A Whisper of Danger (15 page)

“We don’t have to stay, Jessie.” Rick’s voice was low, almost a whisper.

She couldn’t turn around. He was standing too close. Right beside her shoulder.

“There’s a kiosk near the main road,” he said. “Andrew and I usually stop there in the evening. They have great samosas.”

“It’s okay.” She let go of the chair and walked away from him toward Hannah. If she protested too much, Andrew would wonder why. Worse, Splint would wonder. “You can stay. I’m sure Miriamu fixed enough fish. We usually have leftovers. Mama Hannah, I’ll go tell Miriamu we’re having company. Would you mind coming to the kitchen with me for a minute?”

“Ehh.”

It was all Jess could do to make herself walk the few steps into the long narrow kitchen. As soon as she was safely through the door, she swung around and took Hannah by the shoulders.

“How much time did they spend talking?” she whispered. “Do you think Rick knows? Does Splint suspect anything? Mama Hannah, I can’t do it. I can’t sit there and eat in front of him.”

“Why not?” The bright brown eyes searched Jess’s face.

“Why not! Because . . . because of the past. Because of what happened between us. I can’t stand him, and I don’t want Splint to suspect that Rick might be . . . that he was . . . Splint’s my son, and I won’t lose him, Mama Hannah. I won’t have our relationship ruined because of some . . . some drunk who—”

“That man is a drunkard?”

“He was. You remember that, Mama Hannah. I told you everything. He was hopeless.”

“In God’s eyes no man is without hope.”

“Oh, Mama Hannah, don’t start that. Rick’s drinking ruined my life, and you know it.”

“He is drinking in these days?”

She gave a huff of frustration. “I don’t know about now. I only know how he
was
, and that’s enough for me.”

“Perhaps he has changed, as you have.”

“I don’t care if he’s changed. I don’t care about him at all.”

“Ehh.”

Jess whirled away and grabbed two plates from the shelf. Hannah could be incredibly irritating when she wanted to be. Couldn’t she see how devastating all this could be to Splinter? What if Rick wanted to be a part of her son’s life? Splint obviously found Rick fascinating. What if he preferred the company of his father over the mother who had raised him from birth? How could she and Kima the Monkey compete with a treasure hunter?

“I am
not
going to do this!” she hissed, fighting the knot in her throat. “I refuse to put my son in jeopardy. I’m going to walk right out there and tell him to hit the road.”

Hannah’s warm hand covered hers. “It is you who bears the greatest pain in this matter, my
toto
,” she murmured. “The boy is the child of your flesh. His heart is tied to yours with ribbons of great love that nothing . . . and no one . . . can cut. The man is strong and wise. But he has no power over you. When he asked your forgiveness, he gave away his power. He gave it to you.”

Jess brushed at the tear sliding down her cheek. “I don’t want anything from him.”

“Ehh. But he wants something from you.”

“Forgiveness. I can’t. It hurts too much. I feel too threatened by him. It’s not just about me, Mama Hannah. It’s about Splint.”

“You fear if you cut down the vines of bitterness that have grown around your family, then your son will run away from you. In this matter you are wrong.”

“But Splint might want to be with Rick. He might want a father.”

“Does he not already wish for a father?”

“Of course he does. But I can’t let him know his father is Rick. You remember what kind of person Rick is, Mama Hannah. He’s irresponsible and wild. He’s unreliable. He would be a terrible role model for my son.”

“Do you know this?”

“I was married to him, wasn’t I?”

“Ehh. Ten years ago.” Hannah took the two plates from Jess, picked up a couple of napkins, and set some silverware on the stack. “In Swahili we say,
Ndovu wawili wakisongana ziumiazo ni nyika
. When two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers. If you do not wish your son to suffer,
toto
, perhaps you had better strive for peace.”

S
EVEN

Jess managed to eat three bites of fish and a sliver of pineapple in the hour she sat beside her husband. She had decided to take Hannah’s advice and observe Rick. If she couldn’t get rid of Rick or keep him away from her son— and both were proving impossible—at least she should know what she was up against.

Unfortunately, during dinner he charmed the socks off everybody. She should have expected this. Rick had always been funny, an avid listener, a top-notch storyteller. He kept Splint enthralled with tales of his adventures on one shipwreck after another. He talked about airlifts and compressors and flotation drums. He explained magnetometers, grid systems, depth gauges, Aqua-Lungs. Splint’s eyes grew bigger and shinier with each wonder Rick revealed.

Not only did Rick prove himself interesting, he left no doubt about the warm relationship he had with his coworker. Andrew Mbuti joined in every story with anecdotes of his own. “Remember the time we were caught in that storm off Pemba Island?” Andrew asked, and then he told everyone how Rick had rescued him from the rough sea. “I will never forget the day we used those empty barrels to try to bring up the anchor from the
Santa Louisa
shipwreck,” he said and proceeded to relate how Rick and he had brilliantly solved a sticky problem. As the dinner went on, it became clear that the two men relied on each other, expected the best of each other, trusted each other completely— and had done so for many years.

Even worse than the fact that her enemy was showing himself both interesting and trustworthy, Rick made every effort to be thoughtful toward Jess. She found it horrifying. He filled her glass with water when she ran out. He picked up her napkin when it accidentally slid off her lap. He asked all about her art. He complimented the house. He even offered to talk to the electric company about hooking up the power.

