“Are you sure I can’t help?” he asked.
“This won’t take long at all, but how about you grab the plates and forks? They’re in the cabinet by the sink.”
At her instruction, he placed the plates next to the cutting board and watched as she sliced the vegetables. Next, she tossed and dressed the salad in a bowl with a little lemon juice and olive oil before arranging two servings on the plates. Finally, she added a scoop of chicken salad to each. He’d imagined being in a kitchen with her a thousand times in the last twenty-four years, just like this.
“Voilà.”
“It looks delicious,” he said, following her to the table.
After putting her plate down, she motioned toward the refrigerator. “Do you want some more wine?” she asked.
“No, thank you. Two glasses is my limit these days.”
“I’m closer to one,” she said. She reached for her fork. “Do you remember when we had dinner at Clancy’s? And then went back and had a glass of wine at my parents’ cottage?”
“How could I forget?” he said. “That was the night we first got to know each other. You took my breath away.”
She nodded, a hint of color staining her cheeks. She bent over her salad and he did the same.
Tru nodded at the carved box sitting on the table. “What’s in there?”
“Memories,” she said, a mysterious lilt in her voice. “I’ll show you later, but for now, let’s keep talking about you. I think we’re up to around 2007? What happened after you finished your rehabilitation?”
He hesitated, as though trying to figure out what to say. “I found a job in Namibia. Guiding. Well-kept lodge and huge reserve, with one of the largest concentrations of cheetahs on the continent. And Namibia is a beautiful country. The Skeleton Coast and Sossusvlei desert are…among the most otherworldly places on the planet. When I wasn’t working or flying to Europe to see Andrew, I played the tourist, exploring whenever I could. I stayed at the camp until I retired and moved to Cape Town. Or rather, Bantry Bay. It’s on the outskirts, right on the coast. I have a small place there with a spectacular view. And it’s walking distance to cafés, bookstores, and the market. It suits me.”
“Did you ever think about moving to Europe to be closer to Andrew?”
He shook his head. “I get up there from time to time, and work brings him to Cape Town regularly. If he could, he’d move to Cape Town, but Annette won’t let him. Most of her family lives in Belgium. But Africa has a hold on him, the same way it does on me. Unless you were raised there, it’s hard to understand.”
Her gaze was full of wonder. “Your life sounds incredibly romantic to me. Aside from that awful three-year period, I mean.”
“I’ve lived the life I wanted. Mostly, anyway.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Did you ever think about getting married again? After your divorce?”
“No,” she answered. “I didn’t even feel like dating. I told myself that it was because of the kids, but…”
“But what?”
Instead of answering, she shook her head. “It’s not important. Let’s finish with you. Now that you’re retired, how do you spend your days?”
“I don’t do much. But I do enjoy being able to walk without carrying a rifle.”
She smiled. “Do you have hobbies?” She rested her chin in her hand, striking a girlish pose as she fixed her attention on him. “Aside from drawing and guitar?”
“I visit a gym most mornings for an hour, and usually follow that with a long walk or a hike. I do a lot of reading, too. I’ve probably read more books in the last three years than I’d read in the previous sixty-three combined. I haven’t broken down and bought a computer yet, but Andrew keeps insisting that I need to catch up with the times.”
“You don’t have a computer?”
“What would I do with it?” He seemed genuinely bemused.
“I don’t know…read online newspapers, order something you need, email. Stay connected to the world?”
“Maybe one day. I still prefer reading a regular newspaper, I have everything I need, and there’s no one I want to email.”
“Do you know what Facebook is?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Tru conceded. “As I mentioned, I do read the paper.”
“I had a Facebook account for a few years. In case you wanted to contact me.”
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he watched her, wondering how much to say, knowing he wasn’t ready to tell her everything just yet.
“I thought about trying to reach out,” he finally offered. “More times than you can imagine. But I didn’t know if you were still married, or remarried, or whether you were interested in hearing from me. I didn’t want to disrupt your life. And really, I don’t know how well I would do with a computer anyway. Or with Facebook. What do Americans say? ‘Can’t teach an old dog new tricks’?” He grinned. “It was a big step for me to get a cell phone. But I only did that so Andrew could reach me when he needed to.”
“You didn’t have a cell phone?”
“I never felt like I needed one until recently. There’s no service in the bush, and besides, the only one who would ever call was Andrew.”
“How about Kim? Don’t you still speak with her?”
“Not very often, these days. Andrew is grown now, so there’s not as much reason for us to speak. And you? Do you still speak with Josh?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “Maybe too much.”
