 
Waters of the Kalahari

A Jessica Thorpe Novel

By William Wresch

Copyright 2019 William Wresch

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Book 7: Southern Africa has been enduring drought for three years. The World Bank asks Jessica to help with an exploration project. Can water be found under the Kalahari Desert? Jessica agrees to help. It is her chance to explore Africa and do some good. She helps put in 90 wells. The project is a huge success. Then she loses everything, and must restart her life. She is back in Amberg, Wisconsin, trying to find her place in a changing world.

Chapter 1

My Castle

Let me tell you a story. I think you will like most of it. It certainly has a great beginning. It starts with a castle. Yes, a real castle. My castle. It is huge, it is beautiful, it is mine (well, mine and Emil's). Yes, it's cold. But. As I walk through it or give tours, I can't help but smile. This is not some Disney pretend castle, it is real. Built hundreds of years ago on the banks of the Aare River in Switzerland by knights who were there to protect shipping on the river, or steal from the shipping (depends on who you talk to). It guarded the entrance to Bern, Switzerland, or it preyed on those who entered (again, depends on who you talk to).

What's undisputed? Emil's grandfather bought it over a century ago, fixed it up, and raised generations of Grubers there. More recently, it was the site of our wedding reception. Three hundred guests in our Great Hall. Our Great Hall. Try saying those words without smiling. One huge room after another, all for me to walk through – and on many nights – to waltz in. I really did love the place.

And I loved the man I shared it with. Not at first. I thought of him as the gray statue – or worse. And he will be the first to admit he can be cold, or worse. Funny about his family. I felt the same anger toward his nephew at first. Elias. He was the one who first brought me to Switzerland. He had come to Amberg, Wisconsin (my hometown) supposedly to fish, but actually to check out the area for a potential water bottling plant. I was moonlighting as a hostess at the fishing lodge where he stayed, and he had pulled me aside to ask for my endorsement of his project. Would I support a project that might bring two dozen jobs to a dying town? Of course. Would I permit him to back me against a wall and keep a hand on me while we talked? Well, I did, but I didn't like it. Months later, I was in his bed.

Emil was slower to warm to. By then Elias was dead, as was Matteo, Ibrahim and Willie. I had been with four good men. Emil? A man I had flown to Bern to negotiate with. The plant in Amberg was built, but now threatened with closure. I came to buy it. How did that go? Oddly. I stayed in his castle (no shortage of rooms), argued with him, and then helped with tours of the place (long story). Like I said, odd. I made friends with local historians (if you have an old castle, they sort of come with the place), I discovered visitors liked talking to me, and gradually Emil and I argued less.

What did we agree on? The world was warming, water was being drained or polluted, maybe we could work together to provide more water. I became his partner, head of the water plants in North America (three then, ten as soon as construction could be completed), and slowly, well, I became his partner in all things. We were married within six months of my first night in his castle.

How did that go? I wish you could see my smile. Let me describe our days together.

We wake around six. Our corporation – Naturale – does business in dozens of countries and generates over a billion dollars in sales annually. So, you would think he would be up the instant he wakes, rushing to the office or to his phone to read email. He didn't. He slid closer to me. Castles are cold (more on that later), so we tend to sleep close anyway, just to stay warm. But his first move every morning is to slide tight against me, his arms around me. If I am facing him, his hands go to my back and ass, and he pulls me tight. If I am turned from him, his arm slides under my head and pulls me back to him, one arm on my breasts, the other on my thighs. Me, I push my backside into him tight. Yes, I am a tease.

We might lie like that for half an hour. No talk, all touch. He might kiss the back of my neck, or my face. His hands will stroke me over and over. I get warm pretty fast. We might get more intimate, or we might just hold each other, but I am guaranteed time with him each morning. I never have the sense that he is anxious to get on with his day, waiting for some email, some deal, some crisis. He holds me, he kisses me, he smiles at me.

Eventually I push him out of bed. The floors are cold, the room is cold (even in summer), and we rush to the shower. The local historical society has allowed him to make a few small modifications to the castle, so there is a real bathroom (small) and a small shower (real small), but I am fine with that. There's room for me to put my arms round his neck, room for him to press me against a wall, room for kisses and cuddling and sliding around soapy thighs.

When we are done, I put on a slip, nothing else, while I help him dress. I button his shirt, tie his tie, get down on my knees to tie his shoes. And maybe one of the straps on my slip slides over my shoulder as I dress him, sometimes both, and I smile up at his face, knowing I am teasing him like crazy. My last act is to walk with him to our bedroom door, my hair wet and hanging across my face, my feet bare, my slip tight to my body, my breasts only partly covered. I stand close, get a long kiss, a hand on my ass, and a smile that tells me he will be thinking about me all day. Good man.

I never had breakfast with him. Did I mention we have a billion dollar business? His breakfast consists of whatever the cook puts in front of him while he scans email on his phone, and makes calls that can't wait for him to get to the office. I need to leave him to that. We have had our time. Now he needs to have his time.

And I need time. My days are long. I try to go easy on the makeup, but I use some. I also work on my hair. I so wish I had hair nicer than the mousy brown mop that tops my head. I can brush and comb it so it shapes my face, and touches my shoulders. But that is the limit. No one has ever said – Jessica? Oh, I remember her. Great hair.

My wardrobe is simple. Did I mention the castle is cold? Trust me on this, if you ever see a sign "historic landmark," that is just another way of saying "cold." With endless approvals from the Bern Historical Society, Emil has been able to bring radiators into four bedrooms (his kids were raised here) and there are a few hidden carefully on the first floor rooms, but there is a limit to what you can do with stone walls partly up a mountainside. The castle is cold almost all year.

So my wardrobe? When I first arrived as a guest, the maid brought me one of Emil's wife's dresses. Long sleeves, long skirts, heavy material. I had nothing packed that warm (I had assumed I would just be staying a day or two in some downtown hotel), so I wore her dress. It was warm. She had others, and as my stay extended, I wore more of them. Long sleeves, long skirts, slightly scooped necklines, shoulders always covered. Cancer had taken her several years ago. Never met her, but she had the right idea about how to dress if you lived in a castle.

Soon I had my own castle gowns, but they are all variations on that same theme – long sleeves, skirts to the floor (even petticoats if it is extra cold), necklines scooped just enough that I can wear a necklace if the occasion calls for jewelry. I have brighter colors and patterns and nicer material than she had, but every gown could be cut from the same pattern.

I took breakfast in the basement kitchen. By the time I go downstairs Emil is long gone. He eats in the dining room, I eat in the kitchen. Much warmer down there, and it gives me a chance to talk to Emma. The castle may be home to us, but it is a social center for Bern. If you are any kind of music, fine arts, social or historic group, you are welcome to use our large entry room and Great Hall. They are supposed to provide their own catering and custodial services, but, it still involves work for all of us. So we start the morning looking at the weekly calendar, discuss what will be expected of us, and prepare. I would get a couple eggs, some really good toast, and my first coffee of the day, and then I was back upstairs.

Johann time. Johann is the head of the local historical society and a really good friend. He taught me German each morning before the first castle tour. German is the primary language spoken in this part of Switzerland (although they have their own Swiss dialect), and Emil said Johann had the perfect accent for me to follow. Fine. Ever try to learn German? Let me warn you. Not easy. But I was at it every morning with Johann, and Emil often worked with me on business terms in the evening (until I distract him). Why German lessons? Besides being the local language, Emil wanted me to run the company (eventually) and that would require some skill in German.

As for running the company, as this story begins, he is fifty seven. I think he should be able to run the business another twenty years. He thinks when he turns sixty I take over. I think we have lots more to discuss about that. But in the meantime, I follow the path he has created for me – German lessons, castle tours to show respect for the local history, evenings with the social elite of Bern, dinners with family members and company officers (generally the same since this is a family business), days at the office attending leadership meetings, periodic trips back to the US to oversee our North American division. Busy me.

But back to Johann. I always guessed he was about eighty, and if he was ever more than skin and bones, old age took off those few extra pounds. But he had an energy. He seemed to rock up on the balls of his feet, and when he walked, it was at a pretty good clip. He arrived at our huge, heavy, ax-proof front door precisely at eight thirty. I remember one day well. It was the day the Kalahari project started. But I didn't know that. I just went to the door as I always did, greeted him, and we chatted away in German. What did we say? The usual greetings you might get from anyone in the street – hope things are going well, the weather seems good, might rain later, the castle is beautiful as always. This was some variation of a conversation we had every morning. Words and phrases I knew well. The objective now was to work on my pronunciation and my pacing. Put the accent on the wrong syllable and everything falls apart.

We walked down to the library, commenting on items around us (the Great Hall had huge tapestries on one wall, and an endless supply of ancient portraits). I was able to give a short description of each item he pointed to. Give me an A for the opening session. Once in the library, we sat in front of the fireplace, and he moved to new material for me. Off he went, and I was lost. He just kept talking. I waited for some word that might give me a clue. Finally I heard "Garten." Well, you don't have to be a genius to guess he might be talking about a "garden." With that in place, I listened for names of flowers, and then heard "gartenarbeit" – garden work. Okay, now I think I know where this is going. It's September. People will be harvesting vegetables or fruits. Some evening concert, or some business dinner, women might want to speak to me about their gardens. Good. I nodded, and said something in response – I think "I enjoy gardens" but actually it was "I want gardens," and Johann had to bring me around, slowly, to the right response. I guessed we would be working on this all week.

Did I mention I dropped out of high school? Tenth grade ended it for me. The only thing I wanted in the world was Tiny (football lineman). The backseat of his dad's Buick gave me Tiffany. Truth is, even if I had finished high school, I was just marking time, taking the easiest courses offered at Wausaukee High. So, no German, and barely any Spanish. Johann had to be the most patient teacher in the world. And the worst liar. He kept telling me I was making great progress. I wish.

Shortly after nine we walked out to the parking lot in front of the castle. It was a nice day, warm, sunshine, pretty view down the hill to the river. We talked weather. I had that subject nailed. "Cold" is "Kalt" in German. Most days I could just work off variations of that word. Today was "warm," which in German is "warm." Weren't many days when I could use that word – the one word the same in both languages. Oh well.

The bus arrived full of Koreans. My greeting was "anyunghasseo" (Don't ask for more than that. Took me twenty busloads of Koreans to get that word). They were young, excited, and pretty. Twenty ladies, four guys. Are there any Korean girls who are not pretty? We did greetings - handshakes for the girls, curtseys for the guys (always a hit), and went inside.

They had their own guide who spoke Korean, and they had Johann who spoke great English as well as German, but like many of the younger tourists, they wanted to speak with me. More correctly, they wanted to recite movie lines with me. My Hollywood credits consist of thirty eight seconds on screen, but the scene was at the end of a film that was popular around the world, so people knew it.

I had been through this before, and I didn't mind. One of the girls said, "Oregon, please," and we began. The lines are about Narcissa Whitman, the woman who helped create the Oregon Trail, and I did them with each of the twenty ladies, including their guide. I moved them through the castle so we could use many locations, and each time we stood close, the Korean girls speaking the lines of the young girl in the film, while I said my lines and two dozen phones recorded video. The men mostly stood back, but one guy did want a picture with me. He even tried a kiss. I ducked, and everyone laughed.

An hour later they were back on the bus. I still don't know what "good bye" is in Korean, so Johann and I just stood and waved.

When I had first arrived in Bern, still getting acquainted with Emil and learning about the castle, I had often done three or four tours a day. Now I only did one. Johan took one or two more groups through during the day, but I needed to get to work.

There had been a time when I had changed into something more typical of office wear. Swiss women tended to wear knee-length skirts. I had many of those, but there had been enough occasions when tours went long, and I had been too rushed to change. So I wore my castle gown to work. Did I look a bit odd? Yes, but I got compliments from many of the ladies. So, at some point, I just stopped changing. I live in a castle, this is how I dress. Granted, if I wore petticoats I took up a fair amount of space walking between desks, but I bet I was the only woman in the office with warm legs.

That day – the Kalahari day – I was wearing one of my nicer gowns. Summer colors in a floral pattern, a bit of a sheen to the material. Emil sent a car for me each day about this time, and I was still standing in the parking lot, waving to the bus when the driver arrived. Twenty minutes later I was at our building, completely unprepared for a very unusual meeting.

Chapter 2

The Kalahari Desert

My office routine had been developed over the two years of our marriage. The driver drops me off at the front doors of our building. We are in the central part of town, near a pedestrian mall (I love those), in a building that looks centuries old, but is completely modern inside. My office is on the fifth floor (all the buildings in the central part of town are limited to five floors), but I take my time getting up there. I practice my German with the receptionist, stop on the second floor to speak with the marketing people (we had worked together on a design for my Superior Springs water bottles), say "Guten Morgen" to one of the engineers on the third floor (and smile at one of his drawings), then slowly cross the entire length of the fifth floor, greeting all.

Emil has made it clear to all that I am his successor, so people take the time to speak with me, increasingly in German, although they also switch to English if they think I am having a problem. I'd like to think they would be pleasant with me, successor or not, and aside from a few snarls from a lady here or there before we were married, people in the office had been nice. Maybe now they were a shade nicer. And successor or not, I had done a good job lining up the new plants Wisconsin and Michigan. Another year and the plants would be on-line and our production numbers would really jump. I felt I had earned my place on the fifth floor.

Did anyone feel bothered that I came to work around eleven each day? First, I had been working giving tours, and second, I would be working later than any of them. Why? Because my operation was seven hours to the west. It would be at least three more hours before any of my plant managers were in the office. So, I had plenty of time to walk through the office, talk about this and that, and finally get to my desk and the emails and spreadsheets my assistant had screened for me.

My assistant, Mia, was nearly my age, and I guessed had once thought she might be Emil's pick as the second Mrs. Gruber. (I have no idea if he had even said hello to her.) She was slow to warm to me, but she was good at her job, and spoke excellent English. Better, she knew I was working hard to learn German, so she kept her English to a minimum. As I got to her desk I had this sense she was wondering which language to use.

She started with German. I missed part of what she was saying, but I caught "zeitplan" – schedule. Something about my schedule. Then I caught "konflikt." Okay, conflict. I suppose I could have guessed that from the expression on her face. Schedules change. No big deal. I nodded and took a couple steps into my office. She was right behind me.

"The legal office and two engineers were up here first thing, and it seems two of the family members are also involved." She had saved her English until we were in my office. I was tempted to hug her in thanks. Not something the Swiss do often.

"What's the issue?" I made no attempt at German.

"One of our agents negotiated a contract in Africa. Namibia." She looked at me like the name should have some meaning to me. Did I mention I dropped out of high school? Africa? Namibia? It was my second trip to Switzerland before I realized Bern was its capital. Geography was not one of my strengths.

"Is there a problem?"

"It is a large contract. We are to drill test wells over hundreds of square kilometers. The lawyers are concerned about contract language, the family is concerned about getting paid. The engineers are concerned about their safety."

"Those all seem like reasonable concerns. When is the meeting?"

"It started ten minutes ago in the board room."

I thanked Mia and crossed the hall. You might think I was concerned about being late to the meeting. I wasn't. What concerned me was the location – the board room. This was not the usual place for meetings, even for executives. The room was built for family. The fact that it was being used to discuss a contract meant that the family members were fairly senior. And, while they were all family, that did not mean they didn't squabble. When it came to money or positions within the company, the knives came out more often than you might expect. Emil was in there alone with them.

I walked straight into the meeting and took a place near the head of the table. Need I describe the room? If you sell a billion dollars' worth of product, you have enough money for leather everything, plus the best paneling, and a table that took two trucks to deliver and two weeks to assemble. There was seating for eighteen. Nine of those seats were taken, three by family members. All conversation stopped while I crossed the room and settled into my chair. I spent a little extra time arranging my skirts, my way of showing I was in no rush, I felt no special concerns about the issues being discussed.

Once I was settled, heads turned back to one of the family members who had been speaking when I walked in. About forty, he had been a good athlete when younger, and proudly showed his trophies all over his office. Kurt Meyer headed sales in Germany. His gray eyes and short-cropped hair were focused on me.

"Should I continue in English?" It sounded like a kindness, but it was actually an insult. I did what I always did when pressured – back straight, head up, hands in my lap, I smiled.

"Deutsche, bitte." Would I actually understand the German? Maybe, maybe not. But Emil would catch me up on anything I missed. Kurt hesitated. Would he test me? With Emil sitting right there? He went back to his presentation, or should I say, list of concerns.

What did I learn in the next hour? I admit, I missed most of what they were saying. But I could see the room was against the contract. They were also pretty unhappy with some guy named Theo Van der Walt. I guessed he wrote the contract, and didn't get the blessing of every person in the room before he signed it. Emil would tell me if I was right about that.

Time passed. Emil can be pretty short with people (my husband is a grump, but he seemed extra grumpy that morning), so I was wondering how long he would listen to all this whining. I guessed he favored the contract. If he hadn't, this meeting would never have been needed. He just would have killed the project. Since we were here, he was letting people talk, but then he would move on with the project anyway. My only question was how much longer this would go on. Turned out, not long.

"Jessica, something, something, something, reise nach Afrika?" I missed most of his question, but I caught "travel" ("Reise") and "Africa". I guessed from the fact that it was a question, he was asking me to go. Why not?

"Ja. Ich mochte nach Africa gehen." Simple enough. I wish to Africa go. I think I even got "ich" pronounced correctly (only took me two years of lessons).

"Gut. Something something." There were stares at Emil, and at me, but no arguments. I kept my back straight, my head up, and smiled politely. I was going to Africa, and someplace called Namibia. Why not? I stayed seated while the room emptied. Emil followed the last of the family members to the door, they had a short conversation, and then he closed the door and turned to me.

"Thank you."

"Did I just agree to go to Africa?"

"Yes. Do you mind?"

"No. Should I be worried about the place?"

"You should be cautious, but not worried."

"Will you be going with me?"

There was a hesitation before he answered. Finally I heard, "Let's talk about that tonight."

And that's where we left it. I went back to my office, Emil went back to his. I don't know what he did the rest of the day, but I spent it on Wikipedia. Turns out Namibia is near the bottom of Africa, and it is named after a desert. If ever a place needed water wells, this was it. It had sand dunes and everything. I guessed I was going to the right place.

Chapter 3

We Waltz

It was almost seven by the time Emil and I drove home. Part of that was my fault. Obviously Emil has lots of things to do, and people all over the world to speak with, so he stays busy. But I was busy too, largely because of time zones. It was early afternoon before I could reach my plant managers back in the US (barely eight a.m. for them), and if I was going to be traveling, I needed to check in with the US managers first.

We have fully integrated computer systems, so I knew the production coming out of each plant basically at the same time as the local manager. And I could monitor billings and payroll and most other larger systems any time I wished. What I couldn't do was look my managers in the face and see if they still liked what they were doing, or hear interesting ideas they might be considering. So I visited each plant roughly every three months. I had been scheduled to make the rounds again in a couple weeks. Now those visits would be postponed. How long? I had no idea. In the meantime, I could email each manager and explain my delay, while also asking if anyone had questions or concerns for me.

