Oh my god. What have I done?
“Shiraz,” Clark said, tightly. “From the Monsoon Valley Winery. Up country, but not as far as Bangkok.”
“Monsoon Valley,” mused George. “How appropriate on a day like today.”
Though they could hear it only dimly, the rain was still coming down.
I was babbling like an idiot
, Jean thought, as she stared at her wine glass.
Suddenly, a crash of china and silver that came from near the sideboard made her jump. An older woman was standing there, her hands covering her mouth and staring back at Jean. Clark immediately leapt to his feet.
“Mrs. Juntasa,” he said, taking her by the arm.
As though drawn by the woman’s stare, Jean got up as well and went to her, stepping around the mess. To her surprise, Mrs. Juntasa reached out to her.
“Are you all right?” Jean said quietly.
Trembling, the old woman looked at Clark, who supported her left arm, and then back at Jean, who held her right hand. Annan crouched at their feet and picked up broken pieces of china from the wood floor. They clinked together in his hands and the sound was like a reminder.
“I’m so sorry, Boss,” Mrs. Juntasa said, almost crying. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Clark said. “It’s just some dishes and the soup.” He helped her out of the way as Annan piled up the larger pieces on a tray and took them out. “At least it wasn’t your world famous panang, right?”
Clark turned to George as he led her and Jean further away from the debris.
“Dr. George Liew and Miss Jean Willis,” he addressed them. “Mrs. Juntasa here makes the most amazing panang in all of Thailand.”
Mrs. Juntasa had been trying to see what Annan was doing behind them but had to turn at the formal tone in Clark’s voice.
“That sounds
wonderful
,” George said.
“Panang is my favorite,” Jean whispered as she leaned in. “How did you know?”
Mrs. Juntasa’s eyebrows flew up and she smiled brightly.
Annan came back in with a dustpan and rag and swept up the rest of the small pieces and the soup.
“Mrs. Juntasa has a sixth sense about these things,” Clark said. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Boss,” Mrs. Juntasa said, as he gently turned her and helped her toward the door. She released her hold on Jean and held onto Clark with both hands.
Clark turned to Annan. “Annan?” was all he had to say and the smooth pass-off was made. Annan helped Mrs. Juntasa out.
“My apologies,” said Clark, as he held Jean’s chair for her. Once she was seated, he gracefully resumed his place and put his dinner napkin back in his lap. “I believe we were talking about wine.”
• • • • •
Jean had hardly said a word for the rest of the evening. Instead, George and Clark had discussed the plantation. They didn’t see Mrs. Juntasa again but her panang had indeed been ‘wonderful’ as George liked to say.
As Jean removed her pearls and set them on top of the dresser, she remembered how Clark had looked when George had interrupted her.
He’d looked pained.
She closed her eyes, hung her head, and let an unsteady sigh escape.
Of course he did. I was talking about his wife–his
deceased
wife.
There’d been very little about her in the documentation, only the bare minimum. She’d died here, at the plantation, not long after they were married. Not much more was known than that. Nothing about their wedding, her family, her friends. It happened sometimes–an almost complete lack of information–even in the internet age. Not everyone was plugged in. Likewise, Clark’s mother had died of a heart attack decades ago and there was little information about her. But his father had committed suicide when the company had been at its lowest point, only months after the death of Clark’s wife. That had been covered extensively. It had to have been a desperate time, an awful time. Jean looked at herself in the mirror.
“And you talked about them like they were text and numbers,” she accused her reflection. “What were you
thinking
?”
That was the problem. She
hadn’t
been thinking. She’d been trying to impress Clark.
She had never even finished saying what made forensic auditing indispensable–people were never what they seemed. The public face was always different, what someone wanted you to see. It was a tool, used to their benefit and generally to your detriment.
She shook her head.
The night air must have cooled because she finally felt like she was thinking clearly. And the one thing she couldn’t stop thinking about was Clark's face and how upset he’d been.
Her breath caught. Upsetting Clark was the
last
thing she wanted.
She glanced at her watch.
Not yet eleven.
Was it too late to apologize?
• • • • •
The sound of the knocking was very dim but someone was definitely knocking. Clark quickly threw on a pair of pants and went to the door. Annan and Mrs. Juntasa would have been in bed as soon as the dishes were done and they generally didn’t venture upstairs after the end of the day.
Clark opened the door and stepped out onto the interior balcony.
What he saw made him freeze. There, in the dim light, in front of the door to the sitting room–he almost called out her name. Except it wasn’t
her
name on the tip of his tongue. It was Linda's. He watched her knock again.
“Jean?” he said.
She jumped and turned toward him. She was wearing the same clinging, emerald dress she’d worn at dinner. It was just the kind of color his wife would have worn. No doubt their similar looks made that less a coincidence than it seemed.
“I’m sorry, Clark,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” he said, coming toward her. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “I mean no.”
She took a couple steps toward him and they met between the two rooms. As she wrung her hands in front of her, she dropped her gaze to the floor between them. Clearly, something was wrong. Even at dinner, she’d seemed animated at first only to shut down after Mrs. Juntasa had dropped the soup. He remembered how easily Jean had managed to comfort the aged woman. Annan’s secret wink over the dinner table hadn’t escaped him either. There was a sweetness to Jean that was captivating.
“I…I wanted to apologize,” she said quietly.
He’d never stood this close to her. She was the same height as Linda too. They could have been sisters.
At least her voice was different
, he thought.
A little lower. And she was younger,
he reminded himself
, by several years.
“Apologize?” he said.
She looked up into his eyes and he watched as they searched his. Even in the low light of the hallway, he could see that the color of their eyes was different too. Jean’s were lighter, a pale green that almost seemed translucent.
A flash of lightning lit up the interior courtyard as thunder began to rumble and a light rain began to fall again.
