the sun. In the Atlanta terminal Lord booked two seats on a flight to San Francisco, leaving at noon. They needed a shower and a change of clothes, so a twenty-minute taxi ride brought them to where Lord lived.
She was impressed with the apartment, which was far better than what Semyon Pashenko possessed, but probably common for an American, she concluded. The carpets were soft and clean, the furniture, to her way of thinking, elegant and expensive. It was a little chilly inside until Lord adjusted a wall thermostat and central heat warmed the rooms. A far cry from the radiators in her Moscow apartment, which tended to run either wide open or not at all. She noticed the overall neatness and decided that wasn't surprising. Miles Lord had appeared from the start as a person in control of himself.
"There are towels in the hall bathroom. Help yourself," he told her in Russian. "You can use that bedroom there to clean up."
Her English was okay, but limited. She'd had trouble understanding conversations at the airport, particularly what the customs officer had asked. Luckily, her performer's visa provided access into the country, no questions asked.
"I have a bath in my bedroom. I'll see you in a bit."
Lord left her to a shower and she took her time, letting the warm water caress her tired muscles. It was still the middle of the night to her body. In the bedroom she found a terrycloth robe waiting on the bed and wrapped it around herself. Lord explained that they had an hour until they needed to head back to the airport for the flight west. She toweled her hair dry and let the tangled curls fall loose to her shoulders. Water running from the back bedroom confirmed that Lord was still in the shower.
She strolled into the den and took a moment to admire photographs framed on the wall and angled on two wood tables. Miles Lord had obviously come from a large family. There were several shots of him with an assortment of younger men and women at various stages in life. He was apparently the oldest, one picture of the entire family showed him in his late teens, four brothers and sisters not far behind.
A couple of shots revealed him in athletic gear, his face obstructed by a helmet and face guard, his shoulders padded beneath a numbered jersey. There was one image of his father, framed solo, standing off to the side. It showed a man of about forty with earnest, deep brown eyes and hair a close-cropped black that matched his skin. His brow glistened from sweat, and he stood before a pulpit, mouth open, ivory teeth glittering, right index finger pointed skyward. He wore a suit that seemed to fit well, and she noticed a glint of gold from cufflinks exposed on his outstretched arm. In the bottom right corner was some writing in black marker. She lifted the frame and tried to read the words, but her ability with Western alphabet was strained.
"It says, `Son, come join me,' " Lord said in Russian.
She turned.
Lord stood in the open doorway, a maroon robe encasing his dark frame, bare feet protruding from the bottom. In the V formed by the collar she noticed a muscular chest dusted with a light brush of curly gray-brown hair.
"He gave me that picture trying to get me to become a part of his ministry."
"Why didn't you?"
He stepped close, smelling of soap and shampoo. She noticed he'd shaved, a two-day stubble on his neck and jaw gone, his cocoa complexion unmarred by the ridges of time and tragedy all so common in her homeland.
"My father cheated on my mother and left us penniless. I had no desire to follow in those footsteps."
She recalled his bitterness from Friday night in Semyon Pashenko's apartment. "And your mother?"
"She loved him. Still does. Never will she hear a foul word about him. His followers were the same. Grover Lord was a saint to all of them."
"No one knew?"
"No one would believe. He would have simply screamed discrimination and roared from the pulpit how hard it was for a successful black man to survive."
"We were taught in school about prejudice in this country. How blacks have no chance in a white society. Is that true?"
"It was, and some say it still is. But I don't think so. I'm not saying this country is perfect; it's far from that. But it is a land of opportunity, if you