Читать книгу Always Emily - Mary Sullivan - Страница 10
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
One year ago
“YOU COULD ALWAYS STAY here with me,” Salem Pearce whispered into the velvety night, his butter-soft voice a contrast to the chirrups of crickets in the tall grasses lining the road.
G. veletis. Spring crickets. Only the males sing. Like crickets, men had their calling, courtship and rivalry songs. Emily Jordan had heard them all. In her experience, men were full of bluster.
But not Salem. Not her friend of few words.
These words shocked her. Even more, they frustrated her because his timing couldn’t be worse.
“I’ve waited years for you to ask me that,” she said fiercely. “How could you do this to me now? The night before my flight out?”
“You’re always catching a flight.” The bitterness in his voice might have been justified if not for their history. She wasn’t the only one who had turned away in the past. “You’re always leaving.”
The pale moon shone on hair as black as a cricket’s back and sent his deep-set eyes, as dark as the night weaving through the woods beside them, into shadow. His Native American skin, honey-gold in sunlight, glowed darker in the moonlight. An intensity she hadn’t seen before hardened his features.
“Of course I’m always leaving,” she answered. “Because I don’t work here. My livelihood takes me everywhere but here.”
“You set a record this time.” His voice hardened and cut through her defenses like an acetylene torch, the steel of the armor she’d spent years shaping useless against him when he used that harsh tone. She’d loved him for years, and then she’d learned to turn it off when he’d married someone else. “You didn’t last even a weekend.”
That set up her dander. “I’m returning to work.”
“Work? Is that what you call it?”
“Yes,” Emily shouted. Ooh, the man could make her so mad. “I’m a good archeologist. I do great work.”
“Archeology. Yes. You’re great.” He touched her arm, sending a zing of pleasure through her. “But we both know that isn’t why you go back, over and over again.” His tension swirled around them like fog, separating them as much as age and distance ever had.
“I’m returning to my work,” Emily insisted.
Salem stepped close so quickly, his long jet-black braid fell forward over his shoulder. “You’re returning to him.” The heat from his body chased away the late April chill.
“No.” She was involved with Jean-Marc, but her work called to her.
“He’ll be there.”
“Of course he will. He’s working on the same dig. He’s my boss. That doesn’t mean anything, Salem. There are a lot of people there.”
“You’re going back to him,” he repeated.
Relenting, she forced herself to answer honestly. “Yes.” Jean-Marc drew her as relentlessly as her work did. As equally.
A car on its way into Accord cast its headlights across the Colorado night and the glare turned the landscape to black and white.
She and Salem had been driving past each other on the small highway and had pulled over to talk. She’d wanted to tell him she was leaving in the morning. How could she have expected his beautiful, terrible bombshell? Stay with me.
In the wash of the car’s lights, Salem did his imitation of a sphinx, Native American-style. He closed up and set his beautiful lips into a thin line beneath his broad Ute cheekbones. Stone man. Lord, she hated when he did that.
This was so unfair. “You abandoned me first. Why?” Salem didn’t answer. She knew he understood the question, the one he’d never answered years ago. “Why?” she pressed. “You could have waited for me. You wanted me.”
“Not when we first met. You were so young. Like a kid sister. We had a bond, yeah. You were my little buddy. I couldn’t believe a twelve-year-old actually got me, understood my love of nature and my heritage, of history.”
He tapped his fist against his chin, a measured action, maybe judging how much to tell her? “I felt less alone because you were there. Why else would an eighteen-year-old hang out with a twelve-year-old? Why else would I pour my dreams out to you? I’d never known a kid who was so good at listening. I—I wished you were part of my family.” He angled away, as though embarrassed to admit to the very thing she had felt when she first met him—an unprecedented affinity with another person. Her heart soared. He had felt the same way as her!
“Then you were fourteen, almost fifteen, and beginning to look like a woman, and things changed. I fell in love with you.”
Her heart rate kicked up, did a song-and-dance routine in her chest.
“I found you attractive.” He grasped her upper arms, expression intense. “Don’t you get how young you still were? I respected both you and your dad too much to touch you. And myself, when it comes down to it. For God’s sake, it wouldn’t even have been legal. I tried waiting, but I kept on thinking about you, dreaming about you. I had to change how I dealt with you, to cut off the friendship, because it was becoming something it shouldn’t have been until you got older.”
