Praise for

Deborah Raney

and her novels

"[Her characters] slipped from the pages of [Beneath a Southern Sky] and into my heart. I experienced all their heart-wrenching emotions and rejoiced as they triumphed by God's grace. Bravo, Ms. Raney!"

--Robin Lee Hatcher, bestselling author of Wagered Heart

"Readers will lose their hearts to the characters in this jewel of a story. Polished and excellently plotted...engrossing from start to finish. 4.5 stars, Top Pick."

--Romantic Times BOOKreviews on A Nest of Sparrows

"When I want to be assured of a good read, I reach for a Deborah Raney novel. Touching. Thought-provoking. She's never let me down."

--Roxanne Henke, bestselling author of The Secret of Us and After Anne

"Deborah Raney is a skillful novelist who weaves a powerful story that stays with you...authentic and credible, with characters you care about, who live and breathe inside you. Her books are a delight to read."

--Randy Alcorn, author of Deception, on A Nest of Sparrows

"Deborah Raney's writing is always full of warmth and hope."

--James Scott Bell, Christy Award-winning author of The Whole Truth, on A Nest of Sparrows

"Deborah Raney's novels are deeply complex and rich with emotion, a combination that makes them impossible to put down!"

--Colleen Coble, author of the Aloha Reef series

Sa Bo-Die sere pou ou, lavalas pa pote l ale.
(What God has laid up for you,
the flood will not carry away.)

--Haitian proverb

The voice of the Lord is over the waters; the God of glory thunders, the Lord thunders over the mighty waters.

--Psalms 29:3

Over the Waters

Deborah Raney

Published by Steeple Hill Books

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In researching this book, I am deeply indebted to countless people who helped with the research, technical aspects, caring for my family and home while I wrote, and especially those who prayed for this book every step of the way.

There is always the danger that someone will be missed when making a list of names to thank, but I must at least attempt to do so.

For help with research: Suzanne Beecher, Yvonne Fast, R.N., and Joanne King, along with Dr. Ted Grimes, who offered his medical experience and his love of the Haitian people; Lee and Carol Birch, Dorothy Grimes, Jeff and Vicky Miller, Samantha Miller and Max and Winifred Teeter, who shared their experiences of working in Haitian orphanages.

After twice having airline tickets to Port-au-Prince and twice having our trip canceled due to civil unrest in the country, I was provided with hours of video from Haiti by my brother-in-law, Rev. Jeff Miller, and by author friend Mindy Starns Clark. Then, through my friend Tammy Alexander, I was put in contact with Bill and Darla Moxon and family. The Moxons are former missionaries to Haiti, and I have no doubt their long-distance friendship was a gift from the Lord at just the time I needed the information they could provide. I can't thank them enough for the incredible insight they offered, and particularly for Darla's help with the culture and Creole language.

For reading my manuscript in its early stages and offering excellent advice and direction, I am grateful to Tammy Alexander, Lorie Battershill, Meredith Efken, Dr. Ted Grimes, Terry Stucky and Max and Winnie Teeter.

To my fabulous "Debbies Gang" (Deb, Deb, Deb and yes, Bev and Elaine, too!), thank you for always asking about my work, for rejoicing with me, and praying for me, but most of all, for just letting me be Deb. I love you guys!

To the Midwest contingent of my authors' group, ChiLibris--Colleen Coble, Dr. Mel and Cheryl Hodde aka Hannah Alexander, Judy Miller, Nancy Moser and Stephanie Grace Whiston--once again, this story would not exist without our wonderful brainstorming sessions.

Gratitude is also owed my talented editors, Krista Stroever and Joan Marlow Golan, along with the staff at Steeple Hill Books. Thank you for polishing my words until they shine.

Deep appreciation goes to my agent, Steve Laube. You are simply the best.

Love and thanks to:

My husband, Ken--my very best friend for more than thirty years now--who makes me laugh like no one else can.

Our children (with special thanks to Tavia for a fantastic week of pampering while I raced to the finish line with this manuscript).

My parents, siblings, in-laws and extended family--how can I ever thank you all for the enthusiasm, encouragement and love you have shown me?

To my readers--the very reason I write! You each have made this journey one of deep joy.

And to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, I owe my all.

"A special thanks to all the readers of the 2005 edition of Over The Waters, at whose request I added a brand-new Epilogue to this edition, leaving no doubt about the conclusion of Max and Valerie's story."

I love hearing from my readers. To e-mail me or learn more about my books, please visit my Web site at www.deborahraney.com or write me care of Steeple Hill at 233 Broadway, Ste. 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Epilogue

Chapter One

Chicago, Illinois, November 16

Dr. Max Jordan finished his dictation, clicked off the recorder, and slid from behind the polished mahogany desk. He strode across the plush celery-colored carpet to gaze, unseeing, out the window of his seventeenth-floor office overlooking Lakeshore Drive. After a minute, he turned and walked down the hall to his receptionist's desk.

"Okay, Dori, I'm ready," he said quietly.

"Yes, Doctor." Dori Banks rose gracefully from her seat and stepped into the waiting room.

Max heard her well-modulated voice call Felicia Sinclaire's name. Back in his office, he washed his hands in the corner lavatory.

A few minutes later he opened the door to the treatment room where his nurse had prepped Ms. Sinclaire. The woman, forty-three according to her chart, reclined in the comfortable chair, but her death grip on the padded armrests revealed her apprehension.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Sinclaire."

"Hello." She smiled tightly, her sun-baked skin crinkling into fine crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes.

It was obvious that Felicia Sinclaire had once been a stunningly beautiful woman. But the clock was ticking on her youth. She was a perfect candidate for Botox. She would be pleased with the results of his handiwork. Women like her were the reason Max Jordan enjoyed minor celebrity.

He glanced at the chart. "Felicia, is it?"

She nodded.

"May I call you Felicia?"

"Yes...Of course."

He put a steadying hand on her forearm. "How are you feeling today?"

"I'm...a little nervous."

"This is your first treatment. That's completely understandable. You've seen the video?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll go over the procedure in detail again before we begin. Of course, you can decide at any time to reschedule if you feel you're not quite ready. But as I'm sure you know, this is an extremely simple and safe procedure. We do hundreds of injections a year and pretty much the only complication we've had in the five years since we began using Botox is an occasional treatment that didn't 'take.'"

He'd started adding the "pretty much" clause to his disclaimer after a prominent Chicago businessman's wife had had an allergic reaction to the Botox, developing a severe resiratory infection along with swallowing difficulties. She had nearly died. Lawyers for Jordan & Associates were still trying to settle the case out of court.

Max opened a drawer in the tabouret beside the chair and pulled out a laminated card that illustrated the procedure. He pointed to a photograph. "Very rarely a muscle simply won't respond to the botulinum toxin. It's nothing more than an inconvenience. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time everything goes just fine."

Felicia Sinclaire relaxed visibly, her fingers unclenching from the armrest. "It's just that it's a little scary shooting something into my skin that's...well, it's a poison, isn't it?"

It was a common question. Among his golf buddies, it was a joke that he'd made his fortune injecting women with poison. But he doubted Felicia Sinclaire would appreciate the humor just now. In practiced tones he soothed her fears. "Yes, Botox is derived from botulinum toxin, the bacterium that causes botulism, a severe form of food poisoning. But to be lethal, it would take up to two hundred times the quantity I use cosmetically. As you saw on the video, the amount I use for this procedure merely interrupts the nerve impulses to the specific muscles I inject. That's the beauty of it." He watched her face, waiting for the slow release of her breath that would tell him she was convinced. He'd become a master at reading body language.

"Well," she said, her voice reedy, "let's do it."

"I think you'll be extremely pleased with the results. You'll be gorgeous for the holidays."

She shifted in her seat and beamed at him.

Max yanked a surgical glove from the dispenser and pulled it on with a practiced snap.

Twenty minutes later, Felicia Sinclaire walked from his office with a few barely discernible bruises, a wan smile and Dr. Jordan's cheerful instructions: "Remain upright for the next four hours, exercise the facial muscles often, drink plenty of fluids and look forward to waking up in the morning even more beautiful than you already are."

He washed his hands again and took the short walk down the hallway to the waiting room. He usually used the back elevator to the surgery center and rarely set foot in his own waiting room. But today, for some reason, he felt the need.

Strains of Mozart met his ears as he poked his head into the forty-by-forty-foot space that could have belonged to a suite in a five-star hotel. The Qom silk carpets were plush beneath his feet, muffling his footsteps. Intimate groupings of overstuffed chairs sported Brunschwig & Fils upholstery, each cozy trio anchored by an expensive antique table. The tabletops were artfully arranged with softly lit lamps that illumined tasteful sculptures commissioned by a local artisan. The decorator had excelled here, and the room exuded exactly the aura of extravagance and indulgence Max had envisioned when he designed the place.

The walls were lined with expensive framed art prints that he and Janie had shipped home from the South of France ten years ago. The prints had doubled in value since then. Not that it mattered. The image they imparted to his practice was worth many times their monetary value.

His gaze panned the half-dozen women who graced the chairs, legs crossed elegantly, fashion magazine or carefully chosen New York Times bestseller in hand. Max Jordan knew that each of them could identify the art these walls bore as easily as they recognized the Hermes and Fendi the other women in the room wore.

He'd expected the climb to the top to be far more painful. Instead, he'd reached the summit at the tender age of thirty-five when he'd opened his now-renowned Jordan Center for Aesthetic Surgery.

He shuddered to think how his entire career had almost gone down the tubes with Janie's announcement that she was pregnant before he'd even earned his bachelor's in biology from Southern Illinois University. It had cost him a semester of college, but he'd stuck it out through a quickie wedding, the birth of a colicky baby and a wife who complained constantly that he was never home. Four hard years later he'd become Maximilian Alexander Jordan, M.D., graduating with honors from the university's school of medicine. He'd even had one of his papers published in The Journal of Neuroscience.

His buddies from med school christened him Max-a-Million, a name he didn't mind so much, now that he'd lived up to it. After a disastrous stint on an Indian reservation in Arizona--a misguided attempt to get his student loans paid off--he was accepted into residency in the Division of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery at Stanford University Medical Center. Janie had dragged her feet all the way to Palo Alto, where Max excelled, little Joshua thrived and Janie languished in misery.

But after six years, he'd moved them back here to Chicago and opened his own practice. As optimistic and self-confident as he was, even he couldn't have predicted how rapid his rise to prominence would be.

Standing in the shadows of a massive silk ficus tree, he continued to watch his glamorous clientele wait their turn to see him. Though he'd been warned in more than one ethics class about the romantic fixation some women developed for their physicians, he was surprised when it proved to be true. He'd lost count of the patients over the years who had practically thrown themselves at him. He prided himself on his absolute fidelity. Even after Janie had divorced him, he had never breached that wall with his patients. He wasn't about to risk everything he'd worked so hard for.

Besides, he didn't have time for a woman in his life. Janie had proven that beyond a doubt.

He straightened a corner of the silk carpet with the toe of his black Belvederes and bit his lower lip. Usually, looking out over his small kingdom filled him with a deep sense of satisfaction and security. But that faded now as he thought of his ex-wife.

As quick as his rise to medical stardom had been, the fall of his marriage had been equally swift. By the time Joshua started middle school, Max was on a fast track to becoming Chicago's best-known, best-loved plastic surgeon. Catering to the jet set of the Midwest, Dr. Botox, as the local media dubbed him, had it all--a stunning home in Lincoln Park, a beach house in Santa Barbara, the limelight of celebrity, the adoration of hundreds of beautiful women. And a faithful, if frustrated, wife of his own, and a son who was proving to be as bright as his father. The future had seemed rosy.

But Janie's discontent had turned to depression, and the great Dr. Botox was unable to cure what ailed her. Or perhaps unwilling was more accurate. He refused to listen to her constant complaints about the fact that he was never home. She couldn't get it through her head that he was busy making a future for her and Joshua.

But the winter Joshua turned fourteen, she'd destroyed any future they might have had when she took their son and went to live with her parents in Arlington Heights.

Four years later, Joshua graduated a semester early and headed for college. With their divorce final, Janie married an insurance salesman and moved to St. Louis. She soon gave birth to two more sons and Joshua seemed to relish the role of big brother.

His family's exit from Max's life hadn't changed much for him, but Janie's standard of living took an astronomical nosedive. Amazingly, she'd never seemed so content, and it irked him to no end whenever Josh mentioned how happy his mother was now. But then she never had appreciated the finer things in life--all he'd worked so hard for.

He ran a hand through his thick, wiry hair. As threads of gray encroached his temple and fifty barreled down on him with frightening speed, he'd begun an irritating habit of evaluating his life. He supposed it had something to do with Joshua. His son had started well, following in his father's footsteps, graduating with honors from Southern Illinois med school, one of the youngest in his graduating class.

But the boy had gone straight to a small town in Iowa to intern for a struggling family practice clinic, a choice Max didn't understand or approve of. It wasn't as though Josh couldn't afford to go further, specialize. Max had seen to that. He'd even dared to dream that his son might join him in his lucrative practice. There was certainly plenty of business to go around.

If that had been the extent of it, he could have lived with his son's choice, but in April, Joshua Jordan, M.D., had traveled with one of the clinic's doctors to the Republic of Haiti and, while there, he'd "found God"--whatever that meant. All it meant to Max was that his only son--his only heir--was throwing his life away on some godforsaken, impoverished island where his hard-earned skills would be wasted on orphans and indigents.

After the events of September 11, Max had thought his son would come to his senses and return to the States, but if anything, the national tragedy had hardened Josh's resolve.

He hadn't spoken to his son since a terse long-distance conversation September 15 when Max was finally able to get a call through to Brizjanti, the small village where Joshua was working at an orphanage. Max had all but demanded that Joshua return home. Josh had informed him curtly that he had no such intention.

Max shook his head in a futile attempt to erase the disturbing memory. Turning, he leaned again over Dori's desk and swallowed back a sigh. "Okay. Next?"

Chapter Two

Brizjanti, Haiti, December 23

Dr. Joshua Jordan shaded his eyes and looked into the clear azure sky. The Haitian sun burned through his white cotton shirt and a stinging bead of sweat skated down his back and slid under the waistband of his khaki trousers. He peeled the knotted blue bandanna off his head and swabbed his face and neck with it.

"Are you okay?"

He turned to see Samantha Courtney studying him with a worried frown.

"Hey." He flashed a reassuring smile. "I'm fine. But that sun is a beast today. It's almost Christmas. It should be snowing."

"In your Chicago maybe. That's one thing I do not miss about home."

"Yeah, I don't suppose I'd miss North Dakota winters either." He narrowed his eyes playfully at her. "But why is it you're not even breaking a sweat?"

She shrugged. "You get used to it."

"Well, it's been four months and I'm still waiting."

"You went home," Samantha said matter-of-factly. "You're back to square one now."

He smiled. "Oh, is that how it works?" Though he'd only gone back to the States for two weeks, she hadn't been happy about him leaving. He suspected she'd been afraid he'd let his father talk him out of returning to Haiti. She needn't have worried. If what he saw as his divine calling to Haiti hadn't been enough to compel him to return, his growing love for Samantha would have. Maybe he should tell her that. But they'd only known each other a few months. He'd seen too many vows broken in his short life. He wanted to be sure about her before he went making promises he couldn't keep.

He gave his forehead one last swipe and retied the bandanna around his brow. "Ready?"

"Whenever you are."

"Why don't we start with the little boys' dormitory? Hang on, let me grab the meds." He ducked into the lean-to that served as a temporary clinic and rummaged in the crates of supplies that had been shipped from the States. He was lucky they'd been able to get the vaccines and medical supplies into the country before Monday's attempted coup on the presidential palace had brought things to a standstill at the airport in Port-au-Prince.

No. Not lucky, he amended, blessed. God had been with him every step of the way, from making standby on the last flight out of Miami, to getting into Brizjanti before the violence erupted in Port-au-Prince, to being able to be with Samantha again.

She was special. So unlike the girls he'd been attracted to before his eyes had been opened. He stood at the door now and watched her through its barred window. Her hair was what some might have described as dishwater blond, but the island sun had streaked it with highlights no salon could duplicate. He liked her fresh, natural good looks. The women he'd dated previously seemed to spend half their time obsessing over their makeup and manicures, and working on suntans that would ultimately send them running to his father's clinic before they were forty.

He stepped into the courtyard, and propped the cooler full of vaccines and syringes on one shoulder. "Ready?"

"Whenever you are, Dr. Jordan. Are you sure you don't want to get one of the older girls to help?"

"No. We'll be okay..." The rest of his sentence remained unspoken, but he knew that by now she could read his mind as though his thoughts were tattooed across his forehead. They'd argued about it more than once--his fears that the children with AIDS would infect the others. She was more pragmatic, believing the risk was worth training the older girls in various nursing skills.

Duval Children's Home, like all the orphanages in Haiti, was seriously overcrowded. Finding enough beds was a constant challenge. It wasn't practical to quarantine the HIV kids, but there had to be some other solution.

He followed Samantha, crossing the compound with long strides to match hers. She walked with a self-confidence that belied her twenty-two years. Five months ago, when he arrived in Brizjanti the first time, he'd guessed her to be his own age. He would miss her when he had to go back to the States again next month.

The bare earth underfoot was baked hard like clay, and their footsteps stirred up little gray puffs of dust around their ankles. For some reason, Josh thought of his mother. She'd be mailing him grass seed by the ton if she could see the barren landscape of this country.

They reached the little boys' dormitory and Samantha rapped sharply on the door before pushing it open.

A thin little boy with skin brown as cocoa looked up from the sketch he was drawing. He gave a shout of glee, pushed back his chair and ran toward them. "Miss Samantha!"

"Hey, Jean-Louis. How's it going?" She put up a palm and gave him an American high five.

"Hey, Dr. Josh." The boy's greeting for Josh was more reserved.

Jean-Louis had been dumped at the home five years ago. He was probably seven years old now, but he wasn't much taller than most five-year-olds in the States. Like a growing number of the children--a number that haunted Joshua's dreams--Jean-Louis was HIV-positive.

Within seconds, a dozen other boys swarmed them. "What you doing here today?" six-year-old Marcus asked, eyeing them suspiciously.

Josh laughed and rubbed Marcus's sun-blanched black hair. "We're going to give you some good medicine today. So you won't get sick."

Marcus took a step back and his eyes grew round. "Not a shot, no?"

"Don't worry, buddy. It will only sting for a minute. Like a mosquito."

"That is what you say last time." Marcus rubbed the flesh on his upper arm as though he'd just been stung.

"No. Last time I told you a bee sting. A mosquito is not so bad, eh?"

Marcus looked dubious.

Josh was still surprised by how jealous he felt of the children's unabashed love for Samantha and Madame Duval, the director of the orphanage. Dr. Josh had inflicted too much pain for the children to trust him completely, though the boys had warmed to him since he'd started playing soccer with them every morning during recess. He smiled at the thought.

Samantha eyed him. "What's so funny?"

He shrugged. "Sorry. I didn't realize I was smiling out loud."

She laughed. "Well, it must have been a good thought."

"I was thinking about what stiff competition you are."

"Ha! That's only because I carry C-A-N-D-Y in my pockets."

"Careful. I don't think spelling is going to cut it anymore. Madame Duval gave out a whole bunch of spelling awards last week and a couple of her best pupils are within earshot. Not to mention that the next dentist we manage to get down here is going to be none too happy with you."

"Well, let him duke it out with me. A piece of peppermint once in a while isn't going to ruin anybody's teeth."

Marcus perked up. "Peppermint? Miss Samantha have peppermint?"

Samantha rolled her eyes. "Not today, Marc. Maybe Sunday...if you're a good boy."

He beamed, showing perfectly even, milk-white teeth. "I be a good boy!"

She tousled his hair. "I know you will. Now why don't you run and tell Miss Alice we need all the babies in here."

"You shoot only the babies?" Marcus looked hopeful.

Josh raised an eyebrow and Samantha laughed.

"Goodness, Marc! Don't say it like that. You'll give Dr. Josh a heart attack." Her voice turned serious. "All the boys will get a shot--big boys, too. A vaccination--so you won't get sick. We'll do the babies first."

Marcus looked worried, but he trotted off like a devoted puppy, while Samantha helped Josh set up a makeshift examining table.

Marcus returned a minute later with the preschool teacher in tow. Alice Volcy carried a baby in each arm and a toddler shadowed her, clutching the hem of her skirt for support.

"Kijan ou ye, Jean-Michael?" Josh bent to catch the little boy's eye and tell him his name. "M rele Dr. Jordan."

Jean-Michael gave a shy smile, but dipped his head and refused to look at Josh.

Joshua lifted the toddler onto the makeshift examining table and pushed up the tattered, filthy sleeve of Jean-Michael's T-shirt. Samantha cleansed the little boy's upper arm with an alcohol wipe. Jean-Michael kept his bright smile trained on her.

Josh spoke in low tones. "M pap fe ou mal, non. I'm not going to hurt you."

He leveled the syringe, pinched the muscle taut on the boy's skinny arm and gently inserted the needle. As the vaccine entered, Jean-Michael's coffee-bean eyes widened and a look of panic sparked in their dark depths. Josh quickly removed the needle and rubbed the spot briskly. "There. Fini. All done."

"You are a very brave boy," Samantha cooed in Creole. She smoothed a hand over his short tufts of hair, lifted him from the table and, in one smooth motion, set him on the ground. He toddled off to the playroom and she took one of the babies from Alice's arms and set him on the table.

Josh flashed Samantha a smile. "You've got this down to a science, don't you?"

"Hey, I didn't work on a factory assembly line all through college for nothing."

He smiled at the image her words evoked, of curly-haired Haitian babies lined up on a conveyor belt, arms outstretched for vaccinations.

They worked together throughout the morning, and by the time the lunch bell beckoned them to the dining room, they had immunized fifty-three of the boys and had moved the supplies to the girls' dormitory.

In the dining room, the shabby artificial tree festooned in colorful construction-paper chains reminded Josh again that despite temperatures in the high eighties, tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

It would be strange to spend Christmas in Haiti. He hated to leave his mother alone for the holidays, but of course she had Gary now. And the boys, Josh's half brothers. He admired his stepfather, but in spite of his lack of a relationship with his father, Josh had never allowed Gary to become more than a friend.

He hadn't spent a Christmas with Max Jordan in years, but still, the holidays always seemed to make memories of his father harder to push away. Lately, the bitterness and resentment he'd nurtured so carefully were being replaced by something else. Something he couldn't quite identify, but suspected was compassion. And maybe forgiveness. He understood now how miserable his father was. The man probably didn't even realize it, just as Josh hadn't realized his own emptiness before his eyes had been opened.

He thought Mom understood his newfound faith--or at least was happy that he was happy. But Dad had made it clear that he was none too thrilled with his only heir's decision to give up the residency in Iowa to come down here. Well, sure he wasn't happy about it. After all, the great Dr. Botox had footed the considerable bill for medical school. Not that Max Jordan had been pleased about any of Josh's choices in life. Even when he'd managed to graduate high school a semester early and finish med school as one of the youngest graduates in the history of the college, the great Dr. Maximilian Jordan had remained unimpressed. Josh was beginning to accept that there was nothing he could ever do that would please his dad. The man was a stone.

Josh released a sigh. Now that he'd dedicated his life to a heavenly Father, it didn't matter quite so much.

Chapter Three

Brizjanti, Haiti, December 28

Christmas was barely past and the entire orphanage staff was dealing with a rash of flu and respiratory ailments that had laid low dozens of children and nearly half the already skeleton staff.

Samantha Courtney jogged across the compound of the children's home, holding her fingers to her temples. She felt a headache of monumental proportions coming on, but she didn't have time to think about that right now.

She was worried about Josh. He was sicker than a dog, but refused to lie down for even a minute. With the staff shortage and all the sick kids, he'd been putting in longer hours than ever. Her despair at the thought of him going back to the States next month had turned to gratitude that he would finally get the rest and medical care he needed himself.

As she opened the door to the girls' dormitory, a brown lizard that had been sunning itself on the threshold scurried beneath the building. She walked through the playroom to the bunkroom. The air inside was stale, but ten degrees cooler, thanks to the thick, whitewashed cinder block walls. Sunshine poured through the windows and across the precious lumps that filled half a dozen triple-tiered bunk beds.

Josh was sitting on the edge of one mattress, his head bent beneath the bunk overhead. A stethoscope plugged his ears, and Samantha could see by the set of his shoulders that he didn't like what he was hearing in little Kala Loutrel's chest.

Samantha cleared her throat softly to announce her presence.

Josh pulled the stethoscope from his ears and wrapped the instrument around his neck. He squeezed the little girl's toes affectionately and turned to Samantha, his brow creased with worry. "Let's go out there," he mouthed, nodding in the direction of the playroom.

She followed him into the sunny room. The girls who had managed to stay healthy were in school or playing in the courtyard and the playroom was deserted. He stood in the middle of the room, head down, breathing as though he'd just sprinted all the way from Port-au-Prince. His face was flushed and she could hear the congestion in his lungs. He stripped the bandanna off his head and sopped the perspiration from his face.

"Are you okay, Josh? You really need to get some rest."

He waved her off. "I think Kala needs to be in the hospital. Her lungs are filling up...and I can't get her fever down."

"Have you talked to Madame Duval?"

He shook his head, grimacing.

Samantha knew the orphanage director would be reluctant to let Dr. Jordan send Kala into the city unless they'd exhausted every other avenue. With a shortage of medically trained staff and questionable sanitation, the city hospitals were too often a death sentence rather than a cure. Marie Duval had lost too many children to them already. "Do you want me to talk to her?"

"No. I'll do it." He picked at the knot in the bandanna, working the corners free. "I know what she'll say, but I'm afraid if we don't get Kala there this afternoon we'll end up having to make the trip in the dark." He glanced back through the open door to the bunkroom and lowered his voice. "She really needs to be on oxygen. And probably a chest tube..."

Samantha felt her heart stutter. "Is she really that bad?"

He didn't answer, but headed for the door, tying the bandanna back around his forehead as he went.

"Wait, Josh."

He kept walking and she trailed him into the courtyard. Halfway across the compound, he started coughing.

Samantha winced as she listened to his deep barking. "You should be in bed! You won't be any good to anyone if you wind up in the hospital yourself."

He held up a hand, waving her off again. But the coughing continued, unrelenting. Finally he stopped in his tracks and bent, hands on his thighs, struggling to catch his breath. He hacked for another full minute before he finally straightened. He looked at her with what she thought was supposed to be a sheepish grin, but instead was a scowl. "Maybe I will take a little nap after lunch."

She propped her hands on her hips and glared at him. "You haven't had lunch?"

He shook his head.

She gave a little growl. "It's almost two-thirty, Josh!" She went around behind him and grabbed his shoulders, giving him a push in the direction of the dining hall. "You're coming with me right this minute."

He allowed her to guide him across the yard and into the empty dining room. She pointed to the staff table and he slid onto the long bench, resting his elbows on the tabletop.

In the kitchen she rummaged in the industrial-size refrigerator until she found a small pot of leftover rice and bean sauce. She pulled off the lid and took a whiff. It seemed fresh enough. She set the pan on a burner of the giant institutional stove and crossed the room in search of a can of chicken broth to thin the mixture into a soup. While it heated, she toasted two slices of stale bread and spread them with manba, good Haitian peanut butter.

Ten minutes later she sat across from Joshua at a long picnic-style table in the dining room watching with satisfaction as he slurped the steaming soup from a deep pottery bowl. "Taste good?"

"My taster isn't working so hot, but it sure feels good going down." He reached across the table and patted her hand.

"Thanks. I needed this."

She smiled. "Yes, you did. And as soon as you clean your plate I'm escorting you to your room and I'm not leaving until you're tucked in...and sleeping."

"Okay, whatever you say, Mom," he said around a mouthful of peanut butter. He sounded like a little boy. But the look in his eyes as they lingered on her was anything but boyish.

She looked away and scraped some stray bread crumbs into the palm of her hand. Josh finished his soup, and she gathered his bowl and spoon and headed for the kitchen.

She washed his dishes in soapy water and dried them. Looking out the pass-through into the dining hall, she watched Josh drag himself up from the bench. Her heart lurched as she realized that his clothes hung loosely on him. Why hadn't she noticed the deep shadows ringing his eyes before?

He started toward the kitchen and she looked away before he could catch her staring.

"Here, let me do that," he said, taking the dish from her hand. He finished drying it--or attempted to--with the soggy towel she'd just hung to air.

"That's the last one. Leave it be and come with me." She draped both their dish towels over the rack by the sink.

"Yes, ma'am."

She glared at him, curbing a smile. "Don't give me that 'yes, ma'am' business. You just follow me and do what I say."

He grinned and gave a sharp salute.

She rolled her eyes at him and led the way through the courtyard to his tiny room behind the boys' dormitory. Josh undid the latch for her, then followed her in, leaving the door ajar several inches. A slight breeze stirred the drab muslin curtain that hung at the single high window.

Josh's room was tidier than she'd expected. His shirts were hung crisply on wire hangers, two or three to a peg on the wall opposite his cot. The bed wasn't what Samantha would have called "made," but the sheet and light blanket had been pulled up over the pillow and it looked as though an effort had been made to smooth out the worst of the rumples.

She went over to the bed and threw back the covers. "Get in."

Josh tilted his head and stared at her. "You don't take no for an answer, do you, lady?"

"Nope. Get in."

He gave a hoarse laugh that triggered another convulsion of deep coughing. When it subsided, he bent to take off his tennis shoes and placed them side by side at the end of the bed. He started coughing again and collapsed on the edge of the mattress, struggling to catch his breath.

Samantha stood over him, waiting for the spasms to pass. She put one hand on his shoulder. Even through the thin cotton of his shirt, his skin was fiery hot beneath her touch. "Josh, you're burning up! Have you taken anything to bring your fever down?"

"I took some ibuprofen a couple hours ago."

"On an empty stomach, no doubt."

He gave her a hangdog look, and crawled into bed. He didn't protest when she pulled the sheet over him, but sank into the pillow and closed his eyes.

Samantha felt his forehead with the back of her hand. If she had to guess, she'd say his temperature was spiking around 102, in spite of the ibuprofen he'd supposedly taken.

"I'll be right back." She grabbed a pitcher from the small table that served as his desk, and went outside to the pump to fill it. Back in his room, she poured cool water into the cup that sat on his nightstand. "Here, drink this."

He pushed himself up in the bed, his arms trembling violently as he tried to support his weight. She set the pitcher down and put her right arm around him, holding his head up enough to take a few sips. But he choked on the water and fell into another fit of coughing.

When he finally settled down, she gently slid the bandanna from around his forehead and soaked it in the pitcher, wringing it out and folding it into a cool compress. She held it against his forehead and felt it grow warm almost instantly. She dipped it back in the pitcher again and again, applying it to his temple and his neck.

He allowed her silent ministrations and, for a minute, she thought he'd drifted to sleep.

But then his eyelids flew open and he tried to raise his head off the pillow. "Will you check on Kala for me when you leave?" he croaked.

"Joshua, you need help. You're the one who should be in the hospital."

He shook his head. "No. Don't, Samantha."

"You know I'm right."

He ignored her concern and put a hand on her arm. "You will check on Kala?"

"I will. But not until I hear you snoring. I don't trust you not to get right out of this bed as soon as I turn my back."

He flashed her a wan smile. "Don't worry. This pillow feels too good. But don't forget Kala, okay?"

"I'll check on her, I promise. Now go to sleep. You worry me."

She sat beside him in silence, listening to his labored breathing, watching him fidget with an edge of the sheet that hung over the flimsy mattress.

Finally his hands stilled and his breaths took on an even cadence, though the rattle in his lungs scared her to death. She went out to the pump and rinsed the pitcher and filled it with fresh water. She took it inside and set it by his bedside. She smoothed the sheets over him one more time and went to check on Kala.

The older girl who had been here earlier watching the babies--Samantha thought her name was Esther--was nowhere to be found. Kala was the only one in the room. It was quiet except for her breathing, rife with that ominous rattle that too often foreshadowed pneumonia. Like Josh's. The ancient vaporizer Josh had set up earlier sat dead in the corner, a victim of the fickle electricity that plagued the village.

One skinny little arm was flopped out over the low bedrail. Samantha tucked it back inside the rail and smoothed the sheets. They were damp and brackish with the scent of perspiration. She put a hand on the little girl's cheek. The child didn't even stir. But her face felt as hot to the touch as Joshua's had, and her ebony skin had begun to take on the pinched, wrinkled appearance that indicated dehydration.

Samantha felt the thin wrist for a pulse. It was steady, but slow. Josh was right. Kala needed to be in the hospital, on IVs and respiratory treatments.

She straightened the slight body in the bed and tucked the sheet lightly around her, then hurried to locate Madame Duval.

A sudden afternoon thunder shower pelted Samantha as she ran across the lawn to the main building. She found the orphanage director in her office, which overlooked the grounds.

When Marie Duval looked up to see Samantha standing in the doorway, she put down her pen, rested well-padded elbows on the desk and steepled her fingers. She ran a plump hand through her short, tight curls and let out a sigh. "Oh, Samantha. Are you as exhausted as I?"

Samantha never grew tired of the native woman's melodic, lilting Creole. But she offered only a thin smile, knowing she was in for an argument. "Kala Loutrel needs to be in the hospital, Madame Duval. Dr. Josh thinks so, too. And I think Dr. Josh needs to be admitted himself. The man won't rest for a minute and I'm afraid he's on the verge of pneumonia. I put him to bed a few minutes ago...before he practically passed out."

Madame Duval raised two perfectly arched brows, but already she was shaking her head. "We won't be sending anybody to the hospital. We can care for them here as we always have."

"Please, Madame. Kala is dehydrated and she's not keeping anything down. We've had the vaporizers on as much as we can, but it doesn't do much good if the electricity is off." Her voice gained steam as she pleaded her case. "Kala's so small...She can't go long without fluids. You know we don't have the equipment to care for her properly. Please, Madame Duval..."

Samantha could see the struggle on the older woman's face. Finally, her broad shoulders sagged. "All right, then. You will take Kala. But you stay with her and supervise her care." She shook a thick finger in Samantha's face. "I will not lose another child to that place."

"And Joshua?" Her voice broke.

Samantha squirmed under Marie Duval's scrutiny. She always felt as though the woman could read her thoughts. She tried to erase her mind of Joshua Jordan, but instead felt her cheeks burn.

"You truly think Dr. Josh needs to be in hospital?"

"I do, Madame Duval. You only need to look at him to see he's getting worse."

Madame Duval rose ponderously from her desk and turned to pull a key ring from a peg high on the wall behind her desk. "You will take the Land Rover."

Samantha wanted to hug her. "Thank you, Madame Duval."

The older woman looked at her sternly. "You must leave immediately. You must not be on the roads after dark."

Chapter Four

It took all the strength Samantha and Marie Duval had to get Joshua into the front seat of the dark-green Land Rover. His vitality seemed to have evaporated as quickly as the brief afternoon rains.

"Use your seat belts," Madame Duval ordered. They never used the grimy seat belts. But Samantha dug them out of the crevices of the seat and Joshua let her fasten the belt around him. He slumped against the window in the front seat, while they settled little Kala on a pallet of blankets in the back.

Madame Duval tucked a lunch cooler behind the driver's seat. "You should have enough money to get more food in the city if you need it. Be sure to go to Hopital Sainte Anne. Nowhere else," Marie Duval told Samantha sternly. "My friend will meet you there. Do you have the map I made? And the note for the hospital?"

"I have them." Samantha patted her pocket and climbed into the dust-caked Rover.

"Good, good." Madame Duval repeated the directions to the small private hospital, before closing Samantha's door. "God go with you." She leaned through the open window and kissed Samantha's cheek. "We'll be praying. Call as soon as you can."

Samantha saw the worry etched on Madame Duval's ebony forehead and she compelled her smile to reflect a confidence she didn't feel. "I will."

She backed the Rover around and started down the path to the front gate. At the gate, Alex, the caretaker, unfastened the lock and waved as she drove through.

The roads seemed bumpier than usual. Samantha cringed every time her precious cargo was jerked and jolted as she navigated the dilapidated vehicle over the narrow streets leading to Port-au-Prince. Behind her, Kala moaned, only half conscious.

Samantha had driven to the market in Brizjanti by herself once or twice, but never all the way into the city. As she pulled onto the main highway, a large truck roared into her lane, passing an oncoming car. The truck's bed was piled high with what looked like fifty-pound sacks of potatoes. She sucked in a sharp breath and swerved out of its path. The Rover veered dangerously close to the edge of the road. One wheel slipped into the ditch. A bridge abutment loomed in front of the grille. She slammed on the brakes. Her heart stopped. She eased back onto the main road, her knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. Another split second and they would have crashed into the bridge.

As the truck sailed by, inches from the Land Rover, the men perched atop the burlap bags whooped and waved at her.

Her heartbeat kicked back in gear, making up for lost time.

She looked over at Josh, still leaning against the window. He appeared to be asleep, but at that moment, he reached out and touched her arm.

"Be careful," he mumbled. "You know what they say, don't you?"

"Huh?"

"There are only two kinds of drivers in Haiti."

"What are you talking about, Joshua?" Didn't he know they'd almost been killed?

He turned his head to catch her eye and a slow smile spread over his face. "There are two kinds of drivers in Haiti," he repeated. "Defensive--" he paused for a split second before delivering his punch line "--or dead."

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help laughing. "Well, if you don't want me to be the latter, you'd better quit distracting me with your stupid jokes."

"Okay, okay. I'm done." He started to say something else but his words were lost in a fit of coughing.

Samantha cut her eyes from him to the road and back again until she was sure he was okay. Finally, gulping for breath, he reached over the back seat and patted Kala before sagging against his door again.

Samantha prayed under her breath as she drove. Father, help me get there in time. Help me find the hospital.

Thirty minutes out of Brizjanti, after stopping half a dozen times to let pedestrians and livestock cross the road, she fell in line behind a late-running tap-tap. The lumbering taxi truck was loaded to overflowing with passengers and baggage. The Land Rover could easily have gone around it, but the tap-tap's sheer bulk parted traffic like the Red Sea, and Samantha merely followed in its wake. Thank you, Lord, she whispered.

The sidewalk vendors were beginning to pack up their wares for the day as she bounced through the city streets. After two wrong turns, she turned onto Rue Chareron and followed the signs, many of them painted on the sides of the buildings, to the Hopital Sainte Anne. She squeezed the Rover into a narrow space in the potholed street in front of the hospital. The sun slunk below the skyline, forming a wavering backdrop to the building.

With a short blast of the horn, she cut the engine and jumped out. She opened the back car door and lifted Kala out. Alarm shot through her as the little girl sprawled limply in her arms. "Hang on, baby," she whispered. "We're almost there, ti pitit."

She slammed her door shut and spoke to Josh through the open window. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

It frightened her that he didn't protest, but instead nodded almost imperceptibly. Clutching Kala to her chest, she reached in and laid on the horn once more before running around the back of the vehicle toward the entrance.

A small crowd of Haitians materialized from nowhere, gathering around her as she approached the door.

"Blan-an malad, wi," an old woman called out, pointing back to the Rover. That white guy is sick.

Several wandered over to the curb, murmuring their curiosity. "Sa li genyen?" What's wrong with him?

Samantha was accustomed to the inquisitiveness, especially where Americans were concerned, but their distracting questions angered her now. Ignoring them, she elbowed her way through the crowd and went inside.

An orderly met her just inside the entrance. "I have a sick baby." She held Kala out to him like a bag of sugar. "She's dehydrated," she explained in her halting Creole. "My friend is out in the car. He's a doctor, but he is ill also." She spotted a wheelchair folded up in the corner by the vacant nurses' station. "May I use this?"

The orderly nodded and took the child from her arms. "I take the baby," he said slowly, obviously recognizing her limited knowledge of his language.

"Thank you." She hastily set up the wheelchair and rolled it outside to the Rover.

A few of the Haitians still loitered near the building. Joshua appeared to be sleeping. He jerked and lunged for the dashboard when she unlatched his door.

"It's okay," she said. "It's just me. Can you manage the chair?"

Without speaking, he eased his legs over the side of the seat and slid down to sit on the running board and try to catch his breath again. Samantha's blood pressure plummeted. Josh was deteriorating quickly. She moved the wheelchair beside the Rover and put an arm around him, hoisting him to his feet. He turned and plopped into the chair, seeming barely able to cooperate as she lifted his feet onto the chair's footrests. She slammed the car door shut with one hip and pivoted the chair around to back it through the wide hospital doors.

The entrance was empty. Joshua started coughing again from the exertion. She pushed him down the tiled corridor until she spotted a different orderly round the corner and head in the opposite direction. "Wait," she shouted. "Please..."

He spun around and stared at her, curiosity plain on his face. "Yes, Mademoiselle?"

The Haitian man had kind eyes and she found comfort just looking into them. "Please, can you help? This is Dr. Joshua Jordan. He's very ill."

She pulled Madame Duval's note from her pocket and handed it to the man. He glanced at it, and handed it back to her. "He is an American?" The man's hospital ID badge said his name was Albert Reaux.

"Yes." Samantha nodded. "He's been helping at the Duval Children's Home where I work. I am Samantha Courtney. But Dr. Jordan needs to be admitted. Can you help?"

"What is wrong?"

"I think he has pneumonia," she said.

As if on cue, Josh started another spasm of uncontrollable coughing.

Albert Reaux gently pushed Samantha's hands from the wheelchair and took a firm grasp on the handlebars. "I take him," he said in English. He pointed her down the corridor in the direction from which she'd come. "You take the letter. They tell you where the patient is when you are fini."

"Thank you. Thank you so much." Samantha leaned down and put a hand on Joshua's arm. "I'll find you as soon as I get the admission forms filled out, okay?"

He merely nodded, looking miserable and disoriented.

"Please hurry," she whispered to the orderly.

"No problem." The man gave her a reassuring nod. "Everything be oh-kay."

Twenty minutes later, after the woman in admissions had located Madame Duval's nurse friend, Samantha made her way to the main nurses' station. They told her where she could find Kala and she hurried off down the corridor, searching ward numbers as she went. It was a small, private hospital, with only about fifty beds. She found Kala in a ward with several other young patients. She appeared to be sleeping, but she was restrained with ropes in the high crib-like bed. Samantha had been in enough Haitian hospitals that the sight of a child tied with ropes to a railed bed no longer shocked her.

She walked over to the bed and reached out to push a dark curl off the little girl's damp forehead. Kala's breathing was shallow but even, and an IV dripped life-giving fluids into her body. Samantha thought her color looked better already. She waited for the lone nurse in the room to finish replacing an IV bag that hung over another crib. When the nurse finally looked her way, Samantha asked in Creole, "How is she doing?" She repeated her question in English, hoping the woman was fluent.

"She is very weak," the young nurse replied in halting English. "It is good you brought her to hopital. She would surely have died."

Samantha reeled back on her heels at the nurse's blunt assessment. "But...She'll be okay now?"

"She is much better already. As you can see. She is blessed by God."

"Yes. She is. Thank you," Samantha murmured. "I'll come back to check on her later tonight."

She stepped into the hallway and after a couple of wrong turns, stopped a nurse who was hurrying by. "Hello. Please...I'm looking for Dr. Joshua Jordan."

"I'm sorry. There is no doctor here by that name. You must have the wrong hospi--"

"No, no...You don't understand. Dr. Jordan was admitted here. Just a few minutes ago. He's a patient."

The nurse smiled at the misunderstanding. "Oh, the American? I believe he has already been moved to a ward. You should ask at the front desk."

Samantha sighed and backtracked down the hall. She found Joshua in a dreary room across from the nurses' station. Two other men in the beds on the opposite side of the ward appeared to be sleeping. A third man looked out the window, which faced an unpainted cinder block wall.

An IV dripped over Josh's head. She tiptoed to his bedside and watched him. She wished his face reflected the dramatic improvement Kala's had. Instead, in spite of the hours he'd spent in the Haitian sun, his skin had a pallid, almost grayish cast, and his lips and fingertips were bluish, showing signs of cyanosis.

She brushed a hand over his arm, and felt for his pulse to reassure herself, before going out to the nurses' station.

"Has a doctor seen the patient in 108 yet?"

The nurse looked up from her paperwork. "Are you a relative?"

"I brought him to the hospital. We work with Marie Duval at the Duval Children's Home in Brizjanti. Has he been seen by a doctor yet?"

"The staff is very short, Miss. Our doctors see many patients each day."

From the corner of her vision, she saw something dart across the hall. She whirled around in time to see a scrawny tiger-striped cat race through an open door, trailing a length of heavy twine behind him. Madame Duval had told her once that some hospitals used cats as "exterminators," but she was shocked to see the creature running loose through the halls.

She pointed and turned to the nurse. "Did you see that? A cat just ran into that room."

The nurse chuckled. "He's very fast, no?"

"But...Shouldn't you call a security guard?" she sputtered. "To tie it up?"

"If we tie up the cat, tomorrow you might see the rat he was chasing run into the room instead." A playful twinkle came to her black eyes and she wiggled her fingers in a scurrying motion across the top of the desk.

A slow tremor crawled down Samantha's spine, and she shook her head in disbelief.

The nurse's low, melodic laughter died and a shimmer of something close to defiance lit her eyes. "They will see Mr. Jordan as soon as they are able."

"It's Dr. Jordan," Samantha corrected. "Dr. Joshua Jordan. He's here from the States, working at Madame Duval's orphanage. He should receive priority care."

The nurse leveled her dark gaze at Samantha and pushed her ample form from the chair to face Samantha eye-to-eye. "He will be treated as all our patients are treated, with the utmost--"

"I'm sorry," Samantha stuttered. She held up a hand in apology. "I didn't mean...Please forgive me. I...I'm just worried about Dr. Jordan. He is very ill."

"We'll see to him, Miss." The nurse lumbered from behind her desk like a mother bear after a wayward cub. "You best relax for a while. The waiting room is that way." She pointed down the hall and stood, feet planted wide on the dingy white tiles, as though challenging Samantha to cross her again.

Chapter Five

Samantha jerked to awareness, then groaned at the sharp twinge that crept down her back. She must have fallen asleep hunched on the narrow slatted bench in the hospital waiting room. She rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock on the far wall.

One-thirty. Through a small, high window she saw that it was dark outside. It must be one-thirty in the morning. The flickering glow of a far-off neon light bounced off one wall. She stood and stretched, and tried in vain to tame her hair with her fingers as she hurried out to the nurses' station.

There was no one at the desk. But the door to Josh's ward was open, so she tiptoed in. Soft snoring in several different pitches emanated from the shadowed forms in the beds beyond.

"Hey. You're still here?" Josh's voice startled her.

"Josh. You're awake." She went to his bedside and rested her arms on the rail. "How are you feeling?"

"Not so hot."

In the dim light she could barely make out his face, but his voice was hoarse and breathy. He fiddled with the IV tubing where it entered the back of his hand. "How's Kala doing?" Every word seemed a supreme effort.

"I haven't seen her for a few hours, but she was already better when I looked in on her last night. Her color was good."

"And her respiration?" he asked, ever the physician.

"It was better. Much less labored."

"Good." He let out a ragged sigh.

"I'll go check on her again in a few minutes. Can I get you anything? Some water? Are you hungry? Madame Duval packed a cooler. I can get you something..."

He waved her off with a barely perceptible shake of his head. "I need you to do something for me."

"Okay."

"Will you write something down for me? For my father."

He must have sensed her startled hesitation because he reached out a hand and put it over hers on the bedrail. "Please, Samantha. I want to be sure he gets this."

She didn't like the tone he was taking. "You can tell him yourself. You'll be back in Brizjanti in a couple days and you can call him. Maybe you can even reach him from here."

"I don't know, Sam. I...I don't think I'm doing so hot."

"What are you talking about, Josh? You're going to be okay. They've got you on an IV and--"

"Samantha, please. I need to tell my dad some things."

She nodded, stunned. "I'll get something to write on." She hurried back out to the nurses' station. She hated hearing him talk this way. He was a doctor. Did he sense that he was more gravely ill than they all thought? She found a pen and a small notepad advertising some European pharmaceutical company on the desk.

Back in Josh's room, she flicked on the flashlight from his bedside table, and pulled a straight-back chair up to the side of his bed. "Okay. Shoot."

He was quiet, and for a minute, she thought he'd fallen asleep. But when he started talking, an unexpected urgency seemed to push through his weakness and the words poured out like water from a dam.

"My dad--he doesn't understand why I'm here--in Haiti, I mean. He thinks it was a foolish mistake. That I should have finished my residency and opened my own clinic and made a bazillion dollars like he has. Or maybe...I'm not sure what he wanted for me, but not this. For sure not this. He's going to be mad as blazes about...about how this all turns out. I've got to make him understand that I loved what I was doing, that I was doing what God made me to do--"

"Josh--"

"No. Let me finish, Sam." He silenced her with a shake of his head.

She made herself look into his eyes.

"I don't really understand--" he shrugged and looked around the room "--all this. Why it's happening. But I had a good life, Sam. A really good life." He looked up at her through thick lashes, as though just realizing that he'd been speaking in the past tense.

Her breath caught. "Stop it. Quit talking like this. You're not going to die."

A sly grin came to his face. "We're all going to die someday."

She cuffed his arm playfully, trying desperately to recapture the easy way they'd always had with each other. Trying to make him snap out of this melancholy talk. But he winced at her touch and sucked in a sharp breath.

"Oh, Josh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." She was alarmed at his reaction. She'd barely touched him.

He seemed to struggle to catch his breath and she was afraid he would fall into another coughing fit.

"I'm okay," he said finally. "But, Sam...I want my dad to know I'm sorry. I want him to know I love him. He...he had his faults, but I wasn't exactly the best son either. I should have given him more respect. I should've at least listened to his ideas. I wish I could take back some of the things I said." He looked up at her, misery written on his face. "I didn't know the Lord then."

