Interlude Page 2

  The following Monday, Betty began a leave of absence from Outreach Unlimited Ministries where she’d been working as a writer for more than a year and a half. Once Jon arrived, she knew she would be preoccupied with him and with her wedding plans.

  And so she was—the two of them drove off every day to take in some part of Southern California that Jon had never seen. His New Zealand upbringing had kept him far away from the Golden State until recent years, when he had visited on assignments for various national and international magazines. Now he and Betty went to the San Diego Zoo. To Palm Springs. To Magic Mountain. To the Queen Mary and the Spruce Goose and Catalina Island.

  When they weren’t making small talk about the various points of interest they were visiting, their conversations probed each other’s mind and heart intensely. Something intuitively inspired them to find out all they could as quickly as possible. They were curiously driven to delve deeper and deeper, even though a lifetime of dialogue awaited them.

  A week and a day before the wedding, Jon seemed distracted when he arrived at Betty’s door for morning coffee. “I had a call from Newsweek on my answering service. They want me to do a quick job for them next week.”

  “Around here?” Betty asked naively.

  Jon raised his eyebrows and chuckled. “Hardly. Have you ever heard of a lovely little town called Beirut?”

  “What!” Betty’s eyes widened. “Beirut? Isn’t that where Westerners always wind up as hostages? Jon, what did you tell them? You did say no, didn’t you?”

  “Betty, you have no idea how much money they offered me. It’s twice the normal daily rate for a job like this. And it’s perfectly safe—they’re giving us a Druze escort. They are militiamen from one the most powerful factions in Lebanon,” he added knowledgeably.

  Tears began to fill her eyes. Next week was supposed to be the most wonderful week in their lives! “You’re going?” she barely whispered.

  “If I go, I’ll leave Sunday night and be back Thursday night.”

  “What do you mean ‘if’? You’ve already made up your mind. I can tell Jon. What if something goes wrong—the wedding is Saturday!”

  “They know all about that at Newsweek, and they said they’d get me back here no matter what. I know these guys. I’ve worked for them before. It’s an important account Betty, and listen . . . ,” he took her in his arms, seeing her begin to cry in earnest. “Shhh. Listen, now, Betty. It’s only four days, Sweetheart. What’s four days when we have the rest of our lives to be together?”

  Wedding preparations are more work than fun, Betty scowled as she hung up the phone. We should have eloped! If it hadn’t been for her beautiful pale blue silk dress and the lingering vision of a romantic ceremony, she might have suggested just that to Jon. Her interest in last-minute details had lagged dramatically after his unexpected call to go to Beirut. She had wanted to enjoy his company during this time, not waste it on endless minutiae.

  There were flowers to be confirmed. Caterers to be instruct-ed. Guests to be directed. Travel plans to be double-checked for people like Harold Fuller, who was flying in from Oregon for the big occasion.

  “It’s about time you married a real man,” Betty’s father had rumbled, once he learned that Jon was macho enough to survive in the Southeast Asian jungle for a week. “I just hope he doesn’t leave you one of these days for some cute little China doll.”

  “Daddy . . .” Betty started to defend Jon’s fidelity, then shrugged in resignation. “It’ll be good to see you.”

  In spite of her initial horror over Jon’s impending journey, all her negative thoughts about his decision were overshadowed by floods of tenderness for him. He seemed to be responding to her the same way. They found themselves not saying a word, holding each other more closely.

  His proximity to her apartment made it possible for them to spend every waking moment together. As Saturday passed from afternoon into evening, it became more and more difficult to imagine saying good night. After dinner, they lightheartedly discussed their future together. They had decided, after returning from their honeymoon, to live in Betty’s condo while they looked for a larger home. Arm in arm they walked around, trying to figure out where to fit in Jon’s possessions, how many items to place in storage, and what they’d need to buy.

  “New towels,” Jon said emphatically. “Believe me. You haven’t seen my apartment in New York, Betty, and it’s just as well. My towels, sheets, and half my furniture are going directly into the trash. Most of my gear isn’t even worth washing, much less moving.”