Brenda Stark, my Amberg manager, did. Michigan had approved a huge new mine right on the banks of the Menominee River. Not five miles off, not two miles off, practically on the edge. It could be expected to put junk in the ground water almost immediately, and if things went wrong, and they almost always do, they would pollute the river. Michigan. The state that gave us Flint, with water so full of lead it was harmful to children. Hey, why not pollute yet another body of water. The Environmental Protection Agency, which once upon a time actually protected the environment, had quickly approved. Why not? Their kids wouldn't be drinking the local water. There would be a court challenge, there would be delays, but it didn't look good.

What to do? We had a monitoring well near the river, so we could check on the quality of the ground water when the time came. And if the water was bad? I told Brenda the truth. We wouldn't sell bad water. We would close the plant. I told her she was free to tell our employees and anyone else who would listen.

My other conversations and emails were more pleasant. No current labor shortages at our three operating plants, and good prospects for the plants under construction. This had taken work. Northern Wisconsin and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan had been fading away for decades. The young left. The old retired. We had responded by changing work flows, adapting many of our machines, and becoming very flexible with work hours so we now had retirees and mothers with school-age children. It seemed to be working. All our positions were filled.

Of course what the local managers didn't know is that we were operating at about 5% of capacity. The plants produced water, and teas, and some juices, all for current consumption. Enough to cover our costs and generate enough profit to keep our stockholders comfortable. But that wasn't why we were building new plants along Highway 2 when we could have met our needs with the three we already had. Emil was preparing for the future he saw fifty years down the road. A future with higher temperatures and constant water shortages. Our ten plants could draw from the waters around Lake Superior for a decade or two after the rest of the great water sources of the world had died. Of course he and his experts had assumed the problems would come in fifty years. Apparently the EPA wanted to kill the planet somewhat faster.

Which got me thinking about Africa. Namibia. We had water wells all over Europe, in the upper US, and in the Middle East. We hadn't put a plant in Africa. We had a couple sales agents down there to sell our products, but we had never produced anything there. Could we? Namibia had the Namib Desert along its western – Atlantic – coast, and the Kalahari Desert all along its east. Was there water somewhere under all that sand? And if we found it there, could we find it elsewhere in Africa? What future did they face in fifty years?

I guessed it was my job to find out. Would Emil go with me? I was guessing not. Whatever his reasons, I think he would have told me right away if we were going together. And if I went on my own? Well, let me admit it. I was nervous, but also pretty excited. For the first forty years of my life, my world had consisted of waitressing and bartending in Amberg, Wisconsin, with occasional trips to Green Bay (all of fifty miles) to see my daughters graduate from college. In the last five years I had done more traveling than I had ever imagined. I even had two passports – one American, one Swiss. But Africa? That was the kind of place you saw on TV, not the kind of place I ever imagined visiting. I kept bringing Wikipedia up on my computer just so I could look at maps. And I have to admit, as I looked at the maps, my pulse beat faster and I could not keep from smiling. I was going to Africa.

Emil came for me just before seven. We walked through the empty office hand in hand. We said nothing. But I held his hand tighter, and walked so close we bumped shoulders several times. When we got in the elevator, I kissed him.

"Thank you." I had my arms around his neck, and I pulled myself close.

"I won't be going with you."

"I assume you will tell me why. But not now. Just hold me."

And that summed up our ride home – little talking, lots of touching. I didn't quite fit in his lap, but I was pretty close. My skirts were all over him, as were my hands. I was going to Africa. And I was with my husband. And we were on our way to our castle. I have no idea how he kept the car on the road, but when you have a happy wife, you shouldn't be surprised if she reaches across your chest, puts one hand on the far side of your neck, and pulls her head tight into your shoulder as she kisses your neck. He kept one hand on the wheel, and one hand on me, maybe to please me, maybe to keep me from jumping onto his lap. Either way, there was little traffic on our mountain road, and we only approached the ditches two or three times.

We got home to a reception. Like I said, our Great Hall was available to any organization that did some good in town. Tonight it happened to be the Bern Symphony Foundation. Easy to tell – they had a string quartet in the corner, and the music was first rate. We said hello to a few people at the door, but then went up to our room to change. We would spend some time at the reception. Most of Bern's leaders were in the symphony foundation, and we would mingle for a while before our dinner.

Upstairs, Emil changed into a tux, and I changed, well, first, into not much of anything. Maybe it was the late summer weather, maybe it was the idea of Africa, maybe it was just how good Emil looked in a tux, but I was hot for the guy. So I teased him like crazy. Obviously he would have to help with my zipper. I stood close, my hands on his shoulders while he reached behind me to unzip my castle dress. He did it slowly. Good man. I kept myself tight to him while I pulled the dress down from my shoulders and dropped it on the floor. I kept my eyes on him. He kept his hands on me. This was going really well.

Free of the dress, I pulled off my slip and my bra, watching him as I did it. I actually held his hand as I slid my straps over my shoulders. We were deep into foreplay at this point. Why stop there? I went to my dresser and came back with a corset. I don't have the waist I had at twenty, but did I really need a corset? I pulled it over my head and liked the look on his face. We had done this before. I walked up to him and wrapped my arms around his chest. He started working on the laces behind me. He did it slowly, testing to see how tight I wanted it. I had my head on his shoulder and whispered "tighter." He slowly worked his way up my back. I kissed him each time he came up another pair of eyelets. He, well, I think my man was about to lose it. His hips were tight against mine, and I could feel him. Serious foreplay. Finally he reached the top eyelets and tied a knot. He wanted that, and I wanted that. You have me, hold me.

If it had been any group but the Symphony Foundation, I think we would have just fallen into bed. But I kissed him, smiled, and backed away. I found two petticoats, and then took down a yellow satin gown I had been saving. Off the shoulder, half sleeves, tight bodice, skirts an endless series of ruffles. Any move I made would be magnified by the petticoats and ruffles, and I intended to be making moves on my man all night.

Sandals with three inch stilettoes? Yes. A small necklace with matching gold earrings. Yes. I sat at my vanity and ran a comb through my hair and added just a touch of makeup, mostly because I could see Emil in the mirror, and knew I had his complete attention. Last step? I settled the Historical Society tiara into my hair. Countess Edwina's. Two centuries old. On loan to me as thanks for all the tours. This would be a good night for it.

I stood. No, he did not tell me I was beautiful. But the look in his eyes, the smile, the way he took my arm... He was not just happy with me, he was proud of me. Nice feeling as we headed for the reception. We took the stairs slowly, and carefully, and with the complete attention of everyone gathered in the entry area.

Next hour? The caterers had hired at least two dozen waiters for the hundred or so guests. There was always a tray of appetizers going past, or a tray of drinks. We each took a glass of wine and held it as we worked the room. Emil knew everyone. I, deep into my second year of marriage, knew most of them. There were quick conversations, often in German, sometimes in English, compliments about the last symphony season, questions about soloists for the fall. Quick updates with family members in attendance (there was no end to Grubers in Bern), some talk with other business leaders. Emil kept me at his side for most of the conversations, but did leave me with a group of several women while he went to talk with the violinist in the string quartet. Compliments to the group, no doubt. Meanwhile, I complimented each woman on her gown, knowing full well, mine was the best in the room.

Slowly we worked ourselves to the far end of the Great Hall and made our escape into the dining room. There was a fire in the huge fireplace, and two places set at that end of the enormous table. I pulled the chairs and the plates closer together. Emil actually held my chair for me. I took forever settling my skirts, mostly because I could see he was watching me as I did so. When he finally sat, he sat close. My man.

When there will only be two of us for dinner, we ask whoever is making dinner for us to set up, and then go home early. They get home at a more reasonable hour, and we get some privacy, something I really appreciated that evening. There were salads already at our places, and a bottle of wine in front of Emil's place. Our meals were on the sideboard, staying warm in bronze pots easily a century old.

Dinner? I was as excitable as a teenager. I was going to Africa. I was with my man. I was in a castle. I was drinking red wine. Emil poured my wine, and we touched glasses, and here's where the real connoisseurs might have been describing the wine – fragrant nose, jammy with notes of apricot and cherry (or some similar nonsense) – but my only thought was – red. If I get a drop of this on my gown, I will never get it out. I leaned well forward, took a good drink, smiled, and then put my glass far back on the table where there was less chance I would spill it.

What kind of woman dines in a castle, inches from a man she loves, and thinks about spilling red wine? Me. I picked at my salad, held Emil's hand (He's European so eats with the fork in his left hand. I am American, so I keep my fork in my right hand. I keep his right hand in my left hand, and keep both hands busy on my thigh or his), and wondered which of the million questions I had I should ask first, while listening to the string quartet through the dining room door.

"When am I going?"

"Tuesday." This was Friday night, so I made the usual complaint.

"I can't be packed by Tuesday."

"Packing is a mistake. Trust me on this. Pack two or three day's worth of office clothing, and buy the rest when you get there. It will help you learn about how business functions there, and you will get the kind of clothing that everyone else has." There was logic to that, but of course such things were easier for men.

"And why am I going?" The far more important question.

"They specifically asked for you."

"Africa asked for me." Emil is a good man, but a terrible liar. This was obvious BS.

"Actually the World Bank office in Johannesburg."

"Emil, please." I actually let go of his hand. Teasing me was not nice. I did some work on my salad. He slid his hand along my thigh. If he was going to apologize, he was off to a good start.

"They mentioned your work around Lake Superior. The contract calls for us to supervise the drilling of ninety test wells. You have done test wells."

"So have dozens of others. How many have you done? Hundreds? You should go. I'll stay here and do my tours."

"I'll come down when you are done, and we'll take pictures of elephants."

"I'm still not understanding this."

"Sending you accomplishes two things. We want a senior person down there to establish a relationship with the World Bank. They would be a great partner. Check their website. They are funding projects related to climate change. They can help us, and we can help them. Next? You get some bragging rights back in the office. You are the person who got Africa for us. You are the person who connected us to the World Bank. You come back a hero, ready to succeed me."

"One more time, Emil, I will succeed you in twenty years."

"You will succeed me in two. You will be the face of the company. I will be the man who whispers advice, most of which you will ignore."

The conversation was taking an unpleasant turn. I got up and took our salad plates to the sideboard. What did I find in the copper warming tubs? Pasta. Good. This part of Switzerland tends to out-German the Germans. If they had their way, every night it would be some cut of pork buried under gravy and spätzle. I would have to thank whoever had done the evening's meal. I put some pasta on each of our plates, then looked into the next pot. Tomato sauce. Wouldn't that look great on my dress? I held a napkin in front of me and carefully put a ladle full on Emil's plate. I carried it to him like it was a plate of explosives. Back at the sideboard, I found a butter plate and put a couple pats on my pasta. Tomato sauce wasn't coming anywhere near me.

Back at the table, I had some of the pasta. Angel hair. Nice.

"Okay, I agreed to go, so I will go. But this has nothing to do with succession. You will keep running the company. You aren't even sixty. On your seventieth birthday, we will do some long-range planning that might involve some eventual changes."

"We will have that conversation on my sixtieth birthday, assuming the board has not already replaced me with you."

"Enough BS. Hold my hand, tell me I'm pretty, and let me listen to the music." And he did. I ate most of my pasta, carefully finished my wine, and slid up next to him, my head on his shoulder while the quartet played, and I tried to imagine myself in Africa. He did his part. He let go of my hand and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, holding me just the way I like. His other hand? Well, he did fine with that one too.

Usually we stay in the dining room until the Great Hall has emptied of the evening's reception. This evening, there was a knock on the door, and the head of the symphony stood and smiled at Emil. Hmm. Some speech he was the give? I was tempted to hold him right where he was, especially the hand he had on my thigh. But. It was the Symphony Foundation. So, we would go back out to the Great Hall, and Emil would say nice things.

He led me by the hand. Interesting, there was a clear area in front of the quartet, and Emil led me to it. He pulled me to the center, and the quartet played a waltz. A waltz. Emil smiled, I smiled, and I was in his arms. Viennese waltzes have rules. Positions. Even directions for your head. We broke them all. He smiled at me, I smiled at him, we moved and turned, circles in a larger circle as we moved across the cleared area, his strong right hand at my back pulling me around, stronger and stronger until he lifted me at a turn and the crowd cheered. We did it a half dozen more times. I felt I was flying around those circles. My skirts were everywhere, my left hand moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck, I moved far closer than they ever did in Vienna. I think I breathed. I know I laughed. I rose up at every turn.

The music stopped, and I wrapped both arms around his neck to kiss him. To hell with the bow and curtsey. I wanted him in my arms. I wrapped around him tight and held him, still struggling for breath. I only let him go when the head of the foundation and his wife walked to us. Okay. Time for talk. Emil kept his arm around my back, and as two couples, we faced the crowd that still applauded.

There was some talk. German. I caught maybe a third of it. The foundation guy, then Emil, the foundation guy's wife, then me. Keep it short, pronounce every word carefully, try for Johann's accent. "Thank you for the music. It was wonderful." And I lifted myself on my toes a bit as I said it. It worked. People smiled, and applauded. And it was over. The four of us became a kind of receiving line as people said their good byes. Half an hour of smiles, hugs, curtseys, small talk, and the room cleared. We walked the foundation guy to the front door, more hugs, and it was completely over.

The first thing I did was pull Emil back into the Great Hall. The quartet was gone, and the caterers had cleared the room. It was just us. I brought the lights down to nearly nothing, and then put myself in front of Emil.

"We can hum, or we can sing, or we can just smile at each other, but I want your arms around me. I want to waltz."

And we did. It turns out Emil can sing pretty well, "ta do, ta da, ta da, da, da," and we covered that room so fast I was breathless – just as I wanted to be. He got me up in the air at turn after turn. That arm around my back was warm – and belonged to the man I loved. I don't know if we did two circuits or three, but somewhere between a "ta" and a "da," I just stopped and wrapped my arms around his neck. He held me tight, and we swayed from side to side while my temperature rose. Finally, I just said "take me." And he did.

Chapter 4

We Talk, and We Walk

What do you do after a waltz? Well, if it's your castle, you climb the stairs to your room and push your man onto your huge canopied bed. Well, I did take off my tiara and kick off my shoes, but basically it was in the door and onto the bed, with me climbing all over my man. He's a really patient guy and put up with me lying on top of him, my arms around his neck, my mouth all over his face. I think there was some risk I would strangle him in my enthusiasm. I even tried to suffocate us. I reached back, grabbed the back of my skirt, and pulled it over my back and over our heads, us now buried in countless satin ruffles. Don't ask me why. Maybe it felt intimate? Who knows? I held him tight, occasionally lifting my head just to look at his face, or as much of his face as I could see buried under my skirts.

"I love it when we waltz." I was surprised I could string together that many words. "Every turn was magic."

"You know you ruined the reception."

"What? My German?" I raised my head up to look at him again.

"No, your German was excellent. But fifty women were there in their best ball gowns, and the only woman who will be talked about is the one in the tiara."

"You are so full of BS. But don't stop."

I went back to kissing him, and then laid my head next to his ear and whispered how much I loved him. He held me. One arm was across my back, the other on my ass. His hand was making slow circles, sliding my petticoats across my backside. He has really good hands. I kissed his neck, and whispered in his ear, and enjoyed his hands. At one point I closed my eyes and felt myself begin to breathe in rhythm with his hand. He was so good.

And then, being the world's biggest moron, I dosed off. Yes, it was late, but not that late. I don't know what time it was when I woke up, but he was still holding me. At some point he had folded my skirt down below our heads so we could breathe easier, but his hands were still just where they had been, and just where I wanted them. He was so good, and I was so bad.

"I must be the world's worse lay."

"You're the world's best wife." And he put his hand on the back of my head, lowering it back next to his. I kissed him, of course, but it only took a minute and my eyes were closed again. His hands felt so good.

Did we ever have sex? Yes, finally. We woke up at our usual time – six. Still dressed, with me still on top of him, and his arms still holding me. God I love that man. I was buried under layers of fabric, much of it twisted around my back and legs. I reached back to unzip my gown, and there was the top of my corset and its laces. Idea. There were about two feet of laces hanging down from the knot at the top of my corset. I slipped one arm back up there and wrapped the laces once around that wrist. Emil was watching me. I held the laces out to him, and then put my other wrist on top of the first. I said "please" and he wrapped the laces around my wrists. He hesitated then, but I said "yes," and he knotted the laces.

"Emil, take me." I slid off him and onto my back. He pushed up yards of fabric and was on me and in me instantly. He was hot. I was hot and getting hotter. He took a moment to push some locks of hair out of my face, kissed me, and then wrapped his arms tightly around my chest while he rocked into me. I kept raising my face, looking for anywhere to kiss him, while he held me and drove me crazy. While he pressed himself into me I whispered how much I loved him, but I also repeated, "tighter." I am not sure I had the breath of actually get that word out loud, but he held me, and that's what I wanted.

When he was done, he knew exactly what to do. He slid a bit to one side so his weight was on his shoulder, but he kept his arms around me, holding me tightly to him.

"Emil, I love you." Actually that came out in breathless gasps. And some hair had slid over my face, so I could only see part of him. "I love it when you hold me. I love it when you pull me to you. I love it when I see that look on your face." I am not sure I actually got the words out in that order, and there were long pauses in there while I caught my breath, but he seemed to understand me.

"Jess, I am the luckiest man in the world." We lay our heads down next to each other. Most importantly, he kept holding me. I pushed myself as close to him as I could, and he held me. At that moment, that was all I wanted in the world, and I had it. I closed my eyes, and yes, I dozed again.

At some point I woke. He was awake and looking directly into my eyes.

"Please, take me into the shower." I hoped he understood what I was asking, and he did. He undressed me, but left the corset and laces on. I walked to the shower while he undressed himself. I stood against the wall, waiting for him. He walked right up to me and pressed himself against me. All I could do was smile, and kiss him. He was doing everything perfectly. Water, soap, and his hands. There's a winning combination. I stayed on my toes, kept my head on his shoulder, my face against his neck, while he drove me crazy. He held me tight, he moved slowly, and his hands were everywhere. I, well, as his hands moved, I made sounds I don't think I have ever made before. And once I bit his shoulder pretty hard. And he just kept touching me, sliding his hands over me. It went on and on, and I got hotter and hotter, my head on his shoulder, my back against the wall, the corset probably the only thing that kept me from collapsing totally.

It gets better. When every inch of my skin is on fire, and I am half crazy, he shuts off the shower, picks me up, and carries me back to bed, still dripping wet. We are under the covers this time, and once again he is on me and in me. If my hands had been free, I would have been clinging to him, but they weren't free. They were under me as Emil held me and loved me, his arms tight around me. I had wanted him to take me, and it was marvelous.

I don't know how long we lay together after making love, but he kept his arms around me, and I kept my lips pressed to his neck.

"Emil, I am yours." I whispered in his ear.

"Jess, I love you."

"I have a secret." I moved my face back a bit so I could see his expression.

"Oh?"

