At least he’d managed to postpone the internship for a week so that he could be there when she was released from the hospital. But with nowhere to go and no one to care for her, the best they could come up with was for her to move into the guest room of his parents’ house, where his mom could help out. After Danny got Jo settled in there, he had left town. A week or so later, homesick and missing her dog and feeling stronger and more agile with her cast, Jo had bid his parents goodbye, picked up Chewie from his temporary caregiver’s, and moved into Danny’s house, where she and Chewie were living now.
When Danny thought about it, the big picture kind of gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Had he been selfish to accept the internship and fly away to Europe right when Jo probably needed him more than she ever had in her life? He promised he would never leave her, and then he went and did just that.
Jo was simply so capable, so independent, that once she urged him to seize this opportunity, he had taken steps to leave, telling himself that it was only for a few months. And though his mother and three sisters had promised him that they would be there in his stead, helping out with the logistics of Jo’s recovery and her housing situation, the truth was that he should have been the one to do all that. He should have been there for her.
Had coming to Europe been a mistake?
Danny swallowed down the last of his breakfast, which suddenly felt like a big rock sitting in his stomach.
“I can see all of this talk of Jo has made you miss her, mon ami,” Luc said, finishing his final cup of coffee. “Cheer up. The fog is lifting, non?”
Danny looked out of the window to see that it had indeed grown a little clearer. They were speeding past a mountain lake, and though they still couldn’t see the Alps in the distance, glimpses of turquoise-blue water were visible among the misty trees.
Danny tried to shake off his concern and confusion, comforted by the knowledge that at least Jo’s recovery was going well. Despite all she’d been through, she sounded fine, both in her e-mails and whenever they talked on the phone. Maybe leaving her at such a tough time hadn’t been the best idea, but she was such a trooper that she’d managed to make it work. The worst if it was over now, anyway, so there was no reason to lament decisions already made. It wasn’t as though they’d be separated forever.
“Time to pack up,” Luc said. “We should arrive in Zurich in about half an hour.”
Putting thoughts of Jo out of his mind for now, Danny got up and got moving. Once he was dressed and his own bag was packed, he went next door to make sure that Mr. Bashiri was all set. All three men were ready to go by the time they rumbled to a stop at the station in Zurich. Cool air rushed in when the steward opened the outside door, and Danny realized that it was a good 15 degrees cooler here than it had been in Paris.
“Welcome to the City of Money,” Luc said as he stepped from the train.
Danny stepped out behind him, noting that the station was sleek and modern and bustling with people.
“That is why it makes the perfect counterpoint to our photo essay,” Mr. Bashiri said solemnly. “The pictures we take here will contrast enormously with the pictures we will take in the Congo.”
Because of all the baggage, they rented a Volkswagen minivan. Danny was worried when Luc took the wheel, but fortunately his driving here ended up being much more sedate than it had been in Paris. As they made their way across the busy city streets, Luc tried to teach Danny a few key phrases he might need. The language sounded strange and guttural, a dialect of Swiss German spoken mainly in Zurich.
“Have you ever been to Zurich, Mr. Bashiri?” Danny asked as they turned onto a bridge which carried them over a serene, winding river.
“A few times, Mr. Watkins,” the man replied. He was perched in the front passenger seat, camera bag clutched neatly on his lap, eyes taking in the scenery all around. “It is an impressive place, but I much prefer the quieter outlying areas, such as Engelberg and Lucerne.”
Luc disagreed, and the two men entered into a good-natured debate about the bucolic-but-boring countryside versus the fascinating-but-congested city. Danny tuned them out and took in the sights instead, impressed with the cleanliness of the city, the striking mix of historic and modern architecture, the river that flowed lazily through the center like a deep turquoise ribbon. In a way, from the car at least, he thought Zurich was so well kept and organized that it looked like something from Epcot or Disneyland, a fake version of a real place. But it was indeed real and quite lovely. Fortunately, the fog that had shrouded the train on the way was nowhere in evidence here.
After several miles they reached their destination: the headquarters of Global Mobile Medical on a street whose name was so long that it looked like three or four German words squeezed together into one. Though parking was supposedly scarce in downtown Zurich, this place had its own private lot, to which they’d been given a special permit. Luc turned in, found a spot down a narrow row, parked, and placed the permit on the dashboard.
Danny had a copy of the itinerary in his pocket, so before they got out of the car he pulled it out and they went over the logistics of the photo shoot. They would spend an hour or two photographing the headquarters, the workers, and the warehouse. From there they would focus specifically on the businesses and the residences of three of the doctors who would be going with the team to the Congo. Georgette wanted photos of those three doctors at work, at home, and at play—an effort that would probably take the next two days and involve a number of locations. Tonight, they were supposed to go to a GMM fund-raising event and photograph there as well.
“I’m supposed to check in with Georgette later this morning,” Danny continued, “to talk about getting my travel documents squared away for the next leg of the trip. But that shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, Mr. Bashiri, how can Luc and I best help you?”
Mr. Bashiri was thoughtful for a moment before speaking.
“If the two of you will handle the equipment, the driving, and the translating, then I can focus on the photography. Just do not wander off without telling me first because you never know when I might need something.”
