A Cut Above (19 page)

So if God’s on my side, and he says in his Word that he gives us the desires of our heart, then why do I have to find myself in mess after mess after mess?

I have prayed for peace and calm. Many a time.

So yeah. You get the picture. The next morning I wind up trotting by the cart behind the bike on our way to San José. I do get stuck eating Max’s dust—literally, if not figuratively. He might not have left me behind, but half of me starts to wish he had.

Let’s face it. This is not the way a business trip should go. Especially since we trade our disgustingly dirty clothes for whatever the neighbors around Anita’s house can offer. Trust me, wrong-size
campesino
clothing—peasant’s garments— aren’t much to write home about, but for Anita, Enrique, and their neighbors, they represent the best they have. And they helped us however they could. Gladly.

I’ve never felt so humbled by someone else’s generosity. Or guilty. They pretty much gave us everything they had. Faith in God’s provision? Oh yeah. They have that. And then some. I can only hope to do as much, and I promise I will, as soon as I get back home.

Note to self: send clothes to Anita. Send money. Send furniture, food, and letters to the American embassy. The embassy needs to help these dear folks; they need to help them build a road from their tiny neighborhood to a decent market where they can sell their products, electricity to their homes—refrigerators would be nice—and a clinic in the region would do wonders for their health. Anything. Everything. Whatever. The kindness of these
campesinos
deserves a generous reward.

Still, here we are, on the road to that San José de Belén, wearing clothes that don’t fit, me running like a puppy dog, Max pedaling for all he’s worth, and Laura biting her bottom lip to keep from crying out at the pain in her leg. Not great. But it’s the only way out of our dilemma.

Oh, so you figure things get better once we get to San José?

Think again.

When Laura explains our plight, we’re helped up into the bed of yet another rattletrap truck. You’d think we’d have better luck this time, right? Lightning’s not supposed to strike twice in the same spot. Well, let me tell you. It can. And does.

That’s why now I’m bouncing around the bed of the truck, holding my nose, wanting to plug my ears.

Oh. You want to know why?

Because our means of transportation is trucking along more than just us and the guy behind the wheel. At our backs, where we’re encouraged to lean, is the driver’s load of a quartet of pens. Sure, the pens are filled. He’s going to market. In Bogotá.

What’s he taking to market? Besides us?

If you haven’t figured it out yet, then I’m afraid you’re a banana short of a bunch.

Uh-huh. We’re on our way to Bogotá with a haul of sniffly, snuffly, grunty, grimy, beady-eyed, curly-tailed oinkers. Anyone who’s been downwind from a pig farm knows the truth. Pig poop stinks. Reeks.

It even beats Eau de Dead Dog.

1200

When we finally hit the outskirts of Bogotá, I draw in a piggy-scented breath of relief. We’re closer to getting outta Dodge—so to speak. And right now, from where I’m sitting, we need the American medical system big-time. I’m afraid Laura’s leg’s going to need surgery. It looks like a compound fracture that’s spent time growing back together without the bones being properly reset.

Not good.

I glance down at the sleeping girl whose head I’m pillowing against my thigh. My heart goes out to her, and I can’t help admiring her courage again. I send up a prayer for her recovery. It breaks my heart to think greed and brutality might maim her for life.

We can’t reach civilization soon enough for me.

“Getting closer,” Max murmurs.

“Okay, Matthews. When did you become some kind of mind reader?”

He reaches over and smoothes my wispy bangs across my forehead. “I haven’t. You’re just easy to read. At least, you are to me.”

The way he says it and the look he gives me make my heart hopscotch over a beat. I stare into those blue, blue eyes for long seconds, unable to speak, unable to breathe, unwilling to remember where we are.

He wraps an arm around my shoulders and draws me close to his side. “Relax,” he says. “We’re probably close to the market now, and then it’ll be all about calling the embassy for help.”

I lean into him, careful not to bump the sleeping Laura. Once I’m cradled against his shoulder, he leans close to my ear. “What about the emeralds?”

