Out of the Shadows

by Melanie Mitchell

  She spotted Jean-Baptiste and Christine already occupying a table set for three near the center of the room. The Belgian couple rose when she approached, and both brushed multiple air kisses near her cheeks. “I am to be envied, because I am with the most beautiful women in Kenya,” Jean-Baptiste boasted to no one in particular. Christine giggled and patted his arm, then motioned for Leslie to be seated.

  Over the next two hours, Leslie realized that she had misjudged Jean-Baptiste. In Nyeri he had been working twenty-hour days to protect the lives of more than a hundred children. Now, with that weight removed, he seemed to be another person. Before, he had been grim and often brusque with her and others, but now he was much more animated. His smile was infectious, and his easy humor seemed to subtract fifteen years from his face.

  He poured a French Bordeaux into crystal glasses. “I wish to propose a toast,” he said, raising his glass. “To our new friend, Leslie. Our greatest blessing for coming to our rescue and helping save many lives.”

  Leslie blushed and nodded in acknowledgment, hiding her embarrassment behind a sip of wine. “Thank you. I’m glad you called me and very happy that I could help.” She reached toward Christine and clasped her hand to affirm what she was saying. “It was my pleasure to work alongside the two of you.”

  Dinner was superb, and the conversation with Jean-Baptiste and Christine was enlightening and entertaining. Leslie learned they were originally stationed in the Congo, which had a long and tenuous history with Belgium. After a number of years and several locations later, they’d been asked to relocate to northern Kenya. “Our children were getting ready to go to university, and we liked the idea of living in a more accessible area. And this country is more stable,” Christine explained.

  “Tell me about your children,” Leslie said. With that prompting, the couple entertained her with stories of raising their teenage children in both Belgium and Africa, and the time passed quickly.

  As the dessert dishes were being removed and coffee was served, Leslie checked her watch. “Marcus will be here shortly,” she said. “Please excuse me for a few minutes.” She left to make her way toward the ladies’ room.

  As she returned to the table, she had to pause near the door to the restaurant to allow a group to enter. Absently she noted that they were an unusually multicultural party. The four women gained her attention first. They appeared to be either European or American and wore lightweight silk or satin cocktail dresses, which were several inches north of knee-length. They all sported jewelry of impressive size but questionable authenticity, and wore considerable makeup and very high heels. Each of the women was attached to a businessman.

  While waiting for the group to pass by, Leslie observed that the first three men to enter were Korean or Japanese. They were small and rather thin—older than the women—and all wore well-tailored business suits. The last man stood out, mostly because he was a head taller than his companions and outweighed any of the men by at least fifty pounds. He was also the only white male in the group. A bit more casually dressed than the other men, he wore a sport coat and no tie, and his ponytailed, brownish-blond hair contrasted sharply with the black hair of the other men. Although his back was to her, she immediately recognized Ben Murphy.

  From her position behind the door, Leslie saw that Ben’s arm was draped around an attractive blonde. As they walked through the entry, he was leaning slightly, apparently engrossed in something she was saying. Uncharitably, Leslie silently surmised that it was much more likely the woman’s diamonds were real than her hair color.

  As Leslie watched, Ben replied to the blonde. Idly, he brushed aside a strand of bleached hair before he straightened to study the entrance of the restaurant. Before she could look away, he caught her staring at him. For some inexplicable reason, she felt her heart beat faster and her face redden when Ben’s gaze latched onto hers. Annoyed at her response, Leslie wasn’t sure how to react to the unplanned encounter.

  Ben was obviously with colleagues and on a date—if you could call it that—but Leslie had been raised to always acknowledge an acquaintance. She hesitated momentarily but, after a breath, took a step in his direction.

  Ben’s expression did not change. There was no hint of recognition and no acknowledgment of her presence. As she started to move in his direction, he deliberately turned his back to her. Leaning forward, he engaged the attention of the three other men, asking a question that Leslie was too far away to hear. At that point, the men and women seemed to group around him, cutting off any access.

