Embassy Wife

by Katie Crouch

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” Mila said.

  Something above them had caught Mila’s eye. Amanda followed her gaze. Taimi and Meg had somehow scaled the building and were sitting on the red-tiled roof, their feet dangling above the courtyard.

  “Get down from there, you criminals!” Mila cried. The restaurant erupted into laughter. Everyone, it seemed, knew their daughters had done jail time.

  Their food came. Mila delicately cut into her steak, then put her knife down and motioned the manager over.

  “I said rare,” she snapped. “Not breathing.”

  “We’ll put it back on the grill, Minister Shilongo.” He picked up her plate and hurried away.

  “And you, my dear?” Mila said, turning her attention back to Amanda. “What will you do upon your return?”

  “I’m going to run Mark’s new company,” she said.

  Shortly after the girls were pardoned, Anna had returned with the missing money, and, true to her word, she had tripled it and then some. The reason she gave for not being in touch was that she had traveled to Dubai for the sale, as that was where she could get the best price. Now she was back, and Mark was insisting that they start a legitimate business. He was throwing in the towel on academia. This was much more fun and lucrative, and he’d be able to travel back to his favorite country at least twice a year—no book writing required.

  Amanda hadn’t thought of getting involved at first. She was happy Mark had found something, at long last, that he liked. His new sense of purpose was extremely sexy, she had to admit, and things had so greatly improved in that area that they actually had to use the lock on the door.

  Plus, GiaTech had already said they wanted her back. Age, it turned out, was the new trend in the Valley. Her former boss, the very one who told her she would “age out” in a year, was now sending her nonsensical emails that pushed stock options and were riddled with the term “aging in.”

  But then Jaime had called offering Mark his skills as the head of Mark’s gem business. Which was exactly when Amanda—who had never trusted Jaime—had decided what their new family business needed was a top-notch CEO like herself.

  “I hope we can stay friends, Mila,” Amanda said now. Her eyes filled with tears again, and she let them.

  “We must,” Mila said. “The girls are almost sisters. We will meet once a year, for lunch.”

  “Yes,” Amanda said. “A springbok does not stray from its herd.”

  Mila stared at her, confused. “I don’t know what you mean, Amanda. Springboks often stray from the herd. In fact, young males are often exiled by their elders, so that they don’t hone in on the young females.”

  “Fine.”

  “But I will see you. A promise is a promise.”

  “It is,” Amanda said. She dabbed her eyes.

  “My word, Amanda. You are proof that the saying is correct: In Namibia, you cry when you come, you cry when you leave.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Someone like you,” Mila said. “Now please stop weeping. I must send these potatoes back. That waiter is looking far too pleased with himself.”

  / 37 /

  When Mila had asked how she could repay Persephone for the long stay in her house, Persephone didn’t have to think twice. She wanted one more night of camping next to Mr. Sharp.

  “And I don’t want anyone knowing I’m coming, Mila,” Persephone said. “Because I won’t be alone.”

  “Petrus?”

  “Petrus.”

  The liaison had come about one evening when Mila insisted Persephone go with her to the Night Market, a rather fabulous event filled with Namibian hipsters of all colors, shapes, and sizes. They had run into Petrus there, whom Mila knew from social circles; when Persephone had mentioned her crush, Mila more than approved.

  “He is from a very good family,” Mila said. “They have two farms up north with over eight hundred cattle.” Persephone added his family’s cows to his list of attributes, and accepted a third glass of wine when he brought it over. He’d driven them home and kissed her good night in front of Mila.

  “He’s married,” Persephone said with a tiny wisp of guilt.

  “I know his wife,” Mila said. “She is very busy. She won’t mind.”

  Two weeks later, Persephone was on Petrus’s lap, taking in the Erongo dusk. They’d sighted her beloved Mr. Sharp earlier in the day, but kept a proper distance this time. Now they were watching the rain come.