"He knows that, Josh."

He shook his head. "No. He doesn't. My dad never had any use for my faith, never understood it. And even after I gave my life to the Lord, I wasn't a very good example of what the Christian life is supposed to be. Dad never understood me." He gave a low harrumph. "But then I didn't understand him either. I realize now that he only wanted the best for me. We just...had different ideas about what that was. I want him to know I wish I could do things differently."

"Then you've got to get well so you'll have another chance to show your dad what you're really like." Samantha swallowed hard and took his hand gently between hers. A lump came to her throat and her words warbled over it. "You're the finest man I've ever known, Joshua Jordan."

Josh smiled sadly. "Oh, great, now you tell me."

"What do you mean?"

"All this time I've been crazy about you and you haven't given me the time of day."

"What?" She looked askance at him.

"You're a beautiful woman, Samantha. Inside and out."

"Josh. Stop. Now I think you're delirious."

"I assure you, I am perfectly coherent."

A sob welled in her throat. She just wanted this night to be over. She wanted to prove Josh wrong. He had all the time in the world. He'd probably outlive them all. Forcing a smile, she reached out to rub his hand. "You need to get some sleep."

He looked at the empty paper in her hand. "You'll tell my father, won't you? And tell my mom I love her."

"You'll tell them yourself," she said with a resolute bob of her chin. "But if not--" the thought nearly strangled her "--yes, I'll tell them. Now I'm going to check on Kala and try to get her to eat something. You get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

To her surprise, he grabbed at her hand, and though his grip was pitifully weak, he laced his fingers through hers. Lifting his eyes, he searched her face. "Na we demin si-dye-vle." He squeezed her hand weakly and closed his eyes.

She stood by him for a long time, watching his chest rise and fall, thinking about the Creole words he'd whispered. "See you tomorrow, if God wills," he'd said. It was a common Haitian expression, one used by Christians and non-Christians alike. Since most Haitians believed their lives were controlled by fate, they felt they had no power over whether or not they would "see you tomorrow." But no one ever thought the phrase through when they spoke it. It was like an American "how are you?"--not meant to be responded to, nor taken literally.

But Samantha had the distinct impression that Joshua had spoken it quite deliberately.

For two days, Kala Loutrel improved dramatically hour by hour. Her face lost its ashen, pinched appearance, she sat up and sang happily in the crib and gradually began to keep down the soft food Samantha spooned into her eager mouth. In fact, the nurses teased that the little girl would gobble up the food the other patients' families brought if they didn't watch out.

Samantha would have been ecstatic had Joshua not been deteriorating at an equally dramatic rate. She tried to downplay Josh's condition when she spoke with Madame Duval on the telephone, but she knew her own thready voice gave away her trepidation. Her biggest fear was that they would decide to send Kala home before Josh was well enough to be dismissed, too. Samantha would be expected to take the Land Rover and drive Kala back to the orphanage, leaving Josh behind.

He didn't need her. He was a big boy, not to mention a doctor, and in this small, private hospital he was being surprisingly well cared for. But she hated the thought of leaving him alone here.

She had earned her way into the nursing staff's good graces by helping out on the floor. The head nurse, Elaina LaCroix, had become a friend in the span of a few short days. Elaina had received her nursing degree in the States and her English was flawless. Samantha appreciated having someone with whom she could speak her native language.

On the third afternoon Samantha was at the hospital, Elaina stopped in the midst of gathering her things to leave for the day. She put her hands on her hips and studied Samantha. "Aren't you tired of this place by now, Miss Samantha?"

"A little," she admitted with a sigh.

"Come home with me. You can take a shower and wash out your clothes. I'll bring them back dry tomorrow."

Samantha had brought a couple extra changes of clothing with her and had been washing up in the hospital lavatory each day. But the thought of a real shower was alluring--even knowing there was never any guarantee of hot water. "Oh, I'd love that," she told Elaina. "Just let me tell Joshua where I'm going."

Elaina rolled her eyes and flashed a broad smile, her milky-white teeth in lovely contrast to her smooth, coffee-colored skin. "Methinks you like that boy."

"He's not a boy. He's...a doctor." She stumbled over the words, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks.

"Ah, you mean he's a man," Nurse LaCroix said with a comical vibrato in her voice and a knowing glimmer in her dark eyes.

Samantha didn't even try to defend herself. She did like "that boy." She liked him more than she could express. Be with him, Father. Touch him with your healing power.

"Okay. You go check on your man. I'll meet you in the parking lot."

Samantha stepped into Josh's room. He was making a sound that was half-wheezing, half-snoring, but she thought his breathing seemed a little less labored. She cupped a hand lightly over his cheek and whispered another prayer for him.

His eyes flew open. "Hey, you," he whispered.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. I wasn't really asleep."

"Oh, you snore wide-awake now."

She saw the muscles in his face working, trying to form a smile, but it seemed to be too great a feat. "Go back to sleep. One of the nurses offered to let me go home with her and catch a quick shower. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"You go, girl. You could use it." He spoke in a monotone, his eyes still closed.

She laughed. Even as sick as he was, he hadn't lost his sense of humor.

Miracle of miracles, the water at Elaina LaCroix's apartment was better than lukewarm and the shower felt wonderful. Elaina fixed Samantha a delicious plate of cornmeal mush and sent her back to the hospital with an ice-cold bottle of cola. She felt refreshed and ready to face anything.

As she rounded the corner to the nurses' station she heard a commotion: clipped, strident voices and the clang of metal. The commotion was coming from Joshua's ward. She quickened her steps to match the rhythm of her heartbeat.

The ward was brightly lit. A meagerly stocked emergency crash cart was parked beside Josh's bed. Three nurses and a man Samantha had never seen before--a doctor, or maybe an orderly--were working over Josh.

She held her hands to her mouth in horror, everything else around her fading. One of the nurses called Joshua's name over and over. She held her breath, pleading with God and with Joshua. Say something, Josh! She craned her neck, trying to see around the knot of bodies hovering over him. Was he breathing? She couldn't tell.

Time inched forward in slow motion. It felt as though the air had been sucked from the room, and she felt the life being sucked out of her along with it. This must be what Joshua was feeling.

Seconds passed like hours. The medical team shouted terse instructions back and forth to each other. Creole words that told her nothing--in a tone that told her everything.

One of the nurses grabbed something from the crash cart. A trach kit. They were going to perform a tracheotomy. Something from her nurse's training kicked in. She'd assisted in an endotracheal intubation once in her pediatrics rotation. She started for the bed, but the older nurse saw her and barked at her to stand back.

Trembling, Samantha backed into the corner of the room. She stood stock-still, watching as they tried frantically to resuscitate Josh. She was vaguely aware of the other patients in the beds beyond. Two of them were sitting up in bed. Like her, they stared, mouths agape at the drama unfolding.

Nothing in her medical training had prepared her to feel so utterly helpless. She trained her eyes on Joshua's left hand--the one part of him she had a clear view of. Move. Please move. She begged his fingers to demonstrate some sign of life.

But even from where she stood, she could see that his nail beds were blue, his fingers still.

Joshua's hands. Beautiful hands that held the gift of healing. No, God. No. Please. You can't take him.

One of the nurses reached over and flipped a toggle switch. A dead silence alighted upon the room. The man strode from the room, and the nurses began methodically packing the medical equipment back onto the crash cart.

The youngest nurse bowed her head, and with utter tenderness, pulled the sheet over Joshua's face. Then, turning to Samantha, she clicked her tongue and shook her head. "Adje, Bondye." It was an expression of sympathy, but also resignation. All hope was gone.

The room spun and Samantha reached for the wall behind her, steadying herself. She couldn't take her eyes off the bed where Joshua's lifeless body lay ravaged, his face shrouded with the bloodstained sheet. She gulped a lungful of stale air, only then realizing that she'd been holding her breath.

She could not make herself believe he was really gone. Not her Josh. Not the laughing, tender-hearted, energetic man who had walked into her life such a short time ago. Too short. They were only just beginning to know one another. God had granted her the precious gift of knowing Joshua Jordan's friendship, and now she was left without even the right to mourn him. How could God have taken him without warning?

Samantha flinched inwardly, remembering Josh's request that she write to his father for him. He'd known! Somehow, he'd known he was going to die. And he'd wanted her to write his final words to his father.

The room was quiet. The emergency lights had been turned off, and only a dim light from the hall lit the room. Samantha reached out and touched the sheet where it covered Josh's feet. She shivered, struck by how very absent Joshua Jordan was from his body. From this room. He had gone home.

A sob crawled up her throat. She turned and left the room. Like an automaton, she walked down the hall to the waiting room. She stood by the open window, trying to get a breath of fresh air. But the stench of the streets wafted in through the screen. It seemed there was no fresh air to be had in Haiti tonight.

The neon light across the street had gone out and only an occasional flicker from a candle or lantern illumined the other windows on the street. She stood watching, but not seeing. Feeling completely empty.

"Mademoiselle?"

Samantha turned away from the window. The older nurse who had supervised the tracheotomy stood there.

"He was your husband?" Her English was clear and concise.

For a fleeting second she wanted to say, "Yes. He belonged to me." But instead, she shook her head. "He was...my friend."

"We did all we could for him. He started to cough. To choke. He could not get his breath. We did all we could do," she said again.

"I know." Samantha dropped her head. "Thank you."

She provided the information she could for the death certificate. She would not wake Marie Duval with the awful news tonight. Joshua would still be dead tomorrow. She buried her head in her hands, but the tears would not come.

She slept beside Kala Loutrel's bed that night.

The next morning, she spent an hour writing down everything she could remember that Josh had asked her to tell his father. The ink spilled out on the page along with her guilt. Why hadn't she written his exact words as he'd dictated them to her? Could Joshua's father ever forgive her? Josh had known he would die. And she had brushed him off, not wanting to believe it could be true.

Kala stirred in the bed beside her. She opened her dark eyes and smiled when she saw Samantha. Holding out her hands, she whimpered to be picked up. Samantha laid down the pen and pushed the notepad aside. She lifted the little girl from the crib. Kala weighed as light as a feather in Samantha's arms, and she snuggled contentedly against Samantha's chest. Breathing in the musty scent of the springy black curls, Samantha began to rock gently in the straight-backed chair.

As the child relaxed in her arms, Samantha rocked harder, propelling herself forward and back in the chair with only the strength of her legs. Kala began to hum, a keening funeral song for which she couldn't have known the reason. But her music carried Samantha to a place where she could finally allow the tears to fall.

Soundlessly, painfully, she wept. How could she feel such loss for a love that had never been allowed to take root? Still, she wept. For the Haitian children who would never know Dr. Jordan's gentle, healing touch. For the children who would never be born to call Joshua Daddy. She let the tears flow until she felt empty.

Tomorrow, on the first day of the new year, she would pack Kala's things into the Land Rover and with the little girl beside her, strong and healing, she would go back to the orphanage. She would find the address for Joshua's father and write the most difficult letter she had ever written.

Chapter Six

One year later. Over the Bahamas, January 11

The Boeing 757 emerged from a bank of clouds, and Valerie Austin shifted in the cramped window seat. She blew away a spiraled wisp of honey-blond hair that had escaped her hair clasp, and leaned to peer out over the crystal blue-green waters of the Atlantic. Shading her eyes with one hand, she thought she could make out a string of jade-colored islands dotting the ocean. The Bahamas.

The sigh that escaped her lips was louder than she'd intended, and Valerie's elderly seatmate turned to stare, an expression of mild concern on her wizened ebony face. Valerie wasn't sure the woman even spoke English, but just in case, she smiled in a way she hoped would convey that she didn't wish to be disturbed. She turned back to the window. The fluffy white cloud cover grew thick again, and she lost her view of the exotic islands where she was to have spent her honeymoon.

The reservations for an elegant seaside hotel had long since been cancelled, and the "honeymoon suite" that now awaited her party of one was five hundred miles beyond Nassau. Instead of a downy king-size mattress, her bed would likely be a concrete floor, or if she were lucky, a narrow cot. She prepared herself for the concrete floor. By now it had been well established that she was anything but lucky.

Someplace deep in her soul, she knew it was for the best that Will had called off their wedding. It was a mere disappointment, not a tragedy. No matter how it felt on this particular date on the calendar. Already, she'd been able to look back on the past two months and be grateful that she'd been...well, dumped.

Okay, maybe it could have happened before the invitations went out. Maybe it could have happened when she was twenty-one, instead of three weeks past her thirty-second birthday. But in spite of the lousy timing, she could recognize that even this humiliation was better than an unhappy marriage--or an eventual divorce.

Still, it hurt. Whether he was Mr. Right or not, she had loved William Concannon. Truly loved him. And she would be lying if she said Will hadn't broken her heart. It was broken all right, and though it was healing, the wound was still there. And today especially, it ached like crazy--a physical pain right in the center of her chest.

Tears, hot and stinging, welled behind her eyelids and she forced herself to think about something else. She'd had enough humiliation over the last few weeks. She wasn't about to break down and spill her guts to a complete stranger on an airplane four miles above the ocean.

Sniffling quietly, she reached under the seat in front of her and rummaged in her bag until she found a tissue. At least she didn't have to worry about her mascara smearing. She'd sworn off makeup--at least for this trip. She dabbed discreetly at her eyes and blew her nose, then slipped her passport from the zippered pocket of her carry-on bag.

For the tenth time, she opened the little navy, gold-embossed booklet and took out the sheet of scrap paper tucked inside. She stared down at the address. Orphelinat d'Espoir. Literally, Orphanage of Hope, a children's home on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince, Haiti.

Some honeymoon destination.

The airplane's engine droned in her ears as she closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the window. Her thoughts tumbled unrestrained in her mind.

She should have been a new bride with her adoring groom in the seat beside her. All her life, from her very earliest memories, Valerie had only really desired one thing in life. Kids. Lots of them. And, well, it always kind of seemed like a man was a prerequisite. She dreamed of a dozen children. She wanted to give birth to six and adopt six more. As the years passed, she began to realize that children cost money, and they weren't always the beings of sweet delight she'd pictured in her imagination. She revised her dream. If necessary, she could be happy with just four or five babies.

Then, her twenties had flown by with nary a suitable male on the horizon. As her biological clock ticked frantically, she revised her dream again. Finally, it had become a desperate prayer. Please, God, I want a child. Just one child to love and to love me in return. Surely that wasn't too much to ask.

But whenever she read in the newspaper that a child had died at the hands of one of its parents, or when her pastor's fourteen-year-old daughter turned up pregnant, she wanted to cry at the injustice of it all.

And then Will had come along. And he was handsome and witty, a wonderful conversationalist. And one of the few men she'd dated recently who didn't have a dark secret or an ex-wife--or an ex-wife who was a dark secret. A smirk twisted one corner of her mouth at the thought.

Dating was a minefield she'd been glad to put behind her when she met Will. He seemed like the answer to her prayers. They shared a strong faith. They genuinely liked each other. And they rarely fought.

Until the night she told him about her dream. She could still see the shock on his face--that deer-in-the-headlights expression he'd seemed unable to erase from his square-jawed, finely chiseled features.

"What's wrong?" she'd asked, still blissfully innocent.

He gulped audibly. "Kids? Y-you want kids?"

"Well, of course, Will. Who doesn't?"

His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "Um...I don't."

"What?"

"No, Valerie." His voice hardened. "I thought we'd discussed this. I don't want to bring kids into this world."

"Will. You can't be serious."

"Think about it, Val. It wouldn't be fair. How could we fit kids into our life?"

"But...you love kids, Will! I've seen you with them. You're great with kids."

Will taught the junior high class in their church. He was good with the kids, and they adored him in return.

"Well, sure," he said, brushing a hank of hair from her forehead. "Other people's kids. And not till they're past the rug-rat stage."

She pulled away and sat staring into his face, feeling numb. Feeling nothing.

Will took her hand and started talking.

Apparently she'd been too busy falling in love to notice before, but it seemed Will had his own dreams. Dreams that he, too, had nurtured from childhood.

"I want to travel the world, Val. There are still a couple of mountains I haven't climbed, and a lot of oceans yet to be sailed. Oh, and hey, I forgot to tell you, but I talked to Jim Wallston the other day and he's starting up that parachuting class in the fall."

"Oh, Will. That's so dangerous."

"Since when have I ever shied away from danger?"

"Since you got engaged and realized it was time to grow up and be responsible?" She tried to imbue her words with levity, but Will wasn't smiling. And suddenly neither was she.

"I am responsible." His chin jutted out in defiance, then he seemed to catch himself and his tone softened. "Look, face it, Valerie...If I'm lucky enough to get to live the life I dream of, it's very possible I'll die on the side of some mountain or at the bottom of some ocean." At her sharp intake of breath, he lifted a hand. "Not anytime soon, I hope. It's not like I have a death wish or anything. I'm just being realistic. And I honestly can't think of a better way to go. Doing what I love to do. But...I don't want to leave a bunch of orphans behind when I go. And child welfare services kind of frowns on backpacking babies to the top of Everest." He flashed that impish grin she'd always loved, trying to humor her, she knew.

But instead of making her laugh, this time his grin seemed almost sinister.

"But you don't mind leaving behind a grieving widow?"

"That's different."

Looking back, she knew that conversation had been the death knell of their relationship.

She'd tried a hundred times after that to convince him that fatherhood would be the greatest adventure he could imagine. He wasn't buying it. She couldn't quite persuade him that 3:00 a.m. feedings and changing dirty diapers would give him the same adrenaline rush as piloting a hang glider over the side of a Hawaiian cliff or traversing the Amazon jungle canopy on a zip line.

They'd begun to argue more and more until finally they'd come to the end of themselves, and admitted that this marriage would never work.

It was a mutual decision. Really it was. But Will was the one who spoke the actual words. So technically, he dumped her. And that hurt. Still, she liked to think that if he hadn't broken off their relationship, she would have come to her senses and said the words herself: "We're making a big mistake."

After the initial grief and humiliation, she was actually relieved that Will had called off the engagement. She knew he loved her, but he loved his dream more. She loved him, too, but apparently she loved her dream more as well.

She could handle not being a mom because she'd never met the right man. But she didn't think she could ever have forgiven Will for marrying her and then denying her the only thing she'd ever really wanted from life.

Valerie winced at the memories. She sat up straighter and adjusted her seat belt, then rubbed her eyes, as though to wipe the thoughts away. She reached under the seat and pulled a paper from her carry-on bag--the information sheet from the orphanage that was her destination. Hope House, the missionary doctor visiting her church had called it. She studied the address.

Orphelinat d'Espoir, 7500 Carrefour Briz, Brizjanti, Haiti. According to the leaflet, the home's full name, Orphelinat d'Espoir pour l'Avenir, meant "Orphanage of Hope for the Future."

The flight attendant came by with a flimsy trash bag, gathering cups, rumpled napkins and pretzel wrappers. Valerie passed her empty cup over her still-snoozing seatmate and turned to stare out the window again.

Hope for the future. Ironic when she thought about Will and the dreams she'd had for her future. But that was just the problem. They were her dreams. It wasn't Will's fault he didn't share those dreams with her. She couldn't honestly say she'd given up hope that there might still be someone out there for her. But it couldn't be on her terms anymore. That much she'd learned.

The plane broke through a dense layer of clouds and sunlight streamed in through her window. Valerie sighed heavily and slid the window shade down. Then, bowing her head, she closed her eyes and laid her dreams, again, at the foot of the cross.

Max Jordan unbuckled his seat belt and stepped into the narrow aisle, steadying himself with a hand on the seat backs on either side of the aisle. He wasn't crazy about flying and was accustomed to traveling first class when he did. Unfortunately, he'd only been able to get in coach on this flight. It was a short hop from Miami, but already he regretted his decision. He stretched his cramped legs and made his way to the front of the plane where a flight attendant was emptying coffee grounds into the waste receptacle.

She looked up with a practiced smile, a question in her eyes. Eyes rimmed with premature crow's-feet. Twenty minutes in his office and he could take ten years off her face.

"May I help you?" She spoke it in a way that made him realize she was repeating herself.

"I'm sorry." He glanced pointedly at the empty carafe on the beverage cart. "I was hoping I could get another cup of coffee before we land. But it looks like I'm too late?"

"Sorry..." She lifted an arm to check her watch. "We're almost there, actually. The captain will be turning on the seat belt light shortly."

"Okay. Thanks anyway." He started back through first class to his seat. He'd been surprised to find that this was a full flight. And that it was mostly Haitians. Weren't the natives all trying to get out of Haiti instead of back in?

He nodded as he passed by a couple of American men. They acknowledged him with similar aloof nods and went back to talking about the stock market.

Max slid into his seat and refastened the seat belt loosely.

Across the aisle from him, an old Haitian woman sawed logs, while beside her a young blonde stared out the window. He guessed her to be American, but since she'd not spoken one word the entire flight, he couldn't be sure. She appeared to be traveling alone. She'd been slumped against the window, ostensibly sleeping, most of the flight. Max thought she looked sad--and nervous. He'd seen her take her passport out several times, as though reassuring herself it was still in her possession. He wondered what her story was.

A tone sounded in the cabin and the captain's scratchy voice came over the intercom. After an announcement in French--or maybe it was Creole, he couldn't tell--the pilot repeated his spiel in English. Max could only make out about every other word, but by the Haitian passengers' lackadaisical response, it was apparently routine information about the weather and arrival procedures.

The girl across the aisle slid her window shade up and peered out the small port. As the plane banked to the right, Max watched her profile discreetly, pretending to be interested in the terrain visible outside her window.

She looked to be about Joshua's age. Maybe a little older. Maybe a lot older. He, of all people, knew how hard it was to judge a woman's age these days. But this young woman, attractive as she was, didn't look as though she cared much for the trappings of glamour. She wore little, if any, makeup. And she was casually dressed in a cotton skirt and blouse. Her dark-blond hair was caught up in the messy, wisp ponytail that seemed to be de rigueur nowadays.

Did she have a father--or a husband--at home who was worried sick over the fact that she was willingly putting herself in danger? He checked his thoughts. He'd been too ignorant to worry when Josh left for Haiti. Instead, he'd wasted all his emotion being furious. All he'd cared about was the fact that his son was throwing away five years of medical school and thousands of dollars he'd provided by the sweat of his own brow.

Was this young woman here on some idealistic, mission-minded quest that would end as tragically as Joshua's had?

She straightened in her seat as the plane banked sharply and began its descent. Max looked away quickly. She was none of his business. He had plenty of his own demons to wrestle with.

Chapter Seven

As the plane began its final descent into the capital city of Port-au-Prince, Valerie looked down and smoothed the wrinkles from her cotton skirt. It was one of several matching skirt-and-blouse outfits she'd stitched up on her sewing machine in a last-minute frenzy getting ready for this trip. It was a nice pattern, flattering and comfortable. But it was a far cry from the wedding trousseau she'd been working on for the past year--a wardrobe that now hung in the closet of her apartment back home.

For months, her days had been wrapped up in planning a huge church wedding, being the belle of the ball at three bridal showers, sewing four bridesmaids' dresses--gowns she had designed herself--and an entire wardrobe especially planned for her honeymoon in the tropics.

But her dream had died, and now it was time to get the spotlight off herself and do something for someone else. If she hadn't learned anything else from her years of reading the Bible, surely she'd learned that true happiness came from helping others.

Which was why, on this January morning that was to have been her wedding day, Valerie Austin was on an airplane bound for Haiti. An orphanage her church sponsored had sent a young missionary doctor to present a brief slide show during the worship service one Sunday morning. Valerie had been touched by his account of a grossly understaffed children's home desperately in need of workers--even on a short-term basis. But of course her upcoming wedding plans had kept her from considering such an opportunity.

A week after her broken engagement, however, a notice appeared in the bulletin again. Hope House was desperate for help. Valerie was without hope and desperate to get away from home. It seemed providential. She filled out the forms and waited.

In the end, she was the only one who signed up for the trip. But the church voted to send her anyway. Because of her canceled honeymoon, she already had a passport, plus time off from her advertising job, and even a plane ticket, which the airline was kind enough to transfer--with a small penalty, of course. She'd briefly entertained the idea of asking for the bereavement rate, but thought better of it.

In spite of the reason for her change of destination, it was rather exciting--and a little frightening--to be headed to a foreign country. Other than a brief foray into Mexico in her college days, she'd never set foot on foreign soil.

She'd read the newsletter that the American missionaries who ran the orphanage sent her church twice a year, and of course, once her trip was confirmed, she'd visited Haiti via the library and the Internet. But she really had no idea what to expect of this trip.

The flight attendants moved through the aisles making sure seat belts were fastened and collecting the last of the trash. Valerie turned in her seat, stretching and discreetly taking in the other passengers. Most of the faces she saw were Haitian--neatly dressed businessmen, several families with well-behaved children, Haitian Americans, she guessed, returning to visit relatives. As the plane ate away the miles, their broken English became rapidly chattered Creole. Valerie didn't recognize one word of the lilting language from the Learn Creole Now! tapes she'd checked out from the library.

The two dozen or so white faces she saw held the same mix of excitement and apprehension she supposed her own face reflected. She felt an unexpected affinity with the other U.S. citizens on this foreign flight.

A nice-looking man made his way between the rows and slipped back into his seat across the aisle from Valerie. From hearing him speak to the flight attendant earlier, she thought he was an American, too. He nodded briefly in her direction, but turned away before she could respond with even a smile.

She readjusted her seat belt and looked out the window again. A metallic bell tone sounded over the PA system and the captain's voice came on to welcome the passengers to Port-au-Prince. Her heart beat noticeably faster and she clutched the wilted fabric of her skirt.

Help me, Lord.

The plane taxied slowly before it finally came to a stop several hundred yards from the airport terminal. Valerie followed her fellow travelers as they descended the portable steps into the sultry Haitian air.

I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto, she thought wryly, as she made her way across the tarmac to the outdated terminal building.

Just outside the entrance, a trio of native musicians wearing brightly colored shirts strummed guitars and an old-fashioned washboard, serenading passengers as they made their way into the terminal. The lively music reminded Valerie of the zydeco she'd heard at Mardi Gras many years ago.

When the carry-on bags had been cleared, they moved in a herd toward the baggage-claim area, located in a section of the airport that looked almost archaic.

After a long wait, the baggage conveyor finally started to move, slowly filling with a jumble of bags. Valerie had knotted bright purple ribbons on the handles of her luggage to make it easier to spot, and, she hoped, harder to steal. She kept her eyes trained in one spot on the long belt, but as bag after bag was claimed, her anxiety began to escalate. What if her luggage hadn't made it from Miami?

She walked around to the opposite side of the carousel. The dark-haired man who'd been across the aisle from her on the plane balanced a large suitcase against one leg, eagerly eyeing each new piece as it came through the flaps. He looked up as Valerie approached. "This is a zoo, huh?" he said, shaking his head. She was relieved to hear his distinctly American accent.

"Yes." She glanced at the bulging suitcase at his side. "You got your luggage already?"

"One of them," he said. "Of course the one with all the important stuff is the one that's not here."

She shot him a commiserating smile. "Murphy's Law, I guess."

"I guess." He rolled his eyes, and turned to watch as the few remaining bags circulated again.

Valerie glanced at her watch. Another minute passed and a few new bags began to appear, raising her hopes.

"Is this your first trip to Haiti?" the American asked, glancing at her before returning a watchful eye to the conveyor.

"Yes." She was having a hard time reading the man. He seemed preoccupied. She suspected he was just making conversation to be polite, but she decided to take a risk. "Is it your first visit here, too?"

"Yes. First time." He started to say something else, then sucked in a deep breath and lurched for a bag that had appeared on the belt. "Aha! There it is!" He hoisted the bag from the conveyor and plopped it beside his other bag. He turned to her. "Still no luck, huh?"

Valerie shook her head.

The man wrestled the two bags into submission, balancing the smaller one atop the larger. "Well, good luck."

"Thanks."

He turned and started for the exit. She watched him walk away and her hopes sank to her feet. She wanted to run after the stranger and beg him to help her. She had no idea where to begin the process of submitting a claim for lost luggage. Pastor Phil and Betty Greene, the missionaries who ran the orphanage, had warned her that security would not allow them to meet her inside the airport. She couldn't ask their advice without leaving the premises. And if she left without her bags, she might not be able to get back in to retrieve them when they did show up.

Twenty minutes later, the conveyor was empty and her last thread of hope unraveled. Her bags hadn't made it. They'd probably been routed wrong in Dallas. She sighed and shot up a prayer before rolling her small carry-on down the corridor. She followed the dwindling crowd to what she hoped was the exit. As she walked, she kept an eye out for the American stranger. If she saw him again, she would stop him and ask his advice.

She found a ticket counter and pleaded her case with the woman behind the desk. She prayed she didn't have to test her pathetic smattering of Creole. "My bags--my luggage--apparently didn't make it," she said.

The woman obviously understood her, clicking her tongue as she would at a forgetful child, and answering in English. "You must fill out papers. Over there." The clerk leaned over the desk and pointed Valerie toward a kiosk several hundred feet farther down. "You see the sign?"

She followed the woman's line of sight and nodded. "Thank you." After filling out a confusing form and being assured they would hold her bags for her, she headed for the exit with her small suitcase and her backpack, glad she'd packed a change of clothing to carry on. Her two bags passed easily through customs and she made her way to the front entrance of the airport.

The sights and sounds--and smells--that greeted her as she stepped onto the pavement outside were intoxicating--and not in an entirely pleasant way. Her nostrils flared at the strange mingling of frying fish, diesel fumes, garbage and, over it all, the distinct smell of raw sewage.

She held a tissue to her nose and shaded her eyes, searching the crowd for the elderly couple she had only seen in a blurry photocopy.

But there they were! Their silver heads and fair skin stood out like beacons amid the sea of ebony faces that swarmed outside the fence.

She waved in their direction and they smiled and gestured wildly, motioning her to go to an opening in the fence a few yards from where she'd exited the airport. Once outside the fence she was instantly surrounded by children, mostly boys. White teeth grinned up at her from shiny coal-black faces.

"Madame, one doll-ah please?" They all seemed to shout at once in their thick Creole accent. "Please, Madame," they begged. "One doll-ah? Please," a small boy implored, his right hand outstretched, his left rubbing his tummy.

It broke Valerie's heart. She looked desperately at the couple hurrying toward her now. She longed to give the boys something. After all, she'd come to help. But there were so many of them--dozens of them! If she gave even one dollar to each of them, she wouldn't have the money she needed to pay for her keep, and to get back home.

"Go on, move away!" Phil Greene scolded the children with a vigor in his voice that belied his age. He spoke sternly in Creole, then in English. "This woman has come to help out. Leave her in peace." He stretched his arms over the heads of the beggars and reached for her hand, smiling. "You must be Valerie," he shouted over the din.

"Yes--" The word was scarcely off her lips before his petite wife plowed through the crowd of children and pulled her into a bear hug that nearly knocked the wind from her.

"We're so glad you are here." The woman pulled away and held Valerie at arm's length for inspection. "I'm Betty Greene, and this is my husband, Pastor Phil Greene." Then, with a soft smile and a voice as serene as if she were commenting on the weather, she said, "You are an answer to our prayers, Valerie Austin."

Chapter Eight

Port-au-Prince, January 11

The stench that filled the air beyond the gates of the Port-au-Prince airport caused Max Jordan to recoil. It smelled like a sewer line had busted somewhere. No one else seemed to notice the putrid odor. He looked around at the mass of humanity pressing around him on all sides, and wondered if this was the way the city always smelled.

He dragged his bags to the edge of the walk and looked down the street, keeping an eye out for the green Land Rover that was supposed to pick him up. He'd been warned that transportation in Haiti left much to be desired and he was grateful the orphanage had offered to send someone to meet him.

There it was, idling in a line of cars a hundred yards down the street. He started toward the vehicle, but before he'd gone two steps, a horde of children swarmed around him, hands outstretched, begging for money. "No! Go on! I don't have anything for you," he shouted, stomping a foot at them. "Get! Get!"

This seemed to take them aback momentarily and he hurriedly turned and pushed his bags awkwardly in front of him, plowing his way through the throng. His anger surged. Why on earth did the airport authority allow this mauling of their customers? He shut his ears to the children's cries and kept his eyes straight ahead.

Finally the beggars ran off to pester another poor traveler. Max wondered briefly about the young woman who'd lost her luggage. A knife of guilt punctured him. He probably should have taken the time to help her. But he didn't want to make his ride wait, or be left stranded at the airport. The knife twisted. He hoped the girl wouldn't be marooned here.

Joshua would have helped her.

He tensed and turned to look behind him. Where had that come from? But he realized immediately that no one had spoken the words aloud. The thought had come from his own mind. And he knew it was true. Josh would have helped her. And not just because she was a pretty young woman either. For the hundredth time, Max wondered why God had taken Josh and left a miserable, self-centered excuse of a man like Max Jordan behind to mourn him.

A cloud of melancholy settled over him. Grief seemed to have imbued him with an unsettling awareness of his conscience. He didn't like it.

As he approached the filthy Land Rover, a girl jumped out of the driver's seat and jogged around to open up the back.

"Hi." She stuck out a suntanned hand. "You must be Dr. Jordan."

She didn't look as though she could be a day over twenty, and the smile she gave him was the same one every woman who knew of Joshua's death gave him--a sad half smile that seemed equal parts pity and disdain, confirming his right to question why the son had died while the father still had breath.

"I'm Samantha Courtney."

He took the hand she extended and was surprised to realize she was trembling. This was the girl who'd written the letter. She'd known Josh. His breathing quickened.

"How was your trip?" she asked, slamming shut the back gate of the vehicle.

"It was long. But I'm here now. I appreciate you picking me up."

"Oh, it's no problem. Hop in. It's a ways to the orphanage." She went around and got behind the wheel.

Max climbed in beside her and buckled his seat belt. She pulled forward and navigated the vehicle onto a crowded, narrow street. "There was another woman coming in today--on your same flight, I think. She's working with Hope House, just up the road from Madame Duval's. I offered to pick her up, too, but the Greenes--they run Hope House--had some other errands to run."

"I see." He hoped the girl wouldn't yammer at him about people he didn't even know all the way to Madame Duval's.

His terse response seemed to get the message across, and she fell silent. Max stared out the window, taking in the abject poverty all around them, trying to imagine how his son must have felt the first time he traveled this route.

They rode along without speaking for several minutes, until Max blurted out, "So you're the one who was with Josh...when he died?"

She took in a jagged breath, as though she'd been braced for his question. Even in profile, Max saw the shadow that passed over her face.

"Yes. I took him to the hospital. I was there--in his room--when he died."

He took a deep breath. "So what happened?"

She met his gaze, then looked away quickly. "I...left the hospital for about an hour. He was very weak, but I honestly thought he was starting to improve a little. When I came back, he had coded." She rubbed the space between her eyebrows, as though she had a sudden headache. "They did everything they could, Dr. Jordan. They trached him. Gave CPR...I really think they did all they could. It just...wasn't enough." She shrugged and chewed at her bottom lip. "I'm so sorry," she said finally.

"You're a nurse?"

"Yes."

"How long was he sick?" They were on a main street now and he had to raise his voice to make it heard over the car's engine and the noises of the people crowding the sidewalks.

"How did it get so bad...so fast?" He barked out the question before he could think how accusatory it sounded.

Samantha glanced at him and cleared her throat. "You did get my letter with the hospital's report?"

"Yes..." He struggled to keep his voice even and yet be heard. "But how did he get so sick in the first place? Was he...not taking proper precautions?"

She hesitated for a moment. "No, he probably wasn't. We had a rash of nasty respiratory viruses at the orphanage. Josh got it, but he wouldn't admit it at first, and even when he couldn't deny it, he wouldn't slow down. He was working practically around the clock helping take care of the kids who were sick."

A pig trotted into the road right in front of the Land Rover. Samantha jerked the wheel, dodging the animal as though it were a dead possum. She went right on talking. "Josh ended up developing pneumonia. He finally got bad enough that we convinced him to go to the hospital. But as you probably know, the hospitals over here leave a lot to be desired. They did the best they could, but he'd lost a lot of weight and hadn't been eating or sleeping right, so his immune defenses were down. They had him on antibiotics. And it seemed like he was holding his own. I...I really thought he was getting better." Her last word rose on a wail, and she put a hand to her quivering mouth.

Max watched her. This girl had cared deeply for his son. He wondered if there had been something more than friendship between them. Josh had never mentioned anyone in particular the few times they'd spoken after he arrived in Haiti. But then he and Josh hadn't exactly been on the friendliest of terms for the past couple of years. Still, he'd always imagined Josh alone here--a stranger amongst these primitive people.

He had barely left the airport, and already he was seeing things from a very different perspective. It gave him hope. As difficult as it was to be here where Joshua had spent his last days, he was glad he'd come. Maybe he could finally put closure on this horrible grief.

He was silent for several miles as the car bounced along the rutted roads. The girl beside him didn't try to fill the void. He was grateful.

"I really don't know what I hoped to accomplish by coming here. You're probably wondering about that." He surprised himself with this attempt to voice his thoughts. Maybe he felt free to speak because she was a stranger.

Samantha turned to him briefly before giving her attention back to the bumpy highway. "I think I understand. If I were you, I would want to see where he'd lived and worked. Where he was happy."

"Was he? Happy?"

She arched a brow, as though surprised that he didn't know the answer. "Oh, yes. He was happy. He was very happy." She bit her lower lip and Max could see she was struggling to control her emotions. "Your son loved what he was doing. And he was good at it. The best."

For a moment Max felt the familiar anger rise up. In the year since Joshua's death, he'd felt as though he was in a war. Except he didn't have a clue who the enemy was. He didn't trust himself to speak, so he turned to watch the dreary scenery outside the window. Some stretches along the road looked like a war zone with dilapidated buildings and arid, grassless ground littered with debris of all kinds.

Could he possibly discover what he was looking for in this desolate place? Why had Joshua been so...happy here?

Chapter Nine

Betty Greene eyed Valerie's two small bags. "Surely this isn't all your luggage?"

"My luggage didn't make it." The words came out on a half sob that took Valerie by surprise.

"Oh, now, don't worry, dear," the older woman said, deep furrows terracing her forehead. "At your age, there isn't anything you can't live without for a few days."

"You really think it might take a few days?"

The woman gave an apologetic smile. "It'll be at least a couple of days before we can get back into the city."

"I filled out a claim form. I didn't know what else to do."

"It'll be fine, dear. We'll find whatever you need to get by. You're not missing any medicine that you must have, are you?"

"No."

"Well, then." As though that settled everything, Betty Greene turned to her husband. "Let's go."

Ignoring the horde of begging children who still flocked around them, the spry couple led Valerie to their ancient, rusty Volkswagen van. Phil Greene tossed her carry-on bags into the back and opened the doors. His wife climbed into the passenger side and Valerie took the back seat.

Pastor Phil navigated the narrow streets of Port-au-Prince honking and dodging automobiles that didn't seem to care which side of the street they used. They drove with all the windows open against the sweltering heat.

Brightly painted tap-taps, Haiti's version of the taxicab, cruised by, their sides serving as canvases for vivid, artsy paintings and scrawling Creole calligraphy. The drivers tooted their horns capriciously, and looked as if they were having a contest to see which of them could cram the most people--not to mention chickens, pigs and goats--aboard. Many of the tap-taps carried an overflow of passengers perched precariously on their rooftops.

Valerie peered out the van's window at the primitive panorama, feeling as though she had gone back in time. An unexpected sense of adventure welled up inside her.

As the Volkswagen slowed to a crawl in the bumper-to-bumper traffic, Betty Greene turned to lean over her seat, providing a colorful, rambling travelogue. Valerie took in the bustling, ever-changing kaleidoscope of scenery with her mouth agape.

In this part of the city the streets were lined with simple buildings that appeared to be cobbled together with cement blocks, sheets of tin and whatever other materials were at hand. Many of the primitive shops had open doorways, and every available space seemed occupied by a business of some sort. Several proprietors' kiosks were no more than blankets spread on the sidewalk, on which they displayed their wares--plucked chickens, fish, beads, hats and sandals and heavy bunches of bananas displayed on cane poles.

At one street corner, two young boys hawked bottles of soda, the clickety-clack of a bottle opener against glass creating their own advertising jingle. A woman balanced a heavy pitcher and a collection of battered tin cups on a tray. "She makes her living selling water by the cup," Betty Greene said. "And whatever you do, don't ever buy from her."

"Why?"

The older woman chuckled. "Didn't anyone tell you? You'll need to drink bottled water. Your stomach won't be accustomed to all the bacteria beasties here."

"Oh. Of course." Valerie had read the warning in the information she'd been sent, but her mind was spinning, trying to take in everything at once.

She turned her gaze back to the city streets outside the window. Every pedestrian and many of the bicyclists carried personal cargo of some type. Gaunt burros served as beasts of burden, clopping along beside women and children who balanced baskets and plastic buckets gracefully atop their heads. Their containers overflowed with anemic-looking fruits and vegetables, grains and bread. Water sloshed from some of the buckets.

Goats and dogs seemed to roam the streets freely. Once, when traffic came to a standstill, Valerie looked down a narrow alleyway to spy a pig rooting in a garbage heap swarming with flies. Beside the pile of decaying refuse, a stunning magenta bougainvillea bush blossomed.

As they neared the outskirts of Port-au-Prince, the landscape changed. Here the countryside was stark and barren. Scruffy palm trees poked up occasionally amid the rubble and rubbish that littered the terrain, but the earth was brown and devoid of grass.

Valerie was tempted to let the desolate landscape paint her attitude with the same drab brush, but then she started watching the pedestrians who seemed to be everywhere. The Haitian people were the flowers on the landscape, more than making up for any appearance of dreariness. Their garments were in brilliant reds and yellows, rich purples and aquas. They wore tropical prints and paisleys together in pleasantly clashing combinations. And the wide smiles the children flashed punctuated their musical chatter.

Once, when they slowed to let another vehicle pass at a crossroads, several young boys clambered onto the back bumper of the Volkswagen and peered in through the windows. She waited for the Greenes to stop and reprimand them, but Pastor Phil drove on, gunning the engine as though he had no clue of his stowaways. Valerie held her breath as the boys rode several hundred feet before bailing off as the van picked up speed.

The Volkswagen bounced along for another twenty minutes, then turned sharply onto a street that would barely have classified as an alley in Kansas City. Pastor Phil slammed on the brakes, and Valerie gasped and grabbed the back of the seat as they narrowly avoided running down a teenager balancing a wheelbarrow filled with cinder blocks. The boy merely laughed at the close call, and bumped his cargo on down the lane.

In her mind, Valerie composed an e-mail to Will: Dearest Will, I've discovered an adrenaline rush better than anything you've ever experienced. So there! Nanny nanny boo boo. She smiled at the childish thought, but she suddenly missed Will dreadfully. She wondered what he was doing right now. Had he thought of her as often today as she'd thought of him?

"We're almost there." Betty Greene's voice broke through the encroaching loneliness, reminding her that she had made a decision--one she knew was right. She would not look back.

The Volkswagen turned onto an even narrower lane and drove alongside a high cement block wall. Excitement rose in Valerie. She could scarcely believe she was here. A bright sign announced Orphelinat d'Espoir.

"Hope House is here on your right," Pastor Greene said, glancing at her over the back of the driver's seat. "You can see that you will be safe here. The gates to the compound are always closed and locked."

He turned into the drive, announcing their arrival with three sharp blasts on the horn. Behind the bars, a Haitian man trotted toward them and swung the gate open.

Something on the top of the wall flashed and glimmered as the sunlight caught it. Valerie realized with a shiver that the top of the wall was embedded with metal spikes and razor-sharp shards of broken glass. Her excitement turned to alarm. What have I gotten myself into?

She thought the same thing that night as she settled into the nine-by-nine-foot room that would be her home for the next two weeks. She pulled back the thin blanket on her cot and was startled by what seemed to be an entire colony of tiny black ants. Ants she could handle, but as she brushed the insects from the sheet, her eye caught movement on the wall above her bed. She stifled a scream and rubbed her arms vigorously, trying to banish the goose bumps that had risen there. A pale-brown lizard scurried up the wall--to join his much larger cousins, she was sure.

She shook out her bedding and checked the cot one more time for ants. Then in one smooth motion, she yanked the chain to switch off the light, and dove under the covers, her heart beating like the bongo drums she'd heard in Brizjanti. In spite of the stifling heat, she pulled the blanket into a tight tent over her entire body--taut enough, she hoped, to deflect any lizards that might decide to drop in on her during the night. "Lord," she whispered into the darkness, "you're going to have to help me here."

Never had she received such an expedient answer to prayer. The next sound she heard was the chorus of half a dozen roosters and a donkey's brassy bray. She rolled onto her back on the creaky cot and peered out the low window. The sun was just peeking over the eastern wall of the courtyard. It shone a thin sliver of the most lucent orange she'd ever seen on the whitewashed cement walls of her room. Checking the floor and the ceiling above her for lizards, she threw her legs over the side of the cot and slipped into her sandals.

She pulled the string that hung from the bare lightbulb overhead, but nothing happened. Remembering the caveats on the Internet about Haiti's unpredictable electrical service, she rummaged in her bag in the half light until she found a blouse and a wrinkled but clean cotton skirt--her only change of clothing.

The bathroom was just down the hall from her room. She opened the door a crack and looked out into the shadowed hallway. It was empty. With her clothes and the few toiletries that had made it in her carry-on bags, she headed for the shower.

A few minutes later, with a wary eye out for lizards, she stepped into the tiny shower stall and turned the rusted handles. A dribble of cool water trickled out. She waited for a full minute for the water to get warm, but finally conceded that it was as warm as it was going to get. Abandoning the idea of shampooing her hair, she washed and rinsed quickly under the chilly stream, and hurriedly dried off. She dressed and brushed her hair into a ponytail before heading back down the hall to her room.

Betty Greene had warned her that breakfast was served at six-thirty sharp. Already she could smell bacon frying. She wondered why no one else seemed to be stirring. She made her bed, and unpacked her bag, arranging her things on the narrow shelves behind the door.

She took a deep breath and stepped into the courtyard.

"Good morning!" Betty Greene's cheerful voice floated on the morning breeze. Valerie looked up to see the pastor's wife leaning from the loggia that ran around the second floor of the dormitory. "Did you sleep well?"

"Like a baby, thank you," she called up. "I can't remember the last time I slept so well." She was surprised to realize it was true.

"Breakfast will be ready in twenty minutes. Why don't I show you around the rest of the grounds."

Madame Phil, as the children called Pastor Phil's wife, hurried down the steps at the corner of the building and met Valerie in the center of the courtyard. "I see you found something to wear."

Valerie tugged at her rumpled skirt. "Yes, I had a change of clothes in my carry-on bag. But I'm afraid I should have asked to borrow an iron."

The older woman waved her apology away. "You look lovely. We'll have the girls wash your other clothes so you'll have something fresh tomorrow, and maybe we can find one more outfit." Madame Phil fingered the fabric of Valerie's sleeve. "This is pretty. It looks home-sewn."

"Thank you. I made it."

"You're a wonderful seamstress. I know just where to put you to work."

Valerie perked up. "Oh, you have sewing that needs done?"

"Mending mostly. I hope you won't mind."

"Oh no, I'd love to do that. I...I've been a little worried about what I would do here. I'm not exactly a jack-of-all-trades, but sewing I know. I've been sewing since I was a little girl."

It was true. Since her first year of a middle school life-skills class when she discovered how smoothly a sewing machine handled under her touch, she'd made almost all her own clothes. When she'd started high school, most of the girls in her class wouldn't have been caught dead wearing something homemade, but she was proud of her fashions and had briefly considered a career in fashion design.

And then, when she was sixteen she'd happened across a pattern at a garage sale for a frilly sundress, toddler size two. She paid ten cents for it and took it home and made the sweetest little dress from the lime-green gingham-check scraps of a skirt she'd just finished for herself. She'd attached a ruffled eyelet slip to peek out from beneath the little dress. And she'd spent half her allowance on some tiny lemon-, lime- and orange-shaped buttons to trim the bodice.

That little dress was the first thing she'd put into her hope chest. A familiar ache of longing camped in her chest.

"Come, I'll give you the tour." Betty Greene's words startled her back to the moment. The older woman led the way through the courtyard and to the lawn behind the main dormitory.

Though the grass was sparse and brown in spots, several high palm trees provided some shade. Beside a low out-building, several fat brown hens scratched in the dirt.

"The younger children take turns caring for the chickens and gathering the eggs each evening," Madame Phil said.

"Those eggs have carried us through some lean times."

Valerie had to hustle to keep up as the older woman led her around the outside of the U-shaped dormitory.

"We have seventy-four children here right now--about twenty more than Hope House really can accommodate, but we're not as overcrowded as some of the children's homes." A softness came to her face and she smiled at Valerie. "My dear Phil would die before he would turn away a child in need."

Valerie had seen that same look in Pastor Phil's eyes when he talked about his wife on the ride from the airport and when they were helping Valerie get settled in her room last night.

The ache tightened in the region of her heart. Would there ever be a man whose eyes would hold such tenderness for her?

Chapter Ten

Brizjanti, Haiti, January 14

The cock-a-doodle-doo of a rooster edged out a nonsensical dream, and Valerie stretched and rubbed her eyes as a lemony slice of sunshine pierced her window shade. She swung her legs over the side of the cot and was halfway to the bathroom when she realized she hadn't given the lizards or ants a thought.

She smiled to herself. Three days had flown by in a whirlwind and Valerie had grown accustomed to sharing her room with a few creepy crawlers, and she rather liked being awakened by an alarm clock that crowed.

She had yet to retrieve her lost luggage from the airport, though Pastor Phil suspected it was there. They just needed to find time to go pick it up. But the older girls had loaned her a couple of skirts and she was surprised to find how little she could get by with.

