“Colson Hunter!” she playfully reprimanded. “How do you expect me to ever get her down for her nap when you have her wound up like a top?”
“Hey, I’m just trying to wear her out for you,” he panted, galloping across the carpet on all fours, hot on the heels of a squealing Natalie.
“Tickle monster! Tickle monster!” Natalie’s delighted screams pierced the air.
The tickle monster overtook her and nuzzled her neck with his scratchy Saturday beard until she begged for mercy.
Natalie managed to escape the monster’s clutches, and while she scurried to hide under a sofa cushion, Cole sneaked around behind the sofa and popped up in front of her.
Daria laughed.
As he knelt in front of the sofa, the tempting target of the tickle monster’s backside presented itself to Daria and, unable to resist, she snapped him with her dishtowel. The damp corner hit its mark with a loud crack and surprising accuracy. The enraged monster let out a howl and turned on Daria, scuttling after his new victim on hands and knees.
While Natalie looked on, her eyes wide, Daria ran for her life. Adrenaline sped through her veins, and she ran squealing across the living room with Cole right behind.
Breathless, she raced down the hallway and back and finally sought asylum on the couch with Natalie. Cole attacked them both, roaring and nuzzling until he reduced them both to helpless giggles.
Ignoring Natalie temporarily, Cole concentrated on Daria, and she began to understand what Natalie saw in this game. He planted a kiss on her stomach, patting her rounded belly over her baggy sweat-shirt—the belly that held a child he now looked forward to with joy.
Cole lay his head on her belly, and then with a playful gleam in his eye, nuzzled a trail up to her neck. Quickly the nuzzling turned to kisses, and then something more than adrenaline surged through her blood.
“Hey, do we get to take a nap too?” Cole whispered conspiratorially.
“Mmm, if you’re a good boy,” she breathed against his neck, suddenly wanting him fiercely.
“Cross my heart,” he promised. “I’ll even help you get this one packed off to bed.” He tipped his head in Natalie’s direction.
Daria laughed as he scooped Natalie up and headed toward her bedroom with an urgency that she knew had nothing to do with the child’s need for a nap.
He wasn’t halfway down the hall when the doorbell pierced the silence. Natalie came tearing back out to the living room. “I get it! I get it!” she squealed.
Cole shrugged at Daria over the little girl’s head, and Daria went with her to answer the door.
A U.S. Postal Service truck idled in the driveway, and a middle-aged man with a post office insignia on his shirt stood on the porch.
He took off his cap and dipped his head toward her. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hunter. American Telegram sent this. It went to your old address in town, but we knew you’d moved out here, and we’re supposed to deliver these in person. Sorry to bother you on a Saturday. Hope it’s not bad news.”
Daria couldn’t remember ever receiving a telegram in her life. She hadn’t even known it was still possible to send a telegram.
She thanked the man and coaxed Natalie back inside as she unsealed the envelope.
Cole came down the hallway with Natalie’s quilt over his arm. “Come on, Nattie. It’s time for your nap.” He turned to Daria. “Who was that?”
“It’s a telegram, addressed to me.”
“Really? Probably some sales gimmick.”
“The post office delivered it.”
“On a Saturday? Pretty expensive sales gimmick. Come on, Nattie, hurry up. Get your Pooh bear and follow me.”
Daria pulled the yellow sheet of paper from the envelope, unfolded it, and began to read. Was this some kind of sick joke?
NATHAN CAMFIELD FOUND ALIVE. FLYING INTO K.C. INT’L. VIA BOGOTA 12 APRIL. CALL AMERICAN EMBASSY IMMEDIATELY FOR FLIGHT CONFIRMATION.
This can’t be real. But even as the thought went through her mind, she somehow knew the telegram’s words were true.
She felt the strength ebb from her body, and she leaned against the wall of the hallway. Though her vision blurred, she read the glorious, damning words again.
