“This can’t be baby Phoebe. This pretty little thing is tall like her daddy and has her mother’s amazing hair.” He extended a hand. “Cook Terrell. I don’t know if you remember way back when we spent some time together in my kitchen.”
She extended her arms, toddled from side to side, humming some old nursery tune. “I remember the song!”
“Well, I’ll be. They say women never forget special men in their lives.” He tipped his head her way and she curtsied in return. “I suppose your brother is just as smart as you, Ms. Phoebe.”
“Which one? Noah or Adam?” A sly look crept into her smile. “Or maybe the one who may be coming?”
“Quick mind, quick tongue. I was waiting for your mom to tell me about that,” Terrell murmured as he turned once more to the residence. “What did you do to my kitchen? Our morning coffee window looks like it’s been bumped out and those gnarly bushes you hated are gone.”
“You were right that the old floor plan wouldn’t expand to keep up with food management needs.” I hooked an arm through his. “About three years ago Lao and I hauled out your drawings and redesigned the whole space. I think you’ll like your new domain.”
We entered the residence through the workers’ entrance, Terrell glancing around like a kid returned home from college and sniffing the air as a true cook would for traces of the day’s meals. Amber, the only remaining child worker from his earlier stay, surprised him with a card she’d made.
“This can’t be Amber so grown up. What are our friends Lana and Ladd doing?” he asked as she straightened from her bow.
“Lana’s studying nursing and Ladd left college to become a marine.” Her sleek dark hair still moved in its smooth bob as she tilted her head to one side. “Ms. Anne and Director David were not happy with his choice.”
“They were about your age when I got here.” He looked around the kitchen, his eyes moving over an elevated ledge on the giant island in the heart of the room. From where he stood he could see a row of stools stashed under the ledge. He nodded and smiled. “Hard to believe those two are launched out into the world and little Amber is my right-hand worker.”
“You’re lucky to have Amber—she’s smart. The workers respect her direction, and she can tell good jokes.” She laughed, a sweet, low sound that gave me a few minutes of easy happiness at the end of a tough day.
“If I could have a sister, I’d want one like Amber,” Phoebe added, while taking Amber’s hand.
“Your old rooms are available, or you might want to share a small house with Teacher Jason. The residence is noisier now than you remember.” There would be time to tell him about Lana’s success in school and how Ladd tossed away a scholarship for the quick money promised by a military recruiter.
“Well, at least there’s no babies crying,” he teased Phoebe and winked as she giggled. “I’ll take my old rooms. I got a bit of arthritis in my back, so walking up that path in the winter isn’t appealing.” He placed his hands on one of the stainless steel countertops. “I’m gonna like being back in this kitchen.”
“It’s where you belong,” I said. “I wish David was here.” Paul and Sarah joined us. “You remember David’s parents, Paul and Sarah Regan. They live with us here, and Sarah is a whiz in residence management including the kitchen. She can give you a thorough report on inventory and such tomorrow.”
A stretch of annual pandemics in the past decade kept most people from shaking hands, but the long-standing residents of Ashwood, hearing of Terrell’s arrival, joined us in the kitchen with hands extended, if not arms opened, to welcome him back.
John and Noah, already in their pajamas, came to my side. “This is the man who kept me healthy while all of you were babies,” I said. “And made all your baby foods.”
“Phoebe, these two guys will always keep you safe,” Terrell said as he shook their hands. “I watched out for my sisters until they were all grown up.”
“Now it’s time for bed for all the Regan kids. I’m looking forward to coffee together in the morning.” I gathered my three for reading and bed.
The children’s rooms had eastern exposures which helped with early-morning wake-ups part of the year and provided a calm, muted end-of-day light. Bright blue quilted blankets covered the boys’ bunks, the same kind of beds slept in by Ashwood’s workers. Unlike bedrooms of my youth, these spaces were designed for sleeping, dressing, and storing personal items, with precious little area for playing or studying. A soccer ball, cleats, books, and a box of construction blocks littered the room’s limited open space.
