by Ginny Aiken
Oh, yay! My inquisitor follows my suggestion. And I’m free once again. I head outside for fresh air and the chance to think of something other than a blond head right up against a brunette one. And try to deal with my petty jealousy. Even though I don’t want to.
I find a big rock and take a seat. Work, Andie. Think about work. It’s less daunting than the other stuff. And I do have a job to do.
With every bit of discipline I can dredge up, I make myself focus on the show Miss Mona wants. How much airtime should we really spend on depleted mines? Should I try to get access to the collection of stones at the Kashmir State Treasury Chambers instead of wasting film on—let’s face it—boring rocks? Am I setting myself up for a snoozer of a show with what we’ve filmed? Who should I ask? I know what Miss Mona says she wants.
Aunt Weeby? Nah. She’s already given us her opinion. She’s bored.
And Glory? I’m not so sure I want to go there.
That leaves me with the one and only person who has as much at stake in my show as I do: Max.
Oh, joy. Maybe after we wrap up a few more shots, once we’re back in Soomjam, once Glory’s busy doing . . . whatever. Maybe then I’ll hit him up for his opinion.
We return to the film site, and again, Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona come along. After about an hour of work, though, my aunt squeals right into my explanation.
“Ooooh, look, Andie! You have fans even out here.”
Groan.
“Cut!” I turn to see what Aunt Weeby’s talking about and almost swallow my tongue.
Seven men stand in a cluster at the crest of a nearby rocky ridge, no more than four or five miles away from us. Their shaggy, loose garments, turbans, and long, ragged beards identify them as native tribesmen. Their weapons label them dangerous.
They look like Muslim extremists on the evening news to me.
“Ah . . . guys?” My forced smile threatens a downward flip. “Let’s not make any sudden movements. I know, I know. I sound like a bad B movie, but work with me here.” I swipe a hand across my sweaty brow. “And let’s not stare at them either, okay? They’re no welcoming committee. Trust me.”
Max’s Adam’s apple jerks up and down. “Show’s over, right?”
I stroll toward Glory and make a big deal of checking the camera, a forced smile smeared all over my face. “You betcha. We’re outta here. But casually, okay?”
Yeah, right.
Tell me: how does one go about running from armed guerillas casually? I don’t know how we did it, but we hustled off in the quietest, calmest way I’ve ever seen people—scared people—flee the scene of a future crime.
Come to think of it, I’ve never seen the scene of a future crime. At least, not live. Who’d a thunk that working live TV would turn my life into a TV drama? With a script-as-you-go format, no less.
“Miss Mona?” I say five minutes later. “This wasn’t in my job description, you know.”
“Not in mine, either,” she murmurs, her lips edged in white, her normal peaches-and-cream complexion less peach and more cream. “This is scary, honey, and I’m real sorry I dragged you into it—”
Oh, great. I didn’t want to make her feel bad. “Don’t give it another thought. I promise I won’t.” I flash her a grin. “I bet you once we’re back in Kentucky, we’ll all agree we wouldn’t’ve missed it for . . . well, for just about anything. Now, if they start shooting, I might change my mind.”
“Oh, pshaw!” Aunt Weeby says, her excitement practically crackling around her. “They’re not in the shooting mood, sugar. They just came to watch the show, is all. The ‘Watch the Crazy American Tourists’ show. It happens everywhere I travel, you know. Foreign folks are just plumb curious about all us Americans.”
I bite my tongue—hard—to keep from identifying our particularly loony tourist. You know we have one. Yep. The one with the newfound affection for yaks. Off to my right side, I feel Max’s silent laughter, and behind us, Allison chuckles. Everyone knows Aunt Weeby.
From the front pocket of my backpack, I pull out a compact mirror. You got it. I’m about to reprise my shiny soupspoon gig. I just have to know what those scary guys are doing while we do like the rats in the sinking ship.
What I see doesn’t exactly reassure me. They’ve come partway down the ridge and haven’t taken their beady peepers off us. “Uh . . . guys?”
Aunt Weeby trots up to my left, a worried look on her still-beautiful face. “You okay, sugarplum? Is that nasty ol’ gut a’ yours acting up again?”
