by Ginny Aiken
No way. Nothing’s settled. Not like this. Not until she puts out on the table whatever she’s cooked up. “Whaddaya mean, it’s settled?” I ask. “You haven’t even told us what you’re thinking. And, knowing you, it could be . . . it could be as insane as . . . as . . . well, as crazy as that trip to Kashmir—”
I stop. As soon as I mention the sky-high land we recently visited, I know what her wacky mind has settled. “Nope. No way. Nuh-uh. Not this girl. I’m not going.”
Miss Mona waves. “But, of course, you’re going to Colombia, Andie, dear. Who else is going to know whether Rodolfo’s emeralds are . . . are 65s or 23s or Ms or Ls or As, Bs, Cs, or Zs. You, my dear, are headed for the Muzo mine country. And I won’t hear another ‘no’ about it, you hear?”
Up until I took Miss Mona’s offer of a job, I’d loved to travel. Who wouldn’t?
But since then, I’ve known nothing but danger, fear, guns aimed my way, and the inside of grody foreign jails. Not my idea of jet setting, know what I mean? And there are guerillas and drug lords in Colombia. I do not want to step into that kind of trap again.
I glare at Miss Mona. “If you think it’s such a great idea, then you go. I’ll give you charts and photos to take with you, and before you leave, I’ll teach you everything I ever learned about emeralds. But I’m not going. I’ve had it up to here with traveling to strange places where nobody knows we wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
My boss turns to Mr. Cruz. “Don’t pay her no never-mind, Rodolfo. Of course, she’s going. She won’t be meeting with strangers when she’s there, either. You’ll take care of her, and she’ll be fine, right?” She winks my way. “It’s time for you to use your negotiating skills. And you’ll be taking my credit card with you.”
What negotiating skills?
Yikes! I’m sure you’ll understand why I feel the waters on the deck of the Titanic licking my ankles.
I’m sunk.
Okay. I must confess. Six hours and forty-five minutes after that crazy meeting this morning, including a two-hour show with Mr. Magnificent, who doesn’t blooper once, but does do his charming best—be still, my heart!—when I gather my briefcase and purse and close my dressing room door, I’m not all that upset about the trip to Colombia any more. How could I be? After all, the Muzo mines there are just as legendary as those in Burma and Kashmir. Since I started my job at the S.T.U.D., I’ve visited both. Now I’m being given the chance to see the operations in Colombia, which is pretty cool.
What’s not so cool is all the criminal activity that goes on in that country. Not only is the place notorious for its drug violence and anti-government guerilla warfare, but also the land of its emerald mines is bathed in the blood of murdered miners.
“Good night, Nellie,” I tell the S.T.U.D.’s new receptionist on my way out of the building.
The rustle of magazine pages precedes her “See ya.”
Nellie is unique. She’s only been with the S.T.U.D. for three months, and in that time I’ve watched her voraciously consume every monthly issue of every health magazine known to mankind. And that’s in between reading titles such as Regularity Through Colonics in Sixteen Days, Iron Out Your Wrinkles, and the inimitable Halitosis Gone.
I shake my head and push on the glass door. “A little knowledge’s a dangerous thing, Nell.”
She peers up at me through her bottle-bottom thick glasses. “Oh, I couldn’t agree with you more. That’s why I’m determined to educate myself.” She waves a prodigious tome entitled Digestive Disorders Digest. “I’m telling you, girl, I know I’ve come down with . . . with—wait a sec while I look it up again.”
I bang my forehead against the lobby door as she rustles through the book. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I know better than to get Nellie going. “Tell me tomorrow. I gotta go.”
“Irritable bowel syndrome! That’s it. You see, I . . .”
I let her go on for a few minutes, but when she starts in on the high cost of toilet tissue, I wave and sail out. I voice a prayer for her, that the Lord will bring her peace about her health, and head for my rental car. Our now-jailed gem thief bombed mine not so long ago.
Like a heat-seeking missile, the image of those lovely emeralds zips into my head as I pull out of the parking lot. They were beautiful stones, but at Mr. Cruz’s $11,000 per carat, way overpriced. They weren’t absolutely top-grade virtually perfect pieces. I’m not going to let anyone take Miss Mona to the cleaners like that. Not if I can help it. I’m going to have to be extra sharp when I face the vendor again.
