Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
After her husband dies, Gillian Warner realizes how many
sorrows she carries inside her, including unresolved grief over her first love,
who died in Vietnam decades earlier. Haunted by his death in combat and a
tangled web of guilty secrets, she books a guided trip to the battle site.
The tours are led by cynical Vietnam War vet A.J. Donegan,
who makes his living taking naïve Americans on what he calls Guilt Trips, Inc. If
they’re looking for peace of mind, they can forget it.
A prickly attraction sparks between Gillian and Donegan,
with neither able to let go of the past without the other’s provocative
challenge. In a test of willpower and desire,
they’ll have to share much more than a journey to a place and a memory; they’ll
have to travel deep inside the walls they’ve built around their hearts.
An award-winning published author, Cheryl Reavis's literary
short stories have appeared in a number of "little magazines" such as
The Crescent Review, Sanskrit, The Bad Apple, The Emrys Journal, and the
Greensboro Group's statewide competition anthology, WRITER'S CHOICE. Her
contemporary romance novel, A CRIME OF THE HEART, reached millions of readers
in Good Housekeeping magazine. She
has won the Romance Writers of America's coveted RITA award four times, and she
is a four-time finalist. Publishers
Weekly described her contemporary novel, PROMISE ME A RAINBOW, as ". . . an example of delicately
crafted, eminently satisfying romantic fiction . . ."
Coming soon!
Chapter One
"I’LL TAKE HER with me. That’s the best
I can do.”
Gillian waited for her son to finally
absorb the fact that she was actually saying no to him. No, she wouldn’t
postpone her trip, and no, it didn’t matter to her that he and his new wife had
very important career obligations that precluded their being bothered with the
troublesome female child from his previous marriage.
"Well, how long are you going to be
gone?” he asked. "Maybe we can still—”
"The invitation is for a month.”
"A month! Mom, she’s fifteen years old.
She can’t pick up and go half way around the world for a month!”
"Why not?”
"She’s in school?” he suggested
pointedly.
"Justin, there are only—what—two weeks
left? Marie here told me she’s failing math and English—apparently
because she hasn’t passed a test or handed in an assignment since before
Christmas.” She couldn’t keep the criticism out of her voice at his having let
a bad situation continue for far too long. "What difference will it make if you
pull her out early? I doubt she can catch up at this late date even if she
wanted to. She has a current passport. She has a father who can afford to buy
her a roundtrip airplane ticket. She has a grandmother willing to take her
along. What neither of you has is a lot of time to make up your minds. I’m not
changing my plans.”
Gillian offered no apology, no
explanations. The arrangements were all made, and she hadn’t come to the
decision to go easily. She didn’t miss the look that passed between her son and
his wife, a look that landed somewhere between Now what? and Could
we?
Clearly, Marie, at least, wanted to.
"I’ll... have to think
about it,” Justin said.
"Fine. You have less than a day. I’ll be
at home if—”
"What makes you people think I’d go!”
The inconvenient child in question had
suddenly found her voice. Gillian looked in her granddaughter’s direction,
wondering as she always did these days what had happened to the loving little
girl she used to know. She barely recognized the sullen creature that had taken
her place—the one with a silver stud body piercing above her left eyebrow. And
the new creature had embellished its disguise by wearing black nail polish,
tri-colored hair, and a deliberately provocative, raveled-hem denim skirt that
was hardly more than a belt.
None of that bothered Gillian, however.
Teenagers were determined to make their statements, even if they didn’t realize
that what they were actually telling the world about themselves was far from
what they intended. It was the look in the iridescent turquoise-rimmed eyes
that worried her. A look that had only appeared in the last few weeks and had
apparently made no impression whatsoever on the people who should have noticed
that this girl had a tiger by the tail, and she was beginning to realize it.
At the moment, they were both too
concerned about their high-powered jobs... and now too
engaged in considering the merits of Gillian’s offer. Everything about Justin
and Marie suggested it would be a blessed relief to actually send this
bothersome, troublemaking child twenty-plus hours away by jet plane.
"Mae!” her father said sharply. "You
watch yourself, young lady! I’ve just about had it with you!”
"Yes, Daddy,” she said sweetly, the tone
rife with sarcasm.
"Damn it, Mae, I mean it!”
"Hold it!” Gillian said loudly. They
both looked at her, startled. "I’d like to answer Mae’s question,” she said
more quietly. "If I could have a minute with her alone, please.”
Marie was only too happy to relinquish
her participation in trying to rein in Justin’s ungrateful daughter.
"Come on, Justin,” she said, all but
pulling him out of the room with her. Gillian could hear their whispered but
heated discussion as they continued down the hall toward the kitchen.
"You’re not going to talk me into
anything,” Mae said. "I love Carson. I’m staying here. With him.”
"Mae—”
"I love Carson! You don’t know how I
feel!”
"No, you don’t know how I feel.
I’ve been your age—you haven’t been mine. I don’t want to talk you into
anything. You asked a question. I’m going to answer it—speaking only for myself,
of course. I’m going to tell you what makes me think you’d go.”
"Things are different now. It’s not like
it was when you were young.”
"Things are different. Not
people—”
"It won’t do any good! I’m not going anywhere.
I mean it!”
Gillian waited for a moment before she
continued, gathering her thoughts, reminding herself not to bring Carsoninto the discussion. Mae’s need to protect him was too strong—because Marie had
come home unexpectedly yesterday and found him and Mae in bed together. Gillian
didn’t know how far the tryst had gone, and she didn’t want to. Her goal at the
moment was not to make Mae’s clearly unsuitable relationship with this boy seem
any more like "forbidden fruit” than it already did.
