The shrill ringing of the phone called out to Stella as she picked a handful of raspberries off the bush outside the kitchen. She tossed the berries into the sink and wiped her hands on her apron before picking up the receiver.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Green? May I speak to Mrs. S. A. Green?”
“Who is this?” she spat out, sweeping a hand through the wisps of hair that clung to her perspiring face.
“Well, nice to hear your voice, Mrs. Green. My name is Samuel Ernst from the
Washington Post,
and I would like to schedule an interview with you—”
“How did you get my number?”
“Your publisher gave it to me—only because I assured him it was for an important interview for the
Post
.”
“Don’t give interviews!”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, Mrs. Green.”
“Miss Green.”
“Excuse me, Miss Green. But this is the
Washington Post,
and we thought that since your book has become so popular, you would naturally be interested in answering a few questions from your public.”
“I am not interested.”
“It could surely help with sales of the book. It’s already skyrocketing, and your publisher believes that a little personal history would push it even further along.”
“Not interested.”
“But I’m talking about … about money and …” She heard him thinking, trying to come up with something enticing. “Fame.”
“Did I ever say I was interested in money or fame?”
“No, ma’am, but I thought—”
“Well, you thought wrong! I’m not interested in anything at all you have to offer, and I am not available for an interview, and do not call again or I’ll send the police after you for disrespecting my privacy! And you tell that publisher that if he ever gives my number out again, I’ll send my next manuscript to his biggest competitor! You tell him that!” She slammed the receiver onto the black phone piece, wiped her hands across her face, and started out the screened back door.
Then she turned in her tracks and went into the office, searching through a mound of unorganized papers until she found the business card.
Youngblood Publishers, Inc. She had scribbled a phone number under the printed address. Now she picked up the receiver and dialed the number impatiently.
After three rings, a woman’s voice answered, “Youngblood Publishers, Edmond Clouse’s office. How may I help you?”
“I need to speak to Mr. Clouse! Immediately!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Clouse is in a meeting. I can take your number and have him—”
“You tell Mr. Edmond Clouse,” Stella spat into the phone, “that if he ever wants to see another manuscript from me, he’d better come to the phone now!”
“And who may I say is calling?” the secretary, obviously intimidated, asked.
“Tell him whoever you want, but you get him to the phone!”
It took the woman two minutes and twenty-two seconds to locate the editor, which gave Stella ample time to load her ammunition.
“Miss Green?” A man’s voice came on the line, out of breath. “Is that you?”
“You bet it’s me, Mr. Clouse, and I’m madder than a hornet! I thought we had an understanding. You promised me there would be no phone calls, no reporters. And you let some hot shot journalist call me at home and ask for an interview! I have a good mind to take my book and move to another publishing house right this very instant.”
“Miss Green. Forgive me. Please let me explain—”
“I don’t want any explanation, you hear me? I want anonymity. Now
I’ll have to change my phone number before that thieving reporter gives it out to every sleazy journalist out there. Do you understand me?”
Edmond Clouse replied meekly, “Yes, ma’am. I am so sorry for the mistake.
I will call the journalist immediately and have him destroy the number.”
“Oh, it’s too late for that. You certainly are a trusting soul. Break your promise to me and expect someone else to honor his? The only person in the book business that I ever want to hear on the other end of the phone line is you! And that is to tell me how the book is doing and what the royalties are.
Is that clear?”
“Very clear, Miss Green.”
“Good.” She slammed down the phone.
Stella couldn’t help but smile at the memory. She and Ed had both been young, inexperienced. Still, he was a good publisher with a lot of business sense. He’d suggested Jerry Steinman to her for her broker.
“If you really want anonymity, Miss Green, let Jerry and me deal with the paperwork. We’ll send you monthly reports if you like.”
She could not complain. The plan had worked well for all these years. The foundation was thriving. But she wanted to make absolutely sure that the young, talented Mr. Ted Draper understood the rules of the game. She picked up the phone, flattened the crumpled letter, and found the phone number.
