“Kanchanaburi.”
“Yeh. That’s it.”
There was an awkward moment when they checked into their luxury hotel after dessert. “You know we’re going to need two rooms,” Rachel Marie whispered to her wealthy host.
The idea obviously hadn’t occurred to Nigel, but he recovered quickly. “Ah. Now that you mention it . . .” He flashed her a grin. “That’s still the rule, eh?” He motioned to the desk clerk. “For my friend as well.”
Later, the young couple slipped back down to the beach and enjoyed a quiet walk, hand in hand, along water’s edge. Beauty contestants from New Zealand and New Guinea, still stunning even in casual shorts and tank tops, traipsed past, offering a cheerful greeting in their stiff accents as the breeze ruffled their elegant tresses. Khemkaeng grinned, tightening his grip on Rachel Marie’s hand.
“Still think I’m as pretty as they are?”
“Much more beautiful.”
“You men are such bad liars,” she remonstrated. “But thank you, sweetheart.”
* * *
The next day was a frantic dash from one site to the next, as Nigel and Chalerm tried to capture as many images as possible. All fifty contestants were wearing identical bathing suits, and one competition was shot outdoors as the ladies paraded in the shallow surf to three designated points, posing for the cameramen and waving to the crowds. Nigel, as a freelancer, had to try and collect as many clips as possible and then piece together a coherent digital tale.
Mid-afternoon, as the media event was wearing down, the producer managed to find an empty seminar room at the hotel and quickly wrote down a paragraph for Rachel Marie to read. “This will go under some of Chalerm’s B roll of the ladies in the swimsuits. So just read from here . . . down to here.”
She scanned the copy. “Just read?”
“Yes, love. Whenever you think you’ve got it.”
Rachel Marie cleared her throat. “So this is the unstated tension one feels–most unusual in a spot world-famous for its breathtaking beaches, its relaxed way of life, and, yes, its rather daring bathing suits. Many loyal Thais still believe in a gentle Buddhist faith dictating simplicity. Purity. And an upwardly-directed life that turns away from the shallowness, the falsity, of this pleasantly glittering moment in time. And yet there’s a nagging reality, painful to acknowledge–that skin and the exploiting of feminine beauty is a grinding, daily scourge in a corner of the world that could otherwise be called paradise.”
Khemkaeng, listening intently, nodded his approval. She read it twice for Nigel, accepting a couple of his astute suggestions, and then did a third take straight through. “Aces!” He leaned over as if to kiss her on the cheek, then caught himself. “That was exactly what we wished for. Eh, Chally?”
“Yes, boss.”
They had almost an hour to set up for the closing sunset wrap, and Rachel Marie read through the copy several times, getting the phrases in her head. Chalerm clipped a tiny microphone to her blouse, and Khemkaeng stood just out of camera range, holding the long wire so it didn’t dip into the surf.
“This is going to come out on the nose,” Nigel mused as the sun slipped toward the horizon, creating a long and spreading oval of soft orange light shimmering over the iridescent waves. “In about one minute, Rachel. We’ll hope for just one take.”
Rachel Marie gulped, sensing the slight aroma of the pancake makeup which Nigel had patted onto her forehead. “Mr. K and I both agree that you’re a lovely-looking lady,” he murmured, glancing over at Khemkaeng. “This is just to take the shine off.”
Now he counted down with the fingers of his left hand. “In four . . . three . . . two . . .”
Rachel Marie took a step toward the camera. “So the sun sets here in beautiful Phuket as fifty lovely ladies–all of them winners in the eyes of an adoring and envious global public–wing their way back to their various homelands. Meanwhile, the kingdom of Thailand continues to wrestle with quiet, unspoken questions for its own national conscience. For NBC News, I’m Rachel Marie Stone.”
“Nice.” Nigel nodded soberly, his voice awed. “Lovely lovely lovely. That was exactly what we wanted. Chalerm, we got it, eh?”
“Yes, boss. It look very good. No problem.”
“Khemkaeng? You think we’re good?”
