by Ginny Aiken
“Like I said before,” Allison murmurs, “you can count me out. I’ll stay here and spend time with the kids.”
Max shakes his head. “Count me out. The kids are more my speed.”
The Dunns ally themselves with Allison and Max, and in the end, everyone comes down like a ton of bricks on Aunt Weeby to keep her from going. Let me tell you. Persuading Aunt Weeby isn’t for the faint of heart.
Glory and I take off, minus my shadow. Who knows where Xheng Xhi is now? But I don’t complain. Without his zillion questions to deal with, we might get enough good material to call it a wrap. Then I can get back to what I really want to do: help at the orphanage.
We do get the job done, and only as we’re about to head back do Glory and I spot the armed tribesmen again, but this time there are fewer members of their posse, and they stay farther away. Doesn’t matter; we break speed records hustling to the farmhouse anyway.
About fifty feet from the large building, Glory pulls up short. “Hang on! I need to breathe . . . This camera weighs a ton . . . We’ve practically run . . . the whole time.”
I stop too. “Your bag of goodies . . . is no lightweight either.”
As we gulp in air, and I think calm, peaceful thoughts to try and slow my racing heart, Glory pokes me in the shoulder.
“Look.”
When I do, a familiar Kashmiri figure dodges around the corner of the farmhouse, away from us. “What a kook! What do you think Xheng Xhi’s up to?”
She laughs in breathless chuckles. “Don’t ask me. I’m not the one he’s got a crush on.”
“Huh?”
“Come on. You have to have noticed. The guy’s nuts about you.”
“No way! He just wants to know all about America. You know, McDonald’s, football, golf, and Wal-Mart. He’s got a list of questions longer than the run of the average daytime soap. I’m just the one he figured would let him chatter on and on and on.”
Her look carries a truckload of pity. “You can’t even tell when a guy’s interested, can you? You’re all about your rocks and God.”
“I’m not that bad.” I think. “Sure, I love God, and I’m a serious gemologist, but I’m not . . .”
I let my words dry up. She might be right. I might have a tiny problem with tunnel vision. Is there such a thing as tunnel life?
“Mm-hm,” Glory says. “You’re clueless. Totally clueless. In every way.” She whirls and stalks off away from the farmhouse.
“Gee, thanks, Glory. So nice to know how you feel.” I hoist her sack of gear back up on my shoulder and march toward our lodgings. I’m irritated—okay, I’m mad, but who’s counting?
Just what am I clueless about? But since she’s not around to ask, I stomp up to our room, dump Glory’s junk on her bed, and go look for the rest of our group. Turns out they’re still at the orphanage, and since I’m running out of afternoon, it doesn’t make much sense for me to go meet up with them. I stop in the main living room, grab a drink of water, then head back outside. I don’t see Glory on my way, nor do I want to right now.
I pull my green fleece jacket closer and head toward Soom-jam. I may as well visit the town, do the tourist thing, while I’m here. I wouldn’t want to be accused of cluelessness about that too.
But I don’t get too far. I find Max and his golf club and balls behind a row of neighboring homes. As I approach, the now-familiar CRAAAACK! of club hitting ball rings out.
“I thought you were all still at the orphanage. Did you quit working early?” I ask.
“Xheng Xhi and Pastor Rick needed help carting Oxfam supplies to a little town about five miles west of us after lunch.” “How’d that go?”
He takes a deep breath. “Humbling. I remembered what you said yesterday when I saw the people’s faces. Rice and protein meal really mean something around here. There’s so much hunger, so much need in this country. It felt great to do something about it.”
I cross my arms and lean back, pretend to study him, analyze his words. With a wink, I say, “You’re not just a pretty face, then.”
He rolls his baby blues. “Give me a break.”
“Can’t you take a joke?”
“Not when you’ve spent months telling me what a washout I am.”
I hold my hands up, palms outward. “Okay, okay. We’re supposed to have a truce going. I didn’t mean to insult you.
That was just my lame stab at a joke.”
“Ooookay.” He returns to his golf.