  Leslie realized she’d been snubbed. Seething, she strode back to the table where the DeMerodes were waiting.

  She tried—she hoped successfully—to hide her consternation. She managed to carry on her part of the conversation but watched furtively as the maître d’ seated Ben’s party at a corner table. Although she had no way of being certain, it appeared that one of the Asian men was the host, and Ben seemed to be an important guest. From a distance Leslie thought that the men were in an earnest discussion with one another, and the women were left to their own conversations. She became more convinced by the moment that the women were hired, invited to join the men as decorations and after-dinner entertainment. And she was dismayed to find that for some reason she cared what Ben did with his own time.

  She turned her attention back to her hosts and watched Jean-Baptiste sign the credit-card receipt. “Thank you once more for dinner,” she said, trying to regain her earlier sincerity. It truly had been a wonderful evening. “It was lovely and much needed!”

  Jean-Baptiste stood aside to allow Christine and Leslie to precede him as they exited the restaurant. “No, no!” he replied. “We want to thank you. Had you been unable to come...well, the outcome would have been different on many cases. We are grateful to have met a new colleague and friend.” They paused at the juncture between the entry to the restaurant and the lobby of the hotel, and he shook her hand, his face solemn once more.

  “Excusez-moi.” A voice interrupted from the doorway. Ben stepped hastily forward with his hand extended. “Jean-Baptiste, it is my pleasure to see you again.”

  Jean-Baptiste allowed his surprise to show. He smiled and shook the offered hand. “Ben Murphy. It has been at least a year since we have seen you.”

  “Oui!” Ben replied, and turned to Christine. He took her hand, and she presented her cheeks, which he air-kissed three times. “La belle Christine,” he said with aplomb. A conversation ensued in rapid French, which Leslie tried to follow. She understood the gist: Jean-Baptiste and Christine appeared to be explaining the measles epidemic and its resolution. She watched as Ben nodded his head—he appeared genuinely interested and sympathetic. There was a pause, and Jean-Baptiste said something and then gestured toward Leslie. The three turned toward her.

  Still smarting from Ben’s earlier snub, Leslie debated her response. Ben took the option from her when he held out his hand and said, “Yes, Mrs. Carpenter. It’s nice to see you again. I understand that you’ve been helping the DeMerodes work through a difficult situation.”

  Leslie felt her face redden as she shook his hand. She quickly pulled her hand away and murmured, “I was glad that I was able to help.” She looked into his eyes for only a second, then diverted her gaze to stare at his chin. She knew her response had been abrupt, so she added, “The people of Nyeri are fortunate that Christine and Jean-Baptiste were there for their children.” Her smile felt awkward and forced.

  “Do you two know each other?” Christine asked.

  Ben did not wait for Leslie to reply. “Yes. I flew Mrs. Carpenter—er, Leslie—to Namanga when she first arrived, and a couple of times since then.”

  “Oh. I see. Of course, that makes sense. I recall that you know Mama Joe well.” Christine sounded a little disappointed.

  Another short discussion ensued in French before Ben took a short step back. “I fear that I must retur
n to my colleagues.” He kissed Christine’s cheeks and shook Jean-Baptiste’s hand again. “It was nice to see you, Leslie,” he said. Although he didn’t touch her, his gaze found hers and held it. This time, something deep and unreadable flickered in his eyes. He seemed to be about to say something else; instead he blinked, then gave a slight nod and reentered the restaurant.

  As she watched the departing man, Christine chuckled and said something quietly to Jean-Baptiste. She leaned over to Leslie and whispered, “His colleagues.” She grinned. “He seems to have a lot of friends with long hair.”

  Jean-Baptiste responded with an exaggerated nod. Christine jabbed a teasing elbow in his abdomen and giggled. “The only thing I think he is more concerned with than his ‘friends’ is his work.” She turned her hand palm up and rubbed her thumb across her fingers in the universal sign for money. “He seems to be doing very well with it.”

