"Then you have to be practical."
She nodded. "We have a goal to reach."
He almost smiled. This was like playing Jeopardy! He let one, two, three beats pass and said, "Neighborhoods change all the time. People move and adjust."
She gazed through the windshield with her head turned away so he couldn't read her expression. "I know," she said, almost muttering. "And . . . I made the mistake of driving through the place the other day. Personalizing it. I put faces to the names on the list."
Jude nodded. "Probably unwise."
"I'll work my way through this," she said after a moment. "It's my job."
"Put your worry in God's hands and then just do the best you can."
She nodded. But as he drove on, the question rose in his mind: What really came first with Amalise?
Amalise was looking forward to seeing the house, but right now she was just happy to be sitting beside Jude. She watched as he drove, his strong hands on the wheel, his straight back, the thoughtful way he answered her questions. A frisson ran through her, a thrill of emotion so deep and strong that it caught her off guard.
She loved Jude, she suddenly realized. In that instant, all the years they'd spent together and all the memories they'd created seemed to coalesce at this one point in time, inside this car with Jude just inches away. The subliminal feelings she'd been experiencing in the past few months took form. They had substance and a word.
Love.
She loved him! Almost holding her breath, she gave him a sideways look. He seemed like the same old Jude—and yet not. As they drove, she let her thoughts linger on this discovery. She wondered how it would feel to have him slip his arms around her. Wondered what she'd do if he stopped the car right now, turned to her, and kissed her.
And then Rebecca came to mind. Amalise turned her gaze out the passenger window and watched the trees fly by. The truth was, she had no idea where she stood in Jude's mind and heart. Or, for that matter, how he felt about Rebecca.
But you have a fair idea, said the observer, that little voice inside her, inside us all. Perhaps it was the Spirit of God, or maybe it was just the voice of human frailty. You know how Jude feels about Rebecca, the voice said, if you can face the fact.
But she didn't have to face that fact right now, she argued in response. She'd just returned to work after a long recuperation. After the death of her husband. There was plenty of time ahead to sort things out.
Yet she longed to turn to Jude and just say the words and let them hang there in the air between them. Only pride kept her from doing so.
And Rebecca.
They drove down Broadway until Amalise said "There!" and pointed to his left, across the street. Jude slowed the car in front of a house with a For Sale sign standing in the yard. A car was parked on the street, with a woman sitting at the wheel, waiting. The real estate agent, he supposed.
After making a U-turn, he looked at the small green clapboard cottage with a porch across the front, half-hidden by a neat sidewalk hedge, and his heart sank because he knew she would buy it. The yard was small, and there was a driveway on the right, leading to a garage in the back. He parked on the street behind the agent's car.
Inside, sunshine streamed in through a row of windows on the left of a long narrow hallway. Green morning glory vines crept around the edges of the windows. Amalise walked slowly down the hall in silence, stopping to examine the rooms to her right. The living room had a fireplace and ceiling-to-floor windows that opened onto the front porch. The bedroom had a set of built-in bookcases that looked like they'd been custom built for her.
The old Amalise would have spun around, eyes shining, Jude thought. She'd have been eager, would have spilled the beans to the real estate agent about how she loved the house, how she would buy it immediately and pay the asking price.
But the widow of Phillip Sharp was cooler now. Her eyes swept everything at random as they walked through the house. She strolled, finger to her lips, inspecting everything with élan, and only Jude knew that already she was imagining her furniture in this place, her books on the shelves, measuring for pictures on the walls.
At the end of the hallway they entered an octangular dining room, and beyond that was a second bedroom on the right and an outdated kitchen to the left. Another porch crossed the back of the house, the right side enclosed by a wooden lattice covered in vines.
"Good shade on a hot summer day," the agent said.
"Yes, it can get hot all right," Amalise replied in her new, distant tone.
Jude stood back as she walked casually down the steps into the back yard, a square of lush green grass enclosed by a wooden fence. She said she liked the yard without cracking a smile, and the agent gave her a nervous look. Jude watched, astounded by Amalise's aplomb.
"The asking price is sixty thousand," the agent said as they turned back to the house.
"I'll offer fifty," Amalise said, cool as you please. "Cash."
"I'll get back to you," the agent said, smiling.
By the end of the day the deal was done. They met at fifty-four. Still, Jude knew the price was high given the market downturn. She could have offered less. But when Amalise wanted something, she went for it with everything she had.
Amalise sat at her desk late that afternoon after Jude had dropped her off, thinking. Jude had offered the empty apartment in his house, rent free. He thought she was being stubborn about buying the house on Broadway, she knew. But he was wrong. Despite this love she'd finally recognized for Jude, the years with Phillip had left her with an almost physical longing for a place of her own, a place set apart from the world. The new house would be her fortress for a while. She was sick of psychological turmoil, the kind she'd endured in her marriage with Phillip. The house she'd seen on Kerlerec Street in Marigny had made up her mind about having a home of her own.