Time seemed suspended in this corner of the world. There were moments when Valerie felt she had been in Brizjanti forever. After that first day, she had scarcely given her aborted wedding or William Concannon a thought. The effort to translate and learn the Creole language kept her mind in constant knots. And Pastor and Madame Phil kept her busy with a list so varied she never knew from one moment to the next if she would be mending little shirts and dresses, slicing mangos, painting cement blocks or changing diapers. And she was loving almost every minute.

She washed up under the lukewarm trickle from the showerhead, then pulled on her red gingham skirt and a white blouse, and swept her hair up into a high ponytail.

She took her Bible and a notebook and climbed the narrow flight of stairs to the dormitory's rooftop. She'd discovered this quiet escape yesterday when she and some of the girls had climbed up here to scrub down the stucco walls of the dormitory with bleach. It was unpleasant and backbreaking work, but mold and mildew were a real problem in the humid climate, and Madame Phil was determined to win the war against it.

A stairway offered easy access to the flat rooftop that afforded a view of the bay and the streets beyond the gates of the orphanage compound. She treasured the peaceful haven and was fascinated watching the buzz of activity below her as the Haitian people went about their daily routine.

Beyond the eastern gate, several men unloaded cinder blocks and sacks of cement from a truck. A fine powder of cement dust turned their dark skins ashy. They laughed and joked as they worked, seeming to enjoy one another's company.

At one doorway across the street, a mother stood on the stoop braiding a little girl's hair. Next door, a woman swept her front porch before taking the broom to the dirt road in front of her shack.

To the northwest Valerie saw a boat in the bay. The sea looked inviting in the morning sunlight, but Pastor Phil had warned her the water was contaminated and full of rubbish.

Valerie opened her Bible and read from the Psalms.

But as for me, I trust in You, O Lord; I say, "You are my God." My times are in Your hand...

The words pierced her heart. She did trust in God. But sometimes it was hard to understand his intentions, his plan for her life. She read on.

Oh, how great is Your goodness, which You have laid up for those who fear You, which You have prepared for those who trust in You.

Could she truly place her life in God's hands? Even in the face of everything that had happened? She looked out over the walls of the compound and saw the dire poverty around her. She felt ashamed at her self-pity. Yes, she'd had a deep disappointment, humiliation even. But she wasn't the first woman to suffer a broken engagement. And she had endured nothing close to what the majority of people in this country experienced every day.

But she was thirty-two years old. If God did indeed have a plan for her life, it was time she figured out what that was. Her job at the advertising agency would be waiting for her when she got back, but after the whole thing with Will she wasn't sure she could go back to "business as usual." She enjoyed her work as a sales rep, but she'd never intended to be there more than a few years. She'd only completed her business degree because it was something to do while she waited for the right man to come along. Will had taken his sweet time, and in the end, he hadn't been the right man after all.

But her job at the agency wasn't a calling. It wasn't even an avocation really. And wasn't she supposed to feel called to something--something that would make a difference?

Will knew what he wanted out of life. His work with the kids at their church was what gave his life meaning. And the things he loved to do--the sailing and flying and extreme sports stuff--all meshed with his work with the kids. A perfect puzzle fit, one piece of his life snapping snugly into the next to complete the picture.

Funny that she was the one piece that couldn't be plunked into Will's puzzle. She envied him. Why couldn't the pieces of her life fit so easily into place?

She mentally stamped her foot like a spoiled child. She'd thought she had a calling. The things she desired weren't such difficult or unusual requests. A husband and children--God granted those to hundreds of people every single day. And she'd thought having a family was her calling. Why had God given her such a profound passion for children only to withhold what she wanted most?

She'd wasted so much of her life filling a hope chest that was now empty. Her mind wandered over the years she'd spent cramming that trunk to overflowing with the baby clothes she'd sewn. Boy things and girl things, in all shapes and sizes. She'd figured if she was going to have twelve kids she'd need a lot of clothes.

At night, in her bedroom, when the rest of the house was asleep, she would take each little outfit out of the chest, hold it up and picture her babies wearing it. She'd even prayed for them--her precious little future babies--that God would bless them and keep them safe.

It seemed those prayers had all been wasted. Three days after Will broke their engagement, after they'd sent letters of explanation uninviting all the guests, after she'd boxed up all the gifts and got them ready to return, she'd taken everything out of that hope chest. She'd folded each little outfit neatly, and placed it in a cardboard box. Then she'd sealed it up--that box containing, quite literally, the last threads of her dream--and mailed it to her sister in Chicago.

Beth had promised to give them to her church's annual rummage sale. Valerie had shed a few tears that day. But if anything, it proved to her that she and Will had made the right decision.

She would make a good mom. She still believed that. Still dared to hope that it wasn't too late. But she couldn't live her life waiting for something that might never happen. It was time to move on.

She closed the Bible in her lap and stretched her arms overhead. There was no use dwelling on what she couldn't have.

The sun had grown warm, and below her she heard the children assembling for breakfast. Sighing, she scooped up the unused notebook, struggled to her feet, and went down to join them.

A trio of girls waited at the bottom of the stairs, dressed for the day in their crisp blue school uniforms. They stood in a knot waving shyly as she descended. She was beginning to learn some of the children's names. The taller two were sisters--Marie and Monique. She thought the other girl was called Daphney. She had grown to love the children's lively chatter. The Creole language had a distinctive cadence to it that made their playground banter sound like music. Fortunately, Pastor and Madame Phil insisted that the girls study English, so most of them understood enough that Valerie had been able to communicate with them. She was trying to learn Creole, but was not very successful at it so far.

Monique whispered something to her sister, and the two older girls giggled and pushed Daphney toward Valerie.

Her large eyes gleamed. "You sit with us at table?" She blurted out the words, then clapped her hand over her mouth as the older girls corrected her.

"At breakfast," they said.

Daphney fell into another fit of giggles.

Their laughter was contagious and Valerie joined in. "You want me to have breakfast with you?"

The girls turned serious and nodded in unison, looking like a collection of those wobbly-headed dolls Will had once displayed on his dashboard for a lark. "Sure. But we'd better hurry. It smells like breakfast is ready."

The sisters each grabbed one of Valerie's hands, and they dragged her across the courtyard as Daphney led the way to the dining room.

Madame Phil was supervising the serving line. "Good morning, Miss Valerie. Did you sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you. And you?"

Madame Phil batted the question away as though it were a pesky fly. "As good as I ever do. I'm learning to make use of the wakeful hours. The Lord and I had a lovely conversation last night."

"Well, I'm sorry you had trouble sleeping, but I'm glad it wasn't wasted time."

Madame Phil smiled her sweet smile, and glanced down at the girls, who had turned Valerie's hands loose in favor of their breakfast plates. "Looks like you made some new friends."

Valerie formed a saucer of her hand and pantomimed sipping from a cup. "We're having coffee together this morning."

The girls tittered at her joke, and Madame Phil clicked her tongue in mock disapproval. "You'll have all the children wanting morning coffee breaks, Miss Valerie! Then who will do the chores?"

"Oh, dear! I guess we'll have to stick to milk, girls. Sound okay?"

Madame Phil translated and the girls giggled some more. Valerie followed them as they carried their plates to one of the tables. She slid onto the long bench and the girls scuttled, shoving each other for a spot beside her. Daphney lost, and turned to the wall, pouting.

"Wait a minute..." Valerie scooted past Marie, and lifted the little girl and sat her down between the sisters. She moved her plate to the other side of the table and sat across from them. "There! Now I can look at all of your pretty faces while we eat!"

That seemed to satisfy the girls and they chattered amongst themselves through the rest of the meal.

After the children went off to school, the day was spent working in the kitchen, helping Pastor Phil paint some of the dorm rooms, and rocking babies to sleep at naptime.

With three little girls snoring softly in the cribs beside her, and a baby boy they guessed to be about eight months old sleeping in her arms, Valerie basked in a peaceful contentment she'd rarely experienced. The little boy, whom they'd christened Nino, had been left at the gates of the orphanage on Thanksgiving Day. A passerby had discovered him outside the walls and rung the bell while they were eating their holiday dinner.

"He created quite a stir, let me tell you," Madame Phil had told her, a faraway note in her voice.

"But doesn't it break your heart?" Valerie asked.

"It breaks my heart and God's as well, but don't you see? That's why we're here. Before the foundations of the world were laid, God knew that child would need a place like Hope House."

As Valerie rocked back and forth, stroking the perfectly rounded head of damp curls, listening to the older children playing outside the windows, she had to push away thoughts of leaving these children behind when it was time to go back. Just ten short days from now. What would happen to this little boy?

Pastor Phil had told her that only a very small percentage of the children were ever adopted. Most of the children left the home when they graduated from the orphanage's secondary school. A few stayed on to help with the younger children, or teach in the school, but for many of them, life after the orphanage was one of poverty and heartache.

How did Pastor and Madame Phil stand it? Her heart was raw, and she'd only known the children for a few days. How could the elderly couple call each little one by name, watch them develop and learn, and then see them go out into a world that was rarely kind or prosperous?

Little Nino was fast asleep and Valerie rose carefully from the chair and transferred him to a waiting crib. He stirred and she put a hand on him, waiting for his breathing to become even again. Something about a tiny baby had always touched her deeply. She lingered over the crib, delighting in the feel of his chest rising and falling beneath her hand.

Oh, Father. I can't help it. I want babies!

A distinctive squeal of brakes penetrated the silence as Pastor Phil's Volkswagen rolled through the gate, delivering the older girls from the school they attended outside the gates. Soon, a parade of girls marched into the dorm. Valerie checked on the other napping infants and stepped into the dayroom in the center of the dorm. Two toddlers had fallen asleep on a rug at the edge of the room, the pieces of a half-finished puzzle strewn beside them.

The teenage girls went to their respective rooms to change clothes before they did their chores. Valerie picked up the puzzle and straightened the room while she waited for Jaelle and Nadage to take over babysitting duties.

The older girls came back into the room smiling broadly. Jaelle asked something in Creole, but Valerie had to shrug that she didn't understand. Jaelle pressed her palms together and leaned her head on the pillow they made. Valerie made out the word pitit. Baby.

"Oh, yes," she smiled. "All the babies are sleeping."

"You are good, no?" Jaelle said in halting English. "The babies, they like you."

She smiled. "I like them, too."

She did have a way with kids, and the children here had taken to her immediately. Each afternoon when chores were finished, they would spend an hour playing games on the playground or under the vine-covered veranda if the sun was too hot. They always managed to coax Valerie away from what she was doing to join them. It was her favorite time of the day.

As if on cue, a group of the nine- and ten-year-old girls appeared in the doorway. "Valerie! You come? We fix you hair."

The girls were fascinated with her thick blond mane of hair, and fought for turns to braid and re-braid it. She'd always loved having someone mess with her hair.

"I'm coming," she said. "Let me get my brush." She went back to tell Jaelle and Nadage she was leaving, then let the little girls lead her to her room for her hairbrush and comb before they went out to the veranda.

She plopped down in the shade on the warm concrete floor, and three of them went to work on her. With a tender touch, Monique sectioned her hair into three hanks and assigned one to each of the other girls who started the intricate process of twisting it into tight braids. She let them fill her head with bright ribbons and the tiny, colorful beads and barrettes they were so fond of.

Beside them, another group of girls had gathered small stones to play osle, a game that reminded Valerie of jacks. With the gentle tug of the brushing and plaiting, the babble of girlish conversation and the rhythmic clapping games and songs, Valerie was almost lulled to sleep.

She was startled out of her near-trance by a burst of laughter. She opened her eyes to see half a dozen little faces giggling. She reached up to feel the silly "do" they'd invented at her expense. If Will could see her now, he'd be laughing harder than all of them put together.

She pushed the thought away. Will was no longer a part of her life. She had to quit thinking of him as though he would be there when she got back.

She held out her arms and immediately there were two little girls holding each hand, yanking her to her feet.

"Let's go find a mirror so I can see what terrible thing you did to me," she teased. "A mirror?" She held an imaginary mirror in front of her face.

A petite girl called Mariana apparently understood her pantomime and repeated the word in Creole. "Glas...Miwa!"

"Yes! Mirror," she cheered.

They all squealed and scrambled to their feet, taking Valerie's hands and pulling her along in their wake.

Laughing, she followed them to the dormitory, relishing the feel of the new mop of bead-laced braids slapping at her neck and face as she ran.

Chapter Eleven

Brizjanti, Haiti, January 15

"Was this Joshua's room when he was here?" Max stopped on the dusty pathway and cocked his head in the direction of the guest room where he'd slept the last four nights. He somehow knew the answer to his question before Samantha Courtney's nod confirmed it.

"I guess I should have told you." She paused. "It's really the only guest space we have. I hope that's okay--"

"No, no, it's fine."

He followed Samantha as she showed him around the grounds of the orphanage. It was the first chance he'd really had for a tour of the place--and a good talk with the young woman who seemed to have known Joshua better than he ever had.

His first days in Brizjanti had been spent setting up a temporary clinic and giving each of the children in the home a cursory physical examination. The facilities--if you could call them that--were appalling. Cracks in the uneven walls let in a menagerie of insects and rodents, and the filth that permeated the very air made it impossible to disinfect anything. The gates couldn't keep out the acrid smoke from a garbage heap smoldering in the ditch beyond. The stench seeped in through every window. Max had a fleeting glimpse of his days as a young resident serving an Indian reservation in Arizona. Only this made that tumbledown clinic look state-of-the-art.

He'd forgotten how influential those brief and horrid months in the desert had been. Janie and Josh had remained in Chicago, and after three miserable months, Max had fled the west and returned to civilization. On the long bus ride to Phoenix to catch a flight home, he'd sworn to himself that he would never work or live in such dire circumstances again. It was one of the few promises he'd kept in his life.

Or had he? Could he really make that claim when his only son, the heir to the small kingdom Maximilian Jordan had established, had died here in the heart of the world's most impoverished country?

"What makes you so sure Joshua was happy here?" The words tumbled out before he realized he'd spoken them aloud.

"Oh, Dr. Jordan..." The girl's expression took on that dreamy quality it always did when she spoke of Joshua. "I wish you could have seen him here. You wouldn't have had to ask me that. Josh loved his work, loved the children. As Madame Duval told you last night, he was the best thing that ever happened to this place. Aside from the lives he literally saved, he just added such joy and fun to life. The kids adored him. Kids all over the village knew him because he helped at the other two orphanages here."

She stopped abruptly at the edge of a sparse lawn where some children were kicking a soccer ball around. She bowed her head briefly before looking back up at him. "I have something I need to tell you. A confession, I guess you'd have to call it."

"Oh?"

She led him to the cement slab where the older girls did the laundry. They each took a corner and sat. The sun was warm on his back.

She hesitated, then started with a sigh. "The first night in the hospital, Josh asked me to get a paper and pencil...He wanted me to write a letter to you. I--I put him off. I hated the way he was talking...as though he knew he was going to die. I told him he could tell you all those things in person. But he insisted. I did write down the things he told me...later. I think I got everything. But I should have gotten it word for word...in his own words."

Max wondered why she was telling him this now. Were the things Joshua told her so terrible that it had taken her four days to get up the nerve to repeat them?

"I'm so sorry, Dr. Jordan. I should have listened to him. Josh's last thoughts were of you. He felt responsible that you two didn't have...the best relationship and he wanted you to know that he loved you." A faraway look came to her eyes, as though she were remembering that last conversation with Josh. "He wanted you to know that he was sorry."

Regret washed over Max. He felt jealous that this girl, this stranger, had been the one to hear his son's last words. Yet, he was touched--and a little surprised--that Josh's last thoughts had been for him. Something about Samantha Courtney made him feel uncharacteristically open, and eager to talk about Joshua.

"I think...I think you knew Joshua differently than I did. Tell me about my son."

She nodded. "Josh said that once. That you two didn't exactly see eye to eye, that you never really understood each other. He wanted you to know that he was sorry for that. He never told me what happened between you, really, but he regretted the way he acted. He said he wasn't very Christlike in his responses to you."

"That was pretty important to him, huh? Being...a Christian?"

"It was the most important thing in Josh's life." Her eyes met his and she held his gaze until he turned away, unsettled by her honesty.

"I think," she said, "that sometimes, when people first find faith, they're so excited and happy that they just want to share it--especially with the people they love most. But like Josh said, they sometimes end up trying to shove it down people's throats instead."

Max gave a humorless laugh. "Yes, he did that all right."

"I hope you won't hold it against him. He wanted a chance to make it right. To explain it better. No," she said. A faraway look came to her eyes. "He just wanted to let you see it...in the way he lived his life."

A lump rose in Max's throat and he bowed his head. When he finally had a rein on his emotions, he looked at her, "Are you a Christian?" Again, he somehow knew the answer before the question was even out.

"Yes. I am."

"So you understood him?"

She laughed softly. "As well as a man and a woman ever understand each other."

Max smiled. He liked this girl. He wondered if Joshua had had feelings for her, as she'd so obviously had for him.

"I understood his passion for the things of God," Samantha said. Then, eyes downcast, she told him, "After Josh died, I wrote down the things he wanted to tell you. I know it's not the same as having it in his very own words. I'm sorry. But I saved the paper for you. And...I'll answer any questions you have. It's the least I can do."

"Thank you," he said. "I'd like to have it. And I do have questions. I'm just not sure I'm ready to ask them yet."

"How long are you staying?"

"I don't know yet. I cleared my schedule until the end of the month." He shaded his eyes and gazed off toward the front gates. "To be honest, I'm not sure why I came. I guess I just needed to feel a connection to him. To see what was so all-fired special about this place that he gave up...everything for it."

She grinned. "I'd guess by your tone of voice you haven't quite figured that out yet."

"No. I haven't." He glanced at his watch. "What time were we supposed to go to the market?"

She gave a little gasp. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten."

She jumped up. "Oh! Madame Duval is going to kill me. We'd better run." She sounded like a ditzy teenager, and it jolted Max to remember how young she really was.

And yet she had wisdom beyond her years, and an obvious contentment and purpose in life that Max Jordan hadn't unearthed in forty-seven years of searching.

Max stepped down from the tap-tap and thrust two crisp five-gourde bills into the driver's hand, hoping it was enough. The driver seemed satisfied. One by one, he offered a hand down to Madame Duval, Samantha and two young Haitian women who cooked at the orphanage. The truck pulled away, leaving them on the outskirts of Port-au-Prince in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.

He looked to the west where a "housing development" sprawled across a slope of land. It looked like something a gang of ten-year-old boys might erect at the city dump on a Saturday afternoon, sheets of tin and cardboard jutting everywhere at odd angles.

In the market, vendors crowded the street, hawking their wares, and shoppers bargained in a hundred rich nuances of the Creole language.

Madame Duval distributed shopping lists along with plastic pails and sturdy shopping bags for their purchases. She instructed everyone to meet back here in an hour. "Enjoy yourselves, but be careful," the older woman warned.

Max had been able to log onto the Internet on his laptop computer for a few minutes each morning. The news sites carried accounts of sporadic uprisings in Port-au-Prince. The natives didn't seem overly concerned. But then, they'd lived with constant unrest for two hundred years.

"This way," Samantha yelled above the clamor of the streets. "Stay with me."

Swinging a large plastic bucket on her arm, she led the way to a crossroads where an elderly woman had laid out a variety of anemic fruits and vegetables on a tatty blanket.

Samantha and the merchant carried on a lively exchange in Creole, and before Max knew what hit him, she was piling his arms full of some sort of yams and huge bunches of overripe bananas. He stood there feeling like a beast of burden while she paid the woman. When she'd secured her fanny pack around her waist, she whipped a large plastic bag out of her market tote, held it open and motioned for him to empty the produce into it.

He did so, then brushed his hands off before taking the bag from her. What he wouldn't give for his corner sink and a strong dose of Betadine scrub about now. But he slung the heavy bag over his shoulder and took the bucket from Samantha. "Okay, what's next?"

Before she could reply, they both turned at the sound of loud voices across the street. Max watched as two young men, their arms and necks draped with strings of colorful beads, tried to persuade a blond woman to buy some of their wares. She was accompanied by a young native girl, who was tugging on her arm, obviously trying to get her away from the pushy salesmen.

The blonde spoke American English and Max thought something about her seemed familiar. "No," the woman insisted. "I'm not interested."

She turned in his direction and he saw genuine fear on her face. Recognition struck him. It was the woman who'd sat across the aisle from him on the flight from Miami. The one whose luggage had been lost at the airport.

An unfamiliar sensation washed over him. Guilt? He really should have stayed and made sure she was okay. Well, perhaps this was his chance to make amends for leaving her stranded that day.

He touched Samantha's arm. "I'll be right back." He took off at a jog across the street. He walked up behind the American and put what he hoped would appear to be a possessive hand on her shoulder. He glared at the aggressive salesmen. "The lady told you she's not interested in what you're selling. Now go on."

The two vendors looked at each other before they shrugged and wandered off in search of their next victim.

"Thank you." Her words poured out in a sigh of relief, then recognition lit her eyes. "Oh! It's you. Hi."

"Yes. Max Jordan." He stepped back and extended a hand.

"Dr. Max Jordan. We were on the same flight into Port-au-Prince last week."

"Yes, of course, I remember." Her grip was firm, her hand soft. "I'm Valerie Austin. Nice to meet you. Officially, that is."

"You, too."

The Haitian girl spotted Samantha and waved. They must know each other. The girl stood on tiptoe and whispered something in Valerie's ear.

She nodded. "Okay. Just be sure and wait for me. I'll be right there."

The girl agreed and darted across the street.

Max hoisted the bag of vegetables higher on his shoulder. "Did you ever get your luggage? At the airport?" He tried to look sheepish. Unfortunately, it wasn't an expression he'd had much practice at.

She rolled her eyes. "Actually, no."

"Really? It still hasn't shown up?" Now he truly felt like a heel.

She shook her head. "It's probably at the airport. We're hoping to go check on it later today."

"Oh. Well...I hope it's there. I'm sorry I didn't stick around and help you out that day."

She brushed off his apology with a wave of her hand. "Oh, my, no. I wouldn't have expected you to stay. There probably wasn't much you could have done anyway. Things don't seem to work quite the same here as we're used to." She gave him a crooked smile.

"You can say that again." His first impression of her had been miles off base. He'd guessed her to be rather dour and unfriendly. Now she seemed quite the opposite. She looked rested and tanned and, in spite of being a bit shaken after her encounter with the pushy vendors, she appeared quite at home here.

"So you're...just visiting?" he asked. Haiti wasn't exactly a vacation paradise.

"I'm here on a short-term mission trip. My church back home in Kansas sent me."

Her answer didn't surprise him. Was every American here a missionary of some kind? He felt a little disappointed at her response. As though she were the enemy. After all, Joshua had essentially been here as a missionary. "Kansas, huh? I'm from Chicago."

"Oh, really? My sister lives in Chicago."

"Is that right? How long will you be in the country?" He was merely being polite. He had no desire to exchange life stories with the woman, and yet, something about her drew him.

"Another ten days," she said. "How about you?"

"I'm not certain. I'm just here to help out as I can." He knew it came out sounding far more noble than the entire truth, but he didn't want to launch into the whole explanation about Joshua's death. That would just look like a bid for sympathy.

"Oh, that's wonderful. There's such a desperate need for doctors and nurses here. Are you with one of the hospitals here then?"

"No, I'm helping out at an orphanage. Up the road...at Brizjanti."

She brightened. "Really? I'm in Brizjanti, too! Also at an orphanage. Orphelinat d'Espoir. Hope House."

"Is that right? I'm still grappling with the fact that a country the size of Haiti would need so many orphanages."

"Yes. I know. Three in Brizjanti alone. It's sad."

He nodded agreement. "And I guess that's only the tip of the iceberg. It's kind of mind-boggling."

She nodded. "It's a shame."

A look of deep sadness hooded her eyes and he wondered what had prompted it. She shuddered almost imperceptibly, as if to shake off the mood.

Just then, the Haitian girl who'd been with her jogged back across the street. The American woman--Valerie--put her hand on the girl's arm. "Jaelle, this is Dr. Max--" She laughed nervously. "I'm sorry. I've forgotten your name already."

"Jordan," he supplied, nodding in the girl's direction.

"Good day," she said in English, flashing brilliant white teeth.

He cleared his throat and readjusted the bag on his shoulder. "Well, I should let you two go. It was nice to meet you...Valerie, and...Jaelle is it?"

The girl nodded vigorously, giggling.

"I hope your trip goes well," Valerie said.

At that moment, an explosion of gunfire rocked the pavement. He whirled back around.

The Haitian girl screamed and clung to Valerie, who stood with eyes wide and mouth agape.

Max stared down the street where the eruption had originated. Black smoke billowed up from the middle of the roadway. A small crowd ran toward them in a human stampede. Behind them the smoke grew thicker and flames shot into the air.

Max spun around, searching for Samantha and Madame Duval and the others. Not seeing any of them, he shifted the bag to his back and threw a protective arm around each of the frightened women beside him. "We'd better get out of here!" he shouted above the din. "Follow me...This way!"

Chapter Twelve

The blood pounded in Valerie's ears as she and Jaelle huddled in Dr. Jordan's shadow. A series of explosions blasted behind them, rattling the shop windows and making the pavement beneath them quake. Time stood still for a split second. And in an instant, a panicked river of bodies caught up the three of them and flowed down the dusty thoroughfare.

They were running, running, the doctor urging them on, almost shoving them, until they became part of the whirlpool of chaos.

"This way!" Dr. Jordan cut a corridor through the mass of bodies to the edge of the street, propelling Valerie and Jaelle away from the center of the crowd. To their right stood a row of dilapidated shops. He steered them into a narrow alley between two of the buildings.

He pushed them deeper into the shadows of the cinder block walls, then scrambled to the opening, and crouched there.

Beside her, Jaelle whimpered, and Valerie put an arm around her, trying not to let the girl see her own fear.

"It's okay. We're safe," Valerie whispered to the girl, her breath coming in short gasps. "What happened?" she asked Dr. Jordan.

He turned to glance at her. "I'm not sure." He, too, was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with each intake of air. Perspiration beaded his forehead. "It sounded like gunshots, but I didn't see who fired them. I...I think we'll be safe here."

"Where is Pastor Phil?" Jaelle cried.

"I don't know. I didn't see him," Valerie said. "But God will watch over him. It'll be okay." She wished she felt more confident of her words.

A young Haitian couple ran into the alley with a small boy.

"Do you know what happened?" Dr. Jordan asked the man.

It was obvious from his furrowed brow that he didn't understand the doctor's English.

"Jaelle." Valerie urged the girl forward. "Ask him if he knows what happened."

The girl spoke to the couple and they both started talking at once, motioning wildly with their hands. Finally Jaelle turned to Valerie. "He says that some men set up a--" she struggled to find the right English word "--a barrier...a block in the road--"

"A barricade?"

"Yes. That is it. When the police came, the men shooted at them."

Max and the young father motioned for the women to stay back while they went together to the end of the alley. They stared into the street, side by side, neither speaking. After a minute they walked back toward the waiting women.

The young man comforted his wife and little boy, while Max told Valerie and Jaelle, "The shooting seems to have stopped, but I don't know whether it's safe to be on the streets yet. I think we should wait here until we're sure things are under control."

They followed him back to the alley's entrance and stood in the shadows watching the commotion on the streets. Police vehicles rolled through the potholed road honking at the people who milled there now.

The pandemonium had changed to an aura of excitement. The air was punctuated with shouts. Valerie could only make out a few words, but Jaelle translated.

"People are saying the university students started fires in the street." She pointed to the west. "See? They are burning tires to create a barricade."

It wasn't clear whether the shots had been fired by the students or the Port-au-Prince police. Just before Christmas, Valerie had read in the Kansas City Star about several people being killed while protesting in opposition marches. This sounded like more of the same. She'd never dreamed, reading those dispassionate news accounts in the comfort of her apartment, how soon the violence would affect her personally. Pastor Phil had said that Americans or regular citizens were rarely targeted in the protests, but too many innocent shop owners and bystanders had been killed or seriously wounded. No one was safe when clashes like this broke out.

Suddenly, Jaelle jumped up and waved her arms wildly, shouting. "Pastor Phil!" She darted from the alley like a cat in pursuit of a mouse. Without a word, Dr. Jordan ran after her. He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her back into the safety of the alley.

"It's too dangerous!" He turned to Valerie. "Did she understand?"

Jaelle nodded solemnly. "I understand. But look--" She pointed across the street.

Pastor Phil was walking slowly up the street, his eyes shaded with one hand, his gaze roving every direction, obviously searching for them.

"It's Phil Greene, the man who runs Hope House. He and his wife came with us to the market."

"You stay here. I'll let him know you're safe."

She nodded, and Jaelle followed suit.

"Watch for my signal. If it appears to be safe, I'll wave you out."

He stepped from between the buildings, looking cautiously both ways, before he went into the street. "Pastor Phil! Phil Greene!" he shouted.

Valerie and Jaelle watched from the side of the shop as Pastor Phil glared at this stranger shouting at him.

"They are safe," Dr. Jordan called across the street. "Valerie and Jaelle are here. Look!" Again, he checked both ways down the street before jogging to meet Pastor Phil.

Valerie listened to the men's muffled voices and tried to make sense of their exaggerated hand motions as they spoke. Dr. Jordan pointed back toward the alley.

"Wave, Jaelle, so they know we're okay." They both waved and Valerie gave a strained smile.

But Dr. Jordan didn't beckon them. Instead, he and Pastor Phil crossed the street together. As they approached, Valerie could see deep lines of worry etched on the pastor's face.

"I can't find Betty and the girls," he told Valerie.

"We'll help you look," Dr. Jordan said. "I'm looking for someone, too. Samantha Courtney. We came with Marie Duval and two girls from Madame Duval's home."

"I know Samantha and Marie," Pastor Phil said. "We'll find them. Valerie, you go with Dr. Jordan. He won't recognize Betty or the girls. We'll cover more ground this way. Do you speak Creole, Dr. Jordan?"

"No. None at all," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Then Jaelle should go with you."

"Okay. We'll meet you right back here in thirty minutes."

"Good. Be careful," Pastor Phil said. "If things heat up again, don't try to find me. Just get the girls back to Brizjanti."

"Right." Dr. Jordan gave a half salute. "Good luck."

Pastor Phil returned the gesture. "I'll be praying for you."

Dr. Jordan gave a brief nod. "Yes...um...thank you."

Valerie took in his pained expression and wondered why the doctor seemed so unnerved at the idea of prayers being offered on his behalf.

Max watched Pastor Phil head down the street. "What does the reverend's wife look like?"

"Madame Phil? She's petite, gray hair...She's probably in her late fifties, maybe early sixties..." Valerie shrugged and turned to Jaelle. "Do you remember what she was wearing today, Jaelle?"

The girl closed her eyes and thought for a moment. "A red blouse, I think. Yes. And her skirt. What do you call it? The one she wears often. Blue. Like that." She pointed to Max's blue jeans.

"Oh, yes." Valerie turned to him. "Denim. She had on a long denim skirt."

"Okay. And there are two girls with her?"

"Yes. Mary and Yvette. They're probably twelve or fourteen. Mary had a faded blue bandanna on her head."

The image brought Max up short. The last pictures he had of Joshua showed him sitting in the Haitian sun with a faded blue bandanna tied like a sweatband around his forehead. He'd worn a smile a mile wide in those photographs. It had bothered Max, seeing him so happy. And bothered him even more that it bothered him so. What father didn't want to see his son happy?

"Dr. Jordan?"

Valerie's voice startled him. He shook his head to clear it.

"I'm sorry. Yes?"

"What does Samantha look like? That was her name, wasn't it?"

"Yes. She's American, about your height and weight. Light hair. She's very young. She must be in her early twenties, but she could pass for a teenager. And Marie Duval is a large Haitian woman, tall, very dark-skinned. She has two girls from the orphanage with her. Here...Let's go this way." He started down the street in the opposite direction Pastor Phil had gone.

"Stay close, Jaelle," Valerie said, pulling the girl to her and following behind. "We don't want to lose you, too."

The girl nodded soberly and moved closer to Valerie.

As they walked, they watched store owners hurriedly close and lock their doors, sliding the security gates across the entrances. The street vendors frantically packed their wares and folded up their kiosks. Smoke from the barricade continued to billow into the sky and the streets remained in turmoil as people called out for those they'd been separated from. Police vehicles cruised back and forth, trying to maintain order.

Max followed the women and the three of them walked for several minutes, craning their necks to look down each alley and through the steel gates into the shop doors.

Jaelle coughed as the wind changed directions and blew a gust of acrid smoke in their faces.

Max pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his back pocket. He unfolded it, shook it out and handed it to her. "Here, put this over your mouth. It'll make it easier to breathe." He turned to Valerie. "I'm sorry I don't have another one."

Her eyes were watering from the smoke, but she shook her head. "It's okay. I'll be fine." She pulled up the collar of her blouse and buried her face in it.

He followed suit, pulling his shirttail up and breathing through it.

They hurried along the street, none of them speaking, lugging the market bags they'd escaped with.

As they got farther from the marketplace, things quieted down. Here and there people stood in front of the buildings, shading their eyes and watching the smoke rise over the city. But the sense of urgency had gone.

"Maybe we should turn back. They surely wouldn't have gone this far, would they?"

Valerie's brow creased. "I don't think so. Oh, I hope they're all right. I know Madame Phil will be worried sick."

"I'm sure they're fine." It sounded like an idle platitude even to him, but he didn't know what else to say.

They kept walking, but when they came to the alley where they'd taken shelter, the street was empty.

He adjusted the bag of vegetables on his shoulder and rested his hands on his hips, out of breath.

Valerie shaded her eyes and turned on her heel, scanning the streets in all directions. "Oh, dear...Now what?"

"I'm not sure." He looked at his watch. "It hasn't been quite thirty minutes yet."

People were still milling in the street, but things had quieted down a bit. "Let's wait here. If they don't show up in a few minutes, we'll--"

"There they are!" Jaelle shouted. She took off down the street, her slender black legs kicking up the hem of her skirt as she ran.

Chapter Thirteen

Valerie's worried expression turned to joy, and Max turned to see a gray-haired woman and two adolescent Haitian girls hurry toward them.

"It's Madame Phil!" Valerie called over her shoulder as she ran after Jaelle.

Max sprinted to catch up.

"Oh, thank the Lord!" The elderly woman threw her arms around Valerie and Jaelle. "Have you seen Phil?" The pastor's wife looked distraught.

Max stepped in. "We saw your husband a few minutes after we heard the gunshots. He was fine."

The older woman put a hand to her throat, closed her eyes and whispered, "Thank you, Father."

"Pastor Phil was looking for you and the girls," Valerie told her. "We split up to help him search. We were supposed to meet him back here a few minutes ago. I'm sure he's fine. Oh, Madame Phil--" she turned to Max "--this is Dr. Max Jordan. We were on the same flight from Miami. We just happened to run into each other at the market today. Dr. Jordan is from Chicago."

The pastor's wife put down the large plastic bucket she carried and extended a strong hand. "Betty Greene. Very nice to meet you, Doctor. Thanks for looking out for my girls." She let go of Max's hand and gripped Jaelle's shoulder. "Are you okay, sweetie? Valerie, what about you? No one was hurt?"

"We're fine," Valerie said. "Dr. Jordan is trying to find Madame Duval and a nurse from the home."

"Yes, Samantha Courtney," Max filled in.

"Oh, dear...Samantha? Marie and Samantha are both missing?"

Max nodded. "We all came to the market together. I recognized Valerie across the street and went to talk to her. That's when we heard the explosions. I haven't seen them since."

Madame Phil's brow crinkled. "Did they have any of the children with them?"

"No. It was just the three of us," he said.

"Well, knowing Marie, they probably ran all the way back to the orphanage."

Max thought surely she was kidding. It had taken them almost fifteen minutes to get here by tap-tap. Of course the way the gaudily painted "taxi" trucks snaked through Haitian traffic, one could probably get somewhere on foot almost as quickly. He didn't think Samantha would have left without finding him, but he kept his thoughts to himself. The pastor's wife looked upset enough as it was. "Do you have a way back to Brizjanti?" he asked her.

"We came by tap-tap. But with all this--" she spread her arms to encompass the city "--I doubt there's any transportation to be had. We can walk if we have to. We lost some of our things in all the commotion, so we've not much to carry. I did see a truck headed east a few minutes ago." She looked around her. "Things seem to have calmed down a bit now. Perhaps we can get a ride. But I won't leave Phil. This can't be doing his heart any good."

"Does he have a heart condition?" Max asked.

"Not that he'll admit to." She lowered her voice. "A doctor in Port-au-Prince diagnosed him with congestive heart failure several years ago. Phil pooh-poohed it. But even if that diagnosis is wrong, the man is almost eighty years old. He doesn't realize he simply can't handle things the way he used to."

Max wondered how one could possibly ever grow accustomed to turmoil such as they'd experienced today. Was this something the elderly couple had actually come to take for granted? He was surprised to hear that Pastor Phil was nearing eighty. He would have guessed the man to be in his late sixties. Ah, if he could be half that fit thirty years from now.

He watched Madame Phil. If anyone was a good judge of a woman's age, he was. Max seriously doubted Betty Greene had undergone any cosmetic surgery, and, her white hair notwithstanding, he wouldn't guess her to be much over sixty herself. Maybe dodging flying bullets and fleeing smoke-choked streets served as a sort of fountain of youth.

"Would you feel safe taking the girls and going on back to Brizjanti?" Max felt awkward giving orders. He hadn't been here a week. He didn't know the first thing about navigating this crazy culture, let alone the streets of this city. But someone had to take charge. "If you'll let Jaelle come with us to help translate, Valerie and I can stay and find your husband and the others. We'll get everyone back where they belong."

But Madame Phil put her hands on her hips and studied him. "You know the area well?"

"Not exactly. I--I'm assuming I'll have your husband and the others to navigate for me when we start back."

"I wouldn't make that assumption, Dr. Jordan."

He looked to Valerie for explanation, but she gave a barely perceptible shrug that said she was as clueless as he. "What do you suggest, Madame Phil?"

A new air of confidence lit Betty Greene's eyes. "I suggest we speak to our Father about it."

Did she mean her husband? Good grief, had the man had a cell phone on him the entire time?

Pastor Phil's wife reached for Valerie's hand, and they both bowed their heads.

Oh, that Father. Before he could form another thought, he found himself in a circle of praying women, a little Haitian child tightly clasping each of his hands.

"Father God." Betty Greene's voice was unwavering.

"Now, as always, we need your help. Please, Lord, help us find Phil and the girls. Keep Marie and Samantha safe and lead us all safely home before dark."

Max had bowed his head out of respect, but now he lifted his chin and peered through hooded eyes. In the middle of the street--in the middle of the search--they were going to stop and pray?

Madame Phil went on. "Be with all those who are separated from loved ones today. May they know that you are watching out for them, and that you love them with an everlasting love. Our only desire is to glorify you, dear Father, and we give--"

"Betty! Valerie!"

Max turned to see the entire missing contingent walking toward them! Pastor Phil, Madame Duval, Samantha and the girls from the orphanage ran toward them. Max almost laughed. Their thirty-second prayer had worked like some sort of magic voodoo incantation.

Betty Greene rushed to embrace her husband. The pastor looked weary, but unharmed. Samantha and the girls wore broad smiles.

They all converged in a tight knot at the side of the street and exchanged introductions.

"Let's get out of here," Pastor Phil said. "Is there anything you must have before we go, Betty?"

"Well, we're terribly low on sugar, and we may have to make do without toilet paper for a few days, but nothing is going to be open anyway. Let's just go home."

Pastor Phil looked at his watch, then up the street. Max followed his line of sight. The traffic had thinned and there were no tap-taps in sight.

"Are you up for a walk, Betty?" The pastor put a protective arm around his wife.

"I'm fine. But what about you? You look exhausted."

He let out a deep sigh, but shook his head. "I'm okay. I can make it a ways. Let's start walking and maybe we can catch a ride farther down the road."

They redistributed the few bags and buckets they'd managed to hang on to in the uproar and started down the road, walking two by two. The Haitian girls led the way, chattering to Samantha in high-pitched Creole. Behind them, Pastor and Madame Phil talked quietly with Madame Duval.

The sun was high in the sky and hot on their backs. Max fell in step beside Valerie Austin. "What a day," he said, wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt.

"You can say that again." She squinted against the sun's glare and grinned at him. "It kind of puts the question of the toilet paper supply in a whole new perspective, doesn't it?"

He laughed. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

She shifted the plastic pail she was carrying to her other hand.

"Here," Max said, sliding the sack of yams he carried off his shoulder. "Let me trade you. That looks heavy."

"Oh, thank you, but it's really not that bad. Maybe I should learn to carry it on my head the way the Haitian women do."

She lifted the bucket with both hands and set it atop her head. She walked a short distance holding the bucket in place, then moved her hands ever so slowly away from the bucket, dipping her knees and sidestepping in an effort to keep it balanced. She hadn't gone three steps when the bucket took a dive. Squealing, she reached out and caught it before it hit the ground, but a small netting bag fell out and split open, sending onions rolling into the street.

Max laughed as Valerie zigzagged back and forth chasing down errant onions. He bent to gather up several of the paper-skinned bulbs and returned them to Valerie's bucket.

"Oh dear," she moaned when they'd finally corralled all the produce. "The cooks aren't going to be very happy with me when they see what I did to their onions."

He studied her, wondering if she was serious. Surely a few gourdes worth of wasted groceries wasn't worth getting all bent out of shape over.

"Hey, you two!" Madame Phil shouted. "Better catch up!"

Max looked up to see the rest of their little party several hundred feet ahead. He turned to Valerie. "Do you know how to get back to the orphanage?"

She gave him a sidewise glance and shook her head. "I couldn't find the way if my life depended on it."

"Then we'd better not get lost." Laughing, he took off at a jog. Valerie ran to catch up.

In spite of the rather sober turn the day had taken, Max felt strangely carefree and lighthearted. It was odd living at such a lackadaisical pace. Odd, but rather nice.

"So how did you happen to come to Haiti, Valerie?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's kind of a long, boring story."

"Oh? Somehow that makes me think it's anything but."

"Trust me," she said, holding up a hand in protest.

"Now I'm really curious."

"Let's just say Haiti was...an unexpected detour." She dipped her head and bit her bottom lip. "I was supposed to be on my honeymoon this week."

He recoiled. That was the last thing he expected her to say. He wasn't sure how to respond. But a memory of his first glimpse of Valerie flashed through his mind--the sad woman in the seat across the aisle from him. It made sense now. "I...I'm sorry," he said finally.

"Oh, no. Please don't be. It wasn't exactly a joy going through it--the breakup, I mean--but I'm glad I'm here. It's definitely for the best." She shook her head, as though just realizing the truth of that statement herself. She cleared her throat.

"And what about you, Dr. Jordan? What brought you here?"

He hesitated. To his surprise, he realized that he wanted to tell her about Josh, to tell her things he'd never shared with anyone. He checked himself. He'd only known this woman for a few hours, and not exactly under circumstances that engendered intimate conversation. But there was something about this place that knocked life as he'd ever known it on its heels.

He was discovering so many things about himself--good things he'd never acknowledged, and unpleasant things he'd never faced. He had a disconcerting sense that something in his life was about to change drastically. It frightened him to his core. And yet somehow, at the same time it filled him with excitement.

Chapter Fourteen

Valerie felt the heat rise to her face. She couldn't believe she'd come so close to pouring out her whole pathetic story to Dr. Jordan. The man was practically a stranger. Still, he'd asked and she wanted to be honest.

Fortunately, she'd managed to deflect the question to him. Watching him now while their little procession walked along the side of the road toward Brizjanti, she thought he seemed as conflicted as she.

"What brought me here? Hmm..." Max raked a hand through his thick hair, an expression on his face that almost looked like distress.

"I...I didn't mean to pry, Dr. Jordan."

"Please, call me Max. And you're not prying. I'm just trying to decide...where to begin. Or maybe whether to begin."

She laughed softly. "And you think my story made you curious? Please, I'd like to know."

"What brought me here?" he said again. "To be honest, I'm not sure I know the answer to that question."

"Oh?"

He sighed and turned to her, as though he'd just made some historic decision. "My son was a doctor. He worked at Madame Duval's. Joshua died--" he seemed to choke on the word "--a year ago. He was a very happy young man. I guess...I wanted to know why."

Pastor Phil and Betty had mentioned the death of a young missionary doctor who'd been at Madame Duval's home. They'd lamented his loss, especially since the orphanages often shared missionary medical personnel and he had also treated the girls at Hope House. So Max Jordan was that doctor's father. Amazing.

She studied him. The few strands of gray peppering his temples were the only thing that convinced her Max could be old enough to have a son who was a doctor.

"Frankly..." He stopped, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow before looking up at her again. "I'm struggling with the fairness of someone as good as Joshua dying, while his old man is left to figure things out."

She was taken aback by the cynicism that chilled his voice. "I...I've heard it's especially hard to accept when a child dies before his parents." It felt like such a trite thing to say. "And have you discovered why your son was so happy?"

He grimaced and stared off into the distance. "I'm still working on that one. Actually, I suppose I'm still trying to figure out the purpose in his death."

"Oh, my. I can't imagine how hard that must be. Do you...have other children?"

"No. Joshua was my only son, my only child."

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I'm so sorry."

"It's funny...His mother seems to have dealt with it far better than I did. Strange, when for half of his life I only saw him for two weeks in the summer. His mother and I divorced when Josh was fourteen," he explained. "Janie has two young sons from her current marriage so I suppose that made it a bit easier for her to bear."

He apparently read the distress in her face because he shook his head and apologized. "I shouldn't have dumped all that on you."

Valerie didn't know what to say. Her heart went out to him, but she felt awkward and completely inadequate to know what to say to comfort him.

As if he'd read her mind, he said, "I'm not looking for words of consolation. Things are just the way they are. I'm only trying to answer your question." He gave her a lopsided, boyish grin. "Bet you're sorry you asked now, huh?"

With that grin, she felt a layer of the invisible wall between them crumble. "No, I'm not sorry," she said. "I'm glad you told me. What happened to me wasn't anything nearly as tragic as your loss--your losses," she amended, thinking of his failed marriage. "But I am finding healing here." Her gaze panned the dilapidated buildings and the evidence of poverty all around them. "It's amazing how my perspective has changed already...just seeing the struggles these people face every day of their lives."

They walked on for another mile or so comparing their impressions of Haitian culture, sharing their experiences at the orphanages during their first week in the country, and then reliving the close call they'd had at the market earlier.

Valerie looked at her watch. "I wonder how much farther it is."

"I think we're getting close," Max said, pointing to a low, flat-roofed structure in the distance. "I remember that building with the fancy cutwork in the cinder block."

"Oh, good. My feet are killing me."

"Mine, too." He was quiet for a few minutes, then spoke abruptly. "I know you're right--what you said earlier about your perspective being different here. But...I guess that still doesn't answer my question of why Josh found such happiness here. He was raised with every material thing he could possibly desire. Every opportunity was his for the asking. And yet it was here, surrounded by poverty that he seemed finally to find what he was looking for. I don't get it."

An edge of bitterness remained in his voice and Valerie suddenly realized its origin: Max Jordan didn't believe in God. What in the world could she say to this highly educated man--a man probably fifteen years her senior--that would have any meaning at all? How odd that she'd come to Haiti on a mission trip, and the first person she had an opportunity to share the Lord with happened to be an American. God surely had a sense of humor.

"What's so funny?"

She winced, realizing that a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. She leveled her gaze at him and sighed. What did she have to lose? "Can I ask you something?"

He looked leery, but he nodded.

"Do you believe in God?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Sure. I mean, I guess the term God is relative, but I definitely think a power higher than you or I exists."

"But your son was here as a medical missionary, right?"

"Yes. He..." Max cleared his throat. "Joshua had some sort of...religious experience. Frankly, he kind of went off the deep end. He made some irrational decisions in the process. He gave up a very promising residency to come here. After spending thousands of dollars to get through medical school, he wasn't making one dime here! In fact, he was hitting up people for funds to support him while he was--" He stopped abruptly and looked at her, then dropped his head. "Don't tell me...You paid your way here the same way?"

She grinned. "No, I already had the airline ticket--to the Bahamas actually, but it wasn't much to transfer it. And I used the money we'd saved for our honeymoon to cover the rest of my expenses. But you're right. Most mission work is accomplished through donations. So many times the people who have the desire and the calling to go can't afford it, but there are many others who can't go themselves, but they do have the money to send someone else. I think it's a pretty good system, actually."

Max shook his head, mouth drawn into a thin line. "I guess I just don't understand the mentality. I was taught that you don't accept charity unless there is absolutely no other choice."

"But I don't see it as charity--at least not toward the missionary. It only makes sense that--"

"I'm sorry." He waved her words away. "I didn't mean to open a big can of worms. And I shouldn't criticize the choice of people who come here on donated funds. There's certainly plenty of work to do here." He shrugged. "I don't know...Why don't we talk about something else?" He looked up at the sun, squinting against its intensity. "Lovely weather we're having, don't you think?"

She laughed at his lighthearted tone and wiped a film of perspiration off her forehead with the back of her hand. "If you want to know the truth, it's a tad warm for my taste."

"Can we not even agree on the weather?" He heaved a sigh of frustration, but his smile told her he was joking.

"Seriously, though," Valerie said, not wanting to slough off the subject. "I hope you understand what a gift your son was giving by coming to Haiti to work. It's terrible that he died. I admit I don't understand why God lets things like that happen, but your son's life was not wasted."

He stopped in his tracks and glared at her, every trace of his teasing manner instantly gone. "How can you possibly say that?"

She cringed inwardly. When would she ever learn? She seemed to have an absurd talent for saying exactly the wrong thing when it came to trying to offer comfort and sympathy. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it came out."

"I don't see how you can argue the point. When a man's life is cut short before he even turns thirty--especially someone like Josh who had such skills, such a gift to offer--it's a tragedy."

