Excerpt from
A Question of Trust

Chapter 1

I had waited fifteen minutes in Examining Room, sitting on something like butcher paper. My doctor displayed a variety of women’s health paraphernalia, like brochures and posters, each depicting symptoms and treatments for a gender-specific medical condition. I had read over all of the posters except the one in front of me. I saved reading it for last because it was the most colorful and interesting. The poster was a side-view illustration of a dissected breast with the title, "Early Tumor Detection." Once a year for ten years, I had read its life saving information. I wished that my gynecologist would get a new poster. Then, I turned my attention to the wall mirror across the small room. My eyes, once described as hornet-green, saw clear vision with the help of contact lenses. My auburn hairs, which curled around my neck, greatly outnumbered the gray strands. My weight was average for a five-foot, seven-inches-tall woman.

Overall, I was in good shape. However, I suspected that my body would be unrecognizable in a few months. For now, a thirty-minute wait in the chilly examining room was a certainty, but Dr. Stapling was worth the wait. When my turn with her came, she would tell me about my future, quickly and compassionately. And when that time came, her prognosis would either enhance or deflate my Christmas cheer. I twisted my two-month-old wedding ring. As if there was not enough to deal with at the moment, Christmas was two weeks away, and that special gift for my new husband was somewhere in a mess of new merchandise. There was still plenty of time to brainstorm about gift ideas, except I could only think about the major events of the past seven months, which had put me in a hospital gown in the first place.

Last May, on the observed Memorial Day, my best friend, Lupe, and I met at Rubio’s, the best Tex-Mex restaurant in Austin, Texas. Our lunches were monthly meetings. The weather was typical for the springtime: thunder, lightening, and the possibility of an isolated tornado in the weather stations’ viewing area. During our lunch, we caught up on our lives for the past month. There was never dead air in our conversations as we reported on our personal lives. There was not much to say on my part. We discussed current events, including the ongoing investigation of the recent bombing in Oklahoma City. However, as I ate my chicken enchiladas, she hit me with a sorry proposition disguised as an interview assignment.

"The magazine is doing something new, something special," she explained, "It is a choice assignment for you, girl. I’ve already set up the interview, talked to the guy, and everything. He’s muy simpatico

"Wouldn’t Parker be better for this?" I asked between bites. "His wife just had a baby," she said, as if I should have known. "She threatened to divorce him if he took any out-of-town assignments for three months." Instead of accepting the job right away, I examined the millions of squiggly, turquoise lines on the tabletop. After that, I scrutinized the festive decor around us. Green, white, and red serape blankets were arranged in geometrical shapes on the cream-colored walls. Bright pink pig piñatas hung from the ceiling like papiermâché clouds. Rubio’s popular menu items were as colorful as our surroundings. My lunch had been very spicy and satisfying. What gave me heartburn was Lupe’s current purpose. Stalling like the storm clouds in the area, I watched the rain pummel the heavy traffic stopped at the intersection of Fifth and Congress Avenue.

Whereas the storm could not dampen my mood, my pushy companion effectively floored my spirits. In fact, because of her latest assignment for Springboard, I thought about retiring from the magazine’s reporting gaggle. Anyway, lately the news business had somewhat lost its overall appeal. Lupe interrupted my mutinous thoughts by pushing aside our tomatillo-soaked dishes. She said, "Saren, why are you being so difficult? Look, I brought his first book. You can read it on the flight."

She plopped the thick volume in front of me, barely missing a bit of spilt green sauce. Its title, Force of Choice, inspired instant distrust for the author, Gordon Sommers. On the back cover, his photograph was a very bad one. Through the fuzzy resolution, I saw a young man with short-cropped, blond hair, kneeling on one knee. He was virtually disguised by dark, teardropframed glasses. But, the real attention had to be paid to the rainbow rows of tall lupines behind him. "He looks like Clark Kent’s weaker brother," I said, wiping up the sauce. Lupe shot me her "get serious" look. After a token scan of the table of contents, I slid the old edition back to her. Chapter titles such as "Natural Selection into the Submissive Role" further discouraged my interest in the assignment. "I’ve moved past the celebrity interviews," I said flatly. "Gordon Sommers is not a celebrity now," she said, stabbing the book three times with one long, red fingernail. Then more excitedly, she added, "But he’s perfect for our 70s retro issue. Y’know, the ‘where’d they go?’ thing. This assignment could turn very interesting."

Still doubtful, I avoided considering a decision. Helping me do that, a busboy cleared and wiped off our table. Right behind him, the owner’s fair-haired son approached us. Lupe patted her newly cut shag. With quick Spanish, he asked us if we wanted anything else. We ordered our favorite drinks and pan dulce (sweet bread). When he was gone, Lupe pushed the book back toward me, and it stayed there.