From her desk she picked up the memorandum of transaction terms—the Black Diamond term sheet—that she should be reading, and saw instead the family in that house on Kerlerec. Everything in that scene had roots—the kind she'd had while growing up in Marianus. The children playing in the yard. The mother on the porch, calling them inside when night fell. And the father? She imagined him coming home after dark, swinging one of the boys up onto his shoulders.
Project Black Diamond would destroy all of that.
She told herself it wouldn't be so bad. As Jude had said, cities constantly grow and expand and change. That was the nature of progress.
Put things in perspective, Amalise. Prioritize. Be practical. This second chance at life was a gift of grace she couldn't waste. She told herself that Abba would lead her through this maze, even when, as now, she didn't fully understand.
Jude was right.
Jude . . .
Still holding onto the term sheet, she dropped her head into her hands. She'd seen the look in Rebecca's eyes when she'd spotted Jude's picture moved to the place of honor behind Amalise's desk on her first day back at work. And since she'd returned from Marianus, Amalise had to admit that Jude mentioned Rebecca frequently in their conversations. Were they really just friends, or had she just been deliberately blind?
Seconds passed and at last she put the term sheet down and turned to face the window. Since the accident, during her recovery, she'd convinced herself that Jude's constant attention was a sign that he preferred to spend time with her instead of Rebecca. But now . . .
Gripping the seat of the chair, she swiveled it from side to side, sensing there was something she'd missed. And then it struck her all at once: Jude was kind. He was thoughtful. But the accident had been partly his fault. That's what she hadn't seen before.
Of course that was it. The car that hit her was his own. Jude had merely done what he thought was right. His conscience had driven him to spend all that time with her over the past few months.
Shaking her head at her own stupidity, she sat there turning this new thought over in her mind for a very long time. She'd been so self-absorbed, engrossed in her own little world for the past few months. And taking Jude for granted.
As the sun went down, reflections on the windows across the street turned to gold, but today she didn't care. Was Jude really in love with Rebecca? Even as she asked herself the question, she realized that she already knew the answer. Forced to imagine a future without him, she found that she couldn't. That was impossible. Shadows moved in an office across the way, and then the lights switched off and the shadows disappeared.
At last she straightened and turned back to her desk. She looked down at the term sheet. This is what she should be focusing on right now. This was her work, her future. She didn't have time right now to think about Jude and Rebecca. Hands flat, she smoothed the first of the stapled pages. Inside were complicated issues and ideas that would take time to understand, the agreed-upon terms for Project Black Diamond. This was the work she loved. Thoughts of Jude and Rebecca could wait.
Prioritize, Amalise.
She picked up the term sheet and began to read.
Focus.
Amalise paid cash and moved in right away, pending the closing. Jude had helped her move.
On the first night in her new home, she sat quietly alone in the living room. Sounds from outside—the whoosh of the Broadway bus, cars rolling by, crickets, and night birds—all seemed to surround and protect her, creating a solitary calm, a sense of starting over on her own terms. She turned her head toward the fireplace. She had no firewood, but the fireplace worked and it was hers. She studied the pictures of Mama and Dad that she'd hung on the walls, and one of Jude lifting her from the skiff. The skiff had been tied at Dad's pier in Marianus, and in the photo she was laughing as Jude swung her through the air.
There it was, that swell of emotion again.
The porch windows were open, and the long, sheer white curtains that Jude had hung for her moved in the soft night breeze. She worried her lower lip.
Abruptly she rose from the couch. The transaction at work was gearing up, gaining speed like a runaway train. She would grab something to eat from the kitchen and go back to the office for a few hours. That was one thing about being free—there was no one around to object to an unreasonable work schedule. And that's what it would take to succeed at the firm, that extra push.
She wanted to be in the engine, helping to drive the train at Mangen & Morris one day, not riding in the caboose.
Chapter Nine
Phnom Penh, Cambodia 1975
Samantha didn't make a deliberate decision to take the child; she just couldn't bring herself to shake him loose, to leave him alone in this mob. Clinging to his hand, she slid sideways, inching along the rough cement wall, avoiding the crush and keeping her eyes out for anyone who might be searching for the little boy. He couldn't be more than four or five years old, but if she bent down to lift him right here, there was a chance they'd both end up on the ground, underfoot and trampled.
Progress was slow. The crowd seemed to force them back a step for every two they moved forward. Despite the searing heat, the child's hand was strangely cold in hers. She looked down at him, but still he stared ahead, expressionless.
They reached the corner of a narrow side street, no more than an alley really. The street was empty, unlike the main thoroughfares that led to the city's center, toward which the mob surged like startled sheep. Rockets could be heard striking the outskirts of Phnom Penh.
"Can you run?" she asked the boy, stooping low to get his attention. She was fluent in the Khmer language, but he showed no response. Perhaps he was mute. Or deaf.
She would have to carry him, she realized, eyeing him, judging his weight. He was small and thin and should not be a heavy burden. She wondered how old he was. Four? Five? In another place, another time, she'd have guessed he was younger, but this was Cambodia where all children had that fragile, hungry look as if life had stopped them in their tracks.