  “Do you smell the water?” he asked. She didn’t, so he dragged her to the top of a large rock and pointed to a group of thin gray lines so faint they looked like a child’s feathery attempt at using a pencil. “There,” he said. “Let’s make tea and watch it arrive.”

  The air was still as death at first, but then there was a faint rustling in the grass, followed by delicious, damp, howling wind. There was a smell Persephone could only call expectation. The grass and flowers rose up for the water that wasn’t there yet. Finally, the raindrops, light at first, then huge and soft and voluptuous, then sharp and pounding and relentless.

  “There’s no way to listen to this storm and not think of sex,” Persephone said.

  “Most Namibian birthdays correspond to rainstorms that happened nine months before.” He smiled at her. “So, shall we, my dear?”

  It was a onetime weekend. Persephone had never thought of herself as an adulteress; yet Petrus had assured her this was normal in his circles, both for him and his wife.

  “That’s very French,” she’d said. “Are you certain your wife has the same privileges?”

  “She has six children,” Petrus said. “As long as I have the nanny come while I am gone, she is quite pleased with the arrangement.”

  It had been a lovely weekend. The first night Petrus had prepared a proper braai, not letting her lift a finger, and then he had taken her inside the tent and they had done all the things she had fantasized about all year. It was even better than she’d imagined. And now here Persephone was, propped up on her elbows, next to an Ovambo man with beautiful manners, looking out at the boulder-strewn landscape so foreign it might as well be the moon.

  Life was quite extraordinary, she thought. If you let it get that way.

  * * *

  The next day, Persephone walked around the half-empty house, counting the boxes by the door. She was feeling quite herself again. In three days, she would fly home with the three children. She didn’t know what she was going to do next, but she couldn’t go on leading this pretend life.

  It was scary, of course, this change in career. She would no longer be connected to the State Department, with all of its protections and privileges. Still, she had plenty of ideas of where to go next. For one thing, Doni Oppenheimer had actually called her upon reading about the poaching ring in the Times.

  “You had something to do with this, didn’t you, dear?” Doni had said. “I read about your organization in the Post, and then about that very rhino being attacked and saved. And now the whole thing has been cracked open! You must have helped in some way?”

  “Well,” Persephone had replied carefully, “I’m really not supposed to say.”

  “Clever girl. And might I say, you’re aging quite well. This is not backhanded, dear. I can tell you’ve stuck to a strict skin regimen. Those photos were fabulous.”

  “Why, thank you, Doni,” Persephone said. “I remember how much you prize youth.”

  “Oh, not so, my dear, not so. My last girl was an absolute disaster. Twenty-six. Ugh! Which is why I am calling. Now, I’m not looking for an assistant, Persephone. It’s time for me to wind down, as they say—”

  Persephone believed this as much as she believed Doni’s no longer prizing youth.

  “So I really need more of a partner, someone worthy of taking on what I’ve built. And you’re so camera-ready, darling…”

  Persephone wasn’t sure she wanted to be Doni Acte Deux, but certainly it was an interesting option. Life was opening up.
If she really left Adam and went home, she would miss being a representative of her great country, but it was, to be sure, getting harder and harder to smile gracefully at other diplomats while Papa President was throwing tantrums and making lewd comments in misspelled Twitter-speak about every woman he’d ever seen. She’d done it, of course. How many times had she and her siblings pretended everything was just jolly at country club dinners, while her mother threw forks in drunken rages and fell asleep in her aspic? But it was not something a lady could keep up forever.

  * * *

  Later in the week, as she prepared one of her first Frida-less meals for herself and the girls, the bell rang. Persephone was pleasantly surprised; unexpected visits were so rare in Namibia, what with the prison-level security. Being a Southerner, she adored a drop-by, which was why she always kept fresh tasties on hand on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, arranged on a china tray and wrapped in Saran Wrap. As well as a terrine of Brie and chutney, ready to be microwaved for an instant dip. Homemade chutney, mind. It gave the guest such a sense of specialness.