She walked over to the mantel, to the
silver-framed photograph of Mae when she was in preschool.
"Do you remember when this was taken?”
she asked.
Mae stared at her, apparently trying to
decide if this was a trick question—or something worse.
"Well, I remember,” Gillian said when
she didn’t answer. "It was during the early days of the war between your mother
and your dad—before you got used to it. You were old enough to understand
something of what was going on, and you were so scared. You and I were sitting
at the kitchen table—coloring in one of your coloring books. It was raining
outside...”
"Gran, I have things to do. Are we going
somewhere with this?” Mae interrupted, her profound boredom with the topic
causing her to look at the ceiling and sigh.
"I guess not,” Gillian said. "I’ll get
back to the question.” She couldn’t tell if Mae was listening or not.
"Your dad thinks I’m going to Vietnam to
visit one of my old nursing school classmates. Her son-in-law and her daughter
live and work in Saigon. He’s a film producer—I understand you can make movies
very cheaply there. Her daughter runs an art gallery. My classmate—June—moved
there so she could be close to her grandchildren.”
"Gran, I really don’t need to know all
this.”
"Yes, Mae, you do. It’s not good to make
important decisions without knowing all the particulars. So. I am going
to see her, but that’s not the real reason I’m making the trip. I’m going
because I have something I need to take care of, something I should have dealt
with a long time ago. I’d just... buried the whole thing and
hoped it would go away. Sometimes things won’t stay buried, though, and this
pilgrimage, if that’s what it is, is going to be... hard for
me. Emotionally. Actually, I expect to get my heart ripped out.”
Mae looked at her then. "Why?”
"It’s... personal. Something
nobody in the family knows anything about. Not your dad, not your granddad when
he was alive. Nobody.
"There’s a reason why I would be willing
to make this kind of trip with a sullen, put-upon teenage girl—you, Mae.
I told your dad I’d take you with me because I remember the other Mae,
the one who lived here until a few months ago. And I remember when you were
four years old, you and I were coloring Big Bird and the purple one—Grover. I
looked over at you. You had a yellow crayon in your hand, and you were coloring
away, but tears were running down your cheeks. Then you looked at me, and you
said, ‘Don’t leave me, Mana’—that’s what you called me then. ‘Mana.’ And I
said, ‘Don’t worry. Mana and Mae—we stick together. Whatever happens, you won’t
be by yourself. I’ll be there watching your back.’ And you
said...”
Gillian didn’t go on. She could tell by
Mae’s face that she didn’t have to.
"I’m not going to hold you to a promise
you made when you were four years old—but of all the people I know, there’s no
one I’d rather have with me on a journey like this—watching my back—than the realMae.
"You don’t have a lot of time to decide
which Mae you are and whether or not you want to help me get through this.
You’ll have to make up your mind today so your dad can see about getting your
ticket and your tourist visa. I don’t think there’s much doubt he’ll let you
go.”
"He just wants to get rid of me,” Mae
said, her voice barely audible. "They both do.”
"Yes. At the moment, I think he does.
This thing with Carson has him scared. You’re growing up—which means he has to,
too. His reluctance to do that in the past is mostly my fault—I thought I had a
lot to make up for. But that’s another story.” Gillian picked up her purse.
"Have you called your mother about staying with her for a while?” it suddenly
occurred to Gillian to ask.
"She says she doesn’t have any room.
She’s got a new baby to take care of.”
Gillian had forgotten about that. Fresh
new babies trumped old problematic ones every time.
"I’m going home now,” she said. "If you
do decide to come on this trip, you’ll have to lose the attitude. I didn’t let
you walk all over me when you were four—and I really liked you then.”
She didn’t wait for Mae to respond to
that remark. She left the room.
"Mom?” Justin called as she stepped into
the hallway. "Marie and I think it might be good for her to go with you. You’d
take good care of her, right?”
Gillian sighed. "No, Justin. I plan to
sell her to a brothel. Look. June says she lives in a secure district, and
neither of us is known for doing anything particularly risky. She’s emailed me
all the info about traveling safely. I’ve done as much preparation as I
possibly can. Really.”
"I didn’t mean...”
"Just call me later and let me know what
you and Mae decide, okay? If she’s going, she’s going to have to have some more
conservative clothes. You’ll probably have to do her visa application online,
and we’ll hope it’s on the right computer when we get to the airport. You’ll
need to talk to her school, and I’ll need a notarized medical permission and
insurance cards in case she would happen to get sick while we’re gone.”
He took a deep breath, but he didn’t try
to persuade her to change her mind about going again. Even so, Gillian thought
he was still hoping she’d give in and cancel her trip.
"So did she say anything about Carson?”
he asked.
"She loves him.”
"Sure she does. That little bastard is
lucky I didn’t kill him. I still might.”
Gillian smiled slightly, remembering a
time when he’d been the same kind of "little bastard.” Given the shambles he’d
made of his first marriage, she wasn’t altogether sure he wasn’t still.
"Just call me and let me know,” she
said. She gave him a token kiss on the cheek and left, breathing a sigh of
relief when the front door closed behind her. She hadn’t planned on this latest
family crisis, and she wasn’t going to try to fix it. She loved Mae, but Mae
wasn’t her child. She was Justin’s, and he was going to have to behave
accordingly.
