He was oblivious to me. The travel crate tipped, swayed and shuddered as its inhabitant rocketed from one end to the other, howling discontent and elevating his owner’s already apparent annoyance.
Mesmerized, I stepped into the apartment, unaware of anything but what was inside that crate. I imagined catastrophe—the smells, the sounds, the claws, the danger, the inevitable showdown and the blood, most of which, I quickly realized, would be Winslow’s. He wouldn’t last a minute if he came face-to-face with the Tasmanian devil hunkered evilly in the corner of his crate.
I’d meant to ease myself noiselessly out of the room after dropping the mouse on a nearby table, but was captivated by the space around me, which spoke volumes—literally—about its owner. Books enveloped the room floor to ceiling like wallpaper. In the corners piles of hardbacks teetered like architecture in Pisa. The reading material was eclectic—history, autobiographies, nature and what appeared to be college textbooks.
But the books were a mere background for the rest of the room’s decor. Framed photos in color and black and white leaned in stacks against the legs of furniture, and magazines littered the floor like carpet samples. A film of dust coated the armrests of his oxblood leather couch and a petrified burger and fries spread out on the coffee table made it appear he’d fled the apartment as if it were on fire.
It was all very exotic to me, who’d spent the past eighteen months in Simms, where no one can disappear for more than an hour without being missed, no one’s business is private and all is fair game for coffee-klatch discussion. Of course, this guy was nothing like the men I’d grown accustomed to in Simms. The most mysterious thing about most of them was when they’d last changed their socks and flossed their teeth.
“You’ve lived in this building for a while, haven’t you?”
He spun around on his heel, scowling. “Wha…” He hadn’t even noticed that I’d followed him to the apartment.
“Welcome home,” I blurted, trying to recover some sense of propriety, and thrust into his face the bundle of flowers I was carrying. The tulips, daisies, daffodils, roses, the offending carnation and wildly out of place bird-of-paradise erupted out of the green florist paper and into his arms.
“They were so pretty that I bought some of each. You can’t buy flowers in the market where I come from. It’s only on a rare day that you can buy an eggplant….”
Shut up, Cassia.
“Then you should keep the flowers.” He gently pushed at my outstretched hand as his glower morphed into something softer—a grimace, perhaps. Not much of an improvement, but nothing could dim his good looks.
“I don’t own a vase to put them in. They won’t look like much in a mayonnaise jar. I don’t know what I was thinking.” I thrust the bouquet back at him. I’m nothing if not persistent. Once I embarrass myself, I don’t stop until I’ve achieved it fully.
He obviously didn’t know what to make of my gesture. Finally he raked his dark hair into spikes with his fingers and stared intently at me, as if seeing me for the very first time.
When he looked straight at me, that jellyfish feeling came back into my legs, and I wondered if I’d fall. Perhaps the fruit was weighing me down. I opened my hand, and the sack dropped to the floor. The cage inhabitant howled loudly, but the gorgeous Mr. Mystery Man didn’t even flinch.
His unsettling eyes were the color of espresso, and the look he gave me was as disquieting as if he’d pumped pure caffeine into my nervous system. But if he meant to scare me off, he’d met his match. I’d come too far into my folly to turn back without attempting to save face. Besides, I’d traveled in far more hostile environs than these. Anyone who has spent months calling on parishioners who haven’t darkened the door of a church since Nixon was president would understand. If my neighbor meant to intimidate me, he’d have to try harder than this.
“No problem.” I looked around, trying to think of something friendly to say before I made my departure on my own terms. The walls of books and heavy leather furniture were masculine and inviting. Ernest Hemingway would have felt right at home.
“It’s very cozy in here. Much more comfy than my place. Lots larger, too. I haven’t seen you before. You must travel a lot.”
My mouth overfloweth. James 1:26, Cassia, James 1:26!
If you claim to be religious but don’t control your tongue, you are just fooling yourself, and your religion is worthless.
“Let’s just say I have enough frequent flyer miles to take free vacations until I’m a hundred and five.” He seemed amused. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to let Pepto out of his cage, and it might be a good idea if he didn’t see any strangers until he’s reacquainted with the apartment.”
“Pepto?”
