A Steal of a Deal (14 page)

I roll my eyes. “Oh goody! That’s what I went to school for—to replace counting sheep.”

A corner of the carpet provided by our hosts is clear and looks inviting, so I help myself to a cup of green tea and then crash—figuratively, you understand. Our hostess has sent a huge jug of the beverage, and I glug down the tasty drink. I could get addicted to the stuff.

“Hungry and grumpy, are you?” Aunt Weeby grins, reaches into a number of baskets, and then hands me a plate. One of the excellent Kashmiri flatbreads covers the whole circle, and Aunt Weeby’s piled it with a fragrant mixture of potatoes, peppers, and meatballs, all smothered in rich gravy.

I grin. “Wow!”

My aunt winks. “Just you wait until you taste it, sugarplum. Those little ol’ taste buds a’ yours are gonna have them a real humdinger of a hoedown when they taste that . . . that I don’t-know-what-it-is.”

And they do. My taste buds a’ happy, all right. Kashmiri food is delicious, well seasoned with onions, garlic, turmeric, and other spices I can’t identify. Soon, my stomach’s happy again, and I lean back against my backpack to think.

But my Kashmiri shadow doesn’t give me a chance to put together more than a fleeting thought.

“Miss Andie?” Xheng Xhi says.

I sigh. “Yes?”

“Tell Xheng Xhi of Wal-Mart.”

Oh. My. Goodness. If I struggled with something as simple as fast food, how do I go for the gluttonous extravaganza that is Wally World?

Max! I’ll send him . . .

But my cohost—and our camerawoman—is nowhere to be seen. I’m in this one all by myself. “Okay. Wal-Mart. It’s a store. You understand stores, right?”

Xheng Xhi nods. “Buy things.”

“Yes. But at Wal-Mart you can buy
every
thing.”

His brows crash over the bridge of his nose. “E-ve-ry thing?”

“Sure. Clothes, food, soap, car tires and batteries, toilet paper—everything.”

“Wal-Mart sell
rista
?”

“Well, no. But they sell chopped meat.”

He scratches his long beard. “No
rista
.” After a second or two, he smiles. “McDonald’s. Wal-Mart sell McDonald’s, yes?”

“No. McDonald’s sells McDonald’s.”

His confusion grows. “Wal-Mart sell e-ve-ry thing, but no
rista
and no McDonald’s.”

This isn’t working. “That’s right.”

“E-ve-ry thing.” A short silence follows. Then, “Wal-Mart sell food, yes?”

I nod.

“Good! Wal-Mart is good. Sell good yak, yes?”

I blow the hair from my eyes. “No, Xheng Xhi. Wal-Mart doesn’t sell yak. They sell cow, chicken, fish, lamb, and pig. But no yak. Okay?”

“Okay.” But I can see from his expression that not much I’ve said is okay to him. Where’s the surfer boy when I need him?

Enter Glory, followed by said surfer boy. Laughing. Together.

I see green again. And feel pettier than ever.

“Miss Andie?”

Not again! Not when I really should be dealing with my
conscience.
“Yes, Xheng Xhi.”

“Yankees win World Series?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Hard. Then I point at Mr. Magnificent. “Ask him. He’s all about sports.” And a certain camerawoman right about now.

Oh, yay! My inquisitor follows my suggestion. And I’m free once again. I head outside for fresh air and the chance to think of something other than a blond head right up against a brunette one. And try to deal with my petty jealousy. Even though I don’t want to.

I find a big rock and take a seat.
Work, Andie. Think about
work.
It’s less daunting than the other stuff. And I do have a job to do.

With every bit of discipline I can dredge up, I make myself focus on the show Miss Mona wants. How much airtime should we really spend on depleted mines? Should I try to get access to the collection of stones at the Kashmir State Treasury Chambers instead of wasting film on—let’s face it—boring rocks? Am I setting myself up for a snoozer of a show with what we’ve filmed? Who should I ask? I know what Miss Mona says she wants.

Aunt Weeby?
Nah.
She’s already given us her opinion. She’s bored.

And Glory? I’m not so sure I want to go there.

That leaves me with the one and only person who has as much at stake in my show as I do: Max.

Oh, joy. Maybe after we wrap up a few more shots, once we’re back in Soomjam, once Glory’s busy doing . . . whatever. Maybe then I’ll hit him up for his opinion.

