His Christmas Gift ; Decadent Holiday Pleasures

by Janice Sims

  After the waiter had served them and left, they dug in.

  “A bit more running won’t kill me,” Macy said as she spooned a piece of strawberry cheesecake into her mouth.

  “I’m sure Tony will be happy to help me work off the extra calories,” said June teasingly, a naughty expression in her eyes as she tasted a piece of pecan pie.

  “I’m not going to pretend,” Diana said as she tucked into her apple pie. “I’m just going to enjoy this and not care about the extra calories. Do you think men care if they enjoy a huge piece of pie after dinner? They don’t give it a second thought. We’ve got to chill out, ladies.”

  Alia smiled as she enjoyed her red velvet cake. It had been a wonderful birthday dinner. She could always count on her girlfriends to entertain, enlighten and generally keep it real.

  Because of their friendship, it would be a little easier facing another lonely night without Adam.

  * * *

  “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine...one hundred!” Adam Braithwaite breathed as he finished doing his push-ups. He got to his feet and walked slowly around the eight-by-eight-foot room he’d been kept in since they’d brought him to this facility. He wasn’t exactly sure of his location, but he guessed it was somewhere in Abu Dhabi, the capital of the United Arab Emirates. After his capture—however long ago that had been—the van he’d been tossed inside of hadn’t driven far enough to leave the country, in his estimation. Before his capture, he and his colleagues had been living in Dubai, the UAE’s biggest city, working on a government project.

  As he walked in a circle in his room, his heartbeat returning to normal after his exertions, he wondered what day it was. His captors hadn’t provided him with a calendar, or anything to keep track of time passing. They had taken his watch, which he wouldn’t have cared about, except that it had been given to him by his wife, Alia Joie. They’d also, of course, taken his cell phone.

  When he and his team were taken from the lab they’d been working in, those among them who had resisted, including himself, had been roughed up, but since that day they had not been physically abused as far as he knew. He saw his colleagues about once a week when their captors allowed them to have a meal together in a communal dining room in the facility, and he hadn’t noticed any bruises on them. While they ate, they were free to converse. All of his team were still in relatively good health when he saw them: Arjun Sharma, a particle physicist, Calvin Hobbes, a quantum physicist, and Maritza Aguilar, a theoretical physicist like himself.

  They had all lost some weight, which he attributed to the fact that their captors were not giving them enough to eat to maintain their body weights. Adam had been told by his primary inquisitor that if he began talking, they would increase his rations. Once or twice, Adam had been tempted, but was too obstinate to comply. He was glad to note his colleagues were, as well. When they’d first been allowed to eat together once a week, Adam was afraid that each time he walked into the communal dining area, he would find a colleague missing until the number dwindled down to just him. Their captors hadn’t threatened them with death if they didn’t cooperate, but Adam still feared violence. However, that hadn’t happened yet, for which he was grateful.

  Adam had no idea how long he’d been held prisoner at the facility. After some time, he’d begun to make scratches each day on the wall next to his bed, but he knew the amount of scratches didn’t come close to the actual number of days he’d been here. He counted 563 scratches on the wall. That amounted to a little over a year and a half. To him, the time away from Alia Joie felt like it had been much longer.

  Keeping Alia Joie foremost in his mind was what gave him the strength to keep going. Being held against his will was eating away at his sanity. The silence was sometimes unbearable. He was a big, happy, gregarious guy who relished life. No four walls could contain his spirit. Yet he had been bound by four walls for what felt like forever. His captors might not physically abuse him, but they certainly were mentally abusing him. What’s more, he wasn’t allowed to read or have paper and pen to write down his thoughts or mathematical equations, which he had a habit of doing for relaxation. There was no relaxation in here.

  The doorknob jiggled and he knew someone was about to enter his room. He’d observed the face of every man who brought him his meals. Four different men were apparently assigned to his care and feeding. They brought him meals, changes of clothing, soap, towels, toothpaste and toothbrushes when the need arose, and about three times a week they escorted him to the office of his inquisitor, who questioned him about the work he and his colleagues were doing for the US military.

