Sweet Tomorrows (6 page)

Dana arrived that very afternoon. I'd baked cookies earlier in the day before the weather grew too warm to use the oven. Most of my baking went into the freezer; I kept a dozen out and set them on a plate along with a pitcher of lemonade for Dana's arrival.

Emily had cooled down from her encounter with the man she'd dubbed Mr. Dickhead. After hearing the things he'd said and the way he'd acted, I could appreciate her indignation. I wasn't sure how I would have responded to him, either. I admired Emily's restraint. I wasn't sure I would have been able to bite my tongue.

Mark and I had had our fair share of flare-ups over the years. He could be demanding and unreasonable, bad tempered and moody, and at the same time the most generous, caring man I'd ever known. Despite my best efforts to maintain an emotional and mental distance from him since he'd left, I failed nearly every single day. Hardly a minute passed that Mark wasn't in the forefront of my thoughts, especially since the arrival of that postcard.

I had everything ready for Dana's arrival. Emily invited me to join them, so I'd set up the small wicker table on the porch. Puget Sound had been blessed with wonderful weather this month, and it looked like it was going to be one of those special Seattle summers with mild temperatures and lots of sunshine.

Rover and I met Dana at the front door. I led the way onto the veranda, where Emily waited at the table I'd prepared. Because I was fortunate to see the water and the mountains every day, I chose to sit with my back to the cove. This gave my guests the opportunity to enjoy the view, which was spectacular this afternoon. The Olympic Mountains stood guard over the horizon, their sharp, majestic white-capped peaks gleaming against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. I never grew tired of studying this glorious panorama.

“Jo Marie said you might have some information about the owner of the house on Bethel,” Emily said, getting straight to the point. I knew she was anxious to learn what she could about the property.

I poured us each a glass of lemonade and set out plates so we could help ourselves to the cookies. Macadamia with white chocolate chips today, which was one of my personal favorites. Since Mark had left, I hadn't baked his favorite peanut-butter cookies. I couldn't look at those cookies and not think of all the times the two of us had sat on this very porch to chat about our day. Those were my favorite memories of Mark, sitting together, facing this view while sharing our thoughts and munching on my homemade cookies.

I missed those lazy evenings, and the longing to have him sit with me again clawed at my heart. The not knowing was the worst. I hadn't heard back from Lieutenant Colonel Milford. When I did, I held little hope of getting any helpful information. Still, I clung to whatever he might tell me that would help ease my mind.

“I stopped by the house several times and got no answer.”

“He was there,” Emily announced crisply, and then explained how she knew.

Dana nodded. “I gathered as much. He must have gotten tired of me stopping by because he finally answered. I gave him my card and he practically threw me off the porch.”

Emily and I exchanged looks.

“Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat,” Dana said, “pardon the expression. It's one my grandmother often used. So I did a bit of investigating. Mrs. Usinger has lived across the street from the house for the last forty years. She's one of those women who likes to keep tabs on the neighborhood.”

I knew the type. “Did she know the owner?”

“Not really. Apparently, he keeps to himself and hasn't welcomed any overtures of friendship, but she was well acquainted with the previous owner.”

“Great.” Emily leaned forward, anxious to learn what she could.

“It seems Lillian Schwartz was one of her best friends,” Dana continued. “They were both widows and looked after each other. Mrs. Usinger is still able to drive, and she drove Lillian to church every Sunday and Bible study on Wednesdays.”

“It sounds like they were well acquainted.”

Dana agreed. “Lillian passed about a year ago. Toward the end, she rarely left the house for anything more than doctor appointments and such.” She looked to Emily.

“Who inherited the house?” Emily asked eagerly, and not waiting for an answer, quickly followed with a second question. “Did Mrs. Usinger give you any indication if the new owner would be willing to sell?”

Dana looked to me and then back to Emily. “Mrs. Usinger said Lillian willed the house to her grandson, Nick Schwartz. He's been there for the last several months but has kept mostly to himself. Mrs. Usinger has no idea what he intends to do with the house.”

Emily's shoulders sagged. “I was afraid of that.”

I felt the need to explain to Dana. “Emily had a run-in with Nick this morning.”

Dana nodded. “So you said.”

Emily snapped a cookie in half with unnecessary force. “He kicked me off his property.”