We return to the film site, and again, Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona come along. After about an hour of work, though, my aunt squeals right into my explanation.

“Ooooh, look, Andie! You have fans even out here.”

Groan.

“Cut!” I turn to see what Aunt Weeby’s talking about and almost swallow my tongue.

Seven men stand in a cluster at the crest of a nearby rocky ridge, no more than four or five miles away from us. Their shaggy, loose garments, turbans, and long, ragged beards identify them as native tribesmen. Their weapons label them dangerous.

They look like Muslim extremists on the evening news to me.

“Ah . . . guys?” My forced smile threatens a downward flip. “Let’s not make any sudden movements. I know, I know. I sound like a bad B movie, but work with me here.” I swipe a hand across my sweaty brow. “And let’s not stare at them either, okay? They’re no welcoming committee. Trust me.”

Max’s Adam’s apple jerks up and down. “Show’s over, right?”

I stroll toward Glory and make a big deal of checking the camera, a forced smile smeared all over my face. “You betcha. We’re outta here. But casually, okay?”

Yeah, right.

Tell me: how does one go about running from armed guerillas casually? I don’t know how we did it, but we hustled off in the quietest, calmest way I’ve ever seen people—scared people—flee the scene of a future crime.

Come to think of it, I’ve never seen the scene of a future crime. At least, not live. Who’d a thunk that working live TV would turn my life into a TV drama? With a script-as-you-go format, no less.

“Miss Mona?” I say five minutes later. “This wasn’t in my job description, you know.”

“Not in mine, either,” she murmurs, her lips edged in white, her normal peaches-and-cream complexion less peach and more cream. “This is scary, honey, and I’m real sorry I dragged you into it—”

Oh, great. I didn’t want to make her feel bad. “Don’t give it another thought. I promise I won’t.” I flash her a grin. “I bet you once we’re back in Kentucky, we’ll all agree we wouldn’t’ve missed it for . . . well, for just about anything. Now, if they start shooting, I might change my mind.”

“Oh, pshaw!” Aunt Weeby says, her excitement practically crackling around her. “They’re not in the shooting mood, sugar. They just came to watch the show, is all. The ‘Watch the Crazy American Tourists’ show. It happens everywhere I travel, you know. Foreign folks are just plumb curious about all us Americans.”

I bite my tongue—hard—to keep from identifying our particularly loony tourist. You know we have one. Yep. The one with the newfound affection for yaks. Off to my right side, I feel Max’s silent laughter, and behind us, Allison chuckles. Everyone knows Aunt Weeby.

From the front pocket of my backpack, I pull out a compact mirror. You got it. I’m about to reprise my shiny soupspoon gig. I just
have
to know what those scary guys are doing while we do like the rats in the sinking ship.

What I see doesn’t exactly reassure me. They’ve come partway down the ridge and haven’t taken their beady peepers off us. “Uh . . . guys?”

Aunt Weeby trots up to my left, a worried look on her still-beautiful face. “You okay, sugarplum? Is that nasty ol’ gut a’ yours acting up again?”

“I’m okay. My gut’s not acting up, but those guys with the guns are. They’re on their way down the hill, and I’m definitely not feeling the love here.”

“Do you really think they’re terrorists?” Allison asks.

I check out my mirror again. “Beats me. Wanna ask Xheng Xhi?”

“Sure,” she says. “Where is he?”

I stop. “What do you mean, where is he? Wasn’t he with you and Glory, leading the mule with the tent and stuff?”

“He was. But he’s not anymore.”

“D’you think we should go back for him?” Miss Mona asks, worry in her voice.

I take another look via my trusty mirror, but there’s no chatty guide in sight. What is in my sights is the group of seven, closer every time I check. “I hate to do it,” I say, my heart racing, “but these guys don’t look happy. Maybe Xheng Xhi popped into a cave or something. At least, I hope he did. We can’t wait for him or take the time to search.”

Max lays his arm across my shoulders, leans closer to my mirror, and gives me a gentle squeeze. “Houston? We
do
have a problem.”

To my surprise, the warmth in his touch comforts me—at a time I most need comfort. I shoot him a grateful smile, touched perhaps with a hint of regret, and pick up my speed. “Not if we don’t hang around.”