Flashes of memory came at her, repeating themselves as though she were seeing them from a carousel spun out of control. There was Nate in Colombia, his long legs jumping across the narrow stream to their hut, smiling in anticipation of seeing her after a day away from the village. She blinked and there was Cole in his office at the clinic the first time they’d met, holding Natalie in his arms and looking down on the baby as though he knew even then that he would someday be her father. Then Nate’s face appeared again, the way he had looked the night he first told her he loved her. The carousel continued to spin, and she saw Cole and Natalie walking hand in hand down the lane to their farm, singing. But the song was drowned out by an odd cacophony that roared in her head—the voices of the people she loved, the hushed song of the Rio Guaviare, the nasal dialect of the Timoné, the relentless howling of the Kansas wind.
Daria put her head in her hands and tried to drown out the din, afraid she would be sick. She had a vague sense of Cole standing behind her.
“Be quiet so Mommy can read her letter,” he shushed Natalie. He moved in front of Daria.
“Is it from Dwama? Is it from Dwama?” Natalie jumped up and down.
“What is it, Dar?” Cole was watching her face closely, and there was deep concern in his voice.
“Oh, dear God.” It was a prayer of utter anguish, but she didn’t recognize the low, wretched, tremulous groan of her own voice.
“Daria! What’s wrong?”
She shoved the paper toward him and slumped to her knees.
Natalie started to cry. She came to her mother’s side and leaned her tiny head on Daria’s shoulder, whimpering with confusion.
Cole read the telegram in stunned silence. “No. This can’t be right! This isn’t…” He turned the paper over and over again in his hands as though he would find an explanation in the small print.
“Daria?” Cole knelt beside her, but before he could pull her into his arms, Natalie transferred from her unresponsive mother into the waiting circle of Cole’s arms.
Daria was aware that her daughter was frightened and confused. A rational part of her longed to comfort Natalie, to draw comfort from her, but she couldn’t seem to make her muscles respond to her brain’s command.
Almost involuntarily, she began to rock back and forth on her knees, her arms wrapped tightly around her own shoulders. “Oh, Nathan… What are we going to do, Nate?” she moaned.
Cole stepped back as though he’d been slapped. The echo of her own words reverberated through her mind, and she realized that she had called Cole by Nathan’s name.
She reached out for him, disconsolate that she had hurt him, now of all times, desperately needing to feel his arms around her. “Cole. I-I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what this means,” she repeated over and over.
Cole pulled her into his embrace, and Natalie quieted between them, putting a tiny hand on each of their shoulders, her bright eyes darting from one to the other, innocently oblivious to the drama that was being played out in her family.
Daria felt Cole’s chest heave in mute sobs and, as she contemplated the reason for his sorrow at this news that should have been rejoiced over, the reality of the situation rolled over her like a tsunami.
Nate was alive! Her first love, the love of her life—the man to whom she had joyfully given the gift of her virginity, the gift of her firstborn—had risen from the dead. The hopeful, desperate wish she had dared to entertain as a grieving widow more than two years ago had come true. But the realization of that dream had spawned a nightmare more horrible than any sleep had ever conjured.
Cole gave her one last hug and stood, pulling her to her feet with him. She saw that look of determination in his eyes that she knew so well, and she felt consoled that he would take care of this
, that he would make everything right again.
“Let’s get Natalie in bed,” he told her, businesslike. He picked the little girl up and started toward her bedroom. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go find that Pooh bear and put him down for his nap.”
Daria heard Natalie’s giggles as they disappeared into her room. Paralyzed, she stood in the living room, the telegram at her feet. Finally she forced herself to walk down the hallway. She tiptoed into the nursery and stood there, her back against the wall for support, her mind reeling.
Cole was kneeling beside Natalie’s bed, brushing her hair from her forehead in smooth, featherlight strokes meant to lull her to sleep. Her eyes were closed, but she was still sucking her thumb furiously, so Daria knew she wasn’t asleep yet.