After two rings, a man answered. “Ted Draper.”
“Mr. Draper. This is Stella Green.”
“Stella!” he sang through the line, his voice warm and assured.
“Miss Green.”
“Excuse me, of course. Miss Green. Thank you for calling. It’s good to hear your voice. How are you today? And how may I help you?”
“You may help me by stopping the sweet talk and getting down to business. I need to know I can trust you, and I do that better face-to-face.”
“Tell me when and where to meet you, and I’ll be there.”
She smiled with satisfaction as his voice became professional. “You know Chicago?”
“Like the back of my hand.”
“The Berghoff, 17 West Adams Street. Lunch, 12:30 next Tuesday, September 29. Be on time. I don’t tolerate lateness.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.”
“Good.” She mashed the button on the phone until she heard a dial tone.
He seemed compliant. But one could never tell. Better to meet him in person. Much better.
________
Perspiration dripped down Janelle’s back as she waited in the Marseille airport for Brian’s plane to arrive. Fifteen minutes late. She was sitting in a low metal chair in the big open room, watching humanity pass by. The screen announcing the flight still proclaimed
Retardé
without saying how late it would be. She didn’t use to feel afraid when Brian flew back and forth from Algeria. Now, with the latest events of violence, it was only natural to be anxious, she told herself.
But that wasn’t the real reason. For most of their twelve years in France she had never felt terror, a debilitating fear, a premonition of tragedy at every turn. Before, she trusted. Now she panicked. If something happened to Brian too—
This line of thinking was preposterous!
Fill your mind with things above.
What things?
God is good, God is love.
God allowed my son to die!
She fought the tears, blotted her eyes with a handkerchief, and concentrated on the people walking by: veiled women wearing the
hijab
, brown-skinned men ushering the veiled women around, a French mother pulling her small children close as she cast a suspicious glance toward the men.
This was the new France, with its open hostility between the
maghrebins
—the North Africans—and the French. Distrust. The feeling every Frenchman had, but most did not utter, was something she understood all too well.
Go home!
The North Africans were not going home, of that Janelle was sure. Home now was France, no matter how unwelcome the second generation of
maghrebins
felt. What did the young North Africans know of Tunisia and Algeria and Morocco? Janelle wished that Brian’s work with the radio station didn’t take him away so often, didn’t ask him to fly over hostile waters in the Mediterranean. She used to love the adventure, anticipate the all-night prayer vigils, the clandestine meetings, the hurried supplies shipped to Algeria and Morocco on a boat.
Not now. Intrigue, danger, adventure. It all terrified her. What she wanted most of all was to have Brian, Luke, and Sandy sitting with her around the table, enjoying a delicious meal. Happy, healthy, safe. She longed for this. Was it so hard for the Lord to answer? Did she not deserve this after what had happened?
I cannot think straight right now,
she had confessed finally to her parents yesterday in the aerogram, sealed shut with a crease and a lick of the flap.
Everything about life seems hard. Very hard.
Now she wished she could reach through the postal services and retrieve her letter. It would only make them worry more.
She realized she was nibbling her lip. She brushed her hands through her hair and glanced back at the listing for the arriving planes. With a sigh of relief she read the one word she longed to see:
Arrivé.
________
Ole Bessie was parked by the curb when Lissa walked out into the late September afternoon. Beyond the light blue car, the sky boasted a perfectly cloudless deeper blue, almost sapphire, with Lookout Mountain standing off to the right.
Mr. MacAllister, who was bending down beside Ole Bessie to talk to a young boy, had replaced his seersucker suit with a striped buttondown and a pair of khaki pants held in place by leather suspenders. His tie was a strange shade of burgundy, and the tennis shoes were still dirty, blue and white.
Lissa smiled as she watched his animated conversation with Eric Dudley, who lived across the street from the school and routinely came by to taunt the girls.