  “Good. When we get back from England, we’ll go shopping. We should have enough to buy a few towels, considering the small fortune you’re making on this job of yours.”

  Jon looked at her sadly. He brushed his hand across her hair and kissed her forehead. “I wish I’d said no, Betty. I really do. The closer I get to leaving, the more I wish I’d said no.”

  “Is it too late to cancel?” she asked, barely allowing herself to hope.

  “It’s far too late. I’m leaving tomorrow, remember?”

  To Betty’s surprise, tears appeared in his eyes. She hadn’t understood just how sorry he was to go. “Well, like you said, it’s only for four days, Jon.”

  “I hope so . . .”

  “What?” Betty stiffened. “What do you mean ‘I hope so’? You have to come back by Saturday, Jon! You’re getting married! You aren’t afraid, are you?”

  “To tell you the truth, I’ve got a sort of unsettled feeling about leaving. Maybe it’s because every time I leave you I find myself worrying, thinking you’ll change your mind or some such thing. I guess I shouldn’t be so anxious, considering the fact that the wedding’s a week from tonight.”

  “I have never so much as thought of leaving you, Jon. I’ve never even looked at another man. I really haven’t.”

  They were in Betty’s bedroom, trying to sort out which chest of drawers would stay and which would go. Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Jon whispered softly, “Betty, please. I want to make love to you before I leave.”

  From the beginning, Jon and Betty had been affectionate with each other. But for spiritual reasons of their own, they had opted to play out their courtship by the book. To keep the rules. To wait for the ring. But this unanticipated moment transcended all such determination. It caught them both off guard.

  Jon enfolded her with his arms, powerfully and with great yearning. Betty looked into his eyes and brushed his face softly with her fingers.

  The hours that followed were theirs alone. They slept and woke and slept again, blanketed in tenderness. No one knew—no one would ever know about this one last night together. It would remain their precious secret forever.

  Sunday morning they bypassed church and went out to breakfast. A new serenity shrouded the day with warmth, and an incomparable sense of belonging. However, as the hours passed, Jon’s departure grew closer. Around 2:30 Betty sadly watched as he packed his camera gear, hung his clothes in his flight bag, and zipped his carry-on shut.

  “Are you sure you can’t call somebody and say you’re desperately ill?”

  “I am feeling a little sick, to tell you the truth. It makes me sick to leave you, Sweetheart. I was a fool to take this assignment. Greedy and foolish.”

  “Well, you had to pay for my diamond, remember?”

  “Maybe I’ll bring you another one—for the other hand.” He kissed her right hand wistfully and then checked his watch. “I guess we’d better head out for the airport.”

  The lengthy ride to the airport was filled with nervous conversation, both Betty and Jon trying to be relaxed and casual for the other’s benefit. When they came to the terminal, they found that the British Airways flight to London was on time. Jon checked his bags, watched while the airline representative examined his passport, and started for the gate.

  “Now tell me again—what’s happening once you get to London?”

  “Beirut airport is open at the moment, so I’m meeting a writer
in London, catching a Middle East Airlines flight, and arriving in Beirut Monday night their time. Beirut time is ten or eleven hours ahead of California. We’re shooting all day Tuesday and part of Wednesday. I fly out on MEA Wednesday afternoon, catch a return flight home and will be back Thursday night around 11:00 P.M.”

  “Those sound like pretty close connections.”

  “It’s all confirmed—all the way through. There’s no problem, Betty. Just pray for me, and I’ll pray that you get everything done on this end.”

  Impulsively, Jon pulled her toward him and held her tightly against his chest. “Lord, take care of my precious Betty. You know she’s my wife now, and I’m her husband, ‘til death do us part. I pray that You’ll keep her safe until I get back. Make me a good husband to her, Lord—the best she could ever have. And while I’m gone, please bless her and keep her and make Your face shine upon her. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  “Amen . . .” Betty whispered, bracing herself for his actual departure. No tears, she commanded her eyes sternly. “Good-bye, Jon. I’ll see you in four days.”