All that time when she’d been dreaming about him, and he had started to turn away from her, he’d been doing the same with her. She’d had no idea. He’d hidden it well.
When he said, “I hated that attraction. It drove me nuts,” he shattered her blossoming happiness. “I had to distract myself with other women. Waiting was hard for a guy that age. What was I supposed to do? Wait four or five years?”
“Yes.” It came out a sibilant plea. “Why didn’t you?”
“You were a girl. I was a young man. I needed companionship.”
“You needed sex,” Emily said, still bitter sixteen years later.
“What was so wrong with that?” The sphinx was gone and Salem’s anger slipped through. “I was a guy. That’s what men do. They have sex with willing women. Annie was willing.”
“You didn’t have to get her pregnant.” And break my fourteen-year-old heart.
“That was an accident. Failed birth control.”
“You didn’t have to marry her.”
“Seriously, Emily? Leave Annie to raise the baby alone? Maybe let some other man step in? Don’t you know me at all?”
Yes, she did. Through and through. Proud, ethical Salem would do the right thing. She expected no less. It had been only her vulnerable young heart that had been unreasonable. It had hurt to lose him.
To lose something you never had, Emily?
But we did have something, a connection. Everyone thought so, not just me. Salem just told you he felt it, too.
“Why were you distant after you got married? We still saw each other all the time, but you treated me differently.”
“Of course I did.” The statement exploded out of him. “I was married and committed to making it work. I would have been a fool not to. I had children and was trying to create a strong family. My children had to believe I cared for their mother. Annie tried hard, too.”
It all made perfect sense. Her own naïveté had wounded her, not Salem.
“Stay,” Salem said again. “With me and the girls. Annie’s been dead for four years. We could make it work now.”
The age gap that had mattered when they were teenagers no longer did at thirty-six and thirty.
One big, big thing besides her career did separate them, though. Jean-Marc. She couldn’t dump him, long distance, just because Salem asked her to. Out of the blue, she might add. Where on earth had this come from?
“Don’t go back, Emily.”
“I have to.”
“Then this is goodbye.”
Her heart chilled. “What do you mean?”
“No more hanging together. No more contact. It’s too hard on me. I need to walk away. I need a clean break.”
The ice in his voice stripped her skin raw and opened a yawning pit where his presence had always been, dependable and there. She might see him only three or four times a year, but he was always present in her mind, like a beacon lighting a path through her dark times.
The thought of losing Salem, her rock, sent her into a panic. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do, Emily,” he said, the sphinx back and unyielding. “The next time you come home, stay away from me. Leave me alone.”
Bewildered, she said, “But—but you’re my best friend.”
“For the love of God, Emily, friend? Is that how you see me?” Before she realized he’d moved, he gripped her wrists, his shoulders blocking the spill of moonlight from overhead. He swore and pulled her against him. His lips hovered above hers.
He’d never— She’d always wanted— At last.
But he didn’t kiss her. He moved his mouth to her temple but didn’t touch her, simply breathed on her skin, raising goose bumps across her flesh.
Time stilled while his soapy aftershave wove ribbons of scent around her.
Lick me. Lick my temple, my cheek, my lips. Make love to me.
His breath swept her cheek, lingered on her ear and then trailed down her neck. He made no contact, but shivers followed in his wake. Her mind knew she couldn’t give in, but her body, oh, her body wanted nothing to do with common sense. Her heart wanted to own his.
Fingers of cool air caressed her shoulders, but Salem’s palms on her back were hot, drawing her closer to his hard chest and flat belly.
She’d always loved his height, his muscle. She touched him now, her hands flat against his chest and roaming his lean frame, measuring his dimensions for those nights when she would need memories, something, to hold close in the Sudan. Salem. Words, thought, fled. Only Salem. Only this and now.
Too soon, he set her away from him, his hands hard on her shoulders. “I’m not your friend, Emily. The next time that jackass hurts you, the next time he screws around on you, don’t come crying to me. If you leave tomorrow, this will be our last time together.”
She struggled to catch her breath. She wasn’t this kind of woman. She didn’t keep two men at one time. When Salem had been married, and since her relationship with Jean-Marc started, she’d been careful to not give Salem any sign he might construe as encouragement. She had put aside her youthful infatuation, had buried it deeper than the most elusive artifact, opting instead for only friendship and a shoulder to cry on. By the time Annie died, Emily had already become deeply involved with Jean-Marc.