"I wanted you long before you knew." I was looking into his face as I whispered to him. "I know you think you won me when we were looking at that valley and you talked about the melting glacier. We would be partners and provide water for the world." I stopped. I waited. Dramatic pause, I guess. "But you already had me. You had me when you talked about your wife and how it felt when she took your hand. I loved you at that moment."

"My turn." He turned his head, our faces no more than an inch apart, one arm around my shoulders while the other settled on my ass. I pushed myself tight against him.

"That night you arrived at my castle. I knew Saanvi was in Wisconsin, and I guessed she would cause trouble. And I had been told you were in the company plane, not her. You arrived, and you stood in my entrance hall. I stood at one end of the room. I wanted you to see the portraits, the axes and swords from the knights, the stairway leading up three floors. I wanted you to be impressed, and overwhelmed. That's why I had the car bring you here. I would look at you, even shout at you, and then I would have the car take you back into town, back to a very mediocre hotel. But you stood there. And you met my gaze. You spoke clearly. You even challenged me. And you were beautiful. You looked like a woman who could be in a castle. So I let you stay, and I kept you busy while I had people check on you. And every day I got you to stay felt like a victory."

"This is where you untie my wrists so I can wrap my arms around your neck and kiss you." And that's what he did. Not that it was easy with wet knots, but he managed.

It was probably noon before we finally left that bed. He got dressed in his hiking clothes before going down to breakfast and the morning's emails. We would spend what was left of our Saturday hiking the mountains, but I held him close a few more times before he was out of the room.

Me? I didn't know where to start, so I began with the obvious – the clothes strewn all over the floor. I looked at my gown and imagined the work that would go into ironing the wrinkles out of all those ruffles. I folded it fairly neatly, the least I could do for Greta. All the rest went into a pile in the hamper. As for today, the corset was still damp, so I got that off. What to wear? Jeans and a polo shirt made sense for a hike. But I was leaving my man in three days. So, I would go with a dirndl – white blouse under a jumper with flared skirt. If Swiss girls could wear it to take cows out to pasture (they did in all the commercials), I could wear it hiking with my man.

And I cheated. My white blouse? Silk with tiny sleeves and buttons up the back. My jumper? Green and gold flowers (Packer colors) on a light cotton material so nearly transparent I pulled a half slip under it for basic modesty. It would be windy up on the mountain trail, and my skirt would be always in motion. Let me walk a few paces in front of Emil and see whether he pays more attention to me or to the Alps.

That left my hair. What wouldn't I pay to have better hair? I dragged a comb through it as best I could, wished I had been to a salon more recently, and let it go at that. Makeup would be a challenge midway through any hike, but I put a little color here and there. Enough. I found my hiking boots and went down to my husband.

Breakfast? Coffee, yogurt, and the best toast on the planet. I kept one hand on Emil while I ate, but I said nothing. He sipped coffee and worked his phone. Yes, it was Saturday, but in some time zone someplace, someone was working and someone needed his approval. Emil texted one fingered, the world at his command.

We left about half an hour later. Emma had filled a knapsack with sandwiches and water bottles. Emil added his phone to the bag, and we were off.

I assumed we would take the long trail to his vanishing glacier, one more reminder of all the work we had to do as the world warmed and water vanished. But no. He led us through a different set of trails into fairly deep woods. Lots of aspen. Long, thin trunks, reaching for the sky, so thin they bent in any wind. We passed through grove after grove, their leaves in constant motion, their trunks swaying. We had the wind I wanted, wind to blow my skirts and entertain my man, but we were both looking up as we walked, watching and listening to the clatter of leaves.

He must have had a place in mind, for he stepped off the trail and led us into a grassy hollow barely visible from the trail. He had his pack off and the blanket spread on a grassy incline while I watched. He pointed and I sat, my ass instantly sliding a few inches down hill, my skirt riding up. Clever man. He smiled. I smiled. I even pulled my skirt higher for emphasis.

His plan? Besides checking out my legs and sitting practically on top of me? Water bottles, an arm tight around me, our backs into the hill, wind moving the trees, and shadows flowing across our bodies. I rested my head on his shoulder and played with my skirts. He watched. I kissed his neck. Finally I settled in against him, my hands on his chest. Now what? Sex on a hillside? I waited.

"There are at least three agendas for your trip to Africa. Probably many more. You know mine. You are already president of our North American division. You take this contract in Namibia and show you can handle yet another continent. The family is impressed. Excuse me. Even more impressed, and your move to CEO goes smoothly."

"I don't want to have this fight again." I sat up and leaned over him, my hand now pressing down on his chest. "You said we are partners. That's our agreement. You do your part. I do my part. Eventually our kids and grandkids finish the job. You run the company, and I drill wells. That's what we do for at least the next decade or two."

Here's where words matter, and so does every muscle on a face. Any twist of his mouth, any touch of a smile, any tick that would show disparagement or an attempt at humor, and things would have gone bad fast. This was my man, my husband, my partner, and I needed him to take me seriously. Yes, he had his plans, but I had mine. He would run the company for many more years. I would help him do that. Yes, I might well take over eventually, but "eventually" was not two years or even five years. "Eventually" was a time we would prepare for years from now.

He looked at me, took the hand on his chest, and slowly slid it to one side as he placed his other hand on the back of my head and slowly pulled me down onto his chest.

"I don't want this fight either. We are partners. We will do what needs to be done when it needs to be done – together."

"Good. Now. One hand goes across my back, and the other goes across my ass. The one on my ass better start pulling up or I am going to slide right off you." There was a lot of shuffling around for the next couple minutes, but his hands went to all the right places, the one on my ass sliding up under my skirt as he pulled me up to him. I knew wearing a dirndl was the right idea.

"Okay agenda one – mine – is under advisement. The other agendas are mysteries, but we can make some initial guesses."

"We have a contract, right?"

"Yes, but why do we have a contract? People drill wells in Africa all the time. They don't need us. Then there is the World Bank. They not only insisted our company be involved in this project, they specifically mentioned you. They talked about your work in Wisconsin, but what does that have to do with drilling in the Kalahari? They want you. We don't know why."

"Did you just insult me?"

"Sorry." The hand he had on my ass did some apologizing for him.

"So, we don't know what their agenda is. What is our agenda? There's not much money in this. Why are we doing it? And please don't tell me about helping me climb the corporate ladder."

"Our South African sales rep thinks this might help open some markets for our juice products."

"That's it?"

"That's what I am telling our board. And it might be true. Why are we really doing it? Southern Africa is drying up. Maybe they can find water on their own. But maybe we can help. Maybe we will learn a few things that will help us in other places."

"That's a lot of maybes."

"You can still say 'no.'"

"My kids would never forgive me. Mom had a chance to go to Africa and turned it down. I can just hear it."

"You have smart girls. They would be happy you avoided the risk."

"I checked a dozen websites yesterday. It's safe. There's even a Youtube video of a mother traveling through Africa with three young daughters. She smiles through country after country. I don't think I'd smile that much if I was just taking my girls to Chicago and back."

"The tourist areas in Africa are fine. I did Tanzania and Kenya on a school trip. No problems. But you will be in a desert. There's a risk."

Not the best way to end a conversation, but what more was there to say? I slid my face up to his neck and kissed him while he pulled my ass up. We might have to try this side-hill groping again. I ended up with my arms around his neck, and my knees on each side of him. He grabbed my ass with both hands, working wonders against gravity. The trees swayed, the breezes blew, the shadows danced over us. And yes, my skirts slid around, helped by the breezes, but also helped by my legs. Hillside, aspen, dirndls, husband. Good combination.

Chapter 5

Sunday in the World's Largest Cathedral

Is the Bern Cathedral really the world's largest? Maybe. It certainly is plenty big. It is also where we spent every Sunday morning. Emil was Catholic. I guess now I was too. Mostly I just did what he did. We walked in, touched the holy water, and went to our usual pew. I was wearing a darker blue cotton castle dress (as appropriate for cathedrals as for castles), a wide lace scarf across my head, and white gloves. It seemed to be much like what the other women wore, except my skirts were longer. We were joined by at least a dozen family members – quick greetings and hugs before we all sat. Catholic services are pretty short, some singing, some praying, a fabulous choir, words from the priest, and then we were all up on our feet, walking forward for communion. I held Emil's hand as we walked up the aisle, and even held it as I kneeled for the wafer. Not sure you were supposed to do that, but the priest didn't seem to mind.

Okay. That pretty well wrapped up the church part of the day. Now to lunch. Church for thirty minutes, lunch for three hours. There were many restaurants in the vicinity, and it felt like half the church headed for one or another. We always went to the large Italian restaurant (the one where Elias had first seduced me, but this was not something I ever told Emil). There were always fourteen to eighteen for lunch, and the restaurant always had a table ready for us. It was like a weekly family reunion.

This Sunday there were over two dozen of us. It's a big restaurant but still, we were a crowd. The restaurant had set us up to eat outside, which was lucky for us. They moved the rope edging along the sidewalk and added two more tables for us. And if there was less room to walk on the sidewalk? Well, people seemed to adjust fairly well.

Why the extra people? Me. I had gone through this during the weeks after our marriage. It was women – mostly women – second and third cousins who felt the need to sit, listen, and watch as they determined whether Emil had made a mistake. As family, it was their job to "protect" poor Emil from this American woman he had just met. That went on for a couple months, and then they seemed to drift off to some other meal spot.

This was a different group of women (two with husbands in tow). Some distant relatives, two women from work. They wanted to stand and talk with me about Africa. They had been one place or another and wanted to reassure me or warn me depending upon whatever had happened to them during their visit ten or fifteen years ago. I got long hugs while they told me not to worry, and longer hugs when they told me to be careful. The corporate attorney, Maya, held the record for longest hug. She was certain I was very brave. Also beautiful. "I always wanted to tell you how beautiful you are." What that had to do with Africa was a mystery, but at least she eventually let me go, and I was able to sit and eat.

I always feel sorry for waiters in this kind of affair. Back in my day I never served a table larger than eight, but I recall trying to respond to multiple, simultaneous requests. And try to keep all those orders straight when bringing out the food and writing up the bill. There were three men working on our group, and all three were working with iPads, but still, they looked pretty flustered.

Eventually we all got food. Maybe more importantly, we all got wine. By the second or third glass everyone seemed to calm a bit. And while at least a dozen conversations had been crowding each other before, eventually one voice at a time seemed to attract all the attention. Emil's aunt was the first to actually be listened to by all. She was ninety if she was a day, but she had been to Africa when the railroads were being built. And she had a story. She had seen a lion come after one of the porters when the train had stopped for water.

Okay, top that. Several tried. There was the visit to the Masai, and the evening dance, all bare feet and stomping on the ground, but one of the Masai women had given her a wooden and reed necklace she still had to this day. Next up, an elephant that charged and nearly ran over their car. Well, that must have been something. Someone else had taken a boat trip and a hippo had gotten really close.

You get the idea. One story after another, people outdoing each other in the amount of danger they survived or the number of native friends they had made. This was actually interesting for the first hour, but then somehow it got to – "and be sure to bring..." The next word was anything from drugs to clothing to weapons. Really. Weapons. There was a particular rifle that was especially important. Maybe I was to bring it along in my carry-on bag.

Even Sunday lunches do eventually end, and Emil and I stood for an endless series of hugs and best wishes (Maya was back for another long hug). Eventually Emil ran out of relatives and we drove back home.

After a long meal with lots of wine, what could be better than a nap? I got Emil out of his church suit. He got me out of my church dress, although he took a long time doing it. I had married a man with talented hands – and patience. I picked a particularly short silk nighty to nap in, which meant we didn't get much sleep at all. I was still wrapped tightly around him when the sun set.

We did eventually get out of bed. Emil even got mostly dressed. I just wrapped a silk robe around me. We almost never allowed groups to use the castle on Sundays. We had the place to ourselves. There was a platter of cheese and crackers left out for us in the dining room – our usual Sunday evening fare. We took it into the library and sat on the leather love seat, the platter balanced between our laps.

What did we walk about? Not Africa. We talked about our kids and grandkids. Our kids were successful, and our grandkids were brilliant, so we had plenty of stories to tell. We were still telling them long after the cheese was gone. I put the platter on the floor and leaned into Emil. He put his arm around me, his hand holding my upper arm in the perfect spot. I got my head on his shoulder, my hand on his thigh. And we just kept talking. Things the babies had done. Things we were confident they would do when they were older. We were certain there would be a Nobel Prize in the future. We were uncertain what field it might be in – there were so many possibilities.

Finally, certain of a proud future, we went upstairs and back to bed.

And that final Monday? I thought Emil was right about packing, so I didn't do much – a week's worth of underwear and three days of office clothes. I was packed in half an hour. The rest of the day began as they all do – German lesson from Johann, followed by a tour (retired Brits who had seen plenty of their own castles, thank you), followed by a ride to the office. It seemed everyone in the office had something to say. More hugs, more well wishes. You'd have thought I was going to Mars.

Once I finally got to my office I was all over Wikipedia (there's something worth a Nobel Prize). I wanted to know more about the World Bank, and I reread everything about Namibia. It looked like an interesting place.

About four Emil came for me. "I think we have worked long enough today." He took my hand, and out we went. (I still loved the look I would see on some faces as they saw this tough old guy walking through the office hand-in-hand with me.) Where were we going? Into the mountains. Gurten.

I don't know how you tally up the best places in Switzerland. There are just so many. The place is God's art gallery. But if you want a great place near Bern, I think Gurten wins. For one thing, you don't drive up there, you take a "funicular." It is basically a big pink bus that rides tracks up the side of the mountain. And once you get up there? All of Bern is below you, arranged across a huge valley.

And, if you get there at the right time – because you married a genius who is also unbelievably romantic – you get settled into Gertners, the restaurant for lovers, and you have a bottle of wine open, a glass in your hand, the man you love across from you, and you watch the lights come on across Bern. Fireflies at first, but soon the whole city, out your window. The man now holds your hand, tells you how much he loves you, and you try not to melt. Is this the same guy – the gray statue – that stood halfway across the castle and yelled at you? Yes. And doesn't it mean even more to be with him now?

My God I loved that man. We ate something, talked about something, watched the lights of the city, but mostly I just wanted to feel the touch of his hand, knowing that I would be touching a whole lot more when we got home. And, I could see from his smile, he was reading my mind.

Funny, when we got home, we didn't jump straight into bed, much as I wanted the feel of him in me. We stood kissing for a long time. Kissing and holding each other. My face on his neck, my arms around his waist. I thanked him, told him I loved him, and then told him all over again – maybe a dozen times, just above a whisper. He held me, his arms across my back. Eventually his hand slid down to my ass, and I knew it was time to get undressed.

My schedule said I should expect to be gone two months. I was confident I would remember the feel of him each of those sixty days.

Chapter 6

Okay, so why am I in Johannesburg?

You don't fly directly from Bern to Namibia. You fly Bern to Frankfurt to Johannesburg, then to Namibia. It was going to take me a while to get there. Longer, since the World Bank people wanted me to stop in Johannesburg for a few days. My first flight was fairly simple – Bern to Frankfurt, then sit for a couple hours before the Johannesburg flight.

My Bern flight was midafternoon, so I had the morning free. There were two tours scheduled, but I let Johann take them both. I stayed in bed. So did Emil. If you are thinking hot sex, you're wrong. I laid with my head on his chest. He stroked my hair. Sometimes he kissed the top of my head. Sometimes I put my hand between his legs and teased him a bit, but mostly I just lay there, feeling his chest rise and fall as he breathed.

Any final words? Not really. I am sure I told him I would miss him, and he said the same to me, but there is a time for quiet. You are with the one you love. You touch him, he holds you, that says more than words, doesn't it?

Eventually we got up and crowded together in that tiny shower. That might be another invention worthy of a Nobel – a shower that forces two people to be close. We went through a lot of hot water as I wrapped my arms around his neck and practically hung off my man.

Later, I did my usual trick, wearing nothing but a slip, leaning into him as I buttoned his shirt and tied his tie. I asked him to brush my hair. He pulled a few times, but it was worth it to have him stand close, his thighs against my back. He was still standing close, watching me, as I put on my makeup. His hands slid across the tops of my shoulders. This was all serious foreplay, for a time two months off. Interesting way to spend a morning.

Around noon I decided it was time to get fully dressed. I picked a fairly plain office dress, cotton, just over my knees, sheath cut with short sleeves and a scoop neck. I had a matching blazer. If the plane was cold, or Johannesburg was cold, or any place in the world was cold, I thought I was ready for it. Emil zipped up my dress and buttoned my blazer. I had the man's complete attention. How's that for a going away present?

I don't have much to say about the flights. The lines at the airport weren't bad. The company (Emil) had booked me into business class. I had room to stretch. The food was good. I probably had more wine than I should have on the flight south, but it was a twelve hour flight, and we bounced for some of it. I never got any sleep. Instead I watched Disney movies and drank wine. I wouldn't be seeing my grandbabies for at least two more months. When I saw them, I wanted to know what movies they had been watching and be able to talk about the main characters with them. So it wasn't twelve hours wasted.

It was six thirty in the morning when we landed in Johannesburg (apparently everyone calls it "Joburg"). It's the same time zone as Switzerland, so I didn't have jet lag, but I was sleep deprived and well, I guess I was also hung over. Not a great way to start my first day in Africa.

Things got worse. I was met at the airport by three people from the World Bank – two eager young men in their twenties, and a very tall woman about my age. The eager young men wanted to share their eagerness. I wanted a cup of coffee and a chance to see a lion, or at least an elephant.

Eagerness won out. They loaded me into a car and gave me a tour, the two men explaining every building we saw. I just looked up at the buildings and thought, what the hell, I'm still in Frankfurt. It's the same buildings, the same streets. How far down any of these side streets do you have to go to see a lion? I kept my mouth shut. So did the very tall lady. No problem – the two young men filled every possible silence.

It got worse. They pulled into an office complex, signed me through security, and took me up an elevator to their tenth floor offices. Standard office furniture and arrangement, smiling receptionist, large glass windows looking out at more glass office buildings. Really. I was in Frankfurt. Maybe Chicago. Into an office we went, projector all set up, PowerPoint slides ready to go, two eager young men now armed with a laser pointer and a slide deck that went on to infinity. I did get a cup of coffee. The price of the coffee? A forty or fifty hour lecture on the history of the World Bank ("rising from the ashes of the Second World War..." Really. They actually said that). Lunch was brought in (God forbid I get out of that conference room without hearing more history), and then I had an afternoon summarizing current World Bank projects (They were everywhere, and everything they touched improved lives).

I think I set the world's record for the number of times I nodded my head and pretended to smile. Did I have any questions? They so wished I had. Sorry. But thank you. Somehow it was four thirty and the eager young men went off to wherever eager young men go to celebrate another day of successfully educating the world.

I was left with the tall lady.

"What do you say we go get some dinner?" Since the question implied leaving the conference room, I stood and followed her. I would have followed her anywhere.

Where did we get to? We got to a parking structure, about a ten minute drive, another parking structure, a bit of security, then up an elevator to an apartment that looked across a grassy space enclosed by other apartment buildings. I was certain somehow I had gotten on the wrong plane and landed in Chicago. Chicago with men who talked forever.

