“Is Hana’s boy here?” Abby asked, pointing to the wall of photos.
“I don’t know, though I suppose he is.” Najeela shrugged. “There are so many photos, it might be impossible to find him here. We can ask Hana if you’d like.”
Abby felt her shoulders slump. “I don’t think I want to do that just yet. Maybe when she gets to know me better.”
“Well then, enough in here. Come with me,” Najeela said as she exited the tent. “The Immunization Clinic should be open, and you can have a look.”
After a short walk, they arrived at the clinic, already filled with screeching babies and howling children, and mothers trying to hold them tight while staff administered the vaccines.
Abby stood at the doorway and peered in. The space was small and smelled of dirt, sweat, and baby tears. The lone lightbulb sizzled, throwing off more heat than light. Abby smiled at the primitive scene. “A clinic is a clinic,” she said, squeezing through the crowd.
Najeela stopped at the desk and introduced Abby to the staff. “Simi,” she said to the woman who had been busy registering patients, “Abby is the nurse the UN has sent to do the reports, but perhaps she can help here?”
Simi, a sturdy woman with a veil pulled tight across her forehead, smiled. “Salaam aleikum,” she said as she stood and came around to meet Abby. “I am Simi, and I speak some English. Welcome. Would you like to see the clinic?”
Abby nodded. “Thank you, Simi.”
Simi placed her pen on the desk. “This area”—she pointed to the desk—“is where we register the patients.” She turned and pointed to a thin woman who sat hunched over the desk, furiously writing. “She is Mariyah. She and I register and keep track of the patients. And these two”—Simi gestured toward two others who were busy administering the vaccines—“are our nurses, Shoma and Nasreen.” The nurses paused only long enough to smile at Abby before bending to their work. “You see we are very busy,” Simi said. “Do you want to see how we work? Have a look at everything?”
“It’s very nice to meet all of you, and I’d love to have a look around,” Abby said as she watched, spellbound by the familiar hum and rhythm of the clinic, but already, with Simi at Abby’s side, a long line had formed at the desk. “But it’s too busy today, I think. I’ve interrupted you, and now this.” She pointed to the line that snaked through the door. “I’d like to come back and spend the day, if that’s okay?”
Simi smiled and nodded. “Please to come, Abby. Whenever you wish.”
“Come, Abby, we should be going,” Najeela said, standing at the doorway swatting at the flies that filled the small space. “You can return another time.”
Abby nodded absentmindedly, reluctant to pull herself away. It was reassuring to be in a busy clinic again. “I’ll see you soon, Simi.”
Simi nodded. “Khoda khafez,” she said as she returned to her work.
Back at the UN house, Abby found Hana in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea.
“Excuse me,” Abby said, thinking maybe she’d ask about Hana’s missing son. She leaned in so Hana would hear. “Are you busy?”
Hana thumped her teacup down and looked up. “What is it?” Her voice dripped with barely concealed exasperation.
Suddenly, Abby was nervous. She couldn’t intrude on Hana’s sadness, at least not yet. Perhaps in time, Abby thought, perhaps in time. “Umm, nothing, sorry to bother you. I just wanted you to know that I’m back.”
Hana heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes, before she finally nodded in acknowledgment.
Chapter 5
The delicate olive-skinned hand seemed to be waving, but it was the bracelet that drew Abby’s eyes—the sparkling diamond cuff dotted with intricate gems. Flowers and stars of sapphires and rubies, and one large star—an especially bright garnet—sparkled in the streetlight’s glow. The light danced over the jewels—the sapphire flower seeming almost to come to life, the diamonds glistening and casting their own hypnotic glow.
Abby’s eyes were focused on the bracelet when suddenly the man she’d seen on the balcony approached, his footfalls silent this time. She froze, a chill running through her veins. Abby backed away from the body, her eyes fixed firmly on the man. He was taller than she’d thought he’d be, his body slighter, his hair thinner, but it was his eyes that made her heart go cold. Nestled in a bed of doughy flesh, they seemed dead, somehow empty of life.