He actually smiled. “After the Pepto-Bismol case in which I found him hiding. He was the king of unwanted strays, fighting, romancing the ladies and living off food from the garbage can outside my bedroom window. I brought him in and fed him in order to shut him up so I could get a decent night’s sleep. Somehow, in the process he adopted me.”
I had one of those Awwww… moments. “How sweet!”
He eyed me as if I were as loony as Pepto. “Right. Sweet. A regular Lion King. I’m going to let him out now, so you might want to step behind a piece of furniture just in case. Or, safer yet, close the front door behind you.”
At first I thought he was kidding—about the danger, at least. I knew he was dead serious about my stepping out the door. But before I could get to the entrance of the apartment, he lifted the pin on the travel crate and Pepto was rereleased onto the world.
A shriek that could have frozen molten lava and a brown-and-black blur of fur, teeth and claws shot out of the carrier and ricocheted off several pieces of furniture and two walls. When a floor lamp landed on its side in a clatter, the cat howled as if he’d been disemboweled and plunged himself deep beneath the couch.
I instinctively hit the floor like a ton of bricks, covered my head with my arms and curled into a fetal position to avoid the thrashing animal. When I came up for air, Pepto’s owner was staring at me with alarm. He was as cool and nonchalant as if he risked having his eyes clawed out on a daily basis.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll let you know for sure when my legs stop shaking.” I felt my knee buckle, the one I’d hit on the floor as I dropped. “But I wouldn’t mind sitting down for a moment, Mr.…”
“Adam. Adam Cavanaugh. Please, sit.” He gestured to an antique chair that looked something like a cat itself with animal-like jaws carved into the wooden armrests and paws with claws for feet. It was upholstered in something that looked disquietingly like fur.
But beggars can’t be choosers and I was beginning to feel a little queasy. If that thing even saw Winslow… Eyeing the base of the couch, half expecting to see a claw-studded fur ball soar from beneath, I dropped onto it. Dust flew into my nostrils. How long had these two been gone, anyway?
“Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself.” I pointed my finger to the ceiling over our heads.
Something warm and melty flickered in his eyes. “I suspected as much.” The room was quiet except for the juicy licking sounds of Pepto bathing under the couch.
His reticence triggered my inner blabbermouth, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to fill the silences with which he seemed so comfortable.
“I’m Cassia Carr. Most people haven’t heard the name Cassia. My mother told me it was Grandpa’s idea.”
Well, that was profound.
He, at least, was polite enough to acknowledge my chatter. “An interesting name.”
“Cassia means ‘spicy cinnamon.’ I suppose my red hair inspired him. I should actually consider myself lucky. Apparently I had an amazingly loud cry for a little thing, and my grandfather first suggested naming me Calliope. That means ‘beautiful voice.’”
That quirky little smile touched his lips again as I plowed on, making an even bigger fool of myself. “With Grandpa being a country preacher and all, I suppose I’m fortunate I didn’t end up as Arabelle.”
He looked at me questioningly, as if now that this thing on his couch had started to talk, he had no idea how to turn it off. Neither did I. At last, something we had in common.
“Arabelle?” Nonplussed, he folded into the faded tapestry wing chair across from me, definitely the finest example of the male species I’d ever studied, exuding comfort, rugged elegance and simplicity. A no-frills man who looked like a million bucks.
A million bucks. I’ve never really liked that term. A million bucks is a pile of ugly, lumpy money. There’s nothing ugly about this guy.
His eyes fixed on me and I inexplicably felt as though I were the most important person in the world to him, that he wanted—no, yearned—to hear every single thought in my head.
“Arabelle. ‘Calling to prayer,’” I yammered. “My grandfather did that a lot—call people to prayer, that is. My sister and I lived with him and my grandmother while my parents were overseas in the mission field.”
“And your sister’s name is…?”
“Jane.”
Much to my surprise, he burst out laughing. “Grandpa didn’t have many ideas the day she was born, I take it.”