His response is less than encouraging. But in all honesty, I can’t blame him. I’ve been less than welcoming—hah! I’ve been a total pain to him. And even now that I know how rotten I’ve been, my frustration with his lack of gemological knowledge, combined with my unwanted but very real attraction, can still get the better of me.
Yeah, I can’t blame him for turning away. I’ve done far worse to him.
Forgive me, Father.
I realize I have to ask Max’s forgiveness too. Gulp.
“Umm . . . Max?”
He looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“I . . . ah . . . really owe you an apology. I’ve been rotten to you since you came to work for the S.T.U.D., and it’s wrong of me.”
He turns slowly to face me, a bemused look on his face. But he doesn’t say a thing, so I’m still on the hot plate here.
“I may mess up again—actually, I’m sure I will, out of bad habit—but I ask you to forgive me, for my past nastiness, and for future failures too.”
With his club in one fist, he crosses his arms, his eyes narrowed. “What’s brought about this epiphany?”
My blush almost hurts—like my conscience. “I’m not stupid, just stubborn and sometimes blind. You’ve made more efforts than I have, and you haven’t laid into me, no matter how nasty my comments got. And—” I hesitate, weighing my next words “—you’ve smashed a bunch of my assumptions about you.”
The more I say, the narrower his eyes get, and the tighter his lips clamp. In desperation, I point at his mouth. “See? That’s what I need to learn to do—what I’m trying to learn to do. Shut my mouth before I blurt out dumb stuff.”
At that, the corner of his mouth gives a twitch, as if he’s trying to keep from smiling.
“I’m serious! I do want to change, and I really am sorry I’ve been a pill.”
As his mouth curves into a real smile, he nods slowly. “That you have been, Andi-ana Jones. A pain, a pill, and nasty-mouthed. I have forgiven you—it hasn’t been easy, since you’ve never really seemed to repent of your—” he waves toward me “—your attitude. But maybe you do mean it. And since we’re going to be working together indefinitely, I’d rather move forward than stay stuck in the nasty past.” My eyes burn; tears well up. All this time I’ve been so hard on him, he’s been quietly living what I have been talking. How humbling is that?
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“You’re welcome.”
And then, as if nothing had ever happened, he leans over, plunks another ball on his tee, then does the golfer’s wiggle again. He swings and whacks the ball . . . right at the nearest house’s back door, from where it boings off into the Kashmiri sunset.
In spite of the turmoil inside me, I grin. “Uh-oh!”
With a grimace, he yanks the tee from the ground, and his graceful lope takes him in the direction both balls disappeared. That’s why he’s not here when a bearded, turbaned gentleman throws open the door the ball just hit.
A blitz of angry Kashmiri dialect slaps me in the face. The home owner shakes a fist inches from the tip of my nose. Two more men, similarly haired and clothed, come out of neighboring houses and join the attack.
I step back.
They step forward.
“Sorry, but I didn’t do it!” I show them my empty hands. One of the men mimics Max’s golf style.
I take another step back.
They follow.
“Look, no golf club. No balls!” Where’s Xheng Xhi when I need him? For that matter, where�
��s Max to take responsibility for his jockiness?
The men complain some more. Then they come closer, surround me, and take turns getting in my face. Fear chills me.
Two of the men shake their fists. The third grabs my arm and squeezes—hard. I’ll probably have a bruise to go with my raging red panic. What can I do? How can I get away from them? What are they going to do to me?
I don’t want to find out, so I apologize even more.
Finally, they shake their heads in obvious, cross-lingual disgust, and go back home.
My feet can’t get me to the farmhouse fast enough. And I’m scared. Really scared. Which makes me mad.
Of course, the first person I see in the courtyard is Max. “Where’d you disappear to? I just had to face down an army of angry villagers back there because of your golf!”
Mr. Magnificent looks at me as though I’ve morphed into a yak. “What are you talking about?”
My hearbeat begins to slow—but not by much. The image of the angry men makes me shudder. “Don’t you remember?
