If I'd Never Known Your Love (5 page)

"Now what?" I asked.

There was still a trace of the smile when you said, "Now I pick you up and dump you
out the window."

"Aw, come on, tell me how you really feel." To this day, Evan, I don't know how I got
the nerve to say those words.

"What do you want from me?"

"I want to be your friend." I wanted a lot more, of course, but realized I'd be lucky to
get you to acknowledge me the next time we saw each other.

"Why?"

I grinned. "Because you're the only person I know who doesn't like me."

"Don't sell yourself short. I'll bet there are dozens—hundreds, maybe." You took one
of my hands and put it on the doorframe. "Hang on to this."

"I will if you '11 drive me home. I missed the bus."

You stared at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. "No."

"Why not? It's not like it's out of your way. "Your aunt lived in a rented house on a
piece of property a couple of miles down the road from my parents' farm. "Besides, it's
your fault I missed the bus."

"Now, how do you figure that?"

"I was waiting for you by your car to ask you for a ride and you never showed up.

When the bus left, I had no choice but to come looking for you."

"You're nuts. You know that, don't you?" He shook his head. "People must tell you
all the time."

"So does that mean you 're going to give me a ride? You wouldn't want a crazy girl
on crutches wandering down the road by herself, would you?"

For a heartbeat I thought I'd gone too far, been too bold, chased too hard and lost
you forever. I was scared and mentally scrambling for an apology that didn't sound as
lame as I felt, when you mumbled, "All right."

If driving me home meant you'd put a tentative foot in the web I'd spun, my dad
managed to haul you in all the way when we arrived. He came out of the bam as we
drove up and, instead of lending a hand, stood by and watched while you helped me out
of the car. He must have liked what he saw, because once I was upright and balanced,
he came across the yard to shake your hand.

"Can't tell you how much I appreciate you doing this," he said, taking your measure
the entire time. "Getting on and off that bus is a real chore for Julia, what with those
crutches and all. Stepping up and giving her a ride till she's on her feet again is a right
nice thing for you to do."

I almost laughed at my university-educated father's attempt at homespun but would
have stuffed a sock in my mouth before I let you know that you'd been had. Plainly, my
dad saw something in those few minutes you were helping me out of the car that he felt
was worthy of his precious daughter. Or at least of withholding judgment at the bad-boy image you projected. Which was 50 out of character for him and his usual cranky
behavior with the boys I brought home that I couldn't help but wonder if this new
strategy wasn't some perverse plan to drive you away.

You could have protested, of course, made up some excuse for not being able to give
me a ride, but you didn't even try. You looked at my father with a kind of quiet
understanding. "What time should I be here in the morning?"

"Julia?" Dad asked.

"Seven-thirty." For once I managed brevity.

You nodded and moved to leave.

Dad stuffed his hands in his back pockets and shifted his weight, studying you as you
rounded the car. Obviously, he wasn't ready to give me over to you for those "kindly"

rides to and from school without getting to know you better, because he said, "If you're
not in a hurry I can show you around the place a little. You don't look like someone
who's spent a lot of time on a farm."

You surprised both of us when you said, "I’d like that. "You gave my dad a lopsided
grin. "You can tell that just by looking at me, huh?"

I now know my dad experienced his own version of love at first sight that day. He
had a passion for the land and farming second only to his family. You not only
embraced that passion, you absorbed it and made it your own.

During dinner that night Dad told us that you were curious about everything, eager
to know the why and how and when of whatever he told you, whether it was crop
rotation or grain lost to rodents or hail damage. An hour turned into two, and when
Mom said supper was on the table, Dad said he tried to talk you into staying, but you
begged off. You weren't ready.

Or maybe it was simply that you didn't know us well enough yet, that you were
terrified of what would happen if you let us in and we discovered everything about you
was a lie.

C H A P T E R 3

Thee-and-a-half weeks passed and nothing. Not a word from the kidnappers. Paul Erickson, from the State Department, George Black, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and Matt Coatney, from International Security Operations, had used every resource they had to try to find out who had taken Evan and why they were waiting so long to make contact. No one knew anything. Or if they did, they weren't talking.

All three men told Julia not to read anything ominous into the silence, and she heeded their advice most of the time. But when she'd finished her phone calls at night and was alone in her room, with only

Evan's shirt or jacket to wrap around her, his socks on her feet to give her comfort, absorbed by her letter and memories, she didn't do nearly as well as she tried to make everyone think she was doing.

Shelly and Jason couldn't understand the delay, no matter how many times she tried to explain. They wanted her home. Shelly cried almost every night when Julia called.

Jason just got harder and harder to talk to.

Barbara and her mother assured her that everything was fine, that the kids were dealing with her absence all right—at least, most of the rime—and that Julia should concentrate on what she had to do and they would continue to do everything they could to make sure Shelly and Jason understood why Julia had to stay in Colombia.

Guilt became as familiar as the small mole at the corner of her eye, something she accepted as readily. Someday, somehow, she would find a way to make them understand why she'd seemingly abandoned them to stay in Colombia with their father.

She knew how desperately they needed her because she needed them every bit as much.

But Evan needed her more. Wherever he was, the one thing he could count on, the one thing she believed that he understood without question, was that she was in Colombia, doing everything she could to bring him home.

Her father had stayed two weeks, leaving with a promise to return as soon as he could make arrangements for someone to take care of the farm. As much as she'd insisted she hadn't wanted him there, she had fallen apart when he'd left. She'd stayed in her room all the next day. When Harold had called to check on her, she'd told him she had cramps

— the one sure way she knew to keep him from asking more questions.

