A Touch of Betrayal (27 page)

“Mrefu.”

And they sang together on the grand finale
—“Katika
Africa!”

“Now I know three Swahili words,” Alexandra said as they sauntered the last few yards toward the tents. “
Mlima
means ‘mountain.’
Mrefu
means ‘tall.’ And
katika
means ‘in.’ And that doesn’t even include
Mungu akubariki
, ‘God bless you.’”

“I award you an A-plus on your first lesson.” He squinted toward the campsite. “Hold up a second—who’s that?”

Alexandra stiffened, fear knifing through her. In the long afternoon shadows cast by the acacia trees, she couldn’t distinguish anything unusual. “Where?”

“Beside my tent.” He stepped protectively in front of her. “Who’s there?
A-ing’ai o-ewuo
?”

“
Nanu kewan—
Kakombe.”

“It’s Kakombe,” Grant said, relief evident in his voice. “My buddy from the
kraal
.”

He slung an arm around Alexandra’s shoulders and strode toward the tents. The lanky young Maasai man emerged from the gloom to greet them with outstretched hands. He and Grant spoke quickly. Alexandra recognized the mention of Mama Hannah, and she noted the discussion of the missed
Eunoto
, but she could make neither head nor tail of the rhythmic Maasai dialect.

Instead, she studied the body language of the two men. They chatted rapidly and with eager animation, their words overlapping as they finished each other’s sentences. Kakombe often touched Grant on the arm or hand, a gentle gesture that expressed total confidence in their relationship. Grant laughed easily, now and then laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Though the men were as comfortable together as brothers, they could not have been more opposite in appearance.

Grant wore his Levi’s and chambray shirt like a second skin. His sun-streaked brown hair clustered at his collar in a rumple of loose curls, and his only adornment was a ballpoint pen stuck in his pocket. The tanned arm that hung over Alexandra’s shoulder glistened with pale, coarse hair, and a utilitarian watch glinted at his wrist.

Kakombe—a dark mocha to Grant’s paler latte—was draped in bead necklaces, chokers, and earrings. Chalky paint, elaborately streaked to reveal the dark skin beneath, covered his arms and legs. His hair had been parted from ear to ear and then tightly cornrowed to create a magnificent ocher-plastered headdress. In his right hand he carried his six-foot spear and a long peeled stick. With his left, he pointed repeatedly in the direction of the
kraal
.

“Alexandra, you won’t believe this!” Grant exclaimed suddenly. “The elders decided to postpone the
Eunoto
.”

“Really? That’s great!”

“No, that’s
unbelievable
. Maasai warriors have been gathering at the
kraal
for some time. The ceremony was set to go off as scheduled. But when I left for Mombasa with you and Mama Hannah, they decided to put the whole thing on hold. In fact, they’re not going to start anything until after the next rainfall.”

“Grant, they’re showing you the greatest respect.”

“Kakombe says the elders want me to record the ceremony. With many of the Maasai children attending school now, and more and more men going to Nairobi to work, they’re afraid the traditions might be forgotten.”

“So you’re more than a friend to them. You’re their historian.”

“Kind of an intimidating thought.” He gave her a warm smile. “I’m glad they waited—you’re going to be knocked out by the ceremony. You’ll see things no white woman has ever seen before. You won’t believe how detailed—”

“Grant.” She stopped him by stepping out of his embrace. “I’m probably . . . well, you know I might be gone by then.”

“Kaji negol?”
Kakombe asked, motioning to his friend for an explanation.

Grant’s eyes narrowed as he translated Alexandra’s words. At their conclusion, Kakombe let out a universal expression of disgust. He pointed at Alexandra, then at Grant as he uttered a lengthy response to the news that she would be leaving Kenya soon.

“Kakombe tells me that Sambeke Ole Kereya and the other elders have issued you a formal invitation to the
Eunoto
,” Grant explained to Alexandra. “They liked your song about Zacchaeus and the way you came to Mama Hannah’s rescue the night of the attack. The elders are insisting on your presence at the ceremony. Kakombe doesn’t think they’ll understand your hurry to leave.”

“Please tell them my home is in New York,” Alexandra said. “I have a job at a design firm in the city. I have to work.”

Grant translated for Kakombe. At the African’s response, he gave a slow grin. “Kakombe says a woman’s work is to milk cows and plaster the house after a hard rain. He wants to know how many cows in New York are demanding your attention.”

Alexandra shrugged and let her satchel sink into the long dry grass. “Just tell him that if I’m still in Kenya at the time of the next rainfall, I will be honored to attend the
Eunoto
.”

She dragged the heavy bag toward the tent that she and Mama Hannah had shared. In spite of the joy she had felt at returning to this place with Grant, she could taste the uncertainty of her situation like a bitter lemon in her mouth. She lifted the tent flap and ducked into the shielding shadows.

Evidently the Maasai had tried to reassemble Grant’s camp after Jones’s attack. The cots were back in place, the blankets spread, and the pillows stacked. Alexandra searched the tent in the dim light until she found a lantern and a box of matches. After lighting the wick, she sat on her cot and tugged off her sandals.

