LIGHT OF DAY Page 8

  It pained him to ask, Lila saw. As she moved forward, taking the shirt from him, he kept his eyes averted. She remembered when one of her brothers had taken a nasty fall in a rodeo and had been unable to get his boots on for over a week. It had killed him to need the help, but he had been grateful to Lila for simply doing it without saying anything. She adopted the same matter-of-fact manner with Samuel.

  Their breakfast was simple but filling, and afterward Lila told him she was going to walk to town. "I need to make some phone calls, and we'll have to pick up some supplies."

  He nodded. "So do I."

  "It's a long walk, Samuel. A little over two miles if we follow the beach."

  "The exercise will be good."

  She didn't argue. After she had washed the dishes, they set out in the gentle fall morning. The sun, miraculously, was shining, sparkling on the undulating water. A fine, briny odor filled the air.

  "How did you come to own a cabin so far from home?" Samuel asked. His arm beneath his jacket was in a sling Lila had made from a scarf, but he had not allowed her to change the bandage.

  "I stumbled into it by accident," she said. "After my senior year in college, I had to try to decide what to do with my life. They had offered me the manager's position at The Shell and Fin, and I'd been accepted into graduate school, but—" She shrugged. "Nothing really suited me. I took a leave of absence from absolutely everything in my life and took a motorcycle trip down the coast, exploring. When I found this cabin, the folks in town said it had been deserted for years, so I tracked down the owners and bought it for a song."

  "I like it. It's very peaceful here." He lifted his eyes to the ridges of black rock above the beach. "Far away and quiet. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed silence."

  She nodded and walked a little longer without speaking. Finally she asked, "What kind of trouble are you in, Samuel?"

  He drew on his cigarette, exhaled heavily. "It is complicated. Jamal Hassid wants to kill me. That much is clear."

  "Who is Hassid?"

  "Of less consequence than he would believe." Samuel clicked his tongue in a gesture of irritation. "He is what you call here a soldier of fortune. He takes money for dangerous and unwanted jobs, mainly for a terrorist faction in the Middle East."

  "Why?" she asked. "Why does he want to kill you?"

  His jaw tightened. "I don't know, really. It may be—" He shook his head. "I don't know, not yet."

  Lila absorbed that for a moment. "And you, Samuel? Who employs you?"

  He stopped, facing her in the soft sand, his black eyes narrowed in speculation. A wind flipped a lock of dark hair over his forehead, and the grizzling of beard gave his expression a rakish edge. "I have only told you about Hassid because you would have put it together yourself. The rest—" He shook his head. "It will be better if you do not know."

  Lila's chin lifted. "I think I have a right. I've trusted you this far and I don't regret it, but I need to know if I'm harboring a criminal or spy. Who are you, Samuel?"

  His expression showed no warming. "I can't tell you, Lila. Forgive me, but I cannot."

  "Are you a good guy or a bad guy?"

  "I wish it were so simple." His smile was infinitely sad.

  Behind him waves washed to shore. Lila watched them, thinking irrelevantly of the huge distance of miles one would have to travel over the sea to touch land again. She wondered if there were other people having grave conversations on the beach across that vast expanse of water, and if they were, in what language they carried out the conversation. "This scares me a little, now that I've had time to think," she said quietly. "It scares me that people were shooting at us, that you almost died, that I'm crazy enough to have done what I've done."

  "You needn't be frightened, not here," he promised, hoping it was true. He laced his fingers through hers. "And I can tell you that I'm no traitor. I've done what I could to make the world work more efficiently, without wars. It's never enough, and there are so many enemies." He shrugged.

  Lila lifted his hand to her lips, smiling softly with the sudden and certain knowledge that he was a good guy, on the side of right and might, like Superman. The absurd thought made her smile more broadly, and she moved her fingers over the fine sinews and smooth skin of his hand, the way she had imagined doing yesterday in the car. The long fingers were dusted with dark hair, and the nails were neatly, evenly trimmed. In spite of its elegance, she felt power and strength, as well.