  The man entering his room today had a familiar face. Adam didn’t know his name. He didn’t know any of their names. He’d named this particular man simply Number Three. Number Three was an Arab of average weight and height wearing a green military uniform and black combat boots. He had wavy black hair and a mustache and beard. Adam noticed beards were common, as all four of the men he saw on a regular basis wore them. He had his own full black beard now, while he used to have dreadlocks down his back. He’d held out as long as he could, but had recently asked to have his locks cut off because he was unable to wash his hair often enough and didn’t have access to the essential oils required to keep his hair healthy. Now he was bald headed with a full beard and mustache.

  At six foot four, he towered over the Arab. The man peered up at him, and Adam waited with interest for what would come out of his mouth. He was so bored in here that the variety of options intrigued him. Would he go see his inquisitor or go see his colleagues? It was obvious the man hadn’t come to bring him a meal because there was no tray in his hands.

  In halting English, the man said, “You will have a meal in the dining room. Follow me.”

  “I’ll put on my boots,” Adam said, and went and sat down on the bed while he did that.

  Adam was dressed in his usual attire of a khaki shirt and slacks—no belt—and black combat boots. Whoever ran the facility had a very basic dress code. Except for Maritza, who had been supplied with apparel appropriate for an Arab female, all of his colleagues wore the same thing.

  In the dining room, Adam was relieved to see that the whole gang was there. The air was redolent with the heavy spices cooks in that part of the world used when they prepared meals using a combination of vegetables and meats like lamb, beef, chicken and sometimes camel. Adam hoped it wasn’t camel today. There was never any pork because Dubai was a Muslim area.

  Maritza, a petite brown-skinned woman with coal-black hair and soft brown eyes, smiled when she saw him coming. Adam thought that of all of them, this time had been the hardest to endure for her. Maritza was the mother of a small child. Her husband, Raul, was taking care of little Mariana while she was here. The rest of the team didn’t have children. But all of them had loved ones who were missing them as much as they missed them.

  He sat down at the table, and for the next few minutes they clasped hands tightly. Adam remembered that before they had been kidnapped, they had rarely been demonstrative with each other. They were scientists, after all. They were friends, too, but their caring was expressed by doing good work together. Now, though, they were not embarrassed to hug or clasp each other’s hands with affection. They were survivors, and it did their hearts good to see that they were all still here from one week to another.

  “You look good with a bald head,” Maritza told him, smiling.

  “He looks like a genie,” Calvin joked. Calvin was British, with pale skin and gray eyes. He vaguely reminded Adam of British actor Colin Firth, but younger and fitter. Calvin was a devoted runner.

  “Leave him alone. He looks like Will Smith in Suicide Squad,” Arjun, an Indian American with warm brown skin and deep-set brown eyes, chimed in. Arjun was the youngest among them at twenty-five. He’d been a math prodigy before turning his focus on physics. Adam believed he was also the smartest among them, although Arjun was too kind and mod
est a fellow to own up to it.

  Adam chuckled. “I’m happy to see you all are well, too,” he said in his British Bahamian accent. He dug into the meat stew on his plate. It was sitting on a pile of white rice, and there was a bottle of water beside it. After chewing and swallowing, he said, “My guess is lamb.”

  They played a game of “guess the mystery meat” every time they were together. Maritza smiled. “My family kills a goat every year and Mama makes a stew out of it that tastes just like this. I’m going with goat.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Calvin said. “This is camel. I saw some hair in mine. I’m positive it was camel’s hair.”

  “You’re going to make me gag,” said Arjun. “My money’s on beef. Which I really shouldn’t be eating, anyway. It’s a good thing I have no appetite.”

  They laughed. Adam said, “You win.”

  After their laughter had died down, they started speculating, as they usually did, on when and how they were going to be rescued. Being in enemy territory, though, they kept these conversations low-key and at a soft volume.