She scooped him into her arms, straining thigh muscles as she stood and shifted the boy's weight onto her hip. Then she hurried down the street, carrying him that way, scurrying through alleyways and passages that she knew well, shortcuts from the embassy to her apartment. The sun's heat was relentless, and her damp dress clung to her as she worked her way through the warren of cement and stone and wood. Would Oliver really let them leave without her if she was late?
Would he have the power to delay an evacuation? Probably not.
The boy clung to her neck but made no sound. Suddenly the thought of leaving him to fend for himself in the doomed city made Sam wrap both arms around him as she began to run.
The rented two-room apartment was on the second floor of a long wooden building. She'd lived here since she'd arrived in Phnom Penh five years earlier. At the entrance she set the boy on his feet, climbed the stairs, and opened the door. For the past few months, outside doors in Phnom Penh had been left unlocked so that refugees could sleep in the hallways at night. Terrified villagers fleeing the advancing Khmer Rouge seemed to carpet every square inch of the city now, huddling at night on the steps when the hallways overflowed.
The child grasped her hand again. "Hurry," she said, pulling him along through the mass of blankets left behind on the floor of the hallway, up the sagging wooden stairs to the second floor. The building was close and dank, filled with the sour smell of humanity in close quarters. Heart racing, she glanced again at her watch. Five minutes to three. An hour already gone and no plan for getting to the airstrip.
The lump lodged in her throat grew larger. Lifting the child again, she carried him up the interior steps toward her apartment. There'd be no taxis to get them to the airstrip. No bicycle carts. Not even rickshaws.
Her living room was bright with rows of windows along the street side of the living room. Beyond that, through an open archway, was the kitchen, and to her right, a bedroom and small bath. She lowered the child to the floor and took his hand. But instead of following her, he halted, pulling her back, surprising her.
Turning, she saw that his eyes were riveted on a loaf of bread she'd left on the counter in the kitchen. Muscles worked at the corners of his mouth, suddenly convulsing, filling her with pity. Tears rose. The child was starving. Quickly she led him to a table and lifted him into a chair. His chin barely cleared the tabletop.
His eyes did not move from the bread as she moved away from him. She could feel time ticking away as she opened the old icebox and found a jar of peanut butter and some jam. The boy watched silently as she made a sandwich and cut it into four small squares. Because she wasn't sure if he'd eaten in a while, she'd give him one square at a time to slow him down a bit.
For an instant he stared at the food when she set it before him on a napkin, then he reached out and snatched it up. She poured a cup of pomegranate juice and set that down on the table too, along with another square of the sandwich. Now he watched her gravely as he chewed.
With one eye on the wall clock, Sam put the remainder of the sandwich on the napkin in front of the boy and hurried into the bedroom. Alone now, she stood for an instant, covering her face with her hands, shuddering. Then she lifted her head and looked around at the things she would leave behind, struggling to calm her thoughts. There would be time later to weep.
Irreplaceable possessions were stored in the bottom drawer of her dresser. She yanked it open. She pulled out the red silk pouch where she kept her mother's jewelry, including the wedding ring Mother had worn for over fifty years. She dropped it back into the pouch and checked inside for the silver three-leafed broach, the pearls, and the gold pendant with rubies set inside a heart. All there. She dropped the pouch into the purse slung over her shou
lder and glanced around. What else, what else, what else could she not leave behind?
Pictures, she remembered. The photographs. Racing into the living room, she rummaged through drawers for the pictures. She found them along with some letters she treasured, bundled these together, and shoved them into her purse.
Then she turned and looked at the boy. For an instant she considered just leaving him here. He had managed before she'd come along. And he'd surely slow her down. Thoughts of the Khmer Rouge freight-trained through her mind, leaving no space or time for anything but flight.
Still, she hesitated. Then, holding onto the strap of her purse, she lifted the boy from the chair and his head swiveled toward the crumbs of the food as she carried him to the door, his arm reaching back around her shoulder.
At the door she halted, sighed, and returned to the kitchen for the remaining bits of the sandwich. Then she headed for the door once more, her mind sifting for names or faces of neighbors who might be willing to keep the boy.
But there was no one. A futile effort, she knew. Oliver would have to allow her to take the child aboard the plane. He would have to. She couldn't leave the boy standing alone on the tarmac.
With a last look around the apartment, she slammed the door behind her and raced down the stairs. In the street she halted, blinking at the blast of hot white light and dust and noise that assaulted her. She set the child on his feet and grabbed his hand.
"Come," she said. "We have to run."
One hour and twenty minutes were left before the last plane would leave.
Chapter Ten
New Orleans—1977
Work had been unrelenting for days. Amalise arrived by eight o'clock every morning, early for a lawyer. Most nights she worked until midnight, driving home bleary eyed through the empty streets, and then falling into bed, only to start all over again the next morning.
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