  Another idea! Persephone noted triumphantly. She could write a book of State Department entertainment tips! Brilliant.

  “Miss Frida,” she called. “Can you see who it is?”

  But then she checked herself. Miss Frida was already gone. Yet the gate was opening, which meant it was Adam, arriving to live like a mole. She wondered if he’d noticed that she’d given the majority of his belongings away.

  Persephone and Adam hadn’t yet spoken about their future. Obviously she would divorce him. The thought didn’t bother her; in fact, his absence was the one positive thing to come out of all of this.

  It chilled her, how easily she was bidding the father of her children farewell. She’d realized in the past weeks that she’d never really loved Adam. She’d been fond of him, and she’d appreciated his fine looks and the life he had given her. But her camping weekend with Petrus had been more emotionally satisfying than any of her Four Seasons weekends with Adam.

  Still, Persephone hated the thought of not being a family unit. Retreating back to the United States as a divorced, single mother … well. It was not merveilleux.

  Persephone could hear him coming up the stairs now. Usually he ran them two at a time to show off his excellent lung capacity, but today he was heaving himself up rather slowly. He must be dreading this conversation as much as she was. She arranged herself in the living room, looking desperately for a book to pretend to read. Drat—the only thing available nearby was a copy of I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, which Adam had been reading at some point before she’d ejected him from the building. Swine!

  “Persephone?” a voice called.

  Hell’s bells. It wasn’t Adam. It was the ambassador.

  Persephone shot up, kicking the book under the sofa. “Hello! Miss Ambassador! In here!”

  The ambassador emerged, looking very ambassador-like in a well-cut pantsuit, though the color, serge green, was a bit sad, in Persephone’s opinion. Now that she was back to wearing colors, she was considering herself a bit of an expert at who looked good in what and which shades to don when. Red was for battle. Blue was for peaceful deference and the absorption of new knowledge. Green was for St. Patrick’s Day and she didn’t know when else. Despite being a redhead, Persephone wasn’t fond of green, especially the hue the ambassador was wearing. Mottled? Bottled? It reminded her of old peas.

  “Persephone,” the ambassador said. “I think it’s time you called me Julia.”

  Then again, green could be fantastic on some.

  “Wonderful,” Persephone said. “How are you, Julia? Also, how did you get in? Did Adam give you the key?”

  “We have keys to all of the houses,” the ambassador said. “We also have listening devices and cameras. Though you probably guessed that.” She said this offhandedly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

  “I did not guess that,” Persephone said.

  “Oh yes.”

  “In … every room?”

  “Not the bedrooms. That would be untoward.”

  “Laundry closet?”

  “Persephone, I’d appreciate it if you would join me in my car for a conversation. Given what I just told you.”

  “All right.” The back of a car in the raging heat with the ambassador—Julia—didn’t appeal terribly, but she supposed she didn’t want whoever was sitting on the other end of the hidden microphones to hear more about Adam’s tawdry affairs. “Shall I bring us some tasties? I have homemade cheese straws.”

  “Yes, yes,” the ambassador said. She made her way through the kitchen and paused. “My, this is a ridiculously large house. It’s a good thing I hadn’t seen it before, or I most certainly would have pulled it. All right. I’ll meet you in the car.”

  Persephone sighed. Whatever this conversation was, she didn’t want to deal with it. She took her hors d’oeuvre tray out of the fridge, had a quick sip of Chardonnay for strength, then headed out to the ambassador’s SUV, which was idling in her driveway.

  To her surprise, the ambassador was in the driver’s seat. No chauffeur today. Persephone climbed in and placed the tray on the center console.

  “So, Julia,” Persephone said. The name tripped on her tongue. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, Persephone, I’m here to tell you that I know you’re thinking of leaving.”

  “I do have my tickets.” Persephone arranged the tasties fastidiously on the tray, placing the cheese knife on the ambassador’s side.

  “Well. The State Department doesn’t want you to leave just yet.”