“I’m okay. My gut’s not acting up, but those guys with the guns are. They’re on their way down the hill, and I’m definitely not feeling the love here.”
“Do you really think they’re terrorists?” Allison asks.
I check out my mirror again. “Beats me. Wanna ask Xheng Xhi?”
“Sure,” she says. “Where is he?”
I stop. “What do you mean, where is he? Wasn’t he with you and Glory, leading the mule with the tent and stuff?”
“He was. But he’s not anymore.”
“D’you think we should go back for him?” Miss Mona asks, worry in her voice.
I take another look via my trusty mirror, but there’s no chatty guide in sight. What is in my sights is the group of seven, closer every time I check. “I hate to do it,” I say, my heart racing, “but these guys don’t look happy. Maybe Xheng Xhi popped into a cave or something. At least, I hope he did. We can’t wait for him or take the time to search.”
Max lays his arm across my shoulders, leans closer to my mirror, and gives me a gentle squeeze. “Houston? We do have a problem.”
To my surprise, the warmth in his touch comforts me—at a time I most need comfort. I shoot him a grateful smile, touched perhaps with a hint of regret, and pick up my speed. “Not if we don’t hang around.”
And we don’t. Hang around, that is.
We reach the farmhouse a good while later. Don’t ask me how long it took us to get here; I can’t tell you a thing about that part of our adventure. I prayed the whole way.
Every last one of us runs the last few yards as fast as our feet can carry us. Once inside the huge wooden doors, I collapse onto the courtyard’s dirt floor, my knees jelly, my nerves shot. “I don’t ever want to do that again.”
Allison plops down next to me. “I’m with you, sister.” She closes her eyes—tight—and shudders. “They didn’t look civilized.”
Max rushes in, Miss Mona on one arm, Aunt Weeby on the other. “Civilized enough to carry sophisticated weapons.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry I ever had the idea to go film those fool mines,” Miss Mona moans, her usually smooth bob ruffled and wind-tossed. “I should have just let you lead your mission trip and be done with it. Now we’ve had terrorists chase us down, and we’ve lost our guide—our second guide. See what comes of wanting to do something for yourself rather than just what the Lord calls you to?”
Aunt Weeby shakes her head and pokes her friend’s shoulder. “Why, that weren’t so bad at all, Mona Latimer. It was plumb the most exciting thing I’ve done in all my born days! I kinda like living the Andi-ana Jones life. I’m so happy ya’ll didn’t give me heartburn about coming with all ya’ll. You just can’t go traipsing the globe again without me, you hear?”
We stare, shocked silent.
My certifiable relative goes on. “Just think of all the stories we’ll have to tell at Bible study, Mona.” Then she turns to me. “And imagine your viewers, sugarplum. They’ll be lime green with envy. We saw our very own Talibans with our very own eyes!”
“But what about Xheng Xhi?” I ask. Sure, the man drives me nuts with his questions, but he’s somewhere out there with gun-toting terrorists on the horizon.
“Oh, sugarplum, I’m sure he’s fine.” When I arch my brow, she continues. “He knows the area, and he might even know those Talibans. If not, I’m sure he has a hidey-hole”—she waves—“somewhere. And I don’t think he’s scared at all. He probably thinks it’s normal. May
be he does think it’s an adventure, something to remember. That’s what you should do.”
Before she gets any more carried away, I stand. “It’s way past time for a nap, a snack, a cup of tea, and prayer.”
Aunt Weeby swipes the dust off her sturdy walking shoes on the backs of her trouser legs. “Why, sure!” She holds out her hand. No one takes hold. “C’mon, now. Let’s thank our Lord for such an exciting opportunity. He brings us here, shows us things we can’t never even imagine back home, and then he keeps us safe. He is such an awesome, awesome God.”
Gulp. She’s right—yet another reason to love her, wackiness and all. But who’s counting reasons?
I take her right hand. “You’re pretty awesome, yourself, Aunt Weeby. I’ve been so busy being terrorized, that I’ve forgotten who’s watching out for us.”
But before we begin to pray . . . “Ahem!”
I turn toward the stairs to the upper family floors of the farmhouse—as opposed to where we are on the ground floor, domain of the grunting, snuffling, clucking, and lowing beasties in the stalls. A stranger, a tall, handsome Westerner, is staring at our little group, a mystified expression on his weathered face.