You whacked that ball against someone’s home.”
Red blooms on his cheeks. “Someone got mad?”
“Someone?” I may never be able to get rid of the memory of those scary men. “It was a bunch of someones! And they weren’t mad, they were furious! I feared for my life.”
Well, that might be stretching the truth a bit. I try to corral my off-kilter emotions, without much success.
“You’re nuts, Andie.”
Upset? Sure. But nuts? “No, I’m not. You hit someone’s house, and then you ran off to get the ball. I was stuck having to try and pacify the angry natives—and I don’t speak their language! Trust me, I was scared.”
He studies me for a second . . . two. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“No, Max, I’m not. Three Kashmiri men ran out of their houses, all yelling who-knows-what at me. One even grabbed and shook me. I don’t speak Kashmiri or Indian or . . . or whatever. I had no way to give them a decent apology—for you.” “I’m sorry. I didn’t leave you in the lurch on purpose.”
His apology drains the oomph from my fear. Still, his gear has been a pain—even though yesterday’s games with the kids did bless the little ones. “Did you ever check with Xheng Xhi? Maybe he could have come up with a better place to use as a golf course.”
Max starts up the stairs. “As soon as we delivered the supplies, he disappeared. I couldn’t find him for a friendly putting challenge.”
I follow him. “What’s up with the guy? First, I can’t get him to stop with his questions—his inquiring mind just has to know. Now no one can find him. Maybe he’s up here waiting for us to come back.”
“Maybe.” But Max doesn’t sound convinced.
I peek around him and, aside from our hostess who’s dressed in another glorious salwar kameez, this one a regal purple, the room is empty. “I think yesterday’s encounter with the gun-toting tribesmen spooked him. He’s gone.”
“Not much of a guide, is he?”
I give him a wry grin. “He’s better than one in jail.”
Max nods. “Or the dead houseboy.”
I shudder. “Did you have to remind me?”
He sits on the corner of the table, a foot on one of the benches. “How could you forget? Your four goons—your word, not mine—haven’t let us out of their sights since we left Srinagar.”
“They didn’t follow Glory and me today.”
He smirks. “That’s what you think. One of them did.”
“We never saw him.”
“I think that was the plan. They probably think they’re being subtle.”
“I guess even runaway rhinos can pull it off every once in a while.”
Surprise, surprise! The runaway rhinos march in. They nod at us, chat with our hostess, then take their places down one side of the table. Yes, the same table where Max has plopped his . . . umm . . . behind. He scrambles up, and Mrs. Xi La sets out a major spread of platters piled high with fragrant food. My stomach growls on cue.
The oldest goon grins and rattles off a string of jibberish.
Great. Now I’m providing not just Max but also the goons with their entertainment. As I’m about to escape to my room, my hostess calls out my name. “Yes?”
She brings me one of those wonderful sheermals and a cup of green tea, a sweet smile on her lined face.
“Oh! Thank you. Thank you so much.”
She bows. “Wel-come.”
“You speak English!”
Mrs. Xi La shakes her head. “Thank you. Wel-come.” She shrugs.
My stomach growls again, so I take a bite of my sweet bread, and then, since it’s so delicious and she’s so sweet, and my day’s been so rotten until she made it better, I throw my arms around her. To my amazement, she hugs me back and smiles again. I’ve made a friend. Too cool.
Munching happily, I head for my room.
“That,” Max says when I find him still in the hall, “was a really nice thing.”
“Isn’t she a sweetheart?”
“Yes, but I meant you. I don’t think you saw it, but she had tears in her eyes when you hugged her. I’ll bet everyone takes her for granted, even though she works nonstop all day.”
“Really? Tears?”
He nods.
I shake my head. “That’s so wrong. She’s great, and I should make sure she knows.”
His eyes twinkle with mischief and something else. Could it be . . . approval? Certainly not admiration—I haven’t done much to admire. But I’ll take what I can get, and go with the approval.
He opens the door to his room. “See ya at dinner, Andi-ana Jones.”
