a friend to them. You’re their historian.”

  “Kind of an intimidating thought.” He gave her a warm smile. “I’m glad they waited—you’re going to be knocked out by the ceremony. You’ll see things no white woman has ever seen before. You won’t believe how detailed—”

  “Grant.” She stopped him by stepping out of his embrace. “I’m probably . . . well, you know I might be gone by then.”

  “Kaji negol?” Kakombe asked, motioning to his friend for an explanation.

  Grant’s eyes narrowed as he translated Alexandra’s words. At their conclusion, Kakombe let out a universal expression of disgust. He pointed at Alexandra, then at Grant as he uttered a lengthy response to the news that she would be leaving Kenya soon.

  “Kakombe tells me that Sambeke Ole Kereya and the other elders have issued you a formal invitation to the Eunoto,” Grant explained to Alexandra. “They liked your song about Zacchaeus and the way you came to Mama Hannah’s rescue the night of the attack. The elders are insisting on your presence at the ceremony. Kakombe doesn’t think they’ll understand your hurry to leave.”

  “Please tell them my home is in New York,” Alexandra said. “I have a job at a design firm in the city. I have to work.”

  Grant translated for Kakombe. At the African’s response, he gave a slow grin. “Kakombe says a woman’s work is to milk cows and plaster the house after a hard rain. He wants to know how many cows in New York are demanding your att
ention.”

  Alexandra shrugged and let her satchel sink into the long dry grass. “Just tell him that if I’m still in Kenya at the time of the next rainfall, I will be honored to attend the Eunoto.”

  She dragged the heavy bag toward the tent that she and Mama Hannah had shared. In spite of the joy she had felt at returning to this place with Grant, she could taste the uncertainty of her situation like a bitter lemon in her mouth. She lifted the tent flap and ducked into the shielding shadows.

  Evidently the Maasai had tried to reassemble Grant’s camp after Jones’s attack. The cots were back in place, the blankets spread, and the pillows stacked. Alexandra searched the tent in the dim light until she found a lantern and a box of matches. After lighting the wick, she sat on her cot and tugged off her sandals.

  Images of past days flashed into her thoughts. With them came questions that flapped at her like dark-winged bats. Nick Jones—die by a knife or a rope? Mama Hannah—be bold or give the Lord control? James Cooper—be rich or poor? Kakombe—design fabric or milk cows? Grant Thornton—stay in Kenya or go back to New York?

  No, that last dilemma was a figment of her imagination. Grant had never asked her to stay. He enjoyed her company, and he seemed pleased that she had returned with him to the bush. And he had made a vow to protect her.

  Alexandra twisted the simple band on her finger, considering Grant’s gift. No, she shouldn’t read more into the ring than was intended. Grant wasn’t the kind of man to make a permanent commitment to anyone or anything— except his work. Even the house he owned in Nairobi sat on its weedy lot like an orphaned child. He didn’t want the rootedness it stood for—just as he would never seek the obligations of love.

  Love? The word flashed at Alexandra like a neon sign. Did she love Grant Thornton? Startled at the unexpected image—and the terrifying appeal it held—she gripped the aluminum cot frame. No, she didn’t love him. Surely not. They were too different, worlds apart—work, lifestyle, interests. They didn’t even believe in the same God.

  “Oh, Lord!” Alexandra slipped off the cot and sank to her knees in prayer. “Lord, I’m so scared. I’ve never known anyone like Grant. I’ve never cared about a man the way I care about him. Why is this happening to me? Are you trying to teach me something? Father, don’t let me love Grant. Please keep my heart safe.”