He smiled, enjoying being a part of the moment. “Sure. If the video looks as good as it seemed . . . for real as we watched . . . then I think it is a very good story.” He came over and helped unclip the tiny microphone, handing it to the cameraman. “You did well, Rachel Marie.”
“Thanks.”
Forty-five minutes later, their flight lifted off from the local airport, and she sank back, satisfied, in her seat. “I guess I should have washed off this makeup.”
“Do it when you get home.” Khemkaeng gave her a teasing nudge. “You are so much more beautiful this way.”
“Watch it, mister.” She let go of his hand and gave him a pinch on the arm. “You’re talking to a TV star here.”
The twinkling lights of the capital city came into view on the left side and she reflected on the quick trip. The warm security she felt now with this man she loved–a bond secure enough to make Nigel’s presence just three rows up a nonissue–gave her a warm feeling. “I love you, very handsome Thai man,” she whispered.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! We’re going to see the King.
The mass congregation burst into spontaneous applause as the Filipino choir rocked the building with its spirited rendition. It was an all-afternoon musical festival, with several of the big Christian churches in Bangkok joining together. Pastor Munir and United Christian Church had agreed to host, and the sanctuary was packed. Khemkaeng and Rachel Marie, treasuring their last few days together before school year’s end, sat with Ellen and the Garveys, drinking in the rich panoply of talent.
“It is amazing Christianity has so much fine music.” Khemkaeng, despite being a musical novice, enjoyed the endless flow of new praise songs BCS high school kids were always importing from America and Australia. Just since being converted, he had already spent a small fortune downloading favorites. Several times, as quartets and praise bands performed, he wrote down tiny crib notes on the printed program. “I want that one.”
“I’m going to have to send you fifty dollars this summer just to tide you over,” Rachel Marie scolded playfully. “Just pick your two top favorites and that’s it.”
“Yes, Miss Stone.” He nodded affably.
To their surprise, Ellen walked up to the platform and played a flute solo, low and sweet as the piano notes wove a beautiful pattern of arpeggios around her melody.
“What’s that called?”
“‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,’” she responded in a low voice. “It’s an old song the slaves in America used to sing. We call it a spiritual.”
“Very pretty.”
As they were all walking out, John slipped a fatherly arm around Rachel Marie. “We’d invite you two out for dinner, but I imagine you have plans,” he teased. “I know your romantic days are down to a precious few.”
She nodded, feeling a twinge of sadness. Even though she increasingly felt the Lord would likely bring her back to Bangkok in the fall, it was still a bittersweet time for her and Khemkaeng. Nothing was sure in life, and they both sensed the fragility that came when big decisions weren’t locked in.
“Why don’t we stop by my apartment for a moment?” he suggested. “I think I should change before we go for our dinner.”
“Okay.”
He eyed her appreciatively. Rachel Marie was wearing a dressy pair of slacks and a light green blouse with a high collar. “You look wonderful just as you are. But we can get you some other clothes as well.”
“No, I’m all right.”
They pulled onto the elevated freeway after Khemkaeng paid the toll, and headed toward his apartment. “It will feel strange to you to be on the other side of the road again when you go home.”
Khemkaeng’s apartment was larger than hers, and he had invested in some high-quality pieces of furniture. Her favorite in the living room was an overstuffed couch in beautiful batik fabric. Some of the Chiang Mai artwork he had displayed on the walls was mesmerizing in its understated perfection. Installed recessed lighting just below each picture blinked on automatically as they entered the apartment.
“It’s always so pretty,” she sighed, slipping off her shoes and flopping down on the couch. “I’m sure going to miss all of this during the summer.”
Khemkaeng sat down next to her and pulled off his tie, tossing it onto the small glass-topped coffee table. “And I am going to miss you . . . so much.”
“I know, babe. But the summer will go by quickly.”
A faraway look crossed his face and he smiled.
“What?”
“I was thinking of that song the two brothers sang today. It was . . . uh . . . ‘His Eye Sees the Sparrow.’ Something like that.”
“His Eye Is On the Sparrow,” she corrected sweetly.
“Yes. Of course.”
“What about it?”