“Of course,” Luc said. “Allon nous. Let’s go.”
Danny thought they might want to go inside without any equipment at first, to meet the people and take a quick stroll through the facility and get a better idea of the pictures they wanted to take. But as they climbed from the car, Mr. Bashiri twisted his neck to look around and announced that the morning sun was at the perfect angle right now for some exterior shots of the building.
“Mr. Watkins, I will need the large format, the digital, and the Leica,” he told Danny before setting off to walk around the building and choose his angles.
Danny did as the man asked, pulling equipment out and assembling it so that each camera was on its own tripod, ready to go. Finally, Mr. Bashiri waved him over to where he stood across the street and down the block. Danny obliged, leaving Luc beside the van while he trotted over to Mr. Bashiri with the equipment.
Once the photographer had finished attending to the details of placement, framing, and exposure, he began snapping. Danny stood behind him and watched over his shoulder, wondering why Mr. Bashiri had chosen this particular angle. It made no sense to him, because the sharp morning sun was glinting problematically off of almost every shiny surface between them and the building. He wanted to ask how the man was compensating for that, but Mr. Bashiri was so deeply immersed in what he was doing that Danny didn’t dare speak at all.
In fact, he spent most of the morning confused about Mr. Bashiri’s methodology. When they were finished photographing the exterior, they went in and met the staff, were given a tour, and took many more pictures, often with strange angles, bad lighting, and odd filter choices.
At least Luc ended up coming in handy, for he wasn’t just the translator but also the self-appointed schmoozer. He kept conversations going with the staff, mostly in German, with lots of charm and laughter all around. That
left Mr. Bashiri and Danny free to quietly focus on the photography. When they took a break for tea, Danny finally summoned the nerve to ask about Mr. Bashiri’s methodology.
“Take a look at the shots I did with the digital, and see if you can figure this out yourself. You tell me what I’m doing.”
Danny did as he suggested, pushing the button that would slowly take him through each picture. By the time he was about half finished, he could see some similarities.
“You have a theme here. Glint. Glare. Shiny. Sparkly. You’ve done it on purpose. The essence of Zurich is all about money and wealth, and you’re showing that through the subtleties of reflection and light.”
“Correct. Now take it one step further. What do you suppose my plans are for the pictures I will take in the Congo?”
Danny thought for a moment.
“The opposite, I suppose. No flashes of light, no chrome or stainless steel, everything sort of dull and dirty?”
Mr. Bashiri nodded.
“This is a contrast I began to notice on the first part of the photo shoot, when I was at the refugee camp in Myanmar. Nothing shines there. Nothing sparkles. The Congo will be the same.”
Mr. Bashiri went on to explain, in photographer’s terms, about his use of color and placement and reflection. Danny listened intently, wishing he could take notes, committing the settings and filters and film stock choices to memory as much as possible.
There was so much to learn, and he was grateful that Mr. Bashiri was a willing teacher. Danny just hoped the man wouldn’t get tired of his questions—and that everything on the photo shoot would continue to go as smoothly as it had thus far.
Alexa awoke at 6:15, and couldn’t get back to sleep. She tossed and turned for a while, finally giving up around 7:00. She thought she might as well get up for the day. She showered and dressed and put on makeup, thinking about her schedule as she used the blow-dryer on her short dark hair.
It was a Thursday, which meant her day was packed: piano at 9:00 with Mrs. Gruber then hours of tutoring with Mr. Preston, then physical therapy with Yasmine, then her weekly exam with Dr. Stebbins. Though sometimes the exam seemed repetitive—how many times was she going to have to point her finger and touch her nose—she liked seeing Dr. Stebbins. In a way, his visits kept her feeling more connected to the whole project, like a part of the team and not just a dog who was training to perform tricks for the crowd.
The old lady had given Dr. Stebbins a room out in the carriage house to use as an office, and sometimes Alexa wished that was his main office so he could be there all the time. Every Thursday he would come in around 4:00 in the afternoon and do paperwork for a while, though sometimes she had a feeling he wasn’t so much doing paperwork as he was using the paperwork as an excuse to observe her physical therapy without making her feel uncomfortable. The office was off the main part of the room, with just a glass wall separating it from the therapy area, and his desk was set so that he was facing toward the glass as he worked. Sometimes, she would be on the treadmill or working out with the rubber bands, and she would glance up and see him studying her in that way he had, like a scientist studies a slide in a microscope.
Her exam would follow the therapy, usually at 5:00, but then he’d stick around and do more paperwork for another hour or two. On those nights Alexa usually skipped dinner with the old lady in order to hang out and do the treadmill again just so she could be in the same building with him in case he felt like chatting. He was a nice man, and very smart, and the way he talked to Alexa made her feel smart too.
She turned off the blow-dryer and tossed it in the drawer along with her brush. After heavy spritzing of hair spray and a little more eyeliner, she was done. She studied her own reflection in the mirror for a moment, thinking about that.
“Who would have guessed,” she said out loud to herself, wishing she was talking to her friends, not to mention her mom, “that you could use the words ‘smart’ and ‘Alexa’ in the same sentence!”