The sun had gone down, and a steady rain
began to fall on the drive home.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
The rain was full of ghosts, like a poem
she had once read and remembered only vaguely, a woman’s recollection of things
past, men past. It seemed to her now that her entire married life must have
been haunted by the ghost of another man, one she always knew was there but
never, ever acknowledged. She had deluded herself into thinking that she’d
moved on, and she had been so proud of how well she’d managed. She had married
someone else, had a child, had what even she would call a "good life.” But then
her husband Charlie died, and she’d been caught up in a kind of relentless
remembering, only she wasn’t remembering Charlie. She was remembering Ben
Tucker, the man who should have been her husband.
At first she’d tried to find reasons for
her sudden obsession with the past. Maybe it was the new local radio station
that broadcasted "oldie goldie” music twenty-four hours a day. Or maybe it was
because she’d run into some of her old classmates at the dedication of a new
wing at the hospital where she’d gone to nursing school, ones who remembered
when Tucker was in her life but not what had happened to him.
"I thought you’d marry that guy who was
so crazy about you, Gilly,” one of them said, clearly not remembering why
Gillian hadn’t until it was too late. And Gillian couldn’t make herself respond
to the remark. She’d stood there, as the ensuing silence lengthened, until
another of her classmates moved the conversation in an entirely different
direction.
"Tucker was so cute, Gilly. I would have
done him in a heartbeat,” she said. "I mean it.”
"Me, too,” another classmate, who had
just walked up, said.
"I’m talking about hot, sweaty sex
here.”
"Well, me, too!”
They had all whooped with laughter then,
knowing that the people around them who had overheard were more than a little
disconcerted that the old grads were having such an earthy conversation.
Gillian smiled, thinking about it now,
knowing how Tucker would have laughed if he’d heard it.
But her smile faded. Maybe it was all of
those things, and maybe it was none of them. All she knew was that she couldn’t
explain it. How could she when she couldn’t even remember Tucker’s face? She
had never had a photograph of him, and now only her young self knew with
certainty what he’d looked like. Unfortunately, her young self was long gone.
She could remember the sound of his
voice, and there were times when she could almost feel his breath against her
ear, smell the soap he’d used when he shaved.
I know you love me, Gilly.
But she hadn’t loved him, and she’d told
him so. If she had, she wouldn’t have done the things she’d done, and she
wouldn’t be so filled with regret now. She had actually gone to a Vietnam
veterans online message board looking for... she didn’t know
what. Company, she supposed. Other people still carrying the kind of baggage
that made them miserable. All the messages had been poignant and sad, but one—a
simple question—had hit her hard: Where is our child?
She’d felt as if Tucker himself had
asked it from the other side of that black marble wall in Washington, DC.
Tucker, are you somewhere watching all
of this?
She hoped not. Surely he would have
suffered enough without that.
She gave a quiet sigh and changed radio
stations, only to switch back to the oldie goldie music again.
Let the memories come, she thought. She was tired of fighting
them.
She had learned from one of her old
classmates at the hospital dedication that June was living in Saigon—Ho Chi
Minh City—and that she was feeling homesick and lonesome. Gillian had been
closer to June than any of her other classmates, and she had emailed her a
brief hello, which quickly evolved into a long electronic conversation about
their respective widowhoods and ultimately into an invitation to come to
Vietnam to visit.
What a mess, Gillian thought suddenly. She had no
idea what would be best for Mae. Her granddaughter was clearly the worse for
knowing young Carson Hamby. Gillian had met him once and had found him far too
knowing and sophisticated for someone as naïve as Mae was. There was no doubt
that he had given her a certain confidence, but it was the wrong kind, the kind
that resulted in her dressing in the provocative way she dressed these days and
saying the sarcastic things she always seemed ready to say. Gillian also
thought that his influence was an important factor in Mae’s failing grades. Not
that he’d told her in so many words to stop participating in the
bothersome academic side of high school. It was more likely that he’d
constantly made her have to choose—studying for a stupid test—or him? Finishing
a term paper that counted for forty percent of her grade—or him? Going to class
at all—or him?
Gillian understood that Mae saw herself
as all grown up now and that she wanted to be treated like an adult—or at least
her untested idea of what being an adult must entail. Gillian had tried to do
that this afternoon. She and Mae had been very close for a long time—primarily
because of her parents’ stormy marriage and because Gillian had never lied to
her about anything, even during the worst of Justin’s messy divorce. Today, she
had been honest about her need to go to Vietnam—as far as it went. She wasn’t
ready to discuss the details, not when she wasn’t certain what the details
were.
But she had no illusions that Mae would
actually come along with her. Mae loved Carson Hamby—as only a fifteen-year-old
girl can love. At best, Gillian thought the quandary she’d presented her might
help her see that being a grown up sometimes meant having to make hard choices
and then living with the guilt that invariably followed. It was a difficult
lesson, one Gillian had learned and learned well when she wasn’t much older
than Mae was now.
Gillian turned up the volume on the
radio so she could hear "Rescue Me” over the sound of the rain and the
windshield wipers. She could use some rescuing and so could Mae, but as far as
Gillian could tell, the only thing they had going for them was each other.
She drove faster. She was in a hurry to
get home, despite the fact that she had finished all her packing. Over Justin’s
objections, she had moved to a quiet little four-room house on the Yadkin River
a little less than a year after Charlie died. It overlooked the water, and it
suited her well. She needed the kind of solitude it provided, the kind that
held no personal memories whatsoever. She could walk room to room and not
replay her life with and without Charlie.