"Jessica, have a seat." She pointed to a small couch out on her balcony. "I'll be back in a minute with a glass of wine and an apology."

I sat. It wasn't a couch, it was a glider. I love gliders. I had the thing swinging instantly. A glider in Africa? This really was Chicago.

"Jeb and Daniel were hired in June. Both out of really good graduate programs. Both in the midst of their training. Their job for their first year is to do visitor orientations. The hope is if they do the orientation often enough, they will absorb it."

"I think their absorption is ahead of schedule."

"They don't get someone like you very often. They were quoting your movie lines yesterday."

"Thirty eight seconds. I was just rehearsing the girls while the lighting and sound people got things in place."

"The director knew what she was doing. You had the look. The words sounded perfect coming from you. And the way that girl looks at you..."

"She was the real actor on that set."

"Maybe." She handed me a glass of red wine. I sipped. Not bad. "It's called Pinotage. South African. From the area around Cape Town."

"So I'm actually in Africa?"

"Afraid so. Not a lot of grass huts left. People pretty much all live in concrete boxes – bigger concrete boxes if you are well off, small concrete boxes if you aren't. When they get you out to the Kalahari you will see a few wild animals. Until then, it is cityscapes all the way."

"And when do I get to the Kalahari?"

"It will be about another week. I need a couple days with you here, and then we will need a few days in Windhoek."

"And while I'm here?"

"I will try to be less boring than the boys, but I do have lots to tell you. But. While I make dinner, why not take a shower. I have you in the second bedroom. Relax, change. I'm a fairly good cook. Give me an hour."

And that's what I did. Does a shower make up for missing a night's sleep? No, but it helped. I even stretched out on the bed for a little while before putting on one of my office dresses and going back out on the balcony. No blazer. No shoes. I felt far more relaxed.

Elsa was working in what was essentially a galley kitchen – a long row of appliances and cabinets separated from the main room by a breakfast bar. There was a very small table set for two. I guessed most nights it was set for one. The whole apartment had the feel of an efficiency. Even with two bedrooms, it seemed the kind of place younger people might rent when they first moved into town. And that might be her situation. How long did the World Bank keep employees in one town or another?

As for Elsa, this would be a good time for a description. I said she was tall. She was actually very tall, and very blond. If she wasn't six feet, she wasn't off it by much. Her hair was almost white, and ran past her shoulders with nice waves. She obviously took good care of it. And she was beautiful – model beautiful. Her dress size was probably a two, certainly no more than four. She could walk any runway. She had the carriage for it. She might be pushing forty, with laugh lines around her eyes, but her posture said she was strong, confident, and had found her place in the world. She hadn't told me her job title, but it was clear she was running this show.

She had to know I was standing behind her watching, but she stood and let me watch before slowly turning and looking at me.

"Feel better?" Nice smile, beautiful turn of her hips. She had changed into a white, sleeveless dress with a slightly flared skirt. The skirt rotated around her as she turned.

"Yes, thank you. And thank you for putting me up at your apartment."

"It is actually the Bank's apartment, mine to use until I rotate out. I can take you to a hotel if you prefer, but I thought this would be more convenient."

"My room is fine."

"Good. Take a seat, I am just about done here."

I sat at the small table and watched her finish grilling some fish. She added some final seasoning, then put them on top of a mixed salad. I happened to notice she was wearing two inch heels. She also had a string of pearls around her neck. Maybe I should have left my shoes on.

Sitting oppose her was a chore. Her back was straight, her shoulders and neck perfect, her head held high and always looking towards me with a smile. If you looked in a dictionary for "poised," it would have a picture of her sitting at that table conversing with me. I think I have fairly good posture, but I have to pay attention to it. She seemed a natural at it. Effortless.

Yet I found I liked her. If we were both competing for a man, well, I would have lost, and I would not have been happy about it, but maybe because she was so beautiful, and so poised, I just accepted it. And she seemed like a nice person. She wasn't trying to make me feel like a bumpkin. Her smile seemed real. But I was careful to sit straight and take small bites.

What did we talk about? The World Bank. Well, she talked, and I listened. But there were no PowerPoint slides, and this was not the official history. She talked about top management changes, fights for control between various countries (the U.S. always seemed to be in the fight), and changes in direction over the years - fewer huge projects, more smaller projects like mine. And then there was China. An alternative lender. Fewer restrictions, less concern if some of the money went into Swiss bank accounts, a source that would say "yes," when the Bank said "no."

All this was very interesting (it really was), but my back was really talking to me. When had I sat this straight this long? I so wanted to lean back into my chair. Finally we finished our meal, she put our plates in the sink, poured us each a glass of wine, and suggested we sit back out on the glider. I didn't quite run, but it only took seconds before I was out on the balcony, my back firmly against the cushions on the glider.

The sun had set. It was beginning to cool, but still comfortable. I could hear conversations from the balconies below us and to the side. Across the grassed area there were people on those balconies too. Apparently this is what you did in the evening. I was fine with that. I love gliders. Elsa joined me, and we got the glider rocking at a comfortable pace.

I guess it was my turn to talk.

"Elsa, I appreciate the chance to come down here, even if I never see a lion. But the truth is, I don't know why I am here. There have to be dozens of well drillers here."

"There are, Jessica. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Africa has no shortage of talented people." At this point she took my hand, and turned to look at me. I looked back, wondering what I had said. "Lots of people come to Africa, Jessica. For lots of reasons. There are still clowns who want to take a head back to their den. And some are tourists, and some come to make money. And there are white saviors -- generally nice people who think they can do things Africans can't. I didn't think you would be one of those. I am really pleased to hear I am right."

"Elsa, you don't know me, but I am no one's savior. I am just a bartender who fell in with the right kind of people."

"May I kiss you?" Huh? This conversation had certainly gone off in a strange direction. But I nodded. She put down her wine glass, raised her hand to my cheek, and kissed me on the lips. It was a short kiss, not much more than a peck, but she followed it with a big smile.

"Jessica, you are here because you are exactly the person we need." I had no idea what to say to that, so I said nothing. Elsa turned back the way she had been, and we went back to rocking. Eventually the air cooled, we finished our wine, and we went in to bed. I was probably only in my bed five minutes before I dropped off to sleep, but I spent those five minutes wondering what I would be doing that would be exactly right. Obviously a good question to ask after I had had a good night's sleep.

Chapter 7

The Gods Must be Crazy

It was after eight when I finally rolled out of bed. Did I feel better? Yes. Did I feel like I could run a marathon? No, but then I never did. I did feel like I could handle another day in Joburg, even if that meant another day of PowerPoint torture.

I was still in my nightgown when I walked into the main room and sat at the breakfast bar. Elsa put a mug of coffee in front of me. She was also still in her nightgown. Fairly short. Wow, did she have skinny legs. She walked around behind me to pull a couple tangles from my hair.

"You look rested."

"I feel better. Thanks. What's on tap for today?"

"I thought we would go shopping." She watched me react and couldn't help laughing. "We can do some more PowerPoint slides if you like ..."

"Shopping will be just fine."

"Yes, I noticed you didn't bring much."

"My husband's suggestion. He thought I would be better off getting the things I needed here."

"He was right."

It took us over an hour to finish breakfast and get dressed. She wore some makeup, I didn't. She wore heels, I hadn't brought any. We both wore fairly simple dresses. You can guess who looked better. Oh well.

We spent the day in the shops. More driving through areas that looked like any in the U.S. or Europe (at least the modern parts of Europe), stops at a large mall and several specialty shops. Lunch at TGIFridays. You couldn't get a decent cheeseburger in Switzerland for love or money. I had a great burger in Africa.

What did I end up buying? Work clothes. Fairly heavy cotton twill, long pants, long sleeved shirts, ten each, plus a hat with a wide brim. I would be wearing protection from the sun, and protection from all the grasses and thorns we would be walking through. I would be hot. How hot? September south of the equator is the start of spring. If we could get the project done in two months, it would be done in mid-November. Summer, but not summer at its worst. (I could hope.) Oh, and I got hiking boots.

Last stop, a nicer women's store. There would be at least one reception in Windhoek (the capital of Namibia). I should have something nicer. Not showy. Women showed less skin in Africa. Elsa helped me pick out two gowns that she thought would work. She also bought one for herself. I guess she would be at the reception too. Good.

Back at the apartment, Elsa worked on a pasta dish for dinner. I had bought two sturdy suitcases and tried to pack my new wardrobe. We had dinner at the little table again. Candles this time. Elsa still in heels. I at least kept my shoes on. I think I was better at keeping my back straight.

I thought we would sit on the glider after dinner. In fact I hoped we would. There was a nice breeze coming through the open windows. I could see rocking with a glass of wine. Talk about the perfect ending to a day...

But, she not only wanted to stay in, she wanted to sit in front of her TV. Yuck. She did make some popcorn, but still, TV? She had a love seat facing the tube. I sat, she put in a DVD, then she sat, pulling a blanket over our legs, a bowl of popcorn riding our thighs.

And that's when I saw The Gods Must be Crazy.

How can I explain this movie? South African production and stars. A bushman is walking across the Kalahari when he sees a coke bottle. He has never seen one before. He thinks it might be useful to pound things, but people in his tribe start hurting each other with it, so he decides the Gods made a mistake sending him the Coke bottle. He will walk to the end of the earth and throw it back to them. Meanwhile, there are a bunch of white people in the film, all doing odd stuff. It's meant to be a comedy, and once you get past their South African accent, it is pretty funny.

Elsa has one hand under the blanket, holding my hand. The other hand is working the remote like crazy. She is either waving it as she emphasizes a point, or she stops the movie entirely to freeze something she wants me to see.

"Okay, this part if actually true." We are maybe forty five seconds into the film. "It does rain there, and there is some vegetation. This is not a sand desert. There is grass, shrubs, lots of thorns, and even some trees. You may or may not see lions, but you will see plenty of other wild animals. If you like giraffes, this is your place. For the spring – the time you will be there – the place looks like a grassy plain. Briefly. Then the water dries up and doesn't come again for a year."

"So, we are putting in wells to see if the water is evaporating or settling into an aquifer that might be tapped."

"Sort of. Let me come back to that." She hits the remote and we see more of the movie. Enter the bushman. "This guy is a real bushman. You will see many in the desert. You may even meet him. If you like, you can visit his house. It is a concrete block ranch house, two bedrooms, one bath, just two blocks from the town general store – a store that sells Coke by the case."

"So the story is fiction."

"The story is an endless series of lies. In the middle of the desert is a town with a school, and a gas station, a general store, and a row of houses like any you might see in rural America. The bushmen – they prefer "san" – are hardly ignorant."

"Okay." I guess I had to say that to get her to show more of the film. Eventually she did. Or at least she showed segments of it. Turns out, Elsa can get really angry. She had lots to say about a white woman who was an office clerk one day and a teacher the next ("See? Any white woman can teach any Black kids, no training necessary. After all, she is white."). Not sure why she is yelling at her TV. She is the one who put the movie in.

I'm not sure how long the movie really is, but it took us well over two hours to watch it in fits and starts. Finally it ended.

"I wanted to show you that film. I thought it might help you prepare for your project."

"I think I learned two things. I now know what the Kalahari looks like. That will be helpful. And I learned that watching a movie with you can be an adventure."

I wasn't sure how she was going to take that. There was silence for a moment. She turned, she looked at me, and then she kissed me. This time she held the kiss, her hand on my cheek and then sliding to the back of my head to hold me. I, well, I can't say I pushed her away. I still had one hand under the covers, holding her hand. The other hand had been in the popcorn bowl. I was pretty sure it had salt and some butter on it. Probably not a good idea to reach up and touch her.

So we kissed. We talked more about the movie. She had lots more to say. I listened. I looked at her. I liked what I saw. She was beautiful, but she had a heart. There was depth to her. We sat together for another hour. Then there was this uncomfortable moment. What would come next? Initially, not much. We said "Good night" and each went to our rooms.

I got ready for bed, mostly working on getting the salt and butter off my hands. I put on my nightgown, and then sat on the edge of my bed. I listened as she moved around her room. Next steps? I waited. I thought I might go into her room. As it turned out, she came into mine.

"Is this okay?" She asked. She was wearing a white satin nightgown that flowed over her hips and down to her ankles. She looked so much better in hers than I did in mine. And she had combed her white blond hair back over her shoulders so it framed her face. She was stunning. I think I was supposed to say something, but I had no words.

I pulled down the covers and slid into bed. She climbed in after me. We lay facing each other for a few moments, then she slid over me, her hands on each side of my face, her hips on mine. My hands slid down to her ass and held her on me.

"My boyfriend liked me to be on top."

"Your boyfriend was probably grateful to be in the same room with you." That earned me a kiss. My hands liked where they were. For a skinny girl, she had a great ass. Elsa started moving her hair around. She combed it out with her fingers so it hung on each side of her head, and down alongside mine. Her face was just above mine. We kissed, she held my head, I held her ass. It was dark in the room, and dark within the layers of her hair, but somehow I could still see the blue of her eyes. I slid one of my hands up her back and pulled her to me. Holding her felt heavenly.

"When I put my hair like this, we called it our truth tunnel. It was just him and me. And we told each other the truth."

"I assume what he told you is you are remarkably beautiful, and holding you is his greatest joy."

"He did say nice things." She held her face over mine. Her lips hovered over mine. "You and Emil. Can I ask? He looks old."

"He's fifty seven. Next month he turns fifty eight. And if you are wondering, he can still drive me crazy."

"You are ..."

"Forty four. So yes, there is a gap in our ages. But I don't think it matters. And, I have been faithful to him. At least until now." She moved her legs so both were between mine, and I wrapped my legs around hers. Her face didn't move. It stayed just above mine, her hair still isolating us. Her fingers were deep into my hair, holding my head. I stared up into those blue eyes and just started talking.

"Let me tell you about Emil. If this our truth tunnel, this is the truth. First, he is a grouch. The man has zero patience. He has been that way all his life. His first wife was his lab partner in college. Some science course he hated. He was writing up a lab report and breaking pencils over it. She took his hand, and he calmed down. He proposed right then and there. Four years later, they were married. I have a trick I use on him. We have people at the castle constantly, a few of whom he likes, but most of whom he barely tolerates. As we are walking into a room full of these people, I watch his neck. He has a vein that begins to rise if he is getting irritated. I take his hand, and run my fingers down his palm. No more vein, no more problems."

"And he is good with you?"

"Always. Second thing you should know about him. He really does care about the world. He is scared to death we are poisoning and wasting water we will be desperate for very soon. He sent me down here. But if I had said 'no,' he would have come himself."

"So, a good man."

"A marvel." I slid my hand to the back of her head and kissed her. "Now your turn. A man?"

"My father was an ambassador for Sweden. When I was young, we lived all over the world. Three years here, three years there. International schools. New languages with every move. Then my mother died. Indonesia. She got sick and died quickly. My father took me back to Sweden to live with an aunt. I have two brothers, but they are much older than me. I see them once every year or two, them and my father, at a family gathering – usually a funeral.

"But then I met a boy. A party. Too much drinking, too much loud music, too much rude behavior. He seemed like the only serious person at the party. We talked, we left the party, we mated. Really. That is the best word – 'mated.' I was alone in the world, and suddenly there was this boy who was everything for me.

"He went to college. I chose the same school. He picked a major. I picked the same one. He went to graduate school in Paris. So did I. We lived together. We were together always. He was the one who wanted the World Bank. We both applied. The application process takes forever. He was accepted first. First assignment – micro-lending in Guatemala. He was there less than a year when the hoods came for him. The cops not only didn't protect him, they fired most of the bullets."

I hugged her. She cried on my shoulder. I stroked her hair. Eventually we both fell asleep.

Chapter 8

Why am I Here?

In the morning she was still lying on me. I held her all night. When she woke, she raised her head above mine again, and did put her hair as she had before. There was more light coming through the windows now, but still we were shadowed by her hair. She moved her hands around my head again. She wanted to hold me while she talked. There was more? I looked up at her and waited.

"You asked me why I wanted you on this project. There are multiple reasons. First, you know, and I know that water is going to be more valuable than oil. There will be water projects all over the world, and the bank will be involved in many of them. We could use you. If this project goes well, the first thing I will do is offer you a job at the bank."

I started to give the obvious answer, but she put two fingers over my lips.

"You can give me two or three reasons to say 'no,' and I can give you a dozen to say 'yes.' But let's save that fight for another day. Let me move on to the other reason you are here." She paused and slid herself farther up me. Her hands were in my hair, stroking my hair but also holding my head where she wanted it. Whatever she was going to tell me, she wanted to be all over me when she said it.

"I have spent all night telling you about me. Now let me tell you about you." A pause for me to process that. "I have been watching for a water expert. It turns out there are quite a few. I read their research papers. I even went to one of their conferences. I had lunch with a few and almost hired one. Then I tried YouTube. I thought this would be a great place to see demos of drilling. You were one of the videos. Naturale did it and posted it. I don't know if you have seen it. You are standing near the shell of a new water plant, talking to a contractor, obviously giving orders for how you want some piping brought into the building. And then there are shots of you in existing plants, talking to workers, and even repairing one of those bottle making machines. The whole point is to establish you as an expert in the industry, and it does that well."

"Emil's idea. He..." Okay, fingers on my lips again. I guess she would sing her song uninterrupted.

"Nice video. But mostly a company promo. I wanted to know more about you. So I found other videos. The movie studio has your final scene – you telling the girl about Narcissa Whitman. And they have you doing some catering for another film. Interesting combination of talents – the lady can fix a machine but also act." I had a lot to say about that, but I kept my mouth shut.

"Then I find videos done by your hotel chain. You owned a hotel chain. They have you reviewing renovations, greeting customers, dancing in one of your resorts. You really dance well, by the way. Lots of energy and not a bad sense of rhythm."

"All of this is interesting, and obviously impressive, but there is one more video. It is under two minutes and is obviously done by an amateur. The camera shakes, and the lighting is poor. I'm guess it was just done on someone's phone. But it's you. Maybe five or six years ago – before you were rich or famous. You are wearing a pink dress, even a pink hair ribbon, heels and a winter coat. Strange outfit, and obviously not enough to keep you warm. You are standing out near a street, and there is a pile of snow you can just see behind you. It bet you froze your ass off. You are holding a sign. You want people to be nice to each other. Seems simple, but it is clear from the expression on your face, you are not sure they will be. But you hold up your sign, point it out toward the street, and, well, you look out at that street, and what I see on your face is hope. You are cold, uncertain, very uncomfortable, but there you are – hoping."

"And that's why I hired you. Hope. I think I still have some, but not nearly as much as I need. I hope we can make the Kalahari project work, but whenever this thing is over, what I want to do is look over at you and see hope. Do that for me, and I don't care if all ninety wells come up dry. Leave me feeling hope – and maybe sharing some love."

She took her fingers off my lips, but I didn't have anything to say. I reached up, took the back of her head, and pulled it to me. We kissed, and then I wrapped both my arms around her and held her as tightly as I could. She put her head on my shoulder and slowly fell asleep again. She felt like a child in my arms.

