Marjorie Hart and the Tree of Life

by Amanda Vink

  It landed over his head, and all she could see were his red curls sticking out in all directions. “Who you calling lazy bones?” he challenged, laughing. He stood then, and before he had even pulled up his pants, he scooped her into his arms and threw her on the bed. She shrieked in delight, grabbing a pillow and smacking him over the head with it.

  “Get dressed,” she begged. “I’m hungry.”

  As Frank finished getting ready, Marjorie made the bed—throwing covers this way and that to make it proper yet relaxed. No need for complete tidiness when it was just the two of them. Then they chased each other out the door and down the steps in the direction of a café.

  They were halfway down the street when a small voice cried out. Marjorie whirled around, picking up Hamid and lifting him off the ground—only not too far because he was much too big for that. She put him down, asking, “What are you doing all the way over on this side of the city?”

  “We were coming to see you,” Hamid said.

  Nadine caught up to them, moving at a relaxed pace of her own choice. “Ah, my friends!” she greeted. She reached out her hands, grasping both Marjorie’s and then Frank’s. Her fingers were plump and warm, gentle yet demanding. “I won’t lie,” she said. “I’m here partially on business.”

  “Oh?” Marjorie raised an eyebrow.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know what happened to Darius’s box, would you?” she asked.

  Marjorie shrugged. “We turned it over to the Persians, actually. We decided they should decide what happens to the treasure dug from their land.”

  “Huh,” Nadine said. “An unusual philosophy.”

  She studied Marjorie and Frank, looking to see if there were any breaks or leaks in their demeanor. She’s hoping to get something out of us, Marjorie thought, but that’s the truth. Apparently satisfied for the moment, Nadine moved on, asking, “Will you stay in Cairo, Marjorie?”

  “For the moment,” Marjorie replied. “I’m taking pictures for a time, seeing all the things I missed when I first arrived. Maybe I’ll even find a story somewhere.”

  She must’ve sounded a little too excited about this prospect, for Nadine raised her eyebrow in a friendly, if slightly menacing, manner. “You’ll not dig too deep, I hope?”

  Marjorie smiled. “I am on holiday, but I can’t make any promises,” she joked. Then, she added, “Don’t do anything too interesting.”

  Nadine’s stern expression pinned Marjorie a little, and she felt butterflies rise in her stomach. Under pressure, she stuttered, “I’ll return to Buffalo in the spring. I’m going to be a godmother, actually.”

  Frank stiffened and turned to look at her, surprised. “Are you?”

  “I just got a letter from Mary,” she explained. “I was going to tell you she asked. The baby is due any day now, you know.”

  Suddenly, tension grew thick between them, their different opinions of a romantic relationship boiling over again. Marjorie had made it clear she wasn’t interested in settling down, but she knew Frank hoped deep down that she would change her mind. She knew he didn’t want to give up the job at the museum, but she feared that he would for her sake.

  “Ah! What wonderful news,” Nadine exclaimed. Maybe she sensed the tension—she tried to dissolve it with her undeniable charm. “Children are always a blessing.” She ruffled the top of Hamid’s hair, which he barely tolerated. Marjorie couldn’t help but smile at the boy as he scowled.

  “And you, Mr. Ryan? Are you enjoying your job at the museum?”

  “Oh, it’s grand,” he said. His smile brightened. “If you think their collection in the museum is something, wait until you hear about what they’ve got in the basement. They’re going to fund some expeditions to look for more ancient treasures, and I’ll be in charge of them.”

  Nadine’s voice brought Marjorie back—the voice of someone getting ready to leave.

  “Please think of Cairo as your second home, always,” she was saying. “Anything for the people who kept my boy safe. Perhaps we’ll see each other soon.” She spoke to Hamid in Arabic, and he waved. Nadine put her hand behind his shoulder, guiding him away.

  Marjorie and Frank walked on silently.

  “You’re leaving then?” Frank asked. His voice was jagged, the thorny tip of a flower.

  “Well, yes,” Marjorie said, fidgeting.

  “I just thought—” He stalled.