Shaken that she’d almost lost reason, she stepped away.
Salem wreaked havoc with her good intentions. And he hadn’t even kissed her. Lordy, Lordy, what if he had?
She swiped beads of sweat from her upper lip and pulled herself together. Her hand shook. Salem, what you do to me should be against the law.
“I have to go back,” she whispered. “There are things—”
“Fine. It’s over.”
She saw red. She didn’t know that could be real, but holy relics, it was. “Over?” she asked, her voice dangerously quiet. “How can something be over when it never began?”
“Get on that plane tomorrow morning and consider us done. The next time you visit your family, stay the hell away from me.”
He strode to his beat-up old Jeep, slammed the door and spewed gravel, leaving ruts in the side of the road.
Her best friend, her onetime crush, meant it. He never wanted to see her again.
The air around Emily became thin, leaving her dizzy. For too long, she had taken Salem for granted, had assumed he would always be here waiting for her. Now he was gone, as far away from her emotionally as Jean-Marc was physically, and it cut a dent into her heart, hacked out a hunk of it and left it bleeding on the road.
Exhausted, she got into her car to drive home to her father’s house, in the opposite direction Salem had gone, and wasn’t that freaking symbolic?
Hadn’t they always been heading different ways?
Stay here with me.
Oh, Salem, and what would I do about my work? About my...my what? My boyfriend? What a pale description for her relationship with Jean-Marc. And too simple. My lover? Yes, that, but more.
The following morning, although it made her sick in both heart and body, she boarded the plane to return to work and Jean-Marc.
Present day
“STAY WITH ME,” Jean-Marc said, bringing back memories of one year ago, when the words came from a better man. She’d made the wrong choice, and now it was too late. Too late to get Salem at any rate.
She could certainly dump Jean-Marc, though, and gladly.
“We can work everything out,” he said, ramping up the charm with his too-easy grin and continental good looks—long tawny hair and ghostly pale blue eyes above high cheekbones in a rugged face. Over time, the elements roughened his skin and made him look even better, as though the sun’s sole purpose was to serve this man. She’d grown tired of his looks and his arrogance. Other women hadn’t. They flew to him like moths to a flame, but like a flame, Jean-Marc burned brightly but only briefly for any given woman.
Women envied her. Don’t, she should tell them. He’ll only tear you to pieces, too, just as he has me.
Brilliant at getting governments and countries to open their borders and doors to him even in tumultuous times, when others couldn’t, Jean-Marc had an enviable reputation in the world of archeology. He knew how to work the press, how to make digging in the dirt sound sexy and how to promote himself as much as any of the ancient ruins on which he worked. He brought glamor to archeology. With his daily tweets and constant Facebook presence, added to his raging good looks, he’d become a star.
Humans were a great lot for mythmaking. She got that. In her line of work, how could she not? But her job was to separate fact from fiction. It should have been Jean-Marc’s, too, but somewhere along the way, he’d begun to believe his own press. He thought he was God, all-powerful and above reproach.
“We can work this out,” he repeated.
“Stuff it, Jean-Marc.” Yeah, she was being rude. Dad’s wife, Laura, would be appalled. Dad, on the other hand, would applaud. He was a fighter like Emily. A scrapper. She’d held her tongue for too long, the result of being involved with one’s boss. Foolish girl.
Two nights ago, she’d caught Jean-Marc in bed with the latest PhD groupie, another one drawn in by his charisma. Until now, she’d been able to deny these things happened. In a weird and wonderful way, she was relieved that it was all out in the open. She could end it cleanly. If only she didn’t feel so lousy. If only her breakfast would stop playing hopscotch in her stomach.
Over the years, she’d endured whispered rumors about his affairs and pitying glances. She’d ignored it all. No longer. “I’m sick of it.”
She lifted her backpack onto the bed to fill with her carry-on items. She had a flight to catch. Yesterday, she’d boxed up her tools and had arranged to have them sent home. She’d said goodbye to dear friends and colleagues.
A hot breeze blew the dust of the desert in through her open window. Local merchants hawked their wares four stories below. Inside, Jean-Marc tried to sell her damaged goods. “Come on,” he said. “Be reasonable.”
God, what an asinine phrase. Jean-Marc meant, Agree with me.
“Save your smiles for the young women you chase.” She packed her cosmetic bag. “They no longer work on me.”
Emily shoved a sweater into her backpack, ready to walk out of this man’s life for good. It had taken her a year to come to her senses.