Another wave of heat laved her. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to imply that your son's death wasn't a tragedy. Of course it was! A terrible tragedy. All I meant was that, even as short as his life was, it wasn't wasted. I didn't know Joshua, but from what I've heard about him, I believe the good he did--even in the short time he was on this earth--will continue to have repercussions for a long time to come. Surely for eternity."

For a long minute he didn't respond. He walked on with his head down, jaw rigid. Finally he turned to her. "Well, pardon me if I would happily trade whatever those repercussions might be for another chance to make things right with my son."

Valerie wished the gigantic hole she'd just dug for herself would swallow her up and close behind her. Why hadn't she just kept her big mouth shut? Regret twisted her stomach. She swallowed down the urge to explain herself, the irrational desire to make amends with this man who'd been a stranger only a few hours ago.

They walked along in silence, the noon sun scorching their heads.

Eyes stinging, she finally turned to him. "Dr. Jordan...Max...I am so sorry. The things I said were completely insensitive. I've never lost a child. I have no idea what that must feel like. Can you forgive me?"

He gave a tight-lipped smile, but the sternness in his eyes diminished. "It's no big deal. You were only trying to help."

"Thank you. That's true, but it's no excuse. And it is a big deal, to me." She swallowed hard, fighting back tears. It would only make things worse if she started crying and made him feel that he had to comfort her. "What I said was out of line. I was very thoughtless."

"Okay. I'll give you that. Now, let's try this one more time." The grin he gave her appeared genuine. "Lovely weather we're having, don't you think?"

She could have hugged him. She looked at the fireball of a sun in the sky, ignored the bead of perspiration trickling down her temple and matched his smile. "Yes, it is lovely."

Chapter Fifteen

Marie Duval unlocked the gate to the children's home and turned to the cluster of weary travelers. "Why don't you all stay for a bit?" she crooned in her honeyed Creole accent. "We'll have the girls fix us a bite to eat and you can rest your feet before you go home." She untied the wide ribbon from beneath her chin and stripped the huge straw hat from her head.

Valerie marveled at the way the woman's close-cropped ebony curls sprang to attention, as if they'd just been released from prison. Valerie put a hand to her own tangled mop of hair and tried to smooth the flyaway strands back into her ponytail. She must look awful after their long trek from the market in the heat and dust.

She checked her watch. Almost one o'clock. It had taken them two hours to walk back from the market. They were all hot and exhausted. And hungry, her stomach reminded with a low rumble.

Betty Greene put a hand on her husband's arm. "What do you think, Phil? Could we stay?"

He shrugged. "If you can get hold of Henri so they won't worry about us, I'm all for it." He winked and affected a stage whisper. "I overheard Marie and Samantha talking...something about baking coconut pies this morning."

"Phil! Mind your manners!" Betty punched her husband playfully.

A deep, melodious chuckle rolled from Madame Duval's throat. "Then you must stay or I'll never hear the end of it. Betty warned me about your sweet tooth."

Pastor Phil laughed along with her, but turned serious when he caught Valerie's eye. "Are you all right? This morning was more than you bargained for, I'm sure. Would you rather get back to Hope House?"

"No. No, I'm fine. I'd like to stay." But she gave an inward sigh when Madame Duval closed the gate behind them and Valerie heard the lock click in place. She wondered if the others felt as relieved as she did to be safely ensconced behind the fortress of concrete and jagged glass.

Pastor and Madame Phil followed Madame Duval to the main dwelling to call Hope House and let them know the plans.

Max Jordan started toward a water pump at the side of the largest building. "I'll man the pump if anyone wants to wash up."

Valerie and Samantha exchanged glances, then smiled and took off running. By the time they reached the pump, they were squealing like little girls. Max barely had the pump primed before they were vying for space beneath the spigot. But even the thin stream of lukewarm water felt delicious as it trickled over Valerie's dusty feet and hands.

Max worked the squeaky pump handle up and down and finally cool water sluiced over them. Valerie and Samantha lifted their skirts to their knees and held their legs under the stream. A galvanized washtub underneath the spigot caught the overflow so it could be used later to water the plants or mop the kitchen floor.

The young women filled their cupped hands with the clear water and splashed it over their faces and necks.

"Be careful not to drink any," Dr. Jordan warned.

"Oh, but it's so tempting," Valerie moaned. The canteens of water they'd carried with them to the market had been drained long before they arrived back in Brizjanti. Her mouth was parched.

"Don't worry," Samantha told her, "we have plenty of bottled water. I'll get you drinks as soon as we're finished here."

Dr. Jordan cleared his throat loudly. "Um, excuse me, ladies. I don't suppose there's a chance I could have a turn at that water anytime today?"

Before she had time to think about her actions, Valerie did what she would have done had it been Will Concannon on the other side of the pump. She filled her cupped hands from the washtub and slung the cold water at the doctor.

Samantha yelped with glee and followed suit, soaking the front of Max Jordan's denim shirt. Valerie reloaded the bowl of her hands and fired again.

A look of shock came over the doctor's face, and for a minute Valerie was afraid they'd made him angry. But he quickly recovered and got into the spirit of the game. He pumped the handle furiously, then reached around to clap a hand over the spigot. Water sprayed in all directions.

Valerie and Samantha backpedaled away from the pump, sputtering and spitting and screaming. Samantha shot Valerie a conspiratorial grin and she felt an instant kinship with the girl.

Max finally let go of the pump and put his hands on his knees, laughing and out of breath. It was the first time Valerie had heard him laugh. It was a contagious, tuneful sound, and she and Samantha laughed along with him.

Finally he straightened, arms akimbo. "Okay, are you two ready to call a truce?"

Valerie tipped her head and looked to Samantha. "What do you think?"

"I think we'll be very sorry if we don't." Samantha grimaced comically.

"Okay then. I'll take the pump. You cover me," she told the young woman, "just in case he's not a man of his word."

"Hey! I resent that," Max said, but his voice was teasing. He rolled his short shirtsleeves as high as they'd go and put his hands under the spigot.

Valerie worked the squeaky pump while he washed up.

Now the burning sun felt good as it dried out her damp clothes. She heard laughter and looked up to see Pastor and Madame Phil coming toward them across the yard with half a dozen children trailing after them. "Looks like word got out there was a water fight," she said.

Max grinned impishly. "Well, then we don't want to disappoint them, do we?"

Seeing the boyish look on his face, Valerie had a hard time believing this man had had a son old enough to be a doctor.

Samantha ran over to the concrete slab near the clothesline and brought back two small laundry buckets. She dipped them into the steel tub under the faucet. "Here, quick! Fill these up."

While Valerie plunged them into the tub, she shouted a warning to Pastor Phil and Betty. "You two might want to stand back."

They heard Pastor Phil chuckle.

His wife called back in a prideful singsong voice, "You don't know who you're dealing with here. Phil Greene is known in Brizjanti as the undisputed king of water fights."

"Uh-oh..." Samantha gave Valerie a sidewise glance.

"What have we gotten ourselves into?"

"Yeah, and I was almost dry, too."

Pastor Phil whispered behind his hand to his wife. She handed him something and he took off at a jog toward them. He ran like a man half his age. As he got closer, Valerie realized he carried a large drinking cup in each hand.

Samantha saw it, too. "Uh-oh," she said again.

Before they knew what hit them, the pastor had breached the fortress they'd formed around the water pump. He dipped both cups into the washtub at once and fired twin streams of water at them like six-shooters. The cold water caught them full in the face. Valerie and Samantha gasped in unison. Behind them, Max Jordan burst into laughter.

They both turned to glare at him only to have Pastor Phil's "six-guns" hit them again from behind.

Max gave an exaggerated shrug. Pastor Phil laughed with him. The children caught up with them and pranced around the pump shouting "Dlo! Dlo! Mouye!"

Pastor Phil nodded toward the children. "They want you to splash them." As if to demonstrate, he flung the last drips of water from the drinking cups at them.

Samantha giggled. "No problemo!" She scooped handfuls of water from the laundry buckets they'd filled again and flung them at the children. Happy pandemonium broke out as the kids ducked to get at the water.

One ornery little boy got braver and braver and finally got close enough to pick up the half-filled washtub. He launched its contents, soaking Max's shirt anew.

Max spat and turned to Valerie. "Man the pump! I can't let that little guy get away with this."

Laughing, she took his place at the helm. He filled the other small bucket and growling playfully, chased the boy across the grass. When he finally caught him, he ceremoniously dumped the whole thing over his head. Then in one smooth motion, he picked the boy up and flung him over his shoulder as if he were one of the sacks of onions they'd brought back from the market.

Max carried him to the pump and held him, squealing with glee, while Samantha splashed him for good measure.

Betty Greene had stood watching and laughing, out of range of their arsenal. Now she called out, her tone scolding. "Phil, you're wasting Marie's water!"

Valerie realized Betty's scolding was meant more for the Americans than for her husband. Water was precious in Haiti.

"We'd better dry off." Valerie was still breathing hard.

"Lunch is probably waiting for us by now," Betty said. "We should get inside."

Suddenly Valerie was famished. Apparently they all were, for Betty's words set off a mad race for the dining room.

Their silly antics took the edge off a day that had been filled with tension and fear, but later, as they sat around the table nursing huge forkfuls of fluffy coconut pie, their conversation turned to the close call they'd had at the market.

"Is this something you deal with on a regular basis, Pastor Greene?" Max asked.

Pastor Phil put a hand on the doctor's arm. "Please, Dr. Jordan...Call me Phil."

"I'll call you Phil if you'll call me Max. I'm still having trouble figuring out the system here." He turned to Betty Greene. "You're Madame Phil, right?"

She laughed. "Well, Betty to you, please. But, yes. Here the women go by their husband's first name."

Max turned to Marie Duval. "So Madame Duval, your husband's first name must have been Duval, is that right?"

The woman laughed her rich, deep laugh. "Ah, I'm sorry to confuse you, but my husband's name was Stephen Duval. I suppose because the children's home bore his surname, people began to call me after the home. So, I should be Madame Stephen, but somehow I became Madame Duval. It is confusing, I know. Of course you could make it simple and just call me Marie."

Max shook his head. "I may have to do that, just to keep it all straight in my mind."

Pastor Phil cleared his throat. "To answer your question, Max, what happened today was a closer call than we've ever had, but it wasn't unusual. We always know that at any time violence could break out. It has been the way of Haiti for as long as anyone can remember. The slaves who led this country's rebellion literally sold its soul to the devil almost two hundred years ago."

"I don't understand," Max said, his brows knit.

"I don't know how much you know about the country's voodoo religion, but it is a very real religion. Those rebels sacrificed a pig--drank its blood in a voodoo ceremony."

Max winced and all the women made little sounds of disgust.

"By doing so," Pastor Phil continued, "they pledged that Haiti would serve the devil for two hundred years in exchange for their independence from France. It took more than a decade, but they finally overthrew the colony and gained their independence."

Valerie felt she was listening to a chilling fairy tale, but she heard the voodoo drums in the distance all too clearly each night as she lay in her bed in the dormitory.

"I don't know where you stand on the supernatural, Dr. Jordan," Pastor Phil said, "but I truly believe that all the woes this country has suffered are a direct result of that pact with the devil. We are the undisputed poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, we are continually torn by violence, the land itself has been raped and eroded, the AIDS epidemic is rampant here. You've seen it for yourself. It's the devil's work."

Max worried his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head. Valerie couldn't tell if it was his way of politely disagreeing with the pastor, or if he was simply dismayed by this history lesson.

Pastor Phil sighed. "It's not a pleasant subject. I apologize if I've soured the enjoyment of Marie's delicious pie. And Betty and I are hopeful for the future of these people we hold so dear."

Marie Duval shook her head emphatically and murmured her agreement.

"Do you realize," Pastor Phil said, "that the year 2004 marked the end of that bargain with Satan? Of course that contract with the devil has never for a moment kept Christ from offering any individual complete and total freedom. But corporately, it has certainly had a vicious hold on us."

They all listened, intrigued as Phil Greene shared the history he had witnessed firsthand for many of his seventy-eight years, and the hope he and Betty held out for the tiny nation they had adopted as their own.

The sun was well into its afternoon descent when Pastor Phil finally rose from his chair. He patted his wife's shoulders. "We'd best get back to the kids," he told her. "Marie, we thank you for your kindness. I don't believe I've ever had a slice of pie quite so good."

Madame Duval accepted the compliment with a smile and a prim dip of her head.

Valerie pushed back her chair and stretched.

Max Jordan did likewise. "I'll walk back with you."

It was less than five minutes to Hope House. When they arrived at the gate Pastor Phil started through the entrance, but faltered, reaching out to hang on to the crossbars.

"Phil?" His wife linked her arm through his, planted her feet wide and waited for him to steady himself. "Are you all right?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm fine...just tired. It's been a long day."

"Yes, and you've been acting like a child! Off to bed with you then. Goodnight you two."

Max and Valerie bade the couple goodnight and Valerie turned to thank Max for walking them home. She started through the gate, too, but Max touched her arm and motioned for her to stay behind.

He watched the elderly couple walk up the lane, obviously waiting for them to get out of earshot. Valerie's curiosity soared.

Finally, he met her gaze and gave her a smile that was almost shy. "I just wanted to tell you...I'm sorry if I was rude to you today. I--"

"Oh, no. Please. I'm the one who should be apologizing."

"I also wanted to tell you that...Well, I think maybe...today at the pump, playing with the kids, I got a glimpse of what my son saw in the life he had here."

She was touched almost to tears. "Oh, Max. I'm so glad."

"Yeah. Me, too." He scuffed a toe in the dirt where the gate scraped the ground. "Well, I'd better get back. I'll see you Tuesday though."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I talked to Pastor Phil and I'm going to spend the day here. Do some checkups for some of the children they're particularly concerned about, some immunizations, help out however I can."

"Oh. Good. I mean...I know they'll really appreciate that."

He lifted a hand in an awkward wave. "Well, 'bye now. It was nice to meet you."

"You, too." She returned his wave and started back for her room. But she wondered at the lightness she suddenly felt in her heart.

Chapter Sixteen

Brizjanti, Haiti, January 20

Valerie soaked up the last of the cool morning air as she sat cross-legged on the rooftop, her Bible and notebook in her lap. The roosters' chorus that had awakened her an hour ago started again and she smiled, amazed all over again to find herself in a place so radically different than her own plans would have found her.

It was her ninth morning waking up in Brizjanti. She had come to treasure these early-morning times. Without the daily craziness of her job at the ad agency, and the distractions the wedding plans had imposed on every waking minute of the last few months, she'd found a renewed sense of peace, a centeredness that she'd forgotten existed.

Yesterday had been Sunday and everyone from the orphanage had walked to the open-air church half a mile up the road. Just past the gate, they'd joined up with Madame Duval and Samantha Courtney, who were shepherding a group of children. Valerie had hoped to see Dr. Jordan with them. She wanted to thank him again for helping her and Jaelle during all the excitement in the market.

Later, when they were seated, she turned in the pew and searched the large sanctuary for him. She spotted Madame Duval and Samantha a few rows behind them and waved, but Dr. Jordan had apparently not come with them.

Half a dozen times, she'd reached up to adjust the tiny white prayer cap Madame Phil had loaned her. Even though every woman in the sanctuary wore a similar head covering, she felt self-conscious and awkward wearing it. Then the service had started and she forgot about anything but how amazing it was to be there, sharing the Sabbath with her new friends from Brizjanti. And with the children of the two orphanages. She'd been so impressed with how well-behaved and attentive they were throughout the long service.

She smiled to herself, thinking how truly inspired she'd been by a worship service in which she understood so little of what was spoken or sung. But she'd been able to guess at the lyrics to some of the hymns simply because the melodies were the same familiar praise songs they were probably singing back in her church in Kansas City that day.

On the walk home after the service, the Greenes had given her an overview of the young Haitian pastor's sermon. His Scripture reading had been from the fourth chapter of Philippians. Pastor Phil's translation of the message--all about dwelling on what was true and pure and honest, and about being content no matter what the circumstances--made it seem as though the sermon had been prepared especially for Valerie Austin.

After church, they'd had a light lunch at the orphanage, then took a stroll by the bay before returning to Hope House for long afternoon naps. Surely it was exactly the way God had intended the Sabbath to be celebrated, for she'd awakened this morning refreshed and ready for the week ahead.

Tipping her face to the gentle breeze that blew across the roof, Valerie straightened her legs, and leaned back on her elbows. Thank you, Lord, for bringing me here. Even though I had to lose Will in order to find myself in this place. Immediately, two thoughts came to her. She truly was finding herself in this place. She was discovering things about herself that she'd never known--or at least never admitted. And she hadn't really lost Will, since she'd never "owned" him to begin with.

More and more, she was able to acknowledge what a blessing it was that she and Will had come to their senses and called off the wedding before they'd made a commitment that would have trapped them both, stifled them in a union that would have kept each of them from being all God meant them to be. She saw it so clearly now. It was hard to fathom how blind she'd been to that fact before, how completely she'd allowed her desire for marriage and children to choke out God's voice and his leading.

But here, she'd found the time to contemplate her future. It was a place to be quiet before the Lord and to begin to discover what it was she was supposed to do with the rest of her life. She didn't have all the answers yet, but for the first time, she knew without a doubt that she was where she was supposed to be for this brief season of weeks in her life. As yesterday's Scripture had stated, she was learning the secret to being content whatever her circumstances. "Thank you, Lord," she whispered again.

Below her, in the courtyard, she heard the happy voices of the children as they began their day. In so many ways, she felt as though she'd been here forever. This place that had seemed so alien and exotic only a few days earlier now seemed more real, more solid than the insular world in Kansas City that had been her reality.

She stood and stretched, then gathered her things and started down the steps. The group of little girls who'd "adopted" her met her at the bottom of the stairs.

"Miss Valerie! Miss Valerie!" They giggled and fought for the honored position of hand-holder.

"Bonjou," she said, feeling a smile more genuine than she'd known for a while tug at the corners of her mouth.

"What's for breakfast this morning? Manje maten?"

They chattered away in their bubbly Creole. Valerie was beginning to be able to pick out words here and there. She caught janbon and pen grye--ham and toast, but it seemed the more words she learned and understood, the more she realized how far she had to go before she was at all proficient in the language. She'd fooled herself into thinking it would be just a little more difficult than the summer her dad had taught her to speak the silly formulaic pig latin he and Mom had spoken when they wanted to keep a secret from Valerie and Beth. She wished she'd studied the Creole language more seriously before arriving here. Of course, she reminded herself, it wasn't as if she'd known about the trip for months in advance.

She followed the girls to the dining room and took a plate from the serving line at the pass-through to the kitchen. Usually Betty Greene was behind the counter, greeting every child by name. Valerie had been impressed with the woman's efforts to offer each of the seventy-plus children individual attention and love. It must be an exhausting endeavor.

But this morning, Sarah, the young woman who usually supervised the younger children stood in Madame Phil's place, doling out cheery smiles with each spoonful of eggs.

Valerie looked at her with a question in her eyes. "Good morning, Sarah. Is Madame Phil with the babies this morning?"

"Oh, no. She is with Pastor Phil. He is not feeling well today." Fortunately Sarah's English was excellent.

"Oh? I hope everything is okay."

Sarah patted a hand over her ample bosom and shook her head. "His heart. It is not good."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She'd been amazed by the elderly man's stamina. He'd seemed fine at church yesterday, but last week's scare in the market must have taken its toll. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Madame Phil will speak to you later. She maybe ask you to help in the nursery? You help me later?"

"Oh, I'd be happy to. I'd love to."

Sarah's smile split her face from ear to ear. "You like the little babies, no?"

"I love the babies."

"You have babies of your own at home in United States?"

"Oh, no. I...I'm not married."

"Ah, you will be someday." Sarah laughed gleefully. "You have lots of babies. Fill up your house with babies."

Valerie gave a half-hearted grin. "Well...I hope so. I don't know what the Lord has in mind for me." Before she met Will, she'd grown accustomed to the question. It seemed that every meeting of new people--clients at work or visitors to her church--began with the painful questions: "Are you married? Do you have children?" She'd learned to paste a smile on her face and make light of the desire that nearly consumed her at times.

She found a place at the table between two little uniformed girls she'd not yet shared a table with. They tittered all through breakfast, sneaking peeks at her when they thought she wasn't looking and jabbing each other with thin elbows whenever she spoke to one of them.

When she was finished eating, they followed her out of the dining room, begging to braid her hair. "Maybe tomorrow," she told them. "Now I need to go visit Pastor and Madame Phil. And you need to get ready for school, don't you?"

They nodded solemnly, as though she'd reprimanded them.

"It's okay. I'll see you after school, okay?"

She didn't know if they understood her, but they flashed her quick smiles, then took off for the dormitory, looking like graceful fawns as they bounded across the courtyard.

Valerie found Sarah and arranged to relieve her in the nursery at ten o'clock. She walked to the northeast corner of the compound where Pastor and Madame Phil's private quarters were. Henri, the watchman and gate guard, was watering the pots of hibiscus on either side of the front door. She greeted him in Creole before she tapped quietly on the door.

Through the open windows, she heard footsteps inside. The door opened and Betty Greene poked her head out. "Valerie...Good morning."

"Sarah said Pastor Phil isn't feeling well this morning. I...I just wondered if there's anything I can do to help."

"How sweet of you to offer, dear. Sarah took over for me at breakfast, but I'm sure she could use some help in the nursery after the older girls go to school."

"Yes, I already told her I'd help." She dipped her head. "It's my favorite place to be anyway."

Betty smiled. "Yes. Mine, too. Why don't you come in for a minute? I'll make you some tea."

"Oh, I don't want to be a bother."

"Nonsense." Madame Phil opened the door wider. "It would do Phil good to have a little company."

Valerie stepped into the small living room. It was like walking into the parlor of the Kansas farmhouse her Grandma and Grandpa Austin had lived in until their deaths. Though none of the decoration of the room was pretentious or expensive, the walls bore framed prints and fancy needlework, a bookcase held rows of colorfully jacketed volumes and knickknacks that looked as though they might have been crafted by the children of Hope House. There were brightly colored knit afghans draped over the sofa and chairs, and lace doilies adorned the end tables. White muslin curtains fluttered at the open windows.

"Sit down, dear. How do you take your tea?"

"Oh, no. I just had breakfast. Please don't go to any trouble."

Betty Greene motioned for her to sit at the tiny table by the window and against Valerie's protests, she turned on the gas under a teakettle that sat on the stove.

"I'm so sorry Pastor Phil isn't feeling well."

"No, he's not." Worry lines creased Betty Greene's forehead. "I'm afraid it's his heart again. He's really been overdoing it and I can't seem to make him slow down."

"I can believe that. I've been exhausted for days. And all that excitement at the market last week couldn't have been good for anyone's heart!"

Betty shook her head in wonder. "Yes. Even though we've been through it before, that was a little too close for comfort. I think it shook Phil up a bit more than he's willing to admit. I'm hoping Dr. Jordan will have time to take a look at him when he comes tomorrow. I know he's not a heart doctor, but it might save us a trip to the hospital in Port-au-Prince."

Valerie smiled to herself, remembering Max Jordan. Funny how she'd already come to think of him as a friend when they'd only just met. "Oh, I'm sure he would be happy to check in on Pastor Phil."

"Would you pop in and say hello to Phil while I make tea? He was a little down this morning. It's no fun getting old."

Valerie smiled and rolled her eyes. "Tell me about it."

"Oh, for goodness sake, Miss Valerie. What would you know about being old?"

"Well...Sometimes I feel like I'm a hundred."

"You? Why in the world would you feel that way?"

Valerie was sorry she'd said anything. "Oh, I don't really mean it. Sometimes I just...I worry that I'll be too old to have a family by the time I finally--" She'd started to say "find a man," but she stopped herself. She was tired of thinking that way. One didn't just go on a "manhunt." If God intended her to be married, he already had a man in mind for her, didn't he?

But she'd already said too much, for Betty Greene plopped down across the table from her. "How old are you, Valerie?"

"I turned thirty-two in August."

Betty patted her hand and winked. "Well, don't you worry, Miss Valerie. You have plenty of good years left in you. My mother was forty-two years old when she had me. And she lived to see all our children born."

Valerie was somewhat buoyed by that piece of information. "How many children do you have?" she asked.

"We have five grown...and one in heaven."

"Oh. I'm so sorry."

"Our Benjamin was killed in Vietnam."

Valerie gave an involuntary groan. "That must have been awful."

A shadow passed over the woman's face. "Time has eased the pain, and we've seen God use Benny's death for good again and again, but it was no picnic, I can tell you that."

"No." Valerie shook her head slowly, trying to imagine what it would be like to send a son off to war and never see him again.

"Benny had gone to the United States to attend college, but he decided to enlist instead. It about killed Phil. He served in the second war...over in Europe, so he'd seen--" She swiped at the air with one arm as if brushing away a cobweb. "That's all in the past. But anyway, our kids are all over the world now. Two in the States, Matthew is a missionary in Venezuela. The other two are in the U.K."

"Do you get to see them often?"

She sighed. "If we saw them every week, it wouldn't be often enough. But we try to get each of them here for a visit every few years. What breaks my heart is that they rarely get to see each other. Not all together anyway."

Valerie thought about her own sister and the close friendship she and Beth had. "That must be hard," she said.

Betty Greene nodded, her eyes glazed with tears. The teakettle started a low whine, and Betty brightened and jumped up to move it off the burner. "Come, let's see if Phil is awake. Follow me."

Valerie rose and followed her down a short hallway behind the kitchen. Betty knocked softly before opening the door to the small bedroom. "Oh, good. You're awake. Look who's come to visit." She stepped back to allow Valerie to enter.

Phil Greene was propped on pillows in the bed, his face gray and bristled with whiskers. Valerie raised her hand in greeting and forced a smile, but she was startled by the change in his appearance overnight. "Hi there. I'm sorry you're not feeling well."

He patted a weak hand over his chest. "Aw, it's this old ticker of mine. Completely unreliable."

She merely nodded, unsure how to respond.

Betty touched her arm. "I'm going to go fix our tea," she whispered.

Pastor Phil lifted a hand over the covers and motioned toward the straight-backed chair that sat beside the bed. "Pull that chair out and sit for a minute."

She did as he instructed, but she wished Betty would come back and rescue her. The pastor's face was pale and drawn and she wasn't sure he would even feel like talking, or what she should say if he did.

But he relieved her of the burden. "I'm sorry about the scare we had at the market last week. I never would have suggested we go there if I'd known things were heating up in the city."

"Oh, please don't apologize. It wasn't your fault. And I knew Haiti was a dangerous place when I came. I...counted the cost, I guess you could say."

He looked her in the eye, then nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw there. "Good for you. But I feel responsible for my guests. I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you while you were here helping us."

"Please don't give it another thought. I'm fine." She smiled.

"Now I have a good story to tell when I get back."

"I just hope that's the only story of that kind you have to tell," he said, fingering the edge of the light blanket that covered him. "I haven't had much chance to catch any news, but Betty said things have settled down some in the city."

Valerie nodded. "That's what I heard, too...when Madame Duval was here yesterday."

Pastor Phil looked into her eyes again, his gaze piercing, but the gentleness and sincerity in his expression clear. "We're very grateful you came, Valerie. You've been a great help to us. If Betty had her way, we'd keep you here as long as we could get away with it." He chuckled softly.

Before Valerie could stutter a reply, Betty appeared in the doorway. "I have tea ready, Valerie. Phil, are you sure you don't want anything?"

"I'm fine. You ladies go have your tea."

Valerie rose and reached out to touch Pastor Phil's hand.

"You hurry up and get better. I'll be praying for you."

"Thank you. Please do pray for me. I..." He thumped his chest. "This old heart could use all the prayers it can get."

Valerie followed Betty back to the kitchenette, but the older woman's expression was grim.

"Is everything okay?"

Betty Greene sat down and shook her head slowly. "My husband is the prayingest man I know, but it's not like him to allow that he could use prayers for his health. I don't like this one bit."

Chapter Seventeen

Brizjanti, Haiti, January 21

"Please, Madame Duval, I'm begging you." Samantha Courtney sat on the other side of Marie Duval's desk using every ounce of self-restraint she possessed to keep from dropping to her knees in supplication.

"Samantha, you know we are full to capacity. Beyond full." The older woman's voice was compassionate, but stern.

"There simply is no place to put another one."

"What about Josh's room?" She flushed. "Dr. Jordan's room, I mean. He'll be leaving soon and--"

But Madame Duval was already wagging her head. The black springs of hair on her scalp swayed in agreement. "If we have no place to house the missionaries and doctors who come to help, then we can't even care properly for the children we have."

"He could have my room." It was a last, desperate bid. She was already crammed into a space in the girls' dorm not much bigger than the walk-in closet of the Minnesota farmhouse she'd grown up in.

Madame Duval rested her elbows on the desk and steepled slender mahogany fingers. "I'm sorry, Samantha. We can't save them all, child."

The compassion in Madame Duval's eyes made Samantha sorry she'd forced the woman to deny her request.

But she had to try. "He's special. He just is. I don't know how to explain it." Her voice broke and she pushed away the image of the little boy she'd befriended outside the gates of the orphanage.

Sporting the orange-tinged hair that signaled acute malnutrition, and severely disfigured with a gaping cleft lip, he couldn't even smile his thanks for the hunk of bread she snuck him whenever she could. But he had a spark in his eyes that spoke more than any smile. The child had completely captured her heart.

She'd inquired of some of the villagers who lived nearby and discovered that the little boy had no family. He slept wherever he could lay his head and begged for every scrap of food he ate. Though it was hard to judge, Samantha estimated he was no more than five or six. It broke her heart that one so small could be among Haiti's multitude of street children. She could only guess at the cruelty he endured from the other children.

She'd spoken with Father Barker at St. Nicola House on the other side of Brizjanti. St. Nicola, too, had every bed filled. She planned to approach the Greenes at Hope House, as well, but she knew they'd have the same response as Madame Duval. There wasn't room in Brizjanti's orphanages for another healthy child, let alone one with such severe medical needs.

Samantha had a fleeting daydream wherein she took her dilemma to Joshua Jordan. Even after a year, there was still a Josh-sized ache in her heart. She couldn't help but think that Josh would have found a way to help that little boy.

"They're all special, Samantha." Madame Duval's voice cut through her thoughts. "You know that."

She shook away the fantasy and swiped at the tears that had fallen despite her will. "I know...I know. I'm sorry."

"There's no reason to be sorry for a compassionate heart, my dear." Marie Duval pushed back her chair and stood, tacitly dismissing her. "But you must not let it keep you from the work God has prepared in advance for you to do. He does not expect more."

Samantha forced a smile. Had she not read similar words in the book of Ephesians this morning?

But what about little Birdy? The boy spoke only in guttural grunts, and none of the villagers seemed to have a name for him. But Samantha had christened him Birdy in her mind because he reminded her of a hungry baby robin with his mouth always waiting for a worm. It was, perhaps, a tactless name, inspired as it was by his deformity. She hadn't intended it unkindly when she first began to think of him as Birdy.

She sighed and followed the orphanage director to the door. There was more to do here than she had hours in the day. And Madame Duval had asked her to accompany Dr. Jordan to Hope House today for a clinic.

God would have to see to Birdy.

Max sat on the edge of the concrete slab where the girls from the orphanage usually did the laundry. He took a sip of black coffee from the thick pottery mug. It was fragrant and rich and he let it sit in his mouth for a second longer than usual. He wasn't accustomed to having time to savor a cup of coffee. In Chicago his days were full from the time he hit the gym at 6:00 a.m. until he came home to watch the news, and jump online and check his stock portfolio one last time before turning out the lights at ten thirty-five.

Here, the hands of the clock did not dictate. The roosters got things going at the first hint of dawn, and there was plenty of work to fill each day. But after the older children were off to school, breakfast was a leisurely affair with plenty of time spent lingering over coffee.

The day's activities were determined by the weather, the capricious electricity, and the availability of supplies. Jobs seemed to be viewed more as entertainment than work in this poor village. Maybe that was why it was poor, Max mused. He marveled that there still existed so primitive a society in a place where American influence was so prevalent. It wasn't as though they were ignorant of technology's strides in the world. They had connections to the outside world--television, telephones, even computers.

But nothing could be depended upon. And no one seemed to think it was a big deal. The few times he'd managed to get an Internet connection in the evenings, he was lucky if he could view half his stock hotlist before he got bumped offline.

His top-of-the-line cell phone had been pretty dependable and he'd been able to check his office messages by remote each day. The main clinic was closed this week and Dori was on vacation. There were some messages concerning two plastic-surgery patients, but nothing the doctors on call couldn't handle.

He had a raft of appointment requests. Business was booming. Dori was supposed to come in once or twice and answer messages and schedule appointments, so he'd be making up for lost days when he got back. That would be good. There was too much time to think here.

On Sunday everyone from the orphanage had gone to church in the village. He'd managed to bow out, but the eerie silence that enveloped him when they'd left him alone in the compound was at least as uncomfortable as he'd imagined the church service to be.

He took another sip of coffee, trying to make it last. Even when Marie Duval or Samantha gave him an assignment, there was always time for contemplation here without the blare of television or radio.

He looked across the yard to the hydrant, the stage for last Wednesday night's water fight. He smiled to himself. How long had it been since he'd cut up like that? An image came unexpectedly to his mind. He closed his eyes, wanting to blank it out. But it only grew sharper behind his shuttered eyelids. Joshua was about five and they were in the backyard of the house in Palo Alto. Hard to believe they'd ever lived in such a tiny place.

It had been beastly hot that day, and on a whim Max had gone out to buy one of those little molded plastic wading pools. This one was shaped like a frog. He remembered it in vivid detail. He'd come home and filled it up while Janie had helped Josh get his swim trunks on. They'd spent the afternoon splashing in the pool, laughing and squealing as they threw cold water on each other. Josh and Max conspired to turn the garden hose on Janie, who'd retreated to a corner of the lawn with a thick novel. The look of sheer triumph his son flashed him when they successfully sprayed Mommy was etched on Max's memory forever. Was that perhaps the last time father and son had been in agreement?

The thought jolted him and sadness drenched him the way that garden hose had soaked Janie.

He opened his eyes. Now he knew why every idle minute threatened him. Too much time to think about Joshua. Not that simply being in this place wasn't a constant reminder. And after all, he had come here because of Joshua. Too late now to back out on the job he'd come here to do: grieve his son. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but he hadn't thought it would require so much of him. Grieving was hard work.

He drained the last of the coffee and took his mug to the kitchen. A young Haitian woman stood at the sink, her hands immersed in frothy water. She offered him the broad, friendly smile he'd come to expect from these people.

"You like more coffee, no?" she asked, lifting her hands from the suds and turning toward the coffeemaker on the counter.

He patted his belly. "Oh, no. I've had plenty, thank you. Just bringing you my cup." He set it on the counter beside her.

She beamed anew. "Thank you very much."

What kind of work ethic prompted such a response? As though he'd done her the favor. He shook his head, thanked her again for the coffee, and went back outside.

Back in his room he assembled medical supplies to take to Orphelinat d'Espoir, or Hope House as it was called. Pastor Phil told him it had been almost eight months since they'd had a doctor in to do routine checkups. So someone else had been there since Joshua. Why hadn't they returned? Max wondered if that doctor was dead now, too. Had he or she been young and idealistic like Joshua Jordan, coming foolishly, but with honorable intentions?

He was surprised to realize he'd moved from emphasizing the foolishness of his son's actions to granting him "honorable intentions." Perhaps it was a step in the right direction.

He hoisted the duffel bag, heavy with medicines and supplies, over one shoulder and shut and locked the door behind him. Marie Duval had agreed to let Samantha accompany him to Hope House today, so he would have a nurse to assist. He headed across the lawn toward the main building in search of her.

Chapter Eighteen

Valerie scrubbed the Masonite surfaces of two long folding tables with hot soapy water. Caustic fumes from the chlorine bleach rose to sting her nostrils and throat. Betty Greene had left Pastor Phil's bedside long enough to help her and Sarah set up a temporary clinic in the dining hall. After breakfast, they'd hung crisp, white sheets from the ceiling to form a private "examination room" in one corner. Sarah and Valerie had been appointed to help Dr. Jordan and Samantha Courtney, who were due to arrive any minute now.

Valerie felt the odd sensation of butterflies in her stomach. Not sure what she was so nervous about, she tried to concentrate on the work at hand. It wasn't as if she was going to be conducting the examinations herself.

She wrung out the cloth and wiped harder. A whisper of a breeze from the open windows caused the sheets to shudder. Already it was warm, but at least they'd be out of the sun all day.

"Good morning." Max Jordan's voice boomed from the doorway.

She peeked out from the tent of snowy sheets and greeted him. Samantha stood beside him, wearing a white nurse's uniform. Max wore a lab coat over his blue jeans and blue chambray shirt. It took her aback a little to see him looking the part of a physician.

He surveyed their handiwork, then stepped into the makeshift examination room. He turned, smiling. "You've turned this into a very nice little clinic."

"Well, I wish we had a more private room," Betty told him, "but with seventy-four children, there just isn't a large enough space to spare. We've used this setup for other clinics and it's worked pretty well. If there's anything you need that you don't see here, please let us know. Or if you want to rearrange the tables...?"

"No, no...Everything looks great." He glanced up at a group of colorful mobiles dangling from the ceiling over the examination table. "These will be a nice distraction for the children."

Valerie had helped Sarah hang the mobiles in the dining room after breakfast.

Betty smiled. "Aren't they nice? Actually, your son is the one who gave us the idea."

"Oh?" Max Jordan looked at her askance, seeming genuinely surprised.

And pleased, Valerie thought. "Who made them?" she asked Betty.

"The older children did. After Dr. Jordan--the young Dr. Jordan--" she threw Max a smile "--brought the mobiles from Marie's orphanage, we had the kids here make some. We only get them out for the clinics so they'll still be a novelty."

"Well, it was a good idea." Max chuckled. "Most of my patients are in their forties and fifties, but I just might have to try something like this in my own office."

"Is there anything else you need before we start bringing the children in?" Betty asked.

He surveyed the room. "No. I think we're ready."

"We usually bring them five or six at a time, so there aren't too many distractions," Betty said.

"That sounds fine." Max turned to Samantha. "Can you think of anything? You're the expert here."

Samantha shook her head. "No. Everything looks good." She gave some quick instructions to Valerie and Sarah.

Though the girl was almost ten years younger than Valerie, she had maturity beyond her years, and confidence Valerie envied. Samantha knew what she'd been created to do and she had apparently jumped in with both feet.

Betty crossed her arms and looked over the clinic setup. "It looks like you have everything under control here. I need to go check on Phil." She unfolded her arms and reached to put a hand on Max's arm. "Dr. Jordan, would you be so kind as to stop in and check on my husband when you're finished with the clinic? That is, if it's not too late."

"Of course. I'd be glad to. I'm not a heart specialist, but I'll do what I can."

"I'd be ever so grateful."

"What is your specialty?" Valerie ventured, curious.

He cleared his throat, not meeting her eyes. "I'm a plastic surgeon."

"Really? That must be very rewarding work. And interesting..."

He shrugged, one corner of his mouth twisting in a cynical quirk. "Well, it's not like I'm saving lives or anything."

"I'm sure your patients would disagree." Valerie thought of her cousin who'd been disfigured in a terrible car crash as a teenager. Plastic surgery had worked miracles to diminish the hideous scars the accident had left on Patricia Austin's face. Patty was happily married now and the mother of three precious children.

"I don't know..." Max dipped his head, then looked up as if he were going to say something else. He stopped, clearing his throat again. "Most of my work is...elective...cosmetic."

"Oh," Valerie said. Max's slumped shoulders and averted eyes made her feel as if she'd embarrassed him, but she didn't know what to say to smooth things over. She was admittedly surprised to learn that Max was a plastic surgeon. Especially one whose surgeries were mostly elective. Didn't that mean facelifts and liposuction? Or breast implants and tummy tucks? She gave a little inward shiver. That would have been her very last guess. For some reason, she'd been picturing Max as a family practice physician, or maybe a pediatrician. After all, he was working with the children at the orphanages.

An awkward hush fell upon them. Max and Samantha went on getting the supplies arranged on a cart Betty brought from the kitchen. Valerie stood by feeling useless and in the way.

Betty Greene finally broke the silence, turning to the young Haitian woman who was arranging a row of folding chairs. "Sarah, I'm leaving now. Would you tell Alice we're ready for the first group of children?"

A few minutes later, the door to the courtyard opened and Sarah and another Haitian woman came in, each leading two little girls by the hand. Three others followed behind, whispering among themselves. Monique and Daphney, who had been Valerie's escorts to breakfast nearly every morning, were first in line. They tucked their chins and peered up at her from beneath thick, black lashes, looking nervous and excited at the same time.

Valerie pushed aside her uneasiness over the exchange with Max and went to take Daphney's hand. "Good morning." She knelt and smiled, touching the crisp white collar of the little girl's dress. "What a pretty dress! Are you ready to let the doctor check you?" She looked over her shoulder at Sarah. "Can you interpret for me, please, Sarah?"

Sarah spoke to Daphney in Creole and the little girl nodded, twisting the hem of her dress in one tight little fist.

"We're going to go into the doctor's office," she said, as if she were describing Disneyland.

Sarah interpreted and Valerie led Daphney behind the sheet. She lifted her gently onto the table. Daphney's eyes widened in surprise. The children would never dream of sitting on a dining table under normal circumstances.

On the opposite side of the curtain, a burst of nervous giggles came from the other girls in line.

Valerie patted Daphney's knee reassuringly. "It's okay. We'll be finished in just a minute. Daphney, this is Dr. Jordan."

She stepped back and Max and Samantha moved to flank the little girl.

"You're going to have to be my mouth and my ears, Samantha," Max said.

"Sure." She spoke quietly to the girl, pointing to a tongue depressor and demonstrating how she wanted Daphney to open her mouth wide.

"M pap fe ou mal, non," she said. "I'm not going to hurt you." Valerie was sure the translation was for her and Max's benefit.

She felt jealous of the young nurse's ability to communicate with the children. Betty had given her a Creole dictionary, but she wished she'd studied it more thoroughly last night.

Dr. Jordan checked the child's ears, nose and throat. Valerie watched, intrigued as his large, strong hands palpated the little girl's neck efficiently, but with immense tenderness. He flashed the beam of his little penlight on her hand, making her giggle. Then he shone it into her eyes, his expression serious again. He listened to her heart, then her lungs, repeating Samantha's Creole words, asking Daphney to take a deep breath.

Samantha gave her an oral dose of polio vaccine, praised her for being so good and lifted her down from the table.

Valerie took her hand and led her out to the row of folding chairs before presenting her with a peppermint.

Daphney beamed and whispered in excited staccato to the other girls. "Siret! Siret!"

They didn't have enough of the vaccine for all the children who needed it, but at least there was plenty of peppermint candy to go around, thanks to some good-hearted missionary guild that had sent it in a Christmas care package.

Dr. Jordan gave each child the same studied attention as he'd given Daphney, yet they made good progress.

As the morning wore on, Valerie relaxed and began to enjoy the tasks she'd been assigned. For some odd reason, even though she was merely assisting, this work felt more productive, more genuinely helpful than the painting and sewing and rocking of babies she'd done so far. If only she'd become a doctor or a nurse, then she might truly have something to offer here.

Chapter Nineteen

The smells from the kitchen wafted beneath the hanging sheets that formed the walls of Max's temporary clinic. He looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty. The younger children at Madame Duval's orphanage ate lunch about now. He expected it was the same here at Hope House.

He anchored the clipboard on his thigh and made some hasty notes. "Okay, Sarah. I'm finished with--" he glanced at the name on the clipboard "--Yannik. You're nice and strong," he told the little boy." He made a fist and flexed one bicep to demonstrate.

Sarah interpreted, and Yannik smiled broadly as she helped him down from the table.

Max rubbed the coarse fuzz on the boy's head. "Now you go see what Miss Valerie has for you out there."

She apparently heard him and poked her head around a sheet. "Are we ready for a peppermint here? Siret?"

Valerie seemed to have caught on to the language much more quickly than he had. Probably because she forced herself to use it. But he felt foolish trying to pronounce the words, and had mostly let Samantha and the native Haitian girls interpret.

Valerie bent and gave the little boy a peppermint and a bit of special attention before she straightened and turned to Max. "That's the end of that group. Do you want us to call in another one, or do you think we need to break while the kids eat lunch?"

Max turned to Samantha. "What do you think?"

"It's going to get pretty noisy in here in a few minutes. But if we wait till lunch is over it's going to be awfully warm."

He slipped the stethoscope from around his neck and laid it on the table. Peeling the front of his sweat-damp shirt away from his chest, he flapped it back and forth trying to create a breeze. "Hotter than it already is, you mean?"

Samantha and Valerie laughed.

He thought for a moment, then sighed. "I can do exams in the heat, but between the kitchen noises and this fan I'm already having difficulty doing an accurate cardio pulmonary auscultation." He pointed to the noisy box fan whirring in the corner. "I won't be able to hear a thing if we get fifty kids in here. I think we'd better take a break. Besides, you ladies are probably hungry."

Samantha patted her belly. "I could eat."

"Me, too," Valerie said.

"Sarah, how many children have we seen so far?" Samantha asked.

The Haitian woman took the clipboard from Max and counted, whispering the numbers in Creole as she moved a slender finger down the row of names. After a moment, she looked up. "We have thirty-two on the list. That leaves forty-two yet to see."

Max puffed out his cheeks and shook his head in frustration. At this rate, they'd be here until midnight. Of course many of the older children were caught up on their vaccinations and it wouldn't take as long to run them through.

He halted at the thought. Run them through? It made them sound like cattle. In truth, that's how he'd thought of them that day at the airport, when the horde of boys had crushed against him begging for a handout.

But he was deeply impressed by the children he'd seen here and at Madame Duval's. They were more polite than the majority of American children he'd been around recently, addressing him as "sir" and obeying Sarah's requests to the letter. He'd only had two screamers all morning.

He could see why Samantha had fallen in love with the children of Haiti. He glanced at Valerie who was playing a silent game of peekaboo with a vivacious little girl swinging her feet from her perch on a folding chair. It looked as though Valerie was falling for these kids hard and fast.

Joshua must have felt the same way. And knowing Josh, he probably thought he could save them all. Hot anger reared its head, as it had too many times since he'd set foot on this Haitian soil that had taken his son from him.

Valerie's voice broke the trance the doldrums had put him in.

"I'll go see about lunch," she said. "Why don't we eat out on the veranda...get a little fresh air? I'll meet you out there, okay?"

"Let me help," Samantha said.

They traipsed off to the kitchen while Max tidied up the tables and lined things up for the next group of children after lunch.

When he was finished, he went to sit on the veranda. The sun beat down on his back and after a minute, he dragged the round patio table and chairs to a patch of shade cast by a large coconut palm.

A few minutes later, Valerie and Samantha came out, each balancing a large cafeteria tray. They lowered the trays to the table and distributed plates of rice and beans with Creole sauce and some vegetables Max couldn't identify. Valerie set a serving bowl full of pudding on the table. It looked like tapioca. He wasn't crazy about the stuff, but he was hungry enough that he just might eat some. His sweet tooth hadn't been satisfied for days.

Sarah came to the table carrying three old-fashioned longneck glass bottles. "Would you like Coca-Cola or Teem, Dr. Jordan?"

He pushed his chair back and stood to help her. "Teem? I haven't had that since I was a kid. Didn't even know they still made it." He held a green bottle out to Valerie. "Which do you prefer?"

"I like either one. You choose first."

He took the Teem and handed her the Coke. Sarah gave the remaining Coke to Samantha.

"What about you, Sarah?" He offered her the green bottle.

"Oh, no, Dr. Jordan." She wagged her head in protest, her thick ponytail swinging from side to side. "The soda is for our guests. You enjoy it, please."

"You're sure?"

She smiled and nodded.

The crimped cap had already been removed and rivulets of condensation ran down the sides of the bottle. Reluctantly, despite her reassurances, he took a swig. The cool drink was ambrosia to his parched throat.

"Thank you, Sarah." He took another long drink. "Mmm, that hits the spot. I don't think I've drunk pop from a bottle since my grandfather used to buy it for me."

Sarah took the chair beside him. Samantha sat to his left, Valerie across from him. He lifted his fork and dug in to the beans. He had to admit he'd eaten well in Haiti. Nothing fancy, and perhaps things only tasted so good because he'd done more physical labor in the last few days here than in the last five years of his life.

He swallowed the tasty bite and looked up to comment on the food. To his chagrin, all three of the women had their heads bowed, their lips moving silently in prayer. The children had sung a song before dinner that he'd assumed was table grace, but apparently that hadn't sufficed for these ladies. He eased his fork to his plate, folded his hands in his lap and cast his eyes toward his plate.

A moment later, as though they'd choreographed it, all three women mouthed an "Amen," raised their heads and began to eat with gusto. They seemed not to have noticed Max's gaffe, and ate in companionable silence for several minutes, the clatter of forks and spoons against pottery providing pleasant dinner music.

Here in the shade with a plate of fragrant, spicy Creole food, a cool drink and palm trees and potted plants casting abstract shadows on the whitewashed face of the building, Max could almost imagine that he was sharing lunch with colleagues at a medical convention in some exotic locale.

His little delusion evaporated at the sound of children laughing. He turned and looked out on the lawn where a group of boys were playing a rough-and-tumble game of soccer. A little boy of about five hobbled after them on grossly deformed legs, trying to keep up.

Max watched the scene for several minutes, a strange ache in his gut. The boy stumbled and fell several times, and by the time he finally caught up with his teammates, the goal had been scored and they were off to the other end of the field. But the little tyke merely cheered belatedly over the score and staggered back down the field.

Max wanted to cry for him. Why did they even allow him to play? How could his spirit not be crushed by the constant frustration and defeat?

Valerie must have sensed his thoughts. "He's sure a trouper, isn't he?"