I slanted my position from profession to preference. "I don’t want to go to Alaska," I stated firmly. "It’s too cold. I hate to be cold. Send me to the Bahamas. Surely there’s a writer there just begging to be interviewed." She batted her milk chocolate eyes at me and pouted as if her silly expression would influence my decision. "It’s only for a few lousy days," she argued. "I’m sure it will be," I said. " Mira, chica! After twenty years, that man is getting published again. He is reaching out to the world, and I want you to be the one he touches." Her voice tinkled as she gave in to an immature giggle. "Lupe, you’ve missed your calling as a long-distance rep," I said. She laughed at my opinion and forged onward into my business, saying, "Your problem is you don’t trust anything outside the little box you’re in. I’m going to help you get out."

Before I could ask her what that had to do with the assignment, our waiter served my hot tea with milk and honey and Lupe’s frozen margarita. A plate of pinkand- white sweet bread was placed between us. He was barely out of earshot when she continued, "Saren, you need a man. And I might add, your best options are disappearing rapidly." She stopped to sip from her tequila slush. I dunked a piece of pink pastry into my cup, wondering if she referred to my thirty-eight-year-old physique or the scarce availability of decent men folk. I knew that Lupe wanted everyone to experience marital bliss, no matter what. Then she crossed the line into Busybody, USA, saying, "You shouldn’t let Jim’s little infidelity ruin your love life. After all, you weren’t even married to him yet."

The subject of my ex-fiancé was toxic. "That demon was exorcised long ago," I testified. "Now, he’s just another face in how many billions." I ended with a smirk. She contemplated my philosophy. "That is a comforting thought," she said. As flippant as Scarlet O’Hara, I drawled, "Really, Lupe, what man could keep up with me?" "Really," she mimicked. Then, she silently stirred the green slush in her Margarita glass like a fairy-tale witch at a cauldron. I knew her well enough to know that something irritating festered in her mental workings. True to her pervasive personality, she annoyed me. She said, "You should call Brent Thomas. Remember him? He commissioned your friend Nita for some artwork for his restaurant. He was a work of art himself." "Not interested," I lied. "Saren, you’ll be watching those old movies alone for the rest of your life if you don’t lower your haughty standards." To me, her advice was a good imitation of a ruffled hen.

"I’m resigned that I will always be alone," I said. Even to me my declaration sounded pitiful. "I’m through looking." "Who knows what you’ll find in Alaska," Lupe said. Her mischievous grin tickled me. "I don’t think some misogynistic, hermit bookworm is the man of my dreams," I said. She defended the man in question. "Well, if your spouse died . . ." I interrupted, "Somebody married him?"

Lupe ignored my incredulity and continued her point. "If your husband had died, you’d be anti-social too. I know if my Fernando passed on it would devastate me." "Then why don’t we just leave the sad man alone?" I hoped that she would take my advice, but she was unconvinced. Instead, she returned to her primary position. "Gordon Sommers was very controversial in the late 70s; you know that."

"So what. He’s nobody now."

"It’s your job to make him somebody. Are you getting lazy, or what?" Her insinuation irritated me. I answered her with a shrug. Then, she abruptly softened her approach. "Look, girl, I promised Mr. Sommers’ agent, Alfred Stintfield, this interview would be handled professionally."

I did not respond because my concentration was on the snare-drum tapping of her nails on the table. It was a repetitive smoke screen for something unpleasant. Sure enough, she hit me with the bad news. "Apparently, Mr. Sommers had to be heavily persuaded to give the interview," Lupe said. She pretended to be distracted by an errant hair on her forehead. How was all I wanted to know. Looking me straight in the eye, she continued, "Knowing Stintfield, he knows something very private about him." I played along with her melodrama, asking, "Since you and Stintfield are so chummy, what did he tell you about the elusive and reclusive Mr. Sommers?"

"He wouldn’t tell me anything. We’re not close, she insisted. He told me to be happy with the interview." She looked as though she knew more.

What do you know about him? I asked. Only that his wife died about a year after they moved from London to Alaska and no one’s heard from him since until now.

"You’re asking too much, even as a friend," I said. She sat back with a huff. Sure of triumph over the Alaskan issue, I relaxed and finished my tea. Meanwhile, my long-time friend sipped and smiled with the sincerity of a tipsy crocodile. All things considered, my firm standing stumbled when I asked, "So, how did his wife die? Avalanche?" Lupe lowered her voice like a conspirator to say, "Strange thing, her death never made the papers, not even an obit. Research found nothing on him or her. Maybe you can find out."

On that shaky ground, I steadied my own foundation by reasoning, "Lupe, you’ve gone loopy. You want to send me to the middle of nowhere to interview a man with a questionable death in his past, a man who has cut himself off from the world to creep out his days as an ice cube?" To punctuate my meaning, my teaspoon clattered into the empty teacup.

Lupe waved away my concerns and said, "He’s harmless, I’m sure of it. He’d be insane to try anything with you!" She laughed alone. For a last push for total deliverance, I begged, "Please, give him to someone else."

