A Cut Above (11 page)
My heart sinks.
Then, as I consider the ramifications, another, totally unconnected thought hits. Did I make sure I locked the doors
after
I checked them? I opened them all to see if they were locked or unlocked, but did I make sure I locked up again? I’m so discombobulated, I
can’t
be sure. How’m I going to sleep if I don’t make sure?
“Oh, help me, Lord!” At the rate I’m going, I’m going to need treatment for obsessive-compulsive disorder. I can certainly understand what those poor sufferers go through on a regular basis.
I punch my pillow into a more comfortable shape, pray for all the folks afflicted with OCD issues, and finally find it possible to relax. Amazing how this faith thing works. You throw your problems to the Lord, focus on those less fortunate than you, pray for them, and your own troubles fade in comparison.
“Thank you, Father,” I murmur, and then, trusting, I close my eyes.
At ten the next morning, a couple of hours later than I’d initially planned, and after I’ve bought a new purse, posed for a passport photo, checked in with the police, and fielded three calls from Aunt Weeby and two from Miss Mona, Mr. Cruz comes by in a beefy-looking SUV. Before we take off, however, he has me pose in front of the vehicle, and I smile, thinking his a nice gesture for a tourist.
When I thank him, he blushes under his dark tan. “So sorry, Miss Andrea. The photo is for identification purposes. Our guerilla problems are better than they’ve been at times, but kidnapping is still a very real occurrence in Colombia.”
Great. He had to go and tell me. I try to put the whole scary possibility out of my mind as we head out toward Mr. Cruz’s camp in the Muzo emerald-producing region.
When we reach the outskirts of the capital, the vendor-turned-travel guide warns me we might be stopped at various checkpoints, the government’s effort to cut down on criminal activity on the roads in and out of the mining regions.
I snort. “I’m an expert at checkpoints.” He looks surprised. I go on. “Colombian ones can’t be any worse than Burmese or Kashmiri ones.”
Before long, I doze off—I didn’t sleep well even after all the checking and rechecking of doors I did. When I wake up again, I notice the drizzle that’s started up as we’ve climbed higher into the Andes Mountains.
“How far is the Muzo region from Bogotá?” I ask.
“Oh, about seven or eight hours’ drive.”
My groan escapes me before I can shut it off.
Mr. Cruz laughs.
We climb up from the capital to the Andean range. According to Mr. Cruz, we’ll go up to about twelve thousand feet above sea level. We’ve now reached a barren landscape, covered by a blanket of clouds that shrouds the more luxuriant, green valleys below us. The damp cold penetrates the car, and I fight constant shivers.
The stillness around us feels quietly mysterious.
Neither the long drive nor the silence outside inspires conversation, so we bump along the rough road in a deep silence. Finally, as dusk approaches, we begin to descend into the jungle-covered Muzo region. On the peaks, the clouds had surrounded us with a whitish paleness. Now, I get a sense of sinking into the depths of darkness, the unknown. When I realize what a dangerous trip my imagination is taking, I give myself a mental shake.
Get a grip. You’re about to see emeralds like few ever see.
But, hey. It’s really weird out here in the wilds of Colombia. The last five or six miles of our approach to the mining camp at Muzo prove impossibly steep, and our SUV creeps along through thick mist, the leftovers of the earlier drizzle.
Then I see ahead of us three buildings of rough, cement block construction with Tin-Man hat roofs. Since Mr. Cruz aims right for them, I can safely assume they’re his camp. As he slows down the SUV, a handful of camp workers come out from different directions to greet us. They chatter with Mr. Cruz, then lead us to the medium-sized structure, which turns out to be the kitchen. As soon as I step inside, I’m offered a cup of amazing, fragrant coffee and a pair of
arepas
with butter.
Yum!
I take my snack to a table next to a dingy window, and as I sip, I study the landscape outside.