Max turned to face her. "It's hard to watch."

"It's convicting," she said, with a bob of her chin.

"Convicting?"

"I'm not sure I'd have the guts to keep at it the way he does. It makes my problems seem petty by comparison."

Samantha followed their line of vision. "Oh, that must be Rocky. Do you know, Sarah? Is that little boy's name Rocky?"

Sarah laughed. "His name is Roddy, but Dr. Josh give him a new name. He say he was like some Rocky in America."

"Rocky Balboa!" Valerie and Samantha said in unison.

Sarah shrugged. "From the movies. Roddy make us call him that all the time now."

"It fits," Samantha said. "Josh told me about him. He fell in love with the little guy. Said he'd never seen such a fighter."

Max turned to Sarah. "My Joshua? My son treated the boy?"

The Haitian girl looked perplexed. "Dr. Joshua treated all the children here. I thought you know that, Dr. Jordan."

"Well, yes. I--I just never imagined..." He shrugged, not willing to voice his thoughts. He'd pictured Joshua running the kids through a medical assembly line, the way he'd done today. Of the thirty-two children they'd seen in the clinic this morning, Max would be hard-pressed to call even one of them by name. But Sarah was saying that Josh had not only known the little boy's name, but he'd discovered enough about his personality to bestow a treasured nickname on him.

Valerie touched his arm and spoke softly. "It must be really special for you to be here...meeting the same children your son worked with."

Max didn't know how to respond. She was wrong, of course. It was anything but special to be here. It was painful and frustrating and infuriating. But he shouldn't have been surprised at her comment. Valerie Austin had surprised him at every turn. He didn't think he'd ever met anyone whose thoughts so consistently and diametrically contrasted his. It was almost funny. Wasn't her generation supposed to be cynical and negative? She was a veritable Pollyanna. It irked him. And yet it drew him. Why did her perpetual optimism attract him so, as though she'd cast some voodoo spell over him?

He shook off the thoughts. He didn't like where they were leading. He had to keep reminding himself that he wasn't thirty anymore. Valerie was young. Probably not much older than Joshua had been. And this wasn't a leisure trip enticing a summer romance. He was here on business. In more ways than one. And the sooner he went about it, the sooner he could get back home.

He pushed his plate to the center of the table and scraped his chair back on the concrete patio. "I'd better get things set up for the next round."

Chapter Twenty

Valerie and Samantha exchanged worried glances as Max excused himself from the table. Valerie wanted to kick herself. Why didn't she just keep her big mouth shut when she was around this man?

Sarah pushed her chair away and stood. "I will ask them to get the next group of children ready." She turned and followed Max into the dining room.

"I feel terrible," Valerie whispered when they were out of earshot.

"Don't worry," Samantha said. "You didn't say anything you shouldn't have. He's just having a hard time accepting Josh's death."

"Yes, and I keep reminding him. I don't know how I manage always to say exactly the wrong thing."

But Samantha shook her head. "It's not your fault. In fact, you're saying things he needs to hear. I'm sure being here in Haiti makes Josh's death all the more real for him. I just feel bad because it seems like he's taking his pain out on you. Honestly, I'm having a hard time believing that man is Joshua's father."

"What do you mean?"

"Josh was just...very different. He was always in a good mood, always thinking of other people first." A faraway look came to the young woman's eyes and a flush of pink bloomed on her cheeks.

"You knew Josh pretty well then?"

"Yes. We were...we were good friends," she said finally.

"Oh. Were you...more than friends?" Valerie hesitated, then shook her head. "I'm sorry. There I go sticking my foot in my mouth again. I didn't mean to pry."

"No, it's okay." Samantha bit her lip. "It feels good to be able to talk about it to somebody." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I was in love with Josh. He...he never knew...not for sure."

"Oh, Samantha. How awful. You never got to tell him? I'm so sorry."

"We did talk about it a little. In the hospital. He knew he was dying. He said--Well, I guess he had feelings for me, too."

"Does Max know?"

"No. And please don't tell him."

Valerie shook her head. "Of course not. I won't say anything."

"Max is having enough trouble dealing with things as it is. It would only complicate matters for him to know there was anything...Well, you know..."

"I won't say anything," Valerie repeated. "Oh, but I'm so sorry for you, Samantha." She put a hand on the girl's arm.

"I was supposed to be in the Bahamas on my honeymoon this week, so I think I understand--"

"Oh, Valerie." Samantha's eyes grew wide. "What happened?"

She waved her off. "No, no...nothing tragic. I'm not trying to compare my loss to yours." That wasn't exactly true. In the aftermath of her breakup with Will, she had tried to imagine what it would have been like to have lost Will to death. And she sometimes thought that might have been easier. "My fiance and I broke up a few weeks before the wedding. "Please." She held up a hand. "I wasn't looking for sympathy. Really. But I have to admit, part of me is envious of what you had with your Joshua." She let her words fade away.

"Oh, Valerie...I don't know what your circumstances were, but if either of you weren't sure, it's so much better that you called things off before it was too late."

Valerie shrugged. "We wanted different things. Things that were mutually exclusive. If we'd stayed together, one of us was going to be seriously disappointed--and it was probably going to be me." She forced a weak smile and turned over her wrist to check her watch. "We'd better get back to work."

"Yeah." Samantha pushed away from the table and helped Valerie gather up their dishes. They piled them onto the trays and carried them back into the kitchen.

Max was sitting on a folding chair by the tent of sheets. Hunched over in the chair, his chin resting on clasped hands, he stared blankly ahead. When Valerie came over, he glanced up, regarding her with an expression she couldn't read. She was almost afraid to say anything. But the man would leave this place in a few hours and she might never see him again. She could at least try to smooth things over.

She sat down, leaving an empty chair between them. "Here I am again to apologize."

He raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry if what I said out there was insensitive. I'm really not trying to upset you on purpose."

In one smooth motion he crossed an ankle over his knee and turned toward her. "Am I that transparent?"

He met her gaze, and, for the first time, she felt as if he really looked at her.

"Valerie, I'm sorry." He shook his head and looked down, fidgeting with the frayed end of his shoestring. But after a minute, he looked at her again. "I've been a big grouch ever since I got here. I've probably made things miserable for you and I'm--"

She let out a little gasp. "Oh, no. Not at all. I'm the one--"

"Wait." He put up a hand, palm out. "Let me finish."

She shrugged and clasped her hands in her lap, waiting.

"It's been really hard for me to be here. Too many memories to face. But that's why I came. So I could face them. I should have expected that it would be difficult."

She watched him, acknowledging his words with tiny nods as they poured out. But she kept still, afraid she'd say the wrong thing again if she tried to speak.

"I'm at a loss. I feel like there's something I'm missing...something I came here to find and it's eluding me..." Max rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I have no business burdening you."

She protested with a flip of her wrist and he continued.

"I don't know...Maybe it just takes time."

They sat together in silence for several minutes before Valerie felt free to speak.

She shifted in her chair. "You say it's hard to be here in Haiti, where your son died, but I wonder if the real problem is being where your son lived. I didn't know Joshua, but from everything I've heard, he loved his life here. It's obvious he was adored by everyone who knew him. He was making a real difference in the lives of the people. Even though it was short, his life had a huge impact." She wasn't sure where that speech had come from, but it flowed from her. "I wonder if..." She heard the next sentence in her mind and briefly considered editing her thoughts, but the words seemed to tumble from her mouth of their own volition. "I wonder if you're jealous of what Joshua had here. I've only known you for a few days, Max, but could it be that sense of satisfaction is missing from your own work--knowing that what you do makes a difference, that there's a higher purpose to your life than just making a good living. Maybe that's what's really so hard about being here..." Finally the gush of words trickled to a whisper.

His eyes wide, Max sat looking at her, speechless. Now she felt the heat creep to her face. She still felt no remorse for what she'd said. She was pretty sure she'd hit upon a truth Max needed to hear. But she would have paid dearly for the floor to open up and swallow her about now.

He opened his mouth and choked out a syllable, but just then the outside doors opened and Sarah came in leading a group of rowdy boys over to the row of chairs where they sat.

Max rose with a strangled groan, as though hoisting one of those fifty-kilo sacks they'd seen in the marketplace last week. "We'd better get to work," he said.

Valerie sighed and pushed herself off the chair, trying in vain to brush the wrinkles from her cotton blouse. She wanted to cry. She didn't regret one word she'd said, but she hated that they'd been cut off before she could explain herself and give him an opportunity to respond.

Please, Lord. Give me a chance to make things right before Max leaves.

Chapter Twenty-One

Max rapped on the door of the tidy little cottage on the corner of Hope House's property. Almost immediately, as though she'd been waiting for his knock, Betty Greene opened the door. Her shoulders were hunched and, behind her large glasses, dark smudges framed her eyes. She'd aged ten years since that day in the market last week.

But she welcomed him with a smile. "Dr. Jordan. Please come in. Thank you so much for coming. Can I get you something to drink?"

"Thank you, but Sarah fixed us lemonade after we finished with the clinic."

"Oh, good. Did everything go well?"

"Yes. I think it did. Overall, the children seem quite healthy. You're doing an excellent job with them...under the circumstances."

"We do the best we can. Thank you." She lifted her shoulders and let out a businesslike breath. "Well, I don't want to waste your time, but I would certainly feel better if you could see Phil."

"How is he this afternoon?"

Her lips tightened into a firm line and she shook her head. "Not good...but he's ornery as ever. Come. He's in bed." She led the way to the small, cozy bedroom.

"Phil?" She shook her husband's shoulder gently. "Wake up, sweetheart. The doctor is here to see you."

The old man's eyelids fluttered open and he looked around the room as though disoriented. But when his eyes lit on his wife's face, he brightened. "What time is it?"

"Almost six-thirty. How are you feeling?" She pressed a palm to his weathered cheek, then felt his forehead with the back of her hand. "Dr. Jordan has come by to take a look at you, Phil."

He struggled to push himself up in the bed, resting his weight on his elbows. His eyes roved the room until they focused on Max. "Well, it's the good doctor," he said with a frail smile. "Thank you for coming by, but you don't need to waste your time with an old man like me. I'll be fine."

"Well, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to have a look," Max said, sensing the man's hesitancy, and not wanting to upset him. He put his medical bag on the nightstand and pulled out his stethoscope. "Let's have a listen."

Betty hurried around to the other side of the bed and unfastened the top buttons on her husband's pajamas. He didn't protest, so Max proceeded to examine him briefly. He took his pulse, noting the cool and clammy skin beneath his fingers. Tapping on his chest revealed evidence of edema, and on auscultation, the telltale crackling through the stethoscope told him what he'd already suspected. Philip Greene did indeed suffer from congestive heart failure.

"What medications are you taking now?"

The pastor shook his head and smiled weakly. "You'll have to ask her," he said, gesturing in his wife's direction. "She's in charge of all that. I just do what I'm told."

"He's been taking nitroglycerin," Betty Greene offered.

"And Diucardin when we can get it. But I don't know that it helps much."

Pastor Greene scooted up farther in the bed. "The last doctor I saw wanted to put me on four hundred dollars' worth of medicine every month. I'd like to know who can afford that! And even if we could, it'd have taken a whole extra suitcase just for someone to bring a year's worth of those prescriptions to us. And half of what they want me on has to be refrigerated. I'd like to know what that man was thinking." He trailed off with a low growl.

"You really should be on a diuretic all the time," Max told him. "I'm not a cardiologist, but I don't like what I'm hearing in there. I think you'd be wise to make a trip back to the States and get this checked out."

Phil Greene's head was wagging before Max even finished his sentence. "I'm fine. A couple days of bed rest and I'll be back on my feet. This has happened before and I've always bounced back." He turned to his wife. "Haven't I, dear?"

"Phil, I think it's a little worse this time. Maybe we should consider--"

Phil Greene interrupted her with another emphatic wag of his head. "I've already considered it. It would be harder on me to make a trip out of here than just to put up with this. If you want to try another medicine, I'll do my best to keep it down, but I'm not going to go flying all over the world trying to find a cure for an almost eighty-year-old heart."

Max tried to think what he could say that might convince him. In truth, the pastor probably needed surgery. Max didn't relish lecturing a stubborn old man, but as limited as his knowledge of heart medicine was, he knew there were options that would probably seem like a miracle cure to someone who'd put up with the symptoms of CHF for so long.

He opted to stall, putting a hand on the pastor's shoulder. "I'll tell you what, let me talk to one of my colleagues who knows a little more about this than I do and I'll get back with you. Maybe there's something we can do from this end."

Betty Greene buttoned her husband's pajamas back up and smoothed the sheets over his shoulders. "You get some rest now. I'll show Dr. Jordan out and start some soup for your supper."

"Don't trouble yourself, sweet pea. I'm not hungry." Pastor Phil looked at his wife with eyes so full of love that it made Max ache to watch. The old man made a kissing motion in his wife's direction, then turned to Max. The outline of his hand lifted beneath the sheets in a feeble wave. "Thanks for coming, Doc."

"I'll get back to you," Max promised him before following Betty back to the small living area.

"He's a stubborn one," she said, shedding the cheerful mask she'd put on in her husband's presence. "I don't know how to make him mind."

"Let me check on some things. I'll see if I can get on the Internet back at Madame Duval's tonight and find some information."

Betty clutched at the collar of her blouse. "Thank you, Dr. Jordan. I appreciate you seeing him. But don't waste your time looking for a way to get him back to the States." Tears sprang to her eyes. "The only way you'll do that is...in a casket."

He drew back, unable to hide his shock at her frank words.

She shook her head and lowered her voice. "He can't go back to the States."

"Oh?"

"He could go to Europe, perhaps, although I don't know how we'd afford surgery."

"But why not the U.S.?"

Betty Greene bent her gray head toward him. Max thought he saw real fear in her eyes.

Finally she sighed and looked up at him with tired eyes. "It's not my story to tell, Dr. Jordan. But going back to the United States is not an option for my husband. Nor will it ever be."

Chapter Twenty-Two

Max stared at Betty Greene, intrigued, wanting to ask more questions. But he refrained, and touched her arm instead, trying to offer comfort. "I'll talk to my colleagues and let you know what I find out."

She grabbed his hand and gripped it as though her life depended on it. "Thank you, Dr. Jordan. God bless you."

He left the cottage deep in thought. Congestive heart failure was progressive, no cure, but there was little doubt that Philip Greene could be made more comfortable--possibly extend his life by years--if he were to get medical care outside of the country. But the obstacles were great. Money, time, the man's own stubbornness. And whatever the mysterious reason he had for not being able to go back to the U.S.

Samantha had already returned to Madame Duval's, but he would ask her tonight if she knew of a facility in Port-au-Prince that might be able to treat a heart condition. He wasn't optimistic about that.

He crossed the compound in search of Valerie. Perhaps she could relieve some of the burden from Betty Greene, either at the orphanage or by staying with Pastor Greene during the day.

He found her in the courtyard holding one end of a jump rope for three little girls in bright summer dresses. They sang out a syncopated ditty in Creole, their smiles as vivid as the sun that was quickly sinking behind the whitewashed concrete wall.

Valerie looked up, missing a beat when she saw him. The two girls jumping rope put their heads together and giggled, pointing at him and nattering behind cupped hands. He couldn't understand them, but their bright expressions said they recognized him from the clinic today. He singled out one word, siret. It was what Valerie had called the hard peppermint candy she doled out.

"Hello," she said, handing her end of the jump rope to one of the girls with a quickly whispered explanation. She came to meet him. "I thought you'd already gone back to Madame Duval's. Is Samantha still here, too?"

"No. She left earlier. I went to look in on Pastor Phil."

"Oh, I'm so glad. I know Madame Phil has been worried about him."

"Yes, I know. I did a brief examination, and--" he paused and glanced at her, remembering her discomfiture at learning of his specialty "--well, I'm no cardiologist, but I'm fairly certain he's suffering from congestive heart failure."

Her face clouded. "That sounds serious."

"It can be. Without the proper care it can be fatal. He's probably suffered from it for some time but at his age it needs to be watched carefully."

"Will he have to be hospitalized?"

The scene Samantha had painted of Josh's death in a Haitian hospital sprang, unbidden, into his mind. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. "I...I'd be leery about putting anyone in the hospital over here. Madame Duval seems to have the same attitude."

"For good reason from what I've heard in the short time I've been here," Valerie offered.

He nodded. "And according to Betty, it doesn't sound like it's an option to send him back to the States."

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure. She was evasive. Said it was his story to tell."

Valerie's hazel eyes narrowed. "That's strange. I wonder what that's all about."

He stopped and scuffed his shoe in one of the many patches of dust that scarred the grass struggling to grow in the courtyard lawn. "I told Betty I'd try to do some research on the Internet tonight and see what I can find out. There may be something I can do from here, if I only knew what it was. I'm just not up on the latest heart research." He glanced away and gave a feeble laugh. "Now if he was in for a tummy tuck or brow lift, I'd be your man."

He couldn't quite read the look she shot him, but he hoped it was amusement.

"Is there anything I can do?"

He smiled, then turned serious. "I was hoping you'd ask."

She was quiet, her eyes eager and intent on his face.

"I'm almost as worried about Betty as I am about Pastor Phil."

"Oh, I know," Valerie said, her voice thick with compassion. "She's hardly left his side since he took to bed."

"I wonder if maybe...Would you have time to just go sit with Pastor Phil? Even if Betty insists on staying there, too, at least she'd have someone to talk to...someone to share the burden with her."

"Oh, of course. I've tried to help out with the children since she's been spending so much time with Pastor Phil. But--" she inspected a hangnail "--I should have thought about her needing moral support through all this."

"I know you've been doing everything you can. I didn't mean to imply otherwise."

"I know," she said, reaching out to touch his arm lightly.

"I'd be glad to spend more time with her."

"I can't imagine how this orphanage could continue without the Greenes, but I'm afraid at the rate they're going, they are going to die trying to keep things together."

Valerie nodded. "I think that's exactly what they intend to do." She stared off into the distance, and when she spoke again, it was as though she were speaking to herself. "But I'm not willing to let them go yet."

"Is there anyone who could handle things here, assuming I can talk them into going back to the States for surgery?"

"I haven't been here long enough to know," she said, "but the orphanage really does seem to run pretty smoothly. They have the older children help with the younger ones and even the preschoolers have chores. And of course there's Henri--the watchman--and some other men who do maintenance and yard work." She thought for a minute. "But as far as any real authority, it does seem like Pastor and Madame Phil are pretty much it."

"That's what Madame Duval said. It would be nice if they had a nurse like Samantha here. We were lucky to have her today. I asked Samantha if she might be able to help out regularly here, but she said she can barely keep up at Madame Duval's."

"I'm sure that's true. There are more children at Duval's even than here." Frowning, she shook her head. "I don't know how this country survives."

"I'm not sure I'd call this survival." He spread an arm toward the horizon.

She clucked her agreement, then brightened. "Hey, you said you can get online at Duval's?"

"Well, it's not exactly blazing high speed, but I've managed to stay connected for a few minutes each evening before I get kicked off. Long enough to check my e-mail and--" He'd started to mention checking his stocks, but thought better of it. He doubted that would impress her. He was glad when she filled his sudden silence.

"So, you have access to e-mail?"

"I do."

"Could I ask a huge favor?"

"Sure."

"If I gave you my sister's e-mail address would you be willing to send her a short note...just to let her know everything is going okay here? I thought I'd be able to get through to her on my cell phone, but apparently there's something wrong with it. And I hated to bother Madame Phil..."

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his phone and powered it on. "Here. Try mine. Your cell just probably doesn't have a strong enough signal."

She reached eagerly for the phone, then drew back, shooting him an uncertain glance. "You're sure you don't mind? I don't want to use up all your minutes."

He put the phone in her hand. "I've got plenty."

"Oh, thank you." She beamed her gratitude. "That would be great."

He warmed under her smile and wondered what the man who'd broken this girl's heart had been thinking. Fool.

"I know Beth is probably worried sick," Valerie said. "She wasn't real crazy about me coming here in the first place."

Ah, so she did have someone worrying about her at home. Somehow the fact made him feel somewhat vindicated for his anger at Joshua.

"You said your sister lives in Chicago?"

"Yes. In Willowbrook."

"Really? I'm in Winnetka. Just an hour or so up the road. Well--" he motioned toward the phone in her hand "--give her a call."

She studied the keypad. "I'll just be a minute."

The rope-skippers had started another high-pitched chant and Max put a hand on Valerie's elbow and steered her away from the noise. "Why don't we move someplace quieter?"

"Good idea." She followed him down toward the gate, punching in numbers on the keypad as they walked. She put the phone to her ear. "Beth is just going to die. Oh! It's ringing!" Smiling broadly, she mouthed another "thank you."

He felt strangely pleased at being able to offer her this small favor.

"It's ringing," she said again, sounding as excited as if she'd just rang through to the White House. Her eyes widened and she spoke excitedly into the phone. "Beth? It's Val! No, no, I'm still in Haiti. I've been trying to get through since I got here, but my phone's signal apparently isn't strong enough." She looked up and offered Max another smile of gratitude. "A doctor here let me use his phone. This is so weird. It sounds like you're right next door!"

She listened for a few seconds, a wide smile splitting her face. "It's going great," she told her sister. "Even though I still haven't gotten my luggage." Max could hear the sister's shriek of disbelief from where he stood. Valerie laughed into the phone and winked at Max. "Oh, it's probably at the airport by now, but Pastor Phil hasn't been feeling well and no one has had a chance to get to the airport. It's okay...it's not that big of a deal. I had a few things in my carry-on. You'd be impressed with how well I've gotten along without makeup though."

While she chattered into the phone, Max watched Valerie. The love she felt for her sister was obvious in the way her face brightened and her voice climbed an octave.

"It's beautiful here, Beth," she was saying. "Not a tropical paradise or anything, but the people are wonderful and everyone has been so nice. It's really been amazing."

Max was stunned to hear her glowing description of the country and its people. He stared at the desolate landscape outside the fence. Was Valerie Austin talking about the same wretched place he'd been staying the past ten days? Even when she described their terrifying moments in the marketplace, there was an undeniable exhilaration in her voice.

"You just wouldn't believe it, Beth. It was like being in a movie."

A horror film, maybe. Max didn't realize he was actually shaking his head in disbelief until Valerie put a thumb over the tiny receiver and looked up at him. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no. Go ahead." He waggled his head. "I was just...Never mind..."

She quirked her lips in an expression of confusion, but resumed her conversation with her sister. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and he found himself mentally trolling for an excuse to stay and talk to her after she hung up.

She reminded him of someone.

Joshua.

The realization was startling. But it was true. Valerie possessed that same zest for life and the ability to make the best of a situation that he'd envied in his son. Valerie and Josh would surely have been kindred spirits had they been given a chance to know one another. They were probably very near the same age.

The thoughts buoying his spirits suddenly deflated. He studied the woman standing in front of him and realized with disturbing certainty that he was probably almost old enough to be her father.

Chapter Twenty-Three

"You're still scheduled to fly home a week from next Saturday, right?" Beth's voice kicked into big-sister mode.

Valerie switched the phone to her other ear. She turned to Max to find him watching her intently. She shot him a smile and rolled her eyes comically, but he quickly looked away.

"And you'll be sure and call me?" Beth said. "The minute your plane lands, right?"

"Yes, Mother," Valerie teased, smiling into the phone. "I fly out February first. You have my itinerary, don't you? I think I get in around nine Saturday night." Speaking the words made her departure seem so near. It was an unsettling thought. In so many ways it was beginning to seem as if she'd been here forever. And now, before she knew it, it would be time to return home.

To what? She planned to spend a few days with Beth and Dean and the kids in Chicago, but what was there for her when she got back to Kansas City? Could she really return to her job at the agency, go back to the church where she and Will had met--where Will would still be--and pretend that nothing had changed?

"Valerie? Are you there?"

She started at her sister's strident tone in her ear. "I'm here..."

"Oh. I thought we got cut off."

"No. I'm here. But I'd better hang up. I'm using up all Max's minutes."

"Max?"

Valerie cut her eyes to Max. He was watching her again.

"Dr. Jordan," she explained to Beth, flashing Max a smile.

"He's working with a neighboring orphanage. He did a clinic here today and was kind enough to loan me his phone. And hey, you won't believe it, but he's from Chicago."

"Really? What'd you say his name was?"

"Dr. Jordan. Max Jordan."

"No way!" Beth squealed.

"Why? Do you know him?" Valerie grinned at Max again, knowing he was listening intently to her end of the conversation.

"Max Jordan? You mean Dr. Botox? Who doesn't know him?"

"What?"

"You're kidding, right? Are you seriously calling me on Dr. Botox's cell phone?"

Valerie glanced at Max, then quickly back to the phone. She turned away from him slightly, anxious to change the subject. Whatever Beth was talking about, it didn't sound like something she wanted to have to repeat to Max after she hung up.

"Seriously, Val, are you really there with the Dr. Botox? Oh, man, just wait until I tell Dean."

"I'm not sure what you mean," she hedged.

"Well, the only Dr. Max Jordan I know is this plastic surgeon all the executive's wives in Dean's firm go to. He's the facelift king...well, maybe not facelifts. He does chemical peels and Botox. You know--that new wrinkle treatment they do now. That kind of thing. He's opened up all these clinics around town and he's supposedly one of the richest men in Chicago. I'm talking filthy rich. His ads are in the newspaper all the time. Have you actually met him? Is he as handsome in person as he is in the ads?"

Valerie couldn't tell her sister that the very handsome "Dr. Botox" was standing within earshot, smiling down at her. She had a hundred questions for Beth--and two hundred for Max--but right now, she was desperate to get off the phone.

A truck roared by on the road outside the gate, conjuring up a dust devil. She turned away from Max, ostensibly to keep the dust out of her face.

"What's that racket?" Beth asked.

"Oh," she said, seizing upon the convenient distraction.

"It's just a truck on the road. We're...I'm outside. In the courtyard. But...I really do need to go," she stuttered. "I'll call you from the airport, okay? Give my love to Dean and the boys."

Before Beth could ask any more questions about Dr. Botox, Valerie pulled the phone away from her ear and studied the keypad. She punched the off button and handed the phone back to Max, hoping he wouldn't notice the flush that had risen to her cheeks. "Thanks so much."

"You're welcome."

He eyed her in a way that told her he probably had a pretty good idea of Beth's end of the conversation. "Did I hear my name being taken in vain?"

She swiped at an imaginary stain on her skirt and pretended not to hear him, then hated herself for the deceit.

Max pinned her with a stare and tried again. "So your sister's heard of me, I take it?"

She let out a puff of air. "It sounds like everyone has."

"Well, that might be a stretch. But...I suppose I'm pretty well known in the Windy City."

"And...are you filthy rich?" She affected a lopsided grin. It did feel good to get this out in the open.

He gave a snort. "Is that what your sister said?"

She nodded.

"I guess it depends on how you define filthy." His gaze panned the orphanage compound. "I think probably every American is filthy rich in comparison to this."

"Good point," she said, feeling properly chastened. "I'm sorry. That was none of my business."

"No. It was a fair question. I've been very...prosperous in my business." He looked down at the ground before meeting her eyes again. "Financial success isn't all it's cracked up to be. Despite popular opinion to the contrary, there are a lot of things money can't buy."

The sorrow in his eyes told her he was thinking of his son. She hated that their conversation had somehow come back around to this again. "You're right, of course. But then, some of the best things in life don't cost a nickel either, so I rather think it evens out, don't you?"

He scratched his head, and a slow smile lit his face. "I guess I hadn't thought about it that way."

She followed his line of vision to the west where a bright orange ball of sun was sinking below the wall.

"Oh, and look..." He cocked his head. "A beautiful sunset to prove your point. Did you arrange that?"

She laughed. "I wouldn't dare take the credit. But it is beautiful, isn't it?" Thank you, Lord, for your perfect timing.

His gaze lingered on her for a moment. "Yes, it is." He turned ninety degrees and glanced out through the gate. "Well, I suppose I should get back before it gets dark. Madame Duval will be wondering what happened to me." Looking down at his feet, he said, "I've been walking in the mornings--just a short walk between the two orphanages. Would...would you like to join me tomorrow?"

"I'd like that very much. What time?"

"I've been going around five-thirty."

"A.m.?" She blew out a breath of feigned annoyance.

"You're almost as bad as the roosters."

"Well...if that's too early..."

"No. No, it sounds wonderful." She'd be back in time to have her quiet time on the rooftop and help with breakfast.

"I'll meet you at the gate?"

He nodded. "See you in the morning then. Goodnight, Valerie."

"Goodnight. Be careful going back." She glanced at the quickly fading sun. "Are you sure you don't want Henri to go with you?"

"I'll be fine. It's only five minutes."

She turned and walked back to the dormitory, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She liked Max Jordan. A lot. But reconciling the sad, kindhearted man she'd come to know with Beth's "Dr. Botox"...That was something of a struggle.

Valerie was already waiting at the gate when Max arrived the following morning. Her cheeks looked fresh-scrubbed and her hair was pulled back into a smooth chignon.

The watchman, Henri, was with her. He unlatched the gate, then locked it behind her. He pointed to the bell high up on the gatepost. "You ring when you get back," he said. Then turning to Max, he wagged a finger. "You not leave her until she back inside, okay?"

"I'll make sure she gets back safely."

Henri made a slashing gesture across his throat. "Madame Phil, she have my head if anything happen to Miss Valerie."

"I understand," Max said. "I'll take good care of her."

"Good morning," Valerie chirped, after Henri had started back across the yard. "It's beautiful out here this morning...almost cool."

The sun that rose behind the palm trees was a mirror image of the stunning sunset they'd witnessed last night. It would soon burn off any hint of the cool breeze they enjoyed now, but Max had to admit Valerie's optimism was rubbing off on him. He liked who he was when he was with her.

They walked the short distance to the potholed lane that ran in front of the orphanage, then set out toward Madame Duval's. "So you're not mad at me for getting you up so early?"

She cast him a sidewise glance. "I might be tonight when I'm falling asleep in my dinner plate, but right now I'm thrilled to be alive." She flung her arms out and whirled around in the lane, her simple red gingham skirt swishing gracefully around her legs. It was the same thing she'd worn yesterday and he asked without thinking, motioning toward the skirt. "You've still not gotten your luggage?"

She looked down and smoothed the skirt. A mischievous twinkle came to her eyes. "Why? Are you tired of seeing this outfit?"

"Oh, no," he said, embarrassed. "I'm just surprised you're still waiting for it."

"I actually haven't thought much about it. At this point, it probably makes more sense to just grab it when I get on the plane to go home. I'm getting along fine with what little I did get here with. It's amazing how few things a person really needs, you know?"

Her carefree air took him by surprise and he opted for a teasing tone. "Hey, I don't know if I'm up for the Pollyanna routine this early in the day."

"Okay, okay...I'll sober up." She straightened and donned an unconvincing somber expression, falling in stride beside him.

They walked in silence for a long minute. "Well, I didn't mean you had to totally clam up."

Her smile broke through again. "I'm just enjoying the sights. It's interesting to see Brizjanti come to life from down here."

He shot her a questioning look. "Down here?"

"I usually watch the sunrise from the roof of the orphanage. Up there, I see all this--" she waved an arm over the scenery "--from a very different perspective."

"Why the rooftop?"

She shrugged. "I don't know really. I discovered it one day when we were washing down the walls of the dorms. It's just kind of gotten to be a habit. It's quiet up there so I can meditate and read."

"Oh? What are you reading?" Now here was something they could talk about. He prided himself on being well read.

"Wait...Let me guess. Poetry?"

She smiled. "You could say that. I'm reading through the Psalms." But she said it with a hint of apology in her voice, as though she knew he'd be sorry he'd asked. He was.

Or was he? Looking at her, seeing the indisputable honesty in her eyes, he stifled a sigh. He'd studied countless faces in his life. Mostly the faces of women grasping desperately to hold on to what was meant to be fleeting. He could erase wrinkles, plump up lips, and take years off a woman's face. But Valerie Austin's countenance shone with a quality he could never dispense. Honesty. Sincerity. And something else he couldn't quite place.

He'd be gone from this place in a few days, and would never have to see her again. Maybe she could answer some of the questions that had plagued him since he got here. No, before that. Since Joshua's death.

"So...how exactly do you read it?"

Her brow arched. "The Bible?"

He nodded. "It doesn't seem like the sort of book you read cover to cover. I mean, I remember reading it for some lit class. It was a little like reading Shakespeare, as I recall. I think of myself as a pretty cultured guy, but I never could get into the Bard."

"Well, believe it or not, the Bible's like that for me sometimes, too. But not usually. Most of the time it's exactly what I need to hear. But I wouldn't necessarily recommend reading it cover to cover to start with."

"So what? Do you just...flip it open and start reading?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes. When I'm feeling desperate." She flashed a crooked smile. "Come to think of it, I've been using the flip method a lot lately."

He laughed. "Yeah, I suppose that's how I would've done it lately, too--if I read it, that is."

Her expression turned serious. "It really does help, you know. There's a lot of good stuff in there."

He worked to keep the cynicism from his voice. "So I've been told."

She tilted her head, questioning.

"Joshua often went so far as to preach certain passages at me."

She cringed. "Oooh, ouch."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

"I'm sure he meant well, Max. I'm sure he just wanted you to know the same joy he'd found." She dipped her head. "People sometimes go a little overboard when they first give their life to the Lord."

He stopped in the road and put his arms akimbo. "Okay. Right there, for instance. You're talking in that same...foreign language Josh used to speak. What does that mean anyway? Give your life to the Lord? How do you give your life to somebody else?" It sounded like handing over control. He'd fought too long and too hard to relinquish that.

"Hmm..." She scratched her head. "I guess I never thought about the way that sounds. It just means..." She rubbed her temple, then rested her hands on her hips, mirroring his stance.

"Okay...are you really asking, or are you just giving me a hard time?"

He blew out a breath, considering her question, then plunged in headfirst. "I'm really asking."

"It's all about a relationship. You said you believe in God, right? Or a higher power, or whatever you called it."

He nodded, but already he felt the teeth of a trap clamping down on him.

"That's a good start," she said, "but the Bible says even the devil believes. It's not so much believing in God as it is having a relationship with him." She paused, and her expression told him she wondered if he was following.

He nodded for her to continue.

"The provision God made for that relationship is Jesus Christ. I don't know how to explain it any better than that."

He wanted desperately to change the subject. He'd heard all this sappy religious stuff before. It had been the wall between him and Josh. He hated it.

He looked down to find Valerie studying him. He squirmed under the microscope of her gaze, however benevolent.

"I can tell I've lost you," she laughed. "I think it's just so much simpler than people try to make it. All you have to do is talk to God--just like you're talking to me. He'll take care of the rest. It's the coolest thing you'll ever experience. Trust me." She gave him a hint of a smile and started back up the lane.

Max wasn't sure he understood, but he suddenly found that he wanted to. He wanted to believe in a God who worked in people's lives, a God who showed people what all the junk in their life was about. Made some sort of sense of it.

She walked ahead of him, obviously unaware of how desperately he was hanging on her words.

He shook his head and tagged after her. "The coolest thing I'll ever experience, huh?"

"Trust me," she said again, quickening her pace.

He worked to keep up with her. Trust me, she'd said. She couldn't have known that trusting was the one thing Max Jordan had never succeeded at.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Walking back to Madame Duval's, Max replayed his conversation with Valerie. She was a delightful woman. He'd lived so long in the world of studied artifice that Valerie's genuine demeanor surprised him at every turn. He'd forgotten what it was like to have a conversation without having to take measure of its truth. His own included. He found himself speaking more frankly with her than he had with anyone in a long while.

How refreshing it was to meet a woman who didn't think having to wear the same outfit two days in a row was an international catastrophe. How could she be so happy with so little? He thought of his own arsenal of expensive playthings and was shocked to realize that it hadn't brought him more than a few hours of fleeting pleasure. What was her secret?

He knew the answer. And he knew why it fascinated him so. Her joie de vivre had the same source as Joshua's had. It was their faith in God. He knew that. But what was the key? He believed in God. He honestly did.

He thought about the things Valerie had said. She seemed so certain of what she believed. He'd told her the truth that day they'd met in the market: he couldn't remember a time he hadn't believed in God. But there had to be some element he was missing.

Over the years, he'd heard all the maudlin lingo about inviting Jesus into your heart and making him the Lord of your life. Josh had spouted a variation of it. But Max had been so disgusted with Joshua's wasted education, his wasted life, that he'd blamed Josh's brand of religion.

Bottom line, it made him uncomfortable. Even now, all alone on this road, the thoughts he was having made him squirm. If he'd been wearing his customary necktie, he would have been tugging at it.

Except somehow, the way Valerie Austin had spoken of her relationship with God made it seem like the most natural thing in the world.

As he neared the compound, a mangy dog picked its way up the rocky ditch and trotted along beside him on the lane that led to Madame Duval's. He wondered where the shaggy brown mongrel had come from. This was the third time he'd seen the dog outside the compound. Madame Duval's watchman, Alex, had shaken a stick at it this morning, demanding that it leave. The dog seemed friendly enough, and Max was tempted to reach down and pat its head, but he'd been warned to keep his distance. Few Haitians kept pets of any kind--most could barely afford to feed their children--and too many stray dogs and cats were vicious or even rabid.

When he reached the gate and unlocked it, the dog attempted to follow him inside.

"No," Max said firmly. He put out a foot and nudged the dog's hindquarters before slipping inside and shutting the gate behind him. He latched the gate and started to walk away, but something made him turn around. The dog stood, waiting, looking at him with soft brown eyes.

Max grasped the metal bars and stared out between two of them, watching as the dog plopped down on its haunches on the other side. Silently the animal tilted its head to one side, cocking an ear. Those pitiful eyes never left Max's face.

It struck him that, for some unknown reason, the dog trusted him. Max felt that even if he turned away and left the dog sitting outside the fence, it would still be there tomorrow, waiting patiently for him. A foreign emotion swelled his throat. Pity? What kind of man felt more compassion for a stray animal than he'd managed to muster for the dozens of homeless children he'd encountered in this impoverished country?

"Go on, boy," he said, trying to keep any hint of compassion from his voice. Madame Duval would chastise him for encouraging the dog to hang around. But he found himself hoping the animal could read his mind. Maybe he'd try to filch some scraps from the kitchen in case the dog was still there when he left for Port-au-Prince later this morning.

Madame Duval had asked him to pick up some supplies at the airport, but he had another mission in mind for the day as well. His spirits lifted thinking of it.

The tiny lizard flicked its tongue and puffed out its neck. Valerie brushed it off her bedpost and onto the floor. It scurried beneath the low dresser in her room. She continued brushing her hair, then laughed to herself. She'd come so far in twelve short days.

She bent to check the alarm clock on the dresser. Max would be at the gate for their morning walk soon. She didn't want to make him wait.

In the tiny bathroom, she washed her face and patted it dry with a threadbare towel. Running a hand through her coarse waves, she suddenly missed her specialty shampoo and bath soap from home. Her hair had suffered from the sun--and probably even more from the constant braiding the little girls performed. But frizz and split ends were a small price to pay for the "therapy" of the girls' attention.

She ran a hand over the waistbands of the two skirts hanging from hooks in her room. The one she'd worn yesterday was more comfortable, but it was still damp from the laundry bucket, so she pulled the other one on and finished dressing. She closed her bedroom door behind her and tiptoed from the dormitory into the courtyard. The morning air was damp and heavy with the odors of the bay--fishy with a faint stench of the runoff from the latrines. She was used to it by now.

Henri was already working in the yard, his shirt damp with sweat as he pulled weeds from the anemic rectangle of grass. "Bonjou, kijan ou ye?" She was proud that she could speak a few simple Creole phrases passably.

Henri looked up from his work. "Bonjou, Miss Valerie." He answered in Creole before quickly switching to English. "You go walking with Dr. Jordan again, eh?"

"Yes. He should be here any minute."

"Ah, but Dr. Jordan has already been here." His white teeth gleamed and his eyes twinkled, as though he harbored a secret.

"Oh? I missed him?" She looked at her watch, then toward the gate. She didn't see anyone waiting in the road beyond.

"Dr. Jordan bring something for you," Henri said, smiling.

She turned back to the watchman. "He did?"

"Follow me." Henri threw down a handful of wilted weeds and covered the space between her and the maintenance shed near the gate in long strides.

Valerie tagged behind him, curious. Rounding the corner, she gasped. "My luggage! Where did that come from?"

Henri stood beside her two suitcases, stacked one atop the other in front of the shed. The larger one was dusty and badly scuffed, but it appeared to be in one piece. The purple ribbons still clung to the handles, though they drooped like wilted irises.

Henri beamed as though he himself had delivered the suitcases to Hope House.

"Oh, this is wonderful!" She clapped her hands together.

"But when--?"

Max Jordan stepped out from between the shed and the wall. "Good morning."

"Max! Look, my luggage is here!"

His expression gave him away.

"You did this?"

"I may have." His smile rivaled Henri's.

"Dr. Jordan must be pull some strings," Henri said, laughing and pantomiming the alleged string-pulling.

"Oh, this is wonderful," she said again. "But when did you get it?"

"Yesterday. I had to run an errand for Madame Duval and I thought I might as well see about your luggage while I was there. They said it's been waiting there for days. I think they were about ready to ship it back to the U.S."

Valerie reached out to touch his arm. "Thank you so much, Max. It feels like Christmas."

He grinned. "Well, you must've been a good girl because it looks like Santa delivered." He eyed her. "I thought you might want to skip our walk this morning and go open your bags...make sure everything is there. Maybe change clothes," he said with a wink.

She laughed and considered his offer, but one look at the intelligent glint in his eyes and she knew she didn't want to miss their time together.

"I'm sure everything's fine. I'll just be grateful for anything that made it here. Let's walk."

His smile was her reward. He turned to the watchman. "Henri, will you let Valerie in when we get back?"

"Oh yes, Dr. Jordan. I be probably still working here." He swept an arm to encompass the yard.

"Thank you, Henri." He crooked an elbow and offered it to her. "Miss Valerie, shall we go?"

Feeling instantly carefree and buoyant, she took his arm and walked through the gate, calling over her shoulder, "Goodbye, Henri."

The Haitian nodded and latched the gate behind them, whistling a cheery, nondescript tune.

As they started down the lane, Max was grateful for the narrow pathway and the escalating heat, which created a natural excuse for him to slide Valerie's hand from his arm. The softness of her fingers against his skin was unsettling and a part of him was relieved to be rid of the sensation.

"I wish I could have gotten your things to you sooner," he said over his shoulder as they moved into single file to let a truck pass on the road.

"I'd given up on getting them at all," she said. "I'm so happy to finally have them!" The joyful lilt in her voice was like music.

He waved a hand. "Don't mention it." But he was far more pleased with her elated reaction than he should have been. It crossed his mind that it was a good thing he was leaving Brizjanti in a few days. It was time to banish the foolish imaginings he'd been entertaining both sleeping and waking.

Valerie's voice shook him from his reverie.

"I'm sorry..." Max turned his attention to her. "What did you say?"

"I just wondered what you're doing today--at the orphanage?"

"Oh. I think Madame Duval has some construction projects for me this morning. Boy, is she in for a disappointment. Just because a man can remodel a nose doesn't mean he has a clue about how to lay cinder block."

A fleeting glimpse of confusion flitted across her face, as though she didn't get his joke. But then he saw realization come to her eyes and she laughed. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. Will you come back to Hope House for another clinic before...before you go back to the States?"

"I hadn't planned to. As I understand it, we got the children there all caught up on their annual physicals. Unless they can get some more of the vaccine in, there's not much else I can do there."

She wrinkled her nose. "It just seems like kind of a waste to have access to a doctor and then put him to work doing construction."

He shrugged. "I'm quickly learning that you do what needs to be done here, no matter who you are." He cringed inwardly. Could that have possibly come off with more arrogance?

He gave Valerie a sidewise glance. She didn't seem to notice and he quickly changed the subject. "Are you anxious to go home?"

She hesitated for a minute. "I'm trying not to think about it."

"Oh?"

"It's just that...well, I don't know what's waiting for me at home. I mean I have my job and apartment and everything, but I'm not sure I can go back to my church."

"Why not?" It was a stupid question and he wished he could take it back.

But she answered matter-of-factly. "Will's still going to be there--my fiance. Ex-fiance, I mean. And even if he weren't, there are just too many reminders of...of everything. I'm staying with Beth for a week after I get back--in Chicago," she said. "I hope that'll give me time to sort things out."

"Really? Maybe we can do lunch someday while you're there." The words were out before he'd had time to think them through.

She looked up at him, surprise arching her brows and crinkling her forehead. "I'd like that," she said. "I'll hold you to it."

Without warning, a wave of trepidation flooded him, thinking of Valerie on his own turf. He glanced over at her in her simple cotton skirt and her dusty tennis shoes. Her face tanned, but devoid of makeup, and her hair in an unruly ponytail. He couldn't quite picture her beside him in his sleek silver Maserati, or on his arm at the country club.

But strangely, it wasn't Valerie Austin who seemed out of place in the scenario. It was him. He had become somebody else entirely here in Brizjanti. And he hadn't a clue which man was the real Max Jordan.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Brizjanti, Haiti, January 25

The cotton blouse clung uncomfortably to her damp skin, but Valerie ignored the stifling heat while little Nino whiffled soft breaths against her shoulder. She loved rocking him and the other babies to sleep each afternoon. She teared up just thinking about how quickly her time here was coming to an end.

She'd found a rhythm in this place that filled her with contentment and a sense of belonging. Her time on the rooftop each morning was her anchor. But now there was the early-morning walk with Max Jordan as well. Their conversations challenged and sharpened her, and kept her running back to the Bible to answer the questions he bombarded her with.

Yesterday he'd asked if she thought Joshua could look down from heaven and see him. She'd been startled by the question, and a little embarrassed that she wasn't sure of the answer.

"I just wish I could know that Josh knows I'm sorry," he'd said.

"Oh, Max, I'm sure he knows. The Bible promises there are no tears in heaven. It's a place of joy and peace and perfection, so he wouldn't be sad or worried about anything that was left unfinished between you two."

"I wish there was some kind of promise for those of us left down here."

"Oh, but there is!" She tried to keep the excitement from her voice, but she was overjoyed by how deeply he seemed to be searching, how close he seemed to crossing from belief in God into a relationship with Him.

She liked this man immensely, and sensed she'd been offered a glimpse into his heart that perhaps only a few had ever been afforded.

She had watched Max's demeanor with the children change from nervous indifference to genuine delight. Observing him joke with the little girls and roughhouse with the boys, it was almost impossible to see him as a wealthy physician in a plush Chicago office catering to glamorous clients. Or on the golf course. Or tooling down Lakeshore Drive in the silver Maserati he'd mentioned once in passing.

The few times Max had spoken of that part of his life, he'd seemed almost embarrassed, clamming up as soon as he realized that their conversation had revealed his wealth and position. In those moments, Valerie worried that perhaps she didn't know him so well after all.

But he'd shared so many other parts of his life with her, openly--even eagerly--discussing spiritual things, sharing his regrets about his divorce, his tendency to be a workaholic and, of course, his relationship with his son.

She still found it amusing that, while her work at the orphanage had given her great joy and a sense of fulfillment, her main mission field on Haitian soil so far had been this wealthy, unlikely American.

But time was so short. Tomorrow was her last Sunday here. A week from today--the first day of February--she'd be on a flight headed for Miami. And she knew these last days would fly by even faster than the first had. They'd be gone before she was ready--ready to leave, to say goodbye to the children and to Pastor and Madame Phil.

Before she was ready to say goodbye to Max.

She smiled into the dim afternoon light, remembering his agreement yesterday--albeit a very reluctant one--to attend church with them on Sunday. "I wouldn't know how to act," he'd told her when she broached the subject. "I haven't been to church for...well, let's just say a long, long time."

"Max, I didn't know how to act in church here, either. It's very different from church back home." She touched her hair absently, remembering the prayer cap. "You're not even going to be able to understand the sermon or the words to the songs--"

"Then why go?" he countered.

She scrambled for a reason he would buy. "Because it's where Joshua went to church. Isn't that why you came here in the first place? To honor him? To learn more about his life here?"

She'd been surprised by her own words and she could see that they'd jolted Max, too. But he'd nodded slowly. "Okay...I'll go."

It was a sweet victory and Valerie chuckled to herself remembering how Samantha Courtney had crowed when she'd told her the news.

She was looking forward to another day with Max. And at the same time, she wanted to turn back the calendar. Start her time here all over again. The closer the time came for her to return to her life in the States, the more oddly unsettled she felt. Why? She'd made peace with her circumstances concerning Will. She was sure of that. Not that there wouldn't still be a time of adjustment when she got back home. It would be hard to face Will, face all their mutual friends. But she no longer wondered if they'd made the right decision about their marriage. She felt certain they had. Will wasn't the cause of her unrest.

And she was on good terms with her heavenly Father. In fact, she'd experienced a rather sweet reunion with Him in this most unlikely of places, so neither was that the reason for her disquiet.

Yet, her heart seemed in a strange state of turmoil. She let out a long sigh. She didn't want to waste her last days here fretting, but try as she might, she couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something was missing.

Max would fly home in a few days. Madame Duval had asked Betty Greene if they could spare Henri to deliver Max to Port-au-Prince on Monday. He would spend the night there and fly out early Tuesday morning.

Valerie would miss their morning walks. It wasn't safe for her to walk outside the compound alone. She could get her exercise inside the gates and her fresh air on the rooftop. But that wasn't the point. It was Max's company she would miss.

And she was worried about him. She thought he'd found a measure of peace about his relationship with Joshua. But she was pretty sure he couldn't say the same thing about God. She wanted so badly for him to settle that before he went back. It would be too easy for him to go back to his comfortable life and stop asking questions. Stop seeking the Truth.

She hugged little Nino closer and tried, without success, to picture all the goodbyes that loomed ahead of her.