The sight of Cole’s tenderness with Nattie, the sudden realization of what this news might mean for the two of them, panicked her. She couldn’t stay there another second. She turned and fled the room. Cole must have sensed her fear, for he followed her out of the room. Then, after shutting the nursery door quietly, Cole put his arm tightly around Daria’s shoulders as they went silently back to the living room.
The telegram lay crumpled on the floor where they’d left it. Cole picked it up and read it one more time. “We need to find out where this came from,” he said. “Maybe it’s a mistake.”
He went to the desk in the kitchen and picked up the thick Wichita phone book. Turning to the business pages, he found the local number for the company that had sent the message. But before he could dial the number, the phone rang.
Daria started, her heart pounding as if it had been a gunshot. Cole picked up the receiver. “Hello…yes, she’s here. May I ask who’s calling?”
She couldn’t possibly speak to anyone, yet Cole was handing her the telephone. “It’s Jack Camfield,” he said, his face stark with fear.
She took the handset, trembling. “Hello, Jack.”
The man’s voice quavered. “Daria, w-we’ve had some news here. Nate is—” Now his voice broke, and Daria knew that they had received the same telegram.
“Yes, I know, Jack. We just got the telegram.”
“We called the embassy, Daria. We’ve spoken to Nate! He’s weak and somewhat confused, but he’s alive. Our son is alive!” Now Nate’s father broke down and sobbed, and Daria wept with him. Cole put a supportive hand on her back. When Daria glanced up at him, she saw that his eyes were closed and his lips were moving in fervent prayer.
Jack Camfield’s voice in her ear drew her attention back to the telephone. “They are flying Nathan back to Kansas City, Daria. His plane comes in tomorrow morning, but they want to take him immediately to the hospital for tests.”
She was trying to write down the information he was giving her, but her hands were shaking and useless.
“What happened, Jack?” Her voice rose a pitch. “Where has he been all this time? I don’t understand what happened.”
“We don’t know everything yet, but according to the embassy in Bogotá, Nate was being held prisoner in the village near Timoné where he went to help.”
“But I don’t understand,” she repeated. “How could we have thought he was dead? Tados and Quimico told me they saw him die in the fire!”
“I don’t know, Daria. Perhaps they lied to you. The man we spoke with at the embassy said Nate has some burns and severe scarring, so maybe he was in the fire. Nathan is in a Bogotá hospital. We’re not really sure of his condition. He spoke to me and told me he was fine, but as I said, he seemed confused about some things. We weren’t able to speak but a few minutes.”
There was a long pause and then Jack Camfield said, “He asked about you, Daria. His first concern was for you. You will be there to meet his flight, won’t you, Daria?”
“Oh, Jack. I-I don’t think I can! I don’t know what I’m going to do. I-I can’t even think clearly right now.”
“Daria, Nathan needs to see his daughter. He needs to know that he has everything to live for, that he has a life to come back to here.”
“Did you tell him about Natalie?”
“Yes, I did, Daria. I’m sorry if you wanted to tell him yourself, but he needed some good news. He needed to know that he had something to come back to,” he repeated.
There was accusation in his voice. And why wouldn’t there be? She felt truly sorry that Jack Camfield had had the odious task of telling his son that Daria had remarried. She wanted to ask him how Nate had taken the news, but she wasn’t sure she could bear to hear the answer. Her thoughts were spinning out of control. What must Nate think of her. She couldn’t imagine how she would feel if the tables had been turned and it was she who returned to find that Nate had left her for dead and gone merrily about his life. She thought then of the baby, Cole’s baby. Had Jack told him about that, too? Oh, dear Lord, please help Nate to understand!
“Daria, please. I need to know. Will you be there to meet his plane?” Jack was pressing her for an answer.
“No, Jack! I-I can’t make a decision like that yet. Please, I’m so confused. I can’t.” Fearing she might faint, she whispered into the phone, “Would you please speak with my husband?”
She handed the phone over to Cole, scarcely realizing the irony of the words she had just spoken: my husband. Who was her husband?
She was vaguely aware that Cole was jotting down addresses and numbers on a notepad, speaking with Jack in terse sentences. Finally he hung up the phone and slumped into a kitchen chair beside Daria. He put his head in his hands and moaned.