Perched on a steep slope, the rest of the camp seems carved right out of the hillside. Underlining the buildings, a road disappears up toward the peak and into more clouds. From where I’m sitting, the whole mountain appears cobbled out of little more than jagged rock covered with ragged patches of vegetation, deep, rich green decorations for the stark, black outcroppings. According to what Mr. Cruz told me on the road, because of the misty cloud-and-steam cover, I won’t be able to see down to the actual mines until the fog clears, hopefully when the sun burns it all away in the morning.
Sitting here, sipping hot coffee, less than a frog’s hop away from the legendary Muzo mines, the source of the world’s most amazing emeralds, the horrors of the night before pale in importance. A riff of excitement plays through me. Just to think of how close I am to the emeralds makes me wonder if I might be just a night’s dream away from finding a treasure.
In spite of how tired I am, I begin to relax. “Thank you, Father.”
In the morning, I dress quickly and leave the relative privacy of my quarters in the bunkhouse-like dorm building. Fortunately for me, I was escorted to a small room with a narrow single bed and small chest of drawers when I arrived. I didn’t have to sleep in the large room with multiple beds. From everything I saw last night, I’m the only woman at the camp.
The scent of fresh-brewed coffee greets me when I open the door to the kitchen building. Rich, potent, heady, and oh so welcome. But by the time I reach the large pot, I get a whiff of a different undercurrent. There’s chocolate in one of them thar pots!
As I stand, sniff, and scout for food, the cook—a short, wiry man in a greasy apron—comes out, chatters in fiery Spanish, shoves a plate and mug at me, then smiles and returns to his fragrant domain.
In the center of my plate is a mound of fluffy golden scrambled eggs. To a side is a big, steamy
arepa
, butter dripping from between its sliced halves, a small mound of rice, and two oval, golden-brown potatoes. On the other side, forming a luscious food triangle, are slices of—I think, I hope—ripe, juicy mango. In my other hand, I clutch a massive mug of creamy hot cocoa.
I hurry over to the same table where I sat last night and glance out the window. A dark Jeep pulls to a stop fifty yards from the kitchen building. The same miners who greeted us when we got here hurry out from a multitude of directions to check on the newest arrivals at the camp. The misty
neblina
, as the men call the ever-present blanket of fog, is negligible already, and I hope what’s left will disappear as the sun heats up.
Right now my breakfast is calling my name. I sit, pray, and dig into the eggs. “Mmm . . .”
“I see you managed to stay out of trouble since last night,” Max says as I take a sip of cocoa.
Shock makes me spray it back out. I choke. Cough. Sputter.
The rat slaps my back in a—fake, I think—helpful gesture. “Wha . . . what are you doing here?” I stammer once I can breathe again.
Max leans a hip against the corner of the table, then sticks his hands in his pants pockets. “I told you I was coming.”
“But you couldn’t have bought a ticket, flown into Bogotá, then driven here after you talked to me.”
He shrugs. “Nobody says I did. I called you when I landed at the El Dorado airport.”
He’d stunned me by just showing up. Now? Well, now he’s just made me plain old mad. “So you’d already made up your mind. No matter what, you were going to discount everything I’d said to you and come do your Neanderthal thing.”
He crosses his arms. “No Neanderthal here. Just someone concerned for someone else’s well-being.”
“If I hear you say the word ‘concerned’ again, I’m going to . . . going to . . . oh, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll do something. And you won’t like it. I promise.”
Mr. Magnificent has the gall to laugh. “I think you need your coffee. No matter how delicious that cocoa might be, it’s not your fuel of choice.”
You can be sure Marcos Rivera would never treat me like a slightly stupid child. “Oh, go eat.”
Max strides off laughing, and I return to my now cold breakfast. As I watch him, I work overtime to convince myself I’m really and truly mad at him. But I fail.
Okay, sure. His lack of trust in me burns. But somewhere deep in my heart I’m glad Max is here. Not only does he have that hyper-awareness effect on me, but he also brings a sense of familiarity along with him. I find that bit of comfort dangerously welcome.