Late that night, she lay on her cot in the dark, perspiring in the airless room. Sleep completely eluded her. Outside her window the faint sounds of traffic droned on the road to Port-au-Prince, and in the distance the haunting drums of the village witch doctors throbbed.

She'd grown accustomed to this audible evidence of voodoo's hold on Haiti. And though she felt perfectly safe within the gated walls of the orphanage compound, and even with Max or Henri on the lane that ran between Hope House and Madame Duval's, it made her shudder to think of the spiritual darkness that covered this land because of the wide practice of witchcraft.

How many of the precious boys and girls within these sanctified walls would be taken captive by voodoo's malevolent influence once they left the safety of Pastor and Madame Phil's haven?

And what would happen when the Greenes could no longer manage the orphanage? Even if Pastor Phil got the medical care he needed, he couldn't possibly have enough years left in him to see the smallest ones--tiny Nadia and Francilia, and baby Nino--safely into the world outside the gates.

A wave of utter despair sluiced over her. If she'd been standing, she knew she would have been knocked off her feet with the enormity of it all. Permitting the tears to roll down her cheeks and into her ears, she whispered into the darkness. "Oh, Father, keep your hand on these dear saints. Give them as many years as they need. Bless each child within these walls.

"And Lord," she added selfishly, "I know my problems are so petty and small by comparison, but when I get home, please show me what You want me to do with my life. I love You, Father, and I trust You have something special waiting for me back home. Please just show me Your way. I want to do things Your way."

With those last quiet words of surrender, she finally drifted into sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Brizjanti, Haiti, January 26

With the sun hot on her shoulders, Samantha Courtney shooed two cackling hens out of her path as she lugged a pasteboard carton of clothing across the lawn to the office. One of the American charities that supported them had sent a large shipment, and she and the older girls had spent a pleasurable afternoon in the dormitory yesterday trying on dresses and skirts, and bestowing their own hand-me-downs on the little girls.

Even after outfitting forty girls, there were three huge boxes of clothing left over. Madame Phil at Hope House would no doubt be delighted to have them. Maybe she could get Henri to come and cart them over after church.

She'd hardly slept last night looking forward to this morning. Not only would the girls be excited to wear their new dresses to Sunday school, but somehow Valerie had managed to get Max Jordan to agree to go to church with them. She could have hugged Valerie Austin when she told her last night. In fact, the minute she saw the girl, she probably would do just that. She couldn't imagine what magic words she'd used to persuade him, but whatever they were, her heart was filled with gladness.

It had been good to have Josh's dad here these last two weeks. Until she had delivered Josh's final message to his father, she hadn't realized how heavily her failure had weighed on her. It seemed a bit of the sadness had left Dr. Jordan's eyes since that first day she'd picked him up at the airport. It was good to see.

Oh, Josh...If only you could be here. A lump rose in her throat and she closed her eyes. Josh's sweet face appeared as clearly as though he were standing before her.

A wave of sorrow surged through her. She'd thought she was doing so well--moving on after losing Joshua. No, she corrected herself. After losing the possibility of Joshua.

She swallowed back the tears, opened her eyes and looked around her. The lawn was full of laughing children, decked out like lilies and lined up for the walk to Sunday school, children who were just a little better off because Dr. Joshua Jordan had touched their lives.

Behind them, the whitewashed wall of the compound shone in the sun. Josh had slapped on more than one shiny coat of that paint. In a few months it would chip and fade and need replacing. But he'd done his part in the brief season he had called this corner of the earth home. He'd made his mark on the world. And it was a bold and shining mark.

She set the cardboard box on the ground at her feet and tipped her chin to the sky, letting the sun kiss her face. The rubbery fronds of a lofty palm swayed overhead. Laughter bubbled up as she remembered Joshua's pathetic attempt to shimmy up that tree the way the native boys did whenever they had a hankering for a coconut.

Josh's clumsy efforts had had Samantha and the children in stitches, but he'd nearly required stitches of another kind when halfway up, he'd plummeted twenty feet with a sickening thud!

Samantha's heart had practically stopped beating. But he'd jumped up, brushed himself off and scrambled up the trunk of the palm again. The little girls had tattled on him, though, and Madame Duval came running from the office and chewed him out but good.

"How you ever came to be a doctor is beyond me," she clucked, hands on ample hips. "You are lucky your head did not break open like that coconut. Though I daresay you've proved to us all that you have no brains to spill!"

In private that night Joshua had mimicked the feisty Haitian woman, and he and Samantha laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks.

She sighed. It was a good memory, one she could glue to the Joshua page of her heart and turn to when she was tempted to forget how many precious things her life had contained.

She scooped up the box again. Balancing it on one shoulder, she went to join the Sunday school parade.

Max closed the door to his room and locked it before starting across the courtyard. He'd never felt his camera or computer equipment were at risk in his room, but Samantha had encouraged him to take precautions nevertheless. "No sense in tempting one of the kids," she told him the first day she'd shown him to his room. Joshua's old room.

He suddenly felt introspective. His steps slowed on the worn path to the main office and he bent his head and tucked his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. His time here was nearly over. Had he accomplished what he came for? He'd come wanting to ease the terrible wound of his son's death.

No. That wasn't exactly right. It wasn't Joshua's death that made him ache. It was the regrets over Josh's life. Over the fact that, as a father, he'd lost the opportunity to ever make things right with his only son. His only child. Had anything changed?

He looked around the grounds of the orphanage where Josh had spent his last days. He had no doubt now that his son had been happy, had felt fulfilled and alive and complete in his life here. Max understood now what Josh had tried to tell him. And the stories Samantha had told him about Josh confirmed it. But more than that, he had seen with his own eyes as Samantha and Valerie Austin demonstrated firsthand what it meant to live for a cause you believed in, something bigger than wealth and what the world defined as success.

So yes. He supposed he had found what he came looking for. Here, he had been able to grieve his son in a way that allowed him to move on. He would still give anything--everything, which was considerable in Dr. Maximilian Jordan's case--to have a chance to talk to Josh one more time. To have a chance to part on better terms. To tell his son one last time--or would it have been for the first time?--that he loved him.

At least now, Max finally felt he knew his son well enough to trust that Josh would not have held his sins against him. Valerie had said as much yesterday.

He was glad she had convinced him to attend church with them this morning. It seemed fitting on this last full day he would spend in the Haitian orphanage. And he knew it would have made Joshua happy.

He could hear the children at breakfast in the dining room. He'd eaten some fruit earlier, wanting plenty of time to start packing before they left for church.

Out of habit, he went to the front gate to look out. Though he knew the high walls and locked gates were a necessity here, they made him a little claustrophobic and anxious for the expansive lake vista he'd have from his house and the view of the city from his seventeenth-floor office back home.

He heard a low whine and a shadowed movement made him glance to the right. There, at the edge of the property, its belly low to the ground in a subservient pose, was the dog. Max wished he'd brought a scrap of food from the kitchen. The dog hadn't been around in a couple days and Max hadn't given it much thought.

Now he noticed that the outline of the animal's ribs protruded through its sparse coat. It looked up at him with hopeful eyes. Again, he couldn't help but think of the word loyalty. This dog wasn't merely a beggar. Max sensed that the animal would not hold it against him that he hadn't brought food. And he imagined the dog would die defending him if that proved necessary. And not because Max had thrown it a couple of bones, but just...because.

Another sound, high-pitched and more human, came from the stumpy shrubbery beyond. A flash of light caught his eye and he squinted against it.

A small boy stood watching him. His dark skin was chalky from lack of soap and water and moisture--and probably from malnutrition. His hair, longish and matted to his scalp, was bleached to a dull gray-black. He held a shard of glass that caught the sun when he tilted it this way and that.

Max became aware that the child was staring up at him, but he barely noticed the boy's eyes, for his mouth--or rather the place where his mouth and nose should have been--made Max's breath catch in his throat.

The child had a cleft lip and palate as severe as any he'd come across in all the textbooks on reconstructive surgery he'd studied.

This must be Samantha's Birdy. She'd told Max about the pathetic child for whom she felt such an affinity. Samantha believed the boy to be homeless, and had been badgering Madame Duval to take him into the orphanage. But Max doubted a child with such a severe handicap could survive on his own. Probably his family sent him out to beg. From what little he knew of the Haitian culture and the voodoo religion, he assumed the boy and his family had been ostracized for being under a curse or possessed by an evil spirit or something. Regardless, without medical attention, he doubted the boy had a chance in the world to survive to adulthood.

Instinctively, he reached into his pocket, in search of a piece of candy or gum to offer. Could the boy even eat properly with his deformity? His hands came up empty, and when he looked up and met the black, shining eyes, the child turned and ran.

"Hey!" His shout only made the boy run faster.

Depression blanketed him. What a horrible, hopeless place this was. It overwhelmed him to think about what it would take to make a measurable difference here. The three homes in Brizjanti were filled to capacity, and still, the streets teemed with homeless children. It reminded him of trying to keep his lawn free of leaves last fall. He'd spent an entire Saturday raking and bagging and dumping the debris from the massive oak trees rimming his lakefront property. Afterwards he'd stood admiring a spotless green carpet of fescue. But that night, the trees had shed the last of their clothes. And no sooner had he raked those up, than the wind kicked up and blew the neighbors' leaves onto his lawn.

Haiti's children were a never-ending autumn.

Max sighed and went to join the group gathering for the walk to church.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Valerie watched Max Jordan's face carefully. Max sat two rows in front of her at the other end of the pew. She'd hoped to get to sit with him during church, but Madame Duval's group had already been seated by the time the procession from Hope House arrived.

The young Haitian pastor preached in Creole, but occasionally, he broke his stride to stop and translate bits of his sermon into broken English. When he gave a scripture reference in English, she followed along in the crisp, slim New Testament in her lap. It was one of several Bibles her church had sent as gifts to Hope House. They'd been packed in her luggage and she'd almost forgotten about them until that day Max had brought her bags to the orphanage. For some reason she'd carried this volume to church today instead of her own falling-apart, much-marked-in Bible.

She couldn't read Max's expression as he listened to the preacher. It was either supreme boredom or deep contemplation. She prayed for the latter.

The large children's choir closed the service with a rousing hymn, and when one little girl in the front row clapped her hands with glee at the last amen, Max laughed along with the rest of the congregation.

Valerie wished he would laugh more often. She so wanted Max to find the truth he was looking for before his feet left Haitian soil. It was a good sign that he was here today. A very good sign.

After church Valerie looked for Max in the crowd milling outside the door. She spotted him talking with Samantha Courtney and started over to speak to them.

"There she is," Max and Samantha said in unison when they saw her walking toward them.

"I thought my ears were burning," Valerie said. "Were you talking about me?"

Samantha smiled. "Can you come and have lunch with us? Madame Duval said she tried to call you this morning but the phones were out and she hated to bother Madame Phil on her cell phone in case Pastor Phil wasn't well."

"He's doing a little better," Valerie said. "But Betty didn't want to leave him alone, so she stayed home this morning. They were going to have their own little church service, I think."

"Could you have lunch with us then?" Samantha repeated, her eyes sparking like an eager teenager's. "I already talked to Sarah and Jaelle and they said they'd let Madame Phil know."

"Oh. Well, sure. If you've got it all arranged. I'd like that. Thank you." She turned to Max. "Good morning. What did you think of the service?"

"Well, I enjoyed the parts I could understand." He winked and pointed to her head, grinning. "Nice hat, by the way."

She reached up and touched her hair. "Oh! I forgot." She unfastened the bobby pins that held a white lace handkerchief in place atop her head. She wore it as a head covering to honor the Haitian church's adherence to their interpretation of a biblical passage.

"I'm just teasing you," Max said. "It looks...nice."

Samantha slipped the hankie from her own dark-blond hair. "I need to go help Madame Duval round up the children. I'll see you two back at the orphanage, okay?"

"Can we help with the kids?" Valerie asked, folding her handkerchief and tucking it into the pocket of her skirt.

"Oh, no. We're fine." The young nurse laughed. "We have a system."

"Okay...if you're sure."

"We'll see you at lunch, then." Samantha jogged over to corral a cluster of children who'd ventured too near the edge of the street.

Max nodded in the direction of Duval Children's Home. "Shall we?"

"Sure." Valerie fell in step beside him. "So you fly out Tuesday?"

"Yes," he said. "I'll go to Port-au-Prince in the morning."

"I suppose you'll be glad to get back to Chicago."

"I suppose I will," he said. "I almost can't remember what home is like. Except that it's like comparing apples and oranges."

"America to Haiti, you mean? Yes..." She looked around her. "This is another world, isn't it?"

"It's another planet."

She laughed and nodded her agreement. "It's been good for me though. My time here."

He glanced over at her, curiosity in his eyes. "Good? How so?"

Now that the words were out she regretted having been so transparent. She thought about her answer. "Well, selfishly, because it's gotten my mind off what I now realize was a pretty minor problem."

"Your...broken engagement."

She nodded. "But more than that, it's made me see everything--my life, my faith, even...my destiny--with different eyes. I think we--I--get so bogged down by stupid little things...things that don't really matter. Being here has helped me see things in a more realistic perspective. I hope I won't ever obsess again about what I'm going to eat for lunch or whether I'm having a bad-hair day or what dress I'm going to wear for--"

"That's easy for you to say," Max laughed. "You only have two dresses."

She giggled. "Not true, thanks to you. I did thank you for that, didn't I?"

"You did. About five times."

She loved seeing that man's smile.

The laughter of children floated from behind them and Max turned to look. "Uh-oh, here comes your fan club."

She glanced over her shoulder. Sarah and a group of children from Hope House caught up with them, and three little girls made a beeline for Valerie.

"Bonjou!" she said, stopping to greet them.

Two of them grabbed her right hand and the third squeezed between Valerie and Max and took hold of her other hand, smiling up at her, eyes flashing with lively energy.

"Max, this is Monique and Daphney, and--" She couldn't remember the third girl's name, and bent to ask her.

The girl between them peeked up from under dark-lashed eyelids. "Mariana," she whispered.

"Mariana." Valerie relayed the name to Max. "Of course. You girls remember Dr. Jordan, don't you?" She didn't even attempt the Creole, but the trio seemed to understand, nodding and smiling up at Max.

They walked along with the girls for a few minutes before Mariana wiggled free from Valerie's grasp, do-si-doed to Max's other side and put her small hand in his.

He squirmed a little, seeming embarrassed by the attention, but he wrapped his hand around the child's and kept it there.

When they came to Madame Duval's, Sarah called for the little girls.

Daphney looked up at Valerie, pleading, but Valerie let loose the little hands and gave them each a quick hug. "You girls go with Sarah. I'll be there after naps." She butchered the Creole, but they seemed to understand after she made a pillow of her hands and pantomimed sleeping.

Max put a large hand on Mariana's head. "Bonjou," he said, giving her a tender pat.

Valerie was touched, but pretended not to notice his sweet attentions to the little girl.

They waved to the parade going on to Hope House and walked to the entrance where Madame Duval's watchman was waiting for them with the gate swung wide.

Madame Duval had prepared a special going-away lunch for Max. He and Valerie and Samantha lingered at the table visiting for an hour before the orphanage director and Samantha excused themselves for afternoon naps. Max was grateful. He'd hoped for a few minutes alone with Valerie to say goodbye.

Just as he opened his mouth to begin his farewell speech, Samantha reappeared with two chilled bottles of pop. "Thought this might taste good," she said, handing them each a bottle. "Bye, Valerie. Max, I'll come down to say goodbye before you leave."

They thanked her and took appreciative swigs of the sweet drinks. The afternoon light shone through the colored glass, wet with condensation. The contents were refreshing.

"Let's take these to the shade of the back veranda," Max said, raising his bottle and standing to lead the way.

They walked through the dining room and Max pulled out a lawn chair for Valerie.

"Thank you." She slumped in the chair, kicked off her sandals and put her feet up on the empty chair beside her. They sat together in comfortable silence for several minutes.

Max leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. "You know, if I close my eyes, I could almost think I was in Santa Barbara." It had been months since he'd managed an escape to his California beach house.

Valerie laughed. "Santa Barbara in the dead of August, maybe."

The sun was high, but beginning its descent, and though a cool front had come through, it was still warm. The breeze was pleasant as long as you didn't inhale too deeply and get a whiff of the air off the bay.

He watched Valerie surreptitiously. She was not at all his type. Didn't fit the picture of the "woman of his dreams" in any way--not that he often envisaged a woman in his future. But if he had a woman in mind for somewhere down the road in life, that woman would have been far more glamorous, more cultured, better educated, certainly older. Would have been...The quirk of his thoughts brought him up short. It was the woman sitting beside him--sans makeup, tanned legs propped on the chair, sun-streaked hair in disarray--who'd literally invaded his dreams on many a recent night.

Stop it. She's too young for you. Besides, you'll never see her again after today.

Please don't let her read my mind, he prayed. The realization startled him. Yes. He was praying.

What kind of spell had this woman cast over him?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Valerie looked at her watch. "I probably should get back so you can get ready. Don't you have to leave pretty soon?"

He checked his own watch and scooted away from the table. "Yes, it's getting close to that time. Come, I'll walk you to Hope House."

Valerie scooped up her New Testament and made room for it in the tote bag she'd carried to church. She followed Max to the dining room where they dropped off their pop bottles in the divided wooden crate. They strolled to the gate side by side.

A blanket of depression settled over her when she thought about actually saying goodbye. Haiti wouldn't be the same without Max Jordan. So much of what she would treasure about this time had been shared with Max.

They walked along the worn path between the two orphanages, chatting about the now-familiar sights they saw along the way: Madame Duval's scrawny chickens scratching in the dirt, a tap-tap overloaded with dusty passengers, two bearded goats butting heads near the compound walls.

Max stopped in the road and pointed high up in a coconut tree that grew inside the orphanage grounds. "Look. Somebody's hoping for coconut pie for dessert."

They laughed together as two young boys shimmied one after the other up the tree's scaly trunk, tossing coconuts down behind them before they disappeared behind the cinderblock wall.

"It's a different world, isn't it?" Max said, shaking his head and gazing off into the distance as they strolled up to the gate.

She nodded, her throat tightening unexpectedly at the realization that this was the beginning of their goodbyes. She swallowed hard and forced the words over the lump in her throat. "I'm glad we got a chance to...to say goodbye before you left."

"Me, too," Max said. He turned to look at her. "I just want to say thank you. For everything."

She looked at him askance. "I don't know what you're thanking me for."

"Then I'll tell you." He stopped outside the gate, leaning on one arm against the whitewashed wall.

Valerie copied him, leaning to face him. Something in his eyes made her even more curious about what he would say.

"Thank you for helping me understand my son better."

She opened her mouth to protest, but Max cut her off with an upheld hand. "And thank you for helping me see the world through different eyes. Thank you for always seeing life through those rose-colored glasses of yours. And thank you for...for just being you. You are a very special young lady, Valerie Austin."

"You were doing great until you got to the 'young lady' part," she said, thoroughly embarrassed by his litany of gratitude, and smarting a bit at the thought of him seeing her as "young." Yet his words touched her deeply at the same time.

"I'm serious, Valerie. I don't think you realize what this trip has meant to me. You, and Pastor Phil and Samantha--everybody--you've all had so much to do with it. But you especially. I--"

"Max--" She didn't know how to respond, squirming under his studied gaze. She finally looked at the ground. "I have a feeling you'll...find your way no matter what. Maybe in spite of me." She smiled, remembering all the conversations with him when she'd put both feet in her mouth.

"Oh, no. Don't play your part down. Aren't you the one who's so big on us all needing each other? God putting just the right people in our lives and all that?" His smile was teasing and sweet, almost shy.

"Okay, okay. I'll take some of the credit."

"That's more like it." His smile faded and his tone turned serious. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Sure."

"When you come to Chicago to visit your sister, I'd like to take you out to dinner. Do you think that could be arranged?"

"I...I'd like that very much, Max."

He shifted his weight. "I want to give you something before I go. I hope you won't think it too...Well, here--" He reached into his pants pocket, drew out his cell phone and handed it to her.

She questioned him with knitted brows. "What's this?"

"I want you to have it. I realize you're only here a few more days, but I hate to think of you being here without a way to call out...call your sister, or to ring for help or...whatever." He shrugged, then took her hand and cradled the phone inside her palm.

She looked down at the tiny cell phone. It was sleek and high-tech--obviously far more expensive than her clunky phone. "But--won't you need this, Max?"

He shook his head. "I have another one. Here...I can show you how to use it." He came beside her and bent his head over the keypad. "The number comes up when you turn it on, so you can tell your friends where to call. Oh, and I programmed it with a new number--so you won't be getting all my calls from the office. I'd hate for you to have to deal with a woman in Botox withdrawal. Believe me, it's not a pretty sight."

She giggled, loving his ability to laugh at himself, even at his occupation. And glad that he felt safe enough to do so with her. "But...you're sure you don't need this?"

"I'm positive. The contract is good for a year. If you don't want it after that, you can give it to someone else or just trash it or--"

"Trash it? I wouldn't do that!" Good grief, was the man so rich that he thought nothing of throwing away a perfectly good cell phone? "Maybe I can give it back when...if I see you in Chicago?"

"Oh, no. It's yours to keep. Do whatever you want with it. I just didn't like the thought of you not being able to call out if you needed to."

His gift of the cell phone gave her the courage to do what she'd been considering ever since Max had brought her luggage.

She reached into her tote and pulled out the slim New Testament. "I...I'd like to give you this. It's nowhere near as valuable as your phone, but--" She stopped short, realizing what she'd just said.

She suddenly no longer cared if she offended him. "No...I take that back." This might be her last chance to talk to Max about the only thing that really mattered. She took a deep breath. "This is a cheap edition, and it's only half of the Bible--the New Testament. Our church got a bunch of them on sale and sent them down with me. They were in my suitcase--one of the ones you rescued at the airport."

"Yeah, yeah, you already thanked me for that, remember?"

She gave him a flimsy smile, but she wasn't going to let him change the subject with a joke. She studied him, trying to gauge how he was receiving her offering.

He waited, his smile gone, his expression unreadable.

She forged ahead, not caring now if he completely rejected her. "The paper this is printed on might not be worth much, Max, but the words inside are the most valuable thing I could possibly give you. I know this sounds a little radical, probably a little bit crazy to an educated man like you, but--at the risk of sounding preachy--this book contains the answers to every question you could ever ask about life. There's nothing I could offer you that would be worth more."

She clamped her mouth shut, shooting a prayer heavenward, waiting for his response with apprehension.

He took the book, opened it--politely, the way a teenager might open a gift of poetry from a dotty great-aunt.

"Thank you, Valerie." He looked at her, and his eyes softened.

"I appreciate the gift. I know how much this book means to you." He closed the cover and slapped the volume gently on his hand. He gave her a crooked smile. "Maybe I'll even read it sometime."

"I hope you will, Max. I really do."

He shifted from one foot to the other, seeming suddenly uncomfortable in her presence. "Well...I guess I'd better go. You be careful...and have a safe trip home."

"I will."

He turned to reach for the bell on the gate, then started, as if he'd forgotten something. "Oh...I should tell you..." He motioned toward the cell phone in her hand. "I programmed my phone number into the memory. Don't feel obligated to use it." He flashed a shy grin. "But I'd sure like it if you did."

She returned his smile, but didn't trust her voice. It was just the right note to end on.

Max rang the bell and a minute later Henri came running. "Good afternoon, Dr. Jordan, Miss Valerie. Your lunch was good, no?"

"Good."

"It was good." They answered at the same time.

Henri stood at a distance, waiting for Valerie to enter.

"Well...Good luck." Max held out a businesslike hand.

She reached to meet his handshake, but he surprised her by pulling her into an embrace.

"Thanks again, Valerie. For everything."

She patted his back, feeling unsettled in his arms--and safe there at the same time. "Goodbye, Max. God bless you."

He released her, gave one last little wave, and took off at a jog down the path toward Madame Duval's.

As he closed the gate and secured the lock, Henri chattered away at Valerie in his broken English. But she didn't hear his words.

She turned her back on Henri and cupped her hand into a visor. Squinting against the sun's glare--and against the tears that formed prisms of the light--she watched Max Jordan walk out of her life.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Max loosened the collar of his polo shirt and pulled the damp knit fabric away from his chest. Stretching his legs as far as he could in the cramped seat, he looked out the low window of the 757. They'd been sitting on the tarmac for forty-five minutes, most of it with the air-conditioning turned off. As far as he could tell from the activity on the ground beneath the wing, there was some kind of mechanical problem.

He unfastened another button and propped one leg on the empty seat beside him. Thank goodness the flight wasn't full. Somewhere behind him, a colicky baby started squalling again and Max found his old temper flaring. Was that new sense of peacefulness he'd finally gotten a grasp on so tenuous?

He put a hand on the seat back in front of him, ready to go ask the flight attendant to let him off the plane. But before he could pull himself to standing, the captain's lackadaisical voice came over the PA system.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the delay. We're working to resolve a minor mechanical problem. The ground crew tells me it's going to be about another ten minutes, so we will be taking off shortly and we'll get the air turned on just as soon as possible. In the meantime, feel free to get up and move about the cabin if you'd like."

He looked at his watch. Nine-eighteen. They were already an hour behind schedule. There was no way he'd catch his connecting flight in Miami. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the Chicago office.

He punched in Dori's extension and she answered in her perky receptionist's voice. "Good morning. Jordan Center for Aesthetic Surgery. How may I help you?"

"Hey, Dori."

"Dr. Jordan! How was your trip?"

"I'm not home yet," he said, unable to suppress a sigh.

"Oh? What's going on?"

"I don't know for sure. We're still sitting on the tarmac in Port-au-Prince."

"You're kidding?"

"I wish I was. Listen, would you call the travel agency and get me a later flight out of Miami? We're taking off in a minute here, but I'm not going to make my connection. See if American has something late afternoon. And nonstop."

"You got it."

"And could you have a car waiting?"

"Sure thing. I'll leave a message on your cell if I don't catch you before you take off."

"Thanks, Dori. Everything going okay there?"

"Running like a top. But you've got your work cut out for you when you get into the office Wednesday morning."

"Well, that's good, I guess."

Her polite laughter rang in his ear as he said goodbye and punched the End button on his phone. He settled back into his seat and buckled the seat belt around his waist again.

He'd barely thought about work for the last week. He pictured his plush office and mentally conjured what a typical busy day would look like. A peculiar apathy roosted inside him. Somehow, he couldn't find much enthusiasm for returning to work. Ten days ago, he hadn't thought he could get back to his life in Chicago quickly enough.

He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

Twenty minutes later the roar of the engines jarred him awake and within seconds, they were finally airborne. He reached up to get the air vent flowing. It hissed loudly, but produced a minimal stream of air. Sweat ran in rivulets down the sides of his face. Finally the cool air kicked in.

He took the newspaper out of the seat pocket in front of him and shook it out. Yesterday's Herald. He hadn't seen an American newspaper in almost two weeks, though he'd perused the top stories online in Madame Duval's office.

He skimmed the Herald's headlines, then looked out the window. The sky was dotted with fluffy cumulus clouds, and beneath them he could still make out the whitecaps on the ocean. But the landmass that comprised Haiti and the Dominican Republic had disappeared from sight. The plane was suspended over a choppy sea. If he thought about that concept for too long, he knew his blood pressure would climb right along with the plane's altitude.

As the cabin cooled down and the engine emitted a familiar, modern drone, Max tried to switch gears. He felt as if he'd been gone from civilization for a hundred years. He let his daydreams conjure images of the dual shower massage and heated towel racks that awaited him in the master bath at his house on the lake in Winnetka.

He began to plan what he would have for dinner. He couldn't decide whether to go by Magnum's for a steak, or have the driver pick up takeout that he could eat on the drive home. Even a double cheeseburger from a fast-food joint would be palatable after the steady diet of mostly rice, beans and vegetables he'd existed on in Brizjanti. He straightened in the seat and patted his belly. He hadn't weighed himself since leaving home, but he felt sure he'd dropped a few pounds on this trip.

The hum of the plane's engine was punctuated by a series of mechanical coughs. Max leaned forward in his seat and looked out the window. Nothing seemed amiss.

Abruptly, the plane lurched, before losing enough altitude to leave Max's stomach behind. He sucked in a deep breath and glanced up at the flight attendant. She was still seated in the jump seat, appearing quite unconcerned. Okay. That was usually a good sign.

He tried turning his attention back to his newspaper. Before he'd read one paragraph, the aircraft shuddered and the cabin lights flickered, then dimmed. A murmur went up from the passengers. The flight attendant's eyebrows arched slightly, but she calmly turned to poke her head through the gap in the curtain concealing the cockpit.

Max felt the pressure build in his ears, as though they'd made a sudden descent. The noise level declined noticeably--or was it just that his ears were so clogged?

A piercing mechanical wail started from the vicinity of the forward lavatory. The smoke alarm? Another one blared from the lavatory at the back of the plane. A series of random call bells added to the cacophony.

Max leaned to look out his window. Behind him, he could see steady movement in the engine on the left side of the plane. He was no aviation mechanic, but nothing seemed amiss.

The captain's voice came over the public address system. Max tried to take comfort in the steady cadence of the deep male timbre.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing some difficulties with our pressurization system. We are working quickly to correct the problem. In the meantime, we ask that all passengers return their seats to the upright position and remain in your seats with your seat belts securely fastened.

We are experiencing some changes in the air pressure in the cabin, so uh--"

For several moments all the passengers seemed to hold a collective breath, as if doing so might keep the plane airborne.

The alarms and call bells continued to sound. Max tried to breathe slowly, but the air seemed thin, every breath an effort. He worked his jaw, trying to relieve the pressure in his ears.

The two flight attendants moved through the aisles, helping passengers with seat backs and seat belts and offering words of reassurance. As one of the attendants passed by Max he reached out and touched her arm.

"Yes?"

"I'm...a doctor. Is there anything I can do?"

She looked blankly around the plane, as if wondering to whom he was speaking. Finally she said. "No. Not right now. Just remain in your seat. But...thank you for letting me know. Hopefully there won't be any need for your services." She gave him a wooden smile.

It did not console him. Though she was doing a good job of hiding it, he could see the woman was shaken. He admired her strength.

He tried to think what he should do to prepare for the worst. His business affairs were in order. With Joshua gone, he had no heirs. His will included a nice provision for Janie--one he suspected she would decline. The rest of his estate was portioned out to various charitable organizations. He had nothing to live for. But he could only think of one thing: he wasn't ready to die.

He had a crazy urge to pray. After all his posturing and spouting about God not caring about individual men, was his mind betraying his true belief in a moment when he believed he might indeed die? Or was it wishful thinking?

For the past two weeks, he'd lived among people who talked to God on a daily basis, who believed the man upstairs was listening, whether they got a response or not.

He remembered the Bible Valerie had given him before he left. He'd been genuinely touched by her gift. Not because the book had any meaning for him, but because he knew it had meaning for her. He'd accepted her gift with no intention of ever cracking the cover. But for some reason he hadn't stopped to analyze, he'd removed it from his suitcase in the airport and tucked it into his briefcase.

Now, he reached under the seat in front of him. He slid the book from the side pocket and rested it on his lap.

The smoke detectors continued to blare in his ears and the cabin lights flickered in time with the haywire call bells. But the plane had steadied and the light pouring through the windows was bright enough to read by.

Max remembered Valerie's joking comment about sometimes, in moments of desperation, reading the Bible by what she called the "flip method."

This moment certainly qualified as one of desperation. He gave a mirthless snort as he centered the spine of the book on his lap and let the pages fall open at will.

The heading at the top of the pages read Romans. Nothing significant there. Well, if he was going to turn religious in the face of death, he might as well turn superstitious, too. He closed his eyes and circled a pointed finger over the page. He jabbed a spot on the page, opened his eyes and began to read at the paragraph where his finger landed. He inhaled the words like air.

Until the airplane lurched again and the oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling.

Almost immediately, the public address system sprang to life again. It was not the captain's voice, but a formal, recorded message. "This is an emergency," the voice said. "Please remain calm and in your seats with your seat belts securely fastened..."

He turned to look behind him, then in front, his gaze darting frantically from one end of the plane to the other. People were putting the flimsy masks in place over their faces. Several women wailed or cried softly.

He fumbled with the mask that swayed eerily in front of him. It had been probably thirty years since he'd really paid attention to the instructions for using such a device. He clapped the cup over his mouth, then grabbed the instruction card from the pocket in front of him and tried to make sense of it. His vision blurred and he felt genuine panic climbing his throat. His ears throbbed as the pressure grew intense.

The recording cut off and the public address system clicked, then crackled back to life. The captain's voice came again. This time it wavered with undeniable fear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have an emergency situation...."

Chapter Thirty

Brizjanti, Haiti, January 30

It happened in the most unexpected way.

Valerie awoke feeling melancholy. There was no reason to jump out of bed with the roosters today. Unable to rouse herself from bed, she turned onto her side and stared at the chinks in the white cinder block wall. With her index finger, she trailed an idle path over the rough surface. Max would be home by now, and back in the lap of luxury. An ocean away from Haiti, and from her.

Resisting the urge to lie in bed feeling sorry for herself, she got up to shower and dress. She went to the roof, as always, to read her Bible, but no matter how she concentrated on the words, her thoughts kept drifting. Finally she laid aside her Bible and bowed her head. Let Max feel your presence today, Father. Show Yourself to him. Don't let there be any doubt in his stubborn mind. That brought an unexpected smile to her face. She'd never found anyone with such a stubborn streak quite so likable before.

At breakfast Pastor Phil greeted her with a casual wave from his place at a table in the dining room.

"Good morning," she said, going over to take his hand.

"You're looking good this morning. You must be feeling better."

"I believe I am some," he said, winking at one of the little girls sitting across from him at the table. He was surrounded by chattering children, and judging by the shimmer in his eyes, their attention was just what the doctor ordered. In his face, she caught a glimpse of the robust man who'd greeted her at the airport gates almost three weeks ago. Still, she was shocked to realize how much he'd failed physically in that span of time. She hoped Max would find a way to get him back to the States for the medical care he needed.

The thought of Max caused her to renew her prayers for him. She checked her watch as she headed for the kitchen. He was probably heading for his office by now. Was he glad to be home, or was he perhaps missing Haiti--and her--this morning?

She found Betty in the kitchen working over a large cast-iron skillet. Her spirits rose another notch to see the high color in the older woman's cheeks and the glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"Did you see Phil?" Betty asked.

"I did," Valerie said. "It's so good to see him up and about." She playfully scooted the petite woman away from the stove and took over stirring the sizzling potatoes. "You get out of here. Go sit with your husband."

"I believe I'll just take you up on that offer, sweetheart."

After breakfast, Valerie and a team of teenage girls spent the morning whitewashing the cinder block walls of the girls' dormitory.

They took a break at noon for sandwiches and fruit, and started in painting again right after lunch. It was hard, hot work, but Valerie was thankful to have her thoughts occupied, especially since they kept returning to Max.

While they worked, she and the girls filled their time singing praise songs in rounds and lush harmonies. When their vocal cords grew strained from singing, the word games began. The girls cheered Valerie when she remembered a complicated string of Creole words, and she felt as proud as if she'd won a Pulitzer.

By the time the bells called them to afternoon chapel, the eastern wall of the dorm glowed in the canted sunlight.

She hurried to freshen up in her room, combing the flecks of paint out of her hair and working it into a quick French braid. She changed into a clean blouse and exchanged her tennis shoes and socks for a pair of sandals.

When she stepped into the sunny courtyard, she saw that the younger children had gathered on the playground. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a little girl playing alone in the shade of a courtyard wall. Squatting low to the ground, she scratched intently in the dirt with a stick. She was so tiny--surely not more than two or three years old. Valerie knew her name was Jacquette.

She had asked Madame Phil about her the first time she saw her, wondering how such a beautiful child had ended up in a place like this. Madame Phil told her that Jacquette's mother had six other children she could scarcely feed or clothe. For a moment Valerie had to fight down the anger that rose in her again--the injustice that allowed this woman to have seven children while she had none. Now she remained at a distance, watching the little girl play. She seemed perfectly content to be by herself.

Jacquette looked briefly in her direction and, without reason, Valerie felt drawn toward the child. As she drew closer she could hear the airy sound even above the laughter of the other children on the playground.

Jacquette was singing--in the sweetest voice Valerie had ever heard. This must be the way angels sounded. The words the little girl crooned were Creole, but Valerie recognized the melody.

"Mwen konnen Jezu renmenm', Se Bib la ki di mwen sa..." Jesus loves me, this I know...

She smiled to herself, totally taken by this little ebony-faced beauty. She moved toward the child, slowly, drawn by a magnetic pull she seemed powerless to resist. When she was still some eight or nine feet away, Jacquette looked up. She caught Valerie's eye and smiled broadly.

Holding Valerie's gaze, the child rose gracefully from lean haunches, her jet-black eyes sparkling. She held out the stick, an offering.

Valerie reached out to take it, but as Jacquette toddled toward her into the sunlight, Valerie's heart lurched. Stunned, she sucked in a sharp breath, scarcely believing what her eyes saw. The dress...But no...It couldn't be!

Afraid she might faint, she dropped to her knees in front of the little girl, accepting the flimsy stick from the small hands.

Jacquette started to sway shyly, fingering the skirt of her dress--her lime-green, gingham-check dress with its white eyelet underskirt. The little girl touched a button on her bodice, tucking her chin down and puffing out her round belly, eyeing the button's bright yellow shape.

Then she looked up, beaming at Valerie. "Sitron," she said proudly. The Creole word for lemon.

It wasn't possible! Slowly, Valerie reached out to touch the white eyelet underskirt of the dress this round-cheeked, cornrowed darling modeled. Tears traced her cheeks. Sixteen years had passed since Valerie had put the last stitch in the hem of this garment. The dress with its lemons and limes and oranges for buttons. The one she'd sorrowfully shipped off to a rummage sale an ocean away just two months ago. How was it possible it had ended up here?

She remembered her sister telling her that the baby clothes she'd donated had been one of the first things to go at the church sale. "An old woman came in and snapped them up--all of them," Beth had told her. "She said she was buying them for some charity."

Valerie knew Beth had thought it would make her feel good to hear that the clothes had sold so quickly, that they'd made a nice profit for the church and that they were going to help someone in need.

But at the time she'd been angry. Furious, in fact. How dare they take the little dresses and nightgowns and playsuits she'd so lovingly created, and just toss them to some little snot-nosed brats who couldn't possibly appreciate what they were getting?

Of course she didn't say that to Beth. And to her credit, she was over the whole thing before the sun went down that night. She realized her reaction had far more to do with the enormous disappointment she'd experienced with Will, than with the clothes themselves.

She retraced her memory. Samantha had asked Henri to come for a load of clothes. Extras from a shipment they'd received from a church in the U.S. Could it be that the woman at the rummage sale had purchased them for Madame Duval's orphanage?

But there were thousands of charities in the world, dozens of orphanages in Haiti alone. How could they have ended up here, in Brizjanti, of all places? And wasn't it even stranger that the clothes she had made would have been in the boxes of leftovers from Madame Duval's? She shuddered a sigh. It was too much. Yet, that had to be it. There was no other plausible explanation.

The dining-room bell rang again, signaling time for chapel. Her mind still racing, she scooped Jacquette into her arms and went to help the older girls herd the little ones into the sanctuary.

In a reverent stupor, she sang--or rather hummed--the Creole choruses with her eyes closed, soaking in the rich, heartfelt harmonies of this rapturous children's choir. Again and again, she turned over in her mind what had just taken place.

Had she imagined it? It was a long time ago that she'd sewn the little dress. Maybe she'd forgotten what it looked like. Or maybe she'd copied a dress she'd seen in a store and just forgotten about that, too. It seemed too strange to be real.

After choruses, it was time for devotions. The younger children were growing restless and she went to the back of the room to help quiet them.

As Madame Phil made her way to the front, Valerie scooped Jacquette and another stray toddler up onto her lap. Resting her chin between their two dark heads, she looked around at the dozens of children wiggling in their seats in front of her.

Two rows in front of her sat little John-Wesley, wearing a brown-and-green plaid shirt sewn from fabric left over from a jumper Valerie had made in tenth grade. Down the row from him, Marie-Andre wore a sleeveless shift of silky flocked magenta. She had ripped the seams in that dress more times than she cared to remember, trying in vain to keep the fabric from puckering.

She let her gaze roam up and down the rows of benches. Everywhere she looked were little motherless Haitian children wearing the clothes she'd made for her babies!

Madame Phil's voice droned pleasantly in the background, and the children squirmed in her lap. But suddenly it was as though the Lord and she were alone together in that room.

His voice wasn't audible. Instead it was the still, small whisper she'd come to know so intimately over the past few weeks. Its resonance filled every corner of her heart.

"Remember that request you put in for a dozen children?" He asked her now. And she was sure He was smiling.

"Remember those babies you prayed for so faithfully when you were barely more than a little girl yourself?"

She looked around that room and knew she was looking at her children, holding two of them on her lap. The babies she'd longed for and prayed for and waited not-so-patiently for over the past three decades.

Her throat filled and she choked back tears of joy. And she knew in that moment--more clearly, more surely than she'd ever known anything in her life.

She was home.

Chapter Thirty-One

Valerie slept without waking once--or even dreaming, as far as she could recall. But now she lay on her back in the cot, listening to the roosters herald the morning, and watching a spider spin a web between the rafters of her room.

Everything had seemed so clear yesterday during chapel. She'd felt certain that God had told her to remain in Haiti.

But now, in the dim light of dawn, her resolve grew hazy. Even if she cashed in her meager 401K and sold everything she owned back in Kansas City, she wouldn't have more than a few thousand dollars to her name. She didn't have the vaguest idea what it would cost for her to remain at Hope House.

And then there was the paperwork. She'd need a visa, wouldn't she? And there was everything involved in closing up her apartment and giving notice at her job.

Never mind telling Beth. She could just imagine her sister's shocked protests when she gave her the news. "Why don't you find a way to help needy children here in the United States?" Beth would say. Or "You're just having a delayed reaction to the whole thing with Will."

Maybe that was true. Maybe she needed to slow down and think about what had happened yesterday. Or what she thought had happened. She had no doubt God had whispered in her ear in that chapel service. But maybe she'd mis-interpreted what He said.

Sighing, she swung her legs over the edge of the cot. She put her face in her hands and rubbed her eyes. It had seemed so simple then, sitting there with two precious babies on her lap. God had answered her prayers. She felt sure that was true. But what would it require of her?

She considered what would happen if she just let everything go. Just stayed here. There were only a few things in her apartment that she even cared about. She'd never thought of herself as materialistic, but even so, her short time in Haiti had changed her perspective on possessions. Things--they only took time and energy. And she'd discovered that she could get by--no, not just get by--she could thrive on almost nothing as long as she had satisfying work to do and children who needed her. And the Lord, of course.

She slipped to her knees and poured out her heart to Him. When she struggled to her feet half an hour later she was no more sure of how it would all be accomplished than she'd been when she knelt.

But she knew she'd been called. She knew for certain that Brizjanti, Haiti, was as close to home as she would ever be this side of heaven.

But she needed to talk it all over with someone wiser than she.

"Valerie!" Betty Greene flung the door open and beckoned her inside. "Come in, come in. I feel like I've ignored you something awful these last few days."

"Oh, please...You've had far more important things on your mind." Valerie glanced toward the hallway that led to the bedroom. "How is he?"

Betty Greene laughed and pointed to Valerie's left. "See for yourself."

Valerie's eyes adjusted to the dim light and she saw the outline of a figure seated in the easy chair in the corner of the room. Pastor Phil gave her a feeble wave.

"Hey! You're looking good."

"Same to you, Miss Valerie."

Valerie followed Betty to the tiny sitting area. The Greene's cottage was stifling, yet Pastor Phil wore a thin sweater, and had a light afghan draped over his knees. Still, it was good to see him sitting up and with a little color in his face.

Betty motioned for her to have a seat and they made small talk for a few minutes before Betty turned to look her hard in the eye.

"What brings you here, Miss Valerie? You look like you have something on your mind."

Did she wear her emotions so plainly on her face? But it was the opening she'd been waiting for. "Something happened yesterday," she said, "and I think maybe it was God's way of telling me that...well, maybe I'm supposed to stay here. In Haiti...at Hope House."

Betty Greene waited, her expression concealing her thoughts as surely as Valerie's must have revealed her own.

"I think maybe God is calling me here. But...how do you ever know for sure if it's God or if it's just your own desires?"

The older woman smoothed her skirt before folding her hands in her lap. "Why don't you tell us what happened."

She let her story spill out--about the clothes she'd made and about seeing Jacquette and the children at Hope House wearing them yesterday in the chapel. "It...it just seemed too much to be a coincidence."

"Oh, Valerie. What a wonderful thing to happen. Amazing, really." Betty's eyes shone.

Pastor Phil nodded his agreement, and swiped at a wrinkled cheek dampened by tears.

Valerie was touched. "But do you really think it means anything? Am I stretching things to think that it is God's way of telling me to stay?"

"Do you mean for the long term? Indefinitely?"

Valerie shrugged. "Maybe..."

Betty thought for a minute, then glanced in her husband's direction before turning back to Valerie. "Phil will have something more profound than I to say about that, I trust, but I think very often God does speak to us in just such ways--arranging circumstances to guide our lives."

Again, the pastor nodded his agreement.

"Could I stay? I mean, would you even have a place for me here. What would it take? I don't have a lot of money. I--"

"Oh, my dear, money is the least of concerns. If God has truly called you, that will take care of itself."

Pastor Phil shifted in his chair and folded back one corner of the afghan. "The question is: why do you want to come?"

His question grabbed her by the heart. She struggled to put her reply into words. "It...it's just that I feel like here, I have something to offer. Back home, I don't know if I do."

"I'm not sure that's the reason I wanted to hear," Pastor Phil said. "True, there is work to be done here. I won't be around forever and I want Betty to be able to have some...options when I'm gone."

Betty Greene chastised him with little clicks of her tongue. But she reached out and put a hand gently on his arm. "Phil."

The way she spoke her husband's name filled Valerie with the same longing she'd felt on that first visit to the couple, when Pastor Phil had gazed at his wife with such love in his eyes. Again she wondered if she would ever be privileged to know that kind of love in her life.

Immediately she censured the thought. Hadn't God just granted her the desire she'd held so long in her heart for children? Would she throw it back in His face now, longing for the husband as well? She was hopeless.

Philip Greene pushed himself up from the chair and rose on wobbly legs. Valerie was glad to see him up, and yet when she remembered the man who had jogged along the streets of Brizjanti with them not two weeks ago, the difference was startling. She stood with him.

He put a firm hand on her shoulder. "Valerie, your flight is scheduled to take you back to the States on Saturday, is that right?"

She nodded.

He closed his eyes briefly as though what he intended to say pained him. But when he spoke, he held her eyes. "You go on back, as you planned. You spend some time in prayer, seek the Lord about what He desires for you. If you come back to Brizjanti, we need to know that it is because God's undeniable call is on your life and that this place is His divine appointment for you."

"Thank you," she said, her voice as unsteady as the pastor's legs. "I'll come and...say goodbye before I go to the airport Saturday."

"We'll be praying for you, my dear," Betty said.

She could only nod.

Betty walked her to the door.

"It's so good to see Pastor Phil up and around," Valerie whispered, when they reached the door.

"That medicine Dr. Jordan sent seems to be working wonders."

"Oh? Max had the prescription Pastor Phil needed?"

"It's something a little different than we've tried before. He consulted one of his colleagues in the States and had him airmail it in. I was afraid even to ask how much it cost to do that, but he wouldn't hear of letting us pay for it anyway. He's a good man. Max picked it up at the airport--the same day he got your bags."

"That was awfully thoughtful of him." Max hadn't said a word. Even when she'd commented after church on how much better Phil Greene seemed to be doing. Max Jordan climbed another notch in her estimation.

"It was thoughtful," Betty Greene said. "Very. Unfortunately, Dr. Jordan says he can't be on this particular drug for very long. At least not without special testing. Phil needs to see a heart specialist."

"Maybe Max--Dr. Jordan--can arrange something? Maybe he could fly him to the States to see the specialist he got the pills from?"

Betty Greene was shaking her head in denial before Valerie could finish her sentence.

"But why not? I...I don't think money is an issue for Dr. Jordan, Betty."

Betty wagged her head harder. "It's not that. Phil can't go back to the States."

"But why not? You could go with him. I could stay here and help with the children." Excitement built in her as she thought of the possibility. "Maybe that's one of the reasons God called me to stay, Betty! If you teach me what I need to know to keep things running while you're gone--"

Madame Phil put a hand on Valerie's arm and squeezed gently. "No, Valerie. I can't explain, but it is not a possibility for my husband to return to the United States."

Valerie was confused. Why would Betty allow him to be refused necessary health care?

Betty's tone was subdued now, her shoulders slumped as if in defeat. "We'll see how he gets along on this medicine. Maybe that will take care of his problem. Maybe he won't have the side effects Dr. Jordan was worried about."

"That's what I'll pray for then." Valerie impulsively leaned to give Betty Greene a hug.

She was rewarded with the woman's lovely smile. "You are a dear, Valerie. Thank you for coming. I feel better already."

Oh, if only curing a failing heart were so easy.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Willowbrook, Illinois, February 3

"Valerie, be reasonable!"

Beth's nostrils flared in that comical way Valerie remembered from their childhood. Back then this would have been the point where she got the giggles. Soon Beth would join in and before long the two sisters would be laughing in each other's arms, the argument forgotten.

But Valerie knew there would be no such ending this time. She fingered a tassel on the sofa cushion in Beth's elegantly appointed living room. "I don't know how to convince you, Beth. I really do think this is what God wants me to do. Surely you can understand that?"

Her sister sat beside her, stony and silent.

Valerie reached to put a hand on Beth's arm. She cracked a smile. "I seem to remember you feeling the same way about your decision to marry a certain Dean Windham." It was her trump card and she felt a little guilty playing it.

