Over the Waters (4 page)

She could not make herself believe he was really gone. Not her Josh. Not the laughing, tender-hearted, energetic man who had walked into her life such a short time ago. Too short. They were only just beginning to know one another. God had granted her the precious gift of knowing Joshua Jordan's friendship, and now she was left without even the right to mourn him. How could God have taken him without warning?

Samantha flinched inwardly, remembering Josh's request that she write to his father for him. He'd known! Somehow, he'd known he was going to die. And he'd wanted her to write his final words to his father.

The room was quiet. The emergency lights had been turned off, and only a dim light from the hall lit the room. Samantha reached out and touched the sheet where it covered Josh's feet. She shivered, struck by how very absent Joshua Jordan was from his body. From this room. He had gone home.

A sob crawled up her throat. She turned and left the room. Like an automaton, she walked down the hall to the waiting room. She stood by the open window, trying to get a breath of fresh air. But the stench of the streets wafted in through the screen. It seemed there was no fresh air to be had in Haiti tonight.

The neon light across the street had gone out and only an occasional flicker from a candle or lantern illumined the other windows on the street. She stood watching, but not seeing. Feeling completely empty.

"Mademoiselle?"

Samantha turned away from the window. The older nurse who had supervised the tracheotomy stood there.

"He was your husband?" Her English was clear and concise.

For a fleeting second she wanted to say, "Yes. He belonged to me." But instead, she shook her head. "He was...my friend."

"We did all we could for him. He started to cough. To choke. He could not get his breath. We did all we could do," she said again.

"I know." Samantha dropped her head. "Thank you."

She provided the information she could for the death certificate. She would not wake Marie Duval with the awful news tonight. Joshua would still be dead tomorrow. She buried her head in her hands, but the tears would not come.

She slept beside Kala Loutrel's bed that night.

The next morning, she spent an hour writing down everything she could remember that Josh had asked her to tell his father. The ink spilled out on the page along with her guilt. Why hadn't she written his exact words as he'd dictated them to her? Could Joshua's father ever forgive her? Josh had known he would die. And she had brushed him off, not wanting to believe it could be true.

Kala stirred in the bed beside her. She opened her dark eyes and smiled when she saw Samantha. Holding out her hands, she whimpered to be picked up. Samantha laid down the pen and pushed the notepad aside. She lifted the little girl from the crib. Kala weighed as light as a feather in Samantha's arms, and she snuggled contentedly against Samantha's chest. Breathing in the musty scent of the springy black curls, Samantha began to rock gently in the straight-backed chair.

As the child relaxed in her arms, Samantha rocked harder, propelling herself forward and back in the chair with only the strength of her legs. Kala began to hum, a keening funeral song for which she couldn't have known the reason. But her music carried Samantha to a place where she could finally allow the tears to fall.

Soundlessly, painfully, she wept. How could she feel such loss for a love that had never been allowed to take root? Still, she wept. For the Haitian children who would never know Dr. Jordan's gentle, healing touch. For the children who would never be born to call Joshua Daddy. She let the tears flow until she felt empty.

Tomorrow, on the first day of the new year, she would pack Kala's things into the Land Rover and with the little girl beside her, strong and healing, she would go back to the orphanage. She would find the address for Joshua's father and write the most difficult letter she had ever written.

One year later. Over the Bahamas, January 11

T
he Boeing 757 emerged from a bank of clouds, and Valerie Austin shifted in the cramped window seat. She blew away a spiraled wisp of honey-blond hair that had escaped her hair clasp, and leaned to peer out over the crystal blue-green waters of the Atlantic. Shading her eyes with one hand, she thought she could make out a string of jade-colored islands dotting the ocean. The Bahamas.

The sigh that escaped her lips was louder than she'd intended, and Valerie's elderly seatmate turned to stare, an expression of mild concern on her wizened ebony face. Valerie wasn't sure the woman even spoke English, but just in case, she smiled in a way she hoped would convey that she didn't wish to be disturbed. She turned back to the window. The fluffy white cloud cover grew thick again, and she lost her view of the exotic islands where she was to have spent her honeymoon.

The reservations for an elegant seaside hotel had long since been cancelled, and the "honeymoon suite" that now awaited her party of one was five hundred miles beyond Nassau. Instead of a downy king-size mattress, her bed would likely be a concrete floor, or if she were lucky, a narrow cot. She prepared herself for the concrete floor. By now it had been well established that she was anything but lucky.

Someplace deep in her soul, she knew it was for the best that Will had called off their wedding. It was a mere disappointment, not a tragedy. No matter how it
felt
on this particular date on the calendar. Already, she'd been able to look back on the past two months and be grateful that she'd been...well,
dumped.

Okay, maybe it could have happened before the invitations went out. Maybe it could have happened when she was twenty-one, instead of three weeks past her thirty-second birthday. But in spite of the lousy timing, she could recognize that even this humiliation was better than an unhappy marriage--or an eventual divorce.

