With This Ring (14 page)

"Sure, no problem."

"I know you're halfway in love with her yourself," Sam said, a teasing twinkle in his eyes, "so make sure you remember whose girl she is."

Justin felt his face heating and inwardly cursed.

Sam's laugh rang out as he clapped Justin on the back, and soon Justin joined him.

* * *

Faith didn't have a chance to talk to Amy until late the following afternoon. When she heard Amy's car pull into the driveway, she put down the book she'd been reading and walked to the back door.

"Hi," she said as Amy walked out of the garage.

"Hi."

"Where've you been all afternoon?"

"I had lunch with Lark." Amy smiled. "I asked her to be my maid of honor."

"I thought you might. Listen, do you have a few minutes? Why don't you come in and have a cup of tea with me?"

"Okay."

Ten minutes later, the two of them were settled in the sun room, a laden tea cart in front of them. Faith poured them each a cup of the English tea she preferred, then settled back onto the chintz love seat. She chose her words carefully. "Darling, I had a very hard time falling asleep last night."

Amy chuckled. "I can imagine. What were you doing? Going over the guest list for the wedding?"

"Nooo, not exactly."

Amy's smile faded as she studied Faith's expression. "Is something wrong?"

"I am worried about something," Faith said.

"Something to do with the wedding?"

Faith hesitated. "Shall I be very honest with you?"

"Yes, of course."

"All right then. I . . . I'm troubled by your engagement. I'm not sure you really understand what you're letting yourself in for by marrying someone like Sam."

Amy stiffened. "Someone like Sam? Just what does that mean?"

"Amy, darling . . . " Faith put down her cup. "Please don't be angry. Sam's a lovely man. He is. I can easily see his appeal. He's attractive and charming and very engaging, but he's . . . well, he's not exactly the kind of man who is good husband material."

"If you're talking about his job, I told you, we've discussed that."

"It's not just his job. It's . . . it's everything. His background. His upbringing. Everything."

Amy stared at her. "I never thought you were the kind of person who judged someone by his background," she finally said.

"I don't, not really. But background does shape us. You know that." Even though Amy had only told Faith a little of Sam's history, that little was enough. "We bring our life experiences to everything we do. To all the choices we make."

"I don't care about Sam's background. I know what kind of man he is. He's good and decent and caring."

"I'm sure he is, but you must admit he's not exactly our kind of peo—"

"Our kind of people! I-I can't believe you said that." Amy stared at her as if she'd never seen her mother before. "I love Sam, Mother," she said tightly. "And I don't care what you say. He's wonderful and I'm marrying him, whether you approve or not."

"Oh, Amy . . . I'm sorry." She had known, before she'd uttered a word, that Amy probably wouldn't listen. Still, she'd had to try. "I didn't mean anything by what I said. I
do
like Sam, a lot. It's just that I want the best for you, that's all. And I want you to be happy." She laid down her teacup and reached over to hug her daughter.

Amy only resisted for a moment. Then she hugged Faith back. "You don't have to worry. I
am
happy. Sam is all I'll ever want or need."

* * *

The next couple of weeks flew by, and before Amy knew it, it was her last night with Sam before he would leave for Nepal. A few days earlier, she had started painting his portrait, and she'd hoped to have it finished before he left, but it was slower going than she'd imagined and she was only about half done. Well, she could finish it when he returned.

"How much longer do I have to sit here?"

Amy chuckled. Sam was as bad as the kids she taught. He hated sitting still. She dabbed a bit more ochre onto the canvas, blending it with the pink and white already there to try to find the exact flesh tone she wanted. "Just a few more minutes, okay?"

He grumbled under his breath, but he kept the pose.

Amy dropped her brush into a jar of turpentine and sighed. "All right. The rest will have to wait until you get back."

"Finally," he said, getting up and stretching. He crooked his finger, his eyes filled with lazy heat. "Come here."

Amy sighed and closed her eyes as his arms enfolded her. Their kiss was long and deeply stirring.

"I've been wanting to do that for the past hour," he said, holding her close.