Chapter 9

Crossing South Africa

We did eventually get out of bed. But we never dressed. And we didn't have much left to say. We wandered barefoot in our nightgowns, making meals in the kitchen, doing some packing for the trip, sometimes just walking up to each other and hugging. I don't know how many times we just stood together with our arms around each other. Lots, I guess. We went back to bed a couple times, and snuggled a bit. Eventually I figured a way to hold her and still avoid her boney knees, and that's how we napped, me on my back, holding her to me, her with her head on my shoulder.

Towards evening we watched that silly movie again. Elsa didn't interrupt (I was holding the remote), and we even laughed in a few places. No popcorn this time, but a blanket over us, our hands together under the blanket. We spent the night in my bed again. She laid on top of me again. I wondered if it was her way of making sure she had me. I worried about her. She was one of the most beautiful women in the world, and talented and educated. She could do so much better than me.

The next morning we loaded her car and headed west. Elsa did the driving. All of it. South Africans drive on the wrong side of the road. Cars have their steering wheels on the wrong side. Even the gear shift is wrong, so you have to shift with your left hand. I wanted no part of that. Elsa seemed fine with it. I guess if you travel the world as much as she has, you get to lots of former British colonies.

I stared out the windows looking for Africa. Now that we were out of town, there had to be herds of elephants someplace. But what I saw for hour after hour was farm fields. We were on a two lane highway driving through farms. It felt like northern Illinois – pretty flat, very open, some trees around farm houses, but otherwise, just one field after another. No lions, tigers, or elephants.

"How long before we get to Africa?" I guess I was complaining.

"You'll have your fill in the Kalahari. Here it is all farms. They grow the same crops here you would find in your Wisconsin. But I think the farms here are bigger. And they are all white owned."

"It feels like Illinois."

"They think it feels like Texas."

"What?"

"A bit of cultural history." She looked over at me to see if I was interested. I nodded, although I didn't think she needed much encouragement. "TV came to South Africa in the later 60s. Government owned and controlled. They did some local shows, but mostly they imported shows from the US – shows that were carefully selected. The biggest import? 'Dallas.'"

"I think I saw some reruns. Cattle ranch, some oil, some guy with a big hat?"

"That's the one. JR always working on some deal. Family squabbles, big business deals, women looking really good on horses or at the club. Folks here ate it up. For three years nobody scheduled any evening events on Tuesday. No one would come. They were all home watching Dallas."

"Why?"

"They thought it was a show about them. They had big farms and ranches, big families, horses and clubs. Country music is incredibly popular here. They were all Texans. Big, proud, successful. Life was good."

"And if you weren't white?"

"They call this part of South Africa 'the Deep North', like your American Deep South. Pretty tough place to be Black. Couldn't vote, limited in where they could live, restricted education – no math allowed past addition and subtraction – your servants needed to be able to check for correct change if you sent them to the store."

"Apartheid rules."

"Apartheid rules that these folks invented and supported until the very end. But. Here's where my story matters. They didn't see themselves as racists. They were Texans, out working hard and growing crops, feeding their families, and employing the rest. Were they nasty racists? Yes. Were they also successful farmers doing the best they could? Yes. Both definitions are true. But one was held by outsiders, and one was held by them. There were ten thousand men here who walked their fields certain they were JR."

"Is that what I'll find in Namibia too?"

"Namibia gets more complicated."

And that's where we left it. Our windows were open and the wind blowing through didn't make conversation all that easy. And I wanted to look. Farms, ranches, huge fields being plowed. September. Their spring time.

We stopped for lunch in a small farm town. The café might have been in rural Wisconsin. There were Black people on the street, but only white people in the café. Farmers dressed in the same bib overalls worn in the US. Huge men. Fairly hefty women. They stared at us when we walked in, but paid us no attention after that. We ordered sandwiches, drank lemonade, and were back on the road.

Farther west the land seemed to be higher and drier. There was a major irrigation canal we could see along the north side of the road. More farms. More fields. Fewer trees.

How many hours can you sit in a car before you tire of it? Even in a new country, driving down a road for the first time, I was plenty ready to stop by five. Five thirty we got to Upington, a town of maybe a thousand, a town with two hotels and several restaurants. Our home for the night.

I decided I liked Upington the minute we got out of the car. Why? Initially because we were out of the car. It felt so good to stand and stretch. But also, the place had an interesting feel to it. The two hotels were hotels – not highway hugging motels. They were nothing fancy, but they had some character. Yes, they reminded me of several I had owned. We took the one with more wood – more wood on the front entrance, more wood paneling in the lobby, more wood on the stairways going up to the second and third floors.

Our room was on the third floor, two beds that nearly filled the room, a bathroom that looked clean enough. We dropped our bags and went straight to the restaurant we had seen across the street.

Small town restaurants. I had seen this in the one where I waitressed, and I saw it in every other little restaurant in rural Wisconsin. We walked in, and every person in the place turned to look. Forty heads suddenly staring. Why? It's a small town. This is the local restaurant. Everyone eats here. So, anyone walking in might be a friend or neighbor. So, you look up and greet them if you know them. And if you don't know them, you go back to your food. If you are the stranger in town, it can be scary or annoying, but you just smile, find your table, and sit. We sat.

Anything special about the restaurant? Well, two things. It was old (the floor was scared from thousands of feet), and we were pretty much the only people speaking English. All the other customers were speaking Afrikaans. Interesting language. I thought I heard some German in it here and there. Elsa said she didn't understand it either (here's a first – a language Elsa doesn't know!). But the menu was in both English and Afrikaans, and the waitress understood us, so we were able to get a couple glasses of very good wine and a steak that was three times the size either of us could eat. Small town restaurants.

But let me move on. Our last night together. We were barely back up in our room when Elsa explained we would have separate rooms in our Windhoek hotel. I was holding her to me as she explained African mores. Same sex relations could get you jailed or beaten, and they certainly would get you ostracized.

So, maybe you are thinking, last night, I bet you two went crazy 'til dawn. No. It seemed like we suddenly moved into slow motion. We undressed each other, but you have never seen zippers come down more slowly. We stayed in each other's arms, and kissed, I have no idea how many times, but those kisses were also long and slow. She let me brush her hair. I just laughed when she asked to brush my mop, but she did it anyway. I loved the feel of her hand on the top of my head.

Eventually we got into nightgowns and cuddled in my bed. We were lying face to face, my arm under her neck, and up against her back, my other hand slowly stroking her hair before taking the back of her head and holding it for my kisses. She had one hand on my breast, the other on my ass.

"Jessica, I have never been with a woman before."

"We are much softer than men." She laughed, then pulled me tight against her.

"What I mean is, if there is something I should be doing, please tell me."

"There are lots of things we could be doing. But mostly it just feels good to have someone to hold, someone to kiss, someone soft to run your fingers over."

And that's where we left it. Eventually she rolled over, and we went into the spoons position, her ass tight against my hips. The arm that was under her neck, I now brought up across her beasts. Maybe what I remember most from that night is the feel of her hair on my face as I leaned in to her to kiss her neck. I pulled her tight against me, and held her that way as we slept.

Chapter 10

The Road to Windhoek

No, I won't describe our shower the next morning, but it left us both smiling. We dressed and then ran across the street to the restaurant like a couple girls. Eggs, toast, coffee, a quick check out at the hotel, and we were back on the road.

We got to Namibia about an hour later. Interesting border post. We both had to get out of the car and have our passports stamped, but there was hardly anyone there, so we were back on the road in minutes. There was a sign telling us we were now in Namibia, but we didn't need a sign to tell us we were in a different country. Fields and farms were gone. What I saw now was rocks, scrub brush, patches of grass. We had left Illinois (or Texas) and were now driving through Arizona or Nevada.

Wikipedia had warned me. Along the coast (invitingly named the "Skeleton Coast") were miles of huge sand dunes – the Namib Desert. The few tourists who ventured there were invited to take toboggan rides down the dunes. The site didn't explain why. The eastern half of the country was the Kalahari, a desert without dunes and toboggan rides. People lived along the mountain plateau in the middle. Two million folks in a country larger than California and Nevada. Driving up and down hills and staring at rocks, I wondered where they were hiding.

About midmorning I pretty much had seen all the rocks I cared to see. What else was there to do? Talk.

"Now might be a good time to tell me why I am here."

Elsa made me wait (there was no traffic, she was just building suspense. I can't blame her. It's not like we were rushed for time.)

"Mind some history? It does matter."

"I know some." Don't mess with me. I can access Wikipedia. "Germans arrived in the 1880s, declared the country theirs, took the best land for themselves and killed off one of the tribes that objected. The first German genocide. The Brits kicked their ass in World War One, took the country and made it a colony of South Africa. I guess that's why we are driving on the wrong side of the road. The country gets its independence – I forget – 1990? No more apartheid. Everyone votes, which means it is now Black ruled. So. Tell me how that history impacts water wells."

"You're focusing on the wrong people. You left out the Ovambos. They lived in the northern part of the country and outlasted the Germans. They are the ones who fought the South African whites during apartheid, and they are the ones who dominate politics today. They make up half of Namibia's population. No other ethnic group is as big – not even close. But there are lots of other groups. There are lots of Germans and plenty of white South Africans who stayed on, descendants of the Hereros the German didn't massacre, the San, and others. The Ovambos run the country, but they don't dominate it."

"So I'll be working for the Ovambos."

"You'll be working for the government, a government that carefully includes people from almost every ethnic group."

"Sounds good."

"It's not bad. But let me tell you a story." She pauses. Does she really need my approval to continue? What am I going to do, sit and count rocks? So, okay.

"Sure. Tell me a story."

"I love the enthusiasm." Another pause. I need to talk to her about her storytelling techniques. "Here goes. A year or so ago, I fly up to Windhoek to check on a couple projects. Lunch time comes and one of the guys I am meeting with says, 'Want to join me at a Rotary meeting?' Why not? Good chance to meet some business owners. So we drive over to this restaurant where they meet. And they won't let me in. I'm a girl. No girls allowed. My friend says two magic words – World Bank – and now I can come in. There are maybe forty of these guys, mostly middle aged, and they are all drinking. Mostly beer, but there is some liquor too. I work the room, shaking hands and asking about business. Conversations are pleasant enough. And it is an interesting group – some Germans (like sixth or seventh generation?), some whites up from South Africa when it was whites who owned all the banks, and some Blacks, most of whom seemed to work for the government.

"Fine. We talk, I nurse a beer (Namibian beer, by the way, is the best beer you will find south of Munich), and eventually lunch is served. And here is where it gets interesting. I see all the Germans go to two tables, the South Africans to their own tables, and the Black government guys to a large table to one side."

"Where did you sit?"

"I sat with the guy who brought me - a government guy, so we sat at the large table for Blacks."

"Interesting. But help me make the connection to water wells."

"If you are a pessimist, you look at that lunch and say – these guys are just pretending to be part of the same group – the same country. In truth, they won't eat at the same tables. They hate each other. If you are an optimist, you say, it wasn't very long ago that these men were shooting at each other. At least now they are in the same room."

"And if you are a well driller?"

"You say, things seem fine on the surface, but conflict is just out of sight. You say, maybe, when an Ovambo government gives a major contract to an Ovambo driller, some might wonder about the contract. And, since the Ovambos has found lots of water in the northern part of the country, where most of them live, they might not even be all that interested in finding water where other groups live.

"So..." I think I can finish this. "You spend a few hundred thousand dollars on an outsider to 'participate' in the project, when what she is really doing is giving credence to the results."

"Especially since you will be drilling in a desert. It is very unlikely you will find water. But when and if you come back empty, it would not be good for people to wonder if a real attempt was made."

"So I am quality control."

"You are a fabulous investment. For $314,000 this country avoids an ugly political situation. Don't you wish you could solve some of the problems in the U.S. for that kind of money?"

"And the genius who came up with this plan – you?"

"Me and a couple people you will meet tonight."

End of conversation. We came up behind a row of semis climbing one hill after another. Elsa needed to drive. I needed to think about the project. I hadn't given the politics of this project any thought at all. I'm not sure I wanted to. Keep it simple. Go out, drill 90 holes, come back. That's what I thought I was getting into. Fingers crossed. Maybe it would still go that way.

By the way, the drive north never got any better. I did see a warthog alongside the road digging through a rest area waste basket. So I got one view of wild life. But no elephants yet. Just rocks and hills as we drove higher into the Namibian plateau. Windhoek was at 5000 feet elevation, so we had climbing to do. It took all day. We stopped for gas at a tiny station, bought several bottles of water, and just kept driving. Why not? It wasn't like there were interesting places to stop along the way. So we drove. It was late afternoon by the time we made Windhoek.

Chapter 11

We are received

I liked Windhoek. It is situated along some rolling hills. I would guess at a population of a couple hundred thousand. The streets were wide and generally clean. Houses were one and two story, generally white painted cement. Maybe the best thing for a person like me who often (almost always) gets lost in large cities, there was a wide avenue that ran north to south through the entire town – formerly Kaiser Strasse, now Independence Avenue. It had shops, restaurants, hotels, and government buildings for block after block. As Elsa drove, I relaxed. If I ever got confused about where I was, I just needed to find Independence Avenue.

It got better. Our hotel – the Kalahari Sands – was on the avenue. How could I get lost? I would never leave the avenue! Elsa parked out front. While a man came to take our bags, I stood by the car, grateful to stand and stretch, but also grateful to look at the city. No, elephants did not walk up Independence Avenue, and the shops, hotels, and restaurants looked pretty much like those in any other city, but I was now in my second African city. Not bad for a girl from Amberg.

Inside the hotel we were met by Theo Van der Walt – the salesman for our company who had arranged the contract for this adventure (and would collect twenty percent of our fee). I had never met him, but Elsa had. He was a white, South African. Tall, older, big smile, lots of energy. It was like he was balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to move in any direction. We both got hugs and lots of words. He was glad to see us, he hoped the drive had been pleasant, the reception had been moved to a larger room because of all the interest.

Reception? Elsa turned to me. "I thought it would be good for you to meet a few of the people from the Agriculture Ministry this evening." Hmm. And you were going to tell me this when? But before I could begin my complaint, Theo had more to add.

"One of the senior ministers told someone he planned to bring his daughter to meet you. She had seen your movie."

"It's not my movie. I do the final scene. Thirty eight seconds."

"Yes." Theo just kept talking. "Girls talk. I am not sure you will get every eighth grade girl in Namibia, but I think there will be quite a few. So we moved to a larger room. Also, they would like to start at seven thirty rather than eight. Do you mind?"

There are some questions only men ask, because only men are that stupid. It was now after five. I had been in a car with open windows for nearly ten hours. My hair? Probably unsalvageable. My face? So dry it might crack and fall off in pieces. In two hours I had to come back down and not completely disappoint dozens of girls who had seen me sitting serenely in a gazebo atop a mountain, cameramen insuring that the lighting on my face was perfect.

What did I say? Not a damn thing. Elsa took over.

"We'll be ready." She grabbed my elbow and led me to the registration desk. Fortunately we were greeted by big smiles and forms all ready for our signatures. We would each have a suite on the tenth (top) floor. I signed the papers and made an effort to smile.

Electronic keys in hand, we followed the men with our luggage to the elevators and to our suites. Mine, by the way, was lovely. It had a view across Independence Avenue and to an old German fort sitting atop a hill. It would be another day before I would actually stand and look out the windows. Now I just opened my bag and stared. How much makeup had I brought with me?

Two minutes after the porter had left, Elsa was at my door. "Let me see if I can help."

And she worked on me for the next two hours. Shower first. I probably should have shampooed my hair twice to get all the dust out of it, but that would have dried it worse. Instead, she used conditioner on me three times. By the third time I could feel some improvement. I kissed her. "Later, my love." She was all business.

Back to my hair. I sat with a towel around me while she carefully dried my head with a towel, then combed slowly while using a bit of spray. It appeared maybe I wouldn't look too terrible. But my face? She started with moisturizer. Her fingers felt great, and I grabbed her ass. She left my hands there, but kept working on me. She seemed to spend forever on my eyebrows. Cheek bones also got a lot of attention. My eyes and lips she did quickly. I hoped not too quickly.

Finally ready for some clothes, I did have a nicer bra in my luggage, and there were the two cocktail dresses I had bought in Joburg. We held them both up.

"Which one looks more like what you wore in the movie?"

I picked the silk print. It was mostly green leaves over a yellow background. I had picked it because those are Packer colors. But it worked for this. The neckline was high, just a slight scoop, the sleeves were puffed, the bodice was close, but the skirt flared nicely and extended just past my knees. It wasn't exactly what I had worn on that gazebo, but it had the same general feel. Elsa put a string of pearls around my neck, and then matching earrings. I strapped on sandals with three inch heels, and finally dared to look in a mirror. If you didn't get too close, I didn't look too bad.

It was already nearly eight. Elsa pushed me to the elevator, then ran back to her room to change.

What did I find in the lobby? There had to be a dozen people waiting for me, all of whom wanted to shake my hand or hug me. Among them was a girl of ten or twelve. She and her mother were standing slightly back from the men. I smiled and nodded to the people around me, then walked up to the girl.

"Hi. I'm Jessica. What's your name?"

"Angelika." She held out her hand. "I am pleased to meet you." What I love about kids is they are completely transparent. This girl was nervous, but proud, working her way through the proper greeting protocols she had been taught. And she smiled. She had a good smile. Her skin was fairly dark, so her teeth seemed especially bright. I think she even had a bit of makeup on her cheeks. She had worked on her hair. It went back in rows. She was wearing a dress that was fairly frilly. I thought maybe a bit too frilly for a girl of her age, but she seemed comfortable in it.

"Angelika, if your mother doesn't mind, would you show me where the reception is?"

She looked at her mother. Her mother smiled and nodded. I took Angelika's hand and we walked down the hall to where another hundred people were waiting. At least half of them were girls – mostly junior high age. Some stood with fathers, some stood with mothers, but all stood waiting for me. I smiled, and waved, and kept Angelika's hand.

It was reception, which meant there would be a reception line. A large man in a dark suit came up to me and introduced himself. Turned out he was the Minister of Agriculture, Water, and Forestry, Zedeki Murang. Seemed nice enough. Good smile, lighter skin, short gray hair, fairly large.

"We had planned a short evening so you could meet some of the people of our ministry. As you can see, many of us have daughters, and daughters have their own agendas. I hope you can visit the ministry tomorrow. For tonight, I think we will let our girls have their fun, if you don't mind."

"I am happy to meet them."

Mister Murang moved us to a place along a wall, and a line quickly formed. I waited while Angelika's mother got several pictures of us, then I thanked her for her help and let her wander off with her mother, the two of them already looking at the pictures mom had taken. You have to love digital cameras.

How many mothers, fathers, and daughters did I meet? More seemed to keep arriving. I am sure it was well over a hundred. Mostly Black, a few white, all anxious to hold my hand while dad or mom took their picture. I did lots of hugs.

About halfway through the line, one of the girls had practiced the dialog. I said "Hello," and she said, "Did all that really happen?" So, we were going to do the lines, huh. I smiled and fell into character.

"Yes. They lived just up the Columbia River."