  For an instant she imagined his palm moving over her body. "Samuel—"

  "Come," he said, tugging her hand as he began to walk again. "I don't relish the thought of only grapes for dinner. And I need to make my calls."

  Somewhat irritated, Lila followed, saying nothing. She knew that he was attracted to her, that he felt tenderness and desire toward her. Yet, discounting that single, overwhelmingly passionate kiss he'd given her at her door, he seemed determined to keep her at arm's length.

  As they walked, she puzzled over what he'd told her. She'd had friends at school from the Middle East, and some of them had held rather old-fashioned ideas about women and sex. But Lila would bet anything that Samuel was not party to that school of thought. He simply didn't possess their attitude of reserve. To the contrary, his aura was sensual. He cared about the touch of things and the smell of them. His palate could separate the notes in wines, and he admired her beautiful cakes, and the shirts he wore next to his skin were cut from silk and finely woven cloth of all sorts.

  No, this was not a man who would deny his passions. Why then was he avoiding her? With an internal shake of her head, Lila decided she would have to wait and see.

  At the same small general store where they'd stopped the day before, Lila directed Samuel to the phone booth in the parking lot while she went inside for more food. Through a window above the magazine racks, she watched him covertly. He hunched against the booth, his shoulder braced, his face turned away. Bad news. She knew it without even seeing his expression.

  But when he came into the store after her, his smile seemed genuine. "I'll finish here. Go make your calls."

  She called Allen first to make arrangements for her car. "Where the hell have you been, Lila?"

  "It's a long story, and I didn't have time to call you, or you know I would have. But I really need your help with a couple of things."

  "All right."

  His voice was reserved, but she knew he wouldn't turn his back on their long friendship. She sketched the problem of her car and the address where it could be found. "If you would also get my sourdough starter, I'd be forever grateful. It needs to be freshened up today or it will spoil."

  "I'll take care of it. I guess you need somebody to water your plants, too."

  "I won't ask you to do that unless you just want to."

  "Oh, hell, Lila, you know I will." He sighed impatiently. "But what about your business? You can't just disappear and expect people to understand."

  "I'll cover it," Lila replied. "Lighten up, buddy. It's not like this is the first time I've ever done something rash."

  "You're nearly thirty years old. It's time to wake up, my friend." His voice was tired.

  "That isn't fair, Allen. Just because you've chosen to settle down doesn't mean I'm obligated to do the same thing."

  "But it's the right thing for you and you know it." He shifted the conversation. "Did you hear the news about The Shell and Fin, by the way?"

  "No." She frowned, worried it might have something to do with Samuel.

  "It was bombed last night, blown to pieces."

  "What?"

  "Front-page headlines this morning."

  "I can't believe it."

  "Yeah. Supposedly some obscure little group in the Middle East did it to draw attention to themselves. They're looking for the new manager, but he's disappeared."

  "Who is?" Lila sagged against the booth, just as she had seen Samuel do moments before. She had a hunch it was the same news that had knocked the air from both of them.

 
"Everybody. Police, FBI, maybe even the army, who knows. Paper said he had an argument with a visiting professor on Saturday night, and evidently this guy pointed the finger at Bashir. His brother is connected with the terrorists that claimed responsibility."

  "Was anyone hurt?"

  "No. They did it after-hours."

  "That's a blessing, anyway." She pursed her lips. "Look, Allen. I've got to make another call. I'll get back to you in a day or two, okay?"

  "Sure, kid." His voice gentled. "Be careful, Lila."

  So he had guessed. She nodded. "Thanks."

  She hung up and quickly dialed a professional baker who had filled in for Lila on several occasions, a baker who would have liked to have taken over permanently on her accounts. As she'd expected, the woman was delighted to take over until further notice.

  When turned away from the booth, she saw Samuel right outside the door, the cool morning sun dancing on his crown of thick black hair. His eyes were very still and dark and sad.

