Then on Wednesday afternoon, Ev disappeared. Jo tried not to worry. At six she closed her computer—he had still not returned or turned on his phone—and busied herself filing. Then she did the laundry. Then she ate dinner, growing more concerned. It was not like him to abandon a project; it was like him to lose track of time. She heard him at the door around nine o’clock, and went to meet him. He sauntered into the office and laid the portfolio he’d been carrying on top of the flat file. He then went into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
“Got any leftovers?”
“Where have you been?” She kept her voice low because Diane had returned with Joey, who sat hunched under her desk playing video games while his mother punched her adding machine.
“Across the Bay, at an art gallery. They want to give me a show.” He rummaged behind the fridge door and emerged with a foil packet. “Is this the lamb from Sunday?”
“A show of what?”
“They think my models deserve to be on pedestals.” He opened the foil and sniffed. He sprinkled salt into the packet and nibbled a bit of meat. “Becca showed the whirligig to a friend of hers, who showed it to her cousin who runs the gallery. They asked to see my other pieces, so I brought them photos of my exhibits, the more artsy ones. They liked them. Is there any beer?”
“You can’t do a show. There’s no time to spare. None.” Her body tensed.
“I don’t have to do anything now except give them my stuff. Maybe a little polishing.”
“Absolutely not!” She didn’t care if Diane heard. “The job comes first. The whole thing depends on you.”
He raised his chin. “I can do my stuff and still drive over the bridge once or twice before we ship.”
“Why are you even thinking about it?”
“Opportunity. I want to see how grown men and women react to my work. I’ll learn something about it, and about me.”
She spoke through clenched teeth. “You changed the topic at the last minute, and then you promised you’d make it work. You had better.”
He stopped chewing. “Wow. I’ll ask the gallery to wait if you want me to. But you’re wrong. I can walk and chew gum at the same time.” He put the foil on the counter and turned back to the fridge. “I need a beer.”
Diane stepped into the kitchen. “Sorry, but I overheard you mention San Francisco? I’m taking Joey for his exam next week. Can I do anything for you while we’re there?”
Ev said, “Sure. Deliver some models.”
“No!” Jo faced Diane. “Why are you going now? Can’t it wait?”
Diane’s brow furrowed. “It’s been scheduled for six months. There are four doctors involved. I can’t change it.”
On the verge of tears, Jo said nothing.
Ev closed the fridge and leaned against the door. “Diane has to do what Joey needs done. We’ll be fine.”
“I can take calls while I’m there. Everything’s lined up except for crating the pieces we haven’t finished,” Diane said.
“Exactly. We’re not ready. If we’re late this time, we can’t pop everything into a van and drive all night. It could take six weeks to clear customs, for chrissake.” Jo felt her face grow hot with frustration. Then strong arms wrapped around her from behind. Joey, out from under the desk.
Diane said, “Joey honey, Aunt Jo is okay. She doesn’t need a hug now, but I do. Come here.” She opened her arms. Joey released Jo and lumbered to his mother. She hugged him and said, “Thank you for caring.” She addressed Jo over his shoulder. “I worked out a backup plan with Phil Owen.”
“And you expect me to rely on a plan you and Owen cobbled together?”
Ev said, “Jo, the backup plan is not your problem. And we will finish in time.”
“Not with both of you running off to San Francisco.” She blinked back tears.
Diane released her son and said, “It can’t be helped. I’m sorry.”
Jo turned her back and climbed the stairs. Ev and Diane, the two people closest to her in the world, were ignoring her when they should be helping. Ev knew she was counting on this job, but it didn’t penetrate his cloud. As for Diane, the old frustration thickened her tongue. She went to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
She stood at the sink and saw herself in the mirror. Of course she looked tired, propelling this project forward by force of her will alone. She turned on the faucet and scooped water to rinse her face. The shipping schedule came to mind; they might possibly complete on time, even with Ev absent for an afternoon or two. Maybe she had overreacted. She wanted to think she’d overreacted. But the deadline loomed.
As she reached for a towel, she spotted the package Myriam had given her in Riyadh, lodged in the corner of the shelf where she’d stashed it. She dried her face and hands and picked it up. Unwrapping it, she found a lipstick-sized bottle of perfume inscribed in Arabic, and a note: “Made from roses in Taif. To my American sister.” Sister, yes, sister in spirit. How ironic that Myriam, who covered her face in public, seemed more like a sister than Diane, who had no shame. She replaced the bottle on the shelf and turned off the bathroom light.
When she woke in the morning, the clock read 9:50 and Ev was gone. She’d been unable to sleep, alternately angry and contrite, until nearly dawn. She dressed quickly and went downstairs to find him. She wanted to apologize for not discussing the gallery offer calmly. He was not in the office, nor in the kitchen. She grabbed the sweatshirt hanging from a peg at the back door and went out to the studio.
No one there. Ev sometimes left notes on the workbench. No note in sight. She peered around the corner at the driveway. No truck. She shivered in the early morning fog and returned to the house.
Carlos sailed into the office smelling like cinnamon. He went to the kitchen and laid churros out on a platter along with a box of coffee.
