A Touch of Betrayal (26 page)

The house itself sat back on the lot like an aging gray elder, content to survey life as it passed by. Curtainless windows revealed empty rooms, and a scarlet bougainvillea plant threatened to pull down the verandah’s sagging roof. As Grant approached the house, a half-dozen small brown lizards scattered from their sunny spot on the flagstone porch into the tangle of shrubbery.

“This house is beautiful,” Alexandra said, stepping up onto the verandah. “It has so much character.”

“It’s rotting,” Grant snorted. He walked over to the door and inserted the key he had retrieved from a lockbox at a downtown bank that morning. “Everybody stand back. This may be the fall of the house of Usher.”

He pushed open the door. It swung into a large, sun-filled foyer with a parquet floor and white-painted walls. A long staircase with a wooden banister curved upward to the second floor. Grant entered, glanced around, and then beckoned everyone inside.

“Whoa, big brother,” Tillie said as she stepped into the foyer. “This is pretty incredible.”

“I can’t believe you’ve never even seen your house,”

Alexandra murmured as she began roaming the perimeter, peering out the windows and peeking into rooms. “Do you have any furniture?”

“A house of your own,
toto
,” Mama Hannah said softly. “Now, like a baobab tree, you have roots.”

Grant swallowed. Twin emotions rose inside him like a pair of rival warlords. On the one hand, he felt a sense of satisfaction. Yes, he mentally asserted, he owned this house. Of course he did. He was a responsible, hardworking man who knew how to invest well. He was a fine and upstanding member of society. An emblem of the landed gentry. A man of foresight, wisdom, and shrewd financial instinct.

Roots?
the other half of him bellowed.
Roots!
Grant Thornton had never wanted roots in his life. He was a vagabond, a restless sojourner on the tossing seas of existence. He was a gypsy. Freedom sang through his veins. Adventure was his middle name. Roots would choke and strangle and tie a man to his own grave.

He’d sell the house immediately. Get rid of it, like a drowning man with a millstone tied around his neck. Cut it loose. Set himself free. Breathe again.

“You amaze me,” Alexandra said, stepping again into the foyer. The golden afternoon sunlight lit up her hair and danced on her bronzed skin. “A man of many secrets. So what else have you got tucked away in your pocket, Grant? A Rolls-Royce in the garage? A membership in the cricket club?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and discovered what he
did
have tucked away—the Maasai wedding chain. He fingered the silver links as he watched Alexandra stroll into the living room and move to the long bank of windows that opened onto the backyard.
Give it to her,
the responsible gentleman inside him commanded.
Give her the chain, the house . . . your heart. Commit. Do it now.

“It’s strange, you know,” Alexandra said. As he approached, she leaned toward the dusty panes and gazed out at the tangle of greenery. “You’re the man who doesn’t want to own anything except his two tents and seven socks. But suddenly your sister forces you to face the reality that you own an estate. I’m the woman who thinks she needs the millions her father left her, but suddenly I’m facing a future of financial ruin. Maybe even bankruptcy. It’s like we’ve traded identities.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Grant studied her posture, trying to read it. The woman mesmerized him. He wanted to understand her, even though at times like this it seemed impossible. Traded identities? He couldn’t fathom it. How would it feel to be rich? to value wealth? to
need
money?

And how would it feel to lose that bulwark of security?

“You know what’s even odder?” Alexandra said, turning to him. “I’m sort of getting used to the whole idea of not having money. I’m thinking I’ll just be a regular person from now on. Average. I’ll shop at outlet malls, and I’ll buy bedsheets stamped
irregular
, and I’ll get my hair done at one of those places where you don’t need an appointment. I’ll be like everybody else and buy frozen dinners . . . and . . . and drugstore sunglasses . . . and . . .”

Her shoulders slumped. She sank down onto the wide windowsill and stared at the parquet floor. “You don’t want things,” she whispered, “and I can’t imagine life without them. The picture looks so . . . bleak.”

Grant walked over to her and knelt at her side. He took her hand and spread her fingers across his, palm to palm. “Things can’t fill a life,” he said. “Not my life anyway. People can.”

She shook her head. “I told you I don’t trust people. My father—”

“Your father was wrong, Alexandra. I’m sure he was a good guy, great businessman, made lots of money. But he was wrong about people. If you keep following his advice, you’re going to find out what emptiness really means.”

He paused a moment and studied the miracle of her hand pressing against his. By all logic and common sense, Alexandra should be on a plane to New York right now. But she was here—warm, real, alive. Again, Grant’s anguished prayer of the night before echoed back through his thoughts.

Had that prayer breathed in torment actually been heard? Was this moment his answer?

“Take Jesus,” he murmured. “Alexandra, you talk about him as though he’s real to you. It’s like he’s a force in your life—someone even more important than your father. But his teachings, his stories, his life weren’t about things. They were all about
people
.”

“But Jesus knew that people would let him down, Grant. One of his own inner circle betrayed him to the authorities. Even Peter couldn’t come through for his master. When a serving girl asked Peter if he knew Jesus, Peter denied him three times. Everybody failed Jesus, Grant. Everybody.”

“Yeah, and he died for them anyway.” He let out a low laugh. “I’ve got no business preaching to you, but even a guy like me can see that Jesus had his focus in the right place. Sure, people let him down. They betrayed him. Some of them eventually killed him. But he loved them all, Alexandra. He loved them so much he was willing to die for them. Wasn’t he?”

Her blue eyes fastened on him. “Sometimes you scare me to death, Grant Thornton.”