Dana's eyes widened. “He wasn't overly friendly to me, either, but he didn't go that far. What happened?”

“I've been running through the orchard,” Emily explained, and then lowered her gaze. “I admit I was trespassing, though in my defense I tried to get his permission, but he ignored me. There wasn't a sign stating I would be shot or prosecuted, which he seemed to imply would happen if he saw me again.”

Dana tried to swallow a gasp.

“All right, he didn't actually say he'd shoot me,” Emily clarified, pinching her lips. “It was an unspoken threat. He let it be known I wouldn't like the consequences if he saw me again.”

From everything Emily had told me, and from Dana's experience, the consequences she mentioned sounded like a real possibility.

“You've never seen him before this morning?”

Emily confirmed it. “Not even once, although I've made friends with his dog.”

“Mrs. Usinger said he's a guard dog and threatens anyone who steps on the property. I heard him when I was there; he sounded vicious.”

“Elvis?” Emily asked, sounding surprised. “He might seem scary—I thought he was when I first ran across him—but he's really the sweetest dog.”

Dana sighed. “If you like, I could approach him again and see if he's interested in selling. I don't know how much good it will do, but it wouldn't hurt to ask.”

“Please do.”

“I'll do my best,” Dana promised, “but I have to tell you, it doesn't look promising.”

Emily cast her eyes down and I could see how discouraged she was feeling. “Unfortunately, nothing has piqued my interest like that house. I keep going back to it.”

Dana nodded. “Like I said, it won't hurt to ask, but you do realize the house needs a ton of work?”

“That doesn't bother me,” Emily said quickly. “The property is fabulous, and while I admit the house is larger than a single woman would need, I have plans to put those extra bedrooms to good use.”

“Seeing that you had a run-in with him this morning, I won't mention your name.”

“Good idea.”

There wasn't any reason why Nick would need to know the interested party was Emily, since he seemed to have taken an instant dislike to her, although it sounded as if he wasn't the friendly sort to anyone.

“It would need to be handled subtly,” Dana said. “Give him the proper incentive to sell.”

“The right offer should do that,” Emily said, scooting forward in her seat, once again showing her eagerness.

“There's more—something else Mrs. Usinger told me.” Dana looked from me to Emily and then back again.

“More?” I asked.

She hesitated, to the point that I leaned forward myself, wondering what she had to say. “Mrs. Usinger mentioned that Nick and his brother were involved in a terrible car accident a year or so ago, just before her friend passed.”

“Oh no.”

“The accident killed Nick's younger brother. She wasn't aware of the circumstances, just that the younger of the two died at the scene. From what she understood, Nick was with his brother at the time.”

“Oh dear.” Emily's eyes immediately filled with sympathy. “Now I feel terrible.”

“Why should you?” I asked. “He was a jerk to you.”

“He was,” she agreed, “but this sort of explains his attitude.”

“That's no excuse for speaking to you the way he did.” I wasn't nearly as forgiving as Emily was.

“You mentioned the dog.”

“Elvis. What about him?” Emily asked.

“Apparently, he belonged to Nick's brother, the one who died.”

“A constant reminder,” Emily whispered, and seemed surprised that she'd spoken out loud.

“Well, one thing we do know,” I said after sipping my lemonade. “We're dealing with a wounded soul of a man. Now all we need to do is find a way to convince him to sell the house to Emily.”

Emily surprised me by shaking her head. “I don't think so.”

“You don't want the house?”

“I'd love it,” she said sadly, “but the timing is wrong.”

I could hear the disappointment in her voice.

“Nick Schwartz needs to stay exactly where he is,” she continued, “at least for now. I'll find another house that will suit my purposes.”

I studied the woman who was my boarder and viewed her with fresh eyes. Although she'd been with me only a short while, she'd said very little about herself and her past. In that moment I recognized something I should have seen much earlier. This was a woman who understood emotional pain. She, too, had suffered loss. Only someone who understood grief would so readily identify with another in like circumstances.

“Mark. Wake, my friend, wake.”

