If I'd Never Known Your Love (9 page)

Her heart in her throat, she answered. "What is it? What are you trying to tell me?"

"Julia?" her mother said hesitantly. "Is that you?"

Julia sat on the corner of the bed. "I thought you were someone else."

"Obviously. What's wrong?"

"Nothing." If she told her mother about the strange phone calls, she would either say Julia was cracking up or that it was another sign. Julia wasn't up to dealing with either possibility. "It's been a busy morning and I'm feeling a little on edge about the meeting with this new ambassador."

"It sounded like something more than that."

"Really, it's nothing."

"All right. I was just checking up on you, and wanted to tell you I had a dream about Evan last night. You two were sitting in the backyard in those special chairs you bought to celebrate his birthday last year."

"Adirondack," Julia said.

"You were so happy," her mother continued. "I woke up and I was crying. I asked everyone at church to say a prayer that this new ambassador will be able to do something."

"Thanks, Mom." Even with call waiting she was reluctant to stay on the phone any longer. "I have to let you go so I can finish packing."

"Don't forget your raincoat."

"I won't."

"Did Barbara stop by this morning?"

"She did."

"And?" Maggie prompted.

"She gave me the clover. I have it in my purse. Now, I really do have to go."

Two hours and six phone calls later, Julia had managed to convince herself that the strange call was simply another Colombian reporter looking for a new angle for a five-year anniversary story about the longest-held American kidnap victim. She had dressed and finished packing and was on her way downstairs, suitcase in hand, when the phone rang yet again. Mentally going over the list of friends and family who had yet to contact her, she setded on her brother.

After five years it was more than reasonable to expect her friends and family to have shifted focus and moved past the intensity of waiting to hear something about Evan's kidnapping, which had gripped them all in the beginning. But Evan was still almost as much a part of their lives as he was hers. For a long time she'd believed their continued intimate involvement was because they loved and cared about her. And they did. But it was Evan himself who drew their hopes and concerns and prayers. They refused to believe a heart so filled with love and compassion and joy no longer beat.

Instead of the expected baritone of her brother, Fred, she was greeted by a woman's voice. "Mrs Julia McDonald, please."

"Speaking."

"Please hold for Mr. Leland Crosby."

"I'm sorry—who did you say?"

"Mr. Leland Crosby," she repeated carefully.

Before Julia could say anything in response, he came on the line."Leland Crosby here, Mrs. McDonald. I'm sure you don't remember me, but we met when you were in Washington a couple of years ago."

"I'm sorry, I don't—"

"Please, don't apologize. There's no reason for you to remember. I was one of a dozen diplomats you met that day. But since Paul Erickson was out of the office today and you and I did have that connection, I wanted to be the one to call you personally to offer my condolences and to let you know that our ambassador's office in Colombia will do everything possible to help you in any way they can."

"Condolences?" she repeated numbly. "I don't understand."

Agonizingly long seconds passed. "No one has contacted you? You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Just a moment, please." She couldn't make out what was said next, but the angry tone clearly made it through the muffled receiver. "I'm truly sorry, Mrs. McDonald. I was told the Colombian authorities had already contacted you, that you'd already been informed."

"Informed about what?" she demanded.

"Your husband."

Her hand tightened around the receiver. "Evan?" Panic squeezed her chest. She fought to take a breath. "Is he all right?" How could he be? No one offered condolences when someone was rescued. Still, she could not accept that Evan was gone until she heard the actual words.

"I'm so sorry. Is there anyone there with you?" He waited, and when she didn't answer, "Is there someone I can call?"

"Is he all right?"

After a long pause, with great reluctance, Leland Crosby said, "The Colombian army found your husband two days ago.. .in a shallow grave with two other men."

Still she clung to her belief that Evan was alive, that he was waiting for her, loving her, missing her, holding on to life when it would be easier to let go, because he knew that if he died, a part of her, the best part of her, would die, too. This core knowledge had sustained her for five years. "Are you sure it's him?"

"I'm going to let you talk to someone else about that, someone who can give you answers that I can't." Before passing the phone, he added, "I realize this is a difficult time for you. You have my deepest sympathy."

She didn't want his sympathy. She wanted answers.

"Thank you," she answered automatically, hanging on to a piece of fragile silk thread as if it were a steel cable.

A new voice came on the line. "Hello—Mrs. McDonald?"

"Yes."

"This is Roger Hopkins. I understand you have some questions for me."

She pressed herself into the corner where the kitchen and dining room met, and clung to the wall for support. She didn't have to ask her questions; she could just hang up, go on with her morning, waiting for the call telling her there had been a mistake, that it wasn't Evan they'd found but someone who looked like him.

"Mrs. McDonald—are you there?"

Please, please let it be a nightmare. Let me be asleep, let something happen to wake
me and make it all go away.
Evan couldn't be dead. Not now. Not after all this time.

Forcing words past the lump in her throat, she struggled to ask, "How do they know it's Evan?"

"The forensic pathologist in Bogota had a copy of his medical and dental records...and there were several personal belongings recovered."

"What kind of personal belongings?"

"His wallet and watch." He paused. "And a wedding ring with the words
Spring to
Winter
written inside. According to the information you supplied when Mr. McDonald went missing, this was the inscription on his wedding band."

She closed her eyes. Her knees gave out and she slid along the wall until she was sitting on the floor. "When?"

"Pardon me?"

"When did he die?" She wanted to look back, to remember where she was, what she'd been doing when it had happened. She believed without question that his last thought would be of her and his children. He would have reached out to her to say goodbye. Had she been too caught up in creating a newsletter for a client, or cheering at a soccer game, or rushing to catch a plane to hear him?

