from a world filled with evil.
Once inside, Keri felt safe. Her family was together and Ryan was off for a couple of days. Hopefully it would be enough time for her to regain her faith in the fact that everything would be alright. Maybe she had overreacted.
Before leaving the foyer, she pushed against the front door, ensuring it was closed, and engaged the bolt lock. Pausing briefly, she reflected on the framed, cross-stitched needlework that hung by the door in the foyer. Behind the glass was a late afternoon beach scene; the sun three-quarters below the horizon and the silhouette of a bird in flight headed toward the setting sun. Two empty Adirondack chairs, side by side, faced the ocean. Three phrases were stitched into the fabric:
One below the horizon:
LEARN FROM THE PAST
One on the horizon next to the sliver of orange sun:
EMBRACE THE PRESENT
The third above the horizon:
HOPE IN THE FUTURE
The needlework was a wedding gift from Ryan’s mom. It was one of her many marvelous pieces. It had hung in the small foyer of her own home in Atlanta before her Alzheimer’s disease had forced her to move to Dallas where Ryan could care for her. She had often said that the needlework was a reminder to her before facing the challenges of the outside world. The simple illustration always reminded Keri of Martha Mitchell’s optimistic and hopeful outlook on life.
The message in the stitching, combined with thoughts of Martha’s strong faith, brought a tear to Keri’s eye. Martha was in Heaven now. Keri wanted to believe that Martha was looking down at them saying: “ Everything is gonna be fine .”
CHAPTER 7
Samael darted from the lobby of the Hotel Daphnis to a waiting taxi. As he entered the back seat, the driver turned and flinched. Samael ignored the man’s rude behavior and said, “The Pierre Loti Café.”
The driver made quick time, arriving at the café within twenty minutes. Samael paid the man, exited the taxi, pulled his hood over his head, and hurried through the café to the terrace, ignoring the gawking patrons. He expected his height and massive size to draw attention, but the curse of his whiteness made it impossible to escape the incessant stares and whispers of onlookers.
The tree-shaded terrace café sat high up on a hill, centrally located within Old Stamboul. The popular café offered a splendid view of the Istanbul skyline, the Golden Horn River, and the Bosphorus Strait in the distance, stretching from Kagithane (the working class district of the city) to the Marmara Sea.
Named after the famous, French novelist and naval officer, Pierre Loti, the cozy atmosphere and authentic 19th century style furnishings were reminiscent of a more relaxed time in Istanbul’s history; a time when the Golden Horn was rich with tulip gardens and green parks, where upscale people came to relax and row their boats under romantic sunsets.
With waiters still serving in period costumes, the café provided the perfect place for escape and reflection. Although he had never met Usman Ali, pictures from his website, along with the description Usman provided made it easy to spot the little man.
Samael quickly crossed the patio to a table Usman had secured beneath the trees with an amazing view of the Golden Horn River; something Samael had requested.
Usman rose to greet him. “Good to see you my brother,” Samael said.
“The pleasure is mine.”
When they embraced, Samael was careful not to crush the bony, skeleton-like body beneath the man’s tunic. Considering the fragility of the pitiful specimen, Samael found the curse of his white skin not so disgusting.
Shadowed beneath his towering six-nine frame, Samael eyed the little man up and down. His head was covered with a kufi (a short, rounded cap). His black beard added an unnatural thickness to his narrow face, and a mustache encircled his full lips. He wore thick glasses with dark rims and a white thobe hung loosely from his shoulders. The legs on his
Once inside, Keri felt safe. Her family was together and Ryan was off for a couple of days. Hopefully it would be enough time for her to regain her faith in the fact that everything would be alright. Maybe she had overreacted.
Before leaving the foyer, she pushed against the front door, ensuring it was closed, and engaged the bolt lock. Pausing briefly, she reflected on the framed, cross-stitched needlework that hung by the door in the foyer. Behind the glass was a late afternoon beach scene; the sun three-quarters below the horizon and the silhouette of a bird in flight headed toward the setting sun. Two empty Adirondack chairs, side by side, faced the ocean. Three phrases were stitched into the fabric:
One below the horizon:
LEARN FROM THE PAST
One on the horizon next to the sliver of orange sun:
EMBRACE THE PRESENT
The third above the horizon:
HOPE IN THE FUTURE
The needlework was a wedding gift from Ryan’s mom. It was one of her many marvelous pieces. It had hung in the small foyer of her own home in Atlanta before her Alzheimer’s disease had forced her to move to Dallas where Ryan could care for her. She had often said that the needlework was a reminder to her before facing the challenges of the outside world. The simple illustration always reminded Keri of Martha Mitchell’s optimistic and hopeful outlook on life.
The message in the stitching, combined with thoughts of Martha’s strong faith, brought a tear to Keri’s eye. Martha was in Heaven now. Keri wanted to believe that Martha was looking down at them saying: “ Everything is gonna be fine .”
CHAPTER 7
Samael darted from the lobby of the Hotel Daphnis to a waiting taxi. As he entered the back seat, the driver turned and flinched. Samael ignored the man’s rude behavior and said, “The Pierre Loti Café.”
The driver made quick time, arriving at the café within twenty minutes. Samael paid the man, exited the taxi, pulled his hood over his head, and hurried through the café to the terrace, ignoring the gawking patrons. He expected his height and massive size to draw attention, but the curse of his whiteness made it impossible to escape the incessant stares and whispers of onlookers.
The tree-shaded terrace café sat high up on a hill, centrally located within Old Stamboul. The popular café offered a splendid view of the Istanbul skyline, the Golden Horn River, and the Bosphorus Strait in the distance, stretching from Kagithane (the working class district of the city) to the Marmara Sea.
Named after the famous, French novelist and naval officer, Pierre Loti, the cozy atmosphere and authentic 19th century style furnishings were reminiscent of a more relaxed time in Istanbul’s history; a time when the Golden Horn was rich with tulip gardens and green parks, where upscale people came to relax and row their boats under romantic sunsets.
With waiters still serving in period costumes, the café provided the perfect place for escape and reflection. Although he had never met Usman Ali, pictures from his website, along with the description Usman provided made it easy to spot the little man.
Samael quickly crossed the patio to a table Usman had secured beneath the trees with an amazing view of the Golden Horn River; something Samael had requested.
Usman rose to greet him. “Good to see you my brother,” Samael said.
“The pleasure is mine.”
When they embraced, Samael was careful not to crush the bony, skeleton-like body beneath the man’s tunic. Considering the fragility of the pitiful specimen, Samael found the curse of his white skin not so disgusting.
Shadowed beneath his towering six-nine frame, Samael eyed the little man up and down. His head was covered with a kufi (a short, rounded cap). His black beard added an unnatural thickness to his narrow face, and a mustache encircled his full lips. He wore thick glasses with dark rims and a white thobe hung loosely from his shoulders. The legs on his
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