by Davis Bunn
When Honor finally rose and began helping her prepare the salad, it felt the most natural thing in the world to give voice to her thoughts. “Forgiveness is a major issue, isn’t it?”
Honor’s hand poised in the process of washing a head of lettuce. “Of faith? Yes. Yes, it is.”
“What if I can’t?”
“None of us live up to the goal of perfection. But who knows, maybe you’ll prove yourself wrong.”
“I doubt that. Rather a lot, actually.”
Honor reached for the dish towel and made a process of drying her hands. “It is amazing what the Spirit can do to a person. Even bringing a heartsick and angry young woman to the point where she could forgive both a father for destroying her life and a mother for pouring ashes over the remnant.”
“But why bother?”
“That is the critical issue, isn’t it? We become accustomed to living with pain and rage. It is what defines us. We might not like it. But it’s the life we’ve been forced to claim as our own. So why change.”
Kayla took the lettuce and began peeling off leaves, while Honor’s words did the same to her internal state. Stripping away. One lie at a time.
“Then something happens. A problem we can’t face alone. A need we can’t fulfill. Something. And we have to go outside our-selves. Because if we don’t, we lose the chance to grow beyond where we are. Not just for the moment. Forever. We are granted a glimpse into eternity’s well. And we see that to drink from this means relinquishing things we both treasure and hate. Because it is the only way we can make room for the things we have denied ourselves.”
Peter and Adam arrived at the dinner table in a reflective mood. Kayla watched Honor taste the air, then relax as she found no hint of latent stress. Abruptly Peter said, “Allow me to pose a hypothetical.”
The entire table looked up, only to discover he was address-ing Adam, who said, “Fire away.”
“Let us suppose for the moment that there could be a gradual influx of new funds for Kayla’s project. Nothing immediately. But over time. How would you suggest she structure the change?”
Honor’s eyes mirrored Kayla’s surprise. Adam, however, seemed to find nothing unexpected in the question. He said, “Are we talking a fixed timeline?”
“Projected, but yes, all right. Let’s say we would aim at a definite commitment.”
Adam looked at Kayla. “Do you mind if I answer?”
“Do I mind? I don’t even understand what either of you just said.”
“How much do you need to get to profitability?” he asked her.
“You already know that. It costs us twelve thousand five hundred a month.”
“No, Kayla. That’s where you are now. It’s how much you require to function. What I need to know is, what would be the bare minimum required to get you running at a point where income covers costs.”
“Everything depends upon the drought.”
Adam remained silent as he studied the notes beside his plate. Finally he said to Peter, “The first task would have to be establishing a new business plan. Kayla’s financial structure is probably still based on before the double crisis of drought and robbery. So she’s got all these commitments still based on projects that were left half-finished.”
Peter asked, “Is he right?”
“Is he . . . I don’t . . .” She stopped. Took a breath. “Yes, I suppose he is. Partly.”
“Go on, Adam.”
“My guess is, the fake business manager told her to jump into everything at once. That was the only way he could be certain to get all the capital down to Africa, where he could steal it. Force her to dive into the deep end. He expected her to drown. Instead, she’s defied the odds and kept this thing going.”
Kayla exchanged another look with Honor. This was more than just a casual discussion. Or so it sounded to her. Kayla asked, “Are we talking theoretical?”
Peter coughed, but the previous day’s wheeze was absent. “Allow our young friend to finish.”
Adam said, “I would stagger the projects.”
“Starting with what?”
He turned back to Kayla. “What is your biggest money-maker?”
That did not require any thought. “Coffee. The growers have been there for generations. The supermarkets already have the space available for Fair Trade coffee.”
“What further investment does your coffee division need at present?”
“A new roaster. Two more trucks. Better sorting mechanisms. Equipment for the new start-up villages. Many other villages need deeper irrigation wells. A full-time coordinator to maintain quality during the growing season.” She had to fight for breath. “What—”
“So the coffee is covered. What would be next?”
She forced her mind to work. Or tried. “The biggest money-maker after coffee is cut flowers. Especially in the winter.”
“What about the drought?”
“One portion of the country has an excellent underground aquifer. And there are two lakes that haven’t gone dry. We need irrigation pumps and tents that trap the water and keep it from evaporating. Israel has invented a desert-style irrigation system that drips water directly onto each plant, wasting almost nothing.”
Adam said to Peter, “The study would have to be double-bound. There’s the profitability issue per product, and you’d have to determine how many villages benefit per dollar invested.”
“What if the lost capital could be replaced all at once?” Peter asked.
“I’d still urge her to stagger things out. Each of these is going to generate a ton of new work. There’s the issue of personnel, of keeping things in harmony, working with the buyers, regulating quality and output so she can guarantee a regular supply . . .”
Honor broke in with, “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”
The two men exchanged a glance before Peter replied, “The answer, my dear, is that we simply do not know.”
Kayla asked, “Can you tell me anything?”