  She crossed the gravel parking lot. "I heard the news, bandito," she said lightly, picking up the nylon pack the grocer had filled for her. "Help me with this, and we'll make our getaway."

  "No, Lila, your back…"

  "Okay, you macho fellow, you carry it." She dropped it at his feet.

  "Are you always so difficult?" he asked, lifting the pack with his left hand to help her put it on her back.

  "Sometimes I'm much, much worse."

  "Your poor father."

  She grinned, shifting the weight on her back easily. It sent a small stirring through her lower back, but she'd learned to carry the weight high, between her shoulder blades. "No, I was Daddy's girl. He loved it. My mama was the one I about drove crazy."

  At his genuine smile, Lila headed out of the lot, relieved. "I think we should have lunch on the beach," she called.

  "Fine." Samuel walked more slowly, admiring the firm strength of her legs in worn jeans that were tucked neatly into brilliant white high-tops. As she followed a sandy path down the side of a hill to the beach below, her curls danced around her shoulders. For the first time in many, many years, he found himself petitioning the heavens, and it was for her safety he begged.

  The news from The Organization had been worse than he had expected. Beyond the bombing of The Shell and Fin, which Lila had made light of, there had been another incident in Europe, presumably instigated by Samuel's brother Mustapha. Organization leaders, weary of asking, were on the verge of ordering Samuel to speak with his brother. And he could no longer refuse.

  Lila's voice broke his musings. "Quit lollygaggin', old man!" she called from the bottom of the hill. "We've got work to do!"

  At the sound of her laughter, his heart immediately lightened. Whatever work he would be called to do, for now his injury and the unexpected glitch in plans for Seattle gave him good reason to rest. He would be safe in this out-of-the-way spot, and his arm needed time to heal. In a week or ten days he would be forced to confront the turmoil of the world. Until then he would simply be with Lila.

  The afternoon passed as lazily as any Lila had ever experienced. In unspoken agreement, neither referred to the change in their circumstances. Instead, they walked on the deserted, pebbled beach, collecting shells and bits of twisted driftwood. When they were hungry, they found a protected spot atop a low bluff and ate canned peaches and cheese.

  "I should have thought to get some candy or something. I'd like something sweet now," Lila said. "I have a little pie-maker at the cabin. Maybe I'll make some cherry tarts later on."

  "You love to bake, don't you?"

  "It's wonderful," she said simply. "It's funny, though, because I hated it when my mother made me cook. I still hate cooking meals, truthfully." Nibbling thoughtfully on a peach, she smiled to herself. "One spring we had a huge crop of strawberries, and I had to help her can them. As a reward she let me use the leftovers to make whatever I wanted."

  "And," Samuel guessed, his eyes glittering, "you created something dramatic."

  Lila laughed. "I did. A triple-layer strawberry cake, with sugar drippings and all the strawberries spaced at exactly one-and-a-half-inch intervals. My mother was completely stunned. My brothers demolished it in one sitting, and I was launched." Proudly she lifted her chin. "I made all my neighbors' wedding cakes until I left for college."

  "Why did you choose history in college?"

  "It never occurred to me to study baking, for one thing." She tossed a lock of hair from her eyes. "I also fell in love with the drama of history when I broke my back. I was in a body cast for nine months. Seemed like all I did was read."

  "And now you have both your history and your baking."

  She flashed him a broad smile. "Funny how things work out for the best."

  "Do they, Lila?"

  With utter conviction she answered, "Yes."

  "I wish I could believe with such passion."

  "You sensible types always have that trouble—you're always worrying about the world ending." Lacking a napkin, she dried her fingers on her jeans and fixed her eyes on a pair of quarreling, squawking gulls. In a quieter tone she added, "The only way any of us have survived the ages is by living the minute at hand and hoping for the best."

  "It isn't always so simple," he said, and looked at her, smiling ruefully. "Perhaps I simply need some of your magical marzipan."

  Lila laughed. "Maybe so."

  He shifted, resting his back against a flat boulder. "You would like France, Lila. A Frenchman takes his food very seriously."

