Tru eventually reached the limits of the reserve and passed the first of the small villages, home to about a hundred people. Like the guide camp, the village was fenced for the safety of both the people and the animals. He reached for his thermos and took a drink, resting his elbow on the windowsill. He passed a woman on a bicycle loaded down with boxes of vegetables, then a man who was walking, most likely headed for the next village, about six miles away. Tru slowed and pulled over; the man ambled to the truck and got in. Tru spoke enough of the man’s language to keep a conversation going; in all, he was relatively fluent in six languages, two of them tribal. The other four were English, French, German, and Spanish. It was one of the qualities that made him an employee sought after by lodges.
He eventually dropped the man off and continued his drive, finally reaching a road paved in asphalt. He stopped for lunch soon after, simply pulling off the road to eat in the bed of his truck in the shade of an acacia tree. The sun was high by then and the world around him was quiet, no animals in sight.
Back on the road after lunch, he made better time. The villages eventually gave way to smaller towns, then larger ones, and late in the afternoon, he reached the outskirts of Bulawayo. He’d written Kim a letter, telling her when he’d be arriving, but mail in Zimbabwe wasn’t always predictable. Letters usually reached their destination, but timeliness wasn’t something that could be counted on.
Pulling onto her street, he parked behind Kim’s car in the driveway. He approached the door and knocked; moments later, she answered, clearly expecting him. As they hugged, Tru heard his son’s voice. Andrew tumbled down the stairs, leaping into Tru’s arms. Tru knew that the time would come when Andrew considered himself too old for such displays of affection, so he squeezed tighter, wondering whether any joy could ever surpass this.
* * *
“Mummy told me that you’re going to America,” Andrew said to him later that night. They were sitting out front, on a low wall that served as a fence between Kim’s house and the neighbor’s.
“I am. But I’m not staying long. I’ll be back next week.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go.”
Tru slipped his arm around his son. “I know. I’ll miss you, too.”
“Then why are you going?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Why, after all this time, had the letter arrived? Along with a plane ticket?
“I’m going to see my father,” Tru finally answered.
Andrew squinted, his blond hair bright in the moonlight. “You mean Papa Rodney?”
“No,” Tru said. “I’m going to see my biological father. I’ve never met him.”
“Do you want to meet him?”
Yes, Tru thought, then, No, not really. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted.
“Then why are you going?”
“Because,” Tru said, “in his letter, he told me that he was dying.”
* * *
After saying goodbye to Andrew, Tru drove to his house. Once inside, he opened the windows to air the place out, unpacked his guitar, and played and sang for an hour before finally turning in for the night.
He was out the door early the following morning. Unlike those in the park, the roads to the capital city were relatively well maintained, but it still took most of the day to get there. Tru arrived after dark to see lights shining in the stately home that his stepfather, Rodney, had rebuilt after the fire. Nearby were three other houses—one for each of his half brothers and the even larger main house where the Colonel had once lived. Technically, Tru owned the main house, but he made his way toward a smaller shack structure near the fence line. In the distant past, the bungalow had once housed the chef and his wife; Tru had fixed up the place in his early teen years. While he’d still been alive, the Colonel had seen that the bungalow was cleaned somewhat regularly, but that no longer happened. There was dust everywhere, and Tru had to shake the spiders and beetles from the sheets before crawling into bed. It mattered little to him; he’d slept in worse conditions countless times.
In the morning, he avoided his family. Instead, he had Tengwe, the crew foreman, drive him to the airport. Tengwe was gray haired and wiry and knew how to coax life out of the ground in the harshest conditions imaginable. His six children worked at the farm, and his wife, Anoona, prepared meals for Rodney. After his mother’s death, Tru had been closer to Tengwe and Anoona than even the Colonel, and they were the only ones at the farm he ever missed.
The roads in Harare were clogged with cars and trucks, carts and bikes and pedestrians; the airport was even more chaotic. After checking in, Tru boarded a flight that would take him first to Amsterdam, then to New York and Charlotte, and finally to Wilmington, North Carolina.