Even though she was a medical miracle, even though she was a freak of nature, even though all of her progress had more to do with Dr. Stebbins’ fancy science than with her, sometimes she felt pretty special.
If only she weren’t so alone.
8
Jo awoke early and reached for her cell phone, conscious of the fact that there was probably a man sitting in a chair outside of her door acting as her bodyguard. Trying not to think about it, she dialed Bradford’s brother, Ty, who was home from the hospital but had just received an update from his mother. He said Bradford had made it through the night, but he was in such intense pain that his doctors had him on heavy doses of morphine. Jo thanked him for the update and hung up the phone, saying a quick prayer for healing.
Climbing out of bed, Jo wasn’t surprised to see that at some point during the night her clothes had been washed, dried, and hung up on the back of her door. She got dressed, strapped on her cast, and tried to fix her hair as best she could, considering that she didn’t have any styling tools with her. In her purse was a lipstick, compact, and mascara, which were better than nothing. She was just applying the final touches of lipstick when she heard male voices in the hall. She opened the door to see two big strong men standing there, shaking hands.
“Miss Tulip?” one of them said quickly, in response. “How do you do? We’re from Executive Protection Services.”
Apparently, she had interrupted them in the middle of a shift change. She walked downstairs with the two men as they explained how her protection would work. Four men would be rotating in approximately six-hour shifts each, and one would never sign off until the next one had signed on. For the most part, she was to ignore them and let them do their job. They had already been apprised of the details of the situation by her grandmother. They asked that she be respectful of and respond immediately to any request they might make of her, as it would be for her protection. Otherwise, she should consider them as part of the background of her life and leave them to their work. Anything she might say or do in their presence was considered confidential unless it endangered others.
It all sounded reasonable to her, and she liked their neat clothes and professional demeanor. They looked like Secret Service agents, which was a relief, as she hadn’t known what to expect and in fact had worried they might look more like bar bouncers or mafia goons.
Breakfast was already well underway by the time Jo made it to the dining room. She could hear the clink of dishes and soft conversation from around the corner, and as she hobbled through the doorway after the bodyguard she steeled herself to face her dad. Much to her relief, however, he wasn’t there. The bodyguard looked around the room and then took a position near the doorway, against the wall.
“There you are, Jo,” her grandmother said from her place at the head of the table. “Come have a seat and get started with breakfast. I’ve spoken to your father already this morning, and he should be here in about an hour.”
Jo hesitated, surprised to see two extra people at the table: Aunt Winnie, who was seated at the far end of the table, and a young woman in her early teens sitting directly to Eleanor’s right, sipping black coffee and picking at a plate of mostly uneaten pancakes. The teenager was cute and petite, though kind of urban-looking, with short black hair, multiple ear piercings, and eyeliner so dark and heavy that it almost made her look like an adorable, wide-eyed raccoon. Jo couldn’t imagine who she was, what she was doing there, or why she seemed so comfortably at home.
“Jo, honey,” her Aunt Winnie said, rising to give her a hug, “long time no see. I was so pleased to hear you were visiting. Who’s your friend?”
Winnie looked expectantly at the muscular bodyguard and then back at Jo.
“I, uh…” Jo stammered. Obviously, Eleanor had not made Winnie aware of the situation. “He’s not—”
“Just ignore him,” Eleanor interrupted. “He’s Jo’s new personal assistant.”
Winnie seemed to struggle with that notion for a moment, and then she le
aned in and gave Jo a kiss on the cheek.
“Va va va voom,” she whispered as she did so. “Some assistant!”
Her face flushing bright red, Jo took a seat at the table. Obviously, her grandmother didn’t want Winnie to know about what was going on. In a way, Jo could understand. Winnie had a nervous condition, and something like this might throw her into a bout of anxiety-driven angst.
“You look great,” Jo said to her aunt, meaning it. The woman was dressed sloppily, with no makeup and her blondish-white hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, but her face was radiant and calm. Perhaps she had found a medication that was helping. “Are you staying here?”
Winnie nodded happily.
“It’s planting season. I always stay for the month of May, to help Muck outside. We’ve been preparing the beds and doing the pruning and the fertilizing. Soon we’ll start hardening the seedlings, and then we’ll plant.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It is. I love living in Manhattan, but this time of year I’ve simply got to come out to the country, where I can garden to my heart’s content.”
Consuela emerged from the kitchen door with a basket of muffins, which she set on the table.
“Good morning, Jo,” she said, looking chipper despite the fact that she’d been up late preparing the guest room for Jo and washing her clothes. “Would you like eggs or pancakes or both?”
“Eggs are fine.”
“How would you like them cooked?”
“Um, scrambled, please. With whole wheat toast, if you have it. And coffee.”
“You got it,” Consuela said, returning to the kitchen.
After she was gone, Eleanor proceeded to introduce Jo to the young woman at the table.
“Jo, this is Alexa, a houseguest of mine. Alexa, this is my granddaughter Jo.”
“Hi,” Alexa said, her voice surprisingly timid and sweet for having such a tough-looking exterior. “Nice to meetcha. Where are you from?”
Elementary, My Dear Watkins Page 10