“Apparently not.” I felt a rush of blood explode in my cheeks.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” I apologized. “I normally don’t follow people around trying to find out what’s in their luggage.” I eyed the crate. “When I saw that and heard the sounds coming out of it, the first thing I thought about was Winslow, my dog. He’s big but gentle, like a stuffed toy almost. Except, of course, for his appetite. His favorite thing in the world is eating. And me, of course. And—” I couldn’t help glancing at the base of the leather couch “—cats.”
Adam lifted one eyebrow dubiously.
“Do you think that’s going to be a problem?”
“Winslow,” he echoed, as if unprepared for this onslaught of information.
“He’s named after Winslow Homer, the painter, but I considered naming him Mozart,” I yammered. “As a puppy, he loved Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 20 in D Minor. As long as I played it, he was quiet. In fact—and I really hate admitting this to anyone because my sister already thinks I’m besotted about my dog—I leave classical CDs playing for him while I’m at work. Mostly Mozart…” My voice trailed away. “I don’t know much about music, but I do know my dog is crazy about it.”
CHAPTER 3
“Or just plain crazy,” Adam muttered as his new neighbor babbled her way to his front door.
Turning away from the sight, he opened the cupboard to see what he and Pepto would be having for supper. There were two cans of sardines, a can of tomato soup and some mixed fruit he’d purchased with the delusion that he might actually make something out of it. There was probably some of that frozen fake egg goop and bacon in the freezer if he had the energy to find it. Best of all, in the back of the cupboard, shoved behind a double stack of cheap napkins, was a can of the kitten food he’d fed Pepto when he’d first found him. The robust, barrel-bottomed cat now twining himself around Adam’s legs had then looked like a starving rat with bad fur and attitude.
“Well, guy, we’re going to eat well tonight. Quit kissing up to me, you mangy fur ball.”
Adam grinned slightly as he worked the can opener. Pepto had really done a number on his new neighbor. Maybe he and Pepto were more alike than he’d realized—both good at intimidating women and scaring them off.
He’d felt her caramel-colored eyes on his back as she’d shadowed him into the building. Her gaze had practically seared holes through the leather jacket that had withstood strafing, blistering heat, frigid snow, pellet shot, short knives with sharp blades and, once, even a branding iron. She was definitely a woman who could make a mark on a guy—if he’d let her. But Adam wasn’t in the mood to even think about a woman, let alone get entangled with one.
He was bone tired, gravel eyed, hungry and dirty. He’d missed three planes, four meals and two nights’ sleep to get home. He didn’t want to deal with either a psychotic cat or the big-eyed woman with a mass of astounding red hair who’d apparently rented the empty apartment upstairs while he was away on assignment. His nerves were open wounds, raw, exposed and agonizingly tender. He was exhausted mentally, physically and emotionally, and right now neither the banshee at his feet nor the dewy-eyed feminine apparition who lived upstairs was much to his liking. All he wanted was a bed to collapse into. But instead of indulging himself, he opened the curtains and unlocked the windows to flood light and air into the dusty gloom.
He rolled his shoulders to release the muscles in his neck, but they were so stiff and tight that he felt the movement halfway to his calves. Being a punching bag for the travel industry was not for wimps. Endless hours on the plane, more on the ground in airports without air-conditioning, dehydration and whatever faux food could be hermetically sealed and sold for exorbitant prices from carts in airports had taken its toll. Then Pepto, who’d taken a liking to his babysitters, Adam’s cousin Chase Andrews and his wife, Whitney, had thrown a fit at the idea of going back into his crate and had given Adam a full set of toenail scratches on the back of one hand.
And the new little neighborhood cheerleader had given him flowers. He didn’t bother to tell her that if he were to get flowers every time he did a touch-and-go in this apartment, the place would be a dead-bouquet graveyard. He eyed the strange conglomeration of flowers that was mostly daisies with a single carnation and a bird-of-paradise thrown in. It was odd, but he rather liked it.
He turned around and was astounded to see her still standing in his doorway. Adam observed her anxious expression, wringing hands and the way she stood like a penitent child. Not a child, exactly. The aquamarine knit top she wore skated smoothly across her curves and the body beneath the crisp white slacks was long legged and fit. All she wore for jewelry was a gold necklace from which hung a simple cross. Her fingers were bare of rings, but she wore a slender gold toe ring on her second toe that peeked tantalizingly from her sandal.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
She would excuse him, wouldn’t she? It alarmed Adam a little that she looked as though she’d settle in for the duration. She was eyeing his tattered leather luggage plastered with old decals, port-of-entry and customs stamps and held together with a sturdy leather belt, and comparing it to the pristine cowhide carrying case for his laptop computer.