Just pray the guy doesn’t have something equally sharp aiming back at you when you get there, the overactive little voice in my head pipes up.
GULP. No doubt about it. There is a touch of danger involved in my upcoming trip.
And it’s all about the money. Colombian emeralds are the most prized in the world. Their price tags do come with a lot of zeros on them. I rarely offer emeralds on the show for that reason. If we can’t give our viewers a better price than they can get at their friendly neighborhood jewelry store, then I can’t see why they’d be willing to buy anything sight unseen.
I’ve never thought of myself as a wheeler and dealer, but I held my own in Miss Mona’s office, if I do say so myself. I suppose I’ll find out how good I really am when I face off with Mr. Cruz on his turf. I’m looking forward to that.
That’s kinda scary. Maybe Peggy is right about me. Maybe
I’m only an emotional chicken—cluck-cluck. Maybe I do like the adrenaline charge I get from teetering on the edge of danger.
Who’d a thunk a boring old rock hound would have a . . . a—oh, I can’t believe I’m going to say this—a hidden-below-the-surface Indiana Jones streak to her? Maybe my former boss’s crook of a wife got it right. She dubbed me Andi-ana Jones and made the dopey name public during her trial. I’ve fought that label like a bunch of politicians in DC fight over a handful of votes.
“Lord? Was Peggy right? Am I kidding myself here?” At the continued silence, I shake my head. “Okay, Father God. Show me those parts of me I haven’t really met yet—or haven’t gotten to know so well after the introduction.”
At the red light, I drop my forehead to the steering wheel. Oh boy. I better brace myself. I know a dangerous prayer when I pray one, especially since God has been showing me a lot of unattractive flotsam inside me after I came home. But I really have to, as Peggy said, grow up. Thirty definitely makes me a grown-up.
I pull into my driveway, slip my garage door opener gizmo from the visor where I keep it clipped, click it, and then park my car inside the dim structure behind my house. I gather my purse and briefcase from the backseat where I’d dumped them, then head outside.
But I come to a complete and abrupt halt when I look up. I blink and blink, thinking my eyes have gone wonky because of the change from the dark garage to the sunny outdoors. There, however, on my driveway, sits a U-Haul truck that seems to have materialized since I parked. As I stare, the engine coughs itself to silence.
A second later, before I can nudge myself out of my frozen state of shock, Josh and Max jump from the two sides of the cab and slam the doors in their wake.
“Hey, you’re home,” Max says. “Miss Mona wasn’t sure you would be when we got here.”
“What are you guys doing here?” I wave at the truck. “And what’s that thing for?”
The two guys swap conspiratorial looks.
You know that alarm-o-meter of mine? Well, it’s wee-uh-wee-uh-wee-uhing like crazy again. First, I have to deal with the Daunting Duo of Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby. Now . . . now it looks like these two are ganging up on me too. Not fair. “Spill it already.”
Josh snickers.
Max saunters to the rear of the truck. “I think it’ll be a better surprise, what Miss Mona wanted, if we just do our thing, and then Andie can find it all the way Miss Mona wants her to.”
I cross my arms. “Are you telling me you have something in there that you plan to bring into my house without my
knowing what it is? And what’s worse, that Miss Mona put you two up to it?”
They swap another set of looks.
Max snickers. “You got it.”
“Not on your life, Max Matthews. Back that Trojan horse out of my driveway unless you’re willing to open it and let me look at what you stashed in there first.”
He looks at Josh, then shrugs one shoulder. “Okay by me. But you’re the one who’s going to have to face the wrath of the ladies. Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes for that.”
“Bu—but, it’s my house—”
“For which Aunt Weeby gave you the down payment.”
My oomph wilts. He’s right. I can’t ruin their fun. Whatever those two kooks stashed in the truck will come into my house. And if I hate it as much as I suspect I will, well, then I’ll have to deal with it later.
Much later.
After my trip to Colombia. Wonder if Mr. Magnificent—as I call Max, just not to his face—knows about the trip yet. I blow out a frustrated gust of breath.
