Sandstorm (Page 40)

“Greenstick fracture only,” he assured her, a hint of Nebraskan accent in his voice, fresh from the family farm. “Splint’s only for support.” His gaze wavered between Omaha and Safia, stalling his own smile.

A stretch of awkwardness grew wild and weedy.

Painter appeared, arm out. He introduced himself, shaking hands with the two brothers. Only for a moment did his eyes flick toward Safia, making sure she was okay. She realized he was buying her time to collect herself.

“This is my partner, Dr. Coral Novak, physicist out of Columbia.”

Danny straightened, visibly swallowing as he surreptitiously took in her figure. He spoke too quickly. “That’s where I graduated. Columbia, that is.”

Coral glanced at Painter, as if seeking permission to speak. There was no outward confirmation, but she spoke anyway. “Small world.”

Danny opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. His eyes followed the physicist as she stepped to the side.

Clay Bishop joined them. Safia made the introductions, finding solace in the routines of etiquette. “And this is my graduate student, Clay Bishop.”

He grasped Omaha’s hand in both of his, shaking rapidly. “Sir, I’ve read your treatise on Persian trade routes during the time of Alexander the Great. I hope to have a chance to discuss some of your explorations along the Iran-Afghani border.”

Omaha turned to Safia and Kara. “Did he just call me ‘sir’?”

Kara broke up the introductions, waving everyone to the arched entrance of the palace. “There are rooms assigned to each of you, so you can freshen up before supper and relax afterward.” She led the way into the palace, her fashionable Fendi heels tapping on the ancient tiles. “But don’t get too comfortable here. We’ll be leaving in four hours.”

“Another plane trip?” Clay Bishop asked, hiding a groan.

Omaha clapped him on the shoulder. “Not exactly. At least one good thing came from the mess this afternoon.” He nodded to Kara. “It’s nice to have friends in high places, especially friends with nice toys.”

Kara frowned back at him. “Have all the arrangements been made?”

“Supplies and equipment have already been rerouted.”

Safia stared between them. On the way here, Kara had made furious calls to Omaha, the British consulate, and Sultan Qaboos’s staff. Whatever the result, it did not seem to please Kara as much as it did Omaha.

“What about the Phantoms?” Kara asked.

“They know to meet us there,” Omaha said with a nod.

“Phantoms?” Clay asked.

Before anyone could answer, they reached a hall leading into the south wing, the guest wing.

Kara nodded to a waiting butler, oiled gray hair, hands behind his back, dressed in black and white, pure British. “Henry, could you please show our guests to their rooms?”

A stiff nod. “Yes, madam.” His eyes twinkled a bit as they swept over to Safia, but he kept his face passive. Henry had been head butler here at the estate since Safia was a child. “This way, please.”

The group followed.

Kara called after them. “Supper will be served on the upper terrace in thirty minutes.” It sounded more like a command than an invitation.

Safia stepped to follow the others.

“What are you doing?” Kara asked, taking her by the arm. “Your old rooms have been aired and readied for you.” She turned her toward the main house.

Safia stared around her as they walked. Little had changed. In many ways, the estate was as much a museum as a residence. Oil paintings hung on the walls, Kensington ancestry dating back to the fourteenth century. In the room’s center stood a massive antique mahogany dining table, imported from France, as was the six-tiered Baccarat chandelier that hung above it. Safia had her twelfth birthday party here. She remembered candles, music, a blur of festivity. And laughter. There had always been laughter. Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she circled the long room.

Kara led her to the private family wing.

When she was five, Safia had moved from the orphanage to the estate, to act as playmate for young Kara. It was the first room she had ever had to herself…and a private bath. Still, most of her nights were spent nestled with Kara in her room, the two of them whispering of futures that never came.

They stopped outside the door.

Suddenly Kara hugged her tight. “It’s so good to have you home again.”

Returning the genuinely warm embrace, Safia felt the girl behind the woman, her dearest and oldest friend. Home. And at this very moment, she almost believed it.

Kara shifted. Her eyes were bright in the reflected glow of the wall sconces. “Omaha…”

Safia took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I thought I was ready. But to see him. He hasn’t changed.”

“That’s so true,” Kara said with a scowl.

Safia smiled and returned a quick hug. “I’m fine…honestly.”

Kara opened the door. “I’ve had a bath drawn, and there are fresh clothes in the wardrobe. I’ll see you at dinner.” She stepped away and continued down the hall. She passed her old room and continued toward the double set of carved walnut doors at the end of the hall, the suite belonging to the master of the estate, her father’s old rooms.

Safia turned away and pushed through the door to her own chamber. Beyond lay a small but high-ceilinged entry hall, a greeting chamber once used as a playroom but now a private study. She had studied for her Ph.D. oral exams in this room. It smelled freshly of jasmine, her favorite flower and scent.

She crossed through the room to the bedchamber beyond. The silk canopied bed looked as if it had not been disturbed since she had left here to go to Tel Aviv so long ago. That painful memory smoothed as her fingers trailed down a fold of Kashmiri silk. A wardrobe stood on the far side, near the windows that opened upon a shadowed side garden, gloomy with the setting sun. The planted beds had grown a bit hedgy since last she had stared out from here. There were even a few weeds, which touched a well of loss she hadn’t known was so deep.

Why had she come back? Why had she left?

She could not seem to connect the past to the present.

A tinkling drip of water drew her attention away, to the neighboring bathing chamber. There was not much time until dinner. She shed her clothes, letting them drop to the floor behind her. The bath was a sunken tile tub, deep but narrow. Water steamed into the air with a whisper that could almost be heard. Or maybe it was the shifting layer of white jasmine petals floating on the surface, the source of the room’s perfume.