that kind of man. That kind of friend. That kind of brother.
“Time to go?” I asked, praying I could find the strength to move.
We traveled mostly by night, under the cover of darkness. Once we got to a town of any size, we separated. Shatha went ahead with the two children while Ibrahim stayed behind with me. Wherever we went, there’d been unprecedented security. Danger surrounded us. We couldn’t trust anyone, and it was safer by far to separate whenever we were in a populated area.
Staying long in any one place heightened the risk. At the rate we’d progressed, as best I could calculate, we’d be fortunate to reach our rendezvous point in two weeks, a distance that would normally take less than a quarter that time under normal circumstances.
“Sleep,” Ibrahim insisted when I managed to rise up and balance on one elbow.
I shook my head. “No, we need to move.”
“You’re too weak.”
I forced myself to sit all the way up, shocked at how much effort that demanded. The world started to spin and pain shot through my side. I gasped and fell back on the bed Shatha had made for me, my breathing labored.
“Rest, my friend,” Ibrahim said again, more moderate this time, his voice a whisper as he gently pressed me against the makeshift bed. “We’ll travel tomorrow.”
Amin joined his father and studied me with concern in his six-year-old eyes. Ibrahim had named his firstborn son with the name that, loosely translated, meant honorable—a trustworthy man. He explained that there was no word for Mark in Arabic, but he chose this name for his son in honor of his dear friend because I was a man of honor. He viewed me as a man of integrity and his brother.
“You okay, Scout?” I asked him in Arabic.
Amin grinned. I called him Scout because he had an uncanny ability to see what often escaped both Ibrahim’s and my notice.
“Me okay, you okay?” Amin asked in English, and got a warning look from his father.
I squeezed his small hand, assuring him I was fine. I wasn’t, and although I hated to admit it, I feared I was growing weaker every hour. If we didn’t move soon we’d miss our last chance for evacuation and all would be lost.
We were too close to give up now.
“No, we move.” My gaze held that of my friend. “We have no choice.”
“You need to heal first.”
“No time.”
Ibrahim sighed, well aware of the urgency.
“Either we move or you leave me behind.” I saw the hesitation and doubt cloud Ibrahim’s face. I reached out and gripped his hand, surprised at the strength of my hold. “We have no choice,” I reiterated.
After what seemed like a long time, Ibrahim nodded. “We move,” he agreed.
Amin leaped to his feet and ran to tell his little sister and mother.
Personally I think love is an overrated emotion. I’ve been in love twice in my life, and both times the relationships have ended badly. My first love, and what girl doesn’t remember her first love, was with my college sweetheart. I was so in love with Jayson I would have done anything for him, and I had.
It was because of Jayson and later James that I’d decided to move away from Seattle and accept a job with the Cedar Cove School District. And that led to taking a week-by-week rental agreement with Jo Marie Rose, who owned the Rose Harbor Inn.
As I pulled into the driveway, I was struck by the elegance and graceful beauty of the inn. It was a three-story, gleaming white house that looked to have been built in the 1920s or 1930s, with a large wraparound porch. Several wicker chairs and a loveseat had been set on the wide deck, along with large pots of red flowers. Even from the vantage point of the driveway, I could see that the house offered stunning views of the cove. I immediately felt a sense of solace and peace, which is something I hadn’t felt in a good long while. It was the same sensation that came over me when I found the inn’s webpage. I lost track of how long I’d stared at the online photograph. I’d gone through a rough patch emotionally, struggling with loss and wondering what direction to point my life toward now. Of one thing I was confident: I was finished with love. Finished with looking for that happily ever after, because it simply wasn’t going to happen to me.
As a young girl growing up, I’d