“Okay. Go ahead with your joke. I’ll just . . . ah . . . I’ll run to the store for a quart of milk.”
The two guys chuckle as I hightail it out of my place. After I toss them the keys. Maybe I do need to have my head examined.
But I don’t dawdle on my milk run. Once I have the plastic container in my grubby paws, I rush back home, praying every step of the way. I’ve given them twenty minutes. I hope that’s been enough for them to unload whatever.
I run up the front steps, pause to breathe a prayer, and then fling open the door. “Ready or not, here I—”
A gasp steals the rest of my words. Horror fills me. My eyes open so wide I feel my eyebrows meet my hairline.
My groan is heartfelt. “No way. Please tell me this is only a joke.”
“No joke, pardner,” the blond rat says between chuckles.
Josh holds his middle as he laughs without restraint.
I stumble in, beyond appalled. My lovely living room with its elegant natural wood-trimmed windows, carved natural-wood mantel over the delft-like tiles, and natural hardwood floors is now filled with Miss Mona’s spindly frou-frou French provincial furniture. The fussy brocade upholstery and painted and gilded wood looks about as right as a rhino at a Buckingham Palace tea party would.
“What parallel universe did I just walk into?”
Josh wipes a tear off his cheek and laughs some more.
Max leans back against the far wall, his chuckles infectious— but I do resist. I wave my hand in the circular motion that translates into “Go on.”
“Miss Mona . . .” His laughter breaks into his explanation. “Oh man . . . Miss Mona says she’s . . . she’s redecorating. You luck out with her . . . ‘lightly used treasures.’ ”
“Why?” I drop onto one of the fragile chairs and it squeaks. I can’t believe this. “Why me?”
Max gives me one of his rascally winks. “Because she loves you so much, and wants to do her part.”
I press my palm against my forehead. “What am I going to do? I can’t live with this . . . this stuff.” I scan the room. “And there’s so much of it too. But I can’t hurt her feelings. Why couldn’t she just have had a garage sale, like everyone else?”
“Miss Mona and a garage sale!” Josh wipes more tears after a new explosion of laughs. “Oh . . . I gotta go. I’ve laughed so much my stomach hurts. You’ll figure it out, Andie. You always do.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m so glad you have such confidence in me. I tell you, I don’t.”
He gives another chuckle, then opens the front door. “Don’t bother, Max. I’ll walk home. It’s only a few blocks away. The walk’ll help me work out the cramp in my gut from all this laughing.”
After Josh leaves, the house goes right to too silent. I steal a look at Max, and find him studying me. A blush starts at the base of my neck and slowly spreads up my face.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s not you.” He waves. “This stuff of Miss Mona’s doesn’t work for you. And I’m glad. You’re more . . . more fun, and what you need is furniture that’s more laid back, more fun, more you.”
“Thanks. That’s a really nice thing to say.”
“I do have my moments.”
I flash him a nervous smile. “I know. You’re not all bad.” “Wow! What a rousing endorsement.”
I shrug one shoulder. “It’s the best I can do on a day like today.”
A puzzled look lines his forehead. “A bunch of old-fashioned furniture can bring you down like this? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s really wrong,” I say, standing. “I just have a lot to do to get ready for the trip. The last thing I need is a houseful of Miss Mona’s castoffs I don’t want.”
His eyes narrow. “The trip? What trip would that be?”
“Miss Mona didn’t tell you?”
“Not a word.”
I close my eyes. “Great.” When I look at him again, I see he’s not happy. Fine. There’s not much I can do about it. “She’s sending me to negotiate the price on an emerald lot. In Colombia.”
“No.”
I snort—lovely, huh? “That’s what I said. But you know Miss Mona. It got me nowhere. She’s going to sell emeralds, and I’m going to buy them for her.”
Silence drops between us like a pot’s worth of overcooked linguine. I twitch.
Max shuffles.
Where did the guy who kissed me that one night go?
“Fine,” Max finally says. “When do we leave for Colombia?”
“What do you mean ‘we’? There’s no ‘we’ in the Colombia trip. I’m just going to meet with Mr. Cruz, the vendor who brought some samples to Miss Mona’s office today. I’ll pick out the stones we’ll show, pay the man for them, and head back home. Piece of cake.”