  “Just four days!” he said brightly, kissing her once more and heading for the big 747. He turned once more, blew her another kiss, and he was gone.

  Betty drove back to Pasadena, unable to focus her thoughts on anything but Jon and the brief time that they had enjoyed together since her last solo trip to the airport. Would it always be like this? Would home be only a stopover between jobs? Would he always return? Their times together had been the most wonderful times of her life. Would it always be like that? The sweetness of their intimacy filled Betty with a fleeting sense of joy as she tearfully steered her car across the light-spangled city.

  Clearly, the love she and Jon shared was a given. It had been there all along, even amidst their worst doubts. Nevertheless, one contrary thought could be heard whispering in the farthest reaches of her mind. It was completely incompatible with her mood, yes. But a faint but familiar question still remained unanswered: Will it last?

  2

  The first two days after Jon’s departure were hectic, and in one sense Betty was glad he was gone. All their frenetic sightseeing had kept her from following up on some very necessary wedding preparations. For the most part she was able to put him out of her mind while she phoned, ran errands, and wrote a rather sobering succession of checks. The sight of the twinkling diamond on her left hand invariably reminded her of him, and she couldn’t help but smile.

  Tuesday night she collapsed in bed, exhausted. Two days more and he’ll be home, she reminded herself as she drifted off to sleep. I can’t wait to see him. Halfway through the night the telephone awoke her. She fumbled to turn on a light. It must be Jon, she reasoned.

  “Hello?” Her voice was thick with sleep.

  “Ma’am, this is George O’Ryan with the State Department in Washington, D.C. Is this Mrs. Jon Surrey-Dixon?” The crisp, businesslike voice on the other end of the line brought her closer to wakefulness.

  “No, this is Elisabeth Casey, Jon’s fiancée.”

  “Elisabeth Casey. So you are you the fiancée, not the wife of Jon Surrey-Dixon, a freelance photographer who recently traveled to Lebanon?”

  “Yes, I’m Jon’s fiancée.” She drew a quick breath. “Is he all right?”

  “Ms. Casey, I’m afraid I have some unpleasant news for you. We have a confirmed report out of Beirut that your fiancé was abducted by Islamic terrorists on his way into the city from the airport. Fortunately his colleagues were left behind—he was the only one taken.”

  Silence. What could she possibly say?

  “Ms. Casey, are you still on the line?”

  “Yes, I’m here. What do I do? Who should I talk to?”

  “Although it is not our policy to tell hostage family members what to do, I would strongly advise you not to talk to the media at this time. We hope to have this matter resolved quickly. I understand that your fiancé is a naturalized American—is that true?”

  “No, he’s not an American citizen. He has a green card, but he carries a New Zealand passport.”

  “I see. I’ll double-check that. Is there anything I can help you with, then?”

  “Well, yes. What are you doing about Jon? Are you trying to get him out? We’re getting married on Saturday.”

  Why did her words about the wedding sound so shallow and foolish?

  There was a brief pause. O’Ryan seemed to be processing unexpected information. “I see. Well, I’m sure you’re aware that it is official U. S. policy not to negotiate with terrorists. We are doing all we can on behalf of all the hostages in Lebanon, and we are optimistic that this crisis will come to a swift conclusion.” The man sounded like he was reading from a script, and his platitudes couldn’t have been less comforting.

  By now Betty was wide awake. “Could you give me your name again, please? And your phone number?” She wrote down the information, and at his request gave him her address.

  His answers had been so unsatisfactory that she repeated her question a third time. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  “Nothing, ma’am. The less you do, the better. The more attention you draw to the kidnapping, the more valuable your fiancé becomes to his abductors. Please contact me if you have any further questions.”

  “Well, I’m going to have to tell my friends and family.” “I’m sure they’ll hear about it through the usual sources. The news media are quick to report these things,” O’Ryan replied rather haughtily.

  “Are you sure I can’t do something? Talk to someone? Jon’s not even an American citizen—maybe the people that took him think he is. Maybe they should be told that he’s from . . .”

  “Ms. Casey, as I said before, the less you do the better. We’re professionals. Leave it with us.”

