Melanie Mitchell - Out of the Shadows

Lunch was anything but exotic: fried chicken, mashed potatoes and salad. The only nod to their being in equatorial Africa was the selection of fruits for dessert—mangoes, pineapples and papayas.

Between bites of flavorful mango, Leslie asked, “So, why are you called Mama Joe?”

“I haven’t thought about that in quite a while.” Easy humor shone in the crinkled corners of the other woman’s brown eyes. “Well, when we first came to Namanga, our kids were very small. As a sign of respect, I was not called by my given name, but by the designation ‘Mama.’ ‘Joe’ is my oldest son, so I was ‘Mama’ of ‘Joe,’ which became ‘Mama Joe.’ I’ve been known by that name for about forty years.” She chuckled. “I doubt many people even know my name is Anna!”

At Leslie’s prompting, Mama Joe recounted how she and her husband had traveled to Kenya in the late 1960s as newlyweds. “We raised four children here,” she said. “In 1994, we retired and moved back to Alabama, but when my Daniel died just a few years later, I decided to come back where I could be useful.”

Leslie sat quietly, thinking about how closely Mama Joe’s reasons for coming to Kenya mirrored her own.

She wanted to help the people here, too.

She wanted to find a place where she could be useful again.

She only hoped she could find that in Africa.

CHAPTER TWO

THE COMBINATION OF jet lag, exhaustion and lunch slammed Leslie during the drive back to the airport. The van was nearing the airport when she awoke, surprised she’d slept through the crazy Nairobi traffic.

Marcus offered to wait at the van with Leslie’s bags while the women located the pilot who would take them on the final leg of the journey. “Ben told me to meet him at the Rift Valley Bar around three o’clock.” Mama Joe gestured toward the rear of the terminal. “It’s over there. Back near the gates.”

They were making their way through the crowd when they heard a voice call loudly, “Mama Joe! Mama Joe!” A woman dressed in a bright yellow-and-orange cotton skirt and blouse ran toward them and grabbed Mama Joe’s hand.

“Mary!” Mama Joe exclaimed. The two embraced, and they conversed for a moment in Swahili before Mama Joe introduced Leslie.

“This is Mary Keino, a dear friend of mine. Mary worked with me many, many years ago, even before we settled in Namanga.” She leaned toward the Kenyan woman, and they talked for a moment more. Mama Joe laughed at something Mary said, then turned to Leslie. “I would really like to visit for a moment. She’s telling me about her grandchildren.” She motioned in the direction of the bar. “Would you mind going to find Ben and letting him know we’re ready?”

Leslie smiled. “No problem. I’ll be right back.” She swiftly covered the remaining distance and was at the door of the Rift Valley Bar before it occurred to her that she’d failed to get Ben’s description. She considered retracing her steps to ask Mama Joe, but glancing across the long terminal, she rejected the idea. Surely she’d be able to recognize their pilot.

The dim lighting forced Leslie to pause a moment just inside the bar to let her eyes adjust.

The patrons—mostly men—were seated at tables haphazardly scattered across the limited floor space. At the table nearest the door sat three well-dressed Indian or Pakistani businessmen. Two couples, probably tourists from Japan, were seated at another table. At one end of the long bar to the left, a white man slouched against the counter, talking with two women perched on stools. An older American-looking couple sat at the other end of the bar.

Leslie frowned. She had expected to find a lone man; so as far as she could tell, Ben wasn’t here.

As she snaked her way among the crowded tables toward the guy tending bar, she caught bits of conversation. The businessmen seemed to be having an intense discussion. Their conversation grew more heated, and as she passed she saw one man trying to convince the angry guy to keep his voice down. The third man stared at her, his expression livid and his gaze eerily disconcerting. Leslie tried to seem uninterested as she continued forward.

The tourists, by contrast, were quite sedate. They talked in low tones and did not acknowledge Leslie or the group arguing at the next table.

The trio at the bar were speaking—or flirting, rather—in French. The man glanced her way as she approached, and his eyes lingered on her with undisguised interest. When he saw he had her attention, he lifted his glass toward her and gave her a nod—as if suggesting that she join the party.

Annoyed, Leslie returned his leer with a glare, much to the satisfaction of the two women, who seemed to realize they were losing his interest. She pointedly dismissed him and turned toward the bartender, who was taking an order from the older couple.

While she waited, Leslie overheard the pretty brunette say something in rapid French. Her tone was unmistakably petulant. Out of the corner of her eye, Leslie saw the guy shrug. He leaned over and pushed aside a strand of hair to whisper something to the second woman, an attractive blonde. She nodded coquettishly and then glanced at Leslie before all three laughed, drawing the attention of the tourists and the businessmen.

Leslie’s cheeks reddened. She tried to appear unaffected as she glanced down at her clothes. She knew she looked wrinkled and shabby. Absently, she reached up to smooth back a strand of hair that had escaped the barrette.

Flustered, she noticed that the man seemed unusually tall and muscular for a Frenchman. Her stereotype was reinforced, however, by his gold-streaked brown hair, which looked like it would reach his wide shoulders if it hadn’t been pulled back into a ponytail. She huffed silently; she had never liked long hair on men.

The women burst into more laughter as he finished a story. Grinning, he reached over and flicked the dangling earring of the blonde, then he took a drink from his glass and turned in Leslie’s direction. His face was deeply tanned, and his leering grin revealed straight white teeth. He was casually dressed in khaki pants and boots, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled past his elbows. His eyes were an odd pale green, closely resembling the color of a Coke bottle. Feeling as if she’d been caught staring, she quickly looked away.

Trying to ignore the group at the bar and the stares of the other patrons, she glanced toward the corner of the room. She was surprised to see a man sitting alone at the table farthest from the door, drinking coffee and reading a book—somehow she had missed him. He wore a navy suit with the gold braid and buttons of a pilot.

Leslie made her way to his table, relieved to escape the obnoxious trio and the attention of the businessman with the creepy stare.

“Excuse me.”

The pilot appeared to be in his forties, with neat, dark hair that was graying at the temples. He glanced up from his book and removed his glasses. “Yes?”

Leslie held out her hand. “I’m Leslie Carpenter. Mama Joe said I should find you and let you know that we’re ready to go.”

The man frowned. “I’m sorry. You must be mistaken. I do not know anyone named Mama Joe.” Although his English was flawless, his accent was European, most likely German.

Leslie glanced at the insignia on the breast of his coat and saw a Lufthansa name pin. Her hand fell to her side and she blushed. “E-excuse me. I—I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else!” She started to back away.

He gave her a nod. “It is no problem.” Replacing his glasses, he returned to his book.

* * *

BEN MURPHY HAD a long-standing practice of observing his surroundings, so he noticed Leslie the moment she entered the bar. Although his attention appeared to be focused on his companions, he was keenly aware of her as she made her way through the room. His initial glance revealed a young woman wearing the rumpled clothes of a traveler. When she approached him, he registered a woman in her late twenties, of average height, with a slender, almost thin, build.