Ultimately, Lupe catered to her strongest personality, the journalist. Like a boss, she said, "Saren, you’re a one-man band. Mr. Sommers said only one snoop allowed, so you’re the one for the job. Get some nice photos, and use your charms to coax the exclusive of your life from him."

"What are you suggesting?" I asked, feigning innocence.

"Nothing like that, girl," she said, pretending to be shocked. "You’ve never let me down in the past." We halted our great debate to settle up with the waiter. Of course, I did not participate. When Lupe visited, it meant important business and shopping with a corporate credit card. The current financial transaction seemed to deepen her determination to see me depart. She leaned against the table and quietly said, "Find out all you can about Mr. Mystery. I could care less about his new book. He’ll be riding on his past. Anyway, the interview’s just an excuse to get inside and find out what happened to his dearly departed wife."

Thoroughly disgusted, I said, "What happened to the professionalism you promised Stintfield?" "Saren, with your experience that man will never know he’s been exposed. That’s why the story’s yours, and you’re leaving mañana."

"What do you mean tomorrow?" I exclaimed. In the next second, a busboy collided with Rubio’s son, sending a plastic tub and food-smeared dishes crashing to the red tile floor. Under a flurry of angry Spanish from Rubio Junior, the flushing teenager scrambled to clean the mess. I lowered my voice and threatened, "The magazine will pay big for this one."

"Anything," she cooed. "If you get what I want, you’ll get your perks." Lupe was giddy from victory rather than her drink. She almost sang, "You’ll be back in time to give that Brent man a call for the weekend." At that point, I was too overwhelmed to argue. She smiled victoriously, saying, "I’ll help you pack." That meant she would assist me with shopping. Late night in my town home, packing was my chore—alone. Low thunder grumbled its warning of another spring storm to come. Although it was warm and muggy in Austin, I found out that the forecasted high temperature in Alaska was in the mid-fifties, too cold to me. Warm clothing, camera gear, and a new telescope lens were neatly arranged on the bed. The next step was to stuff it all into an equipment case and one large suitcase. The chirp of my phone taunted me until I found it on the bed under my flannel nightgown.

"It’s Lupe. I’m back in New York," she yelled. "How’s your new lens?" "Great," I said. The expensive equipment had not been a necessary purchase but a revengeful one. "It better be great," she chided. "The days are longer in Alaska this time of year. Good for your photography." Then, she changed her tone for business. "I just got the word, you’re all set. Your pass and tickets will be at the boarding desk, Gate 67. When you get to Anchorage, look for a middle-aged man with black-rimmed glasses." "Great," I said.

"Call me," she ordered.

"I’ll call you from Sommers’ house. Bye, bye," I said, ending the call without waiting for her to reply. I packed my phone and re-charger into my shoulder bag, along with my laptop and necessities from my vanity drawers. Finally, by eleven o’clock, packing was done. I walked down the stairs to shut down my apartment for the night. First, I flipped on the porch light and checked the front door locks. Next, the kitchen light went off, and I proceeded to the living room. I looked over my place. The navy-and-white pinstriped couch, loveseat, and chair stayed overstuffed because people did not sit there. Likewise, the white carpet kept its brilliance because few had ever walked on it. An uncertain number of novels and non-fiction books, some read and some not, were stashed in or stacked on any available space. Months-old mail and magazines were stuffed into the gaps. Poster-size photographs of the Sangre del Cristo Mountains at sunset, Mexican pyramids, and a crowded playground in New York, all taken on my vacations, were only appreciated by me. Coming home to my comfortable and cluttered sanctuary used to make me happy. That night, the lifelessness of my furniture and possessions did not comfort me. I traveled too much to justify a pet’s company, not even a fish’s. The patio door next to the kitchen was always locked, but I checked anyway. In the window seat, a wire-covered, plastic planter contained cracked dirt and a dried stick that had been a healthy pine bonsai when I bought it. "Sorry," I told the stick.

With the weight of depressing loneliness on my shoulders, I prepared for and went to bed. The alarm clock was set for three-thirty AM. I hoped that a good four hours of sleep would be enough rest to tackle tomorrow’s travels. Yet after an hour of struggling with restlessness, I switched on the light to begin Sommers’ book, hoping that it would put me to sleep. I examined my subject’s photograph more closely, trying to imagine him twenty years older. According to Lupe’s vague description of my airport connection, he had not changed much. From the back flap, I read his short but impressive biography. He had been born in Yorkshire, England, November 13, 1950. He received his doctorate in Sociology at the age of twenty-five. His doctoral thesis became this book. Yet, the most interesting thing was that he received his undergraduate degree from the same university in England where I had attended my freshman year as an exchange student.

I dove into chapter one and so on, becoming less sleepy and more apprehensive with each chapter about Sommers’ upcoming interview. His pervasive point was male dominance, so decreed by evolutionary science. Generally, I respected the right of others to their opinions, but his words infuriated me to the point of vengeful determination. About the middle of the fourth chapter, the radio alarm signaled that it was time to get to work.