A Touch of Betrayal (36 page)
“Fabulous! Absolutely marvelous!” Barbara Stein spread her long, red-polished nails across the stack of designs on Alexandra’s dining room table. “Darling, you were inspired!”
“I guess I was.” Alexandra had asked the head of the firm’s New York design team to visit her condominium penthouse to take a look at her sketches. Although Alexandra had been back in the city almost two weeks, she hadn’t had the energy to make the trip downtown. Barb had been more than willing to drive out to Westchester County, and her response to Alexandra’s work was gratifying.
“This line is going to go so fast it’ll make your head spin,” Barb gushed. “I’ll bet we see it in Bloomingdale’s, Macy’s, Neiman Marcus. And you know the discount chains will be scrambling to follow up. I predict your fabrics will be
the
look for the coming season.”
Alexandra ran her fingertip over the detailed rendition of Grant Thornton’s green canvas tent with the spiky thorn branches silhouetted in black. “This idea came from an acacia tree in the camp—”
“I’d love to show these to some of the top home interior designers,” Barb cut in. “What would you say to that, Alexandra?”
“I guess I could see sheets in these patterns.”
“Sheets? I’m talking upholstery! Curtains!” She pointed to the geometric design that incorporated blocks of coral from Fort Jesus juxtaposed against the ocean. “I mean these colors are simply fabulous. The turquoise! The terra cotta! This could go beyond the whole Africa thing. This could be Southwest. Or Aztec. You know how huge the Aztec look is becoming.”
“But it’s not South America. It’s Africa. This is coral from an old Portuguese fort—”
“And the beadwork! Alexandra, this pattern doesn’t belong on a fabric. These necklaces and earrings should be created—actually beaded and sold as jewelry.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. There’s a tribe in Kenya— the Maasai. The women design and execute wonderful beaded jewelry. And the money they would earn from their handicrafts could go to things like medicine. Their children are suffering. And the water situation is—”
“
Ralph Lauren
.” Barb’s eyes had glazed over. “That’s who I’m thinking with these beads. Can you see this necklace against one of his dresses? Alexandra, he’d adore it.”
Rafloren.
Alexandra smiled wistfully. Yes, the Maasai women would agree. All her drawings were very
Rafloren
.
“I almost hate to say this because I know you’ve been through such trauma, darling,” Barb said, “but these designs could propel you to the top. Straight to the top of this industry. You could achieve that goal of yours, you know. You could start your own firm. There are . . . some of us . . . who’d join you.”
“Barb? Are you saying you’d step aboard a fledgling business if I’d start it?”
“You’ve got talent, lady. I’ve been in this business long enough to know how important it is to go with the visionary designers. And right now you’re it—the one with the dream.” She smiled broadly. “Besides . . . you’ve got the wherewithal to make the whole thing happen.”
Alexandra felt her spirits sink.
Money.
That’s what it was all about, wasn’t it? Although James Cooper had frittered a great deal of her money away, a substantial amount remained. During Cooper’s trial, his worth would be assessed. She was bound to be awarded a chunk of his assets.
“No, Barb,” she said suddenly. “I don’t have the money.”
“But I thought . . .” The woman’s face paled. “All the papers said . . .”
“I’ve set up endowments with my father’s money. It’s going to hospitals like Mayo to fund research into tropical diseases. It’ll be used for anthropological research. And I’ve been thinking about starting a project with the Maasai women. Maybe I’ll even try to make that Ralph Lauren connection.”
Barb stared unblinking. “You’re
not
going to start your own design firm?”
Alexandra shrugged and gave the woman a smile. It still amazed her how good surrender felt. She didn’t regret the loss of her dream at all. In fact, she had new dreams.
“Money is a gift,” she said. “It was given to me. And now I want to give it to others.”
Barb gave an incredulous laugh. “Well, I’ll take some of it. Alexandra, I can’t believe this. It doesn’t sound like you at all. Honey, what happened to you over there in Africa? You’re . . . different.”
“A lot happened. It was more than just the shooting. It’s hard to explain.”
“Don’t even try. You’re scaring me half to death. I hope it’s nothing contagious.” Barb gathered up the designs. “Look, these are going to be great. The CEO is going to go wild over them. But, Alexandra . . . please. Try to get yourself together before you come into work.”
“Together?”
Barb’s red nails touched Alexandra’s hair. “You’ve gone . . . soft. Shaggy. You need a trip to the salon, darling. Get yourself a manicure. Have a makeover. You’ll feel better, I promise.”
“Oh, Barb—”
“And those shoes.” She frowned at the rubber-tire sandals on Alexandra’s feet. “Really, honey. You look like some kind of a derelict.”
Tucking the designs under her arm, Barb headed for the door. Alexandra followed, trying hard not to laugh out loud.
Derelict.
That was exactly what she had first thought of Grant Thornton. How wrong she had been!
“Promise me you’ll do something about the hair?” Barb said in the doorway.
“Miss Prescott?” The doorman’s voice came over the intercom. “Miss Prescott, you have a package down here. Shall I bring it up?”
Alexandra gave Barb a look that betrayed her annoyance. “Would you please ask the firm to stop sending work to my home? I’ll take care of it when I go into the office.”
“But
when
are you coming in? You’ve been out for weeks.”
Alexandra rolled her eyes and pressed the intercom. “I’ll come down for the package, Robert.”