“Hi” is all I can manage.
He smiles. “I would know you anywhere, Ms. Adams,” he says in a deep, bass voice. “My sister and mother own the television whenever you and Mr. Matthews are on.”
Miss Mona coos.
“Oh, my!” Aunt Weeby says in a breathy voice.
I’m almost as impressed as the more mature ladies among us. The stranger’s dark brown hair is sprinkled with attractive silver at the temples. He wears the ubiquitous khaki pants and long-sleeved knit shirt of the world traveler with casual elegance, and his warm chocolate eyes sparkle with humor and intelligence.
“You’ve got us at a disadvantage,” I say. “You know at least some of us, but we have no idea who you might be. Were we expecting you? Are you with the Musgroves?”
He lopes over, his movements graceful and athletic. “Sorry about that. I’ve heard a great deal about the Musgroves and The Father’s Lambs.” He extends his right hand. “Rich Dunn, senior pastor at the Riverside Chapel in Mount Cheer, Pennsylvania. I’m here with Oxfam to deliver supplies to earthquake victims.”
Aunt Weeby gets her Perry Mason look in place. “But they weren’t hit too hard around these parts by that there earthquake. There aren’t many earthquake victims here in this here Soupjam town.”
She’s had her issues with the town’s name. “Soomjam, Aunt Weeby.”
Her hand draws a lofty wave. “Fine. But I don’t see a whole lot a’ ruination and destruction out here. Oh sure, they aren’t rich or nothing, but they’re not desperate either.”
Rich approaches my outspoken aunt. “And you would be . . . ?”
Aunt Weeby pats her upswept do. “I’m Andrea’s auntie.” She holds out her hand. “Olivia Adams Miller. Pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” the reverend says, a genuine smile on his lips. “And, you’re right. This area was spared the worst of the quake. I’m on my way farther northwest, toward the Pakistani part of Kashmir. That’s where the worst devastation happened.”
Max steps forward. “Good to meet you, sir.” After they shake hands, he adds, “Is this a convenient stop on the way?”
“Mr. Xi La and his family are well known for their hospitality.”
“Rich, son!” a woman calls from upstairs. “Did you find my shawl?”
“Not yet, Mother. I’ve just met the other Americans.”
Footsteps clatter down the stairs. The woman who rushes out is a surprise—to say the least. Tall, close to or maybe even taller than my five foot ten, she’s slender and dressed in Madison Avenue–worthy garb. Her camel-colored trousers— probably custom-tailored—emphasize her long, slender legs, and the ivory turtleneck under the long-sleeved sage-colored silk blouse is cashmere. Trust me. I know these things.
Her gray-blond hair is in a short, spiky cut, mussed to chic perfection, and her exquisitely made-up face is youthful and radiant. My careful scrutiny reveals no telltale tugging of a face-lift or the freeze-factor of Botox. She’s not beautiful, but she’s not the kind that goes under the radar, either.
“How wonderful!” Her scarlet lipsticked smile lights up the courtyard. “It’s such a treat to meet fellow Yanks so far from home.”
She freezes in front of me. “Oh!” She spins to her son. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She whirls back. “I can’t believe it’s you!”
Her hug throws me for a loop. “I’m tickled to meet you, Andrea. Eleanor Dunn here, but please call me Nori. Everyone does.”
Yikes! Nori Dunn, Miss Mona, and Aunt Weeby on the same continent. Look out, world!
I ease away. “I’m afraid I’ve got dust all over you. But it is a pleasure to find fans even out here.”
“Fans?” she asks, then winks. “Friends, Andrea. Friends.” How do you answer that?
Fortunately for me, the three ladies and Pastor Rich yammer away, no interest in whatever I might’ve said. I take the chance to head up to my shared bedroom, my knees still wobbly from our hasty retreat. I lie down on my sleeping bag, close my eyes, take deep, slow breaths. Was that insane trip to the mine area worth the danger?
Father God? Did we storm up here by mistake? All I really wanted was to help the Musgroves, The Father’s Lambs, and any quake victims you led me to.