A different song came on—"The Last Train
To Clarksville.” She remembered that the lyrics had scared the young men of
draft age back then, causing the rowdy ones to get quiet and the quiet ones to
get louder, as if flipping their personalities could somehow make them forget
that it was all but certain that they were going into harm’s way. She had felt
so sorry for them then. She still felt sorry for them, the ones who had
survived the war and the ones who hadn’t.
She gave a quiet sigh, determined to
cling to the courage it was going to take to actually leave her little house
for a month and go to Vietnam.
MAE PEERED INTO the hallway to make sure
her father and grandmother were no longer in the foyer, then slipped out and
hurried to the guest bathroom downstairs. She had the cell phone her father had
left on Marie’s expensive antique writing desk in her hand, despite knowing she
was forbidden to use the phone for any reason, much less to call Carson.
She closed the bathroom door quietly and
locked it, then dialed Carson’s home phone number and turned on the tap while
she waited. She’d been calling him all afternoon, and she hadn’t been able to
get in touch with him. She’d left messages on his cell phone voicemail, but she
thought maybe he’d lost his phone again—he was forever leaving it someplace.
She had no choice but the keep trying his house.
The line was busy.
She gave a heavy sigh, then closed the
commode lid and sat down. She could hear her father calling her as she dialed
the number again. This time the maid answered.
"This is Mae Warner,” she said,
identifying herself carefully in keeping with the strict telephone protocol at
the Hamby residence. "May I speak to Carson, please?”
"I’m sorry, Miss Warner. Mr. Carson
isn’t...”
There was a sudden fumbling with the
telephone on the other end, and a different voice came on the line.
"Listen—Mel.”
"Mae,” she corrected.
"Whatever. This is Carson’s brother. You
need to quit calling his cell and quit calling here, okay? You’re just
embarrassing yourself.”
"What?”
"You heard me.”
"No—I—I want to talk to Carson.”
"Honey, he doesn’t want to talk
to you, don’t you get it? He’s just not into you anymore. In fact, he
was never into you—well, except for... well, you
know...”
"I don’t believe you!”
"Then that’s your problem. You were one
of Carson’s bets, that’s all. He said he could turn a super geek, and he did.
He won the bet, and that’s the end of it, Mel. So I’ll just say thanks for the
really good time on his behalf. Don’t worry—you can keep the eyebrow stud he
talked you into getting. Now. Try to pay attention. Don’t. Call. Here. Again.
Got it?”
The line went dead, and Mae sat there,
holding the cell phone tightly in her hand, staring at it as if she didn’t
understand what it was or how it had gotten there. Her heart pounded in her
chest, and she was vaguely aware that her father was still calling her.
"Mae! Mae!”
She didn’t answer him. After a moment,
she stood slowly and turned off the tap. She stared into the mirror and
eventually registered her own reflection as if she’d never seen it before. The
hideous tri-colored hair. The garish turquoise eyeliner.
... turn a super geek.
Some part of her—the tiny part that
wasn’t about to scream and cry—realized that Carson deserved to win his bet.
The studious-looking little professor she was used to seeing was long gone. She
looked like someone from the Bad Girls and Losers Table in the school
cafeteria.
She watched, detached, as her fingers
moved to touch the silver stud over her eyebrow. She pushed at it, then grabbed
it and pulled. Hard.
"SHE HAD TO HAVE a couple of stitches.
Marie’s all upset—the bathroom is a mess—she just had it redone. I didn’t know
what the hell Mae had done to herself.”
"What did she say?”
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She won’t
say why she tore the stud out like that. She won’t talk about it. It must have
been something you said to her.”
"Something I said? I don’t think
so.”
"Well, what else could it be? She wasn’t
thinking about hurting herself before you talked to her.”
Gillian sighed. "Fine. Blame me if it
makes you feel better.”
"Are you... still
going?”
"Yes.”
"Oh. I was hoping you’d change your mind
about staying with her here. After what happened and everything.”
"Justin, you can’t accuse me of causing
this kind of self-destructive behavior and then expect me to stay with her
while you and Marie go on your business trips.”
He didn’t say anything. Gillian could
hear Marie talking in the background.
"Well,” he said finally. "I just wanted
to let you know—wait a minute. What?” he said to Marie. "Mom, I’ve got to go.
Marie says she can’t find her.”
"Justin—”
He hung up, and Gillian stood there for
a moment before she put the handset back in the base. It rang again a few
minutes later, but no one said anything when she answered it.
"Hello?” Gillian said for the second
time.
Then, "Gran?” Mae was crying. "Gran…”
"Mae, what’s wrong?”
"Will you come—and get—me? I—I
want...”
"Where are you?” Gillian interrupted.
"At the movie—theater. Tinsel—town.”
"What are you doing at the movies?”
Gillian demanded.
"Some friends—gave me a ride. This was
as—as far as they were—going. Gran, please! Please come—and get me!”
"Okay. You stay right there. I’ll come
and get you, and we’ll talk.”
Gillian grabbed her purse and
immediately went out into the rain again. She had no idea what this latest
behavior indicated and couldn’t begin to guess. She would have to try to get
Mae to explain it—and good luck with that.
The parking lot at the movie complex was
full, and there was a long line of vehicles picking up people waiting near the
ticket booth out of the rain. She saw Mae almost immediately, huddled and alone
as if she were trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, the
adhesive bandage she’d just gotten in the hospital emergency room clearly
visible. Mae didn’t see Gillian, however—she wasn’t even looking—and Gillian
couldn’t get her attention despite tapping the car horn several times—much to
the annoyance of the driver in the car ahead of her.