Mark did his best to open his eyes but instantly squinted against the harsh, unrelenting blaze of the sun. He knew they were close to the border, close to freedom. He was weak, weaker now than he'd been before. The infection was worse than ever. As hard as it was to give up, the time had come to accept his fate. What little strength he possessed was gone. For days he'd been trying to convince himself he was healing, getting stronger. He had to convince Ibrahim to leave him, otherwise his friend and his family would be at risk. His fever raged; his body felt like it was on fire. He'd lost track of the days. What little memory he had was of Shatha bathing his forehead with a cold rag. She spoke in whispers to Ibrahim. Mark couldn't hear her clearly, but the worried tone of her voice told him he was in worse shape than he'd been in before. Ibrahim should have listened to him and left him behind, but his friend was stubborn and Mark hadn't the strength to argue. They were hiding with Shatha's relatives a hundred miles from the border. Ibrahim was unsure how long they would remain undetected at Shatha's cousin's. Neither Mark nor Ibrahim were comfortable putting another family at risk.

“We are close to the border,” Ibrahim told him, speaking in Arabic. “You must remain quiet,” his friend told him.

Mark did his best to hold Ibrahim's look, thinking he must have been groaning aloud without realizing it.

“You talk,” Ibrahim clarified. “You call out for this woman you love, Jo Marie. Again and again you say her name in your sleep.”

Despite the pain, Mark managed a grin. Jo Marie was never far from his thoughts. He felt her presence in a dozen different ways. It was her hand that soothed his brow, her worried face that stared down at him, her whispered prayers he heard in the darkest part of the night.

“Once we cross the border we will get you to a hospital,” his friend promised.

Although half out of his mind with fever, Mark's dry, cracked lips tried to speak and failed. The best he could do was a simple nod of appreciation. The chances of getting him into Saudi Arabia in his current condition weren't promising.

“Leave me.” His voice was a mere breath of sound.

Ibrahim shook his head. “Never.”

“Please.” It was a struggle to speak and even more of a fight to keep his eyes open. Sleep beckoned, and he craved the release from the pain wakefulness produced.

Ibrahim's eyes darkened with an emotion Mark was unable to read. “I won't leave you; no, my friend, it is not possible.”

“Go,” Mark whispered again from between his parched lips. “Get your family to safety. I'm too weak.”

“You will make it,” Ibrahim insisted. “I give you my strength. Shatha gives you her strength, too. We go as one. What is it you Americans say? No man left behind. I more American now than Iraqi. I not leave you behind. What you say—no way? I say no way I leave you.”

Mark did his best to argue, to make this man and his family understand. “Once you're in the States, Jo Marie will help you.”

Again Ibrahim shook his head, refusing to listen. “You will introduce her to us.”

Mark closed his eyes and tried to picture the scene in his mind. Jo Marie at his side, his arm around her as they sat on her veranda overlooking the cove, chatting with Ibrahim and Shatha. The children would be playing with Rover on the grass, tossing him a Frisbee. The scene was so vivid in his mind he could almost hear Rover barking in the distance.

“I help you.”

Ibrahim placed his arm behind Mark's back and raised him to a sitting position. He immediately slid to one side, unable to garner the strength to remain upright. The world started going around in dizzying circles.

“It's no good,” Mark whispered. He would hold back the entire family and put Shatha and the children at risk. He refused to do that, refused to allow them to lose everything after they'd come so far and were so close.

“I'm not crossing the border without you,” Ibrahim repeated, “and we need to cross today.”

Ibrahim's words were laced with the steel threads of determination.

“Why today?”

“I'll explain later.”

“Ibrahim.”

“I have connections, too,” his friend said with a sly grin. “My cousin's cousin works as a border agent, but he said you must sit up because of cameras.”

Slowly Mark nodded. If it hadn't been for Ibrahim and Shatha's extended family, they would never have made it to this point.

“You nearly died three times,” Ibrahim told him, “but Shatha and I wouldn't let you. All will be well soon, I promise.”

Mark desperately wanted his friend's words to be true. He could manage to remain upright for a bit, but what strength he did possess was quickly fading.

After traveling several hours, Mark asked, “How close are we?”

“A mile, maybe two.”

He would do what he could to stay upright.

Ibrahim gave him water, which Mark drank as best he could. He rested his head back against the car seat until they were close to the border crossing. It was then that he felt Ibrahim stiffen at his side.

With effort, Mark raised his head. “What's wrong?” he asked.

Ibrahim released a slow, troubled breath. “They have changed the guards. Abd-al-Jawwad isn't at the crossing.”