He crosses his arms. “I have just two words for you: Burma and Kashmir.”
A shudder rips through me. I have more bad memories than good from those two trips. “That’s not fair, Max. This time is different. I’ve already met Mr. Cruz. Miss Mona knows him too. I’m not heading out to meet crazed miners I don’t know. I’m going to Mr. Cruz’s office to do business, no different than if his office were in . . . oh, I don’t know, Poughkeepsie, New York.”
Max takes a step toward me, and if I were a betting woman—which I’m not—I’d wager those were angry flames in his eyes. “Might I mention that, unlike Poughkeepsie, New York, Colombia has hordes of gun-toting guerillas and a slight problem with the illegal drug trade?”
Why, Lord? Why are you letting him use my own thoughts against me?
“Believe me, Max. I want nothing to do with anything or anyone other than Mr. Cruz and his emeralds. He just didn’t bring any stones worthy of the price he set on them.” I start to pace. “Oh, they were good ones, all right. But not for $11,000 a carat. He told us he has better ones in Colombia, and Miss Mona insisted I go negotiate there.”
“She insisted.”
“Yes. She did. And you can ask her about it.”
“Well, then, she’ll just have to send me too. I won’t let you risk your life like that.”
Oooooh! “Excuse me?” I say in a voice dripping ice. “You won’t . . . what?”
“I won’t let you flirt with danger again.”
That’s what I thought he’d said. Not good. “You, Mr. Matthews, don’t have the power or authority to say any such thing. It’s not up to you to ‘let’ me do or not do anything at all. I would appreciate you taking your high-handed ways out of my living room before you say any more offensive things.” Or I go back to my old defensive tactics.
He blows out what sounds like a gust of frustration. “Okay. So I didn’t put it in a particularly diplomatic way. But I . . . I care about you. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Are you questioning my ability to look out for myself?”
“No. I just read the newspapers, and am aware of too many people taken hostage in Colombia. I don’t want you to be the next one.”
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“Gee, thanks, Max. Now you’re scaring the living daylights out of me. I’m going to spend my time in Colombia staring over my shoulder, seeing bogeymen in every shadow.”
“No, you won’t, because you’re not going alone.”
“I’m going. Alone.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“What part of partnership equals more than one do you not get, Andie?”
“Me? What about you? Where’s the part where you trust your partner’s judgment? The part where you don’t undermine your partner? The part where you don’t go putting yourself on a high pedestal and tell your partner what to do?”
His eyes narrow again. “Still as stubborn as ever.”
Am I? Am I being unreasonable, Lord? Or am I setting reasonable boundaries? “No, Max. Just an independent career woman who doesn’t like caveman attitudes. I mean, I really thought, after the k—”
I clamp my lips shut as I realize what I’m about to say. I’m still that emotional chicken. I’m not ready to put the memory of that kiss into words. Max still scares me, even if I’m no longer letting myself hold him at arms’ length with the sniping and fighting and sarcastic digs.
“Tell you what,” I say. Reasonably, too. “Let’s let this go for the moment. We can sleep on it, and then, in the morning, we can talk it over rationally.”
He runs a hand through his blond hair. “I don’t think there’s much to talk about, Andie. It doesn’t look like you want what I do.”
Is that a hint of pain I see flash over his face? Could I have hurt his feelings? That’s not what I intended.
Even though he scares me.
But no matter how bad I feel, I can’t make myself say another word. After a few minutes, Max shakes his head.
“Have a good night,” he says as he walks to the door. “I’ll see you at the studio in the morning.”
I follow; watch him climb into the U-Haul then drive away. A sense of failure overtakes me.
“What have I done?”
400
I collapse into my not-so-comfy window seat in business class and allow myself the luxury of a sigh of relief. The past few days have been a challenge, with all the verbal dueling I’ve had to do. Yeah, it’s all about Max. He’s no pushover, and he pulled out all the stops. Over and over again, he regaled me with gory details of past Colombian guerilla crimes. I knew what he was trying to do. He wanted to scare me.