  "Like American Southerners."

  "Yes, although I'd not thought of it before." He inclined his head. "The attention to detail and no thought for calories or health. Those are the things." He pursed his lips. "My grandfather used to say that it was the little things that made good wine."

  She smiled.

  "You know," he said, tossing a pebble toward the waves. "I find myself thinking of him when I'm with you. With his wines and grapes, he was very passionate, as you are with your bakery goods. He loved to talk about the ways the grapes grew, how the sun and land in one place changed a good grape to a bad one, like Gamay. Do you know this?"

  "No," she said.

  "Gamay is a red grape, and when it is grown in the Beaujolais area of France, a wine of the same name is made that is very good. Move the grape to another spot, in California or Italy, it gives only the most ordinary wine." He gestured with one hand. "Take the Sylvaner anywhere, and it will produce a good wine."

  "I wonder why?"

  He shrugged, giving her the slight smile she'd grown to love. "Scientists have yet to puzzle it out."

  At this, Lila grinned in delight. "One of the creator's great mysteries."

  "Yes." His smile was genuine.

  Clouds had begun to darken the western horizon, and the sea grew choppy with gusts of wind. Lila sighed. "We ought to get back, I guess." She stood up, brushing the seat of her jeans. "I thought we might be able to alternate with bathing this afternoon."

  He raised a rakish eyebrow. "We could save water and bathe together."

  Lila shrugged with a little smile, knowing his words to be jest. All the same, she turned away to hide her expression, for his words had offered her an unbearably acute vision of the two of them tangled in the galvanized tub, the fire crackling the stove. Damn, she thought, swallowing. What is it about this man?

  When she glanced back, she found him staring at her, his black eyes molten and unfathomable. For a single instant he met her gaze, then his expression turned wistful. "Ah, Lila," he said. "I cannot believe…" He shook his head, glanced to the graying sea. "Never mind." He hauled himself to his feet. "We must go if we are to beat the storm."

  Although she'd begun to adjust to his abrupt changes of conversation, this one left her breathless. For the first time, she considered the idea that it might be best if they remained friends, after all. There was such a yearning in him at times that Lila wondered if she could possibly survive the force of it.

&nbs
p; * * *

  Chapter 7

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  They didn't quite beat the rain to Lila's cabin, and by the time they arrived, both were soaked. Lila had taken off her jacket to protect the backpack filled with their supplies. With typical chivalry, Samuel had then removed his jacket to throw over Lila's shoulders, and none of her protests would make him take it back.

  As a result he was dripping wet when they hurried into the snug little cabin. Lila was only slightly drier. Dumping her backpack on the table, she glared at him. "Look at you! You're soaked."

  "So are you."

  "I'm not the one with an injury that's in danger of infection," she said. "Sit down and let me look at that wound."

  For a moment he acted as if he might protest. Something in Lila's expression must have dissuaded him, because he dropped into the chair, unbuttoning his shirt.

  The bandages were soaked, as she had expected. Gently but firmly she tugged the white tape away from the edges of the gauze square, then eased the wet bandage from the wound, taking her time to make certain no stitches stuck.

  Gunshot wounds were not something she had ever seen, but she'd imagined his wound would be a neat circle. The reality made her stomach hurt, for it was a long, jagged tear angling along his collarbone, then over the soft flesh above. "Oh, Samuel," she breathed. "You must have sixty stitches here."

  "Fifty-eight," he said with a grim smile. "I prefer them to the alternatives."

  "I suppose you would." With gentle fingers she palpated the edges of the wound, looking for signs of infection. "My old granny would say you had some big purpose, surviving something that was meant to kill you."

  "Or one can thank small-caliber guns."

  "Cynic. Did they give you some antibiotics?"

  With exaggerated patience he looked at her. "Yes, Mother," he said, but his smile was closer to amused than cynical.

  "It looks good," she said. "You probably don't need to keep it covered any longer. The air will be good for it." She rolled the trash into a ball. "I'm amazed that you drove from the hospital to my house."