Wade (25 page)

“I'm glad I didn't fail with you,” he said quietly.

She thought for an instant that there might be more to that simple declaration than was on the surface. It was so unlikely that she didn't pursue it. Whatever was personal in their relationship, she had instigated and she had ended.

As silence stretched uncomfortably, she asked, “Your side is okay? It wasn't reopened by the fall?”

“It's fine.”

“Jake seems to be all right, doesn't he? He was
laughing with Lainey while he was over yesterday.” Chloe smiled a little. “I think she called him, actually.”

“They're young, both of them, and they have plenty of people to talk to or to hold them when they need it. They'll be okay.”

“No counseling?”

“Why would they need that when they have family?”

It was a good point. Realizing that she had twisted the hairbrush until she'd almost destroyed it, she shoved it into the bag. The crackling of the plastic seemed unnaturally loud in the strained quiet.

“Anyway, Roan and Tory are pathetically grateful for what you did for Jake,” Wade went on. “The whole clan feels as if they owe you. Whatever you want or need, whatever you think you have to do, they'll help you.”

“I didn't do it to make anybody feel obligated. No one owes me anything.”

“Maybe I put that wrong. They don't feel that you need to be repaid. It's just that you're special to them. You always will be, no matter where you are or what you decide to do. You can always come back here, anytime, no questions asked. Always.”

Her throat ached with the sudden press of tears. To have a place where she belonged, where she would always be accepted, meant so much. That was what family really was in her mind, people who valued and
wanted you regardless of what you did or didn't do, simply because you belonged.

With a small, helpless gesture, she said, “I can't possibly come back here if it means you have to go. This is your home, after all.”

He gave a short laugh. “The only way I can stay around is if you take to wearing a burqa again. You might be safe then, but I don't guarantee it.”

“You mean…you want me?”

“I thought I'd made that abundantly clear,” he said with irony.

“Not lately.”

“Not for four days. But who's counting?”

“Maybe I am?” she said tentatively.

“Meaning?”

She took a deep breath. “Meaning I'm sorry.”

“Don't!”

The tears crowded behind her nose, threatened to fill her eyes so she had to hold her head high to prevent it. “All right.”

“I told you not to say that. You've nothing to apologize for, not to me, not ever.”

“Not even for refusing to marry you?”

He was quiet for so long that she thought he didn't mean to answer. When he did, his voice was uneven. “Well, okay, maybe for that.”

“I've been thinking about it,” she said, encouraged by her ability to throw him off balance. “April told me that Benedict women do pretty much what they want. Is that true?”

“I don't know that I'd go that far.” His tone was doubtful, but the beginning of a smile tilted one corner of his mouth.

“What I'm trying to say is…”

“I know what you're trying to say,” he interrupted as he moved toward her and reached to take her hand, drawing her to her feet and into his arms. “You want to know if I'll try to stop you from rescuing all the downtrodden females of the world. And the answer is that you can do whatever you want, so long as you don't bring them home with you.”

“You really won't mind?”

“As long as you're happy, I'll be happy. But will that be enough?”

“I think it will,” she said seriously. “I thought once that I had to be on the front lines, teaching, helping, healing those who had been hurt by barbaric laws and ideas. Then I was forced to stop, made to realize that it might be more useful to bring the deplorable conditions in Hazaristan and other Muslim nations to public notice as world events have done in Afghanistan. That's still a worthy goal and something to which I'll always want to contribute. But I've come to see in the last few days that what I truly want is to make the world a better place, one where all people can find the freedom and peace that exists here at Grand Point. It's too big a task to take on single-handedly, too enormous to know exactly where to tackle it. The best place, I think, may be in my own backyard. The best way to do it may be by bringing
up children who have morals and manners, who love and respect each other and their parents and have concern for their fellow human beings. In other words, to bring up more Benedicts.”

His smile was warm and wide and his voice husky as he asked, “Need any help?”

“Always.” It was a lovely word, and she felt a tear track slowly down her cheek as she said it. She didn't care, didn't mind how many followed.