A scream rose in her throat only to be drowned out by the sound of a whirring motor.
• • •
Abby sat upright and looked around in terror. She was in bed.
Bed.
Oh, God, she’d been sleeping . . . the damn dream again. The dull pounding in her head dimmed to an echo, and then she realized that the sound of the heaving motor was real. She looked up. The ceiling fan had come to life, whirring and clicking—someone had turned on the generator. The hum of the generator had interrupted the morning quiet. Abby rose and hurriedly threw on a dress before stepping into the hallway to find Najeela. The generator was never on this early. Something must be up.
A man’s voice wafted out from the dining room, and Abby stopped, remembering that Najeela had told her the reporter would be arriving today.
Abby’s pout ripened into a frown at the thought, and she turned toward the dining room, almost tripping over a breathless Najeela.
“He’s here,” Najeela whispered. “You’re not ready?”
“I didn’t think he’d be here so early. I’ll hurry. Can you speak with him until I come?”
“I’d rather not, Abby. It makes me nervous being around a foreign man.”
Abby sighed and let her arms fall to her sides. “I wish you’d let him interview you. You have to admit, you’d make a far more interesting subject. You know—a woman straddling both worlds, traditional Afghan and modern European. Now that would appeal to readers.”
Najeela smiled sweetly. “I don’t think it would be proper for me, and my father would surely be angry.”
“But I thought you wanted to take a stand, show him who you want to be.”
“It’s not an easy process, Abby. He is my father, and I must show respect. I cannot appear to be so impudent. If he knew of Lars and my true intentions, he would arrange to marry me off tomorrow. I would never see the man I love again.”
Abby reached out and squeezed Najeela’s hand. “I’m sorry. I was being selfish. I’ll do it. It’ll be dull as hell, but of course I’ll do it.”
Najeela giggled. “I love the way you speak, Abby. You can always make me smile.”
Abby nodded and raced through her shower and pulled a light cotton shirt over her head. She pulled on her loose pants and opened the door, taking a deep breath before she strode into the dining room as the reporter, writing in a small notebook, leaned down to retrieve something from his duffel bag on the floor. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and Abby saw right away that he was disheveled even for this place. He wore a baseball cap, threadbare T-shirt, and jeans, and Abby wondered if there’d been some mistake. Surely a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist would arrive with at least a bit of fanfare, or at least dressed better than this.
Abby looked down, kicking at the fraying rug under her feet. Was it too late to sneak away, put this meeting off till later? But she was already in the room, he’d seen her and he was upon her in an instant. He smiled and stood, holding out his hand.
“I’m Nick.”
Abby studied his face. With his square jaw, deep brown eyes, and easy grin, he was, she thought, handsome in a rugged kind of way, in a way that Eric was not. Eric had been more polished, he’d taken great care with his appearance, and Abby had often joked that he spent more time on his morning face than she did.
She put aside her memories and turned her attention back to her guest. “You must be the reporter.” She pushed a stray hair back from her face. She smiled weakly and looked up just as he let out a long, low whistle.
“They didn’t tell me I’d be interviewing a beautiful young
thing.”
Abby cringed and backed away.
“I didn’t get your name.”
“Abby Monroe,” she said, trying to hide the sudden dislike she felt for this stranger.
“Not the New York stock market Monroes?” he said, his smile fading. “Beautiful and rich, huh?”
“No,” Abby replied, her voice sharp. “I’m one of the middle-class Louisiana-bayou Monroes.”
“Sorry.” He smiled sheepishly as he pulled the baseball cap from his head. His chestnut-colored hair was tousled and he ran his fingers through it. “My mistake, though not about your beauty.” He offered his hand again, and Abby spied a small, colorful tattoo on his wrist. The burst of color was red maybe, but too small and smudged to identify. “Nick Sinclair, New York Times.” His voice was deep, his shoulders broad, and his handshake strong. If she’d met him on the street, she’d have guessed him to be a truck driver, a regular guy, not some smart-ass reporter.