In the dim, quiet room, I bask in the wonder of a God who has blessed his children with the gift of prayer. Whether his answer comes later rather than sooner, I know he’s there, listening, loving, leading. I pray for the patience to wait and listen, for the grace to keep from bumbling and stumbling and getting in his way.
Again.
900
The next morning, after a simple breakfast of stot—a small, round bread studded with poppy seeds—and all the hot green tea we can drink, I come to a rotten decision.
Now I have to break the news to everybody else—fun.
Not.
“Hey, guys. I checked out the footage we shot yesterday, and I hate to say it, but we have to either do a couple more takes or scrap the whole thing.”
The S.T.U.D. people, seated down one side of the table, while Pastor Rich, Nori, and the Musgroves line the other, don’t take my news well. They offer their opinions—all at once. And loudly.
Those on the pastor’s side stare.
While everyone yaps, movement at the top of the stairs catches my eye. Xheng Xhi slinks in, but instead of joining us, or even greeting us, he scoots across the room in the shadows and up the stairs to the top floor. Strange, but then he is a strange guy. At least he’s safe.
My fellow travelers, oblivious to his return, gripe away. I’ll tell them of Xheng Xhi’s return later, when they’re done objecting to my statement.
Finally, the chaos dies down. “Okay. That wasn’t the response I’d hoped for.” I turn to Glory. “What did you think of the film?”
She wrinkles her nose. “We have a couple of good bits, but . . . I don’t know if it was the rapid retreat that caused the problem or if the tape itself was bad, but a large part of what we shot taped grainy. You can’t tell what’s going on. And that’s if we don’t count all of you and Max arguing over . . .” She shakes her head. “Whatever. But since that’s what you guys do anyway, we need to think about the grainy video.”
I blush at the mention of Max’s and my ongoing onscreen skirmishes. “So you think I’m right. We either scrap or redo.”
“Oh no,” Miss Mona says, shaking her head. “We’re not going back out there. We’re done with this project.”
Half of me cheers; the other half protests. “Oh, Miss Mona, I know I wasn’t very positive yesterday, but that’s probably because I was so tired.” And freaked by our close-enough encounter of the Taliban kind. “Those men only showed up after we’d been out there filming for hours. I think we might be able to get away with a quick reshoot and then hurry back without ro
using them. And no tents and picnics this time.” Max sends me his trademark glare. “You are nuts, you know.”
I glare right back. “Do I take that to mean you’re not interested in another chance in the spotlight?”
“I’d rather live another day to do another spot.”
Aunt Weeby slaps both hands on the table and stands.
“Aw . . . sugarplum! Don’t you worry yourself none. I’ll go with you. I’m sure our Glory-girl here can show me how to make her camera work. A camera’s a camera, right? Hers is just bigger’n mine. You’n I can get the job done.”
Aunt Weeby and the Taliban . . . the Taliban and Aunt Weeby. Hmm . . .
I’m no dummy. “Miss Mona’s right. I’m sure we can make do with what we have.”
“I don’t have a problem going back to the mine site,” Glory says. “But I don’t think we should all go.”
“You won’t get an argument from me,” Allison says. “I’ll even give you my war paint, Andie. Knock yourself out.”
“I’m with Allison,” Max says—to my surprise. I would’ve thought he’d Gorilla Glue himself to the very appreciative Glory.
Miss Mona shakes her head. “I can’t let you girls do that. Just think about it, Andie. Two of you against seven armed tribesmen. You won’t even be able to explain yourself, since they don’t speak much English in these parts.”
“I’m sure you’re not going to believe me,” Max says with a wink and a smile, “but I’m not ready to lose my cohost to a bunch of crazed rebels. I don’t think this is your best idea, Andie.”
“Oh, pshaw!” Aunt Weeby’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “I think Andie’s plan is great. We just do like in the movies— get in, get out. Oh, and we have to have faith.”
Faith I have, but I also have a dangerously adventuresome aunt. My resolve wavers, but then I realize there won’t be any point to a show on Kashmir sapphires if we don’t even show the mines. And I do have faith.
“I think Glory and I can carry this off, but only if we go lean and mean.” When Aunt Weeby’s frown ruffles her brow, I give her my unperfected version of the evil eye. “That means only Glory and I go. The fewer of us, the less likely we are to catch the tribal folks’ attention.”