With layovers, he was in transit for nearly twenty-one hours before he stepped onto U.S. soil for the first time in his life. When he reached the baggage claim area in Wilmington, he spotted a man holding a sign with his name on it, above the name of a limousine service. The driver was surprised by the lack of checked luggage and offered to carry both the guitar case and the knapsack. Tru shook his head. Stepping outside, he could feel his shirt beginning to tack to his back in the thick, humid air as they trudged to the car.
The drive was uneventful, but the world beyond the car windows was foreign to him. The landscape, flat and lush and verdant, seemed to stretch in every direction; he saw palms intermingled with oaks and pine trees, and grass the color of emeralds. Wilmington was a small, low-lying city featuring a mix of chain stores and local businesses that eventually gave way to a historic area with homes that looked at least a couple of hundred years old. His driver pointed out the Cape Fear River, its brackish waters dotted with fishing boats. On the roads, he saw cars and SUVs and minivans, none of them straddling the lanes as they did in Bulawayo, avoiding carts and animals. No one was riding a bicycle or walking, and nearly every person he saw on the city sidewalks was white. The world he’d left behind felt as distant as a dream.
An hour later, Tru crossed a floating pontoon bridge and was dropped off at a three-story home nestled against a low-rising dune in a place called Sunset Beach, an island just off the coast near the South Carolina border. It took him a moment to understand that the entire bottom floor was comprised of garages; the whole structure seemed almost grotesque compared to the much smaller house next door, which displayed a FOR SALE sign out front. He wondered whether the driver had made a mistake, but the driver checked the address again and assured him that he was in the right place. As the car pulled away, he heard the deep, rhythmic pulsation of ocean waves rolling ashore. He tried to remember the last time he’d heard that sound. A decade at least, Tru guessed as he climbed the steps to the second floor.
The driver had given him an envelope containing the key to the front door, and he stepped past the foyer into an expansive great room with pine flooring and a wood-beamed ceiling. The beach house decor looked like something staged for a magazine, every throw pillow and blanket placed with tasteful precision. Large windows offered a view of the back deck and an expanse of sea grass and dunes beyond, stretching to the ocean. A spacious dining area extended off the great room, and the designer kitchen included custom cabinetry, marble countertops, and premium appliances.
A note on the counter informed him that the refrigerator and pantry had been stocked with food and drinks, and that if he needed to go anywhere, he could call the limousine company. Should he be interested in ocean activities, a surfboard and fishing gear could be found in the garage. According to the note, Tru’s father hoped to arrive on Saturday afternoon. He apologized that he wasn’t able to get there sooner, although no explanation was offered for the delay. As he set the note aside, Tru was struck by the idea that perhaps his father was as ambivalent about their meeting as Tru was…which raised the question as to why he’d provided the airline ticket in the first place. Well, Tru would soon find out.
It was Tuesday evening, so Tru would have a few days to himself. He hadn’t anticipat
ed that, but there wasn’t much he could do at this point. He spent the next few minutes exploring the house, learning the layout. The master bedroom was down the hall from the kitchen, and it was there that he left his belongings. Upstairs, there were additional bedrooms and bathrooms, all of which appeared pristine and unused. In the master bathroom he found fresh towels along with soap, shampoo, and conditioner, and he treated himself to an extra-long shower, lingering beneath the spray.
His hair was still damp as he stepped onto the back deck. The air remained warm, but the sun was sinking lower and the sky had fanned into a thousand shades of yellow and orange. Squinting into the distance, he could just make out what looked to be a pod of porpoises playing in the waves beyond the breakers. A latched gate gave way to steps that descended to a planked walkway over the grasses; following the steps, he trekked out to the final dune, discovering more steps leading to the beach.
There were few people about. In the distance, he saw a woman trailing behind a small dog; in the opposite direction, a few surfers floated on their boards near a pier that stretched into the ocean like a pointed finger. He started toward the pier, walking on the compact sand near the water’s edge, musing that until recently, he’d never heard of Sunset Beach. He wasn’t sure he’d ever thought about North Carolina at all. He tried to recall whether any of his guests over the years had come from here, without luck. He supposed it didn’t make any difference.