“I don’t know what you do for a living,” she murmured, “but it must be very interesting.”
“Don’t mind the bullet hole. A minor accident. No one was hurt.”
“Hmm.” She bent to drag a dainty pink-tipped finger over a burn mark on the corner of the suitcase. It was a memento of a spirited argument around a campfire during which one of his companions had tried to throw both Adam and his luggage onto the pyre.
Mentally Adam renewed his vow to find another job. This one was just too hard on him.
Though he was tempted to encourage Cassia to mind her own business and get back to her apartment, it occurred to him that there was no casual inquisitiveness or recreational prying in her expression. She was genuinely interested. He could hardly fault her for asking questions, since he made a living doing the same thing. Her face was completely open and without guile, a quality so scarce he’d barely recognized it. Her loneliness and embarrassment were apparent. Adam prided himself on his ability to read people and their emotions. It was disconcerting to realize that, for this woman at least, he actually cared what she felt.
Touchy-feely he was not. Or hadn’t been…until recently. But despite the fleeting compassion he felt for Cassia, he was relieved when she finally backed through the doorway waving goodbye.
Man, oh, man, did he need a shower and a nap.
The little skeleton twitched as though it were still alive. It couldn’t be, of course. There was nothing left of the child but tissue-paper-thin skin stretched across an emaciated body. Its skull was too large for the wasted body and the eyelids, like bits of waxy paper, did not quite close, revealing slits of white fringed by sparse lashes.
Dazed and drunk with misery, Adam picked up the shovel and began to dig another grave. Surely he was hallucinating from heat and exertion. The eroded earth was hard and dry as chalk, over-grazed by cattle on this marginal land, leaving it unprotected and exposed to the elements.
He couldn’t go very deep with this one. Taking off his brimmed canvas hat, he wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. He tasted the saltiness of his lips and felt the visibly shimmering heat embracing him. His water bottle was back in the tent and his tongue was growing thick and parched. He’d have to get this done soon and go back to rehydrate. There weren’t many good-sized rocks in this area either. Not enough to cover a grave. He’d used them all for the others. Perhaps there weren’t enough rocks and dirt in Burundi to cover all the dead bodies. Even though there’d been a tenuous peace in Africa’s Great Lakes Region since the end of the civil war, famine was just as efficient at eradicating life as war had been. Sadly, it took the infants and children first.
He did the best he could, scratching out a shallow hole in the hard earth before turning to pick up the tiny carcass he’d come to bury. He cradled the frail frame in his arms for just a moment. It was like holding a cluster of pencils—tiny sticks of arms and legs, limp and nearly weightless….
Adam heard himself scream as the fragile form moved in his arms. Eyes, large and dark as black holes in a distant universe, opened to stare at him.
“You’re dead! Dead!” Adam shouted. But the baby wasn’t dead, not quite. The eyes stared at him accusingly, as if he were the one responsible for its suffering.
At least he could wake himself up from these dreams, Adam thought, taking deep breaths. He was on the verge of hyperventilating, shivering and damp from head to toe with sweat and nerves, a sheen of perspiration glistening across his pectorals and the soft, dark furring of his chest. He worked his jaw and willed himself to relax. His pajama bottoms rode low on his hips, and he felt a rivulet of sweat pouring down his backbone to soak the elastic at his waist. As he stood at the kitchen sink slugging back glasses of ice water, he began to shiver. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn he had the shaking, chills, muscle aches and exhaustion of malaria. He would have traded the dreams that haunted him for malaria any day. From this side of sleep, a nap no longer seemed such a good idea.
Groping toward the shower, he stumbled over Pepto, who had stationed himself in the hall in front of the bedroom door. The cat who, abused as a kitten, could be provoked into a frenzy at the sight of anything closely resembling a human attack, didn’t even flinch. Even Pepto, the most self-absorbed creature ever born, sensed that Adam had reached his limit.
