Love Remains (34 page)

More than three hours early for their flight—having skipped the last session so they wouldn’t have to fight quite so much of the Friday afternoon traffic—they discovered they couldn’t check in yet.

“Let’s grab something to eat.” Chase looked up and down the main terminal. “Down there.”

The small café served Italian food—not something Bobby really wanted on his stomach right before flying a couple hours. He settled for a small caesar salad. He had one protein bar left from the box he’d brought with him, which would help tide him over until he got back to Nashville and found a fast-food place with a drive-through window open late.

Chase pulled out his pen and notebook and started bouncing ideas for possible training sessions the two of them could develop and teach at the TCIU—both locally in Nashville as well as statewide. Once the food arrived, Bobby took over as notetaker and jotted down several more ideas.

They checked in, finally made it through security, and found their gate. Bobby walked over to one of the convenience stores and got a bottle of ginger ale and a pack of peanut butter crackers. Flying hungry was worse than with something down there. If motion sickness medication didn’t knock him out for a couple hours—and leave him loopy for several more hours after that—he’d get some of that, too. But he’d had to rely on ginger ale this trip—not wanting to drool on Chase’s shoulder on their flights.

When he got back to the gate, Chase stood at the check-in counter, looking stressed. Bobby joined him. “What’s going on?”

“Flight’s overbooked. They’re trying to find people who’ll agree to stay overnight, take a flight out tomorrow.” Chase rubbed his palms over his face. “If I miss another one of Michael’s soccer games, Michaelle is going to kill me.”

Bobby leaned onto the high counter and caught the airline attendant’s attention. “How many people do you need to give up their seats?”

“I have three, I need one more. We’ll give a hotel voucher, and we have a gift card that’s good at several restaurants down in Alexandria, along with a two-hundred-dollar airline credit that will be applied to your next flight with us.”

“I’ll do it.” Bobby pulled out his ticket and driver’s license and
handed them to the woman. “I can take a flight out tomorrow just as easily as today.”

Chase looked like he was about to melt into a puddle on the floor. “Are you sure?”

Bobby nodded. “I’m sure. You just think about getting home to your wife and kids. Don’t worry about me.” He accepted the paperwork—including the page with the discount code for the hotel and the gift card. He looked down the list of restaurants on another page she handed him.

“Hey, there are several restaurants on King Street that I’ve actually heard of and always wanted to try.” He grinned at Chase. “See, there’s a silver lining. It’s another night in a hotel—a nice one, this time—but I may get some four- or five-star food in exchange.”

Chase laughed and shook his head. “Have fun, man. But not too much. I don’t want to feel like I missed out on something.”

Bobby gathered up all the paperwork and his carry-on and headed down to the baggage claim area to where he’d been told to collect his suitcase. Once he did that, he wasn’t exactly certain where to go.

He stopped an airport porter. “I’m trying to get to this hotel in Alexandria.” He showed him the page. “What’s the best way? Cab? Does the hotel have a shuttle?”

“Take Metro. Blue or Yellow. To King Street exit. Take trolley to hotel.” The man’s heavily accented English made the words difficult to decipher.

“Blue or Yellow Metro to King Street station? Thank you.” Now, where did he find the Metro—ah, a sign. “Thanks again.” He’d deal with figuring out how to transfer from the train to the trolley once he arrived at the correct station.

He found the train, almost got onto one going the opposite direction, figured it out, and got off just as the doors started to close, then found the correct train. He barely had time to catch his breath before the doors opened at the King Street station.

The trolley stopped at the corner of the block containing the hotel.
He navigated carefully through the steady flow of people walking the wide, brick sidewalk, obviously out for a night on the town.

Perhaps a bit of exploring would be in order before settling on a restaurant. If his suspicions were correct, nightlife in this area didn’t get started until after nine or ten o’clock on a Friday night, and most restaurants would be open past midnight. He checked in; even with the discount voucher from the airline, the price of a standard room made him cringe. But he never knew when he’d be back in this area again. Might as well enjoy it.

He wished he had Zarah’s phone number programmed into his phone. He’d call her and see if she was anywhere nearby so they could meet up.

The quality of this hotel far exceeded the one they’d stayed in down in Triangle, Virginia. It smelled better, too. He left his suitcase standing by the closet in the small but well-appointed room.

He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, groaned in bliss, and fell back to stretch out on it. Under the thick white comforter lay a mattress he could live with.

Exploring? Who’d come up with the idea of doing anything other than staying put the rest of the night?

Zarah hopped off the trolley when it stopped practically right in front of the restaurant. She stood for a moment on the wide sidewalk, gazing up at the front of the building. A red-brick Georgian row house in a previous life, the building housing the restaurant rose three stories above the street, with black box windows sticking out on either side of white double doors, carved masonry work surrounding them.

“He would choose the most expensive place on the street,” she murmured. Her stomach lurched. She hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on it this week, but for the first time in almost five years, she would see her father and stepmother.

Steeling herself for the encounter, she took a deep breath, adjusted
her wool wrap around her shoulders, and pushed the door open.

A few couples waited in the hostess area. Zarah walked up to the Queen Anne-reproduction hostess stand. “Hi. I’m meeting someone here. The reservation is under Walter Mitchell.”

“Table for three?”

Zarah nodded, pulse pounding at the base of her throat.

“Right this way, please. The rest of your party is not here yet, but we will bring them back as soon as they arrive.”

“Thank you.” Zarah followed one of the hostesses through the dining room, past the bar and the grand piano, to a table along the far wall of the room. She couldn’t see the main entry into the dining room from here, but if she watched carefully, she should be able to see them coming before they were right on top of her.

