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Authors: Marliss Melton
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circumstances.
His routine necessitated a 4:00 A.M. wake-up, in order to arrive at the Spec Ops facility by zero five hundred hours to oversee physical training. Who would watch Silas when he went to work? The Navy’s Family Services Center offered before-and-after-school programs, but what about when he was called away, for weeks and months at a time? Perhaps he could request special permission to remain stateside, but then he’d ruin any prospect of making master chief.
“What grade are you going into, Silas?” he asked his son.
Silas just looked at him.
“You’re six now, right? Did you go to kindergarten last year?”
Silas shook his head. “Christopher and Caleb went to school.”
A terrible thought skewered Solomon. “You know how to read, though, don’t you?” He, himself, had taught himself to read when he was four.
Silas lowered his chin and darted him an anxious look. “No, sir,” he whispered.
The thought of Silas not having such a great source of entertainment at his fingertips dismayed Solomon. Surely the boy ought to be reading by now, at least short little words. He added to his growing list:
Teach Silas to read.
How in God’s name was he supposed to do that, plus all the other sundry tasks, with only four days of leave time left and just a few weeks of summer remaining? Feeling overwhelmed, he scratched his head. He needed help. A nanny. A tutor. Someone who was good with children.
A vision that seemed to hover at the periphery of his thoughts jumped front and center:
Jordan Bliss.
The peanut butter he’d swallowed moved thickly down his throat. She would know what to do with a six-year-old boy. He’d made inquiries—she was a first-grade teacher,
and
she lived near enough to assist him.
His breath came faster. Yes, and having been separated from one little boy, she might have an interest in helping another.
His rational thoughts disintegrated into what was recognizably a primal urge. The desire to mate with her had ambushed him back in Caracas when he’d written her that poem. It hadn’t eased, either, in the intervening days as the memory of her feisty spirit and passionate devotion resurfaced again and again. And now he had the perfect excuse to see her.
Jordan reread the e-mail from Father Benedict with tears in her eyes and her heart in her throat. At last, she had word of Miguel, though the news wasn’t terribly good:
Dearest Jordan,
he wrote,
I’m writing this from within the British consulate in Ayacucho, which is being evacuated at this precise moment as a Populist Army has seized most of the Amazonas region by force and is expected to march upon the city today. I hope to find refuge for myself and three of the children in La Catredral Maria Auxiliadora. I regret to say that Fatima fell ill with fever yesterday. I felt it best to leave her with a family of my acquaintance, who I pray will love and keep her as their own. Miguel is faring well enough with the others, though he has yet to utter a word since your parting, and he rarely strays from my side.
You may not write me back at this e-mail. Simply forward news of Miguel’s location to the agency handling his adoption so they know where to find him. Perhaps they can negotiate some means to send him to you. I must strongly warn you that it is unsafe for you to fetch him in person.
I hope this note finds you well and whole in spirit, considering these unfortunate circumstances.
Yours Respectfully,
Timothy Benedict
With a cry of urgency, Jordan leapt up and riffled through her address book for the number of the agency in Venezuela handling her adoption. She dialed the international number with fingers that trembled with both relief and anxiety.
“
Corazones Internacional,
” answered a woman in Spanish.
“Señora Nuñez, this is Jordan Bliss. I’ve pinpointed Miguel’s location,” she breathlessly announced.
“Ah, Señora Bliss,” said the woman carefully. “I’m glad you called again. Miguel’s
His routine necessitated a 4:00 A.M. wake-up, in order to arrive at the Spec Ops facility by zero five hundred hours to oversee physical training. Who would watch Silas when he went to work? The Navy’s Family Services Center offered before-and-after-school programs, but what about when he was called away, for weeks and months at a time? Perhaps he could request special permission to remain stateside, but then he’d ruin any prospect of making master chief.
“What grade are you going into, Silas?” he asked his son.
Silas just looked at him.
“You’re six now, right? Did you go to kindergarten last year?”
Silas shook his head. “Christopher and Caleb went to school.”
A terrible thought skewered Solomon. “You know how to read, though, don’t you?” He, himself, had taught himself to read when he was four.
Silas lowered his chin and darted him an anxious look. “No, sir,” he whispered.
The thought of Silas not having such a great source of entertainment at his fingertips dismayed Solomon. Surely the boy ought to be reading by now, at least short little words. He added to his growing list:
Teach Silas to read.
How in God’s name was he supposed to do that, plus all the other sundry tasks, with only four days of leave time left and just a few weeks of summer remaining? Feeling overwhelmed, he scratched his head. He needed help. A nanny. A tutor. Someone who was good with children.
A vision that seemed to hover at the periphery of his thoughts jumped front and center:
Jordan Bliss.
The peanut butter he’d swallowed moved thickly down his throat. She would know what to do with a six-year-old boy. He’d made inquiries—she was a first-grade teacher,
and
she lived near enough to assist him.
His breath came faster. Yes, and having been separated from one little boy, she might have an interest in helping another.
His rational thoughts disintegrated into what was recognizably a primal urge. The desire to mate with her had ambushed him back in Caracas when he’d written her that poem. It hadn’t eased, either, in the intervening days as the memory of her feisty spirit and passionate devotion resurfaced again and again. And now he had the perfect excuse to see her.
Jordan reread the e-mail from Father Benedict with tears in her eyes and her heart in her throat. At last, she had word of Miguel, though the news wasn’t terribly good:
Dearest Jordan,
he wrote,
I’m writing this from within the British consulate in Ayacucho, which is being evacuated at this precise moment as a Populist Army has seized most of the Amazonas region by force and is expected to march upon the city today. I hope to find refuge for myself and three of the children in La Catredral Maria Auxiliadora. I regret to say that Fatima fell ill with fever yesterday. I felt it best to leave her with a family of my acquaintance, who I pray will love and keep her as their own. Miguel is faring well enough with the others, though he has yet to utter a word since your parting, and he rarely strays from my side.
You may not write me back at this e-mail. Simply forward news of Miguel’s location to the agency handling his adoption so they know where to find him. Perhaps they can negotiate some means to send him to you. I must strongly warn you that it is unsafe for you to fetch him in person.
I hope this note finds you well and whole in spirit, considering these unfortunate circumstances.
Yours Respectfully,
Timothy Benedict
With a cry of urgency, Jordan leapt up and riffled through her address book for the number of the agency in Venezuela handling her adoption. She dialed the international number with fingers that trembled with both relief and anxiety.
“
Corazones Internacional,
” answered a woman in Spanish.
“Señora Nuñez, this is Jordan Bliss. I’ve pinpointed Miguel’s location,” she breathlessly announced.
“Ah, Señora Bliss,” said the woman carefully. “I’m glad you called again. Miguel’s
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