"Um." She nestled against him, wishing she could make this day go on forever. "I'm going to miss you."

In answer, he tightened his arms around her. "I'll miss you, too."

She drew back a little so that she could look into his eyes. "Not enough to stay home, though."

For a moment, his eyes clouded, then he smiled. "You wouldn't want me to."

"No," she admitted. "I know how important this assignment is to you. But Sam, I've been thinking . . . if we have a family, I won't be able to travel with you, and—"

"Amy, quit worrying," he said, interrupting her. "That's not going to happen for a long time, and when it does, we'll work it out."

A long time later, as Amy lay cradled in Sam's arms listening to his deep, even breathing, she told herself Sam was right. Why worry about the distant future? As he'd said, when a problem arose, they would find a way to work it out. Right now she had to concentrate her energies on the upcoming wedding and getting ready to go back to school for the fall semester.

And on getting through the weeks Sam would be gone without missing him too much.

The next morning, she refused to be sad, even when it was time to say good-bye.

"Before I go, I have something for you," Sam said. "It's out in the car."

While he went outside to get whatever it was he was giving her, Amy dug out the gift for him she had hidden away.

His smile was tender as she carefully undid the red ribbons on the foot square box.

"Oh, Sam," she whispered, lifting the delicate cloisonné music box from its nest of tissue paper. "It's beautiful!"

"Open the lid," he said huskily.

Amy had to blink back tears as the pure notes to "Always" floated in the air. And then she could hold them back no longer.

"Amy, sweetheart, don't cry . . . " He brushed away her tears.

"I can't help it. It's so beautiful. And I can't believe you found it. Where
did
you find it?"

"Jacobson Gallery. I went in to look at those Camellia Sturgis paintings. I thought I might get you one—"

"Oh, my God, Sam, you could never afford a Sturgis!"

"I know that now," he said dryly. "Anyway, they had these music boxes, six different ones. I thought they were nice and I started lifting the lids and listening to the songs. I couldn't believe it when I heard this one."

"It's an omen."

His smile was tender, indulgent.

"I have something for you, too. It's not nearly as nice as what you gave me, but . . . " She handed him her gift, a photo of herself encased in plastic and hanging from a sturdy chain. She watched him anxiously. What if he didn't like it?

She needn't have worried. He grinned and immediately put the photo around his neck. "I won't take it off until I come back," he promised.

Amy swallowed. This was it. It was time for him to go. He drew her into his arms and they exchanged one last kiss, then he hugged her and said, "Good—"

"No, no, don't say good-bye," Amy said. "I hate good-byes. I never say good-bye to anyone."

"I love you," he whispered. "I'll see you soon."

And then he was gone.

The last thing Amy heard as he bounded down the steps was his clear whistle.

October 22, 1992 - The Langu, Western Nepal

Shiva Singh held his breath.

It looked as if Sam Robbins, the charming but foolish American photographer who had refused to listen to Shiva Singh's warning, might make it to the ledge. He had managed to climb almost a quarter of the way down the steep face of the cliff, which loomed several thousand feet above a narrow gorge.

Shiva Singh had tried to dissuade him from going. He had pointed out that the cliff was too dangerous, the possible rewards too uncertain. Shiva Singh was not a gambling man, but if he had been, he would have said the odds were not in Sam Robbins's favor.

Yet the stubborn photographer had insisted. "I may not get another chance," he'd said. "I'm tired of waiting. That's all we've done for weeks is wait." He'd smiled his charming smile, his brown eyes twinkling with good nature. "I told you, Shiva, I'm getting married soon. I can't hang around in your country forever." He'd laughed and winked. "Besides, I miss my beautiful bride-to-be." And then he'd held up the picture he wore around his neck, of a laughing eyed, dark-haired woman.

"Yes, I understand your feelings. She is very beautiful," Shiva agreed. But he knew, as any good Sherpa guide knew, that what the American proposed was too risky.

But what could he do? He couldn't physically restrain the American, even if he'd wanted to. Sam Robbins was at least four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than Shiva Singh.