"Was she really beautiful?"

"Yes. Very beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman in America."

"Did they have children?"

"They had a daughter. Her name was Clarissa Alice. But some people say they had millions of daughters. All over the world. Here in Namibia too." That got a cheer. "And each of those girls? Each of you? They are strong, they are brave, they are beautiful. And when they love, they love with all their hearts. Just like Mrs. Whitman."

Okay. That was a hit. But if you do it for one, you pretty much have to do it for the next forty or fifty. There was some quick movement, and two chairs were set up. I was fine with that. If we were going to do it, why not go all the way. I apologized to Mister Murang and promised we would talk in his office tomorrow. Then I sat, and away we went.

It took over two hours to do every girl, but time seemed to go fast. The girls were orderly and friendly. I shook hands with some, hugged others. Most seemed to know their lines, but if they didn't, they got to hear the same three lines over and over as the other girls were videoed by their parents. They sat, arranged their dresses, smiled, looked up at me, and said their lines while I held their hand.

When I finished the last girl, I stood, and everyone cheered. I talked to some of the mothers, telling them how well their daughter had done. I did have one mother who wanted to know if her daughter might have the talent to be an actress. She didn't ask me for the phone number of a Hollywood agent, but I thought it was close. Men I spoke with gave me business cards. If I saw the ministry on it, I told them I would be visiting their offices tomorrow.

There had been food and drinks at the reception. Now that I was done, someone brought me a glass of champagne. I put that down in one gulp. I nursed the next one.

Gradually the room emptied. Mister Murang was one of the last to leave. He thanked me one more time and then left. I think I was the last one out of the room. Me and Elsa. She had come in late, and had stayed largely in the background, although I had seen her having conversations with many of the ministry people.

It was hard not to notice her. She was wearing yellow satin, sleeveless (so much for not showing much skin!), with a skirt that reached her knees but fit every curve on the way down. Add four inch stilettoes, and she was one of the tallest people in the room, a blond pillar. She didn't have any trouble getting ministry people to talk with her.

We rode the elevator together. When we got to my room she said, "Do you mind if I come in for a minute to talk over tomorrow's schedule?" I didn't see anyone else in the hallway, but if people were about, she had covered us.

The minute our door was closed, I had a blond giant all over me. She pushed me back on my bed and climbed on, her knees between mine, her hands in my hair, her face over mine. I was being attacked by a blond pillar.

"You were so good." That was pretty much all she got out before her mouth was on mine and her hands were everywhere. Okay. I guess I'll have to be good more often. My hands found her ass, and we wrinkled both our dresses pretty fast.

Ten minutes later she told me she couldn't spend the night. She repeated that every ten minutes while mauling me. Finally she pushed herself up off me, straightened her dress, wiped her mouth, and left. She never did tell me about tomorrow's schedule.

Chapter 12

The Ministry

I was standing, looking out my window at the dawn when she called. Eight. Breakfast. Downstairs. Hmm. She wouldn't be coming into my room. No mauling this morning. Very discrete. Very disappointing.

I got the rest of the day's schedule at breakfast. I arrived first and joined Theo at his table. Elsa strode into the room a few minutes later. Elsa and I both were wearing simple cotton dresses – shades of yellow. You know who looked better. With the blond hair over her shoulders, she looking like she was personally bringing sunshine into the restaurant. It was a pleasure to watch her move. She even sat with grace. We looked at each other, smiled, and then listened to Theo explain our day.

"The meeting at the ministry is at ten. I gather it is mostly a meet and greet. After lunch you will have the first working meeting. They will bring in the contractor and whoever they assign as project manager. I am just a salesman. I am not invited. I will spend my day getting you anything you need. Speaking of which, here is a phone with a local sim card. I have already loaded my number."

"Thank you."

"No, thank you. After last night, I think I will be selling a lot of Naturale juices."

At this point our waitress arrived, and we ordered our meals. Our breakfast? We might as well have been eating at Denny's. Same food, maybe better service. Where were the ostrich egg omelets and hippo sausages?

"I've tried to do some checking for you." Theo seemed determined to be helpful. "I saw the name of the project manager, but I couldn't find out anything about him. I gather he is the agricultural agent for the Kalahari region. His wife may also join you. But I have been hearing a lot about the contractor – Samuel Shipanga. Fast riser. Great reputation. Ovambo family, but grew up in Windhoek. Attended the technical high school. I think the first Black to do so. They were barred during apartheid."

Here was a white South African mentioning apartheid. I think I expected the next words out of his mouth to be an apology. They weren't.

"Even after the laws changed in 1990, only whites attended. I think Black parents wanted a more academic education followed by college, followed by a role in government. Can't blame them for that. I don't have Shipanga's details, but I think he was there around 2000 or right after. Everyone says he was a great student. He has certainly done well since. Founded a well drilling company right out of high school (the family has a few bucks), and was one of the contractors that did the big project up north. He gets some of the credit for helping define that aquifer. So he was a natural for them to pick for this project."

"But the contract was put out on open bids." Elsa seemed particularly emphatic. She was staring at Theo as she made her point.

"Of course. Of course." The words were there, but I wondered what was behind them. Theo seemed more interested in his eggs than in returning Elsa's stare.

We finished the meal with Theo repeatedly telling me all he would do for me before I went up to the Kalahari, and how grateful he was to be working for my company. When you are the wife of the company president you expect to get some of that now and then. I smiled, thanked him for getting us the contract, and said I might call later. Would I call? Who knew? He was our representative for southern Africa, so it would make sense for me to sit down with him some time and get a general understanding of our business in the region, but at the moment, my main concern was the Kalahari project, and it didn't appear he would have much of a role in that now that the contracts were signed.

At the moment, the person I wanted to talk with was Elsa. I explained I needed to go back up to my room to finish getting ready for our meetings. Elsa followed me into the elevator.

"So," I asked. "Was the contract legitimate?"

"I was up here to see every bid and sit in on the selection process. Three companies underbid Shipanga, but none of them had the experience he has. He was the right guy to select. I fully agreed with the decision."

"But."

"But three companies are not happy. They have friends. Things have been said."

"So I'm here."

"You bring expertise and objectivity. And certainly some star power. You were magnificent last night." At this point we were out of the elevator and at my door. She followed me in.

"So now you can be with me?"

"You need help with your hair." I probably did. She followed me into my bathroom and picked up one of my combs. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled our hips together while she worked on my hair. Her hands were all over my hair, and then over my face. Fingers in my hair, palms on my cheeks, she held my head and kissed me.

"How many more mornings do I get help with my hair?"

"I'll stay here until you go north. Then I'll go back to Joburg."

"You understand I will need a lot of help each morning." I pushed her against the wall, and we went at it pretty good. The skirt on her dress slid up very nicely.

But there was a clock ticking in both our heads. Time went fast. I was the aggressor, and kept her pressed against the wall. She told me it was time to go. I just smiled and kissed her again. "Jess, you have to let me go." I didn't. "We'll be late." I just held her tighter. "Jess, I'll find some excuse to come back tonight." I still held her for another minute, pulling her to me as tightly as I could. Then I let her go. But I definitely didn't want to.

"I need a minute in my room to work on my own hair, then I will meet you in the hall." And she was gone.

I spent several minutes redoing my lipstick and hair. I also found my blazer and portfolio with our contracts and some note paper. I would be ready for the day's meetings. But I wasn't really thinking about any of that. I was feeling the warmth of Elsa against my body.

She knocked on my door a few minutes later, and we went off together. She knew where the ministry was. She drove, I looked out at the shops. I held her hand.

How did the meetings go? Well, the morning was fine. Coffee, handshakes, introductions, exchanges of business cards, and yes, even a half hour of PowerPoint slides as one of their people explained the various divisions of the ministry, their history and purpose. Zedeki Murang led me from room to room and made introduction after introduction. Nice man. He thanked me three or four times for the way I had handled the reception the night before.

What did I learn? They seemed to be well organized, very professional. The ministry had a mission, vision, and goals, straight out of any strategic planning work book. People repeatedly put the Kalahari project in that context. Offices were well equipped. Each had a flag of Namibia and a picture of the president. Hallways were filled with workers going here and there, all wearing suits. A few women held titles, but most sat at desks doing clerical work. Men out numbered women three to one.

In sum, it didn't seem much different from the ag ministry of Wisconsin or Switzerland. If there was any difference at all, it was the number of times my picture was taken with various people and various offices.

Lunch was brought in to one of the conferences rooms, and lasted over an hour. Decent food, no grilled zebra, lots of lemonade.

And then I met Shipanga - eventually. Lunch over, Minister Murang walked me down a long hallway to yet another conference room. This one had shelves of maintenance manuals, mostly lying on their side. The conference table was older and scarred with cigarette burns, cuts and stains. The chairs folded up to be pushed out of the way when not needed. There was carpet on the floor, but it had mud on it, and coffee stains. My best guess was this was the room where the maintenance guys sat and debated whether diesel really was God's gift to engines.

"This is the conference room Mr. Shipanga requested. He thought it would give you more room to work."

"I'm sure it will be fine." I tried to remember when I had my last tetanus shot.

There was an older man in a suit standing in the middle of the room. He didn't look much more comfortable than I did. He immediately walked up to us, his hand first to Murang and then to me and Elsa.

Murang did the introductions. "This is Martin Kauluna, our agricultural agent for the Kalahari district. He will represent our ministry during your project. I think you will find him very helpful. He and his wife have lived in the Kalahari for over a decade." Seemed like a nice enough guy. I would guess he was pushing sixty. Lots of gray in his hair, a bit of a slump to his shoulders. Maybe five ten, fairly dark skin and a nose that was somewhat large. But a good smile, and a warm handshake.

While we are shaking hands, I can see Murang is looking around the room, and then at Kauluna. Kauluna shakes his head and says, "He called to say he was running late."

Murang never loses his smile. "Well, that can give you some time to talk about how this project may impact your region." Murang shakes our hands again, wishes us the best, and is gone.

Kauluna points to some chairs. Elsa and I are on one side of the table, him is on the other. "I am not sure why Mr. Shipanga wanted to use this room. Maybe he has some equipment he wants to show us." Or maybe he needs carpeting to wipe his boots on. Elsa and I are dressed for offices, not a custodian's closet, but we wipe off the chair seats and get as comfortable as we can.

By the end of the afternoon I know there is one man I will enjoy working with, and one man who will be a problem. Kauluna, obviously, is not the problem. He not only lives in the Kalahari, he likes it there. He has a case full of maps, picks one, and unfolds it across the conference table. For the next hour we get "Kalahari Highlights." The man never met a dry river bed or salt pan he didn't like. And he has this salesman's habit of leading to – "and there's more." More what? More flowers in the spring, more antelope among the trees, more giraffes than you can find anywhere else. The guy loves the place. And you know how these things work. His enthusiasm builds, and you begin to share it. Pretty soon I'm thinking the Alps are for tourists. For real beauty, the Kalahari has it all. Which of course is nuts, but it gives you some sense of the guy. He really does love the desert.

And then Shipanga came in. Mid-thirties, hair cut short, skin darkened both by his race and by the sun, maybe six feet tall, with the flattest stomach I have ever seen. This guy was all sinew. And he wanted to show it. He wore a black t-shirt at least four sizes too small. Muscles bulged, veins popped, the back of his hands looked like a three-d roadmap. He stood just inside the door so we could get a good look at him. Testosterone on display. He had kept us waiting, he had picked this awful room, he showed up looking like some punk on a beach.

And my thought? Oh shit, this is going to be bad. And it was.

He looked in the general direction of Kauluna and nodded. But it was us he had more interest in. He came round the table to where we had been sitting. All of us had risen. Given where she had been seated, Elsa was actually closer to him when he came to us, but he ignored her. His eyes were on me.

"I hear you are a movie star."

"I have helped with two movies. I was on screen twice." He was staring at me. I was staring back. Neither of us offered a hand to shake.

"And an expert at wells."

"You know I am."

"I do?"

"You checked on me. It takes under a minute to Google my name." We are maybe two feet apart, both staring at the other. My head is up. I am determined not to back away from this guy.

"An expert who will show me how to drill wells." His shoulders are moving. If I were a man, I guessed he might be preparing to throw the first punch.

"If I needed to do that, you wouldn't have gotten the contract."

"Then why are you here?" As he asks, his eyes move from my face to the rest of me. He looks over all of me, then returns to my face. Yes, I am a woman, yes, I am wearing a dress and heels. I don't need a reminder, and I don't apologize. I have a right to be here. There are good reasons for me to be here. But Elsa answers for me.

"She is here because this is a huge project with international implications. The Kalahari extends into Botswana and South Africa. They will have an interest in what you find. She will help communicate your findings." Elsa is right next to Shipanga. She has also worn heels and is maybe three inches taller than him. He has to look up at her as she speaks. "And, she is here because the World Bank wants her participation. If you take World Bank money, you take World Bank rules."

You ever see those weigh-ins before a major boxing match, where the two boxers stand toe to toe and stare at each other? We've got one going between Elsa and Shipanga. Kauluna breaks it up.

"Samuel, if you will take a seat, I would like to go through the drilling schedule." He points to a seat next to him. Shipanga stares at Elsa and me for a few seconds, then comes around to Kauluna's side of the table, and just like that, we know who will be running this project. Hooray for Martin Kauluna.

We all sit down, and Kauluna moves his map so it is centered between the four of us. He has a large pencil and is holding it near the top of the map.

"I want to work north to south. We know there is water in the north. Let's find out its extent and its depth. I think it easiest if you enter the Kalahari on this road from Grootfontein to Tsumkwe." He looks over at Elsa and me. "My wife and I live in Tsumkwe. It's a tiny place, but it does have a small store and a gas station. We will get most of our supplies in Grootfontein, but we can get a few things in Tsumkwe if we run short."

"Elsa told me about Tsumkwe." Suddenly I feel like the bright student sitting in the front row. "That's where the man from The God's Must be Crazy lives."

"He died last year, but yes, he lived there. So do maybe fifty other San, plus a few teachers for the school."

"Where do you want the first well?" Shipanga. Impatient. Direct. Was he really going to be this gruff for the whole project?

"We go fifty kilometers north of the Tsumkwe road, and do a line of wells west to east. Ten wells, twenty kilometers apart. When we have the ten wells in, we move south fifty kilometers and do the next row, now drilling east to west. We follow that pattern all the way south. When we are done, we will have drilled two hundred kilometers east to west, and forty hundred fifty kilometers north to south. That doesn't cover the entire Kalahari, but it should tell us what we need."

I'm trying to convert kilometers to miles. Several years outside Amberg, but I still have to chug along when I do the math in my head. I am guessing we are talking about 120 miles across, and over 250 miles north to south. And that's only part of the Kalahari? Big place. And lots of traveling for us.

"What depth are we drilling to?" I ask.

"The contract calls for fifteen meters," Kauluna tells me. Easier math for me. A meter is basically a yard. So fifteen meters is forty five feet.

"Two inch piping?" I ask, and immediately regret it. My Americanism is showing.

"Five centimeters." Shipanga doesn't smile at my gaff, but I know I have just given him something to laugh about when he is back with his crew.

"Why fifteen meters?" I ask.

"We have several wells supplying Tsumkwe. They all got good water at fifteen to twenty meters." Kauluna tells me.

"It's in the contract." Shipanga says. I am sure he thinks he has just scored another point in whatever competition we are having.

"Yes, I read the contract." I'm not giving him that point. "And now I understand why you picked that depth. But we are exploring, right? What if we used fifteen meters as an average, but put some in at twenty meters and some at fifteen. It might give us more information about the aquifer and seasonal changes."

"Would the contract allow that?" Kauluna asked Elsa.

"Yes. Just record which wells went to which depth." Thank you Elsa.

"We will bend pipe after twenty meters." Mister Happiness has found a way to undercut my idea.

"We are drilling mostly through sand, but yes, I agree there is a limit to how far we can push five centimeter pipe. We will need to stop at any depth that bends our pipe." I am agreeing with Shipanga. But you know there are some guys who will never take "yes" for an answer. I am waiting for an objection. He hasn't found one yet.

"How long will it take you to drill these wells?" Kauluna wants to move the conversation along. It's actually a pretty good question.

"On a good day, we can do one in the morning, and one in the afternoon." That's Shipanga's opinion. It seems wildly ambitious to me. He is drilling through sand, but still... Kauluna and Elsa are both looking at me.

"Maybe." I'm not ready to undercut the guy yet. "We will know better once we see the conditions on the ground and have put some pipe in the ground."

I won't bore you with the rest of the meeting. We talked about particular places in the Kalahari, talked about supplies, talked about living in the desert. We spent the rest of the afternoon talking. Did things ever get better with Shipanga? Nope. He seemed ready to challenge me on every point. Oddly, I sort of got used to it. The guy will be a jerk. Have I dealt with jerks before? Of course. This project was going to last two months – three at the outside. Could I deal with a jerk for three months? Been there, done that.

The afternoon ended in the best way possible. Shipanga left, and Kauluna invited Elsa and me to meet his wife over dinner.

Chapter 13

First Night in the Desert

Kauluna's wife was Inge. We were to call him Martin. First names came faster than typical for Europe. Dinner was at a restaurant down Independence Avenue. I had a gemsbok steak. I Googled it later to see what I was eating. Big antelope. Martin explained they were all over the Kalahari. I had finally eaten something African!

Besides feeling very proud of myself for eating something special, I had a great time talking to Inge. She was about Martin's age, a little on the hefty side, lots of gray in her hair, and a ready smile. I liked the way she sat with Martin. No, they didn't hold hands. But there was that thing that older couples sometimes do, where when one moves, so does the other, always keeping close. They were a matched set.

She was coming with us. The kids (four kids, three grandkids) raised, her job was now to help Martin. She would be cooking for us. She had also worked out how we would sleep. They had a caravan large enough for the three of us (Shipango and his men would pitch a tent). They had taken the caravan out on the desert before. It had large, wide tires for sand, and pulled easily behind their truck. She was buying what we would need for the first two weeks. The plan was to drive back to Grootfontein at least every two weeks for showers, laundry, and restaurant meals. Sounded good to me.

Martin said he was waiting on some equipment, but we would probably leave in three days. I spent some of that time getting additional things I needed (lights, insect repellant, more socks). Shipango wanted us over at his warehouse one afternoon, I guess so we could admire all he had achieved (and while the guy was annoying as hell, I did have to admit he had a huge pipe inventory plus enough motors and generators to drill five hundred wells). We also had additional meetings at the ministry. Murang wanted updates. So he said, but I heard he had scheduled it after school so daughters of his staff could meet me. I made sure I dressed for it.

Elsa? She was helpful all day every day. If things got too bad with Shipango, she said what needed to be said. The guy might have a chip on his shoulder, but he did understand contracts, and it was not to his advantage to annoy the World Bank too much. So things smoothed out somewhat.