“Well, Mr. MacAllister, she’s a real beauty. I guarantee she’s worth a lot. My dad sells cars and he knows.” The boy frowned. “But if you wanted to sell it to my dad, you’d have to take the sign off the sides.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Eric,” Mr. MacAllister said, shaking Eric’s hand. “See you later.”
“Good-bye.”
“You’re making friends quickly,” Lissa commented, coming to the car.
“Hello, Lissa,” Mr. MacAllister said, going around to the driver’s side and getting in the car. “Yes, well, he looks like a rascal. Caught him trying to take something out of another car, and when I confronted him, he came up with quite a tale about his father’s car business.”
“He
is
a rascal. You’ve got that right.” She opened the passenger door and climbed in, put on the seat belt, and took a long, slow breath. Mr. MacAllister started the ignition and Ole Bessie was off.
“I thought we’d head back to the park today.”
“All right.” She was careful to keep her hands settled lightly on her lap. No clenched fists, no white knuckles.
“Back in the early 1800s the town of Chickamauga was just a big old plantation. Cherokee Indians lived nearby, peacefully. They helped General Jackson win his victory over the British in the Battle of Horseshoe Bend. I guess you studied all that?”
She knew Mr. MacAllister was trying to calm her down, make her think of things other than her fear of driving. She glanced at him, thankful.
“Yes, I remember the guide mentioning something about that. But I really don’t know anything else about the Cherokees.”
“They called this area their home—called it Crawfish Springs, named after one of their chiefs. They lived here peacefully all throughout the first three decades of the 1800s—until they were driven out in 1838. The Trail of Tears.”
Lissa felt a tiny prick of perspiration form above her lip. She had studied that. Massacres, cruelty, blood …
“A terrible mistake by the American government; a blemish, a scar on our national identity, even if we try to cover it up …”
He said something else, but Lissa did not hear him. Her attention turned to the brown billboard in front of them, directing traffic into the right-hand lane for Chickamauga National Military Park. She didn’t want to get back into the driver’s seat. Instead of the sound of Mr. MacAllister’s voice recounting history, all Lissa could hear were the voices.
Failure! All your fault! This is your trail of tears.
________
If ever there was a day to drive in the park, this was it. Silently, with a fullness of satisfaction in his heart, Ev complimented the Lord for His continued extravagance on this perfect early autumn day. He also prayed that Lissa’s self-confidence would grow, buoyed by the bright sun and the trees making friendly shadow pictures on the pavement as the light seeped through their leaves.
Ev parked Ole Bessie in the lot beside the white-columned stone house that was now the visitor center. Three cannons sat in front of the stately home. The American flag rippled in the breeze. Deer grazed on the other side of the street. Four other cars were parked in the lot, none of them near to Ole Bessie. He had chosen carefully.
“Okay, Lissa. It’s your turn.” He opened his door and got out.
Lissa unbuckled the seat belt, opened her door, and walked around the front of Ole Bessie. When they were each in the opposite seats, she looked at him, blinked her deep brown eyes, and pulled the seat belt across her lap. Her eyes were dark with agitation and a hint of fear. Her posture changed, she stiffened, and her knuckles became eight miniature mountains as she held the steering wheel, then reached for the key in the ignition. In that moment, Ev made a decision.
“Wait, Lissa. Hold on a second.” He swiveled so that he was turned toward her. “Why don’t we back up a little, start over. Let’s pretend you’ve never been in the driver’s seat before.”
She gave him a quizzical glance.
“Pretend you know nothing. Pretend …” He searched his mind for something to convince her. “Pretend you’re the heroine in the most beloved book in the school library. She’s clever, she’s capable, she’s even courageous. But she doesn’t know how to drive.
And that’s okay.
She’s not a failure. She just doesn’t know. We’re at the start of the novel. Can you do that for me, Lissa?”
He watched her hands, so tight on the steering wheel. The delicate face lined with tension and fear, the way she held her shoulders so taut and stiff. The girl was terrified. She was staring out into the distance, hearing him but seeing something else.