  “You don’t?” Persephone said. “It doesn’t?”

  “No. We consider you a terrifically valuable asset. That’s why we decided to let Adam keep his job instead of Ainsley, remember?”

  “That’s very kind. I suppose he is a decent lawyer.”

  “He’s a terrible lawyer, Persephone.” Julia gave her an appraising look. “I didn’t say he was a valuable asset. I said you were.”

  “Oh!” Persephone sat up straighter. “Well. Thank you. I’m glad that you’ve noticed that I’ve toed the line all these years. I do see it as my special duty to excel at supporting the State Department.”

  “No, Persephone. I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What? But—”

  “You’re good, but you’re not perfect. You drink a bit too much at government events, and you’re extremely expensive. Also, you’re a terrific gossip. And now you’re sleeping with one of the staff.”

  Persephone glanced at her reflection in the side mirror. “Petrus is just a onetime thing,” she said.

  “Good,” the ambassador said. “Because we need you to remain married to Adam.”

  “Need me?” Persephone couldn’t help bristling, which was unfortunate, because such emotions always made her nose flare. “You can’t control whom I marry. I’m not a … a bride for hire.” Did that make sense? No? Well, none of this did.

  “Persephone. Listen carefully.” The ambassador picked up a cheese straw and considered it as if she were a scientist looking at a specimen. “I’m here to offer you a job.”

  “Oh.” Persephone wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you. I’m not really interested in anything the State Department has to offer.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” the ambassador said. “We’re willing to pay quite a lot.”

  “I’m aware of the State Department pay scale.”

  “Here’s the thing.” The ambassador put her hand on Persephone’s arm lightly. “You have an excellent education. How many languages do you speak?”

  “Oh, let’s see!” Persephone did love a brag now and then. “German, French, Arabic, Afrikaans, Romanian, Oshiwambo, and some Nama.”

  “Yes. And your riflery skills. Everyone heard about how you stopped that leopard a few months ago. You even managed not to kill it, yes?”

  “Oh no,” Persephone said. “I knew exactly what I was doing. She’s at AfriCat, recovering nicely.”

/>   “Exactly.” The ambassador gave Persephone’s arm a squeeze and took her hand back. “Which is why, Persephone, we want you to be our local operative in the CIA.”

  “Me?”

  “You.”

  “I…” It was a rare moment, but it was true. Persephone Wilder absolutely had no idea what to say.

  “They’ve been watching you for some time. The agency is certain you will be excellent. And they’re even more certain that no one would ever guess that you would be capable of anything like this.”

  “Well…” Persephone blinked. “I don’t want to shoot a real person, I don’t think.”

  “Oh, we never shoot anyone in Namibia, usually. We gather intelligence. Or, you’ll gather intelligence. We’ve noticed you’re very good at that. Oh, and the salary is this.” The ambassador wrote down a figure on a piece of paper and slid it over.

  My, Persephone thought. A girl could live well on that.

  “Obviously I need to think about it.”

  “Obviously. I’ll leave you to it. It’s only for a couple of years. We don’t want you to be stuck with Adam forever.”

  “Well—”

  “All right. As soon as you give the green light, I’ll have Ellie messenger over a lockbox of materials. We’ve arranged for a fireproof safe to be installed in a secret compartment in your pantry. You’ll receive a signal and the code when your official mission begins.”

  “That’s not really how it all works, is it?” Persephone asked, breathless. “Missions and compartments and signals and codes?”

  The ambassador allowed herself a smile. “That’s just the beginning, future Agent Wilder. Now, time to get out. I’ll take these cheese straws, if I may.”

  “You may,” Persephone said, still stunned. “Good … goodbye!”

  She slid out into the heat and climbed the stairs up to the terrace as the ambassador’s car slipped through the gate. The sky was blinding midday white. Elifas was clipping a hedge.

  My Lord, she thought. The CIA? Could she do it? Turn her entire life around like that in an instant?