I plunk an elbow on the table, then drop my chin into the palm of my hand. I don’t want to come to depend on him. If I do, and things don’t work out between us, then when he takes off, I’ll be left with a gaping hole, not just in my heart, but also in my life, and worse yet, my confidence.
Max comes back, a heaping plate in hand, and pulls out a chair across from me. In spite of my irritation, my heart gives a little leap at his nearness.
Oh boy. Do I have it bad or what?
But I don’t want him to figure it out. Not how much his appeal affects me. So I decide to ignore him. As far as he’s concerned, you understand. There’s no way I can ignore Max Matthews. No way. No matter what.
“Got something going with your breakfast?” he asks after he puts a mountainous plate across from me, and two cups of coffee between us. I grab one and gulp down a scalding shot of the deep, dark stuff.
He goes on. “You were staring at those eggs as though they might give you the answers to the universe’s mysteries.”
I shovel in a bite of cold eggs to avoid answering. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his smile and arched brow. What’s a girl to do when a guy like Max knows her too well?
This girl finishes her now less-than-appetizing breakfast, grateful for the oomph provided by the excellent Colombian coffee bean. I sip and stare out the window. Anything to keep from looking at the blond hunk with me.
After a while, he sets down his coffee mug and pushes back his chair, but instead of standing, he stares at me, questions in his blue eyes. Finally, when he does talk, he goes the unexpected route.
“What’s the plan for today?”
I’d fully thought he’d get into my irritation or my shortsightedness in coming to Colombia alone. But I gotta give the guy credit for his understanding. I’d rather talk about emeralds any day. Especially today.
“Mr. Cruz is going to show me the stones he’s willing to offer us. And, if it’s possible, he’s going to get me to the mine site. I suppose I have to tell him you’ll be tagging along. He’ll have to take you into account.”
Max tips his head to the side. “He knows I’m here.”
They’d all conspired against me. Max, Miss Mona, and Aunt Weeby. None of them had trusted me. They’d gone behind my back and manipulated my situation as though I were an incompetent boob. And now I’m stuck with the
California surfer-boy gem-dunce for as long as I stay in Colombia.
Hah! Who am I kidding? I’m stuck with Mr. Magnificent even after I go home. He’s everywhere, he’s everywhere. I roll my eyes.
So how am I going to handle this? Lord?
I sigh. I’m not the one who’s going to handle this. I’m going to have to trust God and simply obey. Not just in the “biggies,” like the ten whopper-sized ones, but also in the little things, the so-called gray areas that aren’t so gray to God, but hide deep inside us. The first one is to set aside my pride.
Which, in my case, I guess isn’t so little after all.
I have to accept that Max is here, overprotective as can be. “Well, since Mr. Cruz knows, then I guess he’s expecting you this morning. We’re going to the negotiating table—but I do warn you, Max. Don’t stick your nose into the haggling. You don’t have your GIA certificate, and you sure haven’t seen anywhere near enough emeralds to know what you’re doing.”
He looks as though he’s about to argue, but then he makes a grimace that I read as acceptance. “Fine. I don’t question your competence, not when it comes to gemstones. Just think of me as the brawn to your beauty and brains.”
“Don’t even go there. No amount of buttering up is going to make up for your lack of trust. And your sneaky arrogance.”
“Are Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby sneaky and arrogant?”
“They’re just plain sneaky.”
He slaps his hands on the table. “Tell you what. I’m not going to go over this anymore. It’s moot. I’m here, and I’m going to make the best of it. I suggest you do the same.”
“I thought I just did when I told you we were going to the mine. It’s not as if I tried to sneak away, and I’m not going to try and ditch you before I take off.” I glance at my watch. “Be ready in forty-five minutes. That’s when Mr. Cruz arranged to meet me.”
“Where?”
“Out front here. In the parking lot.”
“I’ll be there.”
And he is. As am I. Moments after Max and I meet, Mr. Cruz arrives.
“
Buenos diás
,” our host says. “I hope you slept well, Miss Andrea.”
“I was exhausted. And the silence out here is incredible. Very peaceful. It was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time.”