Still, it hurt. Whether he was Mr. Right or not, she had loved William Concannon. Truly loved him. And she would be lying if she said Will hadn't broken her heart. It was broken all right, and though it was healing, the wound was still there. And today especially, it ached like crazy--a physical pain right in the center of her chest.

Tears, hot and stinging, welled behind her eyelids and she forced herself to think about something else. She'd had enough humiliation over the last few weeks. She wasn't about to break down and spill her guts to a complete stranger on an airplane four miles above the ocean.

Sniffling quietly, she reached under the seat in front of her and rummaged in her bag until she found a tissue. At least she didn't have to worry about her mascara smearing. She'd sworn off makeup--at least for this trip. She dabbed discreetly at her eyes and blew her nose, then slipped her passport from the zippered pocket of her carry-on bag.

For the tenth time, she opened the little navy, gold-embossed booklet and took out the sheet of scrap paper tucked inside. She stared down at the address.
Orphelinat d'Espoir.
Literally, Orphanage of Hope, a children's home on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince, Haiti.

Some honeymoon destination.

The airplane's engine droned in her ears as she closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the window. Her thoughts tumbled unrestrained in her mind.

She should have been a new bride with her adoring groom in the seat beside her. All her life, from her very earliest memories, Valerie had only really desired one thing in life. Kids. Lots of them. And, well, it always kind of seemed like a man was a prerequisite. She dreamed of a dozen children. She wanted to give birth to six and adopt six more. As the years passed, she began to realize that children cost money, and they weren't always the beings of sweet delight she'd pictured in her imagination. She revised her dream. If necessary, she could be happy with just four or five babies.

Then, her twenties had flown by with nary a suitable male on the horizon. As her biological clock ticked frantically, she revised her dream again. Finally, it had become a desperate prayer.
Please, God, I want a child. Just one child to love and to love me in return.
Surely that wasn't too much to ask.

But whenever she read in the newspaper that a child had died at the hands of one of its parents, or when her pastor's fourteen-year-old daughter turned up pregnant, she wanted to cry at the injustice of it all.

And then Will had come along. And he was handsome and witty, a wonderful conversationalist. And one of the few men she'd dated recently who didn't have a dark secret or an ex-wife--or an ex-wife who was a dark secret. A smirk twisted one corner of her mouth at the thought.

Dating was a minefield she'd been glad to put behind her when she met Will. He seemed like the answer to her prayers. They shared a strong faith. They genuinely liked each other. And they rarely fought.

Until the night she told him about her dream. She could still see the shock on his face--that deer-in-the-headlights expression he'd seemed unable to erase from his square-jawed, finely chiseled features.

"What's wrong?" she'd asked, still blissfully innocent.

He gulped audibly. "Kids? Y-you want kids?"

"Well, of course, Will. Who doesn't?"

His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "Um...I don't."

"What?"

"No, Valerie." His voice hardened. "I thought we'd discussed this. I don't want to bring kids into this world."

"Will. You can't be serious."

"Think about it, Val. It wouldn't be fair. How could we fit kids into our life?"

"But...you love kids, Will! I've seen you with them. You're great with kids."

Will taught the junior high class in their church. He was good with the kids, and they adored him in return.

"Well, sure," he said, brushing a hank of hair from her forehead. "Other people's kids. And not till they're past the rug-rat stage."

She pulled away and sat staring into his face, feeling numb. Feeling nothing.

Will took her hand and started talking.

Apparently she'd been too busy falling in love to notice before, but it seemed Will had his own dreams. Dreams that he, too, had nurtured from childhood.

"I want to travel the world, Val. There are still a couple of mountains I haven't climbed, and a lot of oceans yet to be sailed. Oh, and hey, I forgot to tell you, but I talked to Jim Wallston the other day and he's starting up that parachuting class in the fall."

"Oh, Will. That's so dangerous."

"Since when have I ever shied away from danger?"

"Since you got engaged and realized it was time to grow up and be responsible?" She tried to imbue her words with levity, but Will wasn't smiling. And suddenly neither was she.

"I
am
responsible." His chin jutted out in defiance, then he seemed to catch himself and his tone softened. "Look, face it, Valerie...If I'm lucky enough to get to live the life I dream of, it's very possible I'll die on the side of some mountain or at the bottom of some ocean." At her sharp intake of breath, he lifted a hand. "Not anytime soon, I hope. It's not like I have a death wish or anything. I'm just being realistic. And I honestly can't think of a better way to go. Doing what I love to do. But...I don't want to leave a bunch of orphans behind when I go. And child welfare services kind of frowns on backpacking babies to the top of Everest." He flashed that impish grin she'd always loved, trying to humor her, she knew.

But instead of making her laugh, this time his grin seemed almost sinister.

"But you don't mind leaving behind a grieving widow?"

"That's different."

Looking back, she knew that conversation had been the death knell of their relationship.

She'd tried a hundred times after that to convince him that fatherhood would be the greatest adventure he could imagine. He wasn't buying it. She couldn't quite persuade him that 3:00 a.m. feedings and changing dirty diapers would give him the same adrenaline rush as piloting a hang glider over the side of a Hawaiian cliff or traversing the Amazon jungle canopy on a zip line.