“You’re running away.” If one more man told her that, she would scream.
Disillusioned with him, she’d also come to the end of her love affair with the past. Somewhere along the way, archeology had lost its magical allure, had changed from the excitement of revealing ancient treasures and had become...digging in the dirt.
Relics, the secrets of ancient worlds, still commanded her respect and awe, but she was tired of it. She needed a firmer attachment to the present. She needed to get a life that worked. Past time to go home, she was determined to get out of here in one piece, with her sanity intact.
Too late, kid. That’s long gone.
She swiped a hand across her brow, skimming sweat from her forehead. She was used to the heat of the desert, but today’s heat was way too high for May. Even her brain felt foggy. She’d lost track of their argument. What had Jean-Marc said? Oh, yeah.
“I’m not running away,” she stated. “I’m leaving. There’s a difference.”
“Explain it to me.” She already had, but Jean-Marc was a notoriously bad listener, especially when he disagreed with a point.
She’d given the man too much, because that’s what she did as a matter of course. When she committed, she gave her all. It had been her downfall with Jean-Marc.
Time for self-preservation.
She stuffed all of her socks beside her one sweater. Why did she bother? They were ragged. It might be hot as hell in the desert in the daytime, but nights were cold. She’d worn the daylights out of her clothes. They’d become as ragged as some of the relics she’d unearthed in her career, and a sad metaphor for her life.
Time for a new me. It starts with a clean break.
“We can work things out,” Jean-Marc insisted.
“Really? By me being a doormat while you sleep your way through all of the young beauties of the Sudan?”
“You’re exaggerating. I made only one or two mistakes.”
Emily sent him a repressive look. “You’re beginning to believe your own lies.”
“You are a prude,” he snapped. “This is how modern people conduct affairs.”
Emily slammed her alarm clock into her backpack and snapped the buckles together, then tossed it toward the bedroom door. “I’m tired of your lies and your vanity. My God, is there another archeologist on earth, another man, with a bigger ego?”
Jean-Marc became a mini–Mount Etna, ready to blow. If she weren’t so angry, she’d laugh. He didn’t look much like the suave playboy now, did he? “I have an ego because I’m good. The best.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before.” Her anger whooshed out of her on a giant exhalation. Her shoulders slumped. “Why me? If you wanted to sleep around, fine, but why keep me dangling? Why not just let me go?”
In a split second of honesty, his smile a ray of sunshine, he said, “I love you, chère. Don’t you know that?”
She wouldn’t give in to that smile, as she’d done so many times in the past, because it was too small, and she wanted, deserved, more. Love should be huge. Grand. She’d been sucked in by his larger-than-life personality and brilliance, but it hadn’t translated into a big love. Only a troubled one.
She gestured between them. “I can’t keep doing this. I need peace and quiet. I’m going home.”
“Yes, to your small town where people do nothing magnificent, nothing lasting, where they never become world citizens working to enlighten all of humanity.” She’d rejected his moment of sweetness, and his spiteful side took over.
She thought of Salem, with his light hidden under layers of modesty, and the way everyone with whom he came into contact respected him. How hard he worked to teach the community about his culture, with quiet humility. With Jean-Marc, she’d chosen flash over substance.
“Some people don’t need the whole world held up to them as a mirror. Some people do great things even while they are humble.”
“I don’t need to be humble. Nor should I be.”
“Please, Jean-Marc.” Her head pounded. “Be a better man than this. Leave while I finish packing. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“I will ruin you.” There was something smug about his disgusting little smile, all sunshine gone now, proving as he often had that his ego was stronger than his love. He left the bedroom and, a moment later, the apartment door slammed shut behind him.
She double-checked that she hadn’t left anything behind then carried everything to the front door, but decided to use the washroom one last time before going. She wished her stomach would settle down. Those airport lineups could be brutally long and slow. Khartoum was a small airport by international standards, but busy. She was washing her hands when she thought she heard something in the living room.
“Hello?” She stepped out. No one. Just her imagination.
She reached for the doorknob to leave. The door stood open a fraction of an inch. It should have been shut tightly, especially because Jean-Marc had slammed it on his way out. Had it been closed when she put her bag here? She rubbed her forehead. She couldn’t remember.
She studied the small rooms. Nothing was amiss. She glanced at her knapsack and violin case. They looked fine. A thread of doubt ran up her spine and she opened her case. Jean-Marc would know where to hurt her most, by damaging her precious violin.