Tru’s expression was quizzical.
“A few months ago, he suggested we try to make a go of it again. Him and me, I mean.”
“That didn’t interest you?”
“Not in the slightest,” she responded. “And I was a bit shocked that he had the nerve to bring it up.”
“Why?”
While they finished their salads, Hope shared more detail about Josh. His affairs and the divorce battles, his subsequent marriage and divorce, and the toll that life had taken on him. Tru listened, hearing only a trace of the anguish that all of Josh’s actions must have caused her, and thinking to himself that Josh was a fool. That she was somehow able to forgive him struck Tru as remarkable, but then it was just another thing he admired about her.
They lingered at the kitchen table, filling in blanks and answering questions about each other’s past. When they eventually brought their dishes to the sink, Hope turned on the radio, letting the music drift out of the kitchen as they wandered back to the couch. The fire was still burning, casting a yellow glow through the room. Tru watched as she took a seat and tucked the blanket around herself, thinking that he never wanted this day to end.
Until he’d learned that Hope had placed a letter in Kindred Spirit, Tru had sometimes thought that he’d died twice, not just once, in his lifetime.
Upon his return to Zimbabwe in 1990, he’d spent time with Andrew, but he could remember feeling numb to the world, even as he’d played soccer or cooked or watched TV with his son. When he went back to the bush, working with the guests was a distraction, but he could never escape thoughts of her. When he would stop the jeep on game drives so the guests could photograph whatever animal they were seeing, he would sometimes imagine that she was in the front seat beside him, marveling at his world in the same way he continued to marvel at the world they’d briefly inhabited together.
The evenings were hardest. He couldn’t concentrate long enough to either draw or play the guitar. Nor did he socialize with the other guides; instead, he would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Eventually his friend Romy grew concerned enough to mention it, but it was a long time before Tru could even bring himself to say Hope’s name.
It took months for Tru to return to his normal habits, but even then, he knew he was no longer fully himself. Prior to meeting Hope, he’d dated occasionally; afterward, he lost all desire to do so. Nor did that feeling ever change. It was as though that part of him, the desire for female companionship or the spark of human attraction, had been left behind on the sandy shores of Sunset Beach, North Carolina.
“This won’t take long at all, but how about you grab the plates and forks? They’re in the cabinet by the sink.”
At her instruction, he placed the plates next to the cutting board and watched as she sliced the vegetables. Next, she tossed and dressed the salad in a bowl with a little lemon juice and olive oil before arranging two servings on the plates. Finally, she added a scoop of chicken salad to each. He’d imagined being in a kitchen with her a thousand times in the last twenty-four years, just like this.
“Voilà.”
“It looks delicious,” he said, following her to the table.
After putting her plate down, she motioned toward the refrigerator. “Do you want some more wine?” she asked.
“No, thank you. Two glasses is my limit these days.”
“I’m closer to one,” she said. She reached for her fork. “Do you remember when we had dinner at Clancy’s? And then went back and had a glass of wine at my parents’ cottage?”
“How could I forget?” he said. “That was the night we first got to know each other. You took my breath away.”
She nodded, a hint of color staining her cheeks. She bent over her salad and he did the same.
Tru nodded at the carved box sitting on the table. “What’s in there?”
“Memories,” she said, a mysterious lilt in her voice. “I’ll show you later, but for now, let’s keep talking about you. I think we’re up to around 2007? What happened after you finished your rehabilitation?”
He hesitated, as though trying to figure out what to say. “I found a job in Namibia. Guiding. Well-kept lodge and huge reserve, with one of the largest concentrations of cheetahs on the continent. And Namibia is a beautiful country. The Skeleton Coast and Sossusvlei desert are…among the most otherworldly places on the planet. When I wasn’t working or flying to Europe to see Andrew, I played the tourist, exploring whenever I could. I stayed at the camp until I retired and moved to Cape Town. Or rather, Bantry Bay. It’s on the outskirts, right on the coast. I have a small place there with a spectacular view. And it’s walking distance to cafés, bookstores, and the market. It suits me.”
“Did you ever think about moving to Europe to be closer to Andrew?”
He shook his head. “I get up there from time to time, and work brings him to Cape Town regularly. If he could, he’d move to Cape Town, but Annette won’t let him. Most of her family lives in Belgium. But Africa has a hold on him, the same way it does on me. Unless you were raised there, it’s hard to understand.”
