Full Circle (11 page)

“No, actually, Adam and I . . .” She could not quite make out why she blushed at the words. “He needs help doing something for his mother.”

“I gather she is unwell. Is it serious?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“How sad. And how very good that he has you to offer aid in his hour of need.” She was so bowed over the walker that she had to twist her neck in order to look at Kayla. “Are you two an item? Do they still say that these days?”

“I don't . . . No. No. We're not.”

“Ah.”

The space between them was suddenly a vacuum that drew out the words, “I have to return to my work. In Dar es Salaam.”

“Love is such a dreadful impossibility. Such a treacherous task, to defy the world and offer one's heart.” Her eyes sparked. “But Adam is so very fortunate nonetheless. To have a young woman who understands the trial and the loss he faces. It must mean the world to him.”

“He's a good man.”

“That he most certainly is. He made an old woman very happy last night.” Dr. Beachley started to turn away, then added, “If you would permit me to offer one small bit of advice.”

“Of course.”

“I suspect he already has feelings for you. Oh, I am well aware that I hardly know either of you. But I suspect our young Adam cares more than he realizes.”

“I can't see why.”

“Can't you? How very curious. Do you see yourself as so very unappealing?”

“More like damaged goods.”

“Yes, of course. The dire consequences of living in this jagged age. But you see, my dear, Adam is bound to you by that most remarkable bond. You know his pain. You understand what shapes his world. Whether you know it or not, whether
he
realizes it yet. He needs you.” She made a slow process of turning back to the door. “Even if you feel you have none to give, you offer the young gentleman hope. Hope of a tomorrow beyond the looming maw of dank earth that awaits his mother. Hope of a future where he might stand where you are now. Making plans. Living your passions. Striving to patch over the fractures this life can make in one's most precious dreams.”

Kayla would have protested that she had nothing of the sort to offer anyone, if only she could have found the breath. As it was, she was fortunate to find the chair before her legs gave way.

Adam found her seated on the horsehair sofa, staring blindly at the sunlight splashing upon the window. “Let's hit the road.”

chapter 12

A
dam drove because Kayla asked him to. The car was a magnificent beast of leather and chrome and polished burl and purring engine, with squared-off edges and thick sofa-style seats and less than twenty thousand miles on the clock. Even the turn signal ticked with stately calm. It was a vehicle made for Oxford, magnificent in a peculiarly dated way.

Driving on the opposite side of the road was far less difficult than Adam had feared. He simply followed the flow. They soon left the Ring Road and the Saturday shopping traffic behind. Kayla limited her conversation to a few terse directions. Adam could see something was bothering her. He feared it might have to do with her offer to accompany him on this new quest. But he felt no need to ask anything just then. Since his arrival in Oxford, his world had been filled with mystery and few solid answers.

The only thing he could say for certain was that he did not feel alone. Adam shared the morning's vulnerability with as strong a woman as he had ever known. He was thrilled by the prospect of spending the day in her company. He tried to remind himself that Kayla was leaving for Africa in just seven days. But driving this wonderful car down an increasingly empty road, headed toward a destination that made no sense whatsoever, left him wanting to shout out loud.

The sky had cleared after raining all night long. A strong wind blew across a crystal clear sky. The morning light bathed a distinctly English landscape, beautiful in a vacant wintry manner. Once they were into the rolling hills and quieter ways, Kayla said, “Tell me what your mother said.”

“I did. Back in the front parlor. There isn't anything more.”

“Tell me again.”

“She saw me climbing the crest of a hill. The highest hill in the area. Round at the top. Partly covered by forest. There was a town down below, she counted three steeples. The bells were ringing. It was clear and cold. Behind me was a tower, like something from an ancient castle. I just stood there and looked over the valley and the town.” He glanced over. And held his breath.

Kayla asked, “Your mother said climbing this hill was important?”

“The word she used was
vital
. It was vital that I go there.”

“And you felt it was important too.”

“I told you, Kayla. I thought it was the hospital calling. My heart was going about a thousand beats a minute. So it was hard to tell anything for certain. But yes. I guess I did.”

“You're not telling me everything, are you?”

The wind drummed softly about the car. “Mom said I was happy.”

Kayla did not speak.

“Not just happy. Content. Full of joy and wonder. Looking forward to a new and wonderful future.” The words gummed up his mouth even after they had emerged. “Which is impossible.”

Adam could not remember the last time he had faced a woman's parents. Not since high school, certainly. The two years he had spent acting professionally had cauterized all such memories, like passing from a schoolyard into a blast furnace.

He stood by the living room window and tried to come up with something proper to say. There was little privacy in the open-plan house. Which meant Adam heard the conversation between father, daughter, and stepmother taking place in the rear dining area. He could not hear the exact words, but he knew they were concerned. Yet the longer they talked, the more Adam wanted her to come. He had become very adept at wanting nothing and expecting less. But not today. So he scripted in his head what he would say to Peter Austin, how he did not intend anything improper, how they'd take separate rooms, how he respected the family, yada yada.