  “I had a dream last night,” Maritza told them in a whisper, her brown eyes animated. “We’re going to be rescued soon, and the military is going to do it in the middle of the night with commandos everywhere! It’s going to be like an action movie on steroids.”

  “I hope it’s soon,” Calvin said in equally low tones. “I know Beverly is probably dating someone else by now. She doesn’t strike me as someone who’ll wait until the end of time like Alia.” He tossed a meaningful glance in Adam’s direction.

  Adam’s heartbeat quickened at the mention of Alia Joie. He missed her so much it was a physical ache in his heart. What was she doing right now? He knew there was an eight-hour time difference between here and New York City. When it was midnight in NYC, it was eight in the morning here. When she was going to bed, he was rising. He supposed it was only fitting that they were living opposite lives now. But when he got home, everything would be in sync again. What they had was meant to last forever. He fervently believed she would never give up on him. Somewhere, she was out there thinking of him and praying for his return, as he was here, praying to be returned to her.

  Chapter 2

  In her studio in the loft, Alia signed her name on the last painting in her Women of Strength series and stood back to give the painting another once-over with the critical eye of an art lover. Or so she hoped. She’d like to be able to let go of her ego long enough to judge her work honestly.

  She loved ballet, and had taken lessons until she was fourteen, when her instructor advised her that due to her height and curvy build, ballet wasn’t a suitable career for her. Therefore, she had chosen Sierra Leonean American ballerina Michaela DePrince as the subject of her final painting in the twenty-one-painting series about strong, inspirational women from myriad walks of life such as Harriet Tubman, Toni Morrison, Aretha Franklin and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. She’d painted Michaela, midleap, in a beautiful pale pink tutu. To Alia, Ms. DePrince was the personification of grace under pressure. Her life had not been easy, yet she made all of her performances look effortless.

  Her cell phone rang and she grabbed it off a table next to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the studio. Bright November sunshine illuminated the sizable area on the eastern side of her loft. Glancing at the display on the cell phone, she said, “Hi, Mom. How’re you and Dad?”

  Debra Youngblood laughed softly. “I was calling to see how you’re doing. Two days before the showing. Are you nervous?”

  Alia thought for a moment. “No, I’m not nervous, exactly. I’m in more of a state of expectation than nervousness. I feel like something monumental is going to happen soon, but I don’t know why. Maybe I’m an eternal optimist, even though it feels like the universe is conspiring to turn me into a pessimist.

  “And lately, I’m having conversations with God in my head, wondering why he’s allowing my life to go this way. I’m wondering if I’m the new Job and he’s putting me through trials to toughen me up for something even worse than what I’m already going through. Then again, I sometimes feel guilty for complaining about my life. I’m not sick with an incurable disease or anything. I’m not poor and destitute. The only thing wrong with my life is my husband is missing and I don’t know whether I’ll ever see him again. I should be grateful for all I have.”

  Debra laughed. “Nah, honey, you have a legitimate reason to feel put-upon. Come on, you lost the only man you ever loved! God can take your complaints. He’s strong that way. If it makes you feel better, keep talking to him.

  “On a more practical note,” her mother continued, “what are you doing for dinner tonight? Your father is making his special chili and I’m baking those cinnamon rolls you like to go with it.”

  Alia smiled, remembering the mouthwatering aromas that filled the house when her parents made spicy chili and homemade cinnamon rolls. The treats had really hit the spot during the winter months.

  “We invited your brothers and Petra, too,” Debra said. “Seven o’clock good for you?”

  “I’ll be there,” Alia said. “Wait, is Brock bringing anyone? I may not be in the right frame of mind to meet one of his ladies.”

  Her mother laughed. “No. Brock is being very secretive about whom he’s dating. When I asked if he was bringing anyone, he said, ‘I’m not ready to introduce her to you all just yet.’”

  “This is getting interesting,” Alia said. “He’s rarely without female companionship. He’s never been secretive before, though.”

