Read Online Over the Waters by Deborah Raney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deborah Raney
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with a vigor in his voice that belied his age. He spoke sternly in Creole, then in English. "This woman has come to help out. Leave her in peace." He stretched his arms over the heads of the beggars and reached for her hand, smiling. "You must be Valerie," he shouted over the din.
"Yes--" The word was scarcely off her lips before his petite wife plowed through the crowd of children and pulled her into a bear hug that nearly knocked the wind from her.
"We're so glad you are here." The woman pulled away and held Valerie at arm's length for inspection. "I'm Betty Greene, and this is my husband, Pastor Phil Greene." Then, with a soft smile and a voice as serene as if she were commenting on the weather, she said, "You are an answer to our prayers, Valerie Austin."
Chapter Eight
Port-au-Prince, January 11
T he stench that filled the air beyond the gates of the Port-au-Prince airport caused Max Jordan to recoil. It smelled like a sewer line had busted somewhere. No one else seemed to notice the putrid odor. He looked around at the mass of humanity pressing around him on all sides, and wondered if this was the way the city always smelled.
He dragged his bags to the edge of the walk and looked down the street, keeping an eye out for the green Land Rover that was supposed to pick him up. He'd been warned that transportation in Haiti left much to be desired and he was grateful the orphanage had offered to send someone to meet him.
There it was, idling in a line of cars a hundred yards down the street. He started toward the vehicle, but before he'd gone two steps, a horde of children swarmed around him, hands outstretched, begging for money. "No! Go on! I don't have anything for you," he shouted, stomping a foot at them. "Get! Get!"
This seemed to take them aback momentarily and he hurriedly turned and pushed his bags awkwardly in front of him, plowing his way through the throng. His anger surged. Why on earth did the airport authority allow this mauling of their customers? He shut his ears to the children's cries and kept his eyes straight ahead.
Finally the beggars ran off to pester another poor traveler. Max wondered briefly about the young woman who'd lost her luggage. A knife of guilt punctured him. He probably should have taken the time to help her. But he didn't want to make his ride wait, or be left stranded at the airport. The knife twisted. He hoped the girl wouldn't be marooned here.
Joshua would have helped her.
He tensed and turned to look behind him. Where had that come from? But he realized immediately that no one had spoken the words aloud. The thought had come from his own mind. And he knew it was true. Josh would have helped her. And not just because she was a pretty young woman either. For the hundredth time, Max wondered why God had taken Josh and left a miserable, self-centered excuse of a man like Max Jordan behind to mourn him.
A cloud of melancholy settled over him. Grief seemed to have imbued him with an unsettling awareness of his conscience. He didn't like it.
As he approached the filthy Land Rover, a girl jumped out of the driver's seat and jogged around to open up the back.
"Hi." She stuck out a suntanned hand. "You must be Dr. Jordan."
She didn't look as though she could be a day over twenty, and the smile she gave him was the same one every woman who knew of Joshua's death gave him--a sad half smile that seemed equal parts pity and disdain, confirming his right to question why the son had died while the father still had breath.
"I'm Samantha Courtney."
He took the hand she extended and was surprised to realize she was trembling. This was the girl who'd written the letter. She'd known Josh. His breathing quickened.
"How was your trip?" she asked, slamming shut the back gate of the vehicle.
"It was long. But I'm here now. I appreciate you picking me up."
"Oh, it's no problem. Hop in. It's a ways to the orphanage." She went around and got behind the wheel.
Max climbed in beside her and
"Yes--" The word was scarcely off her lips before his petite wife plowed through the crowd of children and pulled her into a bear hug that nearly knocked the wind from her.
"We're so glad you are here." The woman pulled away and held Valerie at arm's length for inspection. "I'm Betty Greene, and this is my husband, Pastor Phil Greene." Then, with a soft smile and a voice as serene as if she were commenting on the weather, she said, "You are an answer to our prayers, Valerie Austin."
Chapter Eight
Port-au-Prince, January 11
T he stench that filled the air beyond the gates of the Port-au-Prince airport caused Max Jordan to recoil. It smelled like a sewer line had busted somewhere. No one else seemed to notice the putrid odor. He looked around at the mass of humanity pressing around him on all sides, and wondered if this was the way the city always smelled.
He dragged his bags to the edge of the walk and looked down the street, keeping an eye out for the green Land Rover that was supposed to pick him up. He'd been warned that transportation in Haiti left much to be desired and he was grateful the orphanage had offered to send someone to meet him.
There it was, idling in a line of cars a hundred yards down the street. He started toward the vehicle, but before he'd gone two steps, a horde of children swarmed around him, hands outstretched, begging for money. "No! Go on! I don't have anything for you," he shouted, stomping a foot at them. "Get! Get!"
This seemed to take them aback momentarily and he hurriedly turned and pushed his bags awkwardly in front of him, plowing his way through the throng. His anger surged. Why on earth did the airport authority allow this mauling of their customers? He shut his ears to the children's cries and kept his eyes straight ahead.
Finally the beggars ran off to pester another poor traveler. Max wondered briefly about the young woman who'd lost her luggage. A knife of guilt punctured him. He probably should have taken the time to help her. But he didn't want to make his ride wait, or be left stranded at the airport. The knife twisted. He hoped the girl wouldn't be marooned here.
Joshua would have helped her.
He tensed and turned to look behind him. Where had that come from? But he realized immediately that no one had spoken the words aloud. The thought had come from his own mind. And he knew it was true. Josh would have helped her. And not just because she was a pretty young woman either. For the hundredth time, Max wondered why God had taken Josh and left a miserable, self-centered excuse of a man like Max Jordan behind to mourn him.
A cloud of melancholy settled over him. Grief seemed to have imbued him with an unsettling awareness of his conscience. He didn't like it.
As he approached the filthy Land Rover, a girl jumped out of the driver's seat and jogged around to open up the back.
"Hi." She stuck out a suntanned hand. "You must be Dr. Jordan."
She didn't look as though she could be a day over twenty, and the smile she gave him was the same one every woman who knew of Joshua's death gave him--a sad half smile that seemed equal parts pity and disdain, confirming his right to question why the son had died while the father still had breath.
"I'm Samantha Courtney."
He took the hand she extended and was surprised to realize she was trembling. This was the girl who'd written the letter. She'd known Josh. His breathing quickened.
"How was your trip?" she asked, slamming shut the back gate of the vehicle.
"It was long. But I'm here now. I appreciate you picking me up."
"Oh, it's no problem. Hop in. It's a ways to the orphanage." She went around and got behind the wheel.
Max climbed in beside her and
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