The hours between her and the hotel bed felt like an exhausting journey on top of her flight from Gaborone and the long delay in the Nairobi airport. But Beth bent over her declaration form with determination to tackle one thing at a time. When a broad-shouldered granite block of male humanity suddenly filled the seat next to hers, she glanced up in surprise. At the start of the flight, she had managed to trade places enough times to end up with an empty seat beside her. It was at the far back of the crowded plane beside the toilets, but Beth coveted any spare space on a transcontinental or transoceanic jaunt. She had guarded that seat with her life. Now, with her nerves jangling, she found herself looking into the face of the jerk who had used her suitcase for a footrest back in Nairobi.
Blue eyes—reddened and bleary from lack of sleep or too much in-flight alcohol—gazed back at her. A hank of thick brown hair hung over the man’s forehead like a haystack that had blown loose in the wind. He was sunburned, in desperate need of a shave, the top button on his khaki shirt had come open and he smelled like the outdoors. Like her brothers and father when they returned from a camping trip taken without her. She disliked him more than ever.
“Nairobi Airport,” he said. English accent—she suspected Eton and Cambridge. Upper-class. Another jaded Brit. Probably some expatriate heading back to the homeland to check on his relatives. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Overheard the bit about Sri Lanka,” he told Beth. “Sorry.”
She moistened her lips, trying to summon politeness on less than four hours’ sleep. “It’s okay,” she said. “Cell phones. No privacy.”
He smiled. Straight white teeth despite everything else. Then his face became somber. “Your father? The tsunami of 2004?”
“It’s a long story. I’m not sure what happened, to tell you the truth.”
“You’re American?”
Beth looked pointedly at the declaration form on her tray table. The last thing she wanted to do was engage in pointless conversation. She hoped this guy didn’t have any ideas of trying to hook up with her while she was in London. Not a chance, buster. First of all, she was semi-dating Joe. And second, the man was a jerk.
“Texan,” Beth muttered. “Look, I’ve got a few things to declare, so I should…you know…”
He nodded. “Miles.”
“Right. Not many left. I think I heard the landing gear come down.”
“No, Miles—my name.” He set a business card on her tray table. “Better get back to my seat.”
She mustered another smile as he stood and worked his way up the narrow aisle toward first class. Beth bent over the declaration form again, but the white card caught her eye.
“‘Miles Wilson,’” she read aloud. “‘President, International Sales. Wilson Teas, Ltd.’”
Chapter Seven
In the past four days, he had cleaned up well. Beth shook the outstretched hand and marveled at the changes in the man. His morning shave revealed a jaw that formed sharp angles beneath each ear. A shower and shampoo had turned his brown hair a dark sandy gold. A comb had swept the hank of hair off his forehead to set off those blue eyes—now a piercing shade of lapis without a hint of sleep deprivation. A tailored gray suit, white shirt and blue tie took the place of the wrinkled khaki shirt and baggy shorts. In fact, only the straight white teeth gave any indication that this gentleman had been the jerk in the Nairobi airport.
“Miss Lowell.” He indicated a leather chair near his massive desk as he set her business card on his blotter. “Bethany Lowell.”
“Beth.” She took a seat, placed her purse and attaché case on the floor, leaned back and crossed her legs. She felt slightly off-kilter. For some reason, she had envisioned a musty Victorian building with crates of tea stacked about and Dickensian clerks dipping their pens into inkwells as they jotted ciphers in oversize ledgers.
Instead, the headquarters of Wilson Teas, Ltd. occupied two floors of a modern high-rise. This private office looked out on central London, the houses of Parliament and the large clock face of Big Ben. Just beyond the door, a phalanx of employees typed into computers as they spoke to invisible clients via headset phones. The man who now stood behind the glossy mahogany desk had been the biggest surprise.
Beth touched her hair, wishing she had put it up. She could look professional if she made the effort. But this visit had nothing to do with her work persona, and everything to do with who she really was. A missing father. A family secret. A lost legacy. An unknown heritage. Things that confused and upset her.
