Fire And Spice. Karen Van Der Zee
man was born and bred in Texas. Spent several years in Saudi Arabia with an oil company, and now shows up at parties in his costume. He’s never been within ten feet of a camel and he’s a big bore.’
She sighed. ‘All right, who’s interesting?’
‘That little old lady over there,’ he said promptly.
‘The one in the orthopedic shoes.’ A smile tugged at his mouth as he looked at her.
She was being reprimanded, she knew, ever so slightly, but he had a sense of humor, which was very reassuring.
‘So what’s interesting about her?’ ‘She knows how to ride a camel.’ Zoe laughed. She couldn’t help it.
‘She works for a relief organization in the Sudan,’ he went on. ‘She’s on home leave.’
‘You’re kidding.’ Zoe looked at the woman. She was tiny, wrinkled and gray and at least in her seventies-at first glance, just an old lady. On closer inspection, it was obvious that there was nothing old and doddering about her. She emanated a vivacious spirit, laughing and gesturing with her hands as she spoke.
‘She seems rather busy now, but I’ll have to go and speak to her later,’ she said. ‘By the way, I understand you’ve also worked in Venezuela. I have a friend who just moved there. Did you like it there?’
Behind the bright blue of his eyes, dark shadows moved. Or was she imagining it?
‘Not particularly.’ His voice had cooled considerably. ‘Who told you?’
Not a good subject of conversation, obviously. Her heart fluttered nervously. ‘Nobody. It was in Paul’s file. He was born in Caracas, it said.’
He rubbed his temple with long, lean fingers, stroking at tension. Or pain. Or just out of habit. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘How’s Paul doing?’ she asked lightly. ‘Did you talk to him?’
‘Paul will be fine,’ he said, a faint note of impatience in his voice. ‘He’ll see the light one of these days.’ He took a drink from his glass, which held something amber-colored with ice cubes floating in it. Whiskey, probably.
The bunny bumped into him accidentally on purpose. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry!’ she exclaimed and beamed up at him with a toothpaste smile. ‘Oh, I wanted to tell you that I found it fascinating what you said about the development politics in Argentina.was it Argentina?’
Zoe escaped with a sigh of relief. Saved by a rabbit, she thought, and gave a little chuckle. Well, she’d learned something about Mr Sinclair: not only did he not like talking about his son, he also didn’t like talking about Venezuela. She wondered what had happened in Venezuela. She wondered what had happened to his wife.
She mingled, smiling, talking, listening, nibbling at exotic-looking little tidbits of food, trying not to be aware of Bryant, who, with amazing speed, had managed to get rid of the bunny once more and was mingling, too. She talked for quite some time with the little old lady, who was very interesting indeed, not to speak of sharp and full of humor.
‘So, what did you think of her?’ asked Bryant later.
‘People like her give me great hope for the future,’
she said. ‘I hope I never dry up.’
‘Do you worry about that a lot?’
She laughed. ‘Actually, no.’
He put his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. ‘And what are your hopes for the future?’ he asked lightly.
‘Oh, I have a catalogue full.’ This was true enough, if not very specific. She wasn’t ready to tell him her intimate dreams. She smiled. ‘Mostly, I don’t ever want to be bored. Or boring, for that matter,’ she added.
‘You are not boring,’ he stated evenly, his blue eyes locking with hers.
She felt her heart leap a little. She mustered a bright smile. ‘Thank you, that’s a relief. I hope I can keep that up until old age.’ She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘And what about your hopes for the future?’
‘I’ve not given it much thought. May I get you another glass of wine?’
His personal future seemed to be another subject he did not care to discuss. It was getting to be quite a list
‘No, thank you, I’ve had enough.’ She put her empty glass on a nearby table, trying to find something safe to say. Fortunately, there was no need. Several people joined them and took over the conversation, which gave her the opportunity to listen and watch.
Watching Bryant’s face and listening to his voice made her feel very much alive, a light, effervescent feeling that tingled all through her.
It was very late when she decided to leave. She felt good, very good. Her spirits had been much restored. Actually, she felt quite charged up. She smiled to herself as she skipped down the steps to the quiet, dark street. The air was crisp and cool and she took in a deep breath, lifting her face to the night sky. Stars, a swelling moon. Endless space full of mysteries. It made you think of magic and love and hope.
Life was exciting and full of promise.
She wished she could hug the feeling to her and keep it there always.
Paul’s school performance did not improve in the following week. Twice in that time Zoe ran into Bryant as they were leaving for work at the same time. On both occasions her heart made a nervous little leap as she saw him-dressed in a business suit and smelling faintly of something clean and masculine. Neither time did he mention his son.
She’d seen him one other time, but he’d not seen her. The day after the party, Sunday, she’d taken a walk and noticed Bryant and Paul in the park, shooting hoops. Like Paul, Bryant had been wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He’d been like a different man, running, jumping, tossing the ball through the hoop with the smooth agility of an athlete. With her heart in her throat she’d watched his lean, muscled body twist and stretch and leap. Disturbing feelings had stormed through her-disturbing because of their intensity, because of the total lack of control she seemed to have over them.
It was frightening and exciting at the same time.
Sitting in her office, looking at the teachers’ reports about Paul’s work or lack thereof, she tried to concentrate on Paul and put Bryant out of her mind.
She called Paul into her office to have another talk with him. He sat huddled in a chair with his head down and stared at his hands as he fiddled with a paper clip. The body language was not promising. He answered all her questions with one of three mumbled answers: ‘I don’t know’, ‘I don’t care’ and ‘It’s stupid anyway’.
It was not the first time she had encountered a child like Paul with an attitude like his, yet she could feel her emotions getting the better of her. Bryant had to know something was wrong. Bryant had to take charge of this problem. Bryant had to care.
She wanted to do something, but scheduling another conference was most likely not going to work. She had to think of something else.
Something else-but what?
She needed inspiration, an idea, an opportunity. Something.
The next day she came home from school and found Paul outside sitting on the brick steps, his book bag next to him. He moved it to let her pass.
‘Why are you sitting here?’ she asked.
‘I forgot my key.’
‘Where’s Mrs Garcia?’
He shrugged. ‘She had to go to the doctor or something. My dad said I could be by myself today until he came home.’
‘Well, I can let you into the front door. When is your dad coming home?’
He shrugged.