“Hazelnut this time. They did not have any special tea, sorry.”
“Are you meeting Ev somewhere?”
“No. I’m almost finished with the bases. I want to prime them today so they dry over the weekend. You want to help me pick a color?”
“Do you have any idea where Ev went?”
“No, no. Don’t worry, he’s cool.”
Carlos poured himself a cup of coffee and wrapped two churros in a napkin. He carried them to his drafting table and sat to eat. “This is really good, Josita.” He waved a churro at her.
Jo ignored him. She found Diane at the copy machine. “Do you know where Ev went?”
Diane looked up. “I haven’t seen him this morning. I revised the schedule again. Crates will arrive in April. Can I show you the revision after I finish copying?”
She glanced over to Becca’s desk. “Where’s Becca?”
“Working from home. She’s going to Cal later to talk to somebody.”
Oh, jeez, Jo thought, she’s making it too complicated. “Andy?”
“He has a test this morning.” Diane spread papers on top of the copy machine and began to collate them. “He should be back before I have to leave.”
“You’re leaving, too?”
“Joey’s aide has to go home early.”
Jo turned away and sat down at her desk. Her heart began to pound. She felt drained, not enough energy in her arms to reach her computer. She managed to pick up her phone to text Ev. No reply.
Her heart beat faster. She could hear her pulse in her ears. Heat flashed through her, and her head filled with cotton wool. She tasted bile. She swallowed and tried to ease the pressure enveloping her chest. It gripped her harder and she began to fear something awful was happening. She put her head down on her desk and closed her eyes, but it didn’t ease the pain. I need to go to the hospital, she thought. How am I going to get to the ER? She opened her eyes but the world turned black. Her hands felt clammy. She must be having a heart attack. She moaned.
Diane materialized at her side, offering a glass of water, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Diane said something she couldn’t hear. Fear ripped through her. She clutched Dian
e’s arm. Diane rubbed her back. She couldn’t get enough air. She thought she was about to die. She felt her forehead hot on the desk and tried to sit up, but Diane shushed her and said wait a few minutes. The pressure in her chest mounted. Diane stroked her back. Jo raised her head.
“I don’t know what’s happening.”
“I think you’re having a panic attack. They run in the family.”
“This happens to you?”
“It used to. When I didn’t know if I could handle Joey by myself.” Diane paused. “I haven’t had one in years.”
Jo dropped her head. She tried not to cry.
“Do you want to tell me what you’re worried about?” Diane asked.
“You already know.”
“If it’s the schedule, we’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” Diane patted Jo’s arm.
“Please don’t tell anyone about this.”
Diane nodded. “Maybe you should lie down. Let’s go upstairs.”
Blood throbbed in her ears. She rose slowly to test her legs. Steady enough. She let Diane walk her upstairs and ease her onto the bed.
Diane said, “Rest. You’ll be fine in fifteen minutes.”
Her heart shuddered but breathing was a little easier lying down. She closed her eyes.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Or if you just want to talk.” Diane shut the bedroom door behind her.
Jo tried to doze. Impossible, but she felt her terror ease a bit. She wasn’t dying. According to Diane, she wasn’t even sick. So what was wrong? Somehow she knew. It wasn’t Ev’s disappearance that panicked her: it was the thought that the Saudi deal could implode. God, how she craved a win. Paying off their debt was the least of it. She wanted to show the world what she could really do. What D-Three could do.
Jo sat up testily. She stood slowly and then went to the bathroom to wash her face and stare down the fear. She returned to the bedroom feeling calmer. She lay down and placed her hand on her chest; she felt her heartbeat gradually slow. She breathed deeply; she wasn’t going to die. The business would survive. Relief began to edge out fear.
There was a scratch at the door. Ev poked his head in. She beckoned him, and he hovered over her.
“Diane said you’re not feeling well.”
“What else did she say?”
“That you were looking for me.”
Thank you, she thought. She wouldn’t tell him what had happened until she understood it completely. “I’m better. Where were you?”
“Looking for a tree to slice. I went to a couple of nurseries, no luck. The trees were too green. Then I canvassed the flats. I saw a hunk of driftwood with the remains of a terrific root ball. Roots are like brains, you know. They use the fungus that lives on them to send messages across the forest floor to other trees.” He grinned at her. “I’m going to get Carlos to help me salvage the root ball tonight. Unless I find something better across the bridge.” He stopped short.
“While you’re in San Francisco, don’t promise to polish any of your pieces until we get back from Saudi Arabia.”
Ev leaned down to peck her cheek. “I won’t.”
Jo raised her arms toward him. “Let’s go down. Carlos needs to pick a color.”
He helped her up. She felt steady. Amazing to lose control so quickly and then get it back so soon. The whole episode took maybe ten, fifteen minutes. She didn’t want to think about whether she might panic again. They walked down the stairs, Ev holding her elbow.
Carlos said, “Hola” as they approached. Ev ran his hands over the tops of the bases and grunted approval. Carlos dug into a drawer and brought out a color sampler.
“I’m thinking lime green. Goes good with soil.” He fanned open the green section.