At the pier, he took the stairs up and strolled to the end. Resting his arms on the railings, he gazed over water that stretched to the horizon. The sight of it, the immensity of it, was almost beyond comprehension. It reminded him that there was an entire world out there to explore, and he wondered if he would ever get around to doing it. Maybe when Andrew was older, they’d spend some time traveling together…
As the breeze picked up, the moon began its slow ascent into an indigo sky. He took it as a cue to head back. He assumed his father owned the place. It might have been a rental, but the furnishings were too pricey to trust to strangers, and besides, if that was the case, why not simply put Tru up at a hotel? He wondered again about the delay until Saturday. Why had he flown Tru out so far in advance? If the man was indeed dying, Tru speculated that it could be something medical, which meant there was no guarantee about Saturday, either.
But what would happen when his father did show up? The man was a stranger; a single meeting wasn’t going to change that. Nonetheless, Tru hoped he’d be able to answer some questions, which was the only reason Tru had decided to come in the first place.
Entering the house, he fished out a steak from the refrigerator. He had to open a few of the cabinets before he found a cast-iron fry pan, but the stove, as fancy as it was, functioned similarly to the ones back home. There were also various food items from a place called Murray’s Deli, and he added what appeared to be some kind of cabbage salad as well as potato salad to his plate. After he ate, he washed the plate, glass, and utensils by hand and grabbed his guitar before returning to the back deck. He played and sang softly to himself for an hour while the occasional shooting star passed overhead. He thought about Andrew and Kim, his mother and grandfather, before finally becoming sleepy enough to go to bed.
In the morning, he did a hundred push-ups and a hundred sit-ups before trying and failing to make some coffee. He couldn’t figure out how the machine worked. Too many buttons, too many options, and he had no idea where to add the water. He decided to visit the beach instead, hoping to stumble upon a place to buy a cup.
Like the evening before, he had the beach mostly to himself. He thought about how pleasant it was to spontaneously take a walk. He couldn’t do that at Hwange, not without a rifle, anyway. He breathed deeply when he reached the sand, tasting salt in the air, feeling like the foreigner he was.
He slipped his hands into his pockets, taking in the morning. He had been walking for fifteen minutes when he spotted a cat crouched on top of a dune, next to a deck that was under repair, the steps to the beach still unfinished. At the farm, there had been barn cats, but this one looked as though it spent most of its time indoors. Just then, a small white dog raced past him, barreling toward a flock of seagulls that burst into the air like a small explosion. The dog eventually veered toward the dune, spotted the cat, and took off like a rocket. The cat jumped up to the deck as the dog scrambled up the dune in pursuit, both of them vanishing from sight. A minute later, he thought he heard the distant screech of car tires, followed by the sound of a dog yelping and crying.
He glanced behind him; halfway down the beach, he saw a woman standing near the water, no doubt the dog’s owner, her gaze fixed on the ocean. He guessed she was the same woman he’d spotted the night before, but she was too far away to have seen or heard what had happened.
Hesitating briefly, Tru started after the dog, his feet slipping in the sand as he scaled the dune. Stepping onto the deck, he followed the walkway, eventually reaching a new set of steps leading on one side up to the house’s deck and on the other, down to the ground. He went down, winding between two houses that were similar in style to the one where he was staying. Climbing over a low retaining wall, he continued to the road. No car in sight. No hysterical people or dog lying in the road, either. That was good news, as an initial matter. He knew from experience that wounded animals often sought shelter if they were still able to move, nature’s way of allowing them to heal while hiding from predators.
He walked along one side of the road, searching the bushes and around trees. He didn’t see anything. Crossing the street, he repeated the process and eventually came across the dog standing near a hedge, its rear leg bobbing up and down. The dog was panting and shaking, whether from pain or shock, Tru couldn’t tell. He debated whether to go back to the beach and try to find the woman, but he was afraid the dog might hobble away to parts unknown. Removing his sunglasses, he squatted down and held his hand out.
“Hey there,” he said, keeping his voice calm and steady, “You all right?”
The dog tilted its head and Tru slowly began to inch toward it, speaking in low, steady tones. When Tru was close, the dog stretched out, trying to sniff his hand, before taking a couple of hesitant steps forward. When the dog finally seemed convinced of his good intentions, it relaxed. Tru stroked its head and checked for blood. Nothing. On its collar tag, Tru saw the name Scottie.