She checked every square inch of the instrument and found it sound, then packed it back into its case.
Her headache set off fireworks behind her eyes and she just wanted out—of the country and the relationship—so she shrugged off all thoughts of what that open door might mean. A shuffle in the building hallway alerted her. Someone was there. She threw open the door then let out a breath. Not Jean-Marc come back to wreak vengeance, thank goodness.
Instead, seven-year-old Maria Farouk, in all of her cosmopolitan beauty, compliments of an Egyptian father and an Italian mother, stared up at her with liquid brown eyes in an olive-skinned face. Her thick hair had been brushed to glossy perfection.
“Maria,” Emily said. “What are you doing in the hallway alone?”
“I came to say goodbye.” The child sounded too solemn. Of all of the farewells Emily had made in the past two days, this would be the most difficult.
Emily glanced toward Maria’s apartment. Her mother, Daniela, stood in her doorway making sure her child was safe alone in the corridor. When she saw Emily, she waved.
Emily leaned forward and cupped Maria’s face with her palms. “We became good friends, didn’t we?”
Maria nodded. “Can you send me postcards?”
It had become a game with them, that Emily would find the funniest cards in her travels and mail them to Maria. Also, because she’d loved the child so much, she had bought her a child-size violin and had taught her to play.
“Yes, lots of postcards,” she promised. “Will you practice your violin?” Maria had great talent, more than Emily would ever possess.
“Every single minute,” Maria shouted. Emily laughed and kissed her forehead.
“Not that much, little one. Make time for fun.” She made sure she had eye contact before saying from her heart, “I promise you this. When you grow up and become a famous violinist, I will come to your concerts.”
“You will come backstage,” Maria ordered. “I will give you a pass. You come say hello to me.”
“I will. I promise.” Emily had to leave right away because if she stayed, she would cry, and that would sadden Maria. “In the meantime, I’ll send you a postcard of a bear from Colorado.” From home. Her longing overcame the sadness of leaving. She wanted home. Her family. Peace and quiet.
Maria returned to her apartment. Emily watched until she was safely inside. Despite the clean break, bits of Emily would linger behind, with Maria, with her friends Penelope Chadwick and Les Reed, and with her impassioned colleagues. She had enjoyed her time with them all.
But Jean-Marc? That connection was gone for good, severed as cleanly as though she’d taken an amazon’s sword to it. If not for the sweat seething from her pores, she would be on top of the world. Free at last.
Only one more goodbye left. She went down to the second floor of the apartment building in which all of the archeologists lived. Penny answered the door when she knocked.
Jean-Marc used to call Penelope Chadwick the Horse. Yes, she had a long face and those endless legs, but also a bosom most women envied.
Her smile eased some of Emily’s apprehension. Penny, in her oversize T-shirts and baggy trousers, with her manly tramping about the toughest terrain on her muscled athletic legs, had been a dear friend, and Emily loved her every capable, unfeminine, not-too-attractive molecule.
Penny was one of the good people.
Behind Penny, Les Reed, her compatriot and lover, touched Penny’s elbow, the movement a subtle sign of possession and pride.
Where Penny was tall, Les was short and rotund. When Penny held Les, her ample breasts would flank his face. Emily wondered if he ever felt smothered. Judging by his satisfied grin, he would die a happy man.
She loved these people. She loved their honesty, loyalty and boundless integrity. Why couldn’t everyone in the world be like them?
She fell into Penny’s enveloping embrace. “I will miss you so much.” Her sinuses ached. Why wasn’t life easier? Why couldn’t she carry her friends with her in her pockets, wherever she went, and take them out when she needed them? “I’ll write often.”
“You’ll visit us in England when we’re at home.” From Penny, it came out as order rather than an invitation.
“Yes,” Emily promised. “I will.”
After copious hugs and kisses with both Penny and Les, and a too-brief goodbye, Emily was on her way to her new life.
Fifty minutes later, she stood at the airport in a lineup that moved with glacial slowness toward security.
At last second in line, she put her violin case onto the conveyor belt that would carry it through the X-ray machine.
Sweat poured from her face and a pair of Japanese Kodo drummers hammered her temples in unrelenting waves. This had nothing to do with the heat of the desert. She was sick. Some kind of flu. Rotten timing.
Suck it up, kid. Nothing would hold her back from getting on that plane.