  “What?”

  “I thought maybe you’d want to stay with me.”

  She blinked. “Frank, Buffalo is my home. We’ve talked about this already.”

  He kicked at the dust on the road, silent. Brooding.

  “I told you, I want to keep traveling,” Marjorie continued. “I can come back—”

  “And what? We steal a moment here and a moment there? Is that what you want?”

  Marjorie had not been prepared for the tone of his voice. “I guess we’ll do what we have to do.”

  Frank took a deep breath and pulled on his hair. “Sorry for being a gowl,” he said. “It’s just … Might you consider—”

  She cut him off. “Let’s enjoy the time right now. We don’t have to think too far ahead of ourselves.”

  The café came into view, and she picked up the pace. The conversation was over.

  ***

  After lunch, they parted at the café. Frank had to go to the museum. He kissed her on the cheek, saying he’d see her in the evening. He threw his suit jacket over his shoulder and walked off. Marjorie watched him, her heart heavy.

  I need to do something, she thought. She pulled her new camera—purchased shortly after their return to Cairo—from her bag and wandered into the bustle of the city. The click of the shutter brought the world into focus.

  Marjorie scanned the area, searching for another subject—and settled on a local girl nearby on the street. The girl, who was maybe fifteen, balanced a large basket of fruit on her head for her friends. The colors of the oranges against the blue sky struck Marjorie, and she couldn’t help but pause to ask if it was alright if she took a picture. Afterward, she thanked the girl for her time.

  She wandered further ahead, and she found herself in front of the Mosque of Ibn Tulun, its large open courtyard stretched before her. She entered, just one of many tourists, and picked up a brochure that told her it was the oldest surviving mosque in all of Africa. Her eyes took in the carved wood and stucco.

  A bird landed on top of one of the many imposing walls. Above it, there were only blue skies, so clean and uncluttered. Marjorie felt free for a moment.

  Then, inevitably, her mind turned to Frank. Her spirits tumbled back to the ground. How could she make him understand when she could hardly understand herself? She loved him. She knew she loved him, but she could not stay. It felt like a cage closing around her.

  Turning to leave, Marjorie spotted a familiar face.

  Dr. Percival Baxter stood near the exit, a light jacket slung over his arm. He had already seen her, and he greeted her halfheartedly. “Miss Hart.”

  “Dr. Baxter,” Marjorie responded coldly. Politeness apparently ruled the day. She gathered her camera to her, tucking it inside her rucksack. She turned to continue on her way, but Dr. Baxter’s voice rang out cold and clear.

  “I was hoping I might see you, actually,” Dr. Baxter said.

  Marjorie turned back, not a little bit surprised. “What could you possibly want to discuss?” she asked, genuinely curious. After the fiasco involving the ox, it was clear that his reputation as a researcher and protector of artifacts was ruined. But it could’ve been much worse for him—he could’ve been killed or put in jail. The fact that he got off Scot free was in and of itself a miracle.

  He hesitated, as though searching for the right words. “I want to apologize, Miss Hart. For my role in everything that happened. Seif and Mr. Young convinced me they could help my reputation. I should’ve seen better, but I was blinded by ambition.”

  Marjorie didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything at all
.

  “I wanted you to know that Persepolis went to a young woman—actually, one of your father’s pupils, an Amna Amin. She’s hired one of her men as second-in-command.”

  Amna in charge of the dig site! And I’ll bet anything she’s promoted Taavi!

  A blush of pleasure rose to Marjorie’s cheeks. She was so happy to hear this piece of news.

  Dr. Baxter bowed. “I know what I did can’t be forgiven,” he said. “But I hope someday I’ll be able to make amends, if you’ll allow me to.”

  When Marjorie didn’t respond, he nodded and gathered himself, then started making his way toward the prayer hall.

  Marjorie called out, and he stopped and turned to look at her, his face open and curious. Marjorie realized again that she didn’t want to hold any hatred in her heart. It was like poison. “Good luck, Dr. Baxter,” she said.

  Dr. Baxter’s lip twitched—his mustache moving just slightly. He started moving once more.