Though she had prayed long and hard about her mother, Beth felt little peace. She simply didn’t understand how a woman could have done such a thing to her child. What was the point? The only reason to keep such information hidden had been to protect Jan Lowell’s pride and reputation. How selfish!
Now there was this whole issue of Thomas Wood having been killed in a natural disaster. True? Or another lie? Jan had said she was telling her daughter about the death in order to close the book again. Get over it. Get on with it. Get back to who you were before.
Who was she? Beth hardly knew anymore. She had spent the past four days taking Miles Wilson’s business card in and out of her purse so many times, it was going soft and fuzzy around the edges. Had God sent the man to help her? Or was this some kind of test? Should Beth honor her mother and obediently tuck away all thoughts of her two dead fathers? Or should she stick her neck out, go to the address on the card and find out what the Englishman knew?
At last she had made the decision to seek him out. To rebel against her mother’s wishes. To satisfy herself instead of sacrificing her own will on behalf of her mother’s peace of mind. Now what? The fusty tea office had turned out to be a sleek, modern enterprise. And the galoot on the airplane had managed to transform himself into a Gentleman’s Quarterly poster boy. The entire situation made Beth feel insecure. Which, in turn, made her testy.
“So,” she said, trying to think how to begin a conversation she wasn’t even sure she should have. “On the plane from Nairobi the other day, I might have been a little…abrupt. You…well, you looked nothing like an executive in a tea company.”
“And you looked nothing like a…” He glanced at her card as he sat down in the high-backed upholstered chair at his desk. “Transition specialist?”
“I assist people who are relocating internationally. I find homes, schools, house help, clubs, churches, that kind of thing. Settle them in.”
“Ah. Must be something new. We didn’t have anything like that when I was young.”
“Are you old?”
His focus sharpened suddenly, the blue eyes intense. “Thirty. You?”
“I’m twenty-five. But it’s rude to ask a lady her age.”
“Afraid I’ve never been the courteous sort. Known as a bit boorish, in fact. Uncouth. Brought up in the African bush, mostly. A tea estate in the highlands of Kenya. Been there?”
She shrugged. “Just the Nairobi airport. Not a pleasant experience. Some oaf kept putting his feet on my suitcase.”
A grin tilted one corner of his mouth. “People are thoughtless, aren’t they? The woman beside me kept ringing people on her cell phone. I could hardly sleep for the constant nattering.”
Beth tried to keep a straight face. She wondered if he had been as unimpressed with her appearance as she’d been with his. “What did I look like on the airplane?”
“The material point, dear lady, is that you look lovely today.” He picked up a pen and began tapping it on the blotter. “As for me, I’d been on safari.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“The smell.” She smiled. “So, Mr. Wilson, despite my appearance, my yapping away in the airport and my unfriendly demeanor as we were landing, you were kind enough to give me your card. Why?”
“Miles. I’d heard you mention Wilson Teas in the conversation with your mother. You were…upset. The situation with your father…I thought the company might b
e of service.” He pressed a button on his desk. “Jillian, may we have tea, please? For two.”
“At once, sir.” The response was far too submissive for Beth’s taste.
“Miss Lowell,” Miles said, facing her again. “I should have spoken frankly to you in Nairobi or on the airplane. Wilson Teas did not lose any employees in the tsunami of 2004.”
Beth stiffened. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Our property in Sri Lanka is near the town of Nuwara Eliya. Both tidal waves crashed into the coast around Trincomalee in the country’s northeast, sending water about a kilometer inland. Far enough to kill thousands.”
“But not as far as the estate?”
“Not even close. Tea grows best in cool, hilly country. At our estate, we produce what is known as ‘high grown’ tea, which must be harvested 1,200 meters above sea level or more. High grown Ceylon is flavorful and aromatic—extremely desirable on the world market. Nuwara Eliya is a hill station not far from Mount Pidurutalagala, which is 2,524 meters high.”