“See ya, Mr. Ma—” I catch myself. There’s no way I’m letting him know I secretly call him Mr. Magnificent. No way. No how.
Nuh-uh.
“Mr. Matthews. You’ve got your moments too.”
My dreams hum with the luscious notes of “Stranger in Paradise” . . .
“. . . The sweetest thing . . . ,” Mr. Magnificent whispers. “You’re the sweetest thing . . .”
A coy smile on her rosy lips, the lovely young woman with red hair flutters her lashes. “And you’re the handsomest golfer.”
The brazen black-haired siren slithers up and separates the happy couple. “Can I please collect your old tees, Mr. Magnificent? Just as a marvelous memory of your magnificence. Please?”
“No, ma’am.” Mr. Magnificent lays a strong, manly arm around the lovely young woman with red hair. “My tees belong to my lovely headache—”
“Mr. Magnificent!” the lovely young woman with the red hair objects. “How could you?”
True remorse makes his handsome features droop. “Forgive me, dear lady with the red hair. I meant my heart’s delight—”
A scream of joy bursts from the lovely young lady, and runaway rhinos stampede across the mountains, their hooves pounding and pounding and pounding— I bolt up into a sitting position, my heart beating hard against my ribs, my breathing sharp and shallow. No more Stranger in Paradise for me.
The pounding resumes. It’s a lot closer than the nearest Himalayan peak. A sense of déjà vu hits me. I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “No, please. Not again, Lord.”
I clutch my green fleece jacket tight across my chest. It’s too cold to sleep in only my cotton tank and cartoon pajama pants. Every millimeter of my body shrieks in protest, but I still get up. A faint spill of moonlight slices in through our small, high window. At my right and my left, Glory and Allison look confused, scared, and as disoriented as I feel.
More pounding assaults our door. “Andie!” Trevor Mus-grove calls out. “Allison, Glory! Ladies, there’s been . . . an incident. Please wake up.”
I start to cross the room, but Allison reaches out, grabs my hand, and scrambles to her feet. We walk to the door, Glory right on our heels.
“Don’t leave me behind,” she cries, her voice high-pitched and shaky.
When I meet Trevor’s gaze, fear
tightens my gut, and nausea hits me hard. “Who?” I ask.
“Follow me.”
Once in the great room, I count familiar faces. Max, Miss Mona, Aunt Weeby, and Emma Musgrove are all there. So are Rich and Nori, Mr. and Mrs. Xi La, and the four goons. There are also two grim-faced, uniformed strangers, their weapons very much in plain sight.
Mrs. Xi La’s heartrending sobs break the silence in the room. Her husband holds her close, his hand gently patting her back, while he looks devastated.
Bad. The vibes I get are wicked bad.
When I scan the faces again, I know what’s wrong. I know who’s missing. And I no longer want to ask. I don’t want to hear.
But it doesn’t matter what I want.
One of the armed soldiers nods at Trevor. He clears his throat. “Andie, I’m sorry to say, but Xheng Xhi is no longer with us. Mrs. Xi La found him in the courtyard when she went to feed the chickens a short while ago. Because Xheng Xhi was . . . fond of you, these gentlemen will want to speak with you.”
Shivers turn to shudders, and a vise of pain tightens across my forehead. The two soldiers stare, and one takes a step closer.
To my surprise, Max comes to my side. “Are you going to be okay?”
I snort—oh yeah. How elegant of me. “I’m not okay, and I don’t know when I’ll ever be okay again. I can’t believe this is happening again.” I stop myself before I lose control. That tiny pause gives me some perspective. “But I’m way better off than poor—”
“Hush! Don’t say another word!” he hisses. “You don’t know how they’ll interpret whatever you say.”
The soldiers spit out a series of commands—I don’t need a translator to get their tone of voice. Trevor nods.
“Officer Mustafa wants everyone packed and ready to head back to Srinagar in fifteen minutes. Because of the—” he pauses, takes a deep breath “—earlier incident in the capital, the investigation will be handled by the Srinagar police.”
I gulp. “Investigation?”