And us? Well, she decided we might want to meet in the evening to discuss the progress of the project, and in the morning to plan our day. That gave us about an hour together at night, and maybe forty five minutes in the morning. To do what? Mostly to sit together or lie together – and talk. I had my arms around her most of the time, and I loved it when she slid her hands over my breasts, but really, we just talked. We would keep our heads close, and we might whisper like lovers, and hold each other close like lovers, but I still thought of her as a friend. Don't ask me to explain where one slides over from friend to lover, and maybe in some ways we were already past whatever that line is, but at some level, what I wanted was a friend. And she was a very good one.

That last morning we spent a long time saying good bye up in my room, holding each other tight on my bed. I had my hands in her hair – she had great hair – and she seemed to like my breasts. I have no idea how often we kissed. Friends do that, right? We didn't say anything particularly important. We smiled a lot. I told how good she looked in her yellow dress (I have no idea how many she has), she told me I looked pretty good for a woman in work pants and shirt (she had my shirt unbuttoned so she could get a hand on my breast). We promised to meet again when the project was done. She wanted to take me to Cape Town and show me the sights. That sounded good.

Finally we got up, I helped her straighten her dress and her hair, and we took our bags down to the lobby. There was one final – brief – hug out in the entry way, then I got in Martin's truck, sitting in the back seat with Inge. Elsa drove south. We drove north. On the outskirts of town we met up with Shipango's trucks – one with a huge load of pipes, the other with more pipes and the tower for the drill. We were on our way.

Namibia is a big country. Windhoek is pretty much in its center, and we were going to Grootfontein, a smaller city maybe two thirds of the way up to Angola, but it took us all day to get there. It was a good time for Inge and me to get better acquainted. We talked kids. Sometimes Martin would add some comment from the front seat, but mostly it was Inge and I telling one story after another. She might tell a story from when her kids were toddlers, and I would match it. She would talk school days, so would I. Weddings – well we spent hours on those. Time passed, so did the miles.

Roads in Namibia? Not bad. Two lane, but in pretty good shape. Wide shoulders (there really wasn't much other than a few farms and lots of scrub brush on either side), with roadside areas to stop for picnics, which we did. Saw the world's tallest ant hill where we stopped, and I thought I heard some animals in the brush, but still no elephants or lions.

We got to Grootfontein late in the afternoon. Not much more than a large village, really. Maybe a few hundred people. Businesses along the highway, smaller houses down the side streets, all single story, mostly looking like the kind of houses you might find in any rural town in the U.S.

We stopped for gas, topping off the trucks and filling several gas cans. Inge warned me we would be losing cell service the minute we entered the desert, so I emailed several pictures of our trucks back to Emil and to my girls. Inge offered to take my picture by her caravan (trailer), so they could all see how I was dressed and where I would sleep. I made sure to get a picture of Inge and Martin. I also made sure to use the gas station bathroom. We would be roughing it in the desert.

Next stop? The Kalahari. Martin led the way. All we had to do was cross the highway. Grootfontein was to the west of the road we had come in on. The Kalahari was to the right. There was a gravel road that led due east to Tsumkwe, where Martina and Inge lived (and the Bushman with the Coke bottle had also lived). The gravel road drops down from the highway, maybe ten feet, and you are immediately surrounded by grasses and scrub bushes, and a few trees, all of them rising up alongside the road, so you can see little in any direction. It reminded me of driving back roads in Illinois when the corn is high. At least we were in the first truck. The trucks behind us would be driving through a cloud of gravel dust.

Martin was watching the gps on his dash.

"How far in for the first well? I asked.

"I want to go in about twenty five kilometers, then turn north off this road, and go up about fifty kilometers." Doing rough math in my head, that seemed to be about fifteen miles on the road and about thirty through the bush. The sun was already fairly low in the sky. Hmm.

Fifteen miles on the road took about half an hour, maybe a little less. The gravel was rough in a few spots, but not too bad. And we never had to share the road. We could drive right down the middle. We never saw another car.

So far so good. But then we turned into the brush. Martin's truck had a guard across his front, and he needed it. We pushed right through grass and thorn bushes. The ground was sand, but his tires seemed to handle that well. What didn't go so well was the bumps. The Kalahari is an old lake bed, so it is generally smooth, but "generally" does not mean "universally." We bounced. Even at very slow speeds, we bounced. And after the truck bounced, the caravan bounced behind us, and when it bounced, it pulled on the hitch, so we bounced a second time. Martin had one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the door handle. Inge and I had one hand on our door handle, and the other – well, the other hand just reached for anything stable, mostly the back of the seat in front of us. We had seat belts on – thank God. Even so, I hit my brand new wide-brimmed hat on the ceiling sixty or seventy times.

We were going to do thirty miles of this? Did we have enough daylight? Would my back ever be the same?

We stopped along an old creek bed. It probably wasn't thirty miles, but crossing that dry creek would be a challenge all to itself, and the sun was just a red glow to our west. Enough. We stopped. The trucks behind us stopped. Shipanaga walked up to look at the creek bed – at least as much as could be seen by our headlights. He and Martin talked briefly, and then everyone got to work.

I helped Inge get a small grill out of the caravan. And we set up a small folding table. At this point I have to admit to some concern. I was the second woman in the group. I was helping with the meal. Did that make me a cook, here to serve the men? Martin saved the situation. He gave me a map and a handheld gps device. Could I verify and mark our location? I went to work on that. Meanwhile, he helped Inge carry some water out of the caravan.

Shipanga had two young men working for him. I doubted either was over twenty. He had one help him set up a large nylon tent near our caravan, while the other went out to gather wood for a fire. This became the routine we used over the next weeks – the grill, a camp fire, a tent, not a lot of conversation. That night we had stew over rice in large bowls. We also had bottle after bottle of water.

We ate around the campfire. Not much of a fire, by the way. Not much wood in a desert, right? Shipango's man had dragged in the remains of several dead thorn bushes and chopped them up with a machete. But it was a fire, and we sat around it. Conversation? Shipango and his workers spoke in Oshivanbo. Did the men not know English, or were they trying to exclude me? Over the coming weeks I learned they had grade school English, or about as much English as I remembered of school Spanish.

On our side of the fire, Inge and Martin exchanged a few words, and I said nothing. I was tired. Bouncing around a truck is hard work. But I have to admit, I was listening. I was in Africa, sitting around a campfire. I would hear a lion roar any minute now, wouldn't I? I think I did hear a lion off in the distance, but I also heard lots of noises in the grasses around us. Animals were out. Maybe the creek bed wasn't completely dry. Maybe they were hunting. But there was something out there. I found myself smiling. Just wait until I got back to Bern. I would have lots to say during those after-church lunches.

Then I needed to pee. Sorry, I know you want to hear about Africa, not my bathroom habits, but, well, people pee. I had drunk at least a quart (sorry, liter) of water, and I needed to pee. I looked at Inge, and she seemed to read my mind. She motioned me over to the caravan. She gave me a stick and a flashlight. "Stay close." And she pointed off into some grasses.

I stayed very close. I doubt if I went ten feet into the bush. But that was enough for me to get caught on a thorn bush that tore my shirtsleeve, and to see two eyes reflected by my flashlight. I froze until I was sure the eyes had gone elsewhere. I was pretty sure they had. Still, I peed about as fast as I ever had.

And then something interesting happened. I back away from where the eyes had been, and was quickly back to our campsite. The campfire had burned down to embers, and there was just a small light in the tent and another in the caravan. It was dark.

Except it wasn't. There was a crescent moon near the horizon. But it wasn't throwing much light. It was the stars. I had seen stars in the Alps, and they are pretty impressive, but here... it was like there were layers of them. They were crowded on top of each other. There were some places where you could see some groupings. I suppose people who know their constellations could pick out some Greek this or that. But to me, it was just an endless array. Partly it was altitude. The Kalahari is several thousand feet high. But there was also no ground light to compete with it. There was just the light from the stars.

So, maybe I heard a lion, and maybe I encountered something in the bush, but what I really remember from that first night is the stars. They were astounding. And they would be there every night. What an amazing place to be.

Chapter 14

We do a Well

I slept well. Yes, I lay awake for a little while, wondering if we would be visited by lions or elephants. I could hear a few things wandering around in the bush, but nothing that sounded like it might come through the walls of the caravan. The caravan (trailer) was tiny, by the way. Maybe twenty feet long and six feet wide. The sleeping area was at the back – a larger bed and some closet space along with a tiny bathroom. Inge had arranged a curtain that pulled across that area so she and Martin would have some privacy.

Me? I slept on the couch. I was in the front of the caravan, in the area where they would normally eat and relax. Most of that area was now taken up with boxes of food and cases of water bottles. They left enough room for the couch to fold out. It wasn't one of those big foldouts - the seat bottom just slid out about three feet. But the couch was wide enough that I could get most of me on the seat bottom, and while my feet hung over the end initially, as the night grew colder and I pulled myself in tighter, I fit pretty well.

I woke to the sound of a motor. Shipanga. He was already up and working. The sound also woke Inge and Martin. I could hear them moving around, presumably getting dressed. I could also feel the caravan shift from side to side as they moved around their bed (neither of them was particularly light). I quickly pulled my pants and shirt on and had the couch all folded up by the time they came out from behind their curtain.

That first morning I was out the door, my boots still unlaced, as I hurried to where Shipanga was working. I needed to see this. This whole project was based on a guess about which well technique would work out here. We would know by noon if we had guessed right.

Sorry, but to understand the risk we were taking, I need to stop the story here and give a short overview on water wells. I promise – two paragraphs max.

Basically, you have two ways of getting down to water. You can pound a point down into the ground, or you can drill. If you pound, you can't go all that deep – and you can't go through anything hard. But if you are looking for water under sand (like here), and you won't be pumping massive quantities of water (and we wouldn't be), then a pounded well was faster and cheaper. That's what we would be doing in the Kalahari. You start with a drive point – usually a steel cone, with pipe behind it. There are holes in the pipe and screens over them, so water (when you get to it) can get into and up the pipe. That initial structure is maybe four feet long, and you just keep screwing lengths of pile onto it, and pound it all down into the sand. At some point you stop, put a pump on the top, and try to suck water into and up the pipe. Back in Amberg, weekend cabin owners would often drive such a well into the sandy soils there. They would use inch and a quarter pipe so they could drive it down by hand. I had driven plenty of two inch monitoring wells at my new bottling plants -- two inch because the pipe was stronger, and we could use a machine to pound on the pipe and go deeper. Two inch wells could not give us the volume we needed for bottling, but they would be a cheap and easy way to monitor water depth and quality in the vicinity of our main wells. (If you really went to get technical, such wells are called "Piezometers" in the trade. Try slipping that into conversation to impress.)

For real volume, you needed a drilled well. They can also go much deeper. They spin a nasty looking diamond head down into the hole, with sections of galvanized steel tubing controlling the cutter bit, spinning with it. As the drill head goes down, a casing has to be slid down around it. It some point you pull the drill head back out of the hole, but leave the casing behind. The casing can be steel or PVC, and is four to six inches in diameter. With a hole that big, you can get large volumes of water. These were the wells I had been putting in for my new bottling plants south of Lake Superior.

So, quick summary. Pounded wells – two inch, through soft materials, maybe forty to one hundred feet, enough water for a house or two, but mostly for evaluating the local aquifer. Drilled wells – deeper, wider, more expensive and more complicated, but these are the wells that can support much larger volumes.

We were doing pounded wells for our survey (remember - faster, cheaper), but these wells would only work if we were standing on forty to eighty feet of sand. If there was granite ten feet under us, this whole project was going to be over pretty fast.

So I hurried over to Shipanga's truck. He had a support tower raised up on the back of his truck, with a length of pipe nestled against the frame while a weight was raised and dropped onto the top of that pipe. He was working the machine that raised and dropped the weight onto his pipe, but he, and I, his assistants, and soon Martin and Inge were all looking at the pipe as it slid into the ground. If we were pounding through sand, the pipe should drop a foot or so every time the weight dropped onto it. So far, that's what was happening.

Down went the pipe. Within five minutes, the whole twenty foot section pushed down into the ground. Shipanga stopped the machine, and his two assistants got to work. One unscrewed a cap on the pipe that absorbed the impact of the dropped weight, while the other pulled another twenty foot section of pipe from the truck (the things go eighty to a hundred pounds easy), put the cap on the top, slid a cable around the cap, and pulled it up along the tower where it could be aligned and then screwed into the pipe below it, using an eight inch coupling to bind the sections of pipe together. It mattered that everything was kept straight. If they got the pipe at an angle, it would bend from impact and the well would have to be redone. Shipanga gave lots of orders in Oshibambo, most of them shouted. He was feeling the same stress as the rest of us.

But the second section was now aligned, and Shipanga started dropping the weight again. We all watched the pipe slide into the ground. It kept going. Maybe not a foot at a time any more, but a good eight to ten inches. Down, down, down. Finally only about two feet of the pipe was still showing.

Now what? We had forty feet of pipe in the ground. If there was water down there, we should already be in it.

"Let's put down another section." Martin was standing across from Shipanga. Shipanga stared back. I was waiting for him to object. He hesitated long enough to make it clear he was not happy with the decision. "We got pipe down almost this deep in Tsumkwe. Let's see what we can get up here." Again, hesitation from Shipanga, but then he gave orders to his men, and the next length of pipe was attached.

How far did we get? About fifty five feet. The pipe sank with every drop of the weights, and then it just stopped. Shipanga instantly stopped the machine that controlled the weights. If the point was sitting on rock, pounding on it would just bend the pipe and ruin the well. But we had gotten fifty five feet. That was a pretty good distance. Pounding pipe worked. We didn't have to drill. We had a simple technique – and fast. Our project was off and running.

We had lots of work on that well yet to do. We needed to get a pump on it, check for water, and test whatever water we pumped out, but I can't begin to tell you how relived we all were that we would be able to pound our test wells rather than drill them. That morning we celebrated by going back to where our campfire had been (we didn't relight it), and sitting around our little camp chairs while Inge made coffee and then oatmeal. We praised Shipanga and his men, raising our coffee cups as if we were toasting them. Shipanga even smiled – briefly.

What was left to do after breakfast? A fair amount. Shipanga got out a cutting torch and cut the pipe about three feet off the ground. He then got out a large die and cut threads on the outside of the pipe. Not an easy job.

Then came the pump. We were all back to watch this. He screwed the pump on top of the pipe, started a generator, and hit the switch. We could hear the pump cycle over and over while we stared at the exit tube, waiting to see water. We actually cheered when it came. It was pretty dirty. The vacuum of the pump was pulling water into the pipe through the screens at the bottom of the hole, but it also pulled in sand and dirt. But the volumes were good. A rush of brown water flew out the pump and splashed alongside.

We kept the pump running. Gradually the water got clearer. Martin brought up a sample bottle, already marked "#1". I guess that made it official. We had water to take back and test for quality. Next test? Depth. Shipanga shut down the pump and pulled it off the pipe. I had a cord with a large float at the end. I slowly unwound the cord, waiting to feel the float hit water. I unwound it foot by foot, tension building again as we all waited to see how far we would have to lower the float. How far? The float hit water at six meters (eighteen feet). I marked the cord and carefully measured again as I pulled the float up. I had some papers back in the caravan, as did Martin (and I guessed Shipanga as well). I recorded "well #1 – 6.1 meters". Somehow putting the numbers down on paper made the whole thing official. If there had been champagne around, I would have had more than my share.

We began packing up to move to the next site. Martin helped Inge put away the cooking supplies and pack up the camps chairs. Shipanga's men took down the tent and stored it in their truck. I watched Shipanga as he capped the pipe and then spray painted it orange so he could find it more easily. It would be his job to return to each well every three months for the first year and measure water levels.

As he painted he looked over at me.

"So, American lady water expert, now you will tell me how I should have done this well?"

"I would have greased the threads. The pipes would have screwed on faster and there would have been less chance of cross threading, but that is minor. The work you did, you did well."

"Thank you kindly, American lady water expert."

"Look, Mr. Shipanga. I am not here to fight with you, compete with you, or undercut you. Maybe I can help."

"You have already undercut me." He stood up, spray can in his hand, staring directly at me. "This project is important. Too important to leave to a black well driller. Obviously a white driller had to be called to make sure he did that job right. That's what people will say."

"That may be what some say, especially the three people who underbid you and didn't get the contract." My turn to stand and stare. "But it's not what I will say, and not what the final report will say. It will say Martin Kauluna led the project and picked the drilling locations. Samual Shipanga drilled ninety wells. Jessica Gruber measured and recorded the water depth. The three of us worked as a team, each of us sharing in the work." He looked at me. I looked at him. In a perfect world, this might have been where we became friends, or at least work colleagues. In the world where we actually lived, at least he seemed to argue with me less, and throw fewer insults my way.

Chapter 15

89 Wells to go

Okay, one down, 89 to go. We get everything packed up and start east. Twenty kilometers – about six miles (are we ever going to have just one measuring system? Pick one. Any one.) How long does it take to drive twenty kilometers? We weave a little this way and that to drive over grass, around trees, and around dry river beds. At one point we spot a family of giraffes and I make Martin stop the truck so I can get some pictures. (I had no idea how big these things really are. Yes, they have a long neck, but their body is already way up there. Giraffes are huge!) But I was only out with my phone for maybe ten minutes, so don't blame me. Giraffes or no giraffes, it was going to take us at least an hour to get from one well location to the next.

That afternoon set the pattern for our days. Martin picks the spot, Shipango sets up his tower and starts pounding pipe, Martin lets him stop at forty feet most times, but asks him to go lower about one well in five, we pump, measure, collect a water sample, and then move on. We finish the day by driving to the spot where we will pound pipe in the morning. So, two wells every day, each day ending where the next day will begin.

Evenings? Late September isn't summer yet, but it is plenty warm, even at this altitude. And it is dry. And we have driven through grass and sand and thrown up our own dust which we are all now wearing. A shower would feel so good. But, that's not going to happen. What does happen is a wet cloth and some baby wipes. Inge and I take turns in the tiny bathroom in the caravan. The men just clean up with a basin on the tailgate of their trucks.

And we drink water. There were cases of bottles in the caravan and in the back of all three trucks. I can watch the stacks of bottles shrink. The plan is to go back into Grootfontein every two weeks to replenish. I hope they are ready for us.

Evening campfires varied in size depending upon what wood might be around us. But there was always something. And we sat around the fire on canvas camp chairs eating whatever Inge has cooked. It took me three days to realize she had heavily salted the food. I was going to suggest less salt, and then I understood why she was doing it. This was not about taste, it was about rebuilding all the salt we were sweating out. Good thing I kept my mouth shut.

Conversations around the fire? There tended to be two – one in Oshivambo, and one in English. There was also plenty of silence. Even the two young men appeared pretty tired after hauling pipe and heavy equipment around. If there was something we all talked about, it was connected to sounds we were hearing around us. Giraffes very close to the camp one night (if they had walked through our camp, I would have run for the caravan pretty fast). Other nights it was hyenas prowling, or various antelopes stepping through the brush. No lions or elephants during the first weeks. Once in bed, I might listen for animals for a while, but I fell asleep pretty fast.

