mind.” Sara hoped her teasing would distract Zak from the touchy subject of Wachira.
“That’s as close to a promise as I’ll get from you, isn’t it?” Zak cut off a hefty slice of steak, stuck it in her mouth, and chewed like she was trying to digest nails.
“Yes.” The tension in Zak’s body vibrated from her as she sat rigidly in her chair, pushing food around on her plate that she probably wouldn’t eat. Sara wanted to lighten the mood and see that stunning smile again. She poured them another glass of wine and asked, “Where did you get the name, Zak? Is there some long family story behind it?”
Zak was quiet for a few minutes, her face a study in conflict. Sara was patient, giving her most reassuring smile. “My father had a twisted sense of humor. The Bible-thumpers passing through Kenya were studying the Old Testament book of Zechariah when I was born. He insisted on naming me Zakaria. It has some connection to God and being called.”
“It suits you, sort of old soul and worldly at the same time.” Sara felt a sense of accomplishment at having finally tweezed one morsel of personal information out of Zak. She tried her luck again. “Have you been to Mombasa before?”
“Yes.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Boring business. Why don’t you tell me about your favorite visit here?”
They were back to one-word answers and diversions. But if a recitation of her times in Mombasa would relax Zak and open her up a bit more, Sara would happily recount her entire childhood.
“It would be a toss-up between my seventh and twenty-fourth birthdays. When I was seven, my father taught me to windsurf. He said I was a natural. I had this amazingly powerful perception of controlling the elements when I was out there. I still feel that rush on the water. It’s the only time I feel in control of my life anymore and like I’m doing something more than just handing out money.” Sara stopped, unable to believe she’d said that out loud. “The curse again.”
Zak’s attention made Sara feel she was truly being heard. “My twenty-fourth birthday was the last trip my mother and I took together that wasn’t work related. We walked around Old Town and Fort Jesus marveling at the three-foot-thick walls and wondering what life must’ve been like for people living there. Mostly we just talked for hours about the world, the absurdity of violence, hunger, and children in need. Some of the best conversations of my life were with my mother.” Sara paused and felt her eyes mist with tears.
“Now it’s my turn to apologize.” Zak edged forward with her hands on the table as if she wanted to reach out. “I’m sorry for asking you to remember sad memories.”
Sara wiped an escaped tear from her cheek. “These aren’t sad memories. They’re some of the happiest of my life. The sad part is we won’t be able to create any more.”
When Sara looked into Zak’s eyes she saw her own pain reflected there. Those normally unreadable pools of steel blue were frozen with sorrow. Without thinking, Sara took Zak’s hands. The skin she touched was warm, the muscles firm but vibrating with a current that was almost a tangible layer between them. A tingle like the zap of a static charge in winter shot through her body, leaving her warm but confused. With each blink of Zak’s curly lashes, Sara received conflicting messages. One invited her to come closer, the other warned her to stay away. She tightened her grip on Zak’s hands.
“You understand that kind of pain, don’t you?” Before her mistake fully registered, Zak was on her feet.
“We have an early day tomorrow. I have to be at the airport at four to receive the supplies I ordered today. I’ll see you there at six.”
By the time Sara reached the door, Zak had already blended into the shadows. She stared into the darkness, rubbing her hands together to savor the lingering sensation of their touch. What a frustrating woman—and I’m not sure why I
“That’s as close to a promise as I’ll get from you, isn’t it?” Zak cut off a hefty slice of steak, stuck it in her mouth, and chewed like she was trying to digest nails.
“Yes.” The tension in Zak’s body vibrated from her as she sat rigidly in her chair, pushing food around on her plate that she probably wouldn’t eat. Sara wanted to lighten the mood and see that stunning smile again. She poured them another glass of wine and asked, “Where did you get the name, Zak? Is there some long family story behind it?”
Zak was quiet for a few minutes, her face a study in conflict. Sara was patient, giving her most reassuring smile. “My father had a twisted sense of humor. The Bible-thumpers passing through Kenya were studying the Old Testament book of Zechariah when I was born. He insisted on naming me Zakaria. It has some connection to God and being called.”
“It suits you, sort of old soul and worldly at the same time.” Sara felt a sense of accomplishment at having finally tweezed one morsel of personal information out of Zak. She tried her luck again. “Have you been to Mombasa before?”
“Yes.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Boring business. Why don’t you tell me about your favorite visit here?”
They were back to one-word answers and diversions. But if a recitation of her times in Mombasa would relax Zak and open her up a bit more, Sara would happily recount her entire childhood.
“It would be a toss-up between my seventh and twenty-fourth birthdays. When I was seven, my father taught me to windsurf. He said I was a natural. I had this amazingly powerful perception of controlling the elements when I was out there. I still feel that rush on the water. It’s the only time I feel in control of my life anymore and like I’m doing something more than just handing out money.” Sara stopped, unable to believe she’d said that out loud. “The curse again.”
Zak’s attention made Sara feel she was truly being heard. “My twenty-fourth birthday was the last trip my mother and I took together that wasn’t work related. We walked around Old Town and Fort Jesus marveling at the three-foot-thick walls and wondering what life must’ve been like for people living there. Mostly we just talked for hours about the world, the absurdity of violence, hunger, and children in need. Some of the best conversations of my life were with my mother.” Sara paused and felt her eyes mist with tears.
“Now it’s my turn to apologize.” Zak edged forward with her hands on the table as if she wanted to reach out. “I’m sorry for asking you to remember sad memories.”
Sara wiped an escaped tear from her cheek. “These aren’t sad memories. They’re some of the happiest of my life. The sad part is we won’t be able to create any more.”
When Sara looked into Zak’s eyes she saw her own pain reflected there. Those normally unreadable pools of steel blue were frozen with sorrow. Without thinking, Sara took Zak’s hands. The skin she touched was warm, the muscles firm but vibrating with a current that was almost a tangible layer between them. A tingle like the zap of a static charge in winter shot through her body, leaving her warm but confused. With each blink of Zak’s curly lashes, Sara received conflicting messages. One invited her to come closer, the other warned her to stay away. She tightened her grip on Zak’s hands.
“You understand that kind of pain, don’t you?” Before her mistake fully registered, Zak was on her feet.
“We have an early day tomorrow. I have to be at the airport at four to receive the supplies I ordered today. I’ll see you there at six.”
By the time Sara reached the door, Zak had already blended into the shadows. She stared into the darkness, rubbing her hands together to savor the lingering sensation of their touch. What a frustrating woman—and I’m not sure why I
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