“Likewise.”

Tillie’s laughter filtered through the cavernous house. “There’s stuff in the attic, Grant! Oops!” She came to a halt just inside the living room door. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Whoa,” Graeme said, peering around his wife at the couple by the window. “Leave a tender moment alone, Tillie-girl.”

Mama Hannah’s dark face peeped out from behind Graeme’s broad shoulder. “We will go outside and look at the garden,” she said.

“It’s all right.” Grant stood and brushed off the knees of his jeans. “I want to get back to Tillie’s apartment and arrange transportation to my camp. It’s time I headed home.”

“But, Grant,” Tillie exclaimed, “you should at least take a look in your attic! It’s full of things. All kinds of great stuff!”

Grant looked at Alexandra and cocked an eyebrow. “Things? Stuff? Miss Prescott, I believe that’s your territory.”

She laughed. “
Au contraire.
I’m a woman under conviction.” She held out her elbow. “Dr. Thornton, please take me away from this earthly paradise before I fall any further under its spell.”

“This way, my dear.” He linked his arm through hers and escorted her toward the door.

Behind them, Tillie gave an exasperated sigh. “You guys are weird, you know that? Really weird.”

“A perfect duo,” Graeme said.

“Ehh,” added Mama Hannah.

Through a dusty bus window, Alexandra watched Mount Kilimanjaro slowly rise to dominate the landscape. After a restless night struggling with her fears and worries, she had awakened with the firm decision to accompany Grant back to his campsite. From there, she planned to join a walking safari—part of her original itinerary. If nothing else, the activity would keep her mind off her concerns.

Earlier that morning she had telephoned the police, who agreed to turn her protection over to Grant Thornton— though they wanted her to check in with them on a regular basis. Then she called the United States consulate and the travel agency. When everything was in order, she and Grant said reluctant good-byes to the McLeods and Mama Hannah. Then they took a taxi to the Nairobi bus terminal.

Alexandra had thought the train was crowded, but after interminable hours on the jam-packed bus, she doubted she would ever get the kinks out of her back and stand up straight. “How much longer?” she asked over the muffled roar of the engine.

“The bus stop is just ahead. We’ll have to walk to camp.” Grant brushed at the powdery red dust that had settled on her cheeks and nose. “Think you’re up to a hike?”

“The last time I walked to your camp it was a grueling marathon in blistering heat.”

“Only a couple of miles this time.” He glanced down at her rubber sandals. “And now you’ve got those great shoes.”

“I call these my Firestones. You know, ‘Where the rubber meets the road.’” At his blank look, she giggled. “Boy, are you out of it, Grant. That’s an old tire slogan. I mean really old.”

“I guess I’m a regular Rip van Winkle. You could probably carry on an entire monologue, and I wouldn’t have a clue what you were talking about. Home shopping network. Thigh toners. It’s a foreign language.”

The bus pulled to a stop, and their fellow riders made way as Grant and Alexandra struggled down the aisle with their baggage. They stepped out into the searing late afternoon, and Grant gave the driver a wave.

“Asante sana, bwana,”
he called.
“Tutaonana.”

“Kwaheri daktari na bibi!”
The driver grinned as he shifted the bus into gear.
“Mungu akubariki!”

When the bus pulled away in a cloud of red dust, Alexandra shouldered the single satchel into which she had condensed her luggage. “Hey,” she spoke up as she started down the path, “who’s speaking in a foreign language now? Thigh toners won’t do me a lot of good out here, but Mungu-angu-bangu sure has been popular.”

“
Mungu akubariki.
It means God bless you.”

“
Mungu a-ku-bar-i-ki.
God bless you.” As relief at escaping the confines of the bus surged through her, she threw back her head and whirled around in the sunshine.
“Mungu akubariki!”
she called up into the brilliant blue sky. “Hellooo, Africa! It’s me, Alexandra.
Mungu akubariki,
everybody!”

Grant gave her a questioning look, but she didn’t care how silly she appeared to him. It felt great to be off that bus. Great to be back in the open air. Great to be free of the constant threat of attack, to be rid of ever-lurking guards and police reports, to be with Grant. She paused and glanced at the man who was striding along the path like some modern-day David Livingstone.

Grant was the best part of all.

Thank you, God,
her heart sang out.
I don’t understand why I’m still in Africa . . . or what I’m supposed to do next . . . or what plans you have for me. But thank you! Thank you for this moment. Thank you for Grant Thornton.

“There ought to be a song about that mountain,” she said as she appraised the snowy peak. “I’m going to make one up and shout it at the top of my lungs.”

“No fears about Jones jumping out of the bushes?”

She sobered for a moment. “Jones. Do you think he really did leave Kenya?”

“I hope so. But I’m not letting down my guard, just in case he’s still in the country.”

“Well, tough beans if he is.” She swung around again. “At this moment, I feel like I could haul off and knock that jerk straight to kingdom come. Just let him set a foot on this path, and he’ll regret it.”

Chuckling, Grant scratched his chin. “All right then, get set to shout. There’s already a Swahili song about Mount Kilimanjaro, and here it goes. Are you ready?”

“Let us go to heaven,” she said, repeating Mama Hannah’s phrase.

Grant taught her the chant, a trilling cry echoed by a low-pitched response. By the time they spotted the campsite in the distance, they were singing so loudly even the flies were reluctant to bother them.

“Kili!” Alexandra shouted.

“Kilimanjaro,” Grant echoed in a deep bass.

“Mlima!”

“Mrefu.”

“Mlima.”