The soft jazzy piano music didn’t do anything to allay her anxiety. Every clank of silverware against china, every laugh, every time someone moved, catching her eye, Zarah flinched and looked around. She read through the menu four times before she began to comprehend it. She didn’t touch the glass of tea she’d ordered for fear that, with the way her hands were trembling, she’d spill it down the front of the black Audrey Hepburn–style dress she’d borrowed from Caylor for tonight.

Where were they?

She lifted the antique gold pendant watch. Ten minutes past eight. Maybe they got caught in traffic on the Beltway. Friday night traffic in this area could be almost as bad as rush hour.

“Ma’am, would you like a basket of bread while you’re waiting?” The waiter leaned forward at the waist, but the rest of his body stayed stiff, formal.

Her mouth tried to form words but no sound came out. She cleared her throat. “Yes, please.”

“Very good.”

Zarah kept her eyes trained on the menu, not wanting to look up and witness everyone staring at her and whispering about the pathetic
woman sitting in the expensive restaurant alone.

Movement caught the corner of her eye. Heart hammering, she looked around. It was—not them. She looked at her watch again. Thirteen minutes after eight.

The waiter brought a basket of warm sliced bread and dinner rolls. Zarah thanked him and reached for a slice of what looked like sourdough. She spread the soft whipped butter on it and set it on the bread plate in front of her.

Well, that had occupied her hands for all of twenty seconds. Now what?

She pulled a corner of the bread off and put it in her mouth. Swallowed it. Did it again. Looked around as more movement caught her eye. Not them.

Finally, when her watch read almost eight thirty, she reached into her small black purse and pulled out her cell phone. Since her table was rather well blocked from those surrounding her, she didn’t bother getting up, just dialed her father’s cell phone number.

It rang once…twice…three times. He wasn’t going to—

“Hello?”

“Dad? It’s Zarah.”

“Zarah?”

The surprised tone of his voice took her aback. “Yeah…um, I’m calling to see about what time you expect to be at the restaurant.”

“At the…” Her father paused at the sound of a muffled female voice in the background. “Oh, was that tonight?”

Zarah held her breath to keep from bursting into tears. After a few seconds, she regained a measure of control. “Yes. I’m here at the restaurant waiting for you.”

“Chad has fall break this weekend and came home, so we drove up to Boston to surprise Brice and spend the weekend. We’ll reschedule for the next time you’re in DC.”

Which might not be for another four or five years. Zarah wasn’t exactly certain how to respond.

“Was that all?” Her father’s voice came through the phone, sharp and demanding.

“I’d hoped we could…reconnect. I wanted to tell you about my promotion at the Historic Preservation Commission. I had a job interview earlier this week here at the National Archives. The people at the American History Museum told me they wanted me to come work with them. Those kinds of things.”

“Don’t pin your hopes on any of those. The National Archives and national museums don’t hire people like you. They hire people who’ve excelled in their field, who’ve become nationally known for their knowledge and expertise.”

The nine-year-old who still resided in Zarah’s soul wanted to find the farthest, darkest corner, curl up, and hide. But then the thirty-two-year-old woman reasserted herself. If her father knew anything about her, he’d understand that she, Zarah Mitchell,
was
becoming nationally known for her knowledge and expertise. “I told the Archives I didn’t want the job, even though they told me I was one of their top candidates.”

Her father sighed. “Was there something important you called about? You’re interrupting our family time.”

Because she didn’t count as family. The righteous indignation of seconds before deflated. “Just checking about dinner.”

“Which we have already discussed.”

“Okay. Enjoy your weekend with the boys.” Try as she may, she couldn’t keep the thin, reedy tone out of her voice.

“ ’Bye.” The line clicked dead.

“Good-bye.” Zarah squeezed the phone in her hand until it bit into the skin.
“Guard your heart,”
Kiki had said. But she’d believed that her father’s call last week setting up this dinner was a sign that God wanted to restore all her relationships, wanted to give her back everything she’d lost in her life.

Lord, I don’t understand
. Tears welled in her eyes.

She couldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of all these people. If there
was one thing she’d learned from her parents, it was to never show anything but a positive facade in public.

Why couldn’t they choose me for once? Love me?

Shielding her eyes with one hand, Zarah lowered her head as if intently studying the menu. The text blurred and swam before her eyes, but she refused to allow the gathering tears to fall.

“I AM your Father. “

The words reverberated through Zarah’s mind and heart. Not in the booming voice of James Earl Jones, but in a soft, gentle voice—a voice like the first rain of spring.

“I chose you. I love you.”

Zarah fought against the sobs that gathered in the back of her throat.
But I want to be loved here, in person. I want my father to love me
.

For a long moment, only the sounds coming from the nearby diners and the tuxedo-clad man at the piano filled her ears. Then, someone laughed—and sounded almost just like Kiki.

Kiki and Pops loved her more than life itself—definitely more than she deserved. When her father had kicked her out of the house, had it been God’s plan? His plan to get her away from a father who had never even liked her and instead put her in the arms of her grandparents, who wanted nothing more than to love her unconditionally?

But why couldn’t her father love her? And if her father couldn’t love her, that didn’t bode well for any other man’s being able to love her.

A red rose appeared, hovering over the menu below her still-watery eyes. She blinked a few times to clear the mirage—but it didn’t disappear, only came into clearer view.

She pulled her hand away from her forehead and let her gaze follow the stem of the rose to a large, masculine hand, up a long arm, and to an extraordinarily square jaw.