  “How do you two know Ben?” inquired Leslie, trying not to sound overly interested.

  Christine paused to consider, then answered, “Well, the American and European communities are really quite small in Kenya. Most everyone knows everyone else, or we know someone who does.” She took Jean-Baptiste’s hand and started toward the hotel’s lobby. “Also, Ben is a very handy person to know. When we first moved here from the Congo two years ago, there was an outbreak similar to this one. Except then it was polio.” She shuddered in recollection. “Ben was able to help us. He worked very hard to obtain vaccines, supplies and other aid.”

  “Yes,” interjected Jean-Baptiste. “If Ben had not come to our assistance then, the results of the epidemic would have been much worse.” He smiled at Leslie. “Many children would have died or been crippled had he not helped.”

  Leslie was eager to learn more, but they had arrived at the hotel’s entrance. She waved when she saw Marcus parked nearby. Christine and Leslie hugged tearfully, and Jean-Baptiste took her hand and kissed her cheeks, thanking her once more. “Please call me again,” she said in parting. “I’ll be happy to come to work with you anytime.”

  “The sentiment is mutual,” Jean-Baptiste replied. “Give Mama Joe our regards when she returns.”

  * * *

  LESLIE HAD DIFFICULTY falling to sleep that night. She was comfortably settled in a lovely guest room at the East Africa Mission house, but her mind seemed to repeatedly return to the events of the evening rather than the hectic, trying and tiring days she’d spent fighting measles. She kept recalling the expression on Ben’s face in that brief second before he’d turned his back. Was it her imagination, or was it a look of yearning? She chided herself, thinking that more likely it was regret or embarrassment. But as she reflected on what she’d seen in his eyes, it seemed as if he were reaching out to her—like he wanted something from her.

  She tried to brush those thoughts aside and focus on the coming day and her trip back to Namanga. She was mostly successful and, after a few minutes, fatigue took over and she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ONE AFTERNOON, near the end of her third month in Namanga, Leslie heard a vehicle pull into the compound. The sound was unusual, given that almost all of their patients walked—or ran—to the clinic. From the exam room where she was completing a follow-up visit with a new mother, she heard a man’s deep voice ask, “Where’s Mrs. Carpenter?”

  Elizabeth was in her customary spot at the desk, and Leslie could hear an exchange in Swahili, but the distance prohibited comprehension. She refocused her attention on her patient, but an urgent knock interrupted her. Without waiting for a response, Elizabeth opened the door and said, “Miss Leslie, please come.”

  Elizabeth’s expression alarmed Leslie. Apologizing to the new mother, she hastily followed the clerk into the waiting area, but stopped abruptly when she saw Ben Murphy. She hadn’t seen him since the encounter at the restaurant several weeks earlier and had forgotten how imposing he was. His eyes shone vividly in his deeply tanned face. She read impatience in his expression, along with something she had rarely observed in him—concern.

  He closed the distance, obviously in a hurry, and grabbed her elbow to pull her toward the door. “You need to come with me. I have a client who may be having a heart attack.” His words were terse.

  She stopped and tried to pull away. “Wait just a second. I need—”

  He refused to let go of her. “Maybe you don’t understand,” he interrupted. “You need to come now.”

  She yanked her arm again. “Let go. I have to get some things.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He finally released her and followed as she retreated into the storage room. “He’s a tourist.” His tone was more conciliatory. “Probably about sixty-five. Evidently he has some history of heart problems.”

  His description compelled Leslie to hurry. She quickly collected a blood-pressure cuff and an assortment of medications and supplies, then stuffed them into a large canvas tote bag that she slung over her shoulder. Grabbing the portable defibrillator, she thrust it at Ben. “Here. I may need this.”

  As they neared the door, Ben inquired, “If he has to be evacuated to Nairobi, can you come?”

  Leslie hastily considered the possibility, and, frowning, she nodded. She paused at the door to give instructions to Naomi and Elizabeth. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. If I haven’t returned by this evening, assume we’ve flown to Nairobi.”