"That was different, Val, and you know it."

"Why was it different? It changed your life every bit as much as going to Haiti will change mine."

"It just is." Beth actually stamped her foot, though the plush carpet muffled the impact. "It wasn't dangerous to marry Dean."

"Remember what Grandpa used to say?"

Beth stared at her blankly.

She quoted their Grandpa Austin. "Any step you take outside of God's will is far more treacherous than a step within His will in the most dangerous place."

"But how do you know this is in God's will? You can't be sure."

"How did you know it was God's will for you to marry Dean?" she fired back.

"I...I just did," Beth sputtered. "And I think time has proven that I was right."

Valerie softened her voice. "I know you were right, Beth. I don't doubt that for a minute. You and Dean have a marriage--a family--that anyone would envy. But don't you see? God hasn't given me that. And there has to be a reason. Maybe this is it. Maybe that's why things didn't work out with Will...And besides, I can't just ignore what happened that day during chapel."

Beth sighed. "I just don't want to see you get hurt again, Val. This time it could be a lot more than a broken heart. You could die over there!" Emotion fractured her words and she sniffed back the tears.

"Oh, Beth." She closed the space between them on the sofa and gave her sister a hug. "I'm glad you care about what happens to me. I'll miss you so much. You're one of the biggest reasons I'd consider not going. But I don't think I have a choice."

Beth shook her head, but Valerie felt her relax a little, and sensed resignation in her posture.

She released her sister from her embrace and drew back. "I haven't decided for sure. And I promise I won't do anything until I'm positive I'm not just running off on my own."

Beth remained stone-faced.

Valerie decided it was time to change the subject. "Hey, you know that doctor I met in Haiti? Dr. Jordan?"

Beth perked up. "Dr. Botox? Hey, I meant to tell you...There was something on the news last week about him being on that plane that almost crashed. Did you hear about that?"

Valerie stiffened, her blood running cold. "What plane? What happened?"

"There was something wrong with the cabin pressure or something. They had to shut down the airport and make an emergency landing. I saw some of the tail end of the video on Channel 7, and then the paper said that Dr. Jordan was on the flight. At least his picture was in there. I haven't heard anything else about it, but it scared me when it came on the news because I knew you'd be flying back from Haiti soon, too."

Valerie put her hands to her mouth, her mind reeling. "Is he okay? Is Max okay?"

"Valerie?" Beth's eyes widened. "Are you all right? You're white as a sheet."

What had Beth said? The papers said Max was on the flight? But there must have been dozens of Chicagoans on that flight. Why would they single out one passenger? Unless he'd been hurt. Or killed. Valerie started to tremble. "Beth, was anyone killed in that crash? Was Max hurt?"

"Max?" Beth reared back and studied her. "Whoa! Just how well did you know this guy."

"Be serious, Beth. Is he okay? Is he? You've got to remember."

Beth gave her a funny look. "Valerie, what's wrong? You're shaking like a leaf. Are you feeling okay?"

"Just tell me, Beth! What happened?"

Beth shifted on the sofa and eyed her, looking confused. "I don't think anyone was killed. I really don't remember. We can do a search online for the news story. Maybe it will tell us."

Suddenly Valerie remembered her cell phone. She jumped off the sofa and ran to the kitchen for her purse. She heard Beth behind her muttering questions.

She dug her phone out and turned it on. She'd only used it once since Max had given it to her--to call Beth from the airport just last night. Now she'd never been so glad to have anything in her life.

She searched the keypad, trying to figure out how the memory feature worked. The phone lit up and within seconds her fumbling attempts produced Max's name and phone number on the LCD readout. She punched Send.

The phone rang four times, an eternity passing between each burr.

"Good morning. Jordan Center for Aesthetic Surgery. How may I help you?"

He'd given her his office number. "Um...Is Max Jordan--Dr. Jordan--available?"

There was a moment's hesitation on the other end--a moment in which Valerie imagined the worst.

"May I ask who's calling please?"

"This is Valerie Austin." Her heart thundered in her chest, and she mentally braced herself, dreading what she might hear.

"Perhaps I can help you," the calm, feminine voice said.

"Are you a patient of Dr. Jordan?"

"No, no, I'm...a friend. Is...is he okay? I heard he was in a plane crash."

"I'm sorry..." The friendly voice turned cautious. "What did you say your name was?"

Her pulse raced. "Valerie Austin. I met Max in Haiti...Could I speak with him? Please?"

"Just a moment, please."

Strains of Mozart filled her ear as she was put on hold. She watched the clock on Beth's kitchen wall tick off four minutes. Four of the longest minutes of her life.

The music cut off abruptly.

A deep, sweetly familiar voice came over the line. "Valerie?"

She crumpled into the nearest chair, every muscle suddenly turned to pudding.

It was Max.

Chapter Thirty-Three

"Valerie? Is that you?" Max rose from his desk. With the phone still to his ear, he quietly closed the door to his office before plopping back down in the high-backed leather chair.

"Max? Hi. Oh, I'm so happy to hear your voice!"

He swiveled to face the expansive window. The sky was gloomy outside his seventeenth-floor office, but suddenly it seemed as if the sun had split open the bank of gray clouds.

"Valerie? Where are you?"

"I'm here. In Chicago. At my sister's. Beth heard you were in a plane crash! Is that true? Are you okay? What happened?" Her litany of questions gathered steam.

Max had the odd impression that she was on the verge of tears.

"Oh, I was so worried! I hope it's okay that I called you at work, but that's the number you gave me and--"

"Whoa! Whoa! It's okay...slow down." He laughed, but he was touched by the concern in her voice. And equally relieved to hear that she was safe on American soil. He'd watched the news of ongoing violence in Port-au-Prince with alarm, knowing she would be trying to fly out of the capital.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," he assured her. "The plane didn't actually crash, but we had to make an emergency landing. There were a few tense moments." That was the understatement of the year. He sobered, thinking of the sheer terror he'd felt that morning hanging over the fathomless sea. Oh, he had so much to tell her.

"What happened?"

"Could I tell you all about it over dinner some night? How long are you in the city for?"

She faltered for a split second, but before he had time to wonder at the reason for her hesitance, she answered eagerly.

"I'd love to see you, Max. But I'm driving back to Kansas City on Wednesday. Do you have a free night before then?"

He felt elated hearing her voice again. He'd remembered it exactly--that buoyant, chipper tone that matched the proverbial rose-colored glasses through which she always seemed to view life.

He didn't have to look at his calendar to know that there was nothing on it that couldn't be changed. No one would think twice if he didn't show up for a dull meeting of the bank board he served on, or a gala fund-raiser for the arts council.

Suddenly he couldn't wait to see her. "What are you doing tonight?"

"Tonight? Oh my."

"Would that work? Dinner? Maybe seven o'clock?"

"Well...I don't think Beth has anything planned. Let me check. Just a minute."

He heard the effusive murmur of women's voices and in a minute she came back on the line. "Tonight would be perfect."

She gave him her sister's address in Willowbrook. He swiveled his chair around to jot the information on a pharmaceutical company's notepad.

"I'll try to get us in at this new Italian bistro that opened up in Winnetka," he told her. "Nothing too fancy, but I think you'll like it."

Silence.

"Valerie?"

"I'm so glad you're okay," she said again, her voice almost a whisper.

Oh, if she only knew the half of it.

"What am I going to wear, Beth?" It crossed Valerie's mind that it would be fun to see the look on Max's face if she wore the gingham skirt he'd seen her in a dozen times in Brizjanti. But she'd left it behind at the orphanage, not caring if she never saw it again.

"You can borrow something of mine," Beth said. "Come on...let's go see what we can find before Dean and the kids get home." Her sister started down the hall to the bedroom, then stopped in the middle of the hallway and spun to face Valerie.

"Oh my goodness. I still cannot believe my sister is going out with Dr. Botox himself! This is incredible!" she squealed.

"Stop it, Beth. He's just an ordinary man. And besides, we're not 'going out.'" She chalked quotation marks in the air to emphasize her point. "I'm just having dinner with him. I'll probably never see the man again after tonight."

Beth merely squealed louder, grabbed Valerie's hand and dragged her into the large walk-in closet in the master bedroom.

An hour later, Valerie emerged from the guest room to study her reflection in the long hall mirror. Beth's pale olive-green pantsuit was a perfect fit. The silk jacket was embossed in a deeper shade of green and she wore a sleeveless sweater underneath. It felt strange to be putting on sweaters and jackets after three weeks in Brizjanti's tropical heat, but she liked the feel of the cashmere and silk against her skin.

She'd brushed her hair into a smooth chignon, pulling a few wavy tendrils out to frame her face. And she'd put on a little makeup for the first time in a month. She felt feminine and pretty, and excited to see Max. It seemed much longer than a week since they'd said goodbye in front of the gate at Hope House.

She nervously twisted the silver earrings Beth had loaned her and checked her watch. Max would be here in a few minutes. She went out to the kitchen where Beth was stirring something on the stove and Dean was sorting through a stack of mail.

Her brother-in-law looked up and gave an appreciative wolf whistle.

"Oh, stop." She felt her cheeks warm, but she turned a pirouette in the middle of the floor.

"You look gorgeous, Val." Beth wiped her hands on a dish towel and came to fuss with the back of Valerie's hair.

Valerie's teenage nephews clumped up from the basement family room.

Nick skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs.

"Whoa, Aunt Val! You're lookin' phat."

"Yeah, extremely phat," Jake echoed.

She feigned a scowl. "You guys better mean that the way I think you mean it."

Beth laughed. "Don't worry, sis, it's a compliment."

"Yeah, I know. Will's junior-high kids at church speak the same weird language. I'm getting pretty good at interpreting."

An unsettling image of Will's roguish, laughing face evaporated at the chime of the doorbell. Valerie's hands grew clammy and her heart skipped a beat. Max was here.

"Now you boys behave," Beth warned.

The entire Windham family paraded behind Valerie into the foyer.

She opened the door to a gust of wintry air. Max stood on the porch grinning. "Hi," he said.

"Max. Hi." She couldn't stop smiling. She wanted to rush and wrap her arms around him, but instead, she invited him in and introduced her sister's family.

The boys--and Beth--managed to behave, and ten minutes later, she and Max were in Max's Maserati on I-294 headed for Winnetka.

Max reached to turn down the CD player. "So how have you been?"

"I'm fine," she said. "It's you who needs to answer that question." She adjusted her seat belt and shifted in her seat to face him. "What happened with the plane?"

He shook his head and blew out a breath, as if the memory was disturbing. "We had some kind of mechanical problems...something with the pressurization system. We had to make an emergency landing in Miami."

"In Miami?"

He nodded.

"Oh, I must have misunderstood Beth. I thought it happened in Chicago. But Beth said your picture was in the Tribune."

He grunted. "It was."

"Why? Were you hurt?" He looked the picture of health sitting beside her.

"Valerie..." He paused, as if composing his words carefully.

"Pretty much anything I do gets my picture in the paper in this town. It's not something I've sought, but I have a lot of people with clout for patients, so publicity isn't hard to come by. And...I have money. Lots of it. You might as well know that."

As if the Maserati wasn't a dead giveaway. But she gave him a teasing smile. "You say that like you're confessing a grievous sin."

"Well, when I'm with you, it feels like a grievous sin."

She flinched. "Why would you say that?" His remark stung and she couldn't keep the hurt from her voice.

He reached over and touched her arm. "I didn't mean anything against you," he said. "It's just that...your values are so different. Honorable. And altruistic. You make me feel like a greedy slouch by comparison."

"Oh, Max. Stop. I know you better than that."

"No. You don't." He trained his eyes on the road. "Can we change the subject?"

"Sure." She smiled. "What do you want to talk about?" Chicago hadn't changed their way with each other, that was for sure.

"I have something to tell you," he said, brightening. "I think it'll make you very happy."

She looked at him askance, questioning. "What is it?"

He pointed to the exit ahead. "We're almost at the restaurant. Why don't we wait?"

She was boiling over with curiosity now.

Max took the Dempster Street exit and a few minutes later pulled into the parking lot of a quaint-looking building with candles glowing in every window. Outside, twinkling lights traced the tree branches.

"Ooh, this looks wonderful," she said.

"I think you'll like it." Max got out and came around to open her door.

She was glad she'd left the red gingham skirt in Haiti.

Inside the restaurant, the hostess greeted Max by name. "Dr. Jordan. Welcome." She included Valerie with a nod, inspecting her a moment longer than necessary. "Your table is ready," the woman said. "Follow me please."

The hostess led them to a cozy booth in the back. Quiet music--what Valerie thought of as "elevator music"--played in the background, barely audible. The table was set with red votive candles and a flask of olive oil. Their server, a teenage boy, brought a crusty loaf of bread and a plate of roasted garlic and herbs that he poured the oil over.

She watched Max, sophisticated and self-assured. Different than he'd been in Haiti, yet familiar, too. He tore the loaf of bread in two, then quartered it and offered her a hunk.

She dipped it in the savory oil, and took a bite. She waited while he did the same, anticipation building for what he was going to tell her.

A familiar sound made her start. Beside them, a busboy cleared off a cluttered table, two brown beer bottles grasped in his left hand while he wiped the table with his right. The brown bottles clattered against each other with a pleasant resonance. "Listen, Max. It's the pop-bottle song."

He wrinkled his brow. "The what?"

"The pop-bottle song. Remember how the boys in the market rattled a bottle opener against the soda bottles trying to get someone to buy? In Brizjanti...?"

But the busboy set the bottles in a plastic tub, stilling their melody. They were back in Max's world now.

Nodding politely, he pulled off a bite of bread and chewed slowly. He wiped his mouth and smiled across the table at her.

Later, when the server brought their drinks, Max looked over his menu at her. "Do you mind if I order for you?"

"Please. I'd like that."

When the boy left with their orders, Max took a sip from his glass, then leaned toward her. "I want to tell you about the airplane, Valerie...the emergency landing."

There was something in his voice that made her hold her breath in anticipation.

"I thought I was a goner." He swallowed hard. "I mean I truly thought we were going down."

"Oh, Max. I had no idea."

He told her how the smoke alarms had gone off and the lights had dimmed in the cabin. "Then the oxygen masks dropped down and people started to panic. There was a point where the captain and the flight attendants were preparing us for an emergency landing. I...I looked at that girl's face--the flight attendant--and I knew she fully expected that we were going down. Into the sea--"

He stopped speaking abruptly and Valerie realized he was struggling to keep his emotions in check. She waited, feeling close to tears herself.

"I'm supposedly a powerful physician, and at that point, there wasn't a--a blessed thing I could do for anybody. So you know what I did?"

She shook her head slowly, entranced with his story.

"I started thinking about all the things you told me when we talked in Brizjanti. How you said that believing in God wasn't what was important--that it was a relationship with God that I needed." He cocked his head and smiled.

She could tell he was enjoying the telling of his story.

"I have never been so scared. For the first time in my life, I found myself wishing there was someone in the seat beside me to tell me what to do. But--I had that Bible you gave me in my briefcase under the seat in front of me. I remembered your famous, desperate 'flip' method and that's exactly what I did. I just flipped it open--" he pantomimed the movement with expressive hands "--as randomly as any book has ever been flipped."

He peered up at her from beneath knitted brows and flashed a sheepish smile. "That's what I was looking for when I opened that Bible--a relationship with God." He shrugged. "I realize now that's what I've been looking for all my life. But the crazy, wonderful thing is..." He shook his head as if grasping the truth of what he was telling her all over again. "God met me in that instant."

"Oh, Max..." Valerie's heart beat faster.

"I landed in the book of Romans...chapter eight. Only I took your crazy method a step further. I didn't just start reading at the top of the page." He thumped his chest. "This highly educated, incredibly intelligent, rational physician closed his eyes and aimed his finger at the page like a dart."

She laughed, leaning forward, hanging on every word.

"My finger landed on the thirty-ninth verse." He scrubbed his face with his hands before looking her in the eye. "Do you know what that verse says, Valerie?"

Not daring to breathe, she shook her head. "Tell me."

He stared off someplace behind her quoting slowly, expressively from memory. "'Whether we are high above the sky or in the deepest ocean, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.'"

She gave a little gasp and tears sprang instantly to her eyes. "Oh, Max..."

He shook his head, his expression turning serious. "It was a stupid, desperate thing to do--opening the Bible at the eleventh hour when I'm just sure my plane is going down. And--obviously as it turns out--we made it down okay. Nobody was even seriously injured." He thought for a minute. "You know, I don't necessarily even believe that God miraculously spared me from a fatal crash."

She furrowed her brow, not sure where he was going with that.

"The point is he spared me from something equally fatal. He saved me, Valerie. In that very moment. From myself. From all my selfishness and greed...everything."

Valerie's heart pounded, soared, took off. It had happened. Max had finally met the Savior face-to-face.

He rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. "There are over thirty-one thousand verses in the Bible, Valerie. I looked it up. What do you think the chances are that I would randomly open to that one verse in that moment when I was literally high above the sky, and hanging over the ocean?"

A bubble of joyous laughter climbed her throat and escaped. "Oh, Max. I'm so happy." Her tears took her by surprise and she swiped them away with the back of her hand.

Max reached for her right hand, held it between both of his. When he finally spoke again, his voice was ever so wobbly. "Thank you." It was a whispered breath. "Thank you, Valerie, for not giving up on me. For not tiptoeing around me because I was a doctor, because I was more scientific, more intelligent, more--"

"Hey! Wait just one minute..." She laughed through her tears, feigning indignation.

He squeezed her hand and grinned. "That didn't come out quite right, did it?"

"Oh, it came out perfect. Just perfect."

Chapter Thirty-Four

Max watched Valerie, following her as she wove her way through the maze of tables to the front of the restaurant. In Brizjanti, as much as he'd been attracted to her wholesome good looks and her easygoing personality, there'd always been the niggling notion that she didn't belong in his world. With her cotton skirts and tennis shoes and hair pulled into a messy ponytail, she would have been as out of place in Chicago as a string of plastic pop beads in Tiffany's. Tonight, in a green silk suit and understated jewelry, her easy grace came off as elegance. With an upswept hairdo and wearing a touch of mascara and lipstick, she was turning heads.

He found himself entertaining fantasies he had no business entertaining. He'd always despised men who went after women young enough to be their daughters. It seemed like such a desperate last grasp at youth. From things she'd said, he didn't think Valerie was quite that young, but she was probably at least a dozen years younger than he.

The hostess nodded and thanked them for coming as they passed through the foyer. Max hurried ahead and opened the outer door for Valerie.

A gust of cold wind whipped around them and Valerie wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. "I really should have brought a coat," she said. She led the way across the parking lot at a brisk pace.

Max caught up with her and casually put an arm around her shoulders, guiding her to the passenger side of the Maserati. The feel of her slender form so close filled him with longing. It was all he could do not to pull her to himself and kiss her.

He let out a hot breath of relief when she slipped from beneath his arm and stood aside waiting for him to unlock her door.

Valerie gasped as another icy gust swirled around them just as he opened the car door. She looked up at him, laughing at herself. Her laughter was musical, contagious. Their breaths formed misty clouds that mingled and hung in the air between them, catching the reflections of a thousand tiny lights twinkling in the trees overhead. There was something almost magical about the moment. He wished he could make time stand still.

He shook off the enchantment with a decisive shudder. He closed Valerie's door and went around and slid behind the wheel.

"I loved the restaurant," she said, as he backed out of the parking space. "Thank you, Max. It was an unforgettable evening."

"And it's not over yet," he said. Even though the drive back to her sister's would take close to an hour, he wasn't willing for their time together to end. He glanced at his watch.

"Would you like to go somewhere for coffee?"

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. But she nodded. "I'd like that. Maybe there's a place closer to Willowbrook though? I don't want to be too late getting back. Beth will worry."

He wondered what her sister had told her about him, then felt like a schoolboy for wondering. "Sure. We'll head that way."

When they got out of city traffic and back on the interstate, Valerie shifted in her seat and turned toward him as she had earlier. They made small talk between comfortable silences, capturing the easy way they'd found with each other in Brizjanti. He felt her eyes on him whenever he spoke, but instead of making him self-conscious, it made him feel as though every word he uttered was brilliant.

What was wrong with him? He hadn't had this lovesick-puppy feeling about any woman since Janie. He wasn't even sure he'd ever felt this for her--even before they'd married. They'd been so young. And things had soured so quickly after Janie got pregnant and he'd had to lay out of college that semester. They'd never really recovered. It had gone downhill from there.

He felt as though he were in a physical battle, beating down a voice that kept praising Valerie's qualities, kept whispering how nice it would be if she were in his life. It was a ridiculous fantasy. He'd had enough psychology in med school to guess that his juvenile infatuation with Valerie Austin was probably misplaced gratitude that she'd been instrumental in helping him find his way to God. He had to get his mind on something else. Had to quit thinking of her that way.

The neon flash of a Starbucks sign caught his eye. He slowed the car. "Is Starbucks okay?"

"Sure."

He pulled into the shopping center and parked in front of the busy coffee shop. Inside, the booths were all occupied by couples who looked like they were there for the duration. A group of college girls had put three tables together and chattered noisily, but there was no queue at the counter.

He ordered a decaf and a cappuccino for Valerie and they carried their drinks to a small round table near a window. She sipped her coffee and stared out the window to watch the traffic on the street.

"You're awfully quiet all of a sudden," Max said, worried that he'd said something wrong.

She gave him an uncharacteristically shy smile, but didn't say anything.

"Is everything okay?"

"I just...have a lot on my mind."

Max unfolded a paper napkin and placed it on his lap. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She was silent for a minute, then shook her head. "Thank you, but I don't think so. Not yet."

"Are you anxious to get back home?" He was grasping for something to talk about, feeling uncomfortable at her sudden reticence.

"To Kansas City?"

"Well, I meant back to your sister's, but--"

She laughed nervously. "Oh, no. I'm sorry. I'm enjoying the coffee. I'm fine."

"And Kansas City?"

She took another sip of coffee. He got the feeling she was buying time. When she looked up, there was an odd glint in her eyes, as though she were testing him.

"I'm not sure I'm going back to Kansas City, Max."

"What?"

"I mean, of course I'll have to go home and tie up some loose ends. But...I think God wants me to go back to Haiti."

"What do you mean? For good?"

"Maybe. I'm still sorting it out, but yes, probably for good."

He felt his jaw drop, but he seemed powerless to close his mouth. "You're kidding," he said finally. He had a strange sense of deja vu. Valerie's words were too close to the ones Joshua had spoken three years ago when he'd called to break the news that he planned to remain in Brizjanti.

Max had no claim on Valerie, and their friendship did not give him the right to offer his opinion. But he couldn't sit here and say nothing. "So, when did this all come about? How can you just up and leave--your job, your sister...?"

"I...I'm not sure. I haven't thought all the details through yet."

"Well, maybe you ought to do that before you go making rash decisions." He felt an old, familiar anger rising in him--a fury like that he'd felt when Josh had delivered his news. He hated the feeling. It brought back everything he'd spent the last year trying to forget. Everything he'd gone to Haiti to put to death once and for all. Everything he thought he'd surrendered on that airplane over the Atlantic. Why did she have to do this to him?

He stopped and waited while a waitress wiped off the vacant table next to them.

When the girl left, he looked up, waiting until Valerie met his eyes. "What is in Haiti for you anyway?" he asked. "Are you sure you're not just trying to avoid dealing with what's waiting back home?"

She studied him, her eyebrows arched, as if the anger in his voice surprised her. She dipped her head, and he had the impression she was trying to decide whether or not he deserved a reply. He knew the answer to that. Of course he didn't. This was none of his business. Her decision had nothing whatsoever to do with Max Jordan. Why did that bother him so much?

She finally looked up, eyeing him cautiously, then glancing around the coffee shop. "Could we take our coffee and go somewhere...somewhere where we can talk? Maybe just for a drive?"

"Fine." He didn't trust himself to stay out of her business. She didn't deserve a lecture. It was her life. What did he care what she did with it? He pushed back his chair and led the way out the door.

They were back on the freeway before Valerie spoke again. Now it was he who was surprised by the edge of anger in her voice.

"You asked what is in Haiti for me," she said, her eyes narrowing. "I'll tell you, Max. All my life I've only ever wanted one thing. I want children. Sure, I'd love to be married, to be a wife. But if I'm honest, that's always been secondary to the kids. I think I proved that with Will..."

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear this whole sob story. Please...Just take me back to Beth's."

He did want to hear it. Every word. He reached over and laid a gentle hand on her arm. The silk of her sleeve was soft beneath his fingers. He tried to make his voice match. "No. Please. I'm listening."

She smiled briefly and tilted her head, studying him, as though trying to gauge his sincerity. Apparently she was satisfied with what she saw on his face.

"Will didn't want kids. Ever. And I didn't love him enough for that to be okay. For a while, I thought I could change his mind, but he made it clear that wasn't going to happen."

"Ah. So what now?"

"I want to be a mommy, Max. I've wanted it since I was a little girl. Everything I've ever done in my life has just been a stepping-stone to that dream. I've watched my friends have babies in quick succession--and then spend the next years griping about how much trouble their kids were. It makes me furious. I used to think God was cruel, denying me the one simple thing I requested, and then giving it so easily to virtually every other woman I know."

She stopped abruptly. Her shoulders rose with the deep intake of breath before she spoke again. "Something happened before I left Brizjanti...It was..." She shrugged and shook her head.

"What? What is it, Valerie?"

"I don't know if I can make it make sense for you."

"Try me." The steam of his anger leached out as he heard the anguish behind her words.

It was dark, but the irises of her hazel eyes caught a glint of light from somewhere. She held his gaze, unflinching. "God showed me something a few days before I left Haiti, Max. Something that made me realize He's been working in my life all along. I just didn't understand what He was doing--how He was working."

She told him then what had happened...something about sewing some little shirts and dresses when she was a teenager...How, amazingly, they had shown up at Hope House while she was there. She'd looked around to see the children wearing them.

He watched her face, slowly absorbing what the import of the incident had been for Valerie. Even with only the dim glow of the streetlamps lighting her face, Max could see the resolve there.

And at that moment, he knew he had lost her as surely as he'd lost his son. He corrected his thoughts. He couldn't lose what he'd never owned. Only now did he see how deeply he longed for the privilege of being someone special to this woman. But it was too late. He'd lost his chance.

"I've never felt more sure about anything in my life, Max."

Her steady tone brought him back to the present. She gave a soft smile that caused a pang of lonesomeness to slice through him.

"With every day I'm back here, I only feel more certain that Brizjanti is where God wants me. Where He's called me. The kids there--" her voice caught "--they are the children I've prayed for all my life, for as far back as I can remember. They are what I've dreamed of. I just never understood it before."

He let out a deep breath, feeling all the elation of the evening seep out of him like air from a wilting balloon. "Valerie, if you'd told me this story a week ago, I would have said you'd lost your mind. I would have been angry. It...it's too much like Joshua." He reached across the seat for her hand. It felt like velvet against his fingertips. He turned to look at her before concentrating on the road again. "I have a different frame of reference now. I've seen--I've experienced firsthand--how God does guide us in amazing ways. I can't argue with that."

He glanced over at her again and saw that there were tears on her cheeks.

"Thank you, Max," she whispered.

There were too many obstacles standing between them. It was impossible that they could ever overcome them. He knew that. Yet, now, sitting so near to her, her hand warm and soft in his, he wanted to believe that, together, they could conquer anything.

The green LED readout on the dashboard flashed garishly as the clock clicked off a new minute. There wasn't enough time. And he was wasting the few moments they had left in futile hope. He forced himself to surrender his will. Nothing else should matter but the sweet friendship they'd shared. After all, because of her, the hope he'd found for his future was anything but futile.

Tomorrow there would be time to sorrow over what might have been between them. Tonight he would enjoy her presence, memorize her voice, her laughter. She'd given him so much in the short time God had allowed their friendship.

He would always be grateful.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Kansas City, Kansas, March 18

Valerie's footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors as she took one last walk through the empty apartment. Finding everything in order, she shut the lid on the last carton and propped it on one hip. She stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her. She'd expected to shed a few tears over leaving this place that had been her home for the past five and a half years. She had invested many an evening making her apartment cozy and welcoming, sewing curtains and slipcovers, and browsing the local antique shops and flea markets for what Will had dubbed "expensive junk." She saw now that he was right.

Her car was already loaded down with some of the things she knew Beth coveted--their mother's wedding dishes and some of Valerie's antiques and jewelry. The rest of her belongings had either been sold at her garage sale last Saturday or distributed among friends--most of whom thought she was out of her mind.

"At least put a few things in storage in case it doesn't work out," they'd told her. But none of it held any appeal to her anymore. As she'd marked her possessions with stickers for the sale, she marveled that she'd ever paid such exorbitant prices for some of her stuff. And marveled more that she'd invested so much energy in things. Cleaning things, fixing things, storing things, worrying about things.

The one treasure she would take to Haiti with her was her sewing machine. She had cleaned out the bargain bins at her favorite fabric store yesterday, and now her sewing machine case was stuffed full of fabric and notions and spools of thread. She would carry the case on the plane with her and if they lost her luggage this time, she'd just sew herself a new skirt. The thought made her smile. And think of Max.

Out in the parking lot, she put the carton in the trunk of her Toyota. Dean and Beth were buying the car for Nick--a transaction he'd declared totally phat, and his brother had declared totally unfair.

It was freeing really--getting rid of all the baggage of her life. Even without touching her 401K savings, after paying off her car and paying for her flight--a one-way ticket this time--she'd managed to end up with almost eight thousand dollars. It should be enough.

She would probably need to draw on her 401K earnings eventually, unless she could find sponsorship. She'd hatched a secret plan to bring Pastor Phil back to the States for tests and treatment for his heart condition. That would require a dip into her savings, too, but it would be money well-spent.

Over the weeks since she'd come back to Kansas City, she had sought the Lord about her decision, asking Him to close doors if she was not supposed to go. Sometimes it made her head spin to think of the lightning speed with which she'd gone from eager fiancee to single missionary, yet with every step she took toward returning to Brizjanti, she became more certain of her decision. There seemed to be something pulling her undeniably toward that little Haitian village.

She'd always heard people speak of longing for heaven, and she sometimes felt guilty because she'd never experienced that pull. She'd been too busy yearning for a husband and babies to give heaven much thought. Now, that longing had been transferred to the people of Haiti and especially the children at Hope House. She could hardly wait to jump rope with Monique and Daphney again, or to play catch with John-Wesley. Even washing down cinderblock walls and doing laundry by hand in the beastly hot sun with the older girls held a certain appeal for her. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell the pungent bar of lye soap and hear the rhythmic squish-squish of the soppy fabric as they worked it between their knuckles.

She hoped little Nino hadn't grown too much while she was gone. How her arms ached to hold him again. It wasn't exactly longing for heaven, but it felt like a step in the right direction.

Valerie pulled into the church parking lot and parked at the curb near Reverend Morris's office. The church was usually unlocked during business hours. The pastor had asked her to stop by the church before she left for Chicago. A friend had told her they'd taken up a special offering for her on Wednesday night, so she guessed he had a check for her. She was grateful--for the show of support for her decision as much as for the needed funds.

She locked her car and went in through the side door. She could see a light shining from Reverend Morris's office as she went down the hall. She braced herself for another emotional goodbye. She had halfway hoped that he wouldn't be in. The farewells were too hard.

"Valerie?"

A familiar voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned to look down the wide corridor that intersected the hallway. Her heart thudded to a halt.

"Will!" She couldn't think what to say next.

"How are you?" He came toward her, arms open.

She'd forgotten how handsome he was. How that crooked smile had always charmed her. How much she'd always liked the fact that he towered over her.

She let him hug her, but braced her arms against the warmth of his chest--and the heat of the emotions that were sure to follow. She couldn't deny that it felt good to have strong arms around her, and his low voice crooning his concern.

"I hear you're going back to Haiti."

She pushed away, and backed out of his embrace, clearing her throat, scrambling for words. "Yes. I'm just on my way out of town actually. What are you doing here on a Wednesday?"

"We're taking the youth group on a backpacking trip. Colorado. We're not leaving till the morning, but we wanted to pack up some of the food and stuff now so we can get an early start."

"Oh. Well...that's cool. Be careful. Have fun," she amended quickly. He didn't need her sounding like his mother.

He grinned and changed the subject. "So...You're staying over there? In Haiti?"

"Uh-huh." She couldn't meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Val." He dipped his head. "I mean, if this is my fault..."

She almost laughed. Did he realize how that sounded? But when she finally got up the courage to look up into his eyes, she saw the sincerity there and smiled--a genuine smile. "I'm not going to let you take that much credit, Will," she said. "We both got off track, but God's bigger than our missteps. I want to go to Haiti. I think it's where I was meant to be all along. I'm not running away. Don't think that for a minute."

He put out a hand in protest. "I--I didn't mean--"

"I know." She smiled. "It's okay. I just...I didn't want you to--" She grasped for the right words.

"I know. I'm sorry."

She waved off his apology. Had their conversations always been this stilted? She couldn't remember.

"Well...I'll be praying for you, Val. Are you sure it's safe to go over there? From what I've been hearing in the news things are pretty unstable and--"

Now she did laugh. "Will! Listen to yourself! You telling me to be careful? I don't think so."

He had the decency to blush before he joined in her laughter.

At the end of the east corridor, the swinging door to the church's kitchen opened and a young woman burst through. Valerie didn't know her name, but she recognized her as one of the vocalists from Sunday morning's praise band.

"Will? Oh, there you are." The girl started down the hall toward them. "I've been looking all over for you."

Will's color deepened and Valerie got the impression he was blushing for a different reason now.

"I'm right here," he said, stating the obvious.

He turned to Valerie with a sheepish look that told her everything.

"Val, um, this is Amanda Graves."

He didn't quite meet the young woman's eye when he introduced Valerie. But when Will spoke Valerie's name, if the spark of recognition in Amanda's expression hadn't made everything clear, her possessive hand on Will's arm would have.

Three months ago, Will had been planning a walk down the aisle with Valerie. Had their relationship meant so little to him that he'd already moved on to someone else? A hot stream of anger seethed through her. She tried to push it back, but it seemed unwilling to be quenched by the rational thought she force-fed it. Even though Will was two years younger than Valerie, this Amanda person didn't look like she could be a day over twenty-one. What was Will thinking? Obviously he wasn't. Her blood came to a rolling boil.

Valerie had a sudden image of the words she'd read in the book of Matthew just this morning: "How can you say to your brother, 'Let me take the speck out of your eye,' when all the time there is a plank in your own eye?" Hadn't she just gone to dinner a few weeks ago with an attractive doctor who was probably at least fifteen years her senior? And hadn't she entertained her share of romantic thoughts about Max Jordan? Ouch.

No, she had no entitlement to Will Concannon, nor any right to judge him. But all she wanted right now was to get out of here. Before she said something she'd regret.

She offered Amanda the sweetest smile she could muster. "Nice to meet you." She turned to Will. "I'd better go...I have a meeting with Reverend Morris."

"Oh...sure. Of course. Great to see you, Val. And good luck. I mean...God bless..."

"Goodbye, Will...Amanda." She gave a half wave and hurried on down the hall.

Chapter Thirty-Six

O'Hare International Airport, Chicago, March 19

Valerie said a teary goodbye to Beth and stood waving on the sidewalk as her sister pulled away from the curb. The goodbyes were growing tiresome.

She schlepped her luggage to the check-in counter, then, dragging her carry-on bag behind her, trudged to her gate. She had almost two hours before her flight left, but one never knew about Chicago traffic, so she and Beth had started out early this morning.

She bought a cappuccino and found a place in a quiet corner near her departure gate. She tried to read the paperback novel she'd brought, but her mind was too cluttered. The words on the page morphed into senseless gibberish.

She'd only had one night with Beth's family in Chicago, and she and her sister had stayed up into the early morning hours talking. She'd hoped to have a chance to see Max before she left, but there hadn't really been time, and she didn't want to raise the subject with Beth.

If Max had called her even once since the night they'd gone out to dinner, she would have wrapped things up in Kansas City a day sooner. But he hadn't. She hadn't expected him to, really. She knew how busy he must be. And she didn't want him to think her a pest by calling him.

She'd thought of him so many times in the last few weeks. Whenever she imagined her new life in Brizjanti, she had to remind herself that Max wouldn't be there. It was always a bit depressing to be hit by that realization.

She balanced her coffee on the empty seat beside her and checked her purse for her passport and ticket information. They were right where she'd put them, along with her driver's license. It seemed like eons since she'd journeyed out of the country the first time. What a difference between the two trips. She almost felt like a seasoned traveler this time. She was excited, but not really nervous. It was nice to know what to expect.

Flight announcements and security warnings echoed intermittently over the scratchy PA system, the "white noise" of an airport. She tried to read her novel again, but finally gave up when she realized that she'd read four pages without comprehending one word.

Her watch ticked off the minutes. She wondered if anyone had tried to call. She checked her cell phone. Max's phone. She smiled, thinking of his gift, and the special evening they'd shared here in the city a few weeks ago. Idly, she clicked through the list of numbers she'd programmed into the phone's memory before leaving--Beth and Dean's, the church office and some of her closer friends in Kansas City. Max's name and phone number popped up on the LED display.

It was eight-thirty. He'd probably still be making hospital rounds. Or did he even do that? She had no idea if his patients spent any time in the hospital. He'd not talked much about his work. She stared down at Max's office number on the keypad. On a whim, she pushed Call, then quickly punched End before the number finished dialing. What would she say to him if he took her call?

But what could it hurt? Surely he would be interested to know that she was headed back. Maybe he would have some advice about Pastor Phil's treatment. He had mentioned talking to a heart specialist he knew about Philip Greene's situation. She dialed again.

The phone rang on the other end and the receptionist answered in that polite, but mechanical voice Valerie had heard the first time she'd called Max. "Um, yes..." Her heart was suddenly racing. "Is Dr. Jordan available?"

"I'm sorry, he's with a patient right now. May I take a message and have him get back to you?"

"Oh, no. That's okay. I--I'm getting ready to fly out...out of the country. I'll get in touch with him later maybe."

"Could I tell him who's calling?"

She hesitated. "Thank you, but...that's not necessary. Thank you." She touched the keypad, disconnecting before the receptionist could protest.

It was silly to have called him in the first place. He was a part of the past. Like Will, Max Jordan had touched her life as it intersected with his, but now their paths had diverged. Max had moved on. Just as she needed to do. Her future stretched out in front of her, full of promise. She wouldn't look back. She would look only to the plans the Lord had orchestrated for her.

Tonight she would sleep in Miami, one step closer to her dream. One step closer to home.

The bumpy ride through Port-au-Prince took Valerie back to that January day she'd first set foot on Haitian soil. How different the circumstances were today.

She grinned at Samantha, who sat beside her, behind the wheel of the Land Rover. "It's so good to be back," she shouted, over the rush of air that poured through the open windows.

"Oh, Valerie, it's good to have you back. Betty is practically walking on air." She winked. "You'd think I was driving the Queen of England in for all the excitement over your arrival."

Valerie smiled at the picture Samantha's words painted, then turned serious. "How is Pastor Phil doing?"

Samantha's forehead furrowed. "He was sitting up in their living room the last time I was at Hope House, but according to Betty, he's barely able to leave the house without becoming breathless and exhausted."

Valerie decided to share her secret plan with Samantha. Maybe the young nurse would have some ideas how to accomplish it. "I want to try to get Pastor Phil back to see a heart specialist in the States. Max Jordan said he knew someone. I have a pretty healthy balance in my 401K and..."

Samantha shook her head. "I don't think you're going to have much luck. I've mentioned that possibility before and he and Betty are both adamant that he won't leave Haiti."

"Yes. Betty told me that, too. She said he couldn't go back. I wonder what she means by that?"

"I don't know," Samantha said. "She told me the same thing. Said it wasn't her story to tell."

"Maybe he's afraid to fly?"

"I don't know. I've been trying to stop in and check on him at least once a week. Betty has him on a special 'heart-healthy' diet she read about in some American magazine. I can't see that it's helping. Of course, she probably can't get half the foods this diet prescribes."

Valerie's heart went out to Betty Greene. How frightening it must be to watch the man you love suffer and go downhill, and feel powerless to do anything about it. "She must feel desperate to do something--anything at all."

"I'm sure that's true," Samantha agreed. "He has terrible edema--swelling--and when I listen to his heart it sounds like he's drowning." She gave a little shudder. "I don't know how much longer he can go on like this."

"Is there anything the hospitals here in Port-au-Prince could do for him?"

Samantha sighed. "Betty said he spent a couple days in a hospital here a few years ago. They were pretty sure he'd had a heart attack. That's when these problems first started."

"Max said there might be medicines that could help?"

Samantha nodded. "A couple of years ago Josh--Dr. Jordan's son--examined him and--"

Valerie heard the catch in Samantha's throat and glanced over at her. It was obvious that even now, the mention of Joshua Jordan was painful. Poor girl.

"Josh was able to get him on some form of diuretics. Betty thought they really did make a difference, but it's been so hit-and-miss, depending on whether they can get hold of the prescription. The pharmacies here have a hard time getting certain drugs and most doctors in the States aren't going to refill a prescription without seeing the patient. I've tried to do some research on the Internet, but there are so many different things it could be." She shrugged. "Without a proper evaluation by a doctor, I have no idea how to help him."

The sites along the road began to look familiar to Valerie. They were almost to Brizjanti. The sun had dipped below its apex, but there were still several hours of daylight remaining. She was relieved they would arrive long before dark.

She spotted the bright landmark of a painted billboard on the side of a decrepit building in Brizjanti's market. She heard clinking pop bottles and a young entrepreneur grinned at them from the side of the road, rattling his bottle opener faster against the glass as they passed. It sounded to Valerie like a homecoming serenade. Her throat swelled with excitement. When they rounded the next bend in the road, she would be able to see the gates of Madame Duval's and beyond, Hope House.

Samantha smiled over at her. "Excited?"

She bounced playfully up and down in the passenger seat. "I can hardly wait."

Samantha passed by Madame Duval's and drove right up to the gate at Hope House. She tooted the horn politely, then laid her palm on it and let it blare, beaming at Valerie all the while.

Valerie turned to see Henri dash to the gate, his white smile glinting from his shiny black face. He unlocked the gate and swung it open, then stood aside while Samantha steered the Rover through.

Samantha pulled up beside the watchman's shed and turned off the ignition. Valerie got out and went around to the back of the Rover for her luggage. But before she could get the hatch open, she heard a commotion up at the main building.

She looked up to see three little girls running toward her from the orphanage. Their dresses were bright spots of yellow and purple and blue on the scorched grass of the courtyard.

"Miss Valerie! Miss Valerie!" They called out their welcomes in lilting Creole. The musical sound almost brought Valerie to tears.

Samantha met her at the back of the Rover. "You go," she said, giving Valerie a playful shove. "Henri and I will bring your luggage. You go!"

Valerie gave her a quick hug and trotted to meet the girls. It was Monique and Daphney and another little girl about their age.

"N-ap fe yon fet pou ou. We made you a party," they cried. A little thrill went through her as the Creole words registered in her brain.

The girls took her by the hand and escorted her into the dining room. There, Valerie let the tears fall as she saw the circle of faces that waited to greet her. Betty Greene, Sarah and Jaelle, and some of the other teenage girls stood near a table laden with cakes and cookies, clapping and cheering.

Monique tugged on Valerie's hand and led her to stand beside Betty. When they'd positioned her just so, Monique took her place with the other children and they all burst into song, almost shouting out the lively chorus Valerie had heard them sing on the not-so-long-ago afternoon in chapel, when she'd first felt God's true call on her life.

She closed her eyes and let the tears roll down her cheeks, an overflow from a heart too full to contain all the joy inside her.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chicago, Illinois, June 9

Max Jordan went to the window and looked down at the traffic crawling along Lakeshore Drive. He closed his eyes. Something about this view had started to depress him. It was a scene he'd once found exhilarating and inspirational. Now, the never-ending procession of automobiles carrying an oblivious mass of humanity seemed to symbolize everything that was wrong with the world. No. Not what was wrong with the world. What was wrong with his world.

He thought, as he did several times each day, of Valerie, and wondered what she was doing at this moment. Was she safe? Was she happy? He smiled to himself. Of course she was happy. He'd never known Valerie Austin to be anything but joyful.

He, too, had a newfound joy. There was no denying the difference it had made to finally surrender his life to God. He had started attending church, and just last week, he'd joined the men's prayer group that met on Wednesday nights. He was learning and growing in his faith almost faster than he could fathom. And it had changed everything...everything about his life.

But on days like today, when he looked out over the city and contemplated the amazing ways he'd been blessed, he had an odd feeling that something was missing. Somehow the vastness of his wealth didn't seem like a blessing now that he had seen the other extreme.

Maybe it was just the fact that he'd started to realize that this world was no longer his home. Maybe his unease was a longing for heaven that the Bible talked about. But though he'd experienced a tremendous healing from the hurts of his past, there were still regrets so deep that no amount of time would heal the pain. No surgery could erase the scars. Perhaps those regrets were the source of his feelings of unrest. Maybe it just came with the territory. Sin--even forgiven sin--had consequences. Sometimes irreparable consequences.

He could never change the fact that his own greed and selfishness had destroyed his marriage to Janie. He could never go back and make things right with his only son. He could never change the fact that he had deeply hurt the people he loved most and had lost every chance to make things right.

A melancholy pall shrouded him. Just for a minute, he wished he could lock the doors to his clinics and get back on a Haiti-bound airplane. He'd wished a hundred times that the crisis that had finally softened his heart had happened on the flight into Haiti, instead of when he was leaving the country. How differently he would respond now, given the same opportunities he'd had mere months ago.

He had dreamed of the children of the Brizjanti orphanages more times than he cared to number. In his dreams, Rocky, who ran so courageously on the soccer field, was no longer lame. Max choked up realizing that Rocky's smile could not have been any brighter had his body been perfectly formed. The boy's joy didn't depend on two strong legs or success at the game. But what would his future be like without a strong body?

In Max's dreams, Samantha's little Birdy had a smile that rivaled Rocky's, the gaping hole in his face reduced to no more than a thread-thin scar. And though Birdy's scar existed only in a dream, Max somehow recognized that it remained for his sake--Max Jordan's sake. A reminder of what had been before.

Before what? The question ate at him. God, what does it all mean?

And then there was the dog. That mangy, skinny hound that had looked at him with such trusting eyes at the gate in front of Madame Duval's nearly every day. Why could he not get that dog out of his mind?

He turned from the window. He'd left a patient waiting in a treatment room, and his nurse would come looking for him soon. He glanced at the Thomas Tompion clock on his desk. There was a time when a mere glance at that clock had given him a sense of accomplishment. A feeling of having arrived. It was a fancy desk clock. A clock now rendered completely redundant by the digital display on his computer screen. But he'd paid almost a thousand dollars for it one day. Cash. On a whim...just because he liked the way it looked. And because he could. It was a place he'd always wanted to arrive at in life. And the day he'd bought it, that clock had scratched a place that had always itched inside him.

But the itch had come back. The next time he scratched it with a set of titanium golf clubs. Then the Maserati. And the house on the lake--a six-bedroom mansion for one man who was never home.

He slid open his desk drawer and pulled out the Bible. He still had the slim New Testament Valerie had given him before he'd left Brizjanti, but he'd gone into a Bible bookstore the day after the emergency landing and bought a complete Holy Bible. He shook his head as he looked down at the leather cover. The finest grain of Morocco leather and gold-embossed lettering. At two hundred dollars, it was the most expensive Bible the retailer had in stock. And he had peeled off the bills to pay for it without a thought. Only the best for Max Jordan.

He wanted to weep. How could he forget so soon the poverty of Brizjanti? The desperate needs of the children of the orphanage? The dire deficiencies of the hospital where Joshua had died? And here he sat with his thousand-dollar clock and his two-hundred-dollar Bible on a desk that cost three grand, waiting to see a patient who would pay him a pretty penny for a twenty-minute visit and a treatment that might last three months before she was back for another fix from the elusive fountain of youth.

Had faith changed anything about him? He tossed the Bible back in the drawer and went down the hall to do his job.

Brizjanti, Haiti, June 12

Valerie sat at the table in the dining room with Jaelle and six pre-teen Haitian girls. An array of everyday kitchen items was lined up down the middle of the table.

Valerie picked up an eggbeater and thought for a minute. "Batez," she pronounced.

"Oui!" the girls shouted in unison, clapping their approval.

Jaelle pointed to a fork.

Valerie closed her eyes. She'd seen the word only this morning as she studied the hefty pictorial Creole-English dictionary she'd brought back with her. "Let's see," she said, rubbing her hands together. "I know it starts with an F..."

"Oui, F." Several of the girls nodded encouragement.

Valerie gave a low growl. "Ooh...I can't remember. Give me a clue."

Jaelle laughed, but shook her head adamantly and shushed the younger girls. "Non." Valerie picked up the fork and turned it this way and that, as though the utensil would give her the answer itself.

She was learning Creole surprisingly quickly. Now that she knew she was here indefinitely, she'd buckled down with her study of the language. But after two months, she still understood far more than she could speak, and this word was being particularly stubborn. Finally, she threw up her hands in frustration. "I give up."

Jaelle looked around the table, giving tacit permission for the little girls to tell the answer.

"Fouchet!" they all yelled at the top of their lungs.

She slapped her forehead. "Oh, of course! Fouchet! I knew that. Fouchet! Fouchet!"

They tittered at her chagrined reply. When the laughter died down, Mariana held up a teacup.

"Ooh, ooh, I know that one. Tas te. Right?"

Seven dark heads bobbed affirmation. Daphney picked up a soup ladle and the game began again.

Ten minutes later, it was Valerie's turn to be the teacher. She put her index finger on her nose.

"Nose!"

She tugged on her ear.

"Ear!"