“I'm going to remember you said that,” he warned, his voice not quite steady as he gathered her closer against him. “I love you, you know, for all the things you want to do and all the things you are. For your bravery, which scares the hell out of me, and even for the streak of martyrdom that makes you do things that nearly kill me. And if you ever, ever, do anything that comes as close to giving me a heart attack the way you did the other night, I swear I'll shut you up in this house and never let you out for the rest of our natural lives.”

“Please do,” she whispered. “I think if there was ever a man who could make me like it, it would be you. You are the most steadfast and honorable man I've every known, and I've loved you since you knocked me down in the stadium at Kashi. You were ten feet tall and the hero of my dreams, and I would have followed you anywhere.”

“Then why in heaven's name was it so hard to get you out of there?”

“I was afraid, afraid that when you did it would
be over. And that all I'd ever have would be your pity.”

He shook his head. “Very good for my ego, but I don't believe it.”

“Why else do you think I asked you to make love to me?”

“Because,” he began, then stopped. “Are you saying it wasn't a public service I was performing there?”

“You've got to be kidding.” She waited to see how long it would take him to get the point.

“You wanted me,” he said after a bare nanosecond.

“I did. I do. And yes, when I said I didn't, I lied through my teeth.”

“Thank God,” he said, and kissed her with hunger and unrestrained passion and much, much promise.

It was some time later that she shifted on the much-rumpled bedspread, and settled closer against him. Freeing an arm and hand, she traced a finger over the bandage at his side, then upward to his chest where she made small circles in the silky hair on his chest. “So,” she said in musing tones, “I'm not to bring veiled women into the house, am I? Does that mean you don't want a harem?”

“Heaven forbid. One veiled woman is about all I can manage.” He captured her fingers, raised them to his lips, then replaced them where they had been.

She doubted that, but it was nice to hear anyway.
“Veiled, huh? You actually liked the burqa, didn't you? Admit it.”

“Not on me, I didn't! But it has its points if a guy's the jealous type.”

“Come on. It turned you on and you know it. It's the mystery. It stirs the male imagination. It stirs…”

“I know what it stirs, thank you. But I have to tell you that there's only one way that I'd want you waltzing around here undercover, so to speak.”

“And that is?”

He leaned close to whisper against her ear.

“No,” she said distinctly. “Not naked under it, not in a million years.”

“Not ever?” he asked, his voice laden with disappointment.

“Never.”

“Really never, or maybe never?”

“We'll see,” she said, her smile bright as she gazed into his eyes.

O
n the morning of September 11, 2001, the first half of
Wade
—with its setting of Afghanistan—was almost completed. I awakened at 3:00 a.m. as I often do and went downstairs to my office to finish writing the final pages of Chapter 10. In these, Chloe and Wade return to the United States from Taliban-held Afghanistan only to realize that her Islamic stepbrother, a militia officer with connections to Osama bin Laden and the al Qaeda network, has preceded them to Louisiana to carry out his declared jihad against the Benedict clan. Several hours later, with the chapter done, I hit Save on my computer then returned upstairs to have morning coffee while watching CNBC with my husband. I was just in time to catch the first report of a plane crashing into one of the twin towers of New York's World Trade Center. Standing in front of the TV, I reached to put my finger on a bright, moving dot flying near the towers, saying, “Look, isn't that a helicopter or another plane? What do they think they're doing?”

The answer to that question, with its proof of a
direct and horrific terrorist attack, came very close to spelling the end for
Wade.

The plight of women in Afghanistan under the Taliban regime first came to my attention in the early fall of 2000. Sympathy over their treatment created within me a strong need to help bring the situation to public notice. Almost immediately, I began to mentally construct a story with an American heroine living behind the veil, one who is rescued by the last of my Benedict heroes, Wade. At the same time, I wanted to involve the entire Benedict clan in a grand finale for the Louisiana Gentlemen series. What greater threat could there be to the happiness and well-being of my fictional family than to put them in jeopardy of attack from Islamic extremists? How better to illustrate the heroic capacity of my Louisiana gentlemen than to have the heroes from the first five stories and their families come together with Wade and Chloe to meet this ultimate threat?