And we don’t. Hang around, that is.

We reach the farmhouse a good while later. Don’t ask me how long it took us to get here; I can’t tell you a thing about that part of our adventure. I prayed the whole way.

Every last one of us runs the last few yards as fast as our feet can carry us. Once inside the huge wooden doors, I collapse onto the courtyard’s dirt floor, my knees jelly, my nerves shot. “I don’t ever want to do that again.”

Allison plops down next to me. “I’m with you, sister.” She closes her eyes—tight—and shudders. “They didn’t look civilized.”

Max rushes in, Miss Mona on one arm, Aunt Weeby on the other. “Civilized enough to carry sophisticated weapons.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry I ever had the idea to go film those fool mines,” Miss Mona moans, her usually smooth bob ruffled and wind-tossed. “I should have just let you lead your mission trip and be done with it. Now we’ve had terrorists chase us down, and we’ve lost our guide—our second guide. See what comes of wanting to do something for yourself rather than just what the Lord calls you to?”

Aunt Weeby shakes her head and pokes her friend’s shoulder. “Why, that weren’t so bad at all, Mona Latimer. It was plumb the most exciting thing I’ve done in all my born days! I kinda like living the Andi-ana Jones life. I’m so happy ya’ll didn’t give me heartburn about coming with all ya’ll. You just can’t go traipsing the globe again without me, you hear?”

We stare, shocked silent.

My certifiable relative goes on. “Just think of all the stories we’ll have to tell at Bible study, Mona.” Then she turns to me. “And imagine your viewers, sugarplum. They’ll be lime green with envy. We saw our very own Talibans with our very own eyes!”

“But what about Xheng Xhi?” I ask. Sure, the man drives me nuts with his questions, but he’s somewhere out there with gun-toting terrorists on the horizon.

“Oh, sugarplum, I’m sure he’s fine.” When I arch my brow, she continues. “He knows the area, and he might even know those Talibans. If not, I’m sure he has a hidey-hole”—she waves—“somewhere. And I don’t think he’s scared at all. He probably thinks it’s normal. Maybe he does think it’s an adventure, something to remember. That’s what you should do.”

Before she gets any more carried away, I stand. “It’s way past time for a nap, a snack, a cup of tea, and
prayer
.”

Aunt Weeby swipes the dust off her sturdy walking shoes on the backs of her trouser legs. “Why, sure!” She holds out her hand. No one takes hold. “C’mon, now. Let’s thank our Lord for such an exciting opportunity. He brings us here, shows us things we can’t never even imagine back home, and then he keeps us safe. He is such an awesome, awesome God.”

Gulp.
She’s right—yet another reason to love her, wackiness and all. But who’s counting reasons?

I take her right hand. “You’re pretty awesome, yourself, Aunt Weeby. I’ve been so busy being terrorized, that I’ve forgotten who’s watching out for us.”

But before we begin to pray . . . “Ahem!”

I turn toward the stairs to the upper family floors of the farmhouse—as opposed to where we are on the ground floor, domain of the grunting, snuffling, clucking, and lowing beasties in the stalls. A stranger, a tall, handsome Westerner, is staring at our little group, a mystified expression on his weathered face.

“Hi” is all I can manage.

He smiles. “I would know you anywhere, Ms. Adams,” he says in a deep, bass voice. “My sister and mother own the television whenever you and Mr. Matthews are on.”

Miss Mona coos.

“Oh, my!” Aunt Weeby says in a breathy voice.

I’m almost as impressed as the more mature ladies among us. The stranger’s dark brown hair is sprinkled with attractive silver at the temples. He wears the ubiquitous khaki pants and long-sleeved knit shirt of the world traveler with casual elegance, and his warm chocolate eyes sparkle with humor and intelligence.

“You’ve got us at a disadvantage,” I say. “You know at least some of us, but we have no idea who you might be. Were we expecting you? Are you with the Musgroves?”

He lopes over, his movements graceful and athletic. “Sorry about that. I’ve heard a great deal about the Musgroves and The Father’s Lambs.” He extends his right hand. “Rich Dunn, senior pastor at the Riverside Chapel in Mount Cheer, Pennsylvania. I’m here with Oxfam to deliver supplies to earthquake victims.”