  The conversation, such as it was, seemed to be over. “Thank you for calling,” Betty could hardly believe she was expressing gratitude for such devastating news.

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ll be in touch.”

  She rested the phone in its cradle. Her diamond sparkled in the dim light. She stared at it blindly.

  They’ll get him out soon, she tried to reassure herself. He just didn’t want to get my hopes up. But despite her attempts at optimism, a heavy darkness seemed to be settling across her mind. Then an idea flashed. CNN! Maybe they’ve got something on CNN!

  She turned on the television just in time to see Jon’s picture flicker morbidly on the screen. The quality of the black-and-white photograph was terrible, but she could clearly see that it was Jon. One eye was swollen shut. His upper lip appeared distorted. His eyes looked blank, as if he were dazed.

  Nausea almost overwhelmed her. She began to shiver violently, her teeth chattering wildly. She tried to concentrate on the words coming out of the television.

  “. . . Jon Surrey-Dixon, the latest victim of Islamic terrorist kidnappings, is thirty-five years old. Although he is a native New Zealander, he carries an American green card. . . .”

  I wonder why CNN knew that and the state department didn’t? Despite Betty’s shock, she couldn’t help but notice the discrepancy in information.

  “. . . His fiancée Elisabeth Casey is a writer, living in Pasadena, California. Surrey-Dixon and Casey were to have exchanged vows Saturday, a wedding that will clearly be postponed indefinitely. . . .”

  They got that right, too.

  “. . . We hope to have some comment from Elisabeth Casey in the next hour. . . . ”

  Postponed indefinitely. Comment from Elisabeth Casey.How do they know all this? She felt watched. Frantic, she clicked off the television and opened the blinds, checking for intruders outside. The street was empty.

  What do I say to them if they come here? She was terrified. Did they have her phone number? The United States of America Department of State had “strongly advised” her not to talk to the media. Would she be breaking some kind of law if she did? Would she endanger Jon’s life if she said anything at all?

  Wild surges of fear
ebbed and flowed inside her. The image of Jon’s bruised face was indelibly imprinted on her mind. “God! Help me! What do I do?”

  The phone rang again. This time it was CNN. How had they located her so quickly? She never thought to ask. “Ms. Casey . . . Sorry to bother you at such a terrible time. Tell me, how do you feel? What was your reaction to the news?”

  Now the tears began. “I don’t know what to say . . . I don’t know what to say. Just pray for Jon, that’s all I can say . . .”

  The female journalist who called sounded far more compassionate than O’Ryan. “I’m so sorry about this tragedy, Ms. Casey,” she said. “We’ve been covering this hostage situation for years, and it just breaks my heart. If I can ever do anything to help you, please give me a call.”

  The woman gave Betty both a work and a home number. It seemed like a generous gesture at the moment.

  In less than an hour’s time, Betty’s plaintive words, “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to say . . .” were broadcast around the globe. Her voice was heard in dozens of countries. In bars and palaces. In airports and hotel lobbies. Her personal loss had instantly become a matter of common knowledge. Her private tears were public domain. Betty’s love story was no longer her own.

  The wedding was canceled. Jon Surrey-Dixon was a hostage. The world was watching.

  Betty sat in her chair from 4:30 until 6:00 A.M. unable to sleep, almost paralyzed with fear. There were no more calls until Jim Richards at Outreach Ministries International telephoned at 6:10.

  “Betty, I just heard the news about Jon. It’s on all the networks. Are you all right?”

  “No . . .”

  “Are you getting bombarded by the press?”

  “No, at least not yet.”

  “Look, I’m going to pick up Joyce and we’re coming over there. I think you need a couple of friends right now. Is that okay with you?”

  “Thanks, Jim. Yeah. Go ahead and come.” Her voice had no inflection.

  Betty dislodged herself from the chair and made her way to the shower. She went through the motions of dressing herself, drying her hair, and putting on her makeup. Waterproof mascara, she instructed herself. You’ve got enough black circles under your eyes already, and you know you’re going to cry all day.