Background research for the book was begun in earnest in January 2001, and the proposal for
Wade
was written and shipped to my editor in March. She soon gave it her stamp of approval, and the actual writing began in April. A publication date was set at this time for September 2002.

Considerable space in the initial chapters was given to descriptions of the Afghan political situation, climate, topography, customs and particularly the restrictions imposed on women and harsh penalties for failing to abide by them. The idea, of course, was to
establish immediacy and mood for an exotic locale little known to the average reader. Much of this background information suddenly became unnecessary in the first few days after the Attack on America. Suddenly the whole world knew exactly what Afghanistan looked like, the names of its cities, how people dressed and the conditions under which the female population lived. Watching details unfold in the media that I'd spent so much time studying and writing about during the previous months was surreal.

But now countless changes were required in my manuscript, plus the inexorable march of international events put
Wade
's basic plot in danger of obsolescence. These were problems that had to be fixed before I could go on. That was if I could find the heart to continue at all with a story that had abruptly become too immediate for comfort.

My first move was to contact my editor at MIRA Books. Others at the publishing house were also brought into the discussion, along with my agent. A major concern for everyone was to avoid all appearance of attempting to profit from the disaster, especially since publication was already set for the one-year anniversary of the attack. In desperation over an increasing state of writer's block, I suggested abandoning the whole idea and starting over with a completely new story.

After the pros and cons were hashed out, however, a decision was made to continue with
Wade
but remove any reference to actual persons and relocate the
setting to a fictional “mirror” country. These changes would allow for mental distance and relieve the need to align the plot with daily news reports from the Middle East. Accordingly, Hazaristan was created as a substitute for Afghanistan, and I was able to complete the book only two weeks behind schedule.

The version of
Wade
that you hold in your hands, then, is not the same story I started out to write. Regardless, the points I intended to make are still there, still valid. Severe restrictions continue to be imposed on women by Islamic fundamentalist governments other than that of Afghanistan. The need to fight to preserve our right to live without fear is even more imperative now than prior to September 11. The power of love to strengthen and to heal is just as certain, no matter where or how it begins. It's my hope that readers will take these grains of truth from the story, as well as some small insight into what it means to live as a woman in certain portions of the world.

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my editor, Laura Shin, MIRA Books editorial director Dianne Moggy, and my agent Richard Curtis for their faith and support. Special thanks are also due Mehmooda, Web mistress of the Internet site of the Revolutionary Association of the Women of Afghanistan ([email protected]) for answers to pertinent research questions. The RAWA organization as a whole deserves the utmost praise for their courage in shining the bright light of public opinion on the
atrocities committed against women by Islamic fundamentalists. Without them, this book would have been impossible, and might have been another story altogether.

Jennifer Blake
Chatham, LA
December, 2001

P.S. It would not be fitting to end the Louisiana Gentlemen's series without including a recipe. Here is the unusual bread pudding baked by Wade's mother in the story.

 

Pirate's Bread Pudding

 

1 loaf French bread

2 cups milk

2 cups half-and-half

4 eggs

2 cups sugar

½ tsp. salt

1 tsp. cinnamon

½ tsp. nutmeg

2 tbsp. vanilla

3 tbsp. butter, melted

1 cup chopped pineapple

1 cup pecans

1 cup raisins

1 jigger rum

 

Pour rum over raisins and set aside to soak. Break bread into bite-size pieces and place in large bowl.
Pour milk and half-and-half over bread and set aside for an hour. When well softened, stir until mixed. Whisk eggs, then add sugar, salt, spices and vanilla. Add to bread and milk and mix well. Fold in raisins. Melt butter in the bottom of a heavy 9x12 cake pan, then slowly pour pudding mixture into the pan. Top may be dotted with more butter if desired. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 to 50 minutes or until set.

 

Whiskey Sauce

 

1 stick butter

¾ cup sugar

1 egg

1 jigger whiskey (usually bourbon)

 

Whisk egg, add sugar and beat thoroughly. Melt butter in a saucepan over low flame. Add egg and sugar mixture and stir constantly over low heat until steaming hot, but not boiling. Add whiskey and stir to a creamy smooth texture. Drizzle over warm bread pudding.