The conversation ended. Footsteps ran lightly up the stairs in the newer stone quarter. The upstairs floorboards creaked softly. Adam heard two voices approach. He found himself beset by first-date nerves.

Peter Austin held his wife's hand. He was dressed in Saturday gardening clothes. His features were creased with worry and fatigue, yet he still looked every inch the captain of industry. Craggy-faced, uncompromising gaze, deceptively mild voice. “Might I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“The way you identified the German company.”

Honor said, “Peter, invite your guest to sit down. Offer him coffee.”

“He'll be sitting for hours. They're going for a drive. Do you want coffee?”

“I'm good, thanks.”

“There, you see? Niceties done. Back to my question.”

“Herrstadt.”

“Not the company. The process. How did you come by this?”

“You want to know how I structure my analysis.”

“Precisely.”

Adam knew the question was a test. He also knew it was out of line. Analysts lived by holding their cards close. Even so, he liked the question and the reason.

Either he trusted the man, or he didn't. The unspoken challenge went as follows: If you can't trust me with the secrets of your craft, why should I trust you with my daughter?

Adam heard the rapid tread of footsteps back down the stairs. Kayla popped into view carrying a minuscule shoulder bag, scanned their faces, and said, “You're grilling him.”

“Very mildly,” her father replied.

Adam told Peter, “I need to explain something.”

“Daddy . . .”

Peter Austin replied, “This is important, Kayla.” When his daughter dropped her bag and crossed her arms, he said, “Go on.”

“There are a hundred thousand analysts out there following company numbers. Others make it their life's goal to be first in the know. And the largest group follow market trends. I don't have the resources to build a hunter-seeker team. And I can't stand graphs.”

“So you fashioned for yourself a different course.” Peter Austin nodded once. “I thought that about you the first time we chatted.”

“I call it the macro process. I study historical fracture lines. Economic crises, war, raw material surges, major market cycles, political trends that affect markets.”

“Any number of people search the past.”

“Right. But there are two differences here. First I identify what I think is a trend in today's world. Then I go back and build historical data around past trends that follow as closely as possible what is happening
today
. I study companies that reaped the whirlwind. Who survived and prospered, and why. And the same for those that failed spectacularly. Then I look for parallels in today's market.”

“History repeating itself,” Peter Austin said.

Adam replied, “All the time.”

“I like your response, young man,” Peter Austin said. “I like it immensely.”

Kayla said softly, “Can we go now?”

Kayla soon had them off the main road. She said the Cotswolds should only be visited on lanes less than ten feet wide. Adam drove because she asked. He felt happy for the first time since leaving America. No, it was longer than that. He scanned back, searching for a time when smiles had come easy.

“What's going on in that mind of yours?”

“Am I that easy to read?”

“Answer my question.” But her tone was light.

“I was thinking about the day I put my mom on the plane to Africa. It was the first time I can remember actually giving her a lifetime dream.” He shrugged. “Most of my life was spent being a major disappointment.”

“You don't know that.”

He did not answer, because to do so would mean giving in to the clouds, blocking out the sun that streamed straight through him.

“What was it like, acting in a television show?”

“Do you realize every time we've met, we talk about me and I hear almost nothing about you?”

“I don't like talking about myself.”

“That makes two of us.”

Kayla was quiet long enough for them to pass through a hamlet of stone and timber and wintry smoke. “So ask.”

But he didn't. Not just then. Instead, he let the silence ease them through yet another tiny village. Kayla rode with a Cotswold Country map unfolded in her lap. There was no hint of civilization and modern times. The only road signs were wooden fingers planted alongside lanes that emerged from the stone walls and hedgerows. The narrow roads were burnished by a sunlight strong as heat. The landscapes were brown and earthy. Adam drove a grand old beast of a car, so broad he had to reverse away from incoming traffic, for the lanes were too narrow to permit anyone to pass them except where he could ease into a farm lane or lay-by. He kept his speed to thirty miles an hour. He did not care how long it took to get wherever they were going. Or if, in fact, they ever arrived at all.

Finally Kayla did as he had hoped. She sighed, and for once the sound was not full of the tension that etched her features and carved shadows in her cheeks. Instead, it was a sound of release. Kayla eased down to where her head rested on the seat-back. Her hair spilled over the leather, russet upon brown.

Adam wanted to hear her voice without the stress, with-out the worry. But all he could think to say was, “This is one amazing car.”

Then he was glad, because Kayla smiled. It was a rare gem of an expression, for it softened her. He slowed further, so he could look over and drink in the sight of this very different lady.

Kayla said, “It was my mother's. Daddy kept it mostly for the memories. He hates to drive.”

He waited to see if she would talk about her mother. Or explain why her father preferred not to sit behind the wheel of such a machine. But Kayla remained as she was, watching the lane ahead, in silence. And Adam decided not to ask anything more just then, content with the easy silence and the day.