Stranger In The Night. Catherine Palmer
current groups. If I don’t get some work done at my desk this morning, I’ll be late to pick up family number twenty-four at Lambert. And you can call me Liz.”
“Liz.” He was silent for a moment. “I live in Amarillo, Liz. That’s a long way off.”
“But see, the Rudi family is here now.” She repeated what he had said to her earlier. “So what can you do for them?”
“You’re good. You’ve trapped me.”
“I can’t track a sniper over bare rock, but I’m not stupid. You wouldn’t have brought those people here if you didn’t have a compassionate streak. We’re alike in that way. Let me tell you how to help them, Sergeant.”
“You can call me Joshua.”
“You’ll enjoy lending a hand, Joshua. Lots more fun than dealing with squabbling sheikhs.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but the return of Reverend Rudi and his family silenced the Marine.
Charity and Virtue, it became evident, had discovered Cheetos. Their lips and fingers coated with orange dust, the two children sidled into the cubicle. Liz struggled not to laugh and scoop them up into her arms, as she so often did with the precious little ones who came under her wings of care. But she couldn’t afford to melt. Not now.
Sergeant Duff needed to take responsibility for this family. His wad of cash would surely buy bus tickets back to Atlanta. He was a good man, kind and concerned. But he had just returned from the war, and his home was in Texas. The last thing he would want to do was take on a group of Pagandans.
“What’ve you got there?” he asked, hunkering down in front of Virtue. “Let me see those fingers, kiddo.”
The child glanced up at his father. Pastor Stephen said something in their native tongue, and Virtue held out his hands. When he noticed his orange fingers, the boy gasped and then burst into a gale of giggles. His sister looked at her hands and started laughing, too.
“Cheetos,” Duff informed the pair. “Puffed or fried, can’t beat ’em. My favorite.”
He rubbed his stomach and made smacking sounds. The kids joined in, rubbing and smacking, clearly enjoying a moment of silliness in the midst of such a solemn day. Pastor Stephen held up the empty cellophane bag.
“The food is very…pink,” he told Liz. “Pardon me…orange. Yes, orange. Can it be washed?”
“Certainly,” she told him. “There’s a bathroom down the hall. You can stop by on your way out. I believe Sergeant Duff is going to help you contact Global Care and make sure you’re safely on your way back to Atlanta.”
“Am I?” Joshua stood, again filling the cubicle in a manner that seemed to dwarf everyone else in the tiny space. “I don’t remember telling you that, Ms. Wallace.”
“Liz. And I told you I couldn’t help them.”
“But you said you’d help me. You’ll tell me the steps, and I’ll settle the family here. Right?”
She couldn’t believe she had heard the man correctly. People didn’t do this. Volunteers might take a few hours out of their lives to assist refugees. A church might adopt a family or two. But no one dropped everything. No one single person simply gave up the weeks and months it took to acclimate an entire group. Liz was paid, and even she had to rely on other aid workers and volunteer helpers.
“You told me you live in Texas,” she said.
“Texas can wait. I’ll stick around here for a while.” He set his large palm on Virtue’s round head. “We’ll go to the airport with you and meet family number twenty-four. You can explain your system to me on the way.”
Liz bent her head and rubbed her eyes. This was absolutely not the way her morning should go. She had files to sort. Forms to fill out. A plane to meet. Clothing and food to deliver. A refugee patient to visit in the hospital. She did not need a U. S. Marine and four Pagandans following her around like a flock of lost sheep.
Unable to bring herself to speak, she held up her hand. Instantly, Joshua’s fingers closed around hers. As she lifted her head, he tucked her hand under his arm, splaying her fingers against his biceps.
“I don’t want to hear your favorite word, Liz,” he murmured, leaning close. “ No isn’t good. Yes is much better. Say yes to the Rudi family, Liz. If you say it, I will, too. And then we’ll make a difference together.”
Everything inside Liz begged to differ. But how could she keep arguing? The man refused to hear any of her very plausible reasons why his scenario wouldn’t work.
“Fine,” she said, pulling her hand from the warm crook of his elbow. “Step one. Take the Rudi family back where you found them. Make sure they have a decent place to live with running water, flushing toilets and enough beds. Drive them to the grocery store and buy a week’s supply of staples and a few perishables. Then go to a thrift shop and see if you can find several outfits for each person. And look for coats. Winter’s coming.”
She picked up a couple of business cards and handed one to Joshua and the other to Pastor Stephen. “Here’s my number. Call me if you need me.”
Before either man could protest, Liz pushed past Joshua and headed for Molly’s cubicle, leaving the five wayfarers standing inside her own. If this was going to be a good day, she needed fortification. Her best friend would be happy to accompany her to the coffee shop down the street for a couple of lattes.
A few hours later, Joshua pulled his Cadillac into a parking space in front of the large brick edifice and switched off the engine. He knew he shouldn’t do this. If he were at all smart, right this moment he’d be on his way back to Amarillo. After a couple of easy days on the road, he would drive out to the ranch. As a matter of fact, nothing would feel better than to strip off his jeans and T-shirt, dive into the Texas-shaped pool and swim a few laps.
No doubt Magdalena would put on the dog for him—enchiladas, chile rellenos, carne adovada, homemade tortillas and a big serving of flan for dessert. The cook had been with the Duff family for years, almost a second mother to Joshua and his four brothers. During each of his deployments, she faithfully e-mailed him once a week to let him know the menu of every meal he had missed. Exquisite torture.
After Magdalena’s home-cooked dinner, he would sleep well in his big, clean, nonsandy bed. Then the following day…
As always, Joshua’s thoughts came to a screeching halt at the idea of driving into town and stepping into the Duff-Flannigan Oil building. He could almost hear his boots squeaking down the long waxed hallway. His voice would echo as he greeted his father. The large corner office would still be waiting—as it had all these years.
Business. The oil business. That’s what we do, son. It’s a Duff thing. Your daddy did it. Your grandpas did it—both sides. And your great-grandpas. That’s why we sent you off to college to get that petroleum engineering degree. You’d be doing it right now if 9/11 hadn’t happened and made you want to serve your country. We’re proud that you did, but now it’s time to take your place here. Your big brother will be CEO one day. You’re our president of field operations. Duff-Flannigan Oil is counting on you.
Hadn’t Joshua just been fighting a war some said was based on a gluttonous thirst for foreign oil? Or had it been about terrorists and the need to quash insurgent cells? Was it about politics—or changing people’s lives for the better? Things could get confusing up in the high arid desert of Afghanistan.
There.
The object of Joshua’s latest quest pushed open the door of Refugee Hope and stepped out onto the sidewalk. At the sight of Ms. Liz Wallace, something slid right down his spine and settled into the base of his stomach. And this was why he should be headed for Texas.
Sam was right about his friend. Joshua had been too long without a woman. He needed to get home, find a couple of pretty gals, and…
What?