She’d flinched at the flash of light.
“Part of the same storm,” he said.
She no longer wore the pearl necklace that had helped him to focus at dinner. Instead, the dip of her neckline drew his attention. Although it was conservative, the dress showcased her hourglass shape. The lightweight material fit tightly in all the right places. It was pretty, it was business-like, but the hint of cleavage was something he couldn’t help stare at.
As she turned her face toward the rain, he realized that her profile and Linda’s were similar but not identical. In fact, the closer he looked, the less alike they were. With her hair up, the graceful curve of her neck was laid bare. He imagined reaching out his hand and turning her chin toward him.
She turned back to him.
“I wanted to apologize for the way I acted at dinner,” she said, staring at the ground between them. “That was callous. Even for a forensic accountant.”
“There’s no need,” he said. “It’s been over a year.” He paused. “Besides, I told you to surprise me.”
There were a few moments of silence.
“Well,” she said, still looking at the ground, her voice strained. “I just wanted to apologize. Sorry for getting you out of bed.”
“Really, I wasn’t in bed,” he said but, as her eyes drifted upward, they paused on his chest and he realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Lightning flashed and lit up the courtyard as thunder cracked almost directly overhead.
Although Jean glanced at the sky and backed away from the courtyard, Clarks eyes were riveted to her. She’d been looking at his chest and, though it had only been for a moment, he felt adrenalin rush through him. She continued to back away but finally looked at him.
“I’ll let you get back to…I mean I’ll…um,” she stammered.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Right,” she said, nodding. “Tomorrow.”
Then she spun on her heel and Clark watched her go. As she retreated, he listened to the soft clacking of her shoes on the wooden floor. In moments, she’d rounded the low railing of the balcony, opened the door to her room, and was gone.
“Tomorrow,” he said and turned back to his room.
As he closed the door, he looked across to hers one more time and realized that, for the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to tomorrow.
Jean had sensed that something was off since they’d left the house. Luckily, though, she hadn’t had to say or do much. George was doing all the talking. Actually, questioning would have been the better word. He’d been peppering Clark with questions since they’d headed out for the tour.
The rain had let up and she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Whatever made for less heat would be good. She had her window in the back of the SUV down all the way.
“These fields were planted three years ago,” Clark said, pointing out George’s window.
“Three years,” George said, sounding impressed. “You’ve taken two years off the maturation process? I thought the data said one year.”
“No, you’re right,” Clark said. “The data says one year. We haven’t yet attempted our first harvest in this field. Too soon and the trees will just end up damaged and never reach their full potential. It’s as much art as science.”
He’d slowed so that George could take a photo with his phone. Jean saw Clark look at her in the rear view mirror. She smiled at him. Though it was only his eyes that were visible and the back of his head and shoulders, she couldn’t help but visualize the way he’d looked last night. He was dressed casually again but today wore khaki shorts instead of trousers. Though George was dressed in long pants and a tie, he at least wore a short-sleeve shirt. Jean had brought nothing but long-sleeved silk shirts for their short stay. She was already sticking to the one she wore.
“I assume you’ve got the seedlings somewhere else,” George said.
“Under lock and key,” Clark replied as the Jeep sped up. “No need for the consortium to worry. At this moment, there’s nowhere else in the world these exist. The latex can’t be reverse engineered. Of the seeds that are planted, only about four percent germinate. It takes tens of thousands of seeds to create even a small crop. Growing the seedlings is the key and that only happens in the greenhouse, under lock and key.”
“Exactly what I wanted to hear,” George said. “When will we see the seedlings?”
“At the end of the day,” Clark said. “The greenhouse is in the plaza behind the main house. I like to keep them close.”
The Jeep passed through fields of regularly spaced, leafy trees. Jean wondered again if she’d seen rubber plants as they’d approached the main gate of the plantation. But as the Jeep crested a small hill, the trees suddenly became taller and metal buckets hung from them all.
“Ah,” said George. “The harvesting.”
The stands were easily one hundred feet tall, like those of the inner courtyard of the main house. Still evenly spaced in rows and columns, these trees were thicker and their high branches formed a solid, dark green roof. On each, a metal bucket hung suspended about four feet off the ground. As they rushed past, Jean was able to make out pools of white liquid inside the pails. Each tree also had a spiraling gash of white cut into the light beige bark. Although she hadn’t read much about the science side of the project, she at least knew that the bark of the tree was cut and latex flowed from it in an attempt to protect itself.
“Next stop is processing,” Clark said.
Again he glanced in the rear view mirror.
Jean managed a smile.
Another fifteen minutes and they were well into the darkest and tallest of the trees she’d yet seen. Clark stopped the vehicle.
As soon as the breeze died, Jean could smell something acrid. Clark was immediately out of his door and opening hers. He held out his hand.
“Watch your step,” he said.
She’d tried to pack light and only had two pairs of heels. At least she’d left the pantyhose off today, fairly sure she’d have melted with them on. She took Clark's hand and he led her to the cement pad that fronted the simple building.
As George took photos from the vantage point of the vehicle, Clark waited with her on the walkway that led to the doorway. Jean realized the door wasn’t open, it was gone. In fact, none of the windows had glass or screens either, it was completely open. Several people were inside who looked as though they might be sweeping the interior.
“How are you feeling?” Clark asked lowly.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly.
Was it that obvious?
“Just a little warm.”
“You know, it’s actually cooler today than yesterday,” he replied.
“
It is?
”
George joined them and held out a bottle of water and a tablet to her.
“Electrolytes,” he said as Clark gave him a quizzical look.
Clark nodded as she took the water bottle.
“Couldn’t hurt,” he said as he watched her take the tablet.
“The vats,” George said as he left them and headed into the building.
Clark took her by the elbow and they followed George.