Her gaze was full of wonder. “Your life sounds incredibly romantic to me. Aside from that awful three-year period, I mean.”
“I’ve lived the life I wanted. Mostly, anyway.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Did you ever think about getting married again? After your divorce?”
“No,” she answered. “I didn’t even feel like dating. I told myself that it was because of the kids, but…”
“But what?”
Instead of answering, she shook her head. “It’s not important. Let’s finish with you. Now that you’re retired, how do you spend your days?”
“I don’t do much. But I do enjoy being able to walk without carrying a rifle.”
She smiled. “Do you have hobbies?” She rested her chin in her hand, striking a girlish pose as she fixed her attention on him. “Aside from drawing and guitar?”
“I visit a gym most mornings for an hour, and usually follow that with a long walk or a hike. I do a lot of reading, too. I’ve probably read more books in the last three years than I’d read in the previous sixty-three combined. I haven’t broken down and bought a computer yet, but Andrew keeps insisting that I need to catch up with the times.”
“You don’t have a computer?”
“What would I do with it?” He seemed genuinely bemused.
“I don’t know…read online newspapers, order something you need, email. Stay connected to the world?”
“Maybe one day. I still prefer reading a regular newspaper, I have everything I need, and there’s no one I want to email.”
“Do you know what Facebook is?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Tru conceded. “As I mentioned, I do read the paper.”
“I had a Facebook account for a few years. In case you wanted to contact me.”
He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he watched her, wondering how much to say, knowing he wasn’t ready to tell her everything just yet.
“I thought about trying to reach out,” he finally offered. “More times than you can imagine. But I didn’t know if you were still married, or remarried, or whether you were interested in hearing from me. I didn’t want to disrupt your life. And really, I don’t know how well I would do with a computer anyway. Or with Facebook. What do Americans say? ‘Can’t teach an old dog new tricks’?” He grinned. “It was a big step for me to get a cell phone. But I only did that so Andrew could reach me when he needed to.”
“You didn’t have a cell phone?”
“I never felt like I needed one until recently. There’s no service in the bush, and besides, the only one who would ever call was Andrew.”
“How about Kim? Don’t you still speak with her?”
“Not very often, these days. Andrew is grown now, so there’s not as much reason for us to speak. And you? Do you still speak with Josh?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “Maybe too much.”
Tru’s expression was quizzical.
“A few months ago, he suggested we try to make a go of it again. Him and me, I mean.”
“That didn’t interest you?”
“Not in the slightest,” she responded. “And I was a bit shocked that he had the nerve to bring it up.”
“Why?”
While they finished their salads, Hope shared more detail about Josh. His affairs and the divorce battles, his subsequent marriage and divorce, and the toll that life had taken on him. Tru listened, hearing only a trace of the anguish that all of Josh’s actions must have caused her, and thinking to himself that Josh was a fool. That she was somehow able to forgive him struck Tru as remarkable, but then it was just another thing he admired about her.
They lingered at the kitchen table, filling in blanks and answering questions about each other’s past. When they eventually brought their dishes to the sink, Hope turned on the radio, letting the music drift out of the kitchen as they wandered back to the couch. The fire was still burning, casting a yellow glow through the room. Tru watched as she took a seat and tucked the blanket around herself, thinking that he never wanted this day to end.
Until he’d learned that Hope had placed a letter in Kindred Spirit, Tru had sometimes thought that he’d died twice, not just once, in his lifetime.
Upon his return to Zimbabwe in 1990, he’d spent time with Andrew, but he could remember feeling numb to the world, even as he’d played soccer or cooked or watched TV with his son. When he went back to the bush, working with the guests was a distraction, but he could never escape thoughts of her. When he would stop the jeep on game drives so the guests could photograph whatever animal they were seeing, he would sometimes imagine that she was in the front seat beside him, marveling at his world in the same way he continued to marvel at the world they’d briefly inhabited together.
The evenings were hardest. He couldn’t concentrate long enough to either draw or play the guitar. Nor did he socialize with the other guides; instead, he would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Eventually his friend Romy grew concerned enough to mention it, but it was a long time before Tru could even bring himself to say Hope’s name.
It took months for Tru to return to his normal habits, but even then, he knew he was no longer fully himself. Prior to meeting Hope, he’d dated occasionally; afterward, he lost all desire to do so. Nor did that feeling ever change. It was as though that part of him, the desire for female companionship or the spark of human attraction, had been left behind on the sandy shores of Sunset Beach, North Carolina.
