Chasing the Wind

by Pamela Binnings Ewen

  She had been raised to believe that despite the presence of evil and injustice in our world, sometimes there comes an instant, a split second, when time halts and a door is opened a crack. In this moment we can make a choice and act to change things. Her mother called it a kairos moment, when God shows us the way to reach out to someone else.

  That's when she knew what she must do.

  Struck with fear at the depth of her feelings for this child, she held him for a long time until he settled down. What did the word mean, mak?

  She lifted him onto the bicycle seat and strapped him in, then she bent down and kissed his cheek. When you care this much, you have a lot to lose.

  But she'd made the decision. She would do it because she knew that we are not only responsible for what we do in life, but also for what we do not do.

  Chapter Thirty

  November already. He'd been on this miserable job for over a week. At least the weather had cooled. From behind the wheel, through the windshield, he spotted his client crossing Common Street with Murdoch. He straightened and lifted his hand up over the steering wheel as Robert Black glanced his way. Black said something to Murdoch, and Murdoch looked over at him and nodded before swerving off into the First Merchant Bank Building.

  Black walked toward him.

  Quickly he gathered up his handwritten notes on the seat beside him, the report of his morning adventures, such as they were. Black knocked on the passenger window, and he leaned across and rolled it down.

  "What've you got?" The client's voice was brusque, impatient.

  He handed over the notes. "They're mostly about the kid."

  Black took the notes and scanned them, then brows raised, he flipped his hand. "That's all?"

  "I'll write it up in detail later, but I thought you'd want to see this right away."

  He found himself staring at Black's back as the man folded the papers, stuck them inside his jacket, and walked away without another word.

  Feeling the chill in the air, he rolled up the window and sat back, feeling his anger surge. He slumped behind the wheel, watching Robert Black's well-heeled self stroll back into the swank, comfortable bank building. Bitter gastric fluid rose again in the back of his throat. He rubbed his midsection. Oh, the burn. The long, slow burn.

  He picked up the bottle of the thick pink stuff he kept on the passenger seat within easy reach and shook it. He should get another job. He thought about that for a while. He thought about what it would be like to work for someone who said "Please" and "Thank you" and "Good-bye" once in a while, someone who showed some respect. Someone less volatile than clients like Robert Black. You never knew what nuts like this were thinking, what they'd do when something set them off.

  Fingers spread, he slid both hands down his face and sighed. Nothing would change in his life anytime soon, he knew. At least this job paid.

  He unscrewed the cap from the bottle of pink stuff and swigged a few gulps. Just choke it down, he thought. Get rid of the burn.

  The door was flung open, and the conference room came alive as Murdoch strode in from a long lunch with his entourage, which seemed to have expanded. Following in Murdoch's wake were two strangers, each with a briefcase in one hand and a leather garment bag hanging on his shoulder. The new arrivals wore tailored black overcoats made of expensive wool, too heavy for the mild winter months in New Orleans, Amalise thought.

  "Ran into these jokers in the lobby," Tom announced as he took his seat. "Lawyers representing the investors," he said.

  A rotund, red-faced man marched around the table introducing himself. "Steve Hendrick," he said in a jovial tone, eyes already moving on as he shook each hand. His jacket stretched wide as he moved. His white shirt was wrinkled, and smoke permeated his clothing.

  Steve was followed around the table by Lars Elliot, a man who appeared to have grave things on his mind. He wore a quiet gray suit from Italy, as evidenced by the slim fit, and his expression was impassive as he shook hands, lightly, with just a brush as he breezed by. Still, Amalise decided, Lars had presence. Like Rebecca, he was someone who commanded attention.

  Briefcases were slammed onto the table as Lars and Steve finally pulled out chairs and sat, Lars at the end of the table, Steve beside him. Amalise picked up her pencil, sensing a gradual shift of power in the room toward Lars. Lars leaned back and spread out over the chair as if he owned the place.