We walked around their messy pile without my usual reminder to pick up their stuff. On this warm night, the open window helped cool the room. I folded covers on both beds, helped settle white sheets over their shoulders.
“Where’s Dad tonight?” Noah’s eyes followed me as I rubbed John’s back. “Does he have a bed to sleep in?”
“He’s in Paraguay, sweetie.” I kissed John’s cheek. “That’s all we know.” I kissed Noah. “But you know Dad can sleep almost anywhere.” They both giggled. “Good night.”
As I turned off the boys’ light, I felt hopeful about managing Ashwood through another possible economic downturn with Terrell, a strong strategist, at my side. It wasn’t until much later that night as the moonlight showed Phoebe’s small silhouette on the pillow where David should sleep, when her sweet girl smell of sunshine and homemade soap teased the air, that I returned to the original puzzle of the day, my possible son: this boy named Andrew. I knew if he was mine, I wanted him here. With David and Paul and Sarah and our kids, he would have a family. I fell asleep without thinking about what I would do if he wasn’t my son. That decision could wait.
Phoebe stirred next to me about two hours after she fell asleep. She sat up, removed our cover, and swung her legs to the side of the bed.
“Honey, are you okay?” I asked, assuming she needed to use the bathroom.
She said nothing as she lowered her feet to the floor, and in the quiet of the room I heard her teeth clench, grind, and release; clench, grind, and release, An awful sound suggesting illness or fear.
“Phoebe, are you awake?” I rolled myself out of the bed as well, moving to her side with as little noise as possible.
Her eyes looked somewhere, certainly not at me and not at the wall of cabinets she faced. Raising one hand, Phoebe dragged at her hair. Teeth clenching and grinding, she moved steadily toward the wall then lurched toward a set of drawers. I worried about waking her. Willing my hands to be as gentle as handling a fragile newborn, I brought my arms around her slender body. “Shhh, sweetie, you need to wake up.”
She uttered nonsense sounds in tones as guttural as a child can make. We stood in the dark room, her nightgown damp with sweat, her body stiff in my arms, and rocked. Maybe fifteen seconds passed, maybe thirty, as I curved myself around her small rigid frame and wished I could ease away this night’s terror.
When her body drooped, Phoebe groaned. “What happened?” she whispered, sounding parched.
“You had a bad dream.” She leaned against my ribs, sweat dampening her nightshirt, a slight shakiness beginning. “Would you like some water or to use the bathroom?”
I had to lean close to hear her say, “I want to lie down. I’m cold.”
“First, let’s get you out of that damp night gown and put you in one of Dad’s clean T-shirts.” She lifted her arms, eased out of hers. I pulled David’s shirt over her body. We returned to bed and Phoebe returned to sleep. I held her, barely dozing to keep useless watch for an emotional villain.
Chapter Ten
On a typical morning, intellectuals and their families living on estates slept hours after the laborers began their day. At Ashwood we were all early risers—adult laborers often dressed in the dark on summer mornings, with child workers eating at six-thirty or seven depending on their assignments. Before five on Wednesday morning, Terrell and I stood in the kitchen, drinking his strong signature coffee and having our first planning di
scussion.
“What time does your family want breakfast?” In the kitchen’s strong light, I could see the subtle signs of aging in my friend’s face. “Jeremiah’s notes don’t tell me a thing about how the Regans like to be fed.” Easy slang talk disappeared as he built understanding of how the estate, far larger and more complex than when he left, now functioned.
“David and the kids usually eat in the family dining room at the same time as the later workers.” I relaxed as we talked, proud of the estate. “You remember that Sarah and Paul are still farmers at heart who wake up with the sun. They make coffee in their own quarters for a little private time, and usually have breakfast in the big dining room with the early crew.”
“You are aware that Ashwood’s storage is down to about a seven-week supply of staples?”
The news blindsided me. “Jeremiah estimated twelve weeks.”
