Fire And Spice

Zoe said no and asked if anyone wanted more coffee. She was not comfortable discussing Bryant Sinclair, although, if she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit to being curious like crazy.

By the time she locked her office at four, she was more then ready to go home. It was a long but pleasant walk back to her apartment and the air was still full of late summer warmth. Chrysanthemums bloomed in a glowing array of warm autumn colors in the small city gardens and in pots arranged along stone steps. She hadn’t been home during the fall for years and she’d forgotten how beautiful they were.

She had not yet purchased a car and so far she had managed without one, walking and using the Metro or taxis for longer distances. Maybe she could wait till spring, when it would be nice to be able to get out into the countryside.

She stopped at the bakery and bought some dark, crusty bread. A young woman with a new-born baby in her arms was looking longingly at the apple strudel. Zoe peered into the tiny, sleeping face, feeling overwhelmed with sudden longing. She wanted a baby, to hold close and to love. She wanted a man, to hold close and to love. Preferably first the man, then the baby, she thought wryly as she moved on down the street hugging her purchases to her chest. She was twenty-nine. It was perfectly normal to want these things. She intended to be a great wife and a super-cool mom. She grinned at herself. A lot easier said than done, but she was ready for the challenge. Sometimes she felt as if she would burst with the need to give her love—as if she carried inside her a large supply that would overflow if she didn’t dispense it.

You are nuts, she told herself, and put thoughts of loving and bursting out of her mind.

Reaching the town house, she skipped up the stone steps to the front door and opened it. Inside the entryway she checked her mail. There was a letter from Nick, which gave her a jolt of pleasure, and she rushed up the stairs to her apartment, eager to read it. She made a pot of tea, changed out of her suit into jeans and a T-shirt, and plunked herself on the sofa with the letter.

Nick was a science teacher at the boarding-school in Cameroon where she had worked for three years herself. He told her of the people she knew-the couple that had married in a lavish tribal ceremony, the latest news of the students and the teachers, the herbalist who had cured the pain in his foot with a magic potion, the Spanish cultural attaché he loved.

My Spanish princess has forsaken me for another. How dare she? you may ask. Actually, I think she wanted a prince. I am not a prince; I am from New Jersey. None the less I am devastated. Loneliness creeps in every nook and cranny of my existence. Why did you have to leave, Zoe? You were my best friend. You should have been here to comfort me in my time of distress.

What am I to do? I spend my nights in isolation, unless Jacob comes by with palm wine and then we sit and discuss the cassava harvest and the mysteries of the female psyche and I drink too much and become very undignified, which I sincerely regret the next morning. Loneliness is a devastating condition, possibly terminal. I so long for your lethal chocolate-chip coconut cookies and your riveting conversation, but your house stands empty when I, ever hopeful of a miracle, pass by.

We all miss you. We miss your house and the comfort and friendship we found within its crooked walls, not to speak of the culinary delights. Your house was a haven of domesticity in this land of deprivation.

Needless to say, I ask myself daily why I am still here, turning grayer every day. Why I stay in this godforsaken dusty little African town. The reason is that I like it.

I so hope you are happy in your swishy apartment in the nation’s capital. In moments of despair I soothe myself trying to visualize it lots of plants. Lovely flowered teacups. A cozy wood fire on cold nights. The heavenly aroma of something baking in the oven.

I hope you find what you’re looking for, Zoe. I can see you already in my mind’s eye, sitting on a sofa, a handsome husband by your side, a baby on your lap with your lovely big brown eyes and warm smile. How serene an image!

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll spend the rest of my life here in Africa, growing little by little into a mad eccentric.

Zoe laughed out loud. Nick was an eccentric already. He was forty years old, had never been married and had lived all over the world, settling here and there for a few years to teach or do other work that seemed interesting.

And she, of course, had been heading the same direction-straight into mad eccentricity. One steamy night she’d woken in a cold sweat and seen the warning written on the ceiling: Go home! Be normal!

Zoe picked up the pretty flowered teapot and refilled her cup. Sipping at the hot, strong tea, she finished the letter. Poor Nick. All alone in a small African town.

Poor me, she thought suddenly, all alone in a big American town. She grimaced. ‘Oh, stop it,’ she muttered out loud. After all, this was what she had wantedto come back to the States, settle down and grow some roots. Growing roots. It called up images of flourishing, large-leaved plants flowering luxuriantly and spreading sweet perfume. It was a lovely vision and it made her smile.

Putting Nick’s letter on the table, she came to her feet and wandered around the small apartment. It was a lovely place with solid oak doors and hardwood floors dating back a hundred and fifty years. She stood in front of the window which had a view of a narrow, tree-lined street of other historic town houses with gabled roofs and wrought-iron railings along the front steps.

Bryant Sinclair’s silver-blue Saab was not in its parking place in front of the house, she noticed automatically, aware suddenly that she was always noticing his car-or its absence. You’re like a busybody old lady spying on her neighbors, she told herself. Don’t you have anything more productive to do?

It was too early for Bryant to be home. Mrs Garcia, the housekeeper, would be in the apartment keeping Paul company until his father came home. She wondered what the place looked like.

There’d be expensive furniture, no doubt, but she could not quite imagine what it might look like, which was not surprising-she didn’t know the man.

She had, however, a very clear picture of the man himself in her mind—the blond hair, the blue, blue eyes, that prominent chin. Just thinking of him made her pulse do funny things.

Turning away from the window, she glanced around the room and pushed the image of those blue eyes out of her head.