She had pulled herself together by the next morning and started working on a plan to get Harold to go home to be with his family for Thanksgiving.

"It's not going to happen, Julia," he'd told her over breakfast. "Mary and I have discussed it, and she agrees with me. My place is here with you and Evan."

"I'm not saying that I think you should
stay
home, Harold. I understand how important it is for you to be here when they finally contact us. But even if we should get a demand while you're gone, you know we're not going to do anything before you get back."

After making them wait this long, Matt and George both insisted it was critical that they wait at least a week before answering the kidnappers, once they did make contact.

Intellectually, she understood the process and how dangerous it would be to seem too eager; emotionally, she had miles to go. The dreams that threaded their way through her sleep— the images of Evan beaten and starving, huddled in the corner of a dirt-floor hut or, worse yet, left without any shelter at all—carried into the day, overwhelming her when she least expected it, leaving her shaken and sick to her stomach with fear.

"I'm not sure I'll be able to do that, Julia. I don't understand this game playing. I especially don't understand why we can't just pay them the money and be done with it."

"It's because you don't think like them, Harold," she said patiently, going over old territory."If we just hand over the money, they'll get the idea that there's a lot more where that came from and they'll up the demand. We have to make them believe they're getting everything they can possibly get or they'll never release Evan." George and Matt had cited case after case where things had gone wrong, and almost always it came down to missteps in the negotiating process.

There were so many small things she never could have known without their expertise, such as using pesos instead of dollars for negotiating, that showing restraint didn't indicate weakness even to the most hardened criminals and that one of the most important aspects of time passing was that it would allow Evan to bond with his kidnappers, which would likely increase his chances of being released unharmed. The more she learned, the more it terrified her to think of what she didn't know.

Harold finished his breakfast and put his napkin beside his plate."Is your father coming back to spend Thanksgiving with you?"

If she made the lie too big, he would never believe her. "He's trying. But even if can't make it, I've been invited to dinner with Paul Erickson and his wife. So I won't be alone." At least she could see he was considering leaving.

"You know you really need to spend some time at the office, too," she added. "You may have the best people in the business working for you, but they need your guidance once in a while. Especially with both you and Evan gone."

"There really isn't any reason you couldn't fly home for a couple of days, too," he said reluctantly, giving a little, "Shelly and Jason must feel lost without you."

She pushed her plate away, hoping Harold hadn't noticed how little she'd eaten. She had trouble getting food past the constant lump of fear in her throat. When she did, she invariably wound up sick to her stomach.

"I thought about it," she said. Every minute of every day. "This is beyond hard on the kids." She was haunted by the thought her children could wind up with lifelong scars from what they might someday perceive as neglect. "I hear it in their voices every night." Along with the tears that shredded her aching heart. "But I can't leave until we hear something." No matter how she hurt for her children, they were with people who loved and cared for them. Evan had no one.

"What about bringing them here? Don't they get a week off school at Thanksgiving?"

She shook her head emphatically. "I don't want them anywhere near this place. Even the idea terrifies me."

"I knew it was a stupid suggestion the second I made it." He flagged the waiter and gave him his credit card. "I'm afraid I'm not doing very well with this whole business, Julia. I've never felt this helpless. Or this useless. I function best when I have something to do."

"Me, too, Harold." She reached across the table to touch his hand. "It would help us both if you went home for a couple of days."

"What would you do here alone?"

"I'd double up on my Spanish lessons. And Paul's wife, Luanne, has offered to show me around the city. She's convinced I'll find solace visiting the colonial churches. She said there were a couple of pre-Colombian gold exhibits I might like, too." Julia had politely nodded and kept her mouth shut when hearing of all the delights in Bogota.

How anyone could think she'd be interested in playing tourist while waiting to hear whether her husband was alive or dead was beyond her. But then, as she'd been told over and over again, kidnapping was a way of life here. You either found a way to live with it or it destroyed you.

"You're not fooling me, you know."

She shrugged and released his hand. "It was worth a try."

"Why is it so important to you that I leave?"

"It's not that I want you to leave, Harold. It's that I want to stop feeling guilty about keeping you here."

"Ah, I should have guessed." He took his credit card from the waiter and signed the receipt. "I don't agree with you, but I do understand what you're saying. I promise I'll consider it."

Harold flew out the same day that Julia's father flew in. Before he left, he saw her settled into an apartment, a place she could feel more rooted and cook an occasional meal for herself. It also had an extra bedroom for her father. When she met Jim at the airport, she dropped all pretense that she wasn't ecstatic to see him.

"Any news?" he asked on the taxi ride back to the hotel.

"I can count to a hundred in Spanish."

"You're going to have to learn to count a lot higher than that," Clyde said.

The implication of his words hung heavily between them for several seconds. Then they looked at each other, and in a moment of insanity born out of exhaustion, they started laughing.

Seconds later Julia's desperate laughter dissolved into tears. She moved into her father's outstretched arms. 'I’m so glad you're here, Daddy," she sobbed into his shoulder. "Thank you for not listening to me."

He kissed her forehead. "You're welcome, sweetheart. Before I forget, your mother wanted me to tell you that she sends her love—and some molasses cookies that she got up at two o'clock this morning to bake."

Deciding a change of scenery would be good for the kids, her mom had taken them to the farm for the holiday. "I
hate
molasses cookies," Julia told him.