“I can do that,” Jess said. “I’m going into town tomorrow to register Splint at school and buy his uniforms.”

“Jonathan Wariru is the man to see at the power company,” Andrew said. “He’ll sort out the billing problems for you.”

“Uniforms!” Splint said. “Aw, Mom.”

“I used to wear uniforms at the boarding school where I went from third grade on up,” Rick said. “Khaki trousers, khaki shirt. Boring, but useful as camouflage for sneaking around in the brush looking for the infamous three-legged, dog-eating leopard.”

“You went to a school where they had a three-legged leopard?”

“That was the legend. My boarding school’s still there— on the edge of the Rift Valley in Kenya. And the story about the leopard is probably still there, too. I never saw the animal, but I sure spent time looking.”

“I didn’t know you grew up in Africa.” Splint chewed on a chunk of mango. “My mom grew up in Kenya, too. Did you ever meet her?”

“Splint, would you please finish up that mango?” Jess said quickly. “All of us are through with dinner, and you’re still eating. I want you to get on up to bed, kiddo.”

“Already? Why? Do I have to go into town with you tomorrow? I don’t want to see that school. I don’t even want to think about school.”

“I’m going to town by myself, but you and Mama Hannah have been invited to Nettie Cameron’s house to play Scrabble in the morning.”

“Scrabble!” He pushed back from the table. “I’m gonna whip her. She thinks just because I’m ten, she can beat me. She doesn’t know I can spell
ionium
and
qoph
and
subcutaneous
. I looked up
hydrofoil
. I’ve memorized the names of all my shells. Nettie doesn’t stand a chance.”

Jess stood and began to clear the table. “But you’ve been out on the beach all day long today, and she hasn’t. If you don’t get some rest, she might have the edge on you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, she might pull
aoudad
out of her hat,” Rick said. He leaned over to Splint. “It’s a wild sheep from North Africa.”

“Really?”

“Or
eosin.
It’s a sodium or potassium salt we scientists use as a biological stain for cytoplasmic structures.”

“If she knows scientific words, I’m dead meat.” Splint studied Rick for a moment. “Hey, would you play Scrabble with me sometime?”

“I don’t know about that.
Qoph
might do me in.”

The boy laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon when you come ashore, Rick.”

“Not tomorrow, pal. I’ll only be here a couple of hours in the morning. I’ve got to fill out reports in town. You can ask Andrew what they bring up from the wreck.”

“I sure wish I could go out there on the boat.” Splint eyed his mom. “I know I’d be safe. I’m an ace swimmer.”

Jess fastened her glare on him. “Upstairs, Spencer. Now.”

Splint rolled his eyes and headed for the back staircase. Jess let out a breath. If she could get through the next few minutes . . . get Rick out the door . . . get him out of her sight . . .

Splint was halfway up the stairs when he stopped. “Hey, Rick.
Did
you know my mom back when she lived in Kenya?”

For the first time that night, Jess stared straight at the man. He looked at her, searching her eyes. Her heart lurched against her chest, and her breath caught in the back of her throat. Everything about him did the same things to her as ten years before.

“I met your mom a long time ago,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “We were kids.”

“Cool. So it’s just like old times between the two of you.” Splint started up the steps again. “I knew there had to be a reason you called her Jessie that day she barfed on you in Zanzibar town.”

Jess let out a groan, grabbed the stack of dirty plates, and rushed them into the kitchen. Miriamu brushed past her on the way out to the table. Setting the plates in the sink, Jess bit her lip to stop the tears that were determined to fall. Her son would figure it out. He was too smart. Then he would want the father he’d never had. And how could she keep them apart? How—when Rick was kind and gentle and funny and everything a father should be?

“Jessie?” His voice in the doorway of the kitchen froze her tears. “Jessie, are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.” She wiped the heel of her palm across her cheek and turned to face him. “I don’t want him to know about the past, Rick. I don’t want you to tell him.”

“I won’t.”

In the low light of the kerosene lantern, she could see the broad silhouette of his shoulders. Hints of gold glinted in his hair. His skin glowed a deep bronze in contrast to the pale sea green of his T-shirt. He took a step toward her.

“Jessie, is Spencer . . . ?” He stopped and looked away.

She could see him struggling, and she knew the question he wanted to ask: Was Spencer his son? How could she not tell him? Didn’t he deserve to know . . . ?

No! He had run off and left her. Left his own baby growing inside a young wife. Abandoned them both. No, he didn’t deserve that child.

“You’d better go,” she said.

“Yeah.”

He rammed a hand down into his pocket. She stared at him, appalled at the urge she felt to tell him about his son. Mortified by the unbidden desire to touch him, to feel his arms slide around her. Terrified by her need to cry and rage and mourn . . . and heal. To heal him and to be healed by him.

Why had God allowed this to happen? Things had been so much better before. Now she had to look into Rick’s eyes and read the mirror of her own emotions. He ached as deeply as she did. He carried the same torment.

“Jessie, I—”

“Rick—”

“Go ahead.”

“No, you.”

“I just . . . uh . . . thank you for the supper.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you have something to say?”

“No.”

He nodded. “I won’t say anything to Splint. About us.”

“Thank you.”

He turned to go, then stopped. “Jessie, did you ever marry again after me?”

She jerked upright. “No.” He was looking straight at her, trying to read her eyes. She squared her shoulders. “He’s my son, Rick. Only mine.”