Diamond Mine (3 page)

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word. “You did promise not to call this late unless you had a problem.”

“I'm sorry. I'll call you back tomorrow.”

“No, let's talk now.”

“Are you okay?” Hannah asked, twirling a strand of hair around her finger in a nervous gesture.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“You're breathing hard.”

Tonya released a pent-up breath. “If you must know, when Mike said you were on the line, I became concerned and I ran downstairs to the phone.”

“You shouldn't have done that. You could have tripped and hurt the baby.” Hannah waited for a response.

“Hannah, please just tell me why you called.” Tonya's frustration radiated over the line. Touted with having the patience of Job, Tonya could only be pushed so far.

“It seems silly now.”

“Hannah Grace Baker, you have scared me, almost made me fall down the stairs and caused me to risk my neck, and now it's silly!”

Tears burned behind her eyes, and she sniffed.

“Are you crying?” came Tonya's incredulous voice.

“No.” S
niff, sniff
.

“Please tell me what's wrong.”

“I can't do it anymore.”

Tonya sighed. “What can't you do?”

“I can't be a writer.”

The line was silent. Exasperated, Tonya said, “Hannah, we've been through this. You're already a writer. Your other books are selling well. Remember it takes time to make a name for yourself. Everyone told you that this is a marathon not a race. Besides, the publisher loved the first story in your new series.”

“I bet you're thinking about giving Melanie a piece of your mind,” Hannah said off-handedly as she stood in the hallway and studied herself in the mirror.

“What?” asked Tonya.

“Well, this was Melanie's idea.”

“Can you please stay focused?”

“Of course. What I meant was Melanie was the one who introduced us years ago, and I think you have suffered ever since. So you might want to give her a piece of your mind.”

“Hannah, listen, not to be mean, but I can hear Mikey crying. So if you need to talk, then let's talk.”

Great. Now she felt like a total heel. She walked to the living room and plopped into a plush recliner. “Okay. Here it is. This book is driving me crazy! Yeah, they want it but every time I give it to them they come at me with a new set of instructions and, well, you're the only one who knows I am writing. I have to go to the coffeehouse and work every day just to make ends meet. I have to smile like my life is all hunky-dory. Then I come home and write novels, but I don't tell anyone because I'm too embarrassed.

“And what's wrong with these people? Do they not pay attention? Where is their curiosity? My picture is all over the cover. I'm just so frustrated with my entire life! And to top everything off, now I'm getting to the place where I hate even looking at this book.”

The sound of a chair scraping meant Tonya had sat down. If Hannah closed her eyes, she could see Tonya sitting in her foyer, playing with her hair, rolling her eyes skyward.

Tonya asked, “Did you do what we discussed?”

“Give it over to God? Yeah, at least I thought I did. But the waiting is so hard.”

“Remember you have to be patient.”

“Yeah, patience, patience. How can I possibly be patient? I wait. They send it back for more revisions. Then I send it back and I wait. Then they send it to me again. Waiting is all I do! The coffeehouse job can't support me, and my inheritance is going to run out before I'm able to dot all my I's and cross all my T's and find all my stinking commas!” By the time she finished, she was shouting.

“Hannah, maybe you need to get away.”

Rising from the chair, her blood pumped faster and faster, becoming a loud roar between her ears. “I can't afford to. Besides, the editor called today. He wants the revised version of the story in just a couple of hours.”

“But I thought you said you finished the revisions.”

“Oh, I did.”

“Then what does he want now?”

“Didn't I tell you? He wants the revisions of the revision! I don't know how much more I can take.”

“Let me ask you a question.”

“Okay.”

“Do you like to write?”

“Yes, you know I do.”

“Then just keep writing. They haven't said no. They just want to see some changes.”

“No, but they haven't said yes, either. What if I'm never able to satisfy their requirements? What if I just can't do what they ask of me? What if I never find a catchphrase for Rory?”

Tonya sighed so heavily Hannah could feel it. “What do you want me to say?”

Hannah cried. “Good question. I guess there is nothing you can say, nothing you can do. We all have problems, right? That's what makes the world go around. I need to just get over it and move on.”

“I didn't say that.”

“I know, but it is what you want to say, right? It's okay. I understand. I feel petty, but I guess I have no one to share with and…”

“Hannah, what was that?”

“Someone knocked.”

“Well, don't open it. It is too late for people to be knocking on your door.”

“Just let me look through the peephole.”

“No, don't. Haven't you seen any of those movies where they stab a screwdriver through the hole right into your eyeball?”

“Goodness, Tonya! You're watching way too much television.”

Before Tonya could comment farther, Hannah opened her apartment door. No one was there but a large white envelope lay on the floor. “What this?”

“What's what?”

“It's an envelope.”

“Do you see white powder?”

“What?”

“You know, like anthrax.”

“What!” Hannah exclaimed.