Gillian kept her eyes on her granddaughter
as she inched the car forward because Mae suddenly looked as if she were ready
to bolt into the parking lot. Finally, as Gillian tapped the horn again, Mae
looked in Gillian’s direction and came running.
She was soaking wet by the time she
reached the car, and clearly there would be no talking to her. Mae didn’t want
to talk. All she wanted was to go to Vietnam.
"Please, Gran! You’re right about
school. It won’t matter if I leave—I’ve already failed the year. Please!”
"If you really want to come with
me...”
"I do!”
"Then we’ll have to go see your father.
Right now,” Gillian said.
"No!”
"Yes.”
"Gran...”
"You’re going to have to trust me here.
I mean it. It’s either do this right now, or stay here with your dad and Marie
with nobody watching your back.”
Mae gave a long wavering sigh. "Okay,”
she murmured.
"What?”
"Okay. I said, okay.”
"Good,” Gillian said. "Then let’s do
it.”
"I WAS MAD AT Carson,” Mae said, making
herself look directly at her father. She knew her voice sounded unsteady, but
she couldn’t help that.
"Mad at Carson,” he repeated. "So you
tore a hole in your forehead. Does that make any sense to you? It doesn’t to
me.”
Mae bit down on the snide response that
popped into her head. They seemed to come so easily these days.
Practice makes perfect. That’s what Carson always said, only
he had been talking about something entirely different.
"Well,” her father said after a moment.
"I just don’t know. Marie thinks we need to send you to a private hospital—for
behavioral problems. Or maybe one of those wilderness camps. Obviously, there’s
something wrong with you.”
Mae could hear her grandmother clear her
throat on the heels of that remark, but she didn’t say anything, and Mae didn’t
turn to look at her. She just sat there and stared at the toe of her father’s
shoe. She could feel him waiting. Now all she had to do was figure out what he
was waiting for.
"I’m... sorry,” she
said finally. "What I did was really... stupid. I’m sorry,
Daddy.” Her throat began to ache suddenly; her eyes burned.
Stupid.
If he only knew how stupid.
She could feel the tears beginning to
well, and she closed her eyes. She bit down on her lower lip to keep her mouth
from trembling.
"Help me here, Mae,” he said. "What
exactly do you want? Maybe if I knew, I could figure out how to end all this
craziness.”
"I want to go with Gran,” she said
quickly. "It’s cheaper than a hospital or one of those...
delinquent camps,” she added.
"Well, not much, Missy,” he said. "And I
doubt your grandmother still wants you along. I wouldn’t, given the
stuff you’ve pulled tonight. And that’s not counting running off like you did.
You scared the hell out of us!”
She didn’t believe she’d scared him. She
especially didn’t believe that she’d scared Marie. And it was all she could do
not to say so. She looked at her grandmother instead. "Do you still want me to
go with you, Gran?” she asked, hating that she sounded so pitiful. But why not?
She was pitiful. Pitiful and stupid and maybe
pregnant...
"Mae!” her father said sharply. "I asked
you a question!”
Had he? If so, she’d missed it, and she
did the only thing she could. She bowed her head again and let the tears slide
down her cheeks the way she must have when she was four and coloring Big Bird.
"I was thinking she could stay with me tonight—if
she wants to,” Gillian said. "It might give all of you a chance to step back.”
Mae’s head came up. "Could I, Daddy?”
"You’re grounded, remember?” he snapped.
"Oh, that’s right. You keep forgetting that little detail, don’t you?” He took
a deep breath. "But... I guess you could be grounded there
just as well. Maybe better—unless you steal somebody’s boat. Mom, she’s not to
see or talk to Carson, I mean it. Is that clear, Mae?”
Mae nodded. He had no idea how easy it
would be to comply with that restriction.
"Run get your pajamas and your
toothbrush, then,” her grandmother said, and Mae immediately got out of the
chair and hurried from the room.
"I’ll bring her back in the
morning—after you and Marie have talked,” she heard her grandmother say.
"You would actually take her with you?”
her father said. "After all this?”
"Yes,” her grandmother said.
Mae returned quickly, her few things
stuffed into her backpack. She didn’t try to hug her father before she left.
She simply said goodbye and followed her grandmother out to her car. She
realized when they were more than halfway to her grandmother’s house that
neither of them had said anything since they’d left. Mae looked in her
direction.
"Don’t worry,” Gran said, as if she’d
been waiting for her to do just that. "Whatever questions I have will keep. So
you’re safe from interrogation—for tonight at least.”
Safe.
She hadn’t felt safe in a long time. She
took a deep breath and leaned back against the seat. She was so tired. She was
always tired, no matter how much sleep she got.
Carson.
She winced as she remembered the sound
of his brother’s voice.
He’s just not into you.
I love you, Carson!
Maybe his brother had been playing some
kind of joke. Brothers did that kind of thing to each other all the time.
Maybe...
All the desperate possibilities suddenly
left her mind, to be replaced by stark reality. A joke had been played,
but the joke was on her. Stupid, stupid Mae.
The tears were coming again, and she
looked out the side window. Her head hurt, and it wasn’t until she touched the
adhesive bandage that she remembered why. Maybe she should go to a crazy
people’s hospital. Maybe something was wrong with her.
She realized suddenly that her
grandmother was pulling into the long driveway that led to her river house, and
she gave a quiet sigh. It would be better here—with Gran—especially the no
questions part.