  Sitting directly across the table from Amalise was Richard Murray with his furrowed countenance. Worry lines between his brows were deep, and deep folds bracketing his mouth forced his lips into a permanent snarl. With their standoff still fresh in her mind, she kept her face deliberately blank.

  When everyone was settled, a brief discussion ensued over the issues still on the table. "The clock's ticking, everyone," Bingham's voice rang out. "D-day is in three weeks. What have we got left?" He turned to Tom.

  Tom hunched over the pile of paper before him and recited the open issues from the investors' point of view, a few contract points, including who would fund first on the closing date—the chicken-and-egg question again—and the funding mechanisms on the closing day. Then he gave a little shrug, his voice casual as he flipped his hand and added something about the interest rates on the investors' notes, things like that.

  Doug tapped his pen against his bottom lip and then pointed it at Tom. "You agreed to thirteen-point-five percent convertible subordinated notes. We're not opening up that discussion again."

  "Our guys think it's too low."

  "Effective fed funds rate is only four and a half." Doug gazed across at Tom.

  "Yeah, but it's going up. Fast and soon. We need another hundred and fifty basis points, an add-on of one-and-a-half percent—that's fifteen percent notes to cover the risk."

  "Not negotiable."

  "We'll see."

  Doug went on to the banks' unresolved concerns, Frank Earl beside him nodding at each point. As he talked, Amalise saw Robert lean back and, reaching behind Tom, hand something to Bingham. Bingham looked down, scanned it quickly, and nodded. It could have been just her imagination, but she thought she'd seen Bingham's eyes flick in her direction as he folded the paper and stuck it inside his jacket.

  Just then, the door opened and Rebecca walked in, yellow pad in hand. She wore a fitted navy-blue suit that emphasized her slim figure and the color of her hair. Chin high, she looked at Doug and smiled, halting just inside the door. Raymond lifted his hand and motioned her over to an empty chair on the other side of Amalise, near the end of the table. Tom glanced over his shoulder, and then with a look at Robert, half turned in his seat, watching her stroll across the room. Robert stared.

  Raymond leaned over and cupped his hand, whispering to Amalise. "She's on the team now. With the timing on this thing, Doug thinks we can use the help. And Bingham's approved the extra fees."

  Amalise held a smile, nodding, as Rebecca set her notebook and pencils down on the table beside her.

  "Well, New Orleans lay-dies," Bingham said, gazing at Rebecca.

  Rebecca glanced at him, cocking her head to one side with a slight smile as she sat down. Without getting up, Doug introduced her to everyone, said she was joining the working group. From the other end of the table Lars said someone in his office had mentioned her and asked him to say hello if they ever met.

  "We're on page seventy-five of the investors' note agreement," Raymond said. "We wanted to talk about conditions for drawing funds during the construction period."

  "Skip that." Lar's voice was low, but the room went silent. Every person around the table looked at him. He leaned back and spread his hands on the table. "The first order of discussion today will be interest rates on the notes. Without agreement on that, there will be no funding. We need another hundred and fifty basis points to do the deal." He paused and looked at Frank Earl. "Our high-yield guys
tell us rates are going up."

  Doug said, "We have a deal. Earnings—"

  "Earnings." Lars scowled. "Earnings are irrelevant. We're looking at cash flow here."

  Across the table from Doug, Tom pulled a cigar from his jacket and turned it between his fingers, rolling it. The crackle of the paper resounded through the room. Amalise prayed he wouldn't light it.

  Beside him, Bingham smiled. "Yes. The cash flow is significant."

  Lars said, "We bear the risk."

  "You can always convert," Doug replied. "We'll give you the option, no trigger. Take the equity, and the cash flow's your upside."

  With a reflective look, Lars said, "I'd have to run that by New York."

  "Are you telling me the decision maker isn't in this room?"

  "I'm telling you I have to call."