Unsnapping the buckles on her knapsack, she reached inside for her cosmetic bag, where she kept cotton hankies. Her hand touched something unexpected, something she hadn’t packed, and she froze.
Whatever the object was, she hadn’t put it there. She peeked inside, keeping her actions unobtrusive. In her palm, she held a tiny ancient prayer book. She’d seen it before. On their dig. It was supposed to be under lock and key at the National Museum of Sudan, where every artifact they unearthed eventually found a home. So what was it doing in her bag?
She dropped it back into the knapsack, but a tiny gasp betrayed her. Despite how insignificant that intake of breath, it drew the guard’s attention. He approached.
Damn, damn, damn.
Her mouth dried up like the Sahara. Too late to turn and leave. If she took her bag and violin from the belt, he would know something was up and would detain her. One way or another, her bag would be searched today.
The penalty for smuggling artifacts out of the country was jail time. No questions asked. No leniency. No compassion. Too much had been stolen from these civilizations over the centuries. They’d been robbed blind.
If she denied ownership, they would think she was lying. If she tried to tell them she’d been set up, they would think she was lying.
There was no good outcome here. She was the most screwed piece of metaphorical toast on the face of the planet, and she knew whom to blame.
Jean-Marc. Her open apartment door. He’d retrieved the relic from his apartment down the hall and then had slipped back into her place long enough to stash it in her things so she would be caught with it as she left the country. Vindictive piece of decrepit crap.
I will ruin you. Yes, he had.
Rage filled her, and not just because of what he was doing to her, but because this precious article shouldn’t have been in his possession. Why was it, damn him?
The day she let Jean-Marc win was the day she rolled over and died. She had to get out of this airport and get the relic back where it belonged, with the people of the Sudan.
Think. Think!
What could she do?
Sweat dripping from her forehead burned her eyes. She grasped the hankie in her hand and ran it over her face. The man in front of her in the lineup hadn’t bathed recently, and the smell made her ill.
“Is something wrong, miss?” the guard asked, tone solicitous but eyes hard. “Are you nervous about your flight?”
She shook her head. “Sick.”
His brow furrowed. “If you are sick, you cannot fly.”
“Have to. Need to get home.” She wasn’t thinking clearly. The fever was messing with her brain. She had to get out of the airport, not onto a plane.
Her violin case and bag crept along the belt closer to the X-ray machine. They would question the prayer book. It wasn’t shaped like a paperback novel. It was flat and small—and oh so ancient and precious. She reached to take it back. The guard stopped her.
They would find the relic and send her to the closest prison, where she would rot for years. Nothing and no one would be able to help her. The thought turned her stomach.
And wasn’t that fortunate? She was desperate enough to try anything.
She glanced at the guard’s immaculate uniform and her reflection in the glossy surface of his spit-shined brown shoes. Vanity, you just might be my saving grace.
This past winter, she’d had a cold that had left her with a cough that wouldn’t quit. One day, it had been so bad she’d coughed so hard, she had ended up losing her breakfast.
The bag slid closer to the machine. The belt stopped abruptly. They questioned the man in front of her about an item in his carry-on luggage.
She took advantage of the lull and started to cough, covering her mouth with the hankie. She coughed harder, contracting her muscles to get them to obey.
Given the heat of the day, the unnatural fever and the sour scent of the man in front of her, it didn’t take much to get her stomach to cooperate.
Her breakfast rose into her mouth and—oops—her hankie slipped away from her lips. She vomited on the floor, leaning forward enough that she also hit the guard’s shoes.
“Hey!” he yelled and swore in Arabic.
Another guard joined them. “What’s wrong here?”
“She’s sick,” the first guard spat. “Disgusting.”
Good. Maybe they would let her turn around and walk out of here. She could get the relic back to where it belonged.
Her mouth tasted like hell. “Maybe I should return to my apartment and take a later flight.” She held her breath, willing the man to agree. He ignored her as though she were a gnat.
“Clean this up,” the second guard called to a janitor. Pointing at her, he said, “You come with us.”
Oh crap, oh crap. He took her past security to the offices. Scrap that thought. They were headed to a private interrogation room. She was in deep trouble.
The first guard had retrieved her knapsack and her violin case from the belt and carried them into the room. He dropped them onto the table and she reacted before she could think, yelling, “Hey, be careful. That violin is old.”
