They pulled up in front of the Ritz-Carlton’s beach, and one of the dhow’s crew jumped out to hold it steady. Sandrine, ever the professional despite her loss, had her laugh and chatter ready. Her face paint long wiped away, she was dressed once more in a flowery beach shirt over a one-piece swimsuit, and carried a beach basket and flippers and goggles. She flirted with the young man as he helped her down. She waded to the shore, calling back to Marc.
Bernard caught him as he started over the gunnel and pleaded, “Let me come.”
“We’ve been through—”
“I’m recovered. Feeling fine.”
The man did not look fine. Fresh blood had clotted his ear. His gaze still floated slightly. His features were pasty. Marc said as gently as he could, “We’re heading into Indian country. You know what that means?”
“I am not afraid of enemy fire.”
“This isn’t about fear. This is about operating at a hundred and ten percent.” He clasped the man’s shoulder. “Go and report in. Your best effort is making sure our new Israeli friends do their job.”
He jumped into the water before Bernard could protest further. The sea was too warm to be refreshing. At the first glimpse of the hotel, Marc’s body released the floodgates and allowed the exhaustion to take hold. The bruises to his chest had not ached until that moment. Or the weariness in his legs. Or the sore back. Or the scratchy eyes. And the headache. He was assaulted by fatigue.
A dark-haired figure came racing down the beach, out into the water, her face filled with emotions she did not bother to hide. She waded out to him, impatient that she could not get there any faster. “Oh, Marc.”
And suddenly his weariness meant nothing.
Marc showered and ate a meal on the room’s balcony, talking with Kitra as he dined. They spared only a few moments for the personal. They both heard the silent clock ticking. The complete conversation would have to wait. But just the few things they shared was enough. That she had worried about him. That she hadn’t slept. That she had feared he was gone, and she had lost the chance to tell him . . .
Marc was sorry when she didn’t finish the sentence. But at the same time, he knew he needed to be sharp and tightly alert. If she had completed the thought, he would have been unable to stow his emotions away. And just then he had to set all those things aside.
He finished his meal, saw Kitra off, and lay down. His last thought before drifting away was an electric determination to finish this assignment and move on to tomorrow. It had been a long time since that word had held any meaning beyond the usual marking of time. He carried the smile with him into sleep.
Following his instructions, Kitra and Rhana with Amin and Sandrine put the plans in motion while Marc slept. When Kitra awoke him at two the next morning, everything was ready. His body ached with a need for more rest. But a stretching routine and another meal and shower had him as ready as he could possibly be.
Two late-model Mercedes were pulled up at the hotel entrance when he arrived in the lobby before daybreak. Their drivers smiled effusive greetings as the five filed through the hotel entrance. The aim was to once again establish tourist bona fides by traveling to central Sinai’s premier destination, joining the hordes that rose early to watch the sunrise over the desert mountains. Rhana and Kitra and Sandrine all conversed with the easy gaiety of old friends as they stowed the picnic hampers and backpacks. The sleepy doorman and the two bellhops on all-night duty smiled and waved them off on the familiar trek of many who stayed at the hotel.
The roads were not empty. The Middle Eastern world did not run on the same clock as the West. Traffic was light, yet they weren’t the only nice cars headed north in the predawn dark.
Beyond the airport, the road was black and the night swallowed them. Occasionally they passed Bedouins leading camels or donkeys along the relatively smooth verge. Trucks rumbled past, flashing their lights and honking their horns, almost as if the drivers were using both to stay awake.
Amin and Sandrine rode in the first vehicle. Kitra and Marc occupied the second car’s rear seat while Rhana traveled up front on the passenger side. Marc waited until the older woman dozed off to lean over and say, “You can’t know what it meant to have you meet me like you did.”
She slipped her hand into his. “We have only now, this moment, for me to offer you my apology.” Her gaze sparked in the car’s dim lights as she glanced forward. Rhana still slept. “These words of mine must be spoken. Will you not interrupt, please?”
“All right, Kitra.”
“I was wrong to ask you to join me on the kibbutz. If I loved you as fully as I claimed, I should have known it was not something you could ever do and survive as the person you are. No, wait, Marc. I asked you not to speak. Hear me out, please.” She paused until she was certain he would not interrupt, then said, “I did love you. I do now. With all my heart. But the night before last I faced myself with the honesty of thinking I might have lost you forever and so lost the chance to speak the truth. The real truth.
“Part of why I asked you to join me in Israel was because I knew you couldn’t. I feared your love. I feared losing myself to you. Someone I could not control. I have fought all my life to be independent. I was fighting against you. No, not you. Against my own love.”
He reached over and covered her hand with his other one. She looked into his face and continued, “Our prayer times in Geneva became a mirror for me. I see now that my life has reached a juncture. I have a choice. I can give myself to love, and know the sacrifice, and accept it. Or I can remain where I am and live for the kibbutz. Will I ever love again? Perhaps. Most likely. But it will not be our love.
“What has been most important for me to realize is that both of these decisions are right, both are good in God’s eyes. Each one would keep me within his divine will. The question is, what do I want? It is hard to think of giving up life on the kibbutz. But I have also learned that it’s possible I need not give up the kibbutz entirely. They need a new sales director, someone to handle the contacts with the mines in Kenya and the end users in America and—”
“What are you saying, Kitra?”
“Yes. I have not told you because I feared even thinking about this. The timing is God’s, no? The invitation to make this decision came at this precise juncture. And its arrival has done two things for me. It has helped pry away my frantic hold on the myths I have told myself, and revealed that it was I who should have chosen between you and the kibbutz, not forced you to choose. And second, it has shown me that God is with me in both choices.”
Marc gave that the time it deserved, then asked, “What will you do?”
“Pray,” she replied, after a time. “Pray for the strength to do what my heart has already decided.”