“Hi, Scottie,” he said. “Let’s get you back to the beach, shall we? Come on.”
It took some coaxing, but Scottie finally began to follow Tru back toward the dune. He was limping, but not to the point where Tru thought anything might be broken. When Scottie stopped at the retaining wall, Tru hesitated before finally reaching down and scooping him into his arms. He carried him between the houses and up the steps to the walkway, then eventually over the dune. Scanning the beach, he spotted the woman, much nearer now.
Tru eased down the dune and started toward her. The morning remained bright, but the woman seemed even brighter, amplified by the sunny yellow fabric of her sleeveless top fluttering in the wind. He watched as the gap between them continued to close, studying her as she drew near. Despite the confusion on her face, she was beautiful, with untamed auburn hair and eyes the color of turquoise. And almost at once, something inside him began to stir, something that made him feel a bit nervous, the way he always felt in the presence of an attractive woman.
Hope
Hope stepped from the back deck to the walkway that led over the dune, trying to keep her coffee from spilling. Scottie—her aptly named Scottish terrier—strained at the leash, eager to reach the beach.
“Stop pulling,” she said.
The dog ignored her. Scottie had been a gift from Josh, her boyfriend of the past six years, and he barely listened on his best days. But since arriving at the cottage the day before, he’d been positively wild. His paws scuffled madly against the sandy steps as they descended to the beach, and she reminded herself that she needed to bring him to another one of those weekend obedience
training programs, though she doubted it would do any good. He’d flunked out of the first two already. Scottie—the sweetest and cutest dog in the world—seemed to be a bit of a dim bulb, bless his heart. Then again, maybe he was just stubborn.
Because Labor Day had come and gone, the beach was quiet, most of the elegant homes dark. She saw someone jogging near the pier; in the opposite direction, a couple strolled near the water. She leaned over, setting the foam cup in the sand while she released Scottie from the leash, watching as her dog sprinted away. She doubted anyone would care. Last night, she’d seen two other dogs off leash, and in any case there weren’t too many people around to complain.
Hope started walking and took a sip of her coffee. She hadn’t slept well. Usually, the endless roar of the waves lulled her immediately to sleep, but not last night. She’d tossed and turned, woken multiple times, and had finally given up for good when sunlight began streaming into her room.
At least the weather was perfect, with blue skies and a temperature more typical of early autumn than late summer. On the news last night, they had predicted storms over the weekend, and her friend Ellen was crazy with worry. Ellen was getting married on Saturday, and both the wedding and the reception were supposed to be outdoors at the Wilmington Country Club, somewhere near the eighteenth green. Hope figured there was probably a backup plan—no doubt, they’d be able to use the clubhouse—but when Ellen had called last night, she’d nearly been in tears.
Hope had been sympathetic on the phone, but it hadn’t been easy. Ellen was so caught up in her own worries that she hadn’t so much as asked how Hope was doing. In a way, that was probably a good thing; the last thing Hope wanted to talk about right now was Josh. How was she supposed to explain that Josh was going to be a no-show for the wedding? Or that—as disappointing as a rained-out wedding could be—there were definitely worse things?
Right now, Hope was feeling a bit overwhelmed by life in general, and spending the week alone at the cottage wasn’t helping. Not only because Josh wasn’t around, but because it was probably the last week she’d ever spend here. Her parents had listed the cottage with a Realtor earlier in the summer, and they’d accepted an offer ten days ago. She understood why they were selling, but she was going to miss this place. Growing up, most of her summers and holidays had been spent here, and every nook and cranny held memories. She could recall washing the sand from her feet with the garden hose, watching storms from the window seat in the kitchen, and the scent of fish or steaks being grilled on the barbecue on the back deck. She remembered swapping late-night secrets with her sisters in their shared room, and it was here that she’d kissed a boy for the very first time. She had been twelve years old and his name was Tony; for years, his family had owned the cottage three doors down. She’d had a crush on him most of the summer, and after they’d split a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, he’d kissed her in the kitchen while her mom had been watering plants on the deck.
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