“I promise. Maggie, you be careful, too. I hope Cord’s okay.”
“Without his sight?” Maggie asked sadly. “All I can do is what he’ll let me do, and it won’t be easy. But maybe I can help him adjust. At least he needs me. That’s never really happened before.”
“Miracles happen when you least expect them,” Gretchen said comfortingly.
“I hope so. Cord could use one. Write to me!” she called as she grabbed up her hastily packed bag and went out the door.
“Of course.”
There was such a hollow silence in the room after Maggie’s departure that Gretchen could hardly bear it. There were television programs, but only on a handful of channels, and most of them were in Arabic or French. Only the news channel was in English. The room was a good size, but it was claustrophobic under the circumstances. Gretchen had to stretch her legs. She decided to go and play in the swimming pool. She might as well get a little sun while she could.
The afternoon was lonely, although she met other tourists and began to recognize them on sight. But she sat at a table by herself during the afternoon and evening meals and went up to her room early. She imagined that Maggie would be on her way back to Brussels by now to catch her flight home. She’d be alone, too.
She thought about their missed day trip and thought that perhaps the next morning she could get Mustapha to take her on the tour of the Grotto of Hercules that she and Maggie had planned for today. Then, she could go to the coastal city of Asilah the following day. It would be something to look forward to.
She slept restlessly, but felt oddly refreshed when she awoke the following morning. She put on a sleeveless yellow-and-white patterned long dress with a white knit jacket over it and left her hair long around her shoulders as she went to the concierge to see if he could help her find Mustapha.
In her haste, she ran almost headlong into a very distinguished-looking man in a gray designer silk suit. He caught her shoulders to steady her when she lost her footing and his twinkling black eyes searched her face amusedly.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I mean, excusez-moi, monsieur,” she corrected, because he looked French. Sort of. He was elegant and he might have been handsome, except for the deep scars down one lean, clean-shaven cheek. His straight hair was as black as his eyes, and he had a grace of carriage that was rare in a man so tall. He was darker than most American men, but not radically so, and lighter than some of the Arabs and Berbers she’d seen here. He was very tall. Gretchen only came up to his chin.
“Il n’ya pas de quois, mademoiselle,” he replied suavely, in a deep voice, as soft as velvet. “I am undamaged.”
She grinned at him, liking the way his eyes sparked. “I’ll watch where I’m going next time.”
“You are staying here?” he asked with a polite smile.
She nodded. “For a few days. I’m on my way to a new job in Qawi, but I wanted a vacation first. It’s beautiful here.”
“A new job in Qawi?” he prompted with unusual interest.
“Yes. I’m going to work for the sheikh,” she said confidingly. “Public relations,” she added. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
He was quiet for a space of seconds and his quick, intelligent eyes narrowed. “Do you know this part of the world well?”
“It’s my first time out of the United States, I’m afraid,” she said. She smiled again. “I feel so stupid. Everybody around here speaks at least four languages. I only speak my own and a little Spanish.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Amazing,” he murmured.
“What is?”
“A modest American.”
“Most of us are modest,” she told him, grinning. “Well, a few of us are rude and conceited, but you mustn’t judge a whole country by a handful of people. And Texans are usually very modest, considering that our state is better than all the others!”
He chuckled. “You are from Texas?”
“Oh, yes,” she told him. “I’m a certified cowgirl,” she added dryly. “If you don’t believe it, I’ll rope a cow for you anytime you like.”
He chuckled again at her enthusiasm. He couldn’t remember ever meeting anyone like her except for once, a few years ago. He pursed his chiseled lips and studied her again, closely. “I understand that Qawi is smaller than even one of your states.”
She looked around her with eyes that seemed to find everything interesting. “Yes, but America is pretty much the same wherever you go,” she pointed out. “Here, the music is different, the food is different, the clothes are different, and there’s so much history that I could spend the rest of my life learning it.”
“You like history?”
“I love it,” she said. “I wish I could have gone to college and studied it, but my mother had cancer and I couldn’t leave her alone very much. I had to while I worked, of course, but I couldn’t take classes, too. There was no time. And no money. She died four months ago and I still miss her.” She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble on like that.”
“I enjoyed it,” he replied, and seemed to mean it. “Mademoiselle Barton!” the concierge called to her.
It took several seconds for her to realize that the concierge had mistaken her for Maggie. Which was just as well, she supposed. She excused herself, went around the tall man with the briefcase in one hand, and went to the desk.
“Mustapha has already left to take a party of our guests to the Grotto of Hercules,” he said apologetically. “But if you still wish to go, our car is at your disposal, and we can ask one of the other guides to accompany you.”
“I don’t know…” Gretchen said hesitantly. She didn’t think she was going to enjoy the trip all alone.
“Excuse me,” the tall man interjected, joining her at the counter. “I had planned to go see the Grotto myself. Perhaps I could intrude on the young lady’s company…?”
She looked up at him with pure relief. “Oh, that would be lovely…I mean, if you’d like to go?”
“I would.” He glanced at the concierge and spoke rapidly and in a language Gretchen couldn’t begin to understand. Comments passed back and forth and the concierge chuckled to himself. Gretchen was wondering if her impulsive acceptance was going to get her into trouble. She knew nothing whatsoever about the stranger…
“The gentleman is quite trustworthy, mademoiselle,” the concierge said to her when he noticed her worried look. “I can assure you that you will come to no harm in his company. Shall I ask, uh, Bojo—another guide—to bring the car to the front door now?”
Gretchen glanced at her companion, who nodded.
“Yes, then.” She hesitated. “But your briefcase…”
He handed it to the concierge with another brief spate of comment in that same musical but puzzling language and turned to Gretchen with a smile. “Shall we go?”
The hotel’s stately Mercedes, with a tall, intelligent Berber at the wheel, easily identified by the way he wore his mustache and beard, slid easily into the flow of traffic. Their guide, like the taxi driver at their arrival in Tangier, had the window down and spoke volubly to other drivers and pedestrians with long, sweeping waves of his arm as he passed them. The stranger told her that he’d instructed Bojo to take them first to the Caves of Hercules, which she’d wanted to see earlier, and then on to Asilah.
“Bojo was born in Tangier. He knows half the population and is related to the other half,” the tall man said, lazing back against his seat with crossed arms to observe