“He may have been counting on fresh produce to stretch what’s been preserved.” Terrell drew out his data pad. “What’s almost empty is the stuff we need to buy in the market—flour, spices, and such. Preserving the harvest won’t be possible with what’s in the pantry. Inflation is ratcheting up prices almost daily, so I’m preparing a large order.” He leaned back against a counter. “If the estate can afford to make a small investment, we could mill our own grains. Magda and I discussed it last night, and we’ll have a proposal ready in a few days.”
“Jumped right in, Terrell. I thought we might relax with a cup of coffee and catch up on each other’s lives this morning.” I smiled, knowing we both were better in our jobs today than on our first morning in this kitchen.
“We’ll have that talk with some of your mother-in-law’s iced tea on the porch tonight.” He straightened up and gave directions to Antwone, who carried a pile of plates with about as much concentration as a pillow might demand. “Does seem to me that there is laziness in this kitchen crew. According to Magda, my predecessor wasn’t the best supervisor.”
“She’s right. He and I had a number of talks about making this staff more efficient and disciplined.” We both watched Antwone as he slipped a breakfast bar into his pants pocket. In another part of the kitchen, Amber noticed as well and walked out of the room with the boy. “Not that I want to return to old Bureau of Human Capital Management protocol, but these kids need to know what will be expected if their training takes them to another setting.” I yawned and tried to cover it with a throat clearing.
“Annie, you look tired. Thought so last night and know so this morning.” The man who fed me through the first years of estate management and motherhood still paid attention to the details.
“A few nights without regular sleep are harder as I crawl toward the end of my thirties.” My hands tightened around the coffee mug. “Actually, Phoebe suffers from night terrors. She’s had a few rough nights. Add that to David’s departure, and, yeah, I’m feeling tired.”
“You know kids. Would you call Phoebe high strung?” He offered more coffee. I placed my hand over my cup.
“She’s smart and caring and funny and athletic and intense about everything.” Talking about my girl brought a smile.
“Like her biological mom?” He asked as if looking for clarification instead of stamping an imprint on Phoebe.
“Hard to know.” I soft-pedaled back from an opinion. “I know a bit about how gifted kids are put together emotionally, and I’m not convinced she’s a little Tia. But we all worry about her in a way we don’t about Noah.” I put down the coffee cup, tired of its warmth on what looked like another hot day. “Mostly I want her to be able to go to bed and to sleep without fear.”
His nod indicated he’d heard about Phoebe’s night devils. “I heard Phoebe’s getting help. Anything you need from the dietary angle?”
“We have a therapist working with her, and Magda has made a few nutrition suggestions.” How I wished David was here to talk over last night’s sleepwalking episode. “I haven’t seen that food has any impact.”
“What about this Smithson boy?”
The change of subject came unexpectedly, like the last swallow of coffee that had turned cold in your cup. “Until Phoebe mentioned him last night I was under the impression that maybe four Ashwood people knew about Clarissa Smithson’s visit.”
“How long have you lived on estates, Annie? Nothin’ stays quiet longer than a few minutes.”
“Well, Clarissa Smithson isn’t the first person to suggest that some young boy is the child I carried as a surrogate.” I looked at his face for surprise, wasn’t disappointed. “But she is the first person with all the right facts.”
Magda entered the kitchen, hair curling out from under her brimmed hat, sun-protection clothing softly covering her muscular body. From her calm appearance, I assumed the day had started without problems.
“This is like a return to the good old days.” She gave Terrell a hug. “If you promise you won’t leave for a long time, I’ll give you one of these every day.” He shook his head and laughed.
“And just like the good old days, I need to get to my office,” I grabbed a breakfast sandwich and left them to begin my early morning routine of reviewing market data and government reports.
One of David’s DOE assistants sat outside the office building entrance. DOE personnel worked from seven in the morning through late afternoon unless they were preparing for travel with David. Jega, a tall woman whose broad shoulders suggested her role as one of my husband’s bodyguards, volunteered nothing about why she stood near the iris scanner at this hour.