I shudder. “I don’t even want to think about them. Look at all the trouble they’ve caused.”

“No, Andie. The emeralds haven’t caused any trouble at all. It’s Doña Rosario’s greed that’s made all the trouble.”

“Oh, you’re right.” I sigh. “But it’s trouble all the same. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’ve been at your side every step of the way. Remember?”

I glance up. The tenderness in his expression blows me away. Can it be real? Really real?
Oh, Lord Jesus. Don’t let
me get carried away on the wings of emotion. Help me see
what you want me to see.

“You have. And I’m glad.”

He arches a brow. “So I’m not a babysitter anymore?”

I wink. “I didn’t say that. You’re still a babysitter, but I’m not fighting you anymore.”

“I need that in writing, Ms. Adams.”

I give him a mischievous grin. “No paper here.”

“I’m still holding you to it.”

You’re holding me, period.
I don’t let this thought explode into words, even though it tries. Real hard.

Then he turns serious on me again. “What about the emeralds? Did you ditch them along the way?”

“Are you kidding? You think I’d dump the cause of all this?” I wave toward the pigs. They oink away. “After all we’ve gone through? And all we might still go through? No way am I leaving them behind.”

“You still have them? You lost everything you had with you. How can you still have them?
Where
can you possibly have them?”

For about half a second I consider telling him. But then I think twice. “You’re going to have to trust me on this. I do still have them. I just hid them. Did a great job too.”

A frown lines his forehead. “Why won’t you tell me?”

Can I make him understand my concern? “I don’t want anyone else to have the information if they’re asked. I don’t even want you to have to lie if it comes to that. I’ve got them, they’re safe, and I’ll get them to Miss Mona.” I stretch my neck to look over the wall of the truck bed. “As soon as we’re out of Colombia.”

He gives me a gentle shake. “I’m going to have to teach you about partnership, woman. It seems that lesson’s escaped your much-touted education.”

I go to disagree, but then have to back off. I can’t argue his point. My track record’s not so hot when it comes to trust, and trust is the bottom line for any partnership.

Ohmyohmyohmy. Max wants to teach me about partnerships.

Gulp.

Then, as I’m busy gulping, I realize I really do want a partnership with Max. And while the thought of getting hurt still makes me want to barf, a little kernel of excitement at the prospect—of partnership, not barfing—seems to be making itself at home in my heart.

As I contemplate the prospect of a real partnership with Max, I notice new sounds over the rattle and rumble of the truck. I stretch again, and realize we’re making our way down a city street, buildings on either side, the sounds of normalcy—normal to city-girl moi—rising and falling in a welcome tide. The pigs’ grunts don’t even bother me now.

“Woo-hoo!” I pump a fist. “We’re here.”

I notice the sudden flash of disappointment in Max’s face, and my heart does that hitching thing it’s begun to do when he comes close, maybe too close.

Okay. So I might have wanted our conversation to continue down the path it had started, but come on. What girl wants to talk sweet nothings in the presence of pigs?

Not this one.

I want candlelight, roses, and yeah, I even want “Stranger in Paradise” playing in the background.

“Take my hand . . . I’m a stranger in paradise
—”

“Shh!” I hiss. “No, no, no, no, no, no,
no
”—I shake my head—“not here.”

He chuckles. “Okay, Andi-ana Jones. Not here.”

But somewhere else
hangs over us in the pig-stinky air.

What a promise.

What a guy.

What a way to fall in love.

The “market” turns out to be a distribution center–type warehouse, where trucks drop off their products for the center to send them on to processing plants. Fortunately for us, it’s not too far from the Hotel de la Opera.

The minute Max and I scramble out of the truck bed, Laura drags herself to the edge, and Max cradles her in his arms again. We hoof it off toward the hotel.

Just imagine the impression we make when we walk into the luxe lobby. Uh-huh. The stench precedes us. It clears a path through the gathered guests. They give us a wide berth as I approach the front desk.