Images of past days flashed into her thoughts. With them came questions that flapped at her like dark-winged bats. Nick Jones
—die by a knife or a rope?
Mama Hannah
—be bold or give the Lord control?
James Cooper
—be rich or poor?
Kakombe
—design fabric or milk cows?
Grant Thornton
—stay in Kenya or go back to New York?

No, that last dilemma was a figment of her imagination. Grant had never asked her to stay. He enjoyed her company, and he seemed pleased that she had returned with him to the bush. And he had made a vow to protect her.

Alexandra twisted the simple band on her finger, considering Grant’s gift. No, she shouldn’t read more into the ring than was intended. Grant wasn’t the kind of man to make a permanent commitment to anyone or anything— except his work. Even the house he owned in Nairobi sat on its weedy lot like an orphaned child. He didn’t want the rootedness it stood for—just as he would never seek the obligations of love.

Love?
The word flashed at Alexandra like a neon sign. Did she love Grant Thornton? Startled at the unexpected image—and the terrifying appeal it held—she gripped the aluminum cot frame. No, she didn’t love him. Surely not. They were too different, worlds apart—work, lifestyle, interests. They didn’t even believe in the same God.

“Oh, Lord!” Alexandra slipped off the cot and sank to her knees in prayer. “Lord, I’m so scared. I’ve never known anyone like Grant. I’ve never cared about a man the way I care about him. Why is this happening to me? Are you trying to teach me something? Father, don’t let me love Grant. Please keep my heart safe.”

She clasped her hands together, knitting her fingers so tightly the blood stopped. “You know I’ve worked hard to do the right things, Lord,” she murmured. “But I’m so confused. I worked at my art so I wouldn’t rely on my father’s wealth and end up putting my faith in his money. I wanted to use the money for something good, and I thought you were leading me to build the design firm. But now it’s gone. Why did you take that away from me?”

She paused, waiting in the silence of the tent. Then she went on. “I tried to trust people, Lord—and I ended up with Nick Jones. Then I tried not to trust—and I wound up with Grant.”

She swallowed hard. “No, I haven’t wound up with Grant, have I? I think you’re asking me to let go of that money and to let go of Grant. Is that it, Father? Is that what you’re asking of me? To stop trying so hard . . . to stop wanting so much . . . and to just surrender?”

For a long time, she listened to the wind rustling through the acacia leaves in the trees overhead.
Be silent,
the whispered voice drifted through her.
Be silent, and know that I am God.

As Grant stacked wood in the outdoor stone hearth, he studied the silhouette inside Alexandra’s lamp-lit tent. She was praying
—on her knees
. Did people really do that?

The way her clenched hands pointed upward sent a surge of emotion through his chest. Alexandra’s shoulders slumped; her posture showed anguish that echoed his own that night in Tillie’s apartment. What was she saying? What troubled her so deeply that she had fallen to her knees to express it?

He struck a match and lit the dried kindling beneath the logs. As the bits of grass and bark crackled into flame, he settled back on his haunches and pondered the woman inside the tent. Alexandra was praying—not just as a release of tension, not as a gesture of habit, not even as a form of meditation—but because she
believed someone was listening
.

He lifted his focus to the stars overhead. Odd. In spite of his years of doubt and his reams of research, Grant had a growing sense that Alexandra was right. Someone
was
listening.

Odder still, someone had actually heard Grant’s own prayer. In the old Jewish writings, that someone called himself
I AM
. In Christian Scripture, he was the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. He was the Creator, always present, always listening, always caring. God.

Grant stood and gave the snapping fire a prod with his boot. Sparks shot up into the blackness. Oddest of all—every time Grant acknowledged the presence of God, that aching place inside him felt a little less empty. Not full, not healed, not even comfortable. Just a tiny bit easier.

Pondering the significance of this realization, he walked to his tent and rummaged around for a cooking pot and some plates. Too bad Mama Hannah had decided to stay with Tillie and Graeme. Alexandra would have to make do with canned soup instead of the savory stew that was Mama Hannah’s specialty. On the other hand, Grant thought as he loaded his arms with supplies, Mama Hannah had suffered a pretty bad wound to the head. She needed to rest, and Tillie could use her help when the baby came.

When Grant stepped out of his tent, he saw Alexandra standing beside the fire. She had pulled on a long skirt that nearly touched her ankles. Its hem fluttered in the breeze that drifted down from Mount Kilimanjaro, and she had drawn a sweater around her shoulders to keep off the chill.

As he approached Alexandra—this woman God had somehow permitted to remain in his life—a knot like a fist lodged in Grant’s throat. Hearing his footsteps, she turned, and her skirt swirled softly at her calves. A smile lit her face.

“The chef emerges,” she said.

He tried to find a lighthearted response. Instead, he set the pots and cans on the ground. Then he straightened and pulled her into his arms.

“Alexandra,” he managed. “What can I say to make you stay?”

“Oh, Grant.” Tentatively, Alexandra’s arms slipped around the broad chest of the man who held her. She laid her head against his shoulder. “Grant, please don’t ask me to stay here. Don’t make this hard.”

“It’s already hard.”

“It’s impossible. We have to think of our meeting as a kind of bump in time. An event that happened to teach us something.”

“What have you learned?” he asked, stroking her hair with his hand. “Tell me, Alexandra, because I’m more mixed-up right now than I’ve ever been in my life.”