  Marjorie watched him walk away, imagining what her father would think of this situation. Relief? Amusement? She liked to think he would be proud of her. When he was gone, she turned and headed back to the busy city.

  Inside Frank’s apartment, the only sounds were the muffled noises from outdoors—off in the distance, a church bell rang. Horns blared close by. Still early, Frank wouldn’t return until late into the evening.

  It was too bright to develop her photographs. Nowhere in the apartment got dark enough during the day, and if she were to try, they would all be ruined. She sighed, rubbing her hands together. She was unsettled—whether it was by the strange encounter with Dr. Baxter or something else, Marjorie wasn’t sure. She took off her hat, throwing it in a pile on the bed.

  That’s when the familiar, happy curve of Mary’s handwriting jumped out at her. The landlady must’ve let herself in with the mail. A letter sat unopened on the table.

  She scooped it up, opening it carefully and read with pleasure. All of a sudden, she knew what she needed to do.

  When she was finished, she sat down at the table. She filled a fountain pen with ink and blotted it, and then she began to write quickly. She was filled with energy—the energy of a decision.

  She folded the note once and stuffed it into an envelope. Then, she deliberately wrote across the top of it—Dearest Frank. She kissed the paper and propped it on the small table where he would be sure to see it first thing.

  Then, slowly, she gathered her belongings.

  Buffalo

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Spring in Buffalo. New buds, fuzzy and pale green, had just started poking out from behind the intermittent snow. The crisp whites had faded with the Christmas season, leaving gray in its wake for the first months of the year. But now calendars were moved to April, and the sun began showing his face again, promising a warm and familiar summer. Frost still clung to the budding daffodils and tulips. The snowdrops, overripe, retreated on themselves, brown and burned by the sun.

  People escaped their homes into Delaware Park, out relishing the sun. A small boat made its way to the center of Hoyt Lake, where the boatman cast a line and settled in for a long afternoon. The boat reflected back at itself in the glossy mirror of the water.

  Marjorie came from the cemetery, but she was running late. She glanced at her wristwatch and picked up the pace. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it just in time. Her mind moved a mile a minute—she had so many projects she wanted to start.

  Jenkins opened the door for her, and she came in shedding the winter layers. She pulled at the fingertips of her gloves, which she had already loosened coming up the drive. Jenkins took them from her.

  “Are they here?” she asked, breathless.

  “They won’t arrive until three o’clock,” Jenkins replied. His voice, the same as ever, did not rush her, only provided the facts. “Apparently the train was delayed in Albany.”

  “Drat,” she said. She removed her hat and hung it on the hook near the door. Next, she removed her coat, offering it to Jenkins, who draped it over his arm. Marjorie checked herself in the mirror. “I can hardly wait,” she said. “Wait until you see him. He’s a beautiful baby.”

  Mary’s baby—Little Julian, after her father—was a delight. Marjorie had met him upon her return to New York, but that had been a whole month ago now. How he had probably grown in the meantime!

  From the vase next to the door, Marjorie plucked a red rose and placed it behind her ear. It smelled delicious. She started toward the sitting room, where she would pretend to read a book while she waited.

  “One more thing,” Jenkins said. “There’s a Mr. Conrad here.”

  Marjorie pulled a face. “Hm.” What does he want? “I guess I better talk to him then,” she said. “Where is he?”

  “In the study, miss,” Jenkins said. He started to walk away, but then he turned and gave her a smile. “Excuse me for saying so, miss, but it’s nice to have you back again.”

  “It’s nice to see you again too, Jenkins,” she said. “Thank you for taking such good care of the house. You know, you should really go on a holiday.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, miss.” She hoped he would take her up on the offer.

  She took her time getting to the study. When she finally entered the room, she found the newspaper man standing next to the large row of books at the back of the room with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t look as imposing here as he had behind his desk.

  “Mr. Conrad,” she said in greeting. “Nice to see you again.”