  Doug frowned. Looked at Frank Earl and shook his head. Frank Earl slowly pushed back his chair, stood, and asked Doug to please call him in the office downstairs when someone with authority was in the room. Tom flushed red, and Lars rose, leaning forward like a tiger ready to spring, hands spread flat before him on the table.

  Frank Earl walked out and closed the door behind him.

  Lars looked from Tom to Bingham and jerked his head toward the door. Amalise watched, stunned, as Bingham, Steve, Tom, Robert, and Richard all rose as one.

  "We'll be in the small conference room," Tom said. Doug spread his hands and shrugged.

  When the door closed behind them, Amalise turned to Rebecca. "Looks like you joined us just in time."

  Rebecca laughed. "That was wild."

  Raymond said, "This could take a while. Amalise, we need the status of the title commitments. Give them a call and push them, tell them to get on the ball. If there are problems, liens, or leases, we'll need a few days to deal with those." He jutted his face toward her. "So push them."

  "Will do." She kept her voice cheerful as she picked up her notepad and pencils, feeling grim. Title commitments were boring and time consuming.

  "And get some first-year lawyers to help you with that."

  Amalise breathed a sigh of relief.

  "Rebecca. Come with me. I'll help you catch up, walk you through the deal points."

  Amalise looked at Rebecca—beautiful self-confident Rebecca, Jude's future wife—and felt the axis of their friendship slip a few degrees off center.

  Jude sat in a rocking chair on the front porch of the station house in Pilottown, sipping a cup of coffee and looking out over the river. The night was dark, the moon hidden by thick fog. He'd been assigned to a ship down-bound from New Orleans that reached safety in Pilottown just after the fog descended. Now Pilottown, the river, the passes—all were socked in by a whiteout fog. The red light was up, and he knew that out in the gulf, up-bound ships were anchored, waiting.

  He sat back in the chair. The rest of the watch was inside, playing poker or bourré and eying that old rabbit-ear TV even though the signal had been swamped by the weather. Some, the smart ones, were catching up on sleep. He was out here alone because he wanted to be alone, wanted to think.

  As the mist drifted over the water, Jude could almost see the first settlers here, guarding the entrance to the Mississippi after LaSalle claimed it for France in the early 1700s. There had been tall French sailing ships at first, sails blooming in the wind, and years later the Spanish and English, all crossing the bar at La Balize, the wickedest, bawdiest spot in all Louisiana before the pilots' families moved in. He imagined pirates slipping in and out of the swamplands and bayous; hunters and trappers in flatboats, skiffs, and pirogues; fishers and merchant ships; then later on, the war vessels—Confederates, Yankees, and in the not-so-distant past, German U-boats.

  What a history! With a half smile he knew that if Amalise were here, they would swap stories and she'd invent every detail about those early settlers—where they came from, what they wore, what they ate, and how they lived.

  He caught himself. Enough. Since the night at Clancy's, Amalise had been too much on his mind. He couldn't allow himself to become preoccupied while on watch. He wouldn't think of her right now.

  Leaning back in the rocking chair, he strained to see the stars—any star—through the thick soup. In good weather Pilottown was blanketed with stars at night. He and Amalise had spent many hours contemplating the stars in Marianus when they were kids. He smiled at the recollection. Sometimes at night in the summertime, when the air was hot and thick and he couldn't sleep, he'd throw acorns at her window and she'd crawl out on the branch of the oak tree in her nightgown. And they'd sit there, looking at the stars and talking about the future. Possibilities had always excited Amalise.

  He was doing it again. Staring out at the river, he rubbed his chest, as if to ease the hurt inside. Always before, when he'd looked down through the years, Amalise was right there with him. She'd become a part of him, and what once was friendship had evolved into such a strong bond that it was almost overwhelming. He'd thought he had loved before, several times. But this was different.

  What if he'd really lost her?

  One thing he knew: This yearning had to stop, one way or the other. Amalise had made her feelings plain. He could either wait or start to plan for life without her.