She’d furnished and decorated her apartment herself and she was happy with the result. Everything was perfect, everything in its place. Everything cozy and comfortable. It had taken her a lot of effort and energy to get it the way she wanted it, arranging her eclectic assortment of paintings, woven wall-hangings, wood carvings and baskets in such a way as to make it a unified whole.

This was her nest and she loved the warmth and coziness of it, the color and brightness. She was going to be happy here in her new life. Washington was an exciting city with all sorts of cultural entertainmentsplays, concerts, lectures, seminars—all those things she had missed in the last few years.

She put on a tape of cheery reggae and began preparing a salad with lettuce, avocado and goat cheese. She ate it at the small table, along with a slice of the German bread and a glass of wine. It was delicious.

It was pathetic. She was alone, eating alone. What good was all this without someone to share it with? Suddenly she longed to be back in Africa, in her shabby little house in the dusty town, eating with friends-some starchy yam and oily fish soup-anything. She longed for friends around her, conversation, laughter. She longed for the sense of community, the sharing and support.

Loneliness overwhelmed her and her salad blurred in front of her eyes, the colors swirling together in pretty shades of green and white. Angry with herself, she blinked to clear her eyes. She was not going to get maudlin and weep into her salad like some tragic heroine. This was stupid, stupid. She couldn’t allow herself to give in to these feelings. She would make friends here, build a new life. It would just take some time and effort.

The phone rang.

‘Hi, it’s me, Maxie,’ said the voice. Maxie lived in the town house next door, a large, beautiful place which she shared with her bald husband, several exotic caged birds, and a boa constrictor. She had a mass of bright red hair, a sexy voice and a body to kill for. She wore the wildest, most flamboyant clothes Zoe had ever seen.

‘Hi,’ said Zoe. When she’d moved in, on an excruciatingly hot August day, Maxie had offered lemonade, the use of her telephone, and a view of her snake. They’d talked briefly on occasion afterward. Maxie and her husband Derek owned a very exclusive international art shop and made frequent buying trips overseas.

‘We’re having our annual end-of-summer party on Saturday,’ said Maxie. ‘I’d like you to come.’

A party! People! Conversation! It was an omen. Zoe felt her spirits soar heavenward.

‘Oh, thank you! I’d love to. Can I bring something?’

‘I’m having it catered. It’s a big party, lots of people, and I don’t want to bother with the food. How have you been?’

‘I like the school and the staff, but I’m still readjusting to things American, like overloaded supermarkets with fifteen brands of everything and phones that work and semi-sane traffic.’

Maxie laughed her husky laugh. ‘You’ll find some soul mates at the party. Lots of globe-trotters and foreign types.’ ‘Sounds interesting. What do I wear?’

‘Anything you like. There’ll be people in jeans and saris and dashikis and bow-tie, so whatever.’

‘Good. When you mentioned catering I was worried I had to get something long with sequins or feathers.’

‘Oh, please, spare me!’ Maxie laughed. ‘Well, I’ll see you Saturday, then, eight.’

Zoe replaced the receiver and grinned to herself. She felt suddenly very light and not at all depressed any more. The invitation was an omen. A definite omen that exciting things were lurking around the corner. She took several dance steps back to the table to finish her salad.

Afterward she felt too restless to read or watch television. She needed something to do. She glanced around the tiny kitchen, looking for inspiration. She should bake something time-consuming and elaborate. A cake. A luscious, decadent chocolate cake with nuts. She’d take it to school tomorrow and leave it in the teachers’ lounge. It wouldn’t last long there.

She was two eggs short. Well, the corner store was still open. Grabbing her purse, she rushed out the door, down the stairs to the hall. Opening the front door, she found herself face to face with Bryant Sinclair. No, not face to face. He was quite a bit taller than she. Her heart lurched as she looked up at him, meeting his blue, blue eyes. Like a summer sky, came the sudden thought. Apparently he was just returning from work. He wore the suit he had worn that morning, a briefcase in one hand, keys dangling in the other.

‘Thank you,’ he said, giving a vague smile.

She was aware suddenly that she was gaping at him stupidly. She rearranged her face in what she hoped was a more dignified expression. ‘I was just going out for some eggs.’ Now why did she tell him that? There was no reason to explain herself.

Amusement gleamed in his eyes. ‘May your quest be successful,’ he said, ‘otherwise drop by and have some of mine. On second thought, why not just have some of mine right now and save yourself the trip?’

‘Thank you, but I need the exercise and I’m sure they have some at the corner store.’ She scooted down the steps to the brick sidewalk and heard the front door close behind her. Her heart was going crazy. What was the matter with her? The moment she saw him, her senses went wild. This was not normal, was it? After all, she didn’t even like the man.

BRYANT was watching her. It was odd-she could feel his eyes on her like a touch on her skin. Zoe sipped her wine as she slowly turned and allowed her gaze to pass casually over Bryant, pretending she didn’t notice him. He was talking to an Arab in a white flowing robe and a woman in a bunny costume. There was indeed an intriguing array of clothes. She glanced around Maxie’s crowded living-room, glimpsing a man in a dashiki, two women in saris and an assortment of exotic print shirts. The rest of the guests wore a more standard variety of party garb, including Bryant, who sported dark trousers and a blue and black print silk shirt, open at the neck.

She wore a short little party dress with off-theshoulder sleeves that she had bought in Rome when she’d visited her mother there this summer on her way back to the States. It was black and sexy, and actually she felt a bit naked in it, although the dress did not expose anything that shouldn’t be exposed in polite company. It was just that she hadn’t worn this sort of clothes for ages.