  At the sound of Marjorie’s voice, his hands flew out of his pockets and flitted about like birds. Marjorie realized—with a little bit of delicious glee—that he was nervous. Maybe he was even as nervous as she had been the previous summer. He covered it, however, with volume. When he spoke, his voice roared like a train. “You’ve certainly made a stir,” he practically shouted, “starting your own newspaper like that. Publishing those pictures.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Conrad.” She tried to sound innocent.

  “What I mean is that your newspaper has sold more copies than any other newspaper in the city,” he said.

  She shrugged again. “It’s just the truth, Mr. Conrad.”

  “Aye, well.” He avoided her gaze. “I wanted you to know they arrested that senator yesterday. You probably already heard. The trial will be held in a month’s time—but don’t expect anything. You may have started a scandal, but the man’s pockets are deep, and he’ll bugger out of it.”

  Marjorie smiled. “I’m sure it will work out.”

  “Well, you may not know this, Miss Hart, but The Herald’s been having a bit of trouble of late.” His hands wrung together. He finally continued. “Frankly, Miss Hart, I was wondering if you might consider hiring this old newspaper man.”

  Marjorie leveled him with a look. “As long as you realize that the newspaper has a mighty service—telling people the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it may be, no matter our own opinions and biases.”

  What followed was a measured silence. “Of course,” he finally said.

  She nodded. “You can start on Monday.”

  He tried to stifle his happiness with a curt nod, almost as if he was doing her a favor, but Marjorie could tell he was pleased. “Thank you, Miss Hart.”

  She smiled at him. “You’re welcome, Mr. Conrad.”

  ***

  Half an hour later, when the door opened to reveal Mary, Marjorie couldn’t believe what a change had come over her cousin. She was much different from the sick girl she had seen the previous summer. She had color in her cheeks, and she had put on some weight. She smiled, and just as she always did, she lit up the room. Still, Marjorie detected a hint of sadness in this smile—her husband was dead, after all.

  Mary had been shocked to learn of her husband’s dealings and death, though the story of his demise was much changed from the one Marjorie witnessed. Marjorie had a feeling the world was not ready to hear about the existence of the real Tree of
Life or about men being devoured. However, Mary was recovering. Marjorie knew it was the life she thought she was living and not the man she mourned most of all.

  She’s strong in ways you’d never realize, Marjorie knew.

  Uncle Charlie filed in behind her. He embraced Marjorie.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come,” Marjorie said.

  “Samuel and Julian are on their way too,” Mary told her.

  Almost as soon as she said it, the door opened again and Samuel entered. He carried a bassinet. Two eyes looked up at her from a swaddled blanket. The baby’s face broke into a large, gummy smile when he saw Marjorie. She gushed over him.

  “Goodness!” Marjorie exclaimed.

  “Cousin!” Samuel cried. He also looked much better. It had taken him a few months to recover from the head injury, but within the last few weeks he had finally returned to his studies. He had told Marjorie that it was slow going—that often he needed to stop and rest.

  They had tea—served with buttered bread and jam. Marjorie smiled at her cousins and her uncle. She felt quite like a child again, and as though they were playing at being adults.

  “And how was your trip?” Marjorie asked.

  “Very well,” responded Mary. “It was nice to have company. Thank you for convincing Samuel to join us before he and Claude take off on their Near East adventure.”

  A lot had changed at Gracewood over the months Marjorie had lingered in Egypt. She smiled at her cousin, and he beamed back at her. “Spring in Buffalo is like nowhere else,” said Samuel. “Though I must admit we’re anxious to get off.”

  “Quite.” Marjorie took a sip of tea, which was too hot. She blew on it and placed it back on the saucer to cool. “And how are the Vales?”

  “Business is booming,” Uncle Charlie said. “Who would’ve thought that my daughter had such business acumen?”

  “Me,” Samuel said. “She can sweet talk anyone, and I’m glad you finally noticed that.”

  Mary blushed. “Since I inherited Richard’s holdings, it only made sense that I help with decision-making. We invested in businesses a little closer to home, and it’s turning out splendid.” Mary leaned over. “How are you doing, cousin? Do you miss traveling yet?”