Mists of the Serengeti(53)

I don’t know how long we spent in that clearing, Jack washing my hair like it was the only thing he wanted to do, the sun on my face, little peeks of his body silhouetted over me. When he was done, he poured more water, pulling his fingers through my hair until all the soap had been rinsed out. And then again, just because. I was ready to get up when he grabbed my hair with both hands and gathered it at the crown of my head. Then he twisted it and squeezed out the water. The sensation of rough after soft sent a tingling to the pit of my stomach. I shuddered as little rivulets trickled down my neck and back, but it wasn’t from the water. It was because I could feel Jack’s eyes on the back of my ears, my nape, the curve of my exposed jawline. Then he let my hair go, and watched it tumble over my shoulders.

“Towel,” he said, handing it to me. He strung up a sheet between two trees and heated some more water. “You can finish off over here.”

“Nice.” I stepped behind the barrier and peeled off my clothes. “Jungle Jack’s is a full-service salon. A gal could get used to this.”

“A rhino attack, car trouble, face planting in mud, and a bucket shower?” He laughed. “You’re a strange one, Rodel Emerson.”

It was strange when I thought about it—that I’d be okay with things that were so far removed from my comfort zone. But things didn’t always have to make sense. The most profound, most memorable moments of life are the ones that make you feel. And that’s what I’d been missing. That feeling of being alive. I had come with a heart full of grief for my sister, never expecting to find love or life budding out of it. It was like Mo was showing me the possible in the impossible.

I wish you could see the world through my eyes, her words echoed in my mind.

I’m starting to see, Mo. I’m starting to see.

I peered over the sheet. Jack was dragging the tent out of the truck. It struck me then that I would be all right, no matter what. Sometimes you come across a rainbow story—one that spans your heart. You might not be able to grasp it or hold on to it, but you can never be sorry for the color and magic it brought.





NIGHT DESCENDED AROUND us with flat and complete blackness. The moon hung above, but not a single dot of light flickered on the horizon. Yellow-winged bats flitted off to meet the darkness as Jack stoked the fire.

“We’ll set off for Magesa in the morning,” he said. “Once we find Furaha, we can come back for the car with a mechanic. Hopefully, the phone will pick up a signal too.”

“Have you ever been? To Magesa?” I rinsed out our dinner plates and sat next to him.

“I haven’t been to any of the places on Mo’s list.” He was sitting close to the flames, his face toasty and warm.

“They’re all so different—each town, each village. I never know what to expect.” Night eyes glittered around us. A porcupine? A mongoose? I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that I felt completely safe with Jack.

“You miss home?” he asked.

“Yes. And no.” I shifted on the mossy log we were sitting on. “I just bought my first home. I miss that. I miss its worn, honey-hued walls. The sound of the river as it flows by. I miss my little book nook. The sheep-dotted hills. Fields of lavender. June roses tumbling over the fences. Small, wild strawberries growing through cracks in the flagstones. I miss the church bells, the tall, elegant spires. It’s home, you know? We traveled a lot when I was younger. I’ve looked for a place like that my whole life, a place that spoke to my soul.”

“It sounds beautiful.” Jack turned to me, elbows resting on his knees.

In the silence that followed, I smiled ruefully. After Sarah, he had vowed to never ask another woman to live on the farm with him. And I had just ensured that even if he changed his mind, that woman wouldn’t be me. We both had places of permanence that we weren’t willing to give up.

“And Africa?” he whispered, staring into the flames. “What do you think of Africa?”

I will always think of you when I think of Africa.

“It’s beautiful and heart-wrenching. It heals you, it destroys you. It’s the place that claimed my sister.” And my heart.

The fire threw our flickering shadows against the tree trunks. The heat of the day had dissipated, and our breaths were turning to vapor.

“We should turn in,” said Jack. But neither of us moved. Because there was only one tent, and it had been flashing in our faces all evening, like a big neon sign on the Vegas strip.

I went in first, while Jack secured the fire. It was a fair-sized tent—until Jack entered because everything just seemed to shrink around him. I closed my eyes and huddled under the blankets as he slid in, next to me. I kept my back to him, but the air-inflated mattress shifted under his weight, so I ended up clinging to the edge, to keep from rolling toward him. I really was on a slippery slope when it came to him.

“Rodel?”

“Yes?”

“If you dig your nails into the mattress any harder, you’re going to rip a hole through it.”

“I . . . I’m not—”

“Let go.” He propped himself up on his elbow and loosened my grip. “What are you so afraid of?” His eyes searched mine. “This?” He swept me into his arms and held me snugly. “See? It’s not so bad,” he said, as his warmth seeped into my body—so male, so bracing.