He looked down at the thick carpeting beneath his stocking feet before elaborating. “I have thought about this many times since we were at Bangsaen Beach.”
She sat there, remembering the birthday drive and their conversation about what future they might have as a Christian couple.
“There is a story that is happening,” he said slowly. “It has four people in it. You, of course. And me.”
Rachel Marie smiled. “Isn’t that the whole story?”
“Well, yes. But also no. Because there are two others. There is your friend from before you came here. Adrian.”
She felt a tightening in her rib cage at the mention of her former boyfriend. “What about him?”
“I know that before you came to me, you had a love for him. I accept this as the reality of life, a person’s search for their mate. So I believe he is in this story. God knows of you and me . . . and also of him.”
Rachel Marie swallowed hard. “So who is the fourth person?”
His gaze was calm as he took her hand. “There is a fourth person God also loves. There is a woman in this world. Where she is, I do not know. You do not know. This man, Adrian, he does not know. But there are four of us in this story–and God is directing the story of these four people.”
She waited, fascinated and afraid.
“When you return to America,” he said softly, “you may perhaps find that God leads you back to Adrian. Maybe he will choose to be a Christian and then also your mate. If so, if this is the will of God, then I will accept this. And be glad for your joy.”
The smallest of tremors crept into his voice and he had to shake his head to push away the potential chasm of pain. “If this is what is to be–heaven’s plan–then there is this fourth person. There will then be a woman in my home country, and I will find her. She also will be a Christian, perhaps with my leading. And that will be God’s good plan.”
“No,” she said flatly. “That’s not going to happen. Sweetie, listen to . . .”
Khemkaeng put a finger to her lips. “Shhh. Wait. But I believe in my heart that the fourth person in this story is not here in Thailand. She is in California at this moment. Rachel Marie, I hope and pray many times that you will come back to me. That we can be together forever. And that your friend, Adrian, this good man who is in the eyes of God, will find his way to Jesus . . . and also to this very fine woman which is chosen for him.”
At last the story was told, and a twinkle reappeared in his dark eyes. “This fine woman who is some other woman. Not my treasure, Rachel Marie Stone.”
She smiled, relieved, her heart bursting with love for this amazing gentleman, so rare and perfect as he gazed into her eyes.
In a cheerful blink, the sweet spell was broken. He hopped up off the couch and scooped up the necktie, about to go into the bedroom to change. Just then the wall phone rang. Khemkaeng shot Rachel Marie a look of mock frustration. “Why would someone call when my queen is here?”
“Probably that other woman,” she teased. “Go ahead and answer it.”
He spoke for a moment, then covered the receiver. “John,” he whispered. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right.” She fluffed up a pillow. “I’ll take a tiny nap.”
Rachel Marie listened to the one-sided conversation, admiring Khemkaeng’s crisp and professional expertise. With the term about to end, the American principal was juggling an overflowing fountain of priorities, and clearly relied on his second-in-command.
“No, for the kindergarten department we are required to send the Department of Education those numbers after each term. So yes, they are due next week.”
There was a slight pause and Rachel Marie could barely hear the sound of John’s voice. “I’m sorry,” Khemkaeng said apologetically. “I should know the figures, but they are in the car.” A pause. “Of course. If you need them now, I can go and get them.” He shook his head. “No. It is not a problem at all.”
“Pssst! I can go.” Rachel Marie poked her head up from behind the sofa cushion. “Just tell me where they are.”
“Sorry. Please hold on, John.” He fished in his pocket. “Rachel Marie says she will get them for us.” He put the phone receiver up next to his shirt sleeve to muffle the sound. “It is three sheets of paper, blue, stapled together. It is right behind my seat.”
“Okay. Back in a sec.”
Rachel Marie slipped on her dress shoes and went out, checking to make sure the door was unlocked. It was a pretty Bangkok night, with the temperature finally dipping down into the high seventies. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and a lingering layer of dark yellow sunset, almost orange, was rapidly sinking behind the city landscape.