Her father said, “Soon.”
“Adam?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“What time is it?”
“Just after eight your time. Around one in the morning over here.”
“Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I’m supposed to be the one asking you that.”
“I sleep too much.”
“So you can sleep for the two of us.” Adam carried the phone back into the living room. He had woken from a deep sleep and instantly known he would be up for a while. He settled into a chair before the cold fireplace. He refrained from asking how she was doing. His mother hated that question. If he had to know, he would ask the nurses. But their answers were always the same by now. His mother was doing as well as could be expected. She was without pain. She was a wonderful patient, a blessing to everyone at the hospice. Adam had heard the comments so often he could recite them at will.
His mother asked, “So how are things?”
This was a good sign. On her not-so-good days, his mother’s interests were reduced to a quick hello, a sighed thanks that he phoned, an assurance of her love, and off again. “Things are really good.”
“I’m so glad. Tell me about England.”
“It’s cold here. The weather changes from hour to hour. The winter sun only rises about an inch above the horizon, and seems to skirt the treetops as it moves from east to west.”
“But it’s beautiful?”
“Yes, Mom.” At the sound of a creaking floorboard, Adam turned to find Kayla standing hesitantly in the foyer. She wore a quilted robe over gray flannel pajamas. Her hair was tousled and her feet bare. She had never looked more lovely. “Hang on just a second, Mom.”
Kayla said, “I thought I heard your voice.”
“Come on in.”
“I don’t want to disturb.”
“You’re not. Really.”
“Would you like a hot chocolate?”
“Sure.” He lifted the receiver. “Okay, Mom. I’m back.”
> “Who was that?”
“A friend.”
“You’ve made friends already?”
“Yes. Good ones.”
“I’m so glad.”
“Have you had any more dreams?”
“Perhaps the time for dreaming is over.”
His next breath came with difficulty. “What makes you say that?”
Kayla must have heard the change, for she padded back into the room and rested her hand upon his shoulder.
His mother said, “I seem to come and go these days. I can hardly recall what we spoke about last time. The dreams, from where I lay, they seem like idle musings.”
“No, Mom. They were important.”
“Were they?”
“Very.”
“Then perhaps they were never intended for me at all.”
He felt a building pressure, a need to know so strong he pushed out the words, “Your first dream about me needing to travel to England came after I apologized. You said I needed to figure out why you sent me—”
“I did not send you, Adam. I felt that you were being called to go. Only you refused to accept the concept of being called.”
Adam took a firmer hold of Kayla’s hand. “I understand.”
“Do you really?”
“I think so.”
“Then everything is right in this old world of mine.” His mother’s breathing came in soft puffs, as though each required a special effort. “I think I had better rest. I love you, Adam.”
When he looked up, Kayla’s gaze held a depth and a calm as piercing as the night. She reached down and enfolded him in her arms. The quilted robe softened her embrace and blan-keted his vision.
chapter 29
Kayla was lifted from dreamless slumber by Honor’s soft knock upon the door. She rose and dressed and joined them downstairs in the kitchen. She could hear Adam’s footsteps creaking the floor overhead. Her father and Honor gave her soft morning embraces and poured her a coffee. She wished her father a happy birthday and smiled as Honor told Peter of her birthday gift, a weekend getaway to Paris. She could see how hard her father tried to be pleased and grateful for his wife.
Adam came into the kitchen, his gaze still hollowed by the midnight conversation with his mother. Kayla found it the most natural thing in the world to walk over to him and fit herself into his arms. Her father and Honor looked over and smiled.
The morning service was a soft song of hope. When the prayers began, Adam slipped off the pew to kneel upon the cold stone floor. Kayla took one of the padded cushions off the little brass hook, set it on the floor, and knelt beside him. Her mind returned to the night before and the image of a strong man made weak. She prayed for Adam’s mother. She prayed for Adam. She prayed for her father and for Honor and for the baby and for the business. Quick images of a phrase, a few words, flowing now from an overfull heart. Her single prayer for herself was equally brief, equally natural: Help me hope again.
She stopped praying when her father’s hand settled upon her shoulder, and she was filled with the sense that she truly, finally, had come home.
They opened their front door to the sound of the ringing phone. Her father lifted the receiver. “Hello? Ah, Sylvia. How very nice of you to phone.”
Kayla asked, “Is that Professor Beachley?”
Honor asked, “Who?”
Adam held up one hand. Wait.
Peter’s breathing rasped loudly in the silent house. “No, I quite understand. According to what you told us yesterday, the lady and her companions have been badly scarred. They have every right to be concerned. Of course I’ll travel down. Naturally Adam will accompany me. No, don’t apologize. I am most grateful that you would seek to make this happen.”
He set down the receiver, coughed once more, then said to Adam, “Sylvia has managed to make us an appointment. But she does not hold out much hope.”
