The pace was grueling, the emotional trauma more than he could adequately express on paper. We’re so spoiled in the US. We can’t comprehend the sheer scope of lawlessness and barbarity, the gut-wrenching need that exists in other places. The lack of basic humanity. What we do, me, all of us, it’s a drop in the bucket when you see what’s happening here.
That was the last one.
One week, two, a third passing with her own letters unanswered. And then one day she was listening to NPR and the reason became clear. The US was confirming that a band of armed rebels had abducted three workers in an early-morning raid in South Sudan, including an American physician, a nurse from New Zealand, and a British journalist on assignment for the BBC and World magazine.
It had taken several days to confirm what she already knew—that Hux was the captured American—but there were no leads. Nothing on the truck witnesses saw driving away. No description of the men who’d forced them out of the clinic at gunpoint. And not a word from anyone claiming responsibility, which typically happened in the first forty-eight hours. They had simply vanished.
Five months later, she was still waiting. According to the State Department, every resource was being brought to bear, every lead being followed, not that there’d been many. A late-night raid had been carried out on an abandoned shack in Libya eight weeks ago, after someone reported seeing a woman fitting the description of the missing journalist, but by the time they went in, the shack was empty, the occupants long gone.
The official line from the State Department was that they were continuing to work with various humanitarian agencies to locate all personnel and secure their safe return, but the truth was that information had dried up, meaning prospects for a positive outcome were growing more and more doubtful.
Rory stared at the box, longing to lift out one or two letters and crawl back into bed, but she had somewhere to be. Two somewheres, actually, if she counted her promise to meet Lisette this afternoon at Sugar Kisses.
Twenty minutes later, she grabbed her purse and keys, checking her reflection one last time. White slacks and a sleeveless button-down in pale peach silk. Damp hair scraped into a ponytail. A single coat of mascara, another of lip gloss, and simple diamond studs. Far from up to standard, but when it came to her mother, nothing ever was.
TWO
RORY
The aromas of blueberry scones and freshly ground coffee greeted Rory as she let herself in. She caught the whir of her mother’s juicer from the kitchen as she kicked off her flats and stationed them near the door—facing out, in case she needed to beat a hasty retreat. Heaven knew, it wouldn’t be the first time.
As usual, the house was immaculate, a study in monied good taste with its plush beige carpets and carefully matched furniture. And the correct art on the walls, of course—bowls of fruit and pitchers of overblown poppies, hanging in heavy gilt frames. Not an item askew or a speck of dust to be seen.
It had looked like this even when she was little, thanks to her mother’s militant rules about cleanliness. No shoes beyond the foyer. No hands on the walls. No food or drink beyond the dining room—unless there was a party. And there were plenty of parties. Tea parties, cocktail parties, dinner parties, and of course the fundraisers for her mother’s pet charities, each catered to perfection, then painstakingly cleared by a crew of professionals kept on speed dial.
She found her mother in the kitchen, pouring fresh-squeezed orange juice into a cut-glass pitcher, her signature gold charm bracelet tinkling as she worked. She looked crisp and tidy in khakis and a starched white blouse, her heavy gold waves pulled back in a low Town & Country ponytail. As usual, her makeup was flawless, subtle eyes, lightly rouged cheeks, a hint of frosty peach gloss on her lips. At forty-two, she was still capable of turning heads.
She looked up when Rory entered. “There you are,” she said, performing a quick but thorough inventory of her daughter. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming again. Is your hair wet?”
“I didn’t have time to blow it out. What do you need me to do?”
“Everything’s done, and I hope not cold.” She handed Rory a plate of perfectly sliced melon and a bowl brimming with strawberries. “Take those out to the table. I’ll bring the rest.”
Rory took the fruit and headed for the terrace. It was a perfect morning, the sky a dizzying blue, the breeze ripe with the promise of an early summer. Below, Boston stretched in all directions, a jumble of crooked streets and tumbling rooftops. Storrow Drive with its endless ribbon of traffic, the Esplanade sprawling leafy and green, the shining stretch of the Charles River, dotted with bright little sailboats.