As Adam stood in the shower, welcoming the sharp pinpricks of water on his body, he wondered anew when…if…the dreams would ever stop.
CHAPTER 4
Kiwi is God’s way of cracking a joke.
I peeled another of the hairy little critters, sliced the bright green flesh dotted with its circle of black seeds and added it into my developing fruit salad, to be tossed in a concoction of cottage cheese, black persimmon pulp and honey. The recipe sounds pretty scary, but sometimes it’s good to live on the edge.
Cooking helps me ease the loneliness I’ve been feeling.
I went to church this morning, and came back reluctantly to my empty apartment. I’m “church shopping,” going in ever and ever bigger concentric circles in the area of my apartment. I’ve been praying that the Holy Spirit will give me a big “thumbs up” sign when I find my church home.
The phone rang. I checked caller ID to make sure it wasn’t Ken again. Sometimes I’m just not up to being loved by him.
“Hi, Grandma?” I took the phone into the living room and sprawled across the couch I’d borrowed from Jane. “What’s up?”
“That’s what I called to ask you, my dear.” Grandma Mattie’s voice was robust and cheerful. I couldn’t help but smile just hearing her.
“I went to the market yesterday.”
“My, my, now what?”
I suppose she has a right to be apprehensive. I’ve been going a little overboard at grocery and specialty stores. For me, unfortunately, everything from canned rattlesnake to sushi tastes like chicken.
“Black persimmons—‘chocolate pudding fruit’? How could I resist?”
“It would have taken a saint, I’m sure,” Grandma said tranquilly. “I’ve heard that grocery stores and Laundromats are wonderful places to meet men—so clean and wholesome. And men who shop and do laundry at night obviously aren’t frequenting nightclubs….”
Visions of men too ashamed to show their dirty underwear by light of day invaded my thoughts. Ewww. “Grandma, have you been talking to Jane?”
“Your sister thinks you’re lonely.”
“My sister thinks a lot of things. That doesn’t make them all true. She’s sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“That’s where her nose has always been,” Grandma Mattie agreed cheerfully. “Are you lonely?”
There’s no use beating around the bush with Mattie. “A little. The people at work are great, but they live all over the city and none near me. My apartment building is quieter than I’d expected. In fact, I didn’t meet any of my neighbors until today…and I managed to make a royal fool of myself, too.”
“Oh?” Mattie can pack volumes into a single “Oh?”
“I didn’t expect the Cities to be like Simms, where I can dial a wrong number and talk for half an hour to whoever answers, but I also didn’t realize how much I’ve missed my friends until I followed a man into his apartment today.”
There was a long, potent pause on the other end of the line. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“There’s nothing much to tell, really, but he has the most awful cat….” I unfurled for her my long, wretched story. To my surprise, instead of asking where I’d gone wrong in the common sense department, she changed the subject.
“Do you like your job?”
“It’s fine. I’m still learning.”
“You’ll find something in your field soon. You didn’t get a degree in child development to waste it now.”
“I need to finish my master’s and maybe even my doctorate in child psychology, Grandma. Right now I’m a well-educated unemployable.”
“You left school to help your grandfather and me and didn’t complain once about your sacrifice. The Fifth Commandment and all.”
Honor your father and your mother.
Grandma, too, was accustomed to talking in biblical shorthand.
I recalled the day my grandfather had had his first heart attack. That moment had changed my life. I had known for certain that I couldn’t let Mattie struggle alone, and once I realized Grandpa Ben was disappearing in inches, a little each day, it became crystal clear that my place was with my grandparents. I would only have felt remorse if I had decided my own life was “too important” to spare them the time and had missed the opportunity to share so many powerful weeks with Grandfather before he died.
“You and Ben have been like my own father and mother in so many ways. You were there for us when our parents were away, foot soldiers right there in the trenches with us.”
“I never considered raising you two a war, dear. Of course, there were a few skirmishes.”
I winced, hoping she wasn’t thinking of that time Jane and I were so determined to play with the same doll that we pulled it in half. Or that nasty incident with the scissors while we played beauty shop. Of course, that did work out in the long run. Jane still wears her hair in a bob.