Ev fingered the samples and made a suggestion. Carlos disagreed and countered. Jo withheld comment—they could pick any green they wanted—and walked toward Diane’s desk. She felt strong again, ready to do business. She wanted to see Diane’s revised schedule. If they could ship the bulk items in two weeks’ time, they could carry the little stuff with them on the next flight. Maybe they were still in the game.
Jo said, “Can I see the schedule?”
Diane shuffled folders on her desktop and handed over three sheets of paper. Jo scanned them.
“This is great. Let’s do it.” She handed back the papers, meeting Diane’s eyes. “Thanks for not saying anything to Ev.”
“Don’t mention it.” Diane smiled and lowered her gaze. There was a different set to her jaw.
A slippery something spread inside Jo’s chest. The rules of engagement between them had altered. She didn’t know how.
DEMONSTRATION
18
Ev and Jo walked along the Al Khobar corniche, stopping here and there to throw pebbles into the Persian Gulf. The road snaked along a narrow beach lining the shore along the eastern end of the Saudi coastline; ships on the blue-gray horizon steamed toward Qatar. Wearing the abaya over her jeans and t-shirt, Jo felt warm in the April sun. Ev had removed his jacket and swung it from the crook of a finger. They walked into a steady, salty breeze on a well-paved sidewalk, past men in Western dress, past several families whose children played near the water. The women held their headscarves in place with one hand, while the wind pressed their abayas closer to their bodies. On a spit of ground extending into the Gulf, a large building stood under construction. A minaret in the distance rose taller than the rest.
The houses bordering the corniche looked swanky to their foreign eyes. Two stories, multiple window bays, stucco perimeter walls with elaborate front gates. Ev stopped to take a photo of one of the gates: a metal arch framing panels of opaque glass with silhouettes of vines and love birds. He said he had rarely seen such delicate ironwork. Jo thought the owner must have spent a pretty penny. As far as she was concerned, he’d won the competition for most impressive gate. She wondered who he was; probably not a date farmer refusing to educate his girls.
They turned their backs to the wind and walked away from the water, toward the hotel where they would spend the next two weeks shuttling back and forth to the demonstration venue. The hotel belonged to an international brand but had Middle Eastern decor. They sat in armchairs in the marble-floored lobby, hearing the fountain that trickled into a bed of rose petals floating in a pool at its base. Jo scanned an English-language newspaper on the coffee table beside her; Ev paged through the photos in his camera. A torso appeared in front of Jo and she looked up. Peter, from Cairo. She had called him weeks ago to ask for help negotiating with the venue, getting permissions and an installation crew, and translating for the demo. Her last trip to Riyadh had convinced her they needed their own man. And there he stood, looking as she remembered: tall and portly, rumpled jacket, mirthless smile.
Peter sank heavily into a chair near Jo’s. “How do you like the hotel?”
“Very comfortable. I notice they have perfume dispensers in the hallways.”
“Ah, yes. Sometimes they have trouble with the sewage system. The area has grown so fast. You will like the dining room. The chef is very good. Lebanese.”
“When can we begin setting up?”
“Tomorrow morning the crew will come. First, we must pay our respects to the management. The museum is closed today but the director wants to meet you.”
“Tell me again why we are here and not in Riyadh.”
“The committee wants your demonstration here because this is a liberal city. Near Aramco headquarters. You can do things here you cannot do in Riyadh.”
Ev said, “Such as?”
“I received special permission for Mrs. Joanna to participate in all the activities. She must be covered, of course. Not her face, the abaya and head scarf.”
Jo said, “Does that include the installation?”
“Yes, yes. The crew are friends of friends. No problem.”
Jo rose. “Let’s go pay our respects.”
Ev rose. “I need to work on the piece I brought with me.”
&nb
sp; Jo said to Peter, “I guess I’m your man.”
Peter called a taxi and escorted Jo to the Islamic Heritage Museum, to which D-Three’s crates had been delivered early that morning. Jo had paid a surcharge to expedite shipment because, as predicted, Ev hadn’t quite finished in time. The surcharge plus Peter’s fees meant there was no possibility of profit, but they were still in the game. She was determined to show the world how well they played.
A uniformed guard met their taxi and led them to the museum lobby, where a white-haired man in Western dress waited. Peter bowed slightly as he introduced the director to Jo. They followed him to an office that looked like any other museum director’s office: schedules and posters tacked up on the walls, curios crowding a credenza. The director motioned them to sit and addressed Peter in Arabic. Peter turned to Jo.
“The director is honored to meet you. He wants to know what you will put in the lobby.”
“Please thank him for his courtesy. Tell him we are going to set up fifteen exhibits of a kind people here may have never seen before. For children.”
The men exchanged words. Peter said, “He wants to help you. What can he do?”
“Ask him if he has any data about his visitors. Where they live, if they are repeaters, anything he knows.”
Peter translated, “He says he has no budget for research and so he has no data.”
“I will be more than happy to share whatever we find.”
Peter translated, “He’s pleased. He wants to know what you expect to discover.”
“Well, we have a picture in our minds of what people will do at our displays, but we have never worked in the Kingdom before. Museum audiences can be unpredictable.”
The Contract Page 15