She half smiled and released his hand. She wasn’t letting her guard down just yet. “Nice to meet you,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as wary as she still felt. He leaned in and she inhaled the sharp, bitter scent of stale cigarettes and old whiskey. “Come on, you must want to freshen up after your trip. I’ll show you where the washroom is.”
“I’m fine—just took a shower at my hotel and donned my finest writing clothes. I’d like to talk, if you don’t mind.”
Abby opened her mouth; she wanted to suggest that they speak another time—she hadn’t even had her coffee. But already it seemed too late to do that. She slid into a seat across from Nick.
“All right, I guess we can get started.” She forced a smile.
“So, tell me about yourself,” he said, pulling a fresh notebook from his bag.
“Tell you what? I’m not sure what you’re looking for.”
“Well, I could write a story about an American beauty in Pakistan, but there’s got to be more.”
Abby felt the color rise in her cheeks. His frequent use of the word beautiful didn’t feel like a compliment so much as a put-down, as if he didn’t think she had a brain.
Nick seemed not to notice her growing discomfort. “I know a little bit about you, but maybe you can fill in the blanks for me. For starters, why are you here?”
Abby crossed her legs and sat back. “Just so we’re on a level playing field, why don’t you tell me what you ‘know’ about me?”
Nick’s upper lip curled. “Well, I know your name, I know you’re a nurse, and now I know you’re not from New York City, but there’s got to be a bigger story.” He paused, his pen hovering over the paper. “I mean really—why did an attractive young woman come to a place like Peshawar?”
Hana came bustling in carrying a large tray. She eyed Abby and then Nick before turning to Nick. “Coffee?” Nick nodded without glancing up. Hana made a show of pouring a steaming cup of coffee and pushing it to Nick. “Cream and sugar?”
“None,” he replied, leaning over his notes.
Hana smiled and set out a tray of sweet rolls.
Abby watched, perplexed. She’d been here for weeks and had never seen the disagreeable Hana smile, and here she was playing to Nick, who hadn’t even noticed her beyond the arrival of his coffee.
Hana finally turned her attention to Abby. “Coffee’s there, help yourself,” she said as she left.
Nick smiled, and Abby was sure he was mocking her with that Cheshire-cat grin. He may have won Hana over, but she wasn’t going to fall so easily, and she definitely wasn’t going to fall prey to his stupid questions. She sat forward and poured her own cup of coffee, the aroma strong. She took a sip before speaking.
“I’m going to be honest. I’m not really prepared to be your subject or your guide through the UN program here. There’s absolutely nothing interesting about me, and I just got here myself. On top of that, I’m no expert on Peshawar.” She tugged at her hair, pushing it into place. “Besides, I have lots of my own work to do, none of it very exciting. This is my first UN job, and I’m still learning the ropes. I’m cross-checking proposals and grants, and hopefully I’ll be working in the Immunization Clinic. And though it’s important work, even you can see there’s nothing sensational or noteworthy there.”
She looked up to see disapproval etched into his face, and his eyes had crinkled into a long frown. “I can see you’re going to be a tough nut to crack, so why don’t you let me be the judge of what is and isn’t noteworthy. This is, after all”—he tapped his pen against his notebook—“what I do for a living, and believe it or not, I’m damned good at it. And to tell you the truth, I don’t have all day. Can we just cut to the chase and get started?”
His show of irritation fueled her own. “I’m not even sure why you’re here in Peshawar. I mean, why not go to Afghanistan and see what’s going on there?”
Nick stopped and dropped his pen onto the table. “We’re just not getting off to a very good start, are we? We seem to be at odds here.”
Abby folded her arms across her chest. “It seems that way.”