Khemkaeng’s apartment complex was smaller than her own, two stories, with a small Thai restaurant and convenience store directly adjacent to the western boundary of the residential property. The parking lot was nearly full as tenants got ready to head out for weekend dinner engagements or just in pursuit of sanuk, the Thai catch-all phrase for fun and entertainment.
She quickened her pace, knowing John was waiting for the stats from the car. Khemkaeng’s Nissan was parked at the far end of the lot in the last stall next to the store, and she noticed a knot of three teenagers leaning against the hood of a car nudged up close to the magazine racks. Two had bottles in their hands and their speech was loud and slurred.
A flutter of anxiety hit her in the ribs. Most Thais were warm, affable people, but one could never be sure, and alcohol added volatility to any mix.
It took a moment of jiggling the key before she remembered that this one only worked on the driver’s side. Keeping her eyes averted from the loudmouthed boys, she slid around to the right-hand door and quickly opened it. Pulling the seat forward, she spotted the blue sheets. Grabbing them, she straightened up and looked into the sullen face of one of the teens. The trio had crossed the small divider between the 7-Eleven parking lot and the apartment slots.
“You,” he blurted out, weaving slightly. “You are lady on TV.”
“Wha . . . what?” Startled, she protectively hugged the document to her chest. “I don’t . . .”
The boy turned to his drinking friends and said something contemptuous in Thai. One of them jerked his gaze up, coming a step closer.
“You do in Phuket,” the first boy accused. “Story of ladies and big sexy show. And then . . . you say . . .” Badly inebriated, he fumbled for words, and his own lack of vocabulary seemed to infuriate all three teens.
“I . . .” She knew it was best to walk away, but the menacing trio edged around to her right as if to block her escape. “I just helped a friend do a story for America. Not here.”
“But you . . . you speak about Thai people. You give disrespect and . . . and . . .”
Rac
hel Marie’s mind was a frantic blur. How in the world would these three sullen kids, their minds awash with Singha beer, have seen an NBC TV report? It was impossible. Even if a clip had somehow gotten onto the Internet, Nigel’s copy had been so carefully written, so soft and diplomatically careful. Even her Khemkaeng, always gracious and adept with nuance in the ways of Thai thinking, had nodded his approval.
“I’m really sorry,” she managed, trying to placate her intoxicated assailant. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. I love Thailand; I work here. I love your city.”
“Shut up!” The boy, still waving his beer bottle, finally recalled one phrase he could say with drunken authority. He added a familiar Anglo-Saxon epithet and took a step until he was right up next to her. The mingled odors of body sweat and beer assaulted her senses and she felt a wave of genuine panic. Should she scream? Make a run for it?
Looking at his two friends for approval, the long-haired boy switched his beer bottle to the other hand, and then slapped her hard in the face. “You!” he sneered. “American . . .” A whole string of obscenities followed one after the other, stolen wholesale from the mean streets of Bangkok and U.S. films. “Now you are coming with us and we make trouble for you.” He spat out something derisive in Thai to his mates and then seized her by the collar of her sleeve. “You get in car and come along or I cut you up.”
“No,” she gasped. “Please. Let me go.”
“You think I am joking? You come now and get in car and maybe, only maybe, you will not die.”
He slapped her again, and his two intoxicated partners jumped in, landing vicious blows. “Are you ready? Now we are going. Come along and be nice American lady to us. And if you are so lucky, we do not cut you.”
Memory fragments from her repressed nightmare so long ago, another car and another ride into terror, spilled into the surreal scene, bathed now by the alcoholic haze of this Bangkok night. Back then it had been a vague but growing disquiet, blunted by the naïve innocence of being just a six-year-old kid. But those fledgling fears were now fully grown, compounded by the explicit dialogue of therapy and night visions and tonight’s cold reality of what awaited her if she allowed these boys to force her into the back seat of a car: the horror of a gang rape and then her bloody form dumped in a back alley. “I didn’t do anything to hurt you,” Rachel Marie managed in a thin, trembling voice. “Please. You walk away and I’ll walk away and everything’s fine.”
Love In a Distant Land: Rachel Marie Series Book One Page 26