Her grandmother parked close to the back
door because it was still raining. Mae got out immediately and waited in the
rain while her grandmother found her keys and got the door open. Then, she went
straight to the guest bedroom her grandmother kept just for her, one she’d had
no occasion to use in a long time. She loved the room, loved the way it looked
and smelled—like lavender and lemons. It was more hers then the room Marie had
assigned to her at her father’s new house. And the room she stayed in at her
mother’s house—well, it was gone. No doubt it was full of baby furniture and
Winnie the Pooh wall decals.
She sat on the edge of the bed for a
while, cold inside and out. She could hear her grandmother doing something in
the kitchen and the phone ring. She put on her pajamas, washed her face around
the bandage, and brushed her hair. Then she sat on the side of the bed again,
still cold, still numb.
There was a quiet knock on the door.
"Come in,” she said, trying to sound as
if she hadn’t had the kind of day she’d just had.
Her grandmother came in with a thick
white mug, one she’d bought at a restaurant going-out-of-business sale. Mae
smiled, because she could smell the hot chocolate. No one ever made hot
chocolate for her except Gran, and she wanted to cry all over again.
Her grandmother set the mug down on the
small table next to the bed and handed Mae a napkin.
"That was your dad on the phone,” she
said. "He says you can go.”
The relief Mae felt was so profound that
she flung herself into her grandmother’s arms.
Chapter Two
THE LONG BUT orderly line moved again,
and Gillian advanced one whole step. She wondered idly if the customs agents
ever mistook physical wretchedness for criminality. If they did, then she and
Mae both were in big trouble. Gillian was so tired. She could barely stand
despite the naps she’d managed to take over the Pacific Ocean and in the
assorted airports before this one. She’d lost track of the sequence of the
layovers. The Saigon airport was older and more outdated than she’d expected,
and she wondered how long it had been in use. No. She wondered if it was the
first thing Tucker had seen when he arrived here. She could see trees outside,
and that was uplifting somehow, knowing that the place wasn’t all tired
buildings and concrete.
"Are you hungry?” she asked Mae, and Mae
shook her head. The girl had hardly eaten anything during the entire twenty-six
hours of either flying or waiting to fly. She had slept soundly, though—when
she stopped long enough. She’d spent a lot of the night over the ocean pacing
around and around the center seating in the plane. And, when they were on the
ground, she’d walked all over whatever parts of the airport she could without
causing an international incident. At the moment she looked as exhausted as
Gillian felt. Gillian was concerned, but she didn’t ask Mae if she was all
right. She ratcheted up her once-a-nurse-always-a-nurse alert status and grew
more watchful instead.
The line moved again, and Gillian could
actually see the end of it. If there was a God in Heaven, sooner rather
than later, she and Mae would be walking out the double doors and into what she
hoped was a solution instead of an entirely new problem. She had no idea
whether she’d done the right thing in coming here.
"June emailed me,” Mae said, taking
Gillian by surprise. It was probably the first time she’d actually initiated
the conversation since they’d left their first layover in Detroit.
"Did she?” Gillian asked in a bold
attempt to keep it going. "What did she say?”
"She said she was glad I was coming and
there were some young people she wanted me to meet.”
"Oh, well, good,” Gillian said despite
the look on Mae’s face. Clearly, Mae didn’t think it was "good” at all.
"I don’t have to if I don’t want to, do
I?” she asked. There was a slight quiver in her voice, just enough of one to be
alarming.
"No,” Gillian said. "But I think you
ought to have a good night’s sleep and some decent food before you decide
whether or not you want to.”
Mae didn’t say anything else. She
reached up and absently touched her newly shorn hair, the quickest, cheapest
way to get it mostly all one color. She looked gamine-like and sweet in a young
Audrey Hepburn sort of way. And she was certainly trying to be an acceptable
travel companion, despite her long silences. She had researched the Vietnamese
culture and the travel recommendations before they left, verifying the
information June had given them and the fact that their destination might be
called Saigon or Ho Chi Minh City, a concept that was wasted on Gillian.
The place was Saigon, the name it had had when Tucker was here.
Mae had even managed to save her father
additional expense by resurrecting some of her pre-Carson clothing from the
floor of her closet as well. They were much more in compliance with the
recommendations for foreign tourists—nothing low cut, no bare shoulders, no
denim "belts” with raveled hems.
They had both packed light because of
the ever-changing airline regulations and because neither of them wanted to
have to drag around heavy luggage when they had no firm idea about where they
would be going or how they’d get there. June was supposed to meet them, but
this was a foreign country, and Gillian had no expectations that their
well-laid plans could be executed without a hitch.
Gillian ignored the customs agents as
they did their inspections. She was too tired to worry that she might have
something in her bag that would upset them. It was more likely that there was
something that would upset her. At the last moment, she had made room
for the small box that contained Tucker’s personal effects. It was far too late
for her to be concerned by the fact that she didn’t really know what was in it.
Nothing alarming, apparently, because
she and Mae were allowed to go through. Gillian stepped outside into the heavy
heat and humidity that was Vietnam and was immediately startled by the number
of people who were waiting some distance away, all of them seemingly contained
and all of them quietly staring in her and Mae’s direction.
"I feel like I ought to break into a tap
dance or something,” Gillian said, making Mae almost smile. She could see
handwritten signs in an array of languages being held up by various people in
the crowd.
"Over there, Gran,” Mae said, nodding
instead of pointing.
Gillian spotted her name on a sign being
held up by someone she couldn’t see because of the tightly packed front row of
people who were still staring and waiting.
She walked in that direction.
"Don’t motion for whoever it is to come
to you, Gran,” Mae said. "It’s supposed to be rude.”