  “Personally, I’m glad he’s slowing down. It’s time for him to stop fooling around and choose someone who will be his match in every way. There are a lot of good women out there who can keep him on the straight and narrow,” Debra said.

  Alia didn’t say it, but she knew her friend Macy would gladly take the job. Macy, with her strength and generous heart, would be good for Brock. But Alia wouldn’t wish Brock, with his current behavior of loving and leaving them, on anyone.

  “Chance found love,” she said, instead. “There’s hope for Brock.”

  “There’s always hope,” her mother agreed, sounding optimistic. “See you later, sweetheart.”

  “Bye, Mom,” Alia said, smiling.

  After she hung up, she went back to considering the Michaela DePrince painting, observing it from all angles, squinting, her nose wrinkling as a sign of displeasure. It was no use. She wasn’t a good judge of her work. She always felt she could have done a better job, never satisfied. She supposed it was best not to rest on one’s laurels but to always be trying to improve.

  * * *

  Adam was startled from a sound sleep when he felt a hand cover his mouth. Sitting up in bed, he elbowed his assailant in the jaw as hard as he could. “What the hell...” a man cried indignantly, and grabbed him, pinning his arms at his sides. “Steady, Dr. Braithwaite, I’m here to get you out of this place.”

  When Adam had calmed down, the man who’d awakened him briefly shone the beam of a flashlight in his own face, showing Adam the visage of Number Three. “I’m American,” he said, his Arabian accent totally gone. “Took us a while to infiltrate this group, but tonight’s the night we move. Come with me.”

  Adam didn’t have to be told twice. He quickly pulled on clothes and shoes. After he was dressed, the two of them stealthily traversed the dimly lit corridor—it looked to Adam like the facility’s emergency lights were on—until they came to a door several doors down from Adam’s room. Number Three opened the door and told Adam, “You were the last one. You’ll find your friends in there. I want you all to remain here, no matter what happens. I’ll come back for you. Understood?”

  “What if you don’t return?” Adam asked softly. He was peering into the darkened room and could make out three figures huddled together, but not much else.

  “Good point,” said Number Three. “If I don’t come back, then
you’ll know we failed. But at least you’ll know we tried.” He had the grim-faced expression of a soldier determined to carry out his mission. He grinned suddenly. “Either way, you’ll have a story to tell. Lock the door behind me.” Then he was gone.

  Adam walked farther into the room and was immediately hugged by Maritza. “Thank God, they got you,” she breathed.

  Adam could feel her body trembling. “Yeah, me, too,” he said as he held her. “Arjun, Calvin, you two all right?”

  “Still accounted for,” Calvin said.

  “Here, but not enjoying this one bit,” Arjun said. “I hate the dark.”

  “They obviously cut the power to the building to disorientate the enemy,” Adam said.

  “Well, it’s definitely disorientating me,” Calvin said. “And I never used to be afraid of the dark.”

  A moment later, they heard gunfire in the distance. “Maybe we ought to get on the floor,” Adam suggested. “Just in case bullets start flying.”

  “Yeah,” said Maritza. “Good idea.”

  They lay down beside one another. Adam’s night vision was improving somewhat. He could now make out the shapes of the furnishings in the room, which was apparently used as an office. It had a wide desk, some filing cabinets along the wall and a couple of armless chairs in front of the desk. The floor they were lying on felt like it was made of stone.

  “When you got into physics, did you ever think you’d be in a Middle Eastern country with the US military trying to rescue you from terrorists?” Calvin asked.

  “When I got into physics,” Arjun said, “I never thought I’d get a girlfriend, let alone be involved in something this crazy!”

  The others laughed nervously.

  “May I suggest we hold hands and pray?” Maritza, who was a devout Catholic in spite of being a scientist, said. They did as she suggested and she started them off with a prayer. “Dear God, thank you for bringing us this far in our captivity. Now, if you’d be so generous as to get us all the way back home, we’d really appreciate it. I promise to go to church more often and stop sleeping in on Sunday mornings.”