Jeff said gently, "Dana, you can't put your life on hold because of what's happening over there. You have to begin living again. Here."
"I know. It's just...not easy."
"Of course it isn't. I'd like to help you. Would you let me?"
Dana looked at him for a long time. "Please."
The next day, Dana had a luncheon date with Jeff Connors.
"Can you pick me up?" he asked. He gave her the address.
"Right." Dana wondered what Jeff was doing there. It was in a very troubled inner-city neighborhood. When Dana arrived, she found the answer.
Jeff was surrounded by two teams of baseball players, ranging in age from nine to thirteen, dressed in a creative variety of baseball uniforms. Dana parked at the curb to watch.
"And remember," Jeff was saying, "don't rush. When the pitcher throws the ball, imagine that it's coming at you very slowly, so that you have plenty of time to hit it. Feel your bat smacking the ball. Let your mind help guide your hands so - "
Jeff looked over and saw Dana. He waved. "All right, fellows. That's it for now."
One of the boys asked, "Is that your girl, Jeff?"
"Only if I'm lucky." Jeff smiled. "See you later." He walked over to Dana's car.
"That's quite a ball club," Dana said.
"They're good boys. I coach them once a week."
She smiled. "I like that." And she wondered how Kemal was and what he was doing.
As the days went on, Dana found herself coming to like Jeff Connors more and more. He was sensitive, intelligent, and amusing. She enjoyed being with him. Slowly, the horrible memories of Sarajevo were beginning to fade. The morning came when she woke up without having had nightmares.
When she told Jeff about it, he took her hand and said, "That's my girl."
And Dana wondered whether she should read a deeper meaning into it.
There was a hand-printed letter waiting for Dana at the office. It read: "miss evans, don't worry about me. i'm happy, i am not lonely, i don't miss anybody, and i am going to send you back the clothes you bought me because i don't need them, i have my own clothes, goodbye." It was signed "kemal."
The letter was postmarked Paris, and the letter-head read "Xavier's Home for Boys." Dana read the letter twice and then picked up the phone. It took her four hours to reach Kemal.
She heard his voice, a tentative "Hello..."
"Kemal, this is Dana Evans." There was no response. "I got your letter." Silence. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm glad you're so happy, and that you're having such a good time." She waited a moment, then went on, "I wish I were as happy as you are. Do you know why I'm not? Because I miss you. I think about you a lot."
"No, you don't," Kemal said. "You don't care about me."
"You're wrong. How would you like to come to Washington and live with me?"
There was a long silence. "Do you - do you mean that?"
"You bet I do. Would you like that?"
"I - " He began to cry.
"Would you, Kemal?"
"Yes - yes, ma'am."
"I'll make the arrangements."
"Miss Evans?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
Dana and Jeff Connors were walking in West Potomac Park. "I think I'm going to have a roommate," Dana said. "He should be here in the next few weeks."
Jeff looked at her in surprise. "He?"
Dana found herself pleased at his reaction. "Yes. His name is Kemal. He's twelve years old." She told him the story.
"He sounds like a great kid."
"He is. He's been through hell, Jeff. I want to help him forget."
He looked at Dana and said, "I'd like to help, too."
That night they made love for the first time.
Chapter 16
There are two Washington, D.Cs. One is a city of inordinate beauty: imposing architecture, world-class museums, statues, monuments to the giants of the past: Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington...a city of verdant parks, cherry blossoms, and velvet air.
The other Washington, D.C., is a citadel of the homeless, a city with one of the highest crime rates in the nation, a labyrinth of muggings and murders.
The Monroe Arms is an elegant boutique hotel discreetly tucked away not far from the corner of 27th and K streets. It does no advertising and caters mainly to its regular clientele. The hotel was built a number of years ago by an enterprising young real estate entrepreneur named Lara Cameron.
Jeremy Robinson, the hotel's general manager, had just arrived on his evening shift and was studying the guest register with a perplexed expression on his face. He checked the names of the occupants of the elite Terrace Suites once again to make certain someone had not made a mistake.
In Suite 325, a faded actress was rehearsing for a play opening at the National Theater. According to a story in The Washington Post, she was hoping to make a comeback.
In 425, the suite above hers, was a well-known arms dealer who visited Washington regularly. The name on the guest register was J. L. Smith, but his looks suggested one of the Middle East countries. Mr. Smith was an extraordinarily generous tipper.
Suite 525 was registered to William Quint, a congressman who headed the powerful drug oversight committee.
Above, Suite 625 was occupied by a computer software salesman who visited Washington once a month.
Registered in Suite 725 was Pat Murphy, an international lobbyist.
So far, so good, Jeremy Robinson thought. The guests were all well known to him. It was Suite 825, the Imperial Suite on the top floor, that was the enigma. It was the most elegant suite in the hotel, and it was always held in reserve for the most important VIPs. It occupied the entire floor and was exquisitely decorated with valuable paintings and antiques. It had its own private elevator leading to the basement garage, so that its guests who wished to be anonymous could arrive and depart in privacy.