The trouble had all started yesterday when Robbins had sighted a female snow leopard entering a cave about halfway down the cliff. After that, there was no stopping him. "I'm not blowing this opportunity," he'd said.

No matter what Shiva Singh said, he would not listen. He would not wait until the other members of the team returned from the base camp where the scientist, Morgenstern, was recuperating from a bad case of influenza. He would not be patient and see if his carefully hidden solar-powered cameras would capture any photographs of this leopard and any others who were known to inhabit the region.

Stoically, Shiva Singh had sighed and said, "If you will not be persuaded otherwise, I will go, too."

"No," Robbins said as he snapped on a telephoto lens. "You stay here. You know the drill. In case anything should happen, there has to be someone to go for help." He smiled. "Not that anything's going to happen."

Shiva Singh finally agreed. And so here he was, watching and praying to the gods and goddesses.

And there Robbins was, clinging precariously to the face of the cliff—his heavy camera strapped behind him as he inched his way down.

He was almost there!

Shiva Singh permitted himself a small, relieved sigh.

And then, just as Shiva Singh thought everything was going to be all right, Robbins gave a startled yell.

Shiva Singh's heart leaped into his throat as he peered over the side and saw the photographer slide down the cliff, gathering momentum as he fell, bouncing over the rocky terrain until he disappeared from view far below.

After a few stunned seconds in which Shiva Singh was paralyzed, he propelled himself into motion. It would take at least five hours to get back to the base camp where he could radio for help. Then another five hours to get back. And who knew how long before a rescue team would show up.

With a heavy heart, Shiva Singh started the trek back to camp. He was afraid it really didn't matter how long it took for the rescue team to come, because he was fairly certain of what they would find when they reached the bottom of the gorge.

No one could have survived that fall.

October 28, 1992

The first hint of autumn had finally arrived after months of non-stop ninety and one-hundred degree heat. And all over the city, Houstonians were enjoying the bright, cloudless day and the refreshing low-seventy degree temperature.

In neighborhoods large and small, mothers and nannies walked their small charges in baby carriages and strollers or watched them at boisterous play on swings and slides and jungle gyms. Windows and patio doors were opened wide to the silky breeze, and for once, the steady hum of air conditioners was absent, replaced by sounds of human voices, T.V. sets, and stereos.

The tennis courts were getting a workout, too, filled with trim, tanned women, fit seniors, and the few men who'd managed to finagle the day off. They energetically whacked balls and returned serves and reveled in the glorious weather.

Children of all ages looked longingly out the windows of their schoolrooms, wishing the school day were over so they could be outdoors, riding their bikes or their skateboards or their roller blades. If it had been spring, teachers would have called the malaise that gripped their students—and themselves—spring fever.

In Memorial Park, the joggers had hit the trails early, and even now, at two o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, there were dozens of people running along the paths. Beyond the trails, on the grassy expanse of lawn, there were a smattering of couples laying on blankets under the tall oaks, their radios playing softly, tuned to KIKK or KQUE.

Justin wanted to be outdoors, too. A month earlier, he'd been promoted to Business Manager of the magazine, and ever since, he'd been working sixty hour weeks. He hadn't minded. The new position was a challenge, and he wanted to do well. But today he couldn't wait for the day to be over. He had plans to play tennis after work with his brother Steven. Which reminded him that he had not called Steven to tell him what time they had the court.

He reached for the phone, and just as he did, Owen Church walked through the open door. Justin returned the receiver to its cradle, a feeling of disquiet inching through him as he noted Owen's somber expression and the unfamiliar pallor of his complexion. "Hi, Owen," he said slowly. "Is . . . something wrong?"

Owen nodded, his face grim. "It's Sam. He's had an accident." His voice was even rougher than usual.

"An accident! Is . . . is he all right?"

Owen swallowed, and his eyes, normally so clear, looked as if someone had reached behind them and switched off the light. He sank into the leather chair in front of Justin's desk. As he visibly worked to calm himself, Justin had a glimpse of what Owen would look like as a very old man.