“Good morning, Jega. You’re here early.” I paused at the scanner. A small stepladder from the kitchen stood in the building’s inside foyer for children’s use of the DOE’s security system. “Are you heading to Paraguay as well?”
“You have a visitor in your office, General Manager Hartford.” She held out a small ink pad and I remembered everyone on the estate requiring access to this building being fingerprinted during the siege of Ashwood in my first days.
“This must be a rather special visitor to put the building into this mode?” Beyond the quiet hall, the sunrise pushed across fields and orchards. Some central sense of security, not defined by scanners and government agencies, shifted. “You have my prints on file.”
“Please, General Manager Hartford. Protocol.” Jega extended the small pad while taking my sandwich. One of our hands quivered as I pressed my thumb down. “Thank you.”
I checked my thumb for the ink I knew wouldn’t be there, took the sandwich back, then stood aside as she activated the office door. For all her adherence to DOE regulations, Jega always wished me a pleasant day, and I missed her solemn voice offering that simple greeting.
My office door stood open, someone with higher clearance having overridden its lock. I straightened my shoulders. Milan arose from a visitor chair, a stranger doing the same next to him.
“Anne, come in,” my adviser said. His plain, middle-aged face looked old, thinning hair barely visible across his skull. He wore a dark summer suit and I wondered what time he and this second man must have awakened to dress so formally for travel out to the estates region.
“What is it? Has something happened to David?” Strange how my brain sent the words out into the room while my mind rationalized that what wasn’t said out loud couldn’t be true. I extended a hand to guide me to my desk, to the chair David built for me at Christmas two years, maybe three years, ago.
“Let me close the door,” Milan murmured while tucking a hand around my elbow, maybe holding me upright. He directed me away from my desk, toward the stranger. “Anne, this is Grand Executive Director Lars Peterson representing the Department of Energy. He flew in overnight to talk with us about a situation in Paraguay.”
Somehow we all moved to the cherry conference table. Somehow a glass of water appeared in front of me. The sun climbed higher in the sky, lights fading in the outbuildings. An ordinary day at Ashwood.
“I’m sorry to be here under these circumstances, Mrs. Reg
an.” A name never used in our lives after our summer wedding ceremony. Protocol dictated that Hartford remained my legal name, and neither of us cared about such formalities. We were merely David and Anne, husband and wife, dad and mom, lovers.
“I’ve knew your husband and his first wife when they were students at MIT. He’s a brilliant scientist and good human being. I’ve heard much about you one time when he and I traveled together. And about your children.”
I shook my head, impatient with the social niceties when news about David waited behind the words. “What’s happened to David?”
Milan took over from the DOE bureaucrat. “Truth is, Anne, we don’t really know. You’re going to hear on the news this morning that the United States has become significantly involved in a military conflict in the confluence of the borders of Paraguay, Bolivia, and Argentina.” Because Milan spoke only of what needed to be said, his voice held my attention.
“A group of American personnel, including David, were caught in an ambush at the Asunción airport late last night. That’s all we know.”
“Who is holding them?”
“That’s part of the problem.” Peterson rolled his left fingers as if a pen should be held between his thumb and index finger. I tried not to watch that hand as he spoke. “We don’t have all the players sorted out. Bolivia and Brazil are both suspect, but it’s no secret Paraguay has been home to terrorists for decades. We just don’t know.”
“Let me understand. You rushed my husband, one of this country’s most essential scientists, into an unstable and politically dangerous situation. He travels with a bodyguard into the cities to buy birthday presents for our kids, and you couldn’t protect him getting off an airplane?” Pain fueled anger. My David, a DOE chip embedded near his shoulder in the same way we identified our cattle, missing. My husband, who was in the middle of managing a large project for the Chinese government, sent to a craphole like Paraguay. “This all makes no sense. No sense, Mr. Peterson.”
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