He paid no heed while the second guard took his time checking her passport and documents. “Why did you think you would be able to fly while you are so ill? Did you not consider the other passengers? They would not want to get sick.”
She wouldn’t lose her cool. There had to be a way out of this. “I didn’t feel this ill when I left my apartment. It came on suddenly.”
A firm knock sounded on the door.
“Come,” one of the men said.
A man Emily recognized stepped into the room—tall, handsome Dr. Damiri. Everyone on the dig used his services when they were ill. “Doctor! What are you doing here?”
“More to the point,” he said in his soft, sensible voice, “what are you doing here? I was in another lineup and saw you get ill.”
He turned to the guards and handed them his identification. “I am her doctor. May I check her out?”
The first guard scowled, but the second returned Damiri’s ID. “It’s okay. I know him. He is my sister’s doctor.”
Dr. Damiri felt Emily’s forehead. “High fever,” he murmured. He examined her throat, pressed on her stomach and asked endless questions, at the end of which, he pronounced, “Malaria.”
“What?” She hiccupped a tiny sob, playing the pity card, willing to do whatever it took to save her skin. Maybe they would let her go through without checking her bag. “But I just want to go home.”
To the guards, the doctor said, “It isn’t infectious. She can fly.”
To Emily, he instructed, “It won’t be a comfortable trip home, but you can make it. You will have fever. Chills. Great fatigue.” He smiled gently. “Maybe more vomiting.”
“My brain wants to pound out of my skull.”
“Yes, headache, too.” He wrote on a pad of paper he pulled from his briefcase. “In my estimation, you have uncomplicated malaria. There’s nothing you can do but ride it out. In America, go to your doctor and get a prescription for this medication and take it to prevent a reoccurrence.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. That’s all you can do.” He handed her a small vial of pills. “Take these.”
“What are they?”
“Anti-nausea tablets. I always carry them when I fly, but you need them today more than I do.”
With a wink, he was gone and she was alone with two unhappy guards and a stolen artifact in her luggage.
Emily stood, her brain so foggy she didn’t know whether to come or go. “I can return to my apartment and get better, and then take a different flight another day.”
For the second time, the guards ignored her suggestion.
“The doctor has cleared you to fly. You will go today.” He reached for her bag. No!
She retrieved her cosmetic bag, leaning close to breathe in his face. “I vomited. I have to brush my teeth before I get on the flight.”
Screwing up his nose, he waved her away.
In the washroom, she entered a stall and locked the door. The washroom might have cameras, but the stalls wouldn’t. After she pulled the prayer book out of the bag, she took a moment to examine it, a little beauty in good condition. The papyrus had yellowed with age and the tiny paintings had faded, but it had obviously been cared for and well-loved by its owner.
She dumped her small toiletry bottles out of the zipped plastic bag she’d stored them in, put the book into it, secured the edges together and stuffed it into her bra, protecting it from the sweat of her fever.
After using the toilet, she washed her hands and made a show of brushing her teeth carefully, because she needed to, but also in case they watched her. She chewed a mint from her makeup kit.
Back in the room, the guards had emptied her bags and were searching every object, every item of clothing. Shivering, she picked up a pashmina she’d bought on her travels and wrapped it around her throat, dropping the ends to cover the slight bulge in her bra.
Thanks to Dr. Damiri’s list of symptoms, they wouldn’t find her behavior suspicious. She hoped.
One of the guards took her makeup bag and searched it. The other left the room, presumably to search the bathroom. When he came back, he gave the guard a surreptitious shake of his head.
She was allowed to repack her belongings, while feeling an inexorable sense of losing control. Not for long. She would fix this. Somehow.
They led her to the departure lounge and left her there. This was too wrong. Taking an artifact out of its native country, out of its home, went against every ethic, every part of her moral code.
Nausea rose into her throat, and she took one of Dr. Damiri’s pills.
She had no choice but to leave. At the moment, self-preservation was more important than ethics. And didn’t that suck? The prayer book belonged here, not thousands of miles away in Colorado.
Jean-Marc had known exactly what he was doing. Her rat of an ex-boyfriend had ruined her plan for a clean break. The prayer book tied her to him.
An hour later, she was on the first of many flights that would take her home, curled under a blanket with chills that had nothing to do with inflight air-conditioning, and everything to do with a smuggled artifact burning a hole in her chest wall, so far up shit creek without a paddle she wasn’t sure how she would recover.