“You’ve been to the town, then. You’ve seen the terrain.”
“Many times. Lived there twice, actually. I was…” His eyes focused on the corner of his office, as though the dates might be written there. “I was five years old the first time. Eight on the second go-round.” He returned his attention to Beth. “The town hasn’t changed since it was part of the Empire. Odd mix of Tudor and Georgian architecture, gabled roofs, perfect rose gardens. Old gravestones. Even a club. I assure you, it’s well inland. The earthquake didn’t even rattle the buildings.”
“But an employee might have been visiting the coast. Maybe he was on a vacation.”
“The surname was Wood?” He reached toward a notebook computer. “I ran a search after I returned to the office the other day. Didn’t find anyone by that name at our Sri Lanka estate in 2004. Let me look again.”
Unable to help herself, Beth rose and circled the desk to stand beside him. “Thomas Wood,” she clarified. “He interned with your company…well, I guess it must have been twenty-five years ago. After that, Wilson Teas hired him full-time, and he moved to the island.”
“There’s no Thomas Wood listed on our roster of employees in Sri Lanka. Not now. Not in December of 2004.” He turned the slim machine in her direction. “You certain he was with us? Wilson Teas?”
“That’s what my mother told me.” A stab of doubt shot through Beth’s chest as she scanned the list of names. There was nothing Jan Lowell would like better than to pretend that Thomas Wood had never existed. Maybe she had invented everything in their conversation at the Nairobi airport. The name of the tea company. The site of the estate. Even the report of his death.
“Thomas Wood,” Miles repeated, his voice low. “Perhaps he moved on. Fair number of tea estates around the world, you know. Any number of large companies who might have taken him on. But his name is familiar, though not with our Ceylon division. I can’t think where…Hang on.” He pressed a button on his intercom. “Malcolm, you there?”
“Busy!”
“Ever heard of a Thomas Wood? American employee at Nuwara Eliya?”
“I’m in a phone meeting, Miles.”
“I’m thinking India.”
“Miles, cheese off, will you?”
“Darjeeling, do you suppose?”
The silence went on so long that Beth was sure the other man had switched off. It was obvious how Miles Wilson had earned his reputation as boorish and uncouth. He was eyeing the intercom as if determined to force this Malcolm fellow to come up with an answer. And he did.
“Darjeeling, yes.” The office door burst open and a slightly older, paunchier version of Miles Wilson stormed into the room. “What’s this all about? I was on the phone with New York, and now I’ve gone and lost them.” He spotted Beth behind the desk. “Pardon me. Malcolm Wilson.”
“My older brother,” Miles said, eyes twinkling. “We share presidency of the company. Malcolm, this is Bethany Lowell of New York.”
“I may be older, but it’s all I can do to keep my eye on my grotty little brother.” He gave a slight bow as he shook Beth’s hand. “Are you with Lipton?”
“No, actually, I’m—”
“Looking for someone,” Miles cut in. “Thomas Wood. Employed with us twenty-five years ago. Sri Lanka.”
“Darjeeling, dear brother. He’s our production manager there.”
“Wrong. You’re thinking of Lawford.”
“Lawford does the office and the books. He’s the one we work with. Wood is in charge of production—the bloke who actually runs the place. You remember him.”
“Tall chap?”
“Correct. Been with us forever. Father hired him, I believe.”
“Married to an Indian woman, right? Built a house a good distance from the other buildings. He’s a thin fellow, isn’t he? I believe I met him once or twice. Speaks the language fluently, though he doesn’t say much.”
“That’s him. Look him up.”
Malcolm edged Beth against Miles as he crowded closer to peer at the computer screen. She could hardly concentrate on the spreadsheets flipping in and out on the monitor. Thomas Wood was married to an Indian woman? That couldn’t be right. She had pictured him much like the youth in the John Tyler High School yearbook. He wasn’t some grizzled farmer married to an Indian woman. Impossible.
“Here he is.” Miles tapped the screen. “‘India Division. Wilson Teas, Ltd., Darjeeling estate. Production manager.’”