“Okay, I’ll take a minute to humor you, and to tell you what you don’t seem to know, and that is that Peshawar is a damn interesting place these days. Wedged between Afghanistan and India, Pakistan is the miserable international stepchild, largely ignored by the world unless leaders need access to its fractious neighbors. And bin Laden hiding out here didn’t help their image any. Pakistan gets the leftovers of world aid, at least that’s how they see it, and as a result, it’s a country filled with anger and distrust and hatred of anything American. On top of that, these days, it really is the gateway to Afghanistan, the port of entry for terrorists, journalists, even aid workers.” He paused as if to let his words sink in. “I’m here to do a serious piece on the UN, and they decided I should do a sidebar story on an aid worker, which brings me to you, though I confess I’m mystified about why they’d send a new aid worker here, of all places.”
Abby looked away, trying to hide her resentment bubbling within. He obviously thought she was an idiot, though admittedly, he knew a hell of a lot more about Pakistan than she did. She was here only because this was the job that was available to her. It could have been Timbuktu and she would have gone. She exhaled loudly, trying to rein in her instant dislike of this guy. “Well, let’s try again,” she said.
“All right, I’m here to write about you.” Nick smiled. “You know—tell me what it’s like for an American in this turbulent, dangerous place.”
Abby flinched at his words. “I’ve actually had that discussion with the UN, but if it’s so turbulent and dangerous, wouldn’t your story make life that much more dangerous for me? I’m trying to just get my work done, and you want to tell the world I’m here? No way.”
“Don’t worry, the story won’t be printed till you’re long gone. You have to admit, it’ll make for edge-of-the-seat reading.”
“Don’t hold your breath. There’s nothing edge of the seat about my days here.” What a jerk, she thought.
“I’m not holding my breath, but no matter how dull you try to be, I can write a compelling story. So, back to the beginning. Why are you here? Peshawar’s not exactly every young woman’s dream destination, is it?”
“I . . . I . . . well, I guess . . .” Suddenly, she was nervous. She didn’t want to say that she had a history of running, that she’d been running from nothing and from everything all at once. Wasn’t that precisely what she’d done in the hideous aftermath of Katrina? Instead of staying to help, she and Emily had booked the first available flight to Boston, a city loaded with hospitals and jobs. And when things hadn’t worked out with Eric, she’d run again. She swallowed the dry lump in her throat. She didn’t want to say that maybe just this once she’d been desperate to stand on her own, to find her own way, and so for the first time that morning, she just kept quiet.
Nick seemed to sense her hesitation. “Boyfriend trouble, huh?” He winked. “I mean, isn’t that the most likely reason for a pretty
young nurse to come here?”
Abby tried to count to ten, to take a deep breath, to hold her breath, anything to quell the growing impatience she felt, and her voice was stiff when she answered, “I was laid off. I needed a job, and this looked as good as anything.”
Nick chuckled. “Now I know you’re kidding. This terrorist hot spot really seemed like a good place?”
Abby folded her arms. “It did. Still does, as a matter of fact.” She felt herself closing down. She didn’t want to speak with him, not right now, maybe never. She didn’t know which of them had dug themselves in deeper, but either way, she was finished with this interview.
“Yeah, well, I can see already how you’re not exactly an appealing subject, but this is what I’m gonna write about. Okay with you?”
Was this guy for real? Abby thought as she stood and pushed her chair back from the table. “Are you . . . ?” Abby paused, remembering her promise to Najeela. “Listen, I don’t want to be rude—”
“Well, you’re doing a great job of it so far.”
“I’m no match for you,” she said, her voice and her anger rising. “And let’s face it, it’s obvious that you know more about this place than I do. You don’t need to trail me about. And besides, I just, well, I don’t especially want anyone writing about me.”
“Well, good, since it’s not really about you. You’re just the conduit, get it? This is a story about the refugees.”
God, what an ass, she thought, biting her tongue. The UN would surely let her go if they got wind she was smart-mouthed to the big-shot reporter. She tried to take a slow, deep breath. “Then why do you need to interview me?”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret. Your story, or lack of one, is safe with me. I’m not really here to write about you, but the UN wanted to showcase an aid worker, and I needed to get my visa and permission from the UN to get in here.”
“Why not just write about the refugees then? That seems a more interesting piece anyway.”
The Bracelet Page 5