  Phillip Sharp had changed her. The predator—that's how he thought of Phillip. Emotions like empathy, compassion, love—these had proved powerful weapons in the hands of a master manipulator like Amalise's dead husband. He closed his eyes as old feelings of dread and loss swept over him. What was he up against, loving Amalise? Would she ever risk herself again?

  Jude doubled over at the thought, elbows slipping to his knees and face in his hands as memories of the night Phillip died ran unbidden through his mind. Amalise running from the scene. The long dark road. His headlights catching her, too late. The seemingly eternal drive to the hospital in St. Tammany Parish, with Amalise unconscious. The ragged fear that she might not make it, that he'd lost her.

  Lifting his head, he looked out over the river and rubbed his hands together. If Phillip weren't already dead, he'd want to kill him. Slowly he leaned back in the rocking chair.

  Amalise had made it clear that their friendship was status quo, at least for now.

  And he had a job to do.

  Through the eerie fog on the river he could just make out the ghost ships now gliding past the old quarantine station, down-bound ships, their river pilots rounding up for anchor in the fog, moving blind with the current toward the station. As he watched, the routine ran through his mind and voices carried over the water, shouts from pilot to captain to mate.

  "Slow now, slow! Windless in gear—back out."

  "Watch it! Only one, only one. Now anchor up!"

  Jude sat there rocking and watching the round-up, as one by one the ships arrived, turned about, and anchored. His turn would come tomorrow when the fog lifted and the ships moved on over the sandbars and into the Gulf.

  Then a thought came to him. If these large, hulking vessels could beat the weather and the current, holding fast, couldn't he do the same? Wasn't his love for Amalise just as strong? Wasn't it worth the fight? He ran his hands over his eyes, feeling tired.

  I'll put that in your hands, Lord. This one's in your hands now.

  Love for his oldest, dearest friend welled within him again, a sweet feeling, deep and strong, too precious to release. He would give her time.

  And he would wait until she came to him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  With the frantic pace Bingham Murdoch had set for Black Diamond, the days and nights ran together for Amalise. One afternoon, when Bingham and his entourage were at lunch, she left her office and walked through the Quarter toward Jackson Square. Cathedral bells tolled the noon hour as she reached the square.

  She hurried passed Gina's café on the corner and crossed St. Pet
er Street, dodging a stream of cars as she headed toward the Cabildo, the state museum and one-time seat of the Spanish colonial government. She turned left at Pirate's Alley, the narrow passage that separated the Cabildo from the cathedral. Paved with slate that jutted and dipped in places, the alleyway was shaded from the sun by the high walls on either side this time of day. She passed a bookstore in the house where William Faulkner had lived, walking on between rows of heavy wooden doors to her left and the garden of the cathedral hidden in trees to her right.

  At the end of the alley, Amalise crossed Royal and stopped in front of an Oriental shop she'd always loved, listening for a moment to the tinkling of the wind chimes, glass on glass. She opened the door of the shop and was greeted by a sweet musky fragrance. She'd visited this place many times when living in the Quarter. She loved the colorful silk kimono wraps, the varieties of painted glass, the paper and silk fans unfolding their picture stories when spread, and the exquisite carved figurines.

  The woman she recognized as the proprietor came forward to greet her with her usual mysterious smile. Small and dainty like the figures on her shelves, her dark hair pulled into a chignon at the back of her neck, she pressed her hands together in a Western semblance of obeisance and welcomed Amalise.

  "I've come to ask some questions, if you have a little time."

  "How can I be of assistance?"

  Amalise suddenly felt foolish. Nevertheless, she pushed back her hair and said, "I'm concerned about a child from Asia. We don't know what country he's from." She found herself lapsing into the woman's formality as she told of Luke. "He's a foster child, living with a family here in the city."

  The woman gave her a blank look. "He is an orphan, a refugee?"