“How long has he been with us?”
“Twenty-five years exactly.” He looked up at Beth, a triumphant smile on his face. “There you are, then. Got him!”
She stepped back, nodding. Thinking she might be sick. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Who is Thomas Wood to you, Ms. Lowell?” Malcolm Wilson asked. “Friend of the family?”
“He was…or is…he’s my…my father. I think.”
“Good heavens.”
“He’s alive, then?” she asked Miles. “Are you sure?”
“He’s very much alive.” He stood. “Thomas Wood wasn’t in Sri Lanka in 2004. Our father had transferred him to India nearly twenty years earlier. Ms. Lowell, are you well?”
“Tea, sir?” Bearing a silver tray with a porcelain teapot and cups, a young woman appeared just inside the office door. “For two? Or shall I fetch another cup?”
“Thank you, Jillian, but I’m sorry to tell you that I’ve decided to take Ms. Lowell to lunch instead.” Miles dismissed the tea girl with a wave. “Back to work, please, Malcolm. You’ve done your bit. We’ll manage from here.”
“Honestly, Miles.” Malcolm shook his head. “Ms. Lowell, if I may offer some advice—”
“You may not, thank you very much.” Miles took Beth’s arm above the elbow as he gave Malcolm a not-so-gentle nudge toward the door.
“Do not listen to two words my brother tells you, Ms. Lowell,” Malcolm went on. “He’s a cheeky swain, he is. Rude. Selfish. Stubborn.”
“Out, Malcolm.” Miles shoved him through the open door and shut it behind him. “He’s jealous. I was always the better shot when we were after green mambas in the bush country. I’d kill ten to his two. Pay him no mind.”
“You’ve been warned!” The door popped open again, and Malcolm’s head appeared. He focused on Beth. “Forewarned is forearmed, Ms. Lowell.”
“Push off, Malcolm!” Miles held up a fist.
“Cheers, then!”
As Malcolm vanished a second time, Beth realized she felt as though she were in the presence of her own two brothers. The easy banter between the men comforted her and eased the knots in her stomach. At the same time, she was disconcerted by the strangely familiar sense that she was home…yet so far in both physical and emotional distance from those she had always loved the most.
She detached her arm from Miles Wilson’s grasp. “I need to go.”
“We’ll eat at The Running Footman on Charles Street,” he said, ignoring what she’d just said. “
Wonderful lunch there. Jackets—baked potatoes, I believe you call them. Or fish and chips. Ideal British meal for a visitor. None better.” He was picking up her purse and attaché, handing them to her, taking her elbow again.
“Good, strong tea at The Running Footman, as well,” he continued, propelling Beth out the office door toward the elevators as he talked. “We supply them, of course. Wilson Teas—Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Assam, Ceylon, only the finest. Did you know footmen used to run ahead of carriages in order to clear the streets of the poor and vulgar? The aristocracy didn’t want to look at commoners. Too distressing. That’s how the pub got its name.”
“I don’t want to go to a pub,” Beth protested as he steered her into an elevator. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Nor do I. Vile habit. There’s no need to drink anything at a British pub. Think of it as a café. Or, in America, a diner. That’s the ticket—we’re off to a diner.”
“Listen, Mr. Wilson, I need to get back to my hotel. I can’t eat lunch with you.”
“Why not? Another appointment? Or am I being boorish again?”
She crossed her arms as the elevator descended. “I need to be alone, that’s all. I have to think.”
“Think aloud. Talking, it’s called.”
“Mr. Wilson—”
“Miles.”
“This is not amusing. Not to me.”
“I’m well aware of that. I overheard your conversation in the Nairobi airport, remember? Half of it, anyway. Not a terribly pleasant memory, if you must know. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t speak to you until the plane was landing. Thought I shouldn’t interfere. But now that I’ve gone and muddled myself in your affairs, the least I can do is take you to lunch.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Besides, there’s something I want to ask you.”
Leaves of Hope Page 9