"According to the man who led them to the grave, Evan was shot trying to escape two days after he was captured."

A sharp pain cut through her chest. "N9-0-0- o..." She doubled over and pressed herself deeper into the corner. "That can't be. I would have known."

"I'm really sorry you had to learn about this over the phone. We were assured the authorities in Colombia had contacted you this morning and made arrangements for someone to be with you."

They'd tried. They just hadn't gotten through.
"I think I'm going to hang up now." She spoke slowly, her composure a bridge that had lost its foundation. Understanding that once she let go she would not be able to function, she asked one last question. "Who should I contact to find out when they'll be releasing Evan?"

"As I understand it, you'll have to go through the coroner's office first. Someone will have to interpret for you."There was a sound of shuffling papers. "The doctor doesn't speak English."

"I know Spanish." She'd immersed herself in the language and in the country, believing knowledge was power. For five years she'd studied. She'd learned as much about the history and traditions and social structure of Colombia as she had her own country. Maybe more.

And now, with one phone call on a clear January day, she'd been told all she'd ever really needed was a satin-lined casket and a one-way ticket.

"I don't seem to have the phone number for the doctor in front of me," he told her. "I don't want to keep you on the line while I look. Would it be all right if I called you back in a few minutes?"

"I'll need the contact number for the Colombian office that will release Evan to let him come home."

"Of course. Will you excuse me for a moment?" When he returned, he said, "We can have the embassy make those arrangements for you, Mrs. McDonald."

"When?"

"I'll have them get in touch with you."

"Make sure Ambassador Sidney is told that I want to be with Evan when he comes home."

"I understand."

"But you have to make sure they understand, too."

She'd experienced too many well-intentioned mistakes. Messages weren't always delivered as they were intended.

"I'll take care of it. I promise."

"Thank you," she said. She would contact them, too. There was only one thing left that she could do for Evan. Propriety be damned.

"Again, let me express my profound sorrow," he said. "For everything."

She put her hand over her eyes and bit her lip. "I have to go now."

"Are you sure there isn't anyone I could call?"

"No—" She dropped the receiver and covered her face with both hands. A deep, keening sob echoed through the empty house.

How could Evan have been dead for five years when his favorite cereal was in the cupboard, his clothes in the closet, his dresser filled with his underwear and socks and T-shirts, all waiting for him? How could he come to her in her dreams with tender promises of what their lives would be like when they were together again? How could she be standing at the sink, washing dishes, or driving the car, or talking on the phone, or working in the yard, and feel him beside her and know without question that he was thinking about her and telling her that she was loved beyond barriers or miles or time?

How could she go on without the belief he was waiting for her to find him? How could she get up in the morning knowing she had to get through another day without hope?

Four Months and Two Weeks Missing

We found my dad in the barn, sharpening a lawn- mower blade. He had his back to
us, oblivious to everything in the isolation of the high-pitched whine of the grinder
and the goggles he wore to protect his eyes from the wildly flying sparks. I could
feel your tension as we stood there waiting for him to finish; you really didn't want
to be there. You were scared. And there was nothing I could say or do to reassure
you.

I reached for your hand and you jumped. It was then that I realized the depth of
your fear and how important my father had become to you. For seventeen years
you had lived in an environment that should have destroyed you. When you took
over the care of your brother, you missed so much school that you sacrificed the
dream of graduating high enough in your class to get a scholarship to college. And
then when he died so uselessly, you'd suffered loss I couldn't conceive. Yet you not
only hung on, you survived without anger or bitterness. I'd never known anyone
like you. Your core goodness left me awestruck.

Finally, Dad noticed us and flipped the switch on the grinder. He removed his
goggles and flashed us a smile. When it wasn't eagerly returned, he wiped his
hands on the rag sticking out of his overalls pocket and motioned us closer.

"What's up?"

You shoved your hands in your back pockets and

tilted your head down, escaping in the shadows of your hair. "Julia thinks I should..

Julia wants me to—" You looked up then and must have seen something in my father's
eyes that made it all right, because you took a deep breath and blurted out, "I'm a
fugitive, Mr. Warren. I'm wanted for setting a fire in my old school. I didn't mean for it
to happen, but that's not going to count for shit to the cops when they catch me."

Not exactly the way I'd pictured it happening. I mentally braced myself and waited
for the explosion.

My dad shifted from one foot to the other. "That's the ice that's above the water. I
want to see what's underneath before I pass judgment."

I'd always believed my father the strongest most honorable man alive, someone who
taught his children compassion and fairness by example. I'd never been more proud to
be his daughter than I was at that moment. I glanced at you and said softly, "See?" I
grinned. "I told you."

You repeated your story in an emotionless voice, as if reading an article from the
newspaper about someone you'd never met. It was plain you didn't want his pity or
mine and that you were there only because I'd asked you.

My father was shaken, his face a mirror of his thoughts as he went from anger to
sorrow. "I knew there was something special about you the first time we met," he said.

"I just had no idea how special you really were." He put his hand on your shoulder. "I
just might be able to help you out with this fire business. Give me a couple of weeks."

You tried hard to hide them, but there were tears in your eyes when you said, "I
don't see how—"

"I'm not making any promises, Evan. I'll do what I can. But in the meantime there's
something I have to have from you." He looked at me. "And you."

"I'll do anything, Daddy. "And I would have. "I'll even take the night shift on the
combine next summer."

He chuckled. "Don't think I won't remember you saying that come harvest time."And
then to Evan, "Seems to me that we've got our work cut out for us if we're going to get
you caught up by graduation. Julia, you're going back to riding the bus and getting
your own homework done before supper. Evan, you'll go back to working with Mrs.