Kayla glanced at Adam and was surprised to see how his face reflected her father’s expression, an equal mix of tension and expectation. Adam turned to her and said, “We might have a new deal in the works.”
Kayla said, “What you wouldn’t tell us about last night.”
Adam waited through a half-dozen heartbeats. Peter’s gaze remained steady on the younger man. Adam said, “There’s a problem. We need to go into this meeting with our money at the ready. But the way things stand, there’s a risk Joshua would block an outlay of more funds.”
Honor said, “That man again.”
Kayla understood. “You need my money.”
“It’s a lot to ask. You have every right to say no.”
Kayla felt the past rise up to strike her anew. Another man wanting to take her last real chance of survival. She saw her father shake his head. Knew she could give voice to his gesture and be completely within her rights.
She asked, “How much?”
Adam’s face was a mirror of her father’s solemnity. “All of it.”
Though Reading was a mere half-hour’s drive south of Oxford, the two cities could not have been any different. Reading was a city scourged by industrial neglect and poverty. Derelict mills sprouted from row after row of brownstone squalor. The central thoroughfare swept them past a Victorian prison of brick and fortress towers and hopelessness. The University of Reading occupied a cluster of buildings south of the city center. The traffic was sullen and aggressive. Adam finally gave up his hunt for a parking space and left the Mercedes in the faculty lot. A parking ticket was the least of this day’s risks.
The biochemistry lab was a charmless redbrick structure over a hundred years old. Alongside it was an unfinished structure of mirrored glass and concrete and construction clamor. Inside the old building a sign announced that the single elevator was broken. Following Dr. Beachley’s instructions, they took the stairs to the third floor. Fluorescent lights hung from crumbling ceilings. Glass-fronted labs revealed state-of-the-art machinery resting on antique lab tables. Students flowed about them in a noisy din.
Their destination was a lab crammed into the far northeast corner. Two of the windows did not shut completely, so the first sound that greeted their arrival was a faint whistling draft. No one spoke as Peter knocked on the partly open door. Three white-coated scientists worked in a chaotic tangle. Boxes were piled everywhere.
Peter asked, “Dr. Hao Ping?”
A diminutive Asian in a lab coat straightened from piling papers into a carton. “You’re Mr. Austin?”
A woman with skin the color of strong tea and a lilting Indian accent said, “We happen to be very busy here today.”
The third person, a woman with a rat’s nest of red hair and thick glasses, protested, “Dr. Beachley said this was important.”
“She said it might possibly be important,” Hao Ping corrected.
The Indian lady typed upon the computer keyboard with unnecessary force. “I am pushing extremely hard, trying to finish these calculations before we are shut down.”
The redheaded scientist said, “If what Dr. Beachley told us is correct—”
“Dr. Beachley, Dr. Beachley, it’s all I hear from you these days.”
“—your rushing about might not be necessary anymore.”
“If we could rely on this Dr. Beachley, she would have found us space at Oxford.”
The redheaded lady sighed and went back to packing her box.
The young man turned to his two cohorts. “So do we speak with them or not?”
“Not,” the lady at the computer said. “You let these people in the door, and soon they are prying away at secrets we do not need to be sharing.”
The young man looked uncertain. The redhead kept pack-ing her box.
Peter said gently, “Sometimes the hardest thing in the world is to determine the difference between what is real hope and what is just another failure in the making.”
The Indian lady slowed her furious typing. The redheaded scientist turned from her box.
“But that is what makes for successful science, does it
not? Pursuing in the face of repeated failure, until the winning for-mula has been realized.”
The Indian lady remained staring into the screen. Her fea-tures slackened into an expression of weary resignation.
The redheaded scientist said, “Let them in, Hao.”
They gathered in an office scarcely large enough for the desk, the crates, and two straight-backed chairs. They somehow man-aged to cram everyone inside, but only by having the two lady scientists lean against the windowsill, flanking Hao Ping, who was seated behind the desk. The English scientist asked, “How much do you know?”
“Dr. Beachley explained that you were being denied both funding and the chance to continue your research here at Reading.”
“They’re using the transfer to the new labs as an excuse to shut us down,” Hao Ping confirmed.
“Might I ask your names?”
“This is Ms. Kamuran and Ms. Haine. They should both be postdocs by now, but their theses have been turned down by the university review board.”
The Indian scientist demanded, “Didn’t your precious Sylvia tell you about that too?”
“Orla,” the other woman said. “Please.”
“She mentioned that there had been a problem with your thesis adviser,” Peter confirmed. “And that in her opinion the entire affair was a monstrous injustice.”
Ms. Haine motioned to a pair of boxes beneath the con-stantly whistling window. “Our latest results are in those three boxes.”
The Indian lady was not so easily mollified. “This data can’t leave the office.”
“Orla, you can’t ask them to—”
“This whole thing is a charade. It’s just more people I don’t know, mucking about with my life’s work.”
“Our work,” the young man corrected. “I’ve been here the whole time, remember?”