They sat in silence for several minutes. When Cole finally looked up, he placed his hands on Daria’s shoulders. “You need to decide what you’re going to do.”
“Cole, I—”
“Daria, the man you were married to first is alive.” His voice had lost all expression. His eyes were glazed as he continued. “Nathan is on his way home, and he is going to need to see h-his wife and”—his voice caught, and he choked out the final words—“his daughter.”
With a loud scraping sound that echoed through the house, Cole pushed his chair back from the table and walked out the back door.
Twenty-Four
Cole opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. The house was quiet. He walked through the dining room and saw Daria lying on the sofa. She appeared to be asleep, but her face was swollen and red from crying. Natalie was curled in the curve of Daria’s body, sleeping soundly. Everything in him wanted to go to them, to lie down beside them and take them in his arms and never let go. Everything he loved in this world was lying on that sofa—his wife, the precious little girl who called him Daddy, and the baby God had created of his and Daria’s love. And he was going to lose them all.
He longed to awaken Daria, to wrap her in his arms and tell her how sorry he was for running out on her the way he had an hour ago. But he had lost the right to do that. Daria belonged to someone else.
With leaden feet, he climbed the stairs to their bedroom and lay down on top of the quilt fully dressed. He stared at the ceiling, wishing that Daria would come to him, wishing he knew where he stood with her. He drifted off to sleep, and when he next opened his eyes, he heard Daria and Natalie downstairs.
He went to the bathroom to wash his face. When he went down to the kitchen, Daria was standing there in her jacket, her purse over her shoulder, writing something on the notepad by the telephone.
“Oh,” she said when she saw him. “I-I didn’t want to wake you.” She seemed so awkward, so stiff, as if they were strangers.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to take Natalie to my folks. I think it’d be best if she was with them for a few days while we…decide what we’re going to do.”
He nodded, but he thought bitterly that it wouldn’t be “we” who made a decision. This was completely out of his hands. It was a decision Daria would have to make alone.
He heard Natalie pad down the hallway. When she saw him, she ran to his side. “Daddy, I goin’ to Grammy’s house!” she ch
irped.
He gulped back tears, and his voice cracked when he told her, “I know, sweetie. Mommy told me. You be good for them, okay, Nattie?”
She put her tiny hands on her hips and declared, “Daddy! I always good.”
Daria corralled Natalie to put her jacket on her, and then they were gone.
He went to the window and watched the car until it turned onto the main road. Walking back to the kitchen, he noticed the notepad lying on the counter. He picked it up.
Cole,
Nattie and I are going to my folks for a while. I’ll talk to
you tomorrow. I do love
She had stopped writing when he had come in. He wished he had come half a minute later.
The next morning in the dead silence of the house, Daria’s words—I do love—still echoed in his ears, but it seemed as though they’d been written a thousand years ago. He went to the kitchen and picked up the telephone. Rummaging through a stack of papers, he extricated a worn slip of paper, and dialed the long-distance number neatly printed on it.
The phone continued to ring as his thoughts roiled. Finally an impatient voice answered.
“Dennis?”
“Yeah, this is Dennis. Who’s calling, please?”
“It’s Cole, Dennis. I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I need your help.”
Dennis Chastain was an old friend, a college buddy turned lawyer who had opened a practice in Kansas City. From time to time, he helped Cole with some of the legal intricacies of running a veterinary practice.
“Hey, Cole! Great to hear from you! Whatsa matter, you land yourself in jail?” he said jokingly.
“No, Dennis.” He sighed deeply. “I’m not even sure where to begin.”
“This sounds serious,” Dennis said, immediately contrite.
“It is serious, Dennis. You know that Daria was widowed before we married,” he said without preamble. “She was told that her husband was killed while they were missionaries in Colombia.”
“Yes…” Chastain waited patiently on the other end, understandable curiosity in his voice.
Beneath a Southern Sky Page 20