She and Barb stepped into the elevator across the hall. How could she possibly explain all she’d been through in Africa? The physical trauma alone should warrant a long vacation. But it was much more than that. Her heart felt so sad. Almost barren of feeling. It was as though a part of her had been ripped away, and she doubted she would ever find it again.
“The ethnic look keeps growing,” Barb said as the elevator doors slid open on the ground floor. “You seem to have a strong feeling for it.”
Alexandra walked across the foyer to the front desk. “I had a strong feeling for Africa,” she said. “I’ll talk to you soon, Barb.”
“Okay, honey. Catch you later.”
Turning away, Alexandra took the small packet from the security guard. “She thinks I need a trip to the salon, Robert.”
The man grinned. “You always look fine to me, Miss Prescott.”
Alexandra gave him a wink. As she entered the elevator, she glanced down at the packet—a small box wrapped in brown paper. It bore no return address. Nothing but her name.
The doors slipped shut with a whisper. Alexandra opened the little box. Tipping it over, she slid its contents into her palm.
A silver chain. A chain created of metal links, hammered together one by one. A Maasai chain.
“Grant?” Alexandra hammered on the buttons, begging them to work. The moment the doors opened on the fifth floor, she raced out into the corridor. Running down the carpeted hall, she clutched the chain in her fists.
Oh, Father, please. Please, let him be there.
She threw open the door to the stairwell and took the fire escape steps two at a time. Her injured chest began to ache. Her heart pounded. By the time she had scrambled down all five flights, she could hardly suck in air. She pushed open the door and raced back into the foyer.
“Robert! Robert!”
“Miss Prescott?” The doorman reached to dial 911 on his phone. “What’s wrong?”
“That package. Who gave it to you?”
“A fellow brought it.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t let him in. He looked kind of . . . shaggy, you know. Like a . . .”
“Derelict! Oh, Robert!”
“Miss Prescott, should I call the police?”
Alexandra ran to the front door and rammed her shoulder into the brass frame. As the heavy door swung open, she slipped outside.
“Grant?” she called. “Grant!”
The parking lot was empty. Barb had already gone. A light snow was beginning to fall. She watched the first streetlight come on as an early dusk set in. “Grant?” she said, more softly this time. “Grant, where are you?”
“Got a problem?”
She swung around. He was sitting on a concrete planter, his jeans dusted with snowflakes. A bulky winter jacket looked out of place against his tanned skin. The collar of his khaki shirt flapped in the chill breeze, and a curl of sun-gold hair danced on his forehead. He stood slowly, stiffly, as if the cold had half paralyzed him.
“You came,” she whispered. She clutched the silver chain, struggling to swallow the lump in her throat as he approached. “Grant, you came to me.”
“All the way.”
“You didn’t write.”
“I hate to write anything but research. Figured I could tell you about the rites of elderhood when I saw you.”
“The telephone at Oloitokitok—”
“I don’t talk much on telephones if I can help it. I prefer face-to-face. Especially when I have something important to say.” He untangled the chain from her fingers. “I want you to know what happened to me. It’s kind of a journey that started with you. A journey of surrender. On the way up Mount Kilimanjaro I gave up my disbelief and surrendered my life to Christ. Face-to-face with the man who tried to kill you, I surrendered my pride and my rage. And finally— alone in my camp—I gave up my rejection of a world I hadn’t tried to understand. Last week I phoned some people I know at NYU. When the spring semester gets under way, I’ll be teaching a couple of classes in the anthropology department. Alexandra, I’m here . . . all the way.”
“But, Grant—”
“Without you, my old life didn’t make much sense. I tried to keep going, but the fire had gone out.”
Alexandra brushed back a tear, her soul rocking with disbelief at how closely his words reflected her own life. “Grant, I missed you so much.”
“No matter how hard I tried—and I
did
try—I couldn’t get that fire burning again. So I packed up my tents. Moved to the house in Nairobi. Tried finding something to do there. I tried everything I knew to make things feel okay again. Make everything right.” He shook his head. “Tillie’s baby did me in. A little girl. Dimples. Mama Hannah is spoiling her to death.”
He touched her cheek. “The baby has a dimple right here,” he went on. “And another one on the other side. Just like yours. So I came.”
Alexandra nodded, crying openly now. In his halting speech, she understood the depth of desperation that had driven him this far. He stood like a stranger in a strange land, snowflakes gathering on his bronzed cheeks and broad shoulders. A lion in a frozen wilderness—out of time and out of place, yet ready to face whatever challenges came.
“When a warrior gives a woman a silver chain,” Grant said, meeting her gaze, “it means he wants her to be his wife. Alexandra, I love you. Will you wear my chain?”
Smiling amid her tears, she took the chain and slipped it over her head. Then his arms wrapped around her, enfolding her in the warmth of his love. She clung to him, hardly able to believe he had sacrificed so much.
“Yes, my love,” she whispered. “I will be your wife.”
“Thank you, Lord.”
She shook her head, wonder filling her at the passion that suffused his expression of gratitude. “Grant, I’m so glad you’re a believer.”
“Even the demons believe. I am surrendered.”
The rough brush of his coat against her cheek filled Alexandra with a rush of memories. The smiling people. The burning plains. The crisp mountain winds. The sweet, musky grasses. The animals.
“Grant, I want you to take me home,” she whispered.
Still holding her close, he started for the glass-fronted building. But she stopped him. Lifting her head, she gazed into the gray blue of his beloved eyes.
“No,” she said. “Take me home, Grant. Home to Africa.”