After a few steps, Gillian saw that the
sign-holder was a young man. It took him a moment to notice her. He was
Vietnamese—she supposed—and not much older than Mae. He had the suggestion of a
goatee, and he was wearing a wide leather bracelet with metal studs on one
wrist. He wore Western clothes—jeans and an artfully faded dark brown T-shirt.
If anything, he looked like an American college student. He definitely didn’t
look like her idea of a Saigon cab driver.
"Are you Mrs. Gillian Warner?” he called
in perfect English. No one seemed inclined to let him get closer to the barrier
between them.
"Yes,” Gillian called back.
"Is that all the luggage you’ve got?” he
asked as she and Mae approached the barricade. He was looking at Mae, who had
gone silent again.
"This is it,” Gillian said. "We only
brought what we could roll.”
"Great. You’ll have to go around that
way. I’ll wait for you.”
Gillian tried not to sigh. Another line.
But this one went more smoothly, and it
took only a few minutes to reach him on the other side. She could hear the
rumble of thunder, and she looked toward the horizon. The spectacular,
sun-glazed thunderheads that had worried her as the plane landed were gone.
They had morphed into a dense wall of dark gray. The wind was picking up, and
she could see the line of demarcation where the approaching rain began and
ended.
"I’m Evan Nguyen,” the young man said,
extending his hand to her despite what Mae had found on a travel website about
the questionable acceptance of Western handshaking in Vietnam. "June sent me to
pick you up. She wanted me to tell you that she had to take one of the
grandchildren to the pediatrician, and she’ll meet you later at the house.”
"Oh. Okay. This is my granddaughter,
Mae. Thank you for stepping in like this.”
"My pleasure. Everyone’s excited about
June’s guests from America.”
"Everyone?”
"The people at the adoption agency
orphanage actually. June volunteers there a couple of times a week, and she’s
been keeping us posted. You’ll have to come with her one morning while you’re
here.”
"Oh, do you work there?”
"Part-time. I help with the on-line
English communications and translations and with the actual meetings with
people wanting to adopt. The rest of the time I’m at the university—except when
I’m teaching English as a second language at the British International School.”
"I see. So...
you’re... not from around here,” Gillian suggested with a
slight smile.
He grinned. "No, ma’am. I grew up mostly
in Virginia Beach. My stepfather was an American sailor.”
He hurried them along toward a waiting
taxi not far away. Even with minimal luggage, the vehicle was small for three
passengers. There seemed to be a problem with the driver, and Evan motioned for
Gillian and Mae both to stay where they were while he spoke to the man. Gillian
watched, trying to understand the situation, which was difficult because the
body language seemed all wrong. Evan was clearly displeased, and the more
displeased he looked, the more the driver smiled.
The conversation suddenly ended—to
Evan’s satisfaction apparently. He opened the car door for Mae and Gillian to
get in, then wedged in both of their suitcases and carry-ons, completely
undeterred by the fact that there was no place to put luggage in the back seat
without some significant contortions on Gillian’s part.
"It would be better if you kept your
suitcases with you,” he said before she could ask.
"Why?”
"I need to insult him,” he said. "I know
it’s inconveniencing you more than it is him, but I’d appreciate it if you
could put up with it.”
"Why are we insulting him, exactly?”
"He tried to revise the price he agreed
on to take you to June’s place. I want him to know I think he’s a thief—as in,
your luggage isn’t safe in his trunk.”
"Ah. And you can’t just tell him?”
"No. Well, yes. I did actually. But that
doesn’t have the same impact.”
"And we trust him to drive after all
this?”
"The cab is his livelihood, and he’s got
a big family—so yes. But big family or not, he shouldn’t go trying to rip off
the viet kieu—us foreign Vietnamese—especially when he knows my
grandmother.”
"Okay, then,” Gillian said just as the
rain arrived.
Evan closed the car door quickly and got
in the front seat with the driver he wanted to insult.
"Which one of June’s grandchildren is
it?” Gillian asked as the driver pulled seemingly without looking into a
beehive of airport traffic.
"It’s Beth—the oldest,” Evan said,
speaking over his shoulder. "She’s running a fever. Her mom is in Hanoi at some
big deal... foreign investors... gallery
thing. The kids have a nanny, and Susan was fine with letting her take Beth to
the doctor, but June wanted to do it herself. She’s not sure she’ll be back by
the time you get there, but she gave me the key and showed me which rooms are
yours. She said to tell you to make yourselves at home.”
He was speaking to Gillian, but she had
the distinct impression that his attention was on Mae, who was staring out the
window as if there was something to see. The driver drove so fast and the rain
fell so hard, Gillian doubted Mae could see much of anything even if she’d
wanted to. After a time the traffic grew more congested, slowed, and then
stopped altogether. The taxi was suddenly surrounded by men and women getting
rain soaked on the backs of bikes, motorbikes, and scooters. The smell of the
exhaust filled the taxi despite the rolled up windows—or maybe because of the
rolled up windows.
"Is the traffic always like this?”
Gillian asked.
"Pretty much,” Evan said. "In the
daytime, anyway. It’s not as bad in the middle of the night. June told me you
were in school together.”
"Nursing school, yes,” Gillian said.
"June said it was sort of a cross
between a nunnery and boot camp—only with sick people.”
Gillian laughed. "Exactly.”
The rain suddenly pounded harder on the
roof of the car, putting an end to the conversation. She glanced at Mae.
She’s so quiet, Gillian thought again. It wasn’t the
sullen kind of quiet. It was another kind, a sorrowful and more worrisome kind.