“Maybe someone sent you a letter full of the stuff because they don't like your books.”

Hannah shook her head. “Are you kidding? You think a romance story about medieval knights warrants an anthrax attack?”

“You could have offended someone.”

Hannah fought the urge to laugh. Since Tonya had become a mother, her worry meter had gone off the charts. But just in case Tonya wasn't completely crazy, she studied the package. “Mpumalanga, South Africa,” she muttered.

“What? Did you say something? Girl, you better tell me what is happening, or Mike is bringing me over there right now.”

“It's from a province in South Africa, postmarked over two years ago,” Hannah replied, turning the package over in her hands.

“That doesn't make any sense. Why would you get a letter that old? I say you don't open it,” Tonya said, worry lacing her tone.

“But what if it is from Melanie?”

“Melanie is in the Sudan. Not South Africa.”

“Maybe they moved.”

“Then why didn't she call and tell us?”

“I don't know. I'm going to open this and I'll call you back tomorrow.”

“Oh no, you don't. I want to know what it is right now. I won't sleep a wink if I have to wait.”

“But it's late.”

“Hannah, don't toy with me.”

“All right give me fifteen minutes and I'll call you back.”

“I'm timing you.”

“I figured you were.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Yep, fifteen minutes.”

Rory Chance, ex-British military, daredevil, leader, and multimillionaire, groaned as morning sunlight filtered into his tiny room. His head ached as if his brain bounced around inside his skull.

Alertness overwhelmed him as he woke enough to recognize someone pounding on his door for the second day in a row. Don't these people ever rest? Must the pious rise before the sun?

“Sir, sir! You must come,” Simon's urgent voice insisted through the thin wood.

Rory rolled to his side and glared. This better be an emergency. If they were waking him up to talk about the tree again, he might lose it. If only he had the power to shoot laser beams from his eyes, then he would incinerate the door and all that lay behind it.

Why did they insist on bothering him? Okay, he'd come to them for help. And it was true he'd confided in the father he wanted to change his life. But, why did he need to change it before breakfast? And why was so much noise required?

“Sir?” The banging continued. “Are you awake?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the kid to go away and leave him alone. But if anyone should leave, it should be him, Rory — Black-Hearted — Chance.

“Sir?” The desperate voice drew out the quiet word.

Grumbling he replied, “I'm coming.”

Sitting up on the side of the bed, he looked down. Words from the army psychologist flowed through his mind…

“
You shouldn
'
t feel guilty. But of course you do. All men in your position feel guilty.
”

“
And what position is that?
”
he
'
d haughtily replied.

“
You were only able to save one,
”
he whispered.

Even though Rory understood the psychologist
'
s reasoning of sadness and loss, he still shouted.
“
And what would you know about how I feel!
”

“
Well I
'
ve been tr—
”

“
Yeah, you
'
ve been trained. So have I. I
'
ve been trained to watch people get blown to bits then come back home and be happy because part of them still remains.
”

“
I believe John and his family are happy for your training.
”

“
Sure. He
'
s home. Well, at least most of him. But you know as well as I do, he
'
s going to resent me forever because he
'
ll never be whole.
”

“
I heard that Mr. Nelson wanted to present your award. He has made peace with his situation. Why can
'
t you?
”

Yeah, why can
'
t I?

Rory waited for Simon to bang on the door again. He hadn't bothered to learn anything about the child. Why would he? He was here to work for absolution, not to make friends with stray children.

By the time he returned home, the unfounded hero worship should have settled down. Stupid reporters tailing him everywhere, reporting on his every move, was not something he wanted to return to.

The gossip mongers had shared everything from his accident to the news of his break up with his fiancée. Monica Tavers, the woman he was to spend the rest of his life with, had accused him of leaking the story to make her look bad. He'd calmly informed her nothing was needed to make her look bad, that she was more than capable of accomplishing that all on her own.

In a flurry of tears, she'd fled. Reflecting, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever really loved her. Monica was beautiful, flirty, fun, and non-assuming. Clubbing was her scene, and for a time he'd enjoyed hanging out with her and her friends at the pub. But after the things he'd witnessed while serving his country, the frivolity of Monica and her friends had become more than he could handle.

Returning home from his tour, every step was followed by flash cameras and questions. Rory began to avoid society. Monica had accused him of being a stick in the mud and no longer exciting. By her own admission she had met someone else with similar goals. To top it off, the bloke was French!

Attempting to focus on the task at hand, Rory sat on the edge of the bed and pulled a shirt over his head. Glancing downward, he cringed. Would he ever get used to the sight?

Pulling the stump sock tight, he checked to make sure all the wrinkles were out. Prosthetic snapped in place, he stood.
Deep breath in, deep breath out
, focus
.

Father Thomas must have a new chore for him, like the tree wasn't enough to occupy his time. Maybe today they would ask him to move an entire building.