  Outside, she saw two men sitting in the back of Ben’s Jeep. They were similarly dressed in newish, pressed khaki shirts and slacks. The older man had thinning, iron-gray hair and appeared to be in his sixties as Ben had suggested. He was obviously ill, leaning heavily against the younger man. As she approached the Jeep at a rapid walk, the younger man’s eyes pinned her, and he barked, “Are you the doctor?”

  Leslie barely glanced at him as she crawled into the back of the Jeep and wedged herself between the front and rear seats. “I’m a nurse-practitioner,” she answered absently, her attention on assessing the patient. She gently shook his shoulder. “Sir, can you open your eyes?”

  The man complied and gave her a faint smile. His face was grayish in color, and he was sweating heavily. He looked to be about average height, but was at least thirty or forty pounds overweight. She rummaged through her canvas bag and pulled out the blood-pressure cuff and stethoscope. “How long have you been having chest pain?” she asked as she wrapped the cuff around the man’s arm.

  “A little last night.” His voice seemed weak and his breathing shallow. “But it’s bothered me quite a lot today.”

  She finished taking his blood pressure and then said to Ben, “Hand me that case.” When he did, she opened it and removed two pads. “Sir, I’m going to check your heart rhythm,” she explained as she started to unbutton the man’s shirt.

  “Wait a minute!” snapped the younger man. “We want a doctor, not a nurse!” He reached out and grabbed her wrist.

  His tone and inflection struck Leslie as haughty and she bristled. Impatiently, she shook him off. “Well, I’m what you’ve got right now. If you’ll help instead of getting in the way, perhaps we can get him to a doctor!”

  Ben shouldered his way past the younger man and helped pull back the patient’s shirt. He said, “Look, Justin, Mrs. Carpenter is the only health-care provider within a seventy-mile radius. She has a lot of experience. I assure you, she can handle it.”

  Both men watched as Leslie slapped one pad on the patient’s chest and the other on his left side before connecting wires directly into an opening in the unit. She activated the combination electrocardiogram and automated defibrillator and watched the screen for about a minute. She looked up at Ben and said, “We need to go.” Although her words were calm, her eyes communicated urgency.

  Ben held her gaze briefly then nodded. Absurdly, she felt a wave of satisfaction at his declaration of confidence and quick response to her instructions. He actually me
ant what he’d said to the younger man and wasn’t merely trying to placate him. Then she shook off the feeling—why did she care what Ben Murphy thought?

  Ben jumped into the driver’s seat, and the younger man moved to join him in the front. As they pulled out of the compound, Ben made belated introductions. “Leslie, this is Bill Cooper and his son, Justin. I picked them up earlier at Amboseli Preserve to fly to Kilimanjaro. But before we got to the airstrip, Bill complained of chest pain, and then he blacked out for a minute.” He was pushing the Jeep as quickly as possible down the dusty, rough road. “Bill and Justin, this is Leslie Carpenter.”

  The older man opened his eyes, which were light brown and a little watery and red rimmed. “Nice to meet you, Leslie.” His voice wavered somewhat, and Leslie glanced at the heart monitor again.

  “Mr. Cooper, do you have a history of heart disease?”

  “Yes. I had a heart attack about five years ago—”

  “My father has had a couple of heart attacks.” Justin interrupted his father, turning to face the occupants in the rear seat and watching Leslie’s actions like a hawk. “He had an angioplasty two years ago by the best cardiologist in Seattle. He stopped smoking and has been fine since.” His tone made it sound as if it was her fault that his father was having chest pain—and that she was little better than dust because she wasn’t a doctor. She took a deep breath and worked hard at holding her temper, electing to ignore him.

  “Justin, I can give my own history.” Mr. Cooper waved his hand in the direction of his son, perhaps trying to calm him. “He’s right. I had an angioplasty with a stent. They told me I didn’t need surgery. Just stop smoking...lose weight...exercise more.” Despite his obvious discomfort, he managed a weak grin. “I stopped smoking.”