Mae wasn’t just sad about leaving Carson, in Gillian’s opinion. There was
something else going on. Gillian had offered to let her call and say goodbye to
him if she wanted to, but she’d looked so stricken, for a moment, Gillian had
thought Mae completely misunderstood what she’d said.
But she hadn’t misunderstood. For a
reason yet to be determined, Mae was seriously avoiding any contact with Carson
Hamby.
Gillian turned her attention to the
rainy view out the car window on her side. She was surprised by the number of
colorful buildings—turquoise, salmon pink, and one trimmed in yellow and brown
stripes. They reminded her of the Caribbean, and they were probably nothing
like the buildings Tucker would have seen. She hadn’t received many letters
from him, but she was sure he would have mentioned this kind of architecture in
one of them. His writing style had been as much travel diary as love letter.
It occurred to her suddenly that while
she might find the place where Tucker died, it could have changed so much that
what happened there would be completely negated.
Eventually, the traffic started moving
again, and at an even faster pace if that were possible. The lesser conveyances
weaved in and out among the larger vehicles, causing Gillian to catch her
breath more than once. After a time, she stopped looking.
"How much farther is it?” she leaned
forward to ask Evan at one point.
"Hard to say,” Evan said.
No doubt, she thought, if the driver had
been insulted as intended. She leaned back and tried to find a better place to
put her feet, but it was useless. After a time she gave up.
Mae was drooping. She had her head
propped on the edge of her upended luggage; her eyes were closed. Gillian had
to wake her up when they finally reached June’s place, a new-looking
three-story townhouse on a pleasant street of townhouses. The outside of all of
them had been painted a warm beige color, but the trim varied. Each townhouse
had a terrace with French doors on the second floor. The dark brown terrace
railing on June’s house was set off by a rectangle of soft slate blue painted
on the wall below it. There were potted plants by the French doors, and out
front some kind of palms. This could have been any modern neighborhood. She had
to keep reminding herself that she was a long, long way from home.
"LET ME UNLOCK the gate before you get
out,” Evan said because it was still raining. He ran to open the art
deco-looking iron gate, then ran back to get the luggage, pay the driver, and
send him on his way. Gillian tried to reimburse Evan, but he refused.
"That was June’s dime,” he said.
The house was cool and very quiet when
they stepped into the foyer. The color scheme seemed to be white, pale
blue-green, gold, and dark brown—with absolutely no clutter. The pristine white
walls stood in stark contrast to the dark wood of the doors and moldings and
floors. There were a number of framed prints on the walls and over the
doorways, all sizes, all looking professionally done—courtesy of June’s
daughter, the gallery owner, Gillian supposed.
"I don’t think she’s back yet,” Evan
said. "Your rooms are on the third floor. Mae’s is the last one on the left.
Yours is the first one on the right. Go on up. I’ll bring your luggage and
leave it at the top of the stairs.”
"Thank you,” she said, grateful not to
have to drag her suitcase up three flights. As it was, she wasn’t altogether
sure she wouldn’t have to drag Mae.
"Which room did he say?” Mae asked as
they began the climb.
"Yours is the last door on the left. I
think you need to take a nap.”
Mae nodded, apparently too tired to
argue.
The upper floors had the same white
walls, dark wood, and gold-framed prints with several globe sconces interspaced
between them for lighting. There was no carpeting anywhere that Gillian could
see, and their footsteps echoed throughout the house.
When they reached the third floor,
Gillian walked with Mae down to her room and opened the door. There was a small
basket of fruit and some bottled water on the nightstand. June had written
"Welcome, Mae” on a white card and propped it against the basket.
Gillian smiled. June hadn’t changed.
This was just the kind of thoughtful thing she’d do. Gillian was going to ask
Mae if she wanted anything from the basket, but Mae was already kicking her
shoes off and stretching out on the bed.
"Go to sleep,” Gillian said, leaning
down to kiss her cheek and pull the fan-folded throw on the foot of the bed
over her feet.
"Okay,” she murmured.
Gillian closed the blinds and quietly
left the room. Both suitcases were sitting at the top of the stairs. She rolled
Mae’s down to the end of the hall and left it outside her door. On the way
back, she admired some of the framed prints despite her fatigue. By the time
she reached her room, she was ready to call it a night—or day. Her brain was
clearly at war with what her eyes were telling her.
She opened the room door and turned to
pull her suitcase inside. When she straightened up, she gave a sharp intake of
breath.
There was a man lying on the bed with
his eyes closed. He was wearing cut-off jeans and no shirt. She turned quickly
to back out of the room, then realized there was a fruit basket on the
nightstand in here, too, and a card with her name on it. Unfortunately, most of
the fruit had been eaten, and the bottle of water lay on its side, empty. There
was a pile of dirty clothes and a wet towel lying in the middle of the floor.
First room on the right. That’s what
Evan had told her. This room—and the sleeping man had apparently claimed
it.
She realized suddenly that he was looking
at her.
"I think you’re on my bed,” she said,
determined not to panic and wondering if he was June’s uninformed and befuddled
lover or something.
He didn’t say anything. He moved over
several inches, patted the area he’d just vacated, and closed his eyes again.
It had been a long time since she’d had
an offer even remotely like that, and she nearly laughed. But as inviting as
the space now available might be to someone whose last twenty-six hours had
been devoted entirely to air travel, she waited.
After a moment he opened his eyes again.
"Who are you?” she asked.
He yawned. "I’m the guy who’s going to
take you on your guilt trip.”