Flawlessly, they recited the English words for eye, lip, forehead, hands and feet.

"That's no fair." Valerie feigned a pout. "You're much better at this than I am."

Jaelle translated for the little girls. When she finished, Daphney slid from her chair and came around the table to put a comforting arm around Valerie.

"Oh, sweetie," she said, giving the little girl a hug. "I was just teasing. I'm fine." She looked up at Jaelle. "Can you tell her?"

Jaelle smiled. "She knows. She just wants an excuse to hug you."

Valerie pulled Daphney closer, suddenly feeling sure that God had brought her here as much for her own sake as for what she had to offer the children of Hope House.

Her days here had flown by, always busy with caring for the children and the dormitories, and with her study of the language and the Haitian culture.

The rainy season had begun and everyday life was more of a challenge with the phones and electricity out more often than not, and many of the roads into the city nearly impassable. In addition, rumors of unrest in Port-au-Prince were making the rounds. So far, they still felt safe to go into the market near Brizjanti for their weekly needs.

Valerie couldn't go there without remembering the first time she'd met Max. She wondered often how he was doing. She prayed for him every morning in her quiet time on the rooftop. She asked God to help him grow strong in his faith and to find lasting peace about Joshua's death. Sometimes she was tempted to pray that she and Max would have a chance to meet again. But it remained an unspoken prayer. She didn't see how that could be part of God's plan given the miles of ocean that separated them.

She thought of the oft-uttered Haitian farewell: Na we demin si-dye-vle. See you tomorrow, if God wills. It would have to be her attitude about Max Jordan. She had no right to wish for anything else.

Besides, she was happy. Truly, joyfully happy here. She was where God had placed her. She wouldn't wish for anything more.

The pounding came again, this time louder. Valerie struggled to climb from the deep valley of sleep. Someone was knocking on the door to her room. "Just a minute," she called. She rolled out of bed and stumbled to the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Betty, Valerie." Madame Phil's voice sounded strained and frightened.

She flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. The electricity was off again. She grabbed her flashlight from the nightstand and pulled her robe from the hook on the door. Wrapping the robe around her, she fumbled with the latch. "Betty? What's wrong? What time is it?"

"It's Phil." The older woman's face was ashen with fear. "He can barely catch his breath. And he's wheezing...I'm afraid his lungs are going to start filling up. I don't know what to do."

Valerie put an arm around her. "Do you want me to go get Samantha?"

"I don't know. We have to do something!" Her voice climbed an octave, obviously on the edge of panic. Valerie had never seen her so upset.

"Let me see if I can get through on my phone." She shone the beam of her flashlight along the wall where her cell phone was plugged in to its charger. They'd had very few hours of electricity recently and the phones had been out more often than not since the rainy season started, but with luck, her cell phone would hold a strong enough charge that it would work. If Samantha had her cell phone turned on.

Valerie punched in her number and waited. No response. She was starting to feel panicky herself. She didn't have the faintest idea what to do for someone in heart failure. She scrolled through the menu on the phone until she came to Max's number. Maybe he could tell them what to do.

She had his office number, but wouldn't there be instructions for reaching him in an emergency? She punched Send. After a minute, the recording gave a phone number to call in an emergency. She scribbled it on the pad and dialed again. Oh, Father, let him be home.

What time was it, anyway? She pointed the flashlight's beam on the clock on her nightstand. Two o'clock. She almost hung up. Max would surely be asleep, even though it was an hour earlier in Chicago. But she had to have help. She didn't know what else to do.

Finally, a sleep-drugged voice answered. "Yes? This is Dr. Jordan..."

"Max?"

Several seconds ticked off on the clock. She heard rustling on the other end, then, "Valerie? Is that you?"

"Oh, Max. You're there. Thank goodness."

"What's wrong? Valerie, what's wrong?"

"It's Pastor Phil. I...I haven't seen him yet, but Betty's here and she says he's having trouble breathing..."

Betty touched her arm. "Is that Dr. Jordan? Tell him Phil's blood pressure has been elevated for several days."

Valerie repeated the information to Max.

They had a clear connection and she could hear him moving about, opening a door, then muffled footfalls. She heard the burr of a computer being powered on. Oh, for electricity at the touch of a button!

"Hang on, Valerie," he said. "I'm checking a medical site online. Just a minute.... Is Madame Phil there with you?"

"Yes. Right here."

"Let me talk to her for a minute."

She handed the phone to Betty, who gave an update on Pastor Phil's condition.

Then she thrust the phone back at Valerie. "He wants to talk to you again."

Valerie took the phone. "I'm here, Max."

"From the sound of things, he probably needs to be on oxygen. Can you get him to a hospital?"

"I don't know how. The electricity is off and the phones are out. I can't get hold of anybody at Duval's. And even if I could, the roads have been terrible. We've had to go the long way around just to get to the market."

Max was silent for a minute before he sighed into the phone. "Then you're going to have to do the best you can with what you have there."

"Okay." She waited, relieved at the hope of something tangible they could do.

"You need to get him sitting up, if possible. If not, elevate the head of his bed. See if Henri can help you get some cinder blocks or something underneath it. The head ought to be a good eight or ten inches higher than the foot. That'll help keep the fluid from accumulating in his lungs."

"Okay...okay..." She carried the phone to the side of her bed where she grabbed her notebook and pen and jotted down his instructions.

"If Betty has any medication that he's been given in the past, find out what it is and call me back. He needs a diuretic and if she has any nitroglycerin, that might help, too. Have him take an aspirin, but limit his fluid intake for now..." He gave a low growl. "Hang on...I'm waiting for a page to load...Okay, this is a long shot, but I've got a site here that's showing some diuretic qualities in various herbs."

Max mumbled to himself, apparently scrolling through various Web pages in search of information. "It looks like if he's conscious and able to take anything by mouth, you might try having him chew some dandelion leaves or parsley root. Let's see...celery, dill, hawthorn, juniper...I don't know if any of those grow there, but according to this they are all natural diuretics. Maybe some cranberries?"

Valerie scribbled furiously.

"He really needs to be on oxygen," Max said. "If you can get him through the night, maybe someone can get him into Port-au-Prince to a hospital. At least they could get him on oxygen and get some basic medications started." He sighed. "I don't know what else to tell you, Valerie."

"Thank you, Max." She glanced over at Betty, who was hanging on every word. "We'll try what you said," she said into the phone. "You have my number, right?"

"Unless you've changed it."

"No. It's the same. Without electricity though, I don't know how long the phone will hold a charge. We'll run the generators if we need to."

"Okay. I'm going to call a specialist I know and see what he can tell me. I'll call you back as soon as I can." He gave her a cell phone number where he could be reached.

"Okay. Thank you. I'm sorry to wake you." She knew she needed to hang up, go with Betty to see Pastor Phil. But she dreaded cutting the connection to Max's voice. The cool-headedness she heard there gave her strength.

"Don't think anything of it. I'm sorry for the circumstances, but...It's good to hear your voice, Valerie."

"You, too," she whispered.

"I'll be in touch. And I'll be on my knees..."

Her heart soared with hope at that. He didn't just say, "I'll be praying." It sounded like a position he was familiar with.

She slipped on her sandals, and grabbed the flashlight and her notes from Max before ushering Betty from the room.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Philip Greene was lying on his back at an odd angle across the double bed, as though he'd tried to get up and, lacking the strength, had fallen back onto the mattress.

"Hello, Pastor Phil," Valerie said, taking his hand. "It's Valerie. Henri and Betty are here, too." His hand was cool and clammy--and swollen. She knew that wasn't a good sign, but felt completely inadequate to play nurse. She'd tried to call Samantha again while she and Betty walked across the courtyard to awaken Henri. There was still no response from either Samantha's cell phone or the phone in Madame Duval's office.

The elderly man opened his eyes and gave a grim smile. "I'm not doing so hot," he said.

Betty moved to the other side of the bed, her hair, like Valerie's, sodden from their jog through the rain to the cottage. "We've called Dr. Jordan...back in the States. He wants us to try a few things. Henri is going to raise the head of the bed."

Pastor Phil nodded, but remained supine on the bed while Henri lugged one of two cinder blocks to the side of the bed where Valerie stood. Betty came around to help and between the three of them, they got the bed propped up. Henri helped Philip Greene sit up on the side of the bed for a few minutes before reclining.

But it was as if every effort the man made was monumental. He went through the motions of sucking in great gulps of air, his shoulders lifting with each effort, but it was obvious that his airways were compromised.

Betty turned to the watchman. "Henri, could you go to the kitchen and see if we have any celery or dill seed? Or maybe a can of cranberry sauce in the pantry?"

The watchman nodded. "I start the generator also, Madame," he said, as he ducked through the door.

"Yes. Good. Thank you, Henri."

Valerie bent beside Pastor Phil's bed. "Ou manje jodia?" She shook her head, realizing with surprise that she'd used the Creole without even thinking. "Did you eat today, Pastor Phil?" she repeated in English.

He looked up at Betty, with a question in his eyes. "Did I, Betty?"

She shook her head. "Not much. A little tea and toast this morning."

On the way over, by the light of Valerie's flashlight, Betty had pulled up a mess of dandelions from the ditch outside the gate. Now she pinched off some of the green leaves, mashed them between her fingers and held the green wad to her husband's mouth. "Can you chew this, sweetheart?"

He balked. "Huh? What's this?"

"It's dandelion leaves. It's supposed to act as a diuretic. It might help."

He wrinkled his nose, but allowed her to put the leafy clump in his mouth. He chewed slowly.

Betty and Valerie fussed over Pastor Phil until he seemed to be breathing a little easier.

"Let's go have some tea," Valerie whispered.

Betty gave a worried glance at her husband, but she smoothed the sheets and followed Valerie into the small kitchen.

"Max thinks Pastor Phil needs to be on oxygen, Betty. In a hospital. I want to talk to you about something. I have some money in a savings account back home. It's not a lot, but I think it's enough to fly Pastor Phil back to the States and have some tests done."

Betty started shaking her head, but Valerie ignored her. "When Max calls," she continued, "I'm going to ask him to make the arrangements. I know there are people who would help work this out and--"

"No," Betty said, still wagging adamantly.

Valerie opened her mouth to protest, but Betty's harsh "No!" left her mute.

Betty held up a hand in tacit apology. "Valerie, you are sweet to make such an offer, but it's not possible. Please, do not mention this in front of Phil. It will only upset him. He won't go."

"But, Betty, he has to go. It might be his only chance. Why are you both being so stubborn about this?"

"Valerie." She heaved a sigh and her shoulders slumped. When she looked up, her eyes glistened. "It's not a matter of being stubborn. Phil can't go back to the United States because...because he faces the threat of a court-martial if he does." The words tumbled out as though they'd been pushed.

Valerie looked at her askance. "What?"

She shook her head. "It's true."

"But why? I don't understand."

A faraway look came to Betty Greene's eyes. "Phil's parents came to Haiti as missionaries in the thirties--after the American occupation ended," she started, then hesitated.

Valerie sensed that what she was about to say had been locked within her heart for a long time.

"They founded an orphanage in Port-au-Prince, and once it was established, they moved here to Brizjanti and opened Hope House. Phil was sixteen when they came. He spent several years working with them. But then the war came. He still felt strong loyalties to the United States, but he was torn--wanting to serve his homeland, but feeling loyalty to his parents, as well. And, too, I think he was beginning to feel God calling him to continue the work in Haiti."

Valerie listened, watching Betty carefully. The love for her husband shone through her eyes, through her expressive hands, as she unfolded his story for Valerie.

"Phil enlisted and was sent to England. He was there when he learned that his father had been in a freak accident while they were building the church."

"Our church?" Valerie hooked her thumb in the direction of the Brizjanti Christian Church where everyone from the orphanages attended en masse each Sunday.

Betty nodded. "The northern wall collapsed--where the baptistery is now--and Pop Greene was crushed. It was the rainy season. The ground was mud. You see what it's like." She gestured toward the window where rain still dripped from the eaves and slid down the glass.

Valerie nodded.

"Pop lived only a few days. He was gone by the time word got to Phil. I never knew him."

Again the older woman's eyes took on a vacant cast, staring into the past. "Phil knew that his mother could not run the orphanage alone. Priscilla was not a strong woman. She had almost imprisoned herself inside the orphanage, never really learning the language even. And a woman alone in those days was different. Phil feared for her life. And he carried deep guilt for having left her there--even though he couldn't have known what would happen."

She moved to the stove. "Let's make tea."

Silently they worked together, wiping cups and unwrapping the tea bags. They took their cups to the table and Betty continued her story--Phil's story.

"Phil tried to get permission to leave the army and go back to help his mother. When they didn't budge, he tried to find someone to go to Haiti and help her return to the States. But travel was much more difficult then, and Haiti was no more stable then than it is today. He met dead ends everywhere he turned. He became desperate. He felt...he felt that it was a worse sin for him to desert his family, his mother--and all the children at the orphanage she was responsible for--than it was to leave the army."

Through Betty's anguished voice, Valerie could hear some of the torment Philip Greene must have felt all those years ago. She was afraid of where the story was going, yet already she felt compassion for the young man Phil had been.

Betty set her teacup down and twisted her hands against each other in her lap. "Phil met a man in England who offered him passage on a ship leaving for Venezuela. From there he could find a banana boat to the West Indies. It seemed the only way." Betty sighed softly. "My husband--of course I did not yet know my Philip--but by the time he had thought through his rash decision, he was in the middle of Atlantic waters and it was too late to undo what he'd done. He was a deserter." The story poured out, as though she was relieved to tell it after all these years.

A spark of defiance came to her eyes. "He did what he thought was right at the time. Maybe if he'd sought counsel, there would have been another way. It was the desperate decision of a young man with a good heart. It took him almost three months to get back to Haiti. He was a broken man by that time. He promised God that he would serve Him here, at Hope House the rest of his days. And he has." Betty's voice broke.

Valerie set her own tea aside and put a hand over the frail, thin hands. "Oh, Betty...I didn't know."

Betty grasped her fingers. "Of course not. You couldn't have known. But it is a label Phil wears to this day, Valerie. Deserter. There is no statute of limitations on his crime. If Philip were to set foot on American soil, he could be arrested and jailed."

"But...your children? Some of them live in the United States, don't they?"

Betty smiled softly. "Our children come here to see us...when they can. It is not often enough. And we can't go to them. It is a consequence of Phil's decision that he mourns every day. Every day."

Valerie moved her chair closer to Betty's and reached to put an arm around her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Betty. We'll find a way to help him. There's got to be a way. Can't someone take his case before a judge? Surely all the years he's served so selflessly here count for something!"

Again, Betty sighed. "I thought the same thing, Valerie, but Phil won't think of asking to have his name cleared. The law is the law. It's been all I can do to keep him from talking about turning himself in sometimes."

Valerie raised her brows in alarm.

"The children of Hope House always bring him to his senses," she said, pushing herself up from her chair. She gave Valerie a thin smile. "We'd better go look in on our patient."

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Brizjanti, Haiti, June 13

Valerie watched Samantha's gentle ministrations as the young nurse moved the stethoscope over Pastor Phil's back, listening intently. Finally, she straightened, took the instrument from around her neck and tucked it in her pocket. "You can lie back, now, Pastor."

Valerie felt a nagging twinge of guilt that she'd been so helpless in the face of crisis. And it wasn't over yet. Though things seemed better in the light of day, especially now that the sun was shining and Samantha was here, she knew they still weren't out of the woods.

Last night had seemed interminable. Around 3:00 a.m., Henri had finally run through the rain to Madame Duval's and brought Samantha back with him. She brought a small case of over-the-counter samples that some visiting doctor had left at Madame Duval's, and she'd found several packets of a tablet meant to relieve menstrual cramps, bloating and PMS symptoms that contained a mild diuretic.

That drew a laugh from Betty. "Don't you ever tell Phil what you gave him or he'll die right there on the spot," she giggled. It was good to see her smile, even though Valerie cringed inwardly at her reference to Pastor Phil "dying." He'd come too close to that last night to joke about it.

The dose wasn't nearly strong enough and Samantha confided in Valerie that she only had enough to last the day if she gave it as often as prescribed. But at least for this morning, the congestion in the pastor's lungs didn't seem quite so pronounced.

"Betty, you need to get some rest," Valerie said, standing and putting a hand on the older woman's shoulder.

Betty Greene's face was almost as gray as her husband's as she sat watch over him in the tiny bedroom. "I'm okay," she said.

"Please, Betty." Samantha stepped in. "I don't want to have to be treating you next."

"But who will--"

"You just don't worry about any of it," Valerie said. "Everything will get taken care of. Samantha is going to sit with Pastor Phil for a while, and I'll go help with breakfast and getting the kids' activities going. You just lie down on the sofa and get some sleep."

A look of chagrin etched the older woman's face, but she sighed and looked up at Valerie. "Well, maybe I will lie down for just a bit."

Valerie followed her out to the living room to see that she did just that. The electricity had come on a couple of hours ago and Valerie turned on a small fan to circulate the air and muffle the sounds so Betty could sleep undisturbed. Within seconds, slow, even breathing filled the room, testifying to Betty's exhaustion.

Valerie heated water on the stove and washed the cups and saucers that had accumulated in the sink. She glanced at the clock. Almost seven. She needed to go help the kitchen staff with breakfast.

Drying her hands, she started for the bedroom to tell Samantha she was leaving. Samantha met her in the hallway, pulling the door partially closed behind her. She spoke in a low whisper. "What do you think, Val? Should we try to move him? I don't know what to do after those pills run out. I think we can get him comfortable in the back of the Rover, but it's going to be a long trip with so many roads out."

Valerie felt as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders with the decision. "Let me try to reach Max again," she said. Several times since dawn, she'd tried the cell phone number he had given her, but had got only his voice mail. She dialed. Her spirits sank when his voice mail picked up again. She left another message.

"Let's wait until after lunch, Samantha. Could we? The sun is shining. The roads might have a chance to dry up some and maybe we'll hear something from Max by then."

Samantha nodded her agreement. "But if we do decide to take him, we shouldn't leave any later than two or three. We're bound to have to take some detours and I don't want to be caught on unfamiliar roads after dark."

"Okay." She glanced at the clock again. "I'd better go help with breakfast. I'll bring some breakfast back before I go help with the kids. Can you wait that long to eat?"

"I'm fine," Samantha said, waving her away.

Valerie went across the courtyard to the dining room, dodging puddles as she went. She reminded herself to go collect some more dandelion leaves before she came back to the cottage. She wondered if they could be steeped for tea.

Breakfast went smoothly. Sarah and Jaelle assured Valerie they could handle the kids until lunch. She took a breakfast tray to Samantha and Betty, with a bowl of milky farina for Pastor Phil.

She was walking back to help with lunch when her phone rang. Max's number flashed in the LED display. Finally.

"Valerie? It's Max. How is Pastor Phil doing?"

"He's a little better, I think. Samantha is here." She told him what they'd done as treatment. "But there are only enough pills to last through today."

"Oh, but it sounds like they're working. That's good. Listen, Valerie, tell Samantha to stretch the dosages out...try to make them last through the night. I...I have some medicine and some oxygen equipment on a flight into Port-au-Prince right now. Hopefully you can stabilize him enough to fly him back to the States for treatment."

"Oh, Max. I don't think that will happen." She gave a brief account of Betty's revelation last night.

"Well, then...we'll just have to do the best we can getting the treatment he needs to Brizjanti."

"Oh, Max, thank you. You think he'll be okay here then? We don't need to take him to the hospital?"

"It's hard to say without having seen him, but I think at this point it's better if you can avoid moving him until he's stabilized. I think you'll see a marked improvement once he gets this drug in his system. And he'll be much more comfortable on oxygen. We can reevaluate the situation after that."

"Okay. Thank you so much...for everything. I couldn't have survived last night without your help."

"Yes, you could have, Valerie. You did fine."

Her throat closed and tears pricked her eyes. She swallowed them back. "Do we need to go pick everything up at the airport?"

"No, no...You stay there. I've arranged to have it delivered. The flight it's on arrives at eight-thirty in the morning, so we can hope it will be there sometime before noon. Pray there aren't any delays. How are the roads?"

She looked out beyond the gate. She'd seen a few trucks go by on the rutted road earlier this morning, but traffic was definitely not as heavy as usual. "No one here has been out yet today," she said, "but the rain has stopped and the sun is shining."

"That's all good."

She could hear the smile in his voice and for an instant, she would have given just about anything to see his face. "Thank you for everything, Max."

"Don't mention it. If you can just hold on one more night, I think you'll have what you need to make him a lot more comfortable. But, Valerie..."

The line went silent and for a minute she was afraid they'd been cut off.

"Max?"

His voice came back, soft in her ear. "Just remember, Val...Pastor Phil is seventy-eight years old. He might not make it. If...if anything happens, just know you did everything you could under the circumstances."

She nodded into the phone, not able to respond with more than a muffled sob.

"It'll be okay, Valerie. I'm praying for you. God has everything under control. But...you're the one who taught me that. Remember?"

Chapter Forty

Brizjanti, Haiti, June 14

"Gade yon bel wob. What a pretty dress, Jacquette." Valerie bent to speak to the little girl who stood in front of her in the dining room. The dark, cornrowed head was bent shyly, but two brown cheeks plumped in a smile. Valerie tried not to play favorites among the children, but Jacquette had had a special place in Valerie's heart since that day she'd shown up in the courtyard wearing the little lime-colored dress Valerie had sewn.

She turned her wrist over and peeked at her watch--for the tenth time this morning. It was past eleven-thirty. Max had said the medical supplies he'd sent for Pastor Phil would arrive before noon. She'd tried calling the airport to check on the flight, but could never get beyond the labyrinth of recordings.

She took Jacquette's hand and led her outside where the other children were playing after finishing Saturday-morning chores. Now the lawn was dotted with bright spots of color--girls skipping rope and playing osle in the courtyard, and boys in a rowdy game of soccer on the south lawn beyond.

Handing the little girl off to Jaelle, Valerie smiled. "You stay here with Jaelle, okay? I'm going to see Pastor Phil."

Jacquette beamed at the sound of the pastor's name. Philip Greene was a much-adored man, and the children had been praying faithfully for him every morning and every afternoon at chapel. Valerie didn't even want to think about the possibility of the medicine not arriving.

Please, Lord. Let that truck get through. Let those flights have been on time. As she jogged to the Greenes' cottage, she whispered the words again in Creole for good measure.

Samantha and Betty were with Pastor Phil. His breathing was labored, the wheeze still evident. Maybe more pronounced than it had been this morning. She didn't like the worried look on Samantha's face.

"How is he?"

Samantha shrugged. "About the same. No truck yet?"

"Not yet. I'm going to walk down to the gate and see. Do either of you need anything? I'd be glad to run to Madame Duval's if you need anything from there, Samantha..."

She shrugged. "Thank you, but not right now. The only thing I'm interested in right now is for that medicine to get here!"

Valerie flashed a wry smile. "I'll see what I can do."

She stepped outside just in time to hear Henri's piercing whistle from the gatehouse. She hurried down the path and, rounding the corner a minute later, came in view of the gate. A battered flatbed truck loaded down with crates and boxes was pulling away from the front of the compound. In front of the shed, Henri stood guard over a small tower of boxes of various shapes and sizes. Hands on hips, he waited for the boys he'd summoned with his familiar whistle.

As the little boys gathered round, Valerie watched Henri direct them like an orchestra conductor. Two of them went to the shed to fetch a wheelbarrow. The others started picking up boxes.

There must have been a dozen packages. In spite of the heat, Valerie started running, a smile splitting her face. She was winded and dripping with perspiration by the time she got to the gate. "Is this the stuff Dr. Jordan sent?"

"Oui," Henri said, smiling as though he'd delivered it himself. "We bring it to Pastor Phil's cottage, no?"

"Yes. Thank you, Henri." She examined the stickers on the boxes and picked up a small one with a pharmaceutical label on it. "This might be what Samantha needs," she said. "I'll take it to her now. Henri, could you be sure the generator is ready to go...in case the electricity goes off this afternoon. Samantha is going to want to keep the oxygen machine going for Pastor Phil."

She inspected the warnings stamped on the largest box. Oxygen. Good. This must be the portable oxygen concentrator Max had said he'd try to send. It must have cost a fortune to get everything here almost overnight.

She stepped between two of the boys who were arguing over who got to push the cart. "Stop it, you two. Pinga, pinga. Be careful! This is danje...very dangerous." She tried to demonstrate the explosion that could result if the boys were careless.

They stood staring at her with puzzled, half-amused expressions on their faces.

She turned to Henri. "Could you make them understand?" she pleaded.

"Ah," he grunted, "the bouay, they know quite well what you say--" he effected a scowl and pointed to his forehead "--by your face." He turned his glare on the children and spoke sternly and rapidly in Creole. Immediately, the boys went to work stacking the boxes in a neat pyramid in the wheelbarrow's bed.

"Souple! Kouri. Hurry up!" Valerie begged. "Miss Samantha is waiting."

They took off for the cottage, boxes bouncing as the wobbly wheels of the barrow rolled across the rutted yard.

"Kouri! Be careful!" she called after them, then turned to the watchman. "Thank you, Henri."

He laughed and pointed after the boys. "You must run. They be there before you be there."

She took off at a sprint, waving as she passed the wheelbarrow with its entourage of sweaty boys, and shouting up a prayer of thanks that the supplies had arrived safely. She could hardly wait to give Betty and Samantha the news.

Two hours later, Philip Greene was resting much more comfortably, the soft whirr of the portable oxygen concentrator mirroring his slow, even breaths. Valerie checked the levels on the machine's indicator. Samantha had given her and Betty a crash course in administering the oxygen, and after starting Pastor Phil's medications, the nurse had gone back to Madame Duval's to shower and rest for a few hours.

Betty, too, had gone to lie down on the sofa, seeming much relieved.

Valerie slumped into the hard chair beside Pastor Phil's bed. Her adrenaline had been pumping at full tilt for so many hours she wasn't sure she could get it to shut down. She closed her eyes and matched her breathing to the slow rhythm of the oxygen machine. She felt herself begin to relax, then felt the sudden need to pray.

"Oh, thank you, Father, for answering our prayers so graciously. Thank you that everything got here on time and that everything worked. That the electricity was on and--" Tears of profound gratitude welled behind her closed eyes as she realized how many things had to come together for the outcome they'd experienced.

She opened her eyes and looked at Pastor Phil asleep in the bed. She thought his color had improved even more since Samantha had left.

She couldn't wait to call Max and thank him for his generosity. The man had moved heaven and earth--almost literally--to accomplish what he had for Philip Greene's sake. She felt for her cell phone in her pocket. She'd tried several times to reach him before the shipment arrived, and then they were so busy getting everything unpacked and set up that she hadn't had a chance to call. But she was eager to let him know what a role he'd played in it all.

She tiptoed from the bedroom. Betty was snoring softly on the sofa, the oscillating fan distributing a cool breeze over the room.

Valerie stepped outside the door into the shade of the overhanging roof. She searched the keypad until Max's number appeared. The phone rang on the other end. Once, twice...

"Hello? Max Jordan here."

"Max! Hi...It's me."

"Valerie! I'm glad you got through. How are things going?"

"Oh, Max, thank you! The truck got here just before lunch. You sent so much stuff! We haven't even unpacked everything yet. But Samantha was thrilled. And, oh! I wish you could see Pastor Phil. He's doing amazingly better already."

"Yes, Samantha told me. I'm so glad it's all working out--"

"Samantha told you? She called you?" Valerie had no right to be so disappointed at this news. Yet she was. She had looked forward to giving Max the good news. But she was being foolish. Why wouldn't Samantha call to let him know and to thank him? After all, Pastor Phil was Samantha's patient. And Max had very possibly saved his life. Samantha had every right to call him. She would have done the same had their roles been reversed. Grow up, Valerie Austin, she chided herself.

Max cleared his throat. "Samantha said the oxygen worked wonders. I'm glad. I had a feeling it would."

She relaxed and began to simply enjoy the sound of his voice.

"So how are you holding up? I imagine it's been a pretty hairy couple of days?"

She muffled a sigh. "It's been scary. I...I really thought we might lose him. I--" Hot tears took her by surprise. She gulped them back and forced her voice to steady. "I don't ever want to go through that again. I know now beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was not cut out to be a nurse."

"Samantha said you were a trouper. She couldn't have done it without you, I believe were her words."

Valerie was flattered, but she couldn't take the credit. "I was on automatic pilot, I think. I just did what Betty and Samantha told me." She gave a nervous laugh.

"Well, it's all over. Maybe you can get some rest now."

"That sounds good," she admitted. "I don't think any of us--Henri included--have laid our heads on our own pillows for the last fifty hours. But then from the looks of that treasure trove you sent us, I doubt you have either."

He gave a self-conscious laugh. "It's not a big deal, Valerie, really."

"Yeah, well, you'll never convince Pastor and Madame Phil of that. Or me..." Though she was alone, she felt her cheeks flush with warmth.

"Well, hey, I'd better go," Max said. "You get some sleep."

"It's my watch right now, but don't worry, I will. And thank you again, Max." She'd come to dread goodbyes with this man. "It's good to hear your voice," she risked.

"Yours, too, Valerie. Goodbye now."

"Bye."

Reluctantly, she disconnected, and went back inside, feeling a little deflated. The cottage was quiet and relatively cool. Pastor Phil was still sleeping. She checked the oxygen levels again before going out to the kitchen for something to drink.

She was draining the last sip from a glass of sweet tea when Samantha walked in the door looking fresh-faced and pretty in a crisp white blouse and cotton skirt, her hair still damp.

"Hey, what are you doing back already?"

Samantha shrugged. "I had a shower and I feel pretty good now. I thought you could use a break."

"Samantha, you didn't need to do that. You haven't had more than a couple of hours of sleep in the last two days."

"Neither have you. But I don't want to argue about it. Why don't you get out of here for a while? Get some fresh air. Oh, and Henri wanted to talk to you. He's down at the gatehouse."

"Henri? Did he say what he wants?"

Again, Samantha merely shrugged in response, turning away to rummage in the small refrigerator. Valerie gave Samantha an update on their patient while she rinsed her glass in the sink.

She stepped out into the oppressive heat, shading her eyes against the afternoon glare. Oh for winter's eighty-five-degree days again. Smiling, she made a mental note to remember to write that in her next e-mail to Beth. It would make her sister smile. Oh, these last days had been incredible. She had so much to tell.

She rounded the bend in the path and saw Henri standing in front of the gatehouse. He was talking to another man--a white man--who had his back to Valerie. Henri didn't look worried. In fact, he was laughing and joking with the guy, as though they knew each other.

She slowed her steps. She didn't want to intrude, but Samantha had said Henri wanted to see her.

While she tried to decide whether to interrupt, Henri looked up and spotted her. "Ah, there is Miss Valerie now."

The man turned to face her. The sun in her eyes obscured his features, but a peculiar feeling roiled in the pit of her stomach as she watched him scuff the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

Slowly, she walked closer. Shielding her eyes, she studied the man's tall form silhouetted in the bright sunlight. His stance made her think of Max Jordan. But...it couldn't be. She'd just talked to Max in Chicago.

"Valerie!"

Her heart thudded to a halt. She would know that voice anywhere.

"Max?" It took supreme effort not to literally jump for joy.

"But...what--? How did you--?"

He laughed at her sputtering. "Didn't you think we had an awfully clear connection on the phone a while ago?"

"You were here then?" What a stupid question.

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "I was at Duval's."

The pieces began to fall into place. Of course. And that's why he'd already talked to Samantha. She thought about Samantha's sly mention that "Henri" wanted to speak with her. Slowly, the truth became obvious.

Max held out his arms and she walked into them. "I can't believe you're here," she said. She pulled away. "Oh, and I'm a mess." She put a hand to her hair. "I haven't had time to do more than run a brush through my hair and--"

"You look wonderful, Valerie."

The gleam in his eyes made her believe he meant it.

Henri picked up a rake that was leaning against the shed.

"Well, I best be back to work. Good to see you, Dr. Jordan."

"You, too, Henri."

The watchman went off whistling, leaving Max and Valerie standing in the path.

"How did you get here?" she asked, still pinching herself that he was actually standing here in front of her.

"It seems the quickest way to get something to Brizjanti is to bring it yourself." He smiled smugly.

"But...the truck? You were on it?"

He shook his head. "There wasn't room for me and all the boxes, too. I sent the driver on and caught the next tap-tap coming this way. You should have seen the route we had to take to get here. Too bad they can't save some of this rain for the winter."

An awkward silence fell between them.

"So...how long are you here for?" She held her breath, certain he would tell her he was flying back tonight.

He didn't answer, but studied Valerie for a minute. "It's really good to see you. Really good."

There was something in his smile she didn't dare interpret.

Chapter Forty-One

Max looked at the ground for a minute before meeting her eyes again. "How would you feel if I told you I'd bought a one-way ticket to Haiti?"

Valerie stared at him. "I don't...understand. What do you mean?" She didn't dare to let her imagination take her where it wanted to.

"Do you have time to walk with me back to Duval's?"

She nodded, hope swelling within her, making her buoyant.

Max shouted for Henri to lock the gate behind them, and they started up the rutted road. They walked in silence for a minute. It felt sweetly familiar to be here with him again, even though the scorching sun told her it was four o'clock in the afternoon, instead of the cool dawn of their early-morning walks.

"I want to tell you about what's happening in my life right now, Valerie. But first, I need to explain that..." He seemed to struggle for the words. "This has nothing to do with you," he finally said. "This is my deal and I don't want you to feel burdened by it."

She turned to him, wrinkling her brow in bewilderment.

He gave her a smile laced with apology. "Let me try to explain. I'll have to go back to Chicago...eventually, because I'm tied there by too many ropes that still need to be severed. But I've felt drawn back here ever since I said goodbye to you that night in Chicago."

He took in her raised eyebrows and held up a hand. "I know, I know...I said it had nothing to do with you. And really, it doesn't. Or maybe it does." He threw up his hands and huffed out a breath of air. "I'm not making any sense at all, am I?"

She strained to smile, unsure how to answer. He wasn't making sense. She didn't know what he was trying to say and the wild guesses skittering about her brain confused her more.

"I've been taking stock of my life since I got back, and I don't like what I see. I made a commitment to the Lord, and I've asked Him to guide my life. I truly want that, but somehow my life is still all tied up in money. All the things I thought would bring me freedom and happiness have completely imprisoned me and made me miserable." He turned to look at her, as if to gauge how she was receiving his words.

With effort, she gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

"Valerie, when I came here last January, I had everything a man could possibly want back in Chicago. But my life there felt completely empty. In Brizjanti, I had almost nothing, and I felt full to overflowing."

Their eyes met and she offered a sympathetic smile.

"I make a fortune at what I do," he went on. "But suddenly I not only find no joy in my work, but it seems worse than useless. I look at the children over here who have such incredible needs--Rocky and Samantha's little Birdy. So many of them. I have the skills to help kids like that, Valerie." His voice rose an octave, then plummeted with his next words. "And instead I'm spending my time and my education and my energy making beautiful, vain, selfish women more so! It seems--just wrong somehow. And then...oh, then, I think of Josh." He paused, obviously struggling to contain his emotions.

Valerie walked in silence beside him, praying without words, a peculiar excitement growing inside her.

Max turned to meet her gaze. "How could I have been so blind as to think Joshua was the one wasting his talent? I don't know...I do not know." He spat out the words one by one, his shoulders hunched with the effort. "It tears me apart."

"Oh, Max..." She had no other words to offer.

But he didn't seem to notice. "I've lost my chance to ever have a relationship with my son. But...I think I have something to give to the children Josh loved. The kids here--in Brizjanti. I...I don't know if that's a right reason to give up everything I've worked so hard for. I can't truly say that I've heard God's calling to make such a drastic change in my life. All I know is I can't go on as I have been. I can't, Valerie."

She took a deep breath and held it, not willing to pierce the holy silence that surrounded them. Finally she felt released to speak. "Max, have you ever considered that God is speaking, guiding you through your dissatisfaction, through your disillusionment with your present circumstances?" She shrugged. "I don't know the secret to knowing God's will. But I think sometimes, all we can do is take the next step and trust that He'll turn us around if it's wrong."

He seemed to consider her words. "I have a long way to go, so much to learn about God, about this faith that has turned my life upside down. I don't want to move too fast, but...I realized something when you called the other night, Valerie. What I lack in so many areas, I make up for in...well, in my bank account." He gave her a sheepish smile.

A rattletrap pickup trundled by and Max stopped and gently pushed her to the edge of the ditch, shielding her until it passed. The Haitian laborers perched on the tailgate hooted and whistled as they went by.

She ignored them and trained her ear on the words Max shouted over the commotion.

"It cost a small fortune to fly over here and bring that equipment--I'm not bragging but--" The noise of the truck drowned out his words, but she could have heard the laughter in his voice over a hurricane.

The splatter of mud and dust the truck had kicked up settled and the road was quiet again.

He gave her that grin she'd dreamed of so often. "Okay, maybe I am bragging. But getting that stuff over here was something I could do that not many other people could have. I've wasted a lot of the gifts God gave me. Destroyed some of them..." He swallowed hard. "But God has blessed me financially. Tremendously. Oh, Valerie, I have a whole notebook of ideas and the backing to carry them out. A hospital for Brizjanti, new dormitories for Madame Duval's, a guesthouse between the two orphanages where visiting doctors could stay, a teaching hospital where the children could train to be doctors and nurses..." His words tumbled one over another, but he waved them away as if they were pesky flies. "It's too soon to talk about all that...I have to find out first if this is even where I'm supposed to be. Where God wants me."

Valerie forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. Everything in her wanted to fall into Max's arms and beg him to stay. Beg God for Max's dreams to be His. But she'd done that before. With Will. With her longing for children. This time, she would wait. She'd be praying her heart out the whole time, but she would wait.

They came to Madame Duval's and stood outside the gate. A gentle zephyr blew off the bay and the temperature dropped a few degrees as the sun made its descent.

Max held out a hand as if to catch the breeze. "That feels good," he said.

"It does." She turned her face to the west.

"And you know," he said, grinning, "I don't even care if it smells like a sewer."

She giggled. "That's good. If...if you're going to come here and...do all those things."

"Valerie, what I was trying to say is...I don't want you to think I came here--for you...for us. I won't be that presumptuous. If you never want to see me, I understand. I can stay away from Hope House--" His eyes were trained on her, but they were glazed with frustration and he shook his head.

"Boy...this isn't coming out like I wanted it to."

She thought she understood now. "How about we leave that part in God's hands, too?"

He nodded, relief plain on his face.

She smiled and reached for his hand. "But, hey...let's not be too close-minded about it either."

His laughter sailed on the wind.

Valerie joined in, breathing a silent prayer over their future. And it occurred to her that answers to prayers were even sweeter when you'd been waiting for them your whole life.

Epilogue

Brizjanti, Haiti, April 11

The staccato of workmen's hammers punctuated the warm April air. Behind the whitewashed buildings that made up the Hope House compound, a tall iron skeleton rose into the cerulean Haitian sky. Hopital d'Espoir. Hope Hospital.

Valerie hurried along the dusty path the workmen had worn between the main road and the construction site. The heavy water jug she carried tugged at her shoulder, cold water sloshing as she navigated the bumpy trail. Her offering would be welcome on this warm afternoon.

Lifting her eyes to the massive crisscross of beams overhead, she caught a glimpse of Max on the scaffolding that scaled the eastern side of the structure. He stood astride on the platform, gesturing and shouting something to the Haitian workers. She couldn't make out his words, but she smiled to herself at the authority he wielded. This was his hospital.

No. Max would have corrected her: This was God's hospital. But Max had worked full-time for the past year and a half, wrapping up his interests in Chicago, then overseeing the design, and ordering and shipping materials to Brizjanti for the construction of the medical facility. Madame Phil said she'd never seen anything so big go up so quickly here. Too often, it took months just to get supplies across the Atlantic for such a project.

But money talked. And Max knew how to make it sing. He'd never lorded his wealth over any of them, but he knew what was needed for the facility and he was particular about the quality of the work. Valerie loved that about him.

Max had assembled a crew of twenty Haitian workers, family men from the local church. Their respect for Max shone in their eager eyes and ready smiles as they worked long hours on the hospital construction. The project had put food on many Haitian tables over the past months, and several of the men had promised to stay on as maintenance and grounds workers when Hope Hospital opened next spring.

Already Max had begun recruiting physicians and nurses from his large church back in Chicago to come as volunteers in the facility two weeks out of the year. He'd also been interviewing skilled Haitian nurses and clinicians for the fifty-bed surgical center.

But it wasn't hospital business Valerie was interested in today. She sought Max for a different reason. She quickened her pace, resisting the urge to run. When she reached the base of the scaffold, she stood watching, waiting for him to notice her.

He observed as another section of reinforced cement was set in place. When the foreman signaled that it was secure, Max turned away, a look of satisfaction on his tanned face. He drew a wrinkled blue bandanna from his back pocket and swabbed at his forehead before tucking the cloth back into his pocket.

She knew the minute he spotted her. His eyes lit and a smile spread wide across his face.

She would never tire of seeing that unguarded joy on his face--joy at seeing her. She lifted her free hand in a wave. "Thirsty?"

He nodded and clambered down the wobbly scaffolding. Still grinning, he jumped to the ground and strode toward her. "I'd kiss you if I weren't so grimy."

She raised an eyebrow and flashed him a teasing smile. "I brought plenty of water. I can wait while you wash up."

He laughed, and offered cupped hands in invitation. She opened the jug and poured the cold water into his hands. Splashing and sputtering, he scrubbed his face, then tipped back his head and let the water trickle through his hair. He took the jug from her and drank deeply, then set it on the ground. With a gleam in his eye, he wagged his head like a freshly bathed puppy, spraying her with cool crystal droplets.

Valerie squealed and backed away, but he caught her up in his arms and twirled her around. He nuzzled her chin, his mouth seeking hers. She returned his kiss, until she remembered the workmen.

"Max..." She pulled away, shaking her head. "We have an audience."

They both looked up toward the hospital, but the work crew had turned back to their tasks. The gas engine of a cement mixer putted in rhythm with the clank of steel against steel, background music to their interlude.

Max pulled Valerie into a one-armed hug and kissed her soundly, then steered her into the shadow of an abandoned truck parked at the site. He kissed her again, longer this time, making her forget all about the work crew. If the sun hadn't already burnished her skin to copper, he would have seen her blushing madly.

Finally he pulled back a fraction, the impish gleam back in his eyes. "Okay. Now that we got that out of the way..."

She giggled.

He motioned toward the jug. "Did you come just to bring me fresh water?"

"And for those kisses."

"Well, of course." He cocked his head. "But seriously, you look like you have news."

She patted her pocket. "I do. And you almost made me forget."

He waited, curiosity in his eyes.

"I got a letter from Beth. They've all got tickets to come over the first week in May."

His eyebrows shot up. "So it's on, then?"

"It's on--" she dipped her head "--if you're still willing."

He drew her into his arms again. "Don't be silly, Miss Valerie. You're the one who should be seriously thinking of gettin' out while the gettin' is good."

"No sir, Dr. Jordan. You're not getting off the hook that easily. But if we get married the first Saturday of May--" She gave a little gasp. "That's less than three weeks away!"

"Now are you chickening out on me?"

She frowned and looked past him to the framed structure that would soon be Hope Hospital. "No, but will the construction be far enough along that you could take a day off by then?"

"We'll see that it is. But only one day." His expression turned serious. "You're sure you don't mind?"

She wrapped her arms tighter around him. "I don't mind."

He brushed her forehead with his lips. "Here...I'll walk back with you. I need to get some blueprints from the office. Wait just a minute while I let Antoine know."

He ran to the base of the building and spoke briefly to the foreman.

When he returned to her side, he picked up the jug and put one arm around her shoulders, guiding her back to the road. "I've been needing some time with you." He planted a kiss in her hair.

"Oh, you have, have you? And why is that?"

He looked surprised. "You have to ask? Because I'm madly in love with you, that's why."

"Oh." She grinned up at him. "Good reason. I've needed some time with you, too. We have so many plans to make if we're going to get married in three weeks." A butterfly of panic fluttered up inside her.

The day after Max had asked her to marry him, they'd agreed the wedding would be here in Brizjanti, on Haitian soil. After all, this was not only the place they would spend the rest of their lives together, it was the place they'd met.

It was home.

But Max had promised her they wouldn't get married until Dean and Beth and the boys could be there. Valerie had always dreamed of having her sister stand with her as she spoke her vows. And Pastor Phil--if he was well enough--would be Max's best man. Phil Greene had served as a gentle shepherd while Max grew in his newfound faith. It amazed Valerie to compare her fiance to the cynical man she'd first met in the Port-au-Prince airport a little more than two years ago. God had truly worked a miracle in Max Jordan's heart.

But then, he'd worked a miracle in her own heart, as well.

"You're quiet." Max brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead.

"There's just so much to do. We have to decorate the church and plan a menu and--oh, my! What will I wear?"

"I know what I want you to wear."

She stopped in the path. "You do?"

A mischievous twinkle came to his eye. "That skirt...You know...the red checkered-y one...?"

She burst out laughing. "No way! I am not wearing that stupid skirt! But I just might plan a special bonfire ceremony for it during the wedding."

"Aw, come on. I've grown rather fond of that outfit."

She landed a playful punch on his forearm. But teasing with Max this way brought home the fact that she was about to take the most serious step of her life. A month from now, this man would be her husband. She'd be waking up beside him every morning and falling asleep in his arms. She shook her head and mentally rolled her eyes at the image. Maybe she had things a tad over-romanticized.

Max must have sensed something in her thoughts, for he turned to her with a quizzical expression. "What?"

"Nothing...I was just wondering if you were going to work this hard after we're married."

"You know I will, Valerie. We've talked about this and--"

She shushed him with a gentle finger to his mouth. "I know, I know. I'm not trying to pick a fight. I just want to be sure I get my fair share of you."

He wiggled Groucho Marx eyebrows at her. "Oh, don't you worry about that. Besides, you'll have me all to yourself on our honeymoon."

"That's a long way off, buddy."

They wouldn't take their honeymoon trip until winter. The hospital would be nearly completed by then and Max could finally take a break. They would have only about ten days, but he'd promised to show her Europe.

They had ulterior motives for choosing their destination. Pastor and Madame Phil had a son in England and a daughter living in Wales. Valerie and Max hoped to contact them and somehow arrange a surprise visit for the elderly couple.

They walked in easy silence back to Hope House. While visions of wedding gowns danced in her head, Valerie knew Max was beside her calculating work schedules and organizing cement-bucket brigades for his crew.

She sighed. Sometimes she was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of work there was to do before the hospital could open. By the time she and Max got back from their honeymoon, it would be time for him to supervise the installation of the surgical equipment. She was so proud of this man who had taken his wealth and multiplied it with wise investments and good management of his clinics in the States. In this land of deprivation, the funds would go a long way. They were both excited about what they might accomplish here.

As they approached the locked gates in front of Hope House, little Birdy stepped out of the shade of a ceiba tree. He wore only a tattered pair of khaki pants that were three sizes too big. Valerie cringed at the sight of the bony ribs embossing his concave chest. Birdy came almost daily now for whatever meager snack he might be offered. Valerie knew it wouldn't be long before other homeless children caught on and came begging at their gates. Then they would have to make some changes.

Yet God seemed to be opening so many doors here. Her heart thrilled at what the future might hold for children like Birdy because of their obedience--hers and Max's. It still amazed her.

Max had tried several times to get close enough to the little boy to assess the severity of his deformity, but Birdy always took off like a wild deer as soon as Max took two steps in his direction.

They stopped a few feet from where the boy stood. Valerie put up a hand. "Hi, Birdy." Unable to get his real name out of him, she had started calling him Birdy, even to his face. He seemed to like the name--or maybe he just liked the slice of bread or hunk of cheese that usually accompanied it. "Did you get your snack yet?" She made a spooning motion to her mouth.

He patted his tummy and nodded, his face twisting into a grotesque smile.

Samantha must have brought him something from Madame Duvall this morning.

"Good. See you tomorrow, okay?" She gave a little wave.

He didn't respond, but stood eyeing Max warily, poised to take flight. When they started on toward the gate, Birdy lit out, loping across the road and out of sight.

Max spoke under his breath. "We can help that child. I know we can. I have a young surgeon in one of the clinics who has already performed dozens of surgeries on complicated cleft palates. Birdy's condition is the severest I've come across, but I think Sylvia could do it."

"Oh, Max, that would be wonderful."

She leaned her head back in the crook of his shoulder, relishing the sense of belonging that overwhelmed her when she was with him. Sometimes she shuddered to think what her life might be like now if she had carried out her wedding plans with Will Concannon.

She shook off the thought. She didn't want to spoil one minute with Max beside her. Their life wasn't going to be an easy one. She already knew Max was a hard worker and a driven man. Leisurely walks like the one he offered her today might be a rarity in their future. But if that was what being Max Jordan's wife meant, she would take the good with the bad.

A breeze picked up and a bank of gray clouds rolled in. The air grew heavy with imminent rain. Valerie held out a hand, testing for raindrops.

Max turned to study the sky behind them. "We'd better run." He slid his arm from her shoulder and knit his fingers with hers. "Come on...hurry!"

Too late. All at once, the sky opened up and dumped a torrent of rain on them. Within seconds they were soaked to the skin, hair plastered to their scalps, eyelashes dripping, rivulets of rainwater trailing down their faces.

Valerie didn't care. An afternoon rain shower only meant a few more precious minutes together.

Laughing, he pulled her after him and they ran with abandon toward the shelter of Hope House.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-1732-8

OVER THE WATERS

Copyright (c) 2005 by Deborah Raney

New epilogue (c) 2008 by Deborah Raney

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This edition published by arrangement with Steeple Hill Books.

(r) and TM are trademarks of Steeple Hill Books, used under license. Trademarks indicated with (r) are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

www.SteepleHill.com