They'd begun to argue more and more until finally they'd come to the end of themselves, and admitted that this marriage would never work.

It was a mutual decision. Really it was. But Will was the one who spoke the actual words. So technically, he dumped her. And that hurt. Still, she liked to think that if he hadn't broken off their relationship, she would have come to her senses and said the words herself: "We're making a big mistake."

After the initial grief and humiliation, she was actually relieved that Will had called off the engagement. She knew he loved her, but he loved his dream more. She loved him, too, but apparently she loved her dream more as well.

She could handle not being a mom because she'd never met the right man. But she didn't think she could ever have forgiven Will for marrying her and then denying her the only thing she'd ever really wanted from life.

Valerie winced at the memories. She sat up straighter and adjusted her seat belt, then rubbed her eyes, as though to wipe the thoughts away. She reached under the seat and pulled a paper from her carry-on bag--the information sheet from the orphanage that was her destination. Hope House, the missionary doctor visiting her church had called it. She studied the address.

Orphelinat d'Espoir,
7500 Carrefour Briz, Brizjanti, Haiti. According to the leaflet, the home's full name,
Orphelinat d'Espoir pour l'Avenir,
meant "Orphanage of Hope for the Future."

The flight attendant came by with a flimsy trash bag, gathering cups, rumpled napkins and pretzel wrappers. Valerie passed her empty cup over her still-snoozing seatmate and turned to stare out the window again.

Hope for the future.
Ironic when she thought about Will and the dreams she'd had for her future. But that was just the problem. They were
her
dreams. It wasn't Will's fault he didn't share those dreams with her. She couldn't honestly say she'd given up hope that there might still be someone out there for her. But it couldn't be on her terms anymore. That much she'd learned.

The plane broke through a dense layer of clouds and sunlight streamed in through her window. Valerie sighed heavily and slid the window shade down. Then, bowing her head, she closed her eyes and laid her dreams, again, at the foot of the cross.

Max Jordan unbuckled his seat belt and stepped into the narrow aisle, steadying himself with a hand on the seat backs on either side of the aisle. He wasn't crazy about flying and was accustomed to traveling first class when he did. Unfortunately, he'd only been able to get in coach on this flight. It was a short hop from Miami, but already he regretted his decision. He stretched his cramped legs and made his way to the front of the plane where a flight attendant was emptying coffee grounds into the waste receptacle.

She looked up with a practiced smile, a question in her eyes. Eyes rimmed with premature crow's-feet. Twenty minutes in his office and he could take ten years off her face.

"May I help you?" She spoke it in a way that made him realize she was repeating herself.

"I'm sorry." He glanced pointedly at the empty carafe on the beverage cart. "I was hoping I could get another cup of coffee before we land. But it looks like I'm too late?"

"Sorry..." She lifted an arm to check her watch. "We're almost there, actually. The captain will be turning on the seat belt light shortly."

"Okay. Thanks anyway." He started back through first class to his seat. He'd been surprised to find that this was a full flight. And that it was mostly Haitians. Weren't the natives all trying to get out of Haiti instead of back in?

He nodded as he passed by a couple of American men. They acknowledged him with similar aloof nods and went back to talking about the stock market.

Max slid into his seat and refastened the seat belt loosely.

Across the aisle from him, an old Haitian woman sawed logs, while beside her a young blonde stared out the window. He guessed her to be American, but since she'd not spoken one word the entire flight, he couldn't be sure. She appeared to be traveling alone. She'd been slumped against the window, ostensibly sleeping, most of the flight. Max thought she looked sad--and nervous. He'd seen her take her passport out several times, as though reassuring herself it was still in her possession. He wondered what her story was.

A tone sounded in the cabin and the captain's scratchy voice came over the intercom. After an announcement in French--or maybe it was Creole, he couldn't tell--the pilot repeated his spiel in English. Max could only make out about every other word, but by the Haitian passengers' lackadaisical response, it was apparently routine information about the weather and arrival procedures.

The girl across the aisle slid her window shade up and peered out the small port. As the plane banked to the right, Max watched her profile discreetly, pretending to be interested in the terrain visible outside her window.

She looked to be about Joshua's age. Maybe a little older. Maybe a lot older. He, of all people, knew how hard it was to judge a woman's age these days. But this young woman, attractive as she was, didn't look as though she cared much for the trappings of glamour. She wore little, if any, makeup. And she was casually dressed in a cotton skirt and blouse. Her dark-blond hair was caught up in the messy, wisp ponytail that seemed to be de rigueur nowadays.

Did she have a father--or a husband--at home who was worried sick over the fact that she was willingly putting herself in danger? He checked his thoughts. He'd been too ignorant to worry when Josh left for Haiti. Instead, he'd wasted all his emotion being furious. All he'd cared about was the fact that his son was throwing away five years of medical school and thousands of dollars he'd provided by the sweat of his own brow.

Was this young woman here on some idealistic, mission-minded quest that would end as tragically as Joshua's had?