“You!” the young male clerk exclaims before I even open my mouth. “You’re back. What do you want this time?”

Embarrassment crashes into need. “Ah . . . sorry. Umm . . . we need help.” I wave toward Laura. “For her. She’s hurt.” The desk clerk doesn’t look convinced. I understand. We do look super-disreputable. I doubt I’d respond any differently in his position. But I can’t just quit. “And we need to contact the American embassy. Please don’t kick us out. We’ll leave as soon as we get some help.”

I guess the promise of our immediate departure goes a long way. He picks up the phone, dials, and within seconds passes me the receiver. I plead our case, and finally relax at the promise of an embassy car to get us help—American help.

The clerk takes the phone I hold out. “Thank you. We’ll be gone as soon as the embassy car gets here. We’ll go wait outside.”

Evidently, the idea of our hanging out where hotel guests can get a good gander—plus a sniff—at us doesn’t appeal to him. “You don’t have to do that,” he says. “Let me show you to the office. I’m sure the young lady will be more comfortable there.”

And while the office does offer more comfort and privacy, we don’t stay there long enough for it to make a difference. The embassy limo arrives in less than twenty minutes. We ease Laura into the broad backseat, Max and I join her, and we’re whisked off toward the international section of town, where the embassies are located.

As beautiful as the Hotel de la Opera is, I can’t say I’m sorry to see the last of it. Maybe if I’d come back to the place under different circumstances, I would have left with better memories. As it is, between my close encounter with hotel trash and now my triumphant—
not
—return, I don’t think I’ll ever think of it with fondness.

Our time at the embassy goes by in a blur. I know I call Rodolfo Cruz, and his sob of relief when I tell him his daughter’s safe is something I’ll never forget.

“You were so right,” I tell Max as I step away from Laura while she speaks with her father. “The man was going out of his mind with worry.”

Max shrugs. “It’s called love, Andie. Anytime someone we love is threatened, we suffer. A father’s love has to be an amazing thing. I don’t know it yet, but I sure hope God’s got that in his plans for my future.”

A ripple of emotion runs through me at the thought of Max with an infant in his arms. But then, the reality of Rodolfo’s agony hits me with the stark contrast between the two possible extremes. “Aren’t you afraid of the pain? I mean, you just said you understood how much he must have hurt.”

“Sure. But imagine the joy you get from loving someone that much. And that’s the only way to get loved back, too. I’d rather let myself love and trust God with the outcome at the other end.”

I suck in a deep breath. He’s hitting me where it counts, right in the area where I’ve been limping all along.

As I go on a mental scramble for a way to answer, Laura calls my name. “My father wants me to go with you. He thinks I’ll be safer in America.”

“How’re we going to get you into the U.S.?” I ask. “You need a passport, documents, an airline ticket. How long do you think it will take you to get all that together?”

“It shouldn’t take long at all. Papá’s going to arrange everything. He’ll tell the embassy attaché where he should go in our house in Bogotá to find my papers and the credit card he got me for school trips. He’ll follow us to Kentucky as soon as he gets back from the mine and goes home to get his papers, maybe even tomorrow. I can leave on the next flight out.”

Laura’s composure strikes me again. She’s got me beat. “Just how old are you?”

“I’m fourteen.”

“Are you sure?” I ask before I realize what I’m saying.

Max’s laughter explodes.

Laura giggles. “Of course I’m sure. I’m fourteen years old. You can ask my father. He’ll tell you.”

“I think, Andie, you can trust the girl.” Max snickers again. “Teenagers are usually very up-to-the-minute about their age. It’s not something they kid about.”

“Yeah, well. That didn’t come out quite like I wanted.”

And it hits me again how often that happens with me. Gotta backtrack and say what I really should have said—if I’d taken the time to think it through. “What I really meant is how impressed I am. You act much older, much more mature than fourteen.”