Mornings I helped Inge and Martin bring out some water and whatever pots she would use (usually a large iron pot for oatmeal), then I would take a roll of toilet paper out into the bush (never easy, especially when I always had to keep one eye out for lions and elephants), then I would take a few minutes in the caravan bathroom to wash (tiny amounts of water and lots of wet wipes). (Yes, there was a toilet in there, but the tank was tiny and there was not enough water to flush it.)

We didn't relight the campfire, but we sat around it on our folding stools eating our oatmeal and drinking our coffee. Shipanga sent his young men over one at a time while he continued to drive his points down. He always ate last, and always wanted to brag about how far he had already pounded. It was always at least ten meters.

Besides measuring the depth of water in the wells (pretty consistently eighteen feet below the surface), I kept a record of each well – gps location, date we put it down, depth Shipanga had gone to, general description of the area around it (proximity to any dry creek beds, rock formations, woods, etc). I knew Martin was keeping a similar record, but I didn't think it hurt to have two records.

During the drilling I stayed out of the way, but close enough to watch Shipanga work. I noticed his guys were now greasing the threads of all pipe joints. Did I have any other brilliant insights to share? No. His equipment seemed first-rate, and he had trained his guys pretty well. Every place we put a well we all watched the pipe go into the ground, hoping to see a smooth entry. And during those first weeks, that's what happened. We did our first row of ten wells in five days. Everything went according to plan. We might have been tired and dirty as we sat around the campfire at night, but we were also pretty satisfied. We were making progress.

Chapter 16

Tsumkwe

Our second row of wells was to be fifty kilometers south of the first. We were as far east as we were going to go, fairly close to the border with Botswana. We would drive south, and then put in our wells moving west, back to Grootfontain. Along the way we would reach the little village of Tsumkwe, then use the gravel road for most of our travels west.

The conditions for this second row were pretty similar to the first row – grass, clumps of trees, endless thorn bushes. Water levels in the wells tended to be a foot or two higher at the east (Botswana) end, but the soil was the same, and Shipanga drove the wells fifty feet without any problems. It took us two days (four wells) to reach Tsumkwe from the east.

Tsumkwe. This was the town Elsa had told me about. This was where they had filmed The Gods Must be Crazy, making sure none of the houses got into their shot. This was where the star of the show had lived. I wanted to see it. And, since this was where the Kauluna's lived, I wanted to see their home (to be honest, I mostly wanted to take the shower Inge had promised me).

We came out of the grasslands to the east of the town and turned on to main street, a convoy of trucks. At the north end of the town was the school, a concrete building, single story, not too different than any grade school built in the U.S. Next was the general store, and yes, painted on its side was a huge red sign for – Coke. Must have been a huge laugh for the locals who had seen the movie. Down the gravel street was a gas station followed by half a dozen houses, all single story, all looking like any other collection of two bedroom houses anywhere in rural America.

All the trucks pulled into the gas station to fill up. I walked back to the store. You know what I wanted to buy. The place was tiny, no bigger than a one car garage, but it had a cooler, and I pulled out a large bottle of Coke. The owner/manager was a middle aged guy who took my money without a smile or a comment. I guessed I wasn't the only outsider who wanted a souvenir Coke.

The Kauluna home was the fourth down the street. By the time I had my Coke, Martin had already gassed up and parked in front. I opened my Coke and gulped it as I walked down the gravel street, a huge smile on my face. The Coke tasted really good, but it tasted so much better thinking about that movie and walking through that tiny town.

That evening started so good. Life is always good after a shower, and when it is your first shower in a week, well, every drop of water is special. I swear I got ten pounds of dirt out of my hair. I got clean clothes out of my bag, and then joined Inge in the kitchen. It was the same size and configuration of the one in my trailer back home. She decided it was time for some pasta. She worked on the pasta and salad, I worked on the sauce. Martin opened a bottle of wine, then went out to the caravan and pulled out the grill. He would be making sausages.

By the time the food was ready, the sun had set, all six of us had been through the shower (although the young guys were last and probably had cold water), Inge and I were deep into our bottle of wine, and the men were through their second six pack of Namibian beer. It felt like a celebration. We sat around the kitchen table – our first time eating indoors in a week – and ate mounds of food. I had seconds of everything. The men had thirds. It was a banquet. I ate sausages and even had a Namibia beer. We sat around that table for over an hour putting away food. I cannot begin to describe how good that meal felt. Sitting on a real chair, clean clothes, clean hair, endless food. It was something.

Eventually the evening broke up. Shipanga and his guys pitched their tent in the front yard. That's where they would sleep. The house had two bedrooms, so Inge showed me where I would sleep. A real bed. This just kept getting better and better.

I stayed in the kitchen and helped Inge clean up.

And that's when I heard the music. It was coming from behind the house, back through some trees. It sounded like a radio, or a tape player.

"A party?" I asked. Inge was putting away some plates. She took a while to respond, and when she did, she didn't look at me as she answered.

"No." Okay. We have all been there. Suddenly we realize we are talking to someone who doesn't want to continue a conversation. So? Drop it? Pursue it anyway? Wait? I waited. Finally she continued, but she still didn't want to make eye contact as she talked. The dishes were getting her full attention.

"The government put up housing for the San back across that field. One long, low building. Small rooms. One per family. Really just a place to get out of the rain or out of the cold. July can be plenty cold here. A dozen or so families live back there." Okay. Now I know who lives back there. What I don't know is why Inge is so uncomfortable. Time for a really good question. Wish I had one. I just stand and wait.

"The San drink. They have no resistance to alcohol. It is completely new to them, and does incredible damage physically and socially. The general store is not allowed to sell alcohol. If we want beer or wine, we have to drive to Grootfontein to buy it." Another pause. Now she looks at me for the first time.

"The school principal's wife sells it to them. She walks back there with a big bottle of wine and a boom box. She sits in a clearing and plays music. They come to her. She pours wine from the big bottle into little bottles and sells them. They drink, share the wine, and dance. It's a party. But they will drink and dance until they fall down. Or until they run out of money."

"I assume this is illegal."

"Yes, but she is the principal's wife, so the teachers won't say anything. And Martin was gone, so she had no one to stop her. He will walk back and talk to her, but she will do it again the minute we are gone. I'll take you back there if you want to see it."

"No." I've seen enough drunkenness in Amberg. Why watch more people embarrass themselves? I helped Inge put away the last of the dishes and went to bed. The music stopped shortly after I got into bed.

Chapter 17

Wells 15-40

We had a huge breakfast the next morning. Our first fresh fruit, fresh milk, fresh bread. All of us ate like pigs. Martin had nothing to say about his encounter with the principal's wife. I didn't ask. I helped Inge with the dishes and with the reloading of the caravan.

Our objective for the day was to keep moving west. We had six more wells to pound between Tsumkwe and Grootfontein. All would be along the gravel road. Our first would be on the edge of town. There were already eight residential wells in the town. Our monitoring well would help us see seasonal fluctuations in the aquifer, and show us if the amounts of water being taken by the town had any influence. Shipanga got set up fast, and quickly pushed down over fifty feet. It would be one of our more important wells.

The next five? Since we were able to drive on the gravel road rather than through the bush, we made good time. Martin measured out the twenty kilometers we wanted between wells, checked the gps, and then had us drive maybe a hundred feet off the road to put in the next well. We moved fast and got two wells done each day with time to spare.

And then we were back in Grootfontein. Small town, two gas stations, three motels, three restaurants, but somehow it felt like returning to civilization. Our phones worked. We had been gone a total of ten days, but it felt so much longer. We took motel rooms, we took long showers, we sat in one of the restaurants, lingering over burgers and beer.

It felt like we had accomplished something. And we had. True, we had only pounded twenty wells. Seventy to go. But we had successfully pounded twenty wells. We had proven the concept. We had been to the east end of the Kalahari and back. I had seen giraffes and peed in the bush without being eaten. I was pretty proud of myself.

In between my shower and our dinner, I sat in my room and texted Emil and my daughters. Two bars. I could up load text easily and pictures if I was patient. Not enough bandwidth for video, but it could wait. For now I wanted Emil and the girls to know I was back, and for them to see my giraffes. Inge had used my phone to take pictures of me around the campsite and around the trucks as the wells were pounded. She had me pulling up my measuring cord, looking very serious in my work clothes and hat, looking down the pipes. I sent all of those images north. I smiled as I hit Send. Here is your wife/mother in Africa – the Kalahari no less – doing real work. And of course I am thinking to myself – not bad for a bartender from Amberg. I was one proud lady.

We had one night to enjoy ourselves, then it was back to work. We gassed up all three trucks the next morning and bought almost all the water the little store in Grootfontein had. Then it was back to the Kalahari.

Our rows would now be south of Grootfontein, and parallel to the gravel road we had used in the past. No roads from now on – just straight drives east through the bush. We took the highway south for fifty kilometers, and then turned left. Into the bush we went, Martin pushing through tall grass and thorn bushes.

Let me summarize the next ten days, because they weren't all that different than the first ten days. The landscape was pretty similar. After all we were just fifty kilometers farther south with the row east, and just another fifty with the row back west. We saw grass, thorns (every time I walked even five steps into the bush I ended up with thorns in my pants), a few trees. Add a few dips in the terrain, a couple dry creek beds, a few ant hills seven or eight feet tall. In short, the scenery didn't change much from what we had seen in our first loop.

And I can't say that we changed much. The wells went in pretty much as before. They all went at least forty feet deep, and Martin asked for several to go down fifty (what he actually wanted was 12 to 15 meters. I am doing my best translating from European to US measuring. Did I mention life might be simpler if we could agree on how to measure things?) Shipanga and his guys did a great job. The pipe went in, we pumped water out, I got a measurement of the depth and a water sample, we capped the pipe and moved on.

Somewhere in there though, it stopped being fun. Maybe it was the heat. Now it was early October, certainly not summer yet, but pretty late in the spring and the temps just kept rising. The trucks all had temperature gauges (they also were all white, your first sign that the sun creates issues). Being local trucks, not only were the steering wheels on the wrong side of the cab, but the temperatures were centigrade. I can do the conversion to Fahrenheit if I have to, but in general I knew 20-30 is about where you want to be. Over thirty is hot, and forty will melt you where you stand. Midway through this loop, we were seeing temps get far too close to forty.

And I wondered if we got a little bored. The fortieth well is a lot like the thirtieth, and that one is a lot like the twentieth. A stack of pipe is a stack of pipe. We pounded pipe first thing in the morning, had breakfast sitting on canvas chairs (Inge tried a few new things, but basically it was oatmeal every morning), finished that well, drove to the next location, had lunch, put in well number two, drove to the next location and camped for the night. It got hot, we got bored, we were tired.

Ten days later we had been almost all the way to Botswana, did our turn, and put in pipe all the way back to the highway. Ten days, twenty wells, sweat, dust, fatigue. This time when we got back to Grootfontein, it felt like we had been gone a month. We got to our motel rooms, showered, napped, and emerged for a late, quiet dinner. I sent Emil a short text – "Back in Grootfontein. Twenty more wells in. I am fine." Then I sat with the others and drank two beers for every glass of water.

Martin is a great project manager. And I am sure he was just as hot and tired as the rest of us. Midway through dinner he announced he had reserved all our rooms for a second night. And tomorrow? Sleep late, take at least two showers, and eat at multiple restaurants. It was our day off.

I won't tell you how late I slept, but it was late. I had a mattress, I had sheets, I loved that bed. When I finally got up, I had a quick meal (lunch), and then poked around in the local shops. Souvenirs of the Kalahari? Some ostrich eggs that had intricate carvings (two of them broke before I got them home), and small bottles filled with colored sands that were arranged to show landscapes, vegetation, even houses. How do you push sand around inside a bottle to make such scenes? I have no idea. But they were interesting, local, and came in a good size to get in a suitcase. I bought a dozen.

Dinner that night was more pleasant. We were all rested, and we had tales to tell about how we had spent our day (Shipanga and his guys had spent the day watching some soccer match, Martin and Inge had taken a quick drive back to Tsumkwe to check on the house). We drank fewer beers and more water, probably a sign we were getting prepared to go back to work.

Chapter 18

The Final Fifty

We had now spent three weeks in the desert. It was still interesting, but, it was also work. The adventure was over. I did hear a lion one night, but I spent most evenings carefully pulling thorns out of my pants. I saw another group of giraffes, but I only took one picture. I regret that now, but at the time, it seemed like a fair amount of work to walk the ten or fifteen steps I would have needed to take a more interesting picture. I suppose every tourist has a similar story.

The wells? We had expected them to be tougher as we went farther south, and they were. The ground was higher and drier. We found places where no grass would grow. Salt pans. Martin measured off the kilometers and we put in wells where he said, even in places that looked pretty forbidding. We never got another well down to fifty feet. There were places where we couldn't get thirty. I was still finding water at fifteen to eighteen feet, but we had to wonder what might be there by the end of summer.

That middle loop – wells forty one to sixty – was no fun. We worked, we sweated, we ate the same food day after day, and tried to sleep in a caravan that was hot until after midnight. What kept us going? We could count. Martin, being a great leader, had a small celebration when we completed well 45. He didn't have beer along, but he did have room temperature lemonade. We each had a glass, and Inge cut up a small cake that wasn't all that stale yet. It felt good to think back on our progress. And to be honest, it also felt good that we would be done with all this in a few more weeks.

Martin also did something else pretty cool after well 50. We were now well east, really just a few miles from Botswana. We finished the well about mid-afternoon, and normally we would just drive south the fifty kilometers we normally drove, and then set up for well 51 and the next row. Things started that way, but about ten kilometers south, he veered left while Shipango and his guys kept going straight.

"I can't promise you lions, but I know where to find elephants."

Now he had my interest. It was a hot afternoon, and I admit I had been dozing in the backseat. I had seen all the grass and thorn bushes I needed to see. Now, suddenly I was up, leaning forward, watching out the windshield. Elephants?

"There's a water hole up ahead that lasts through most of the year. If there are no elephants there now, there will be by sunset."

We bounced, the trailer bounced, I held onto the front seat, fingers crossed. Elephants. We drove about half an hour, and there they were. Four real, live elephants standing in a pool of water. It would guess the pool was maybe four feet deep, and round, like a saucer. There were a few trees around it, but much of the area was open grass land. We drove within about fifty feet and stopped.

"If they want us gone, we will get three warnings. If they look at us and flap their ears, we are in trouble. If they trumpet, we are in bigger trouble. If they make any movement in our direction, we need to hit the road fast. By the way, they can move much faster than we can, and if they want, they can crush this truck."

"Thank you." What else could I say? Inge and I had been sitting in the back seat. We both quickly got out and moved to the front seat. So far, no ears moving that I could see. What did I see? Four elephants standing in the water – drinking and shitting. Seriously. They were drinking the same water they were shitting in. My appreciation for elephants dropped pretty fast.

Then things got dramatic. Two rhinos came out from the trees and stood by the edge of the water. The elephants slowly moved out of the water and stood on the opposite edge. Then nothing. They stared at each other (I think. It's not like either have large eyes, and we were fifty feet off, but it sure looked like they were doing some kind of stare-down). This went on and on. The sun was getting pretty low, and Martin turned his headlights on as well as the light bar he had above the cab. I thought maybe the elephants and rhinos might move off, but they didn't seem to pay any attention to our lights.

Now I'm thinking, I've seen this movie. Two gunfighters on main street. A tumble weed blows past, dust swirls on the street, women and children peer out of windows. One or the other is going to "slap leather" just as the music reaches a high point. I'm watching the elephants. If their ears move, I think they may charge.

But it doesn't go that way. Out of the darkness comes a huge bull elephant. It is trumpeting as it charges. There have to be ten other elephants right behind it. It is running full out, straight at the rhinos. Oh oh, so it is tusk versus rhino horn? Nope. The rhinos suddenly rise up on their legs and turn, running off into the bush as if they were white tailed deer. Cowards. But fast cowards. They were gone in an instant. And the bull elephant? He just kept coming. We could feel the ground shake. And then he looked a little silly. He was trying to hit the brakes, but he ran past where the rhinos were, finally stopping twenty or thirty feet past them.

Now what? Now we've got a dozen or so elephants standing around the edge of the water. Maybe they are catching their breath. I don't know. Finally a few step into the water and go back to drinking and shitting. The gun fight is over.

We sat and watched for maybe half an hour, then started driving to wherever Shipango had set up. Once we saw his tracks in the grass, it wasn't too much work to find his trucks, even in the dark. And me? Even after bouncing around in the truck for three hours, I had a smile that lasted for days. I had seen elephants – and, I had seen a kick ass fight with rhinos. I had an Africa story few could beat. Wait until I tell the kids and grandkids.

Well 51? Just like all the others – a link in a chain of wells that led back west. After well 60, we drove back to Grootfontein, and this time Martin gave us a three day weekend. Did I mention he was my nominee for project manager of the year? I spent the first day in my room, mostly in bed, but often in the shower. I paid more attention to my hair than I had in a month. My texts to Emil and the girls? Mostly a progress report. Sixty wells done, followed by some technical information on well depth and aquifer characteristics. And then, being as subtle as I can (not one of my strengths), I waited until the end of the message to say, "by the way, rhinos are wimps. I saw an elephant scare off a pair." Let them chew on that until they saw me next. Grandma has a story to tell, just wait.

So, with clean hair and a great story, I lounged around Grootfontein. Truth be told, I was already counting down the days to the end of the project. Thirty wells to go. If we stayed on tract, it would not be much over two more weeks in the desert. If we stayed on track.

Three days later, we were back in the desert. And those thirty wells? We did them all without a break. Martin and Inge drove the caravan down to Windhoek to restock (we were now closer to Windhoek than Grootfontein), but the rest of us just kept putting pipe in the ground. Temperatures were up, the ground was more often bare, we found several locations where we couldn't even get thirty feet down.

But in fifteen days we put in thirty wells. Maybe that's a record. I don't know. I do know that for the last eight or ten we were smiling pretty much the whole day. Our time in the desert was ending. Our job was done, and it had been done well. We might be cut up by thorns and burned by the sun, but we had put ninety wells in the Kalahari. When the last well was capped and painted, Shipanga and I shook hands. (Martin and Inge and I hugged.)

Our last moves? We drove down to Windhoek. Shipanga and his guys took their trucks back to his warehouse. Martin drove me to my hotel – the Kalahari Sands. I walked into that huge air conditioned lobby thinking – I bet I know more about the Kalahari than anyone working here. Yes, I was pretty smug about it, but I had done two months in the desert. I stood in the registration line covered with dirt and sweat, and yes, I didn't smell all that good, but I had done over fifty days in the desert. I wore that dirt and sweat with pride.

Chapter 19

No Project is Over until the Paperwork is Done

I had a hotel suite. I had a huge bed. I had a shower with endless hot water. I had air conditioning. I had clean clothes. And, I only had one thing left to do before I could get back to Bern, back to my husband, and back to my castle. Paperwork. We needed to do a final report for the ministry - a written report and a final presentation to the minister and his deputies. I could do that. After all, I had a hotel suite, a huge bed, a shower, clean clothes, air conditioning... I was feeling pretty good.

Martin and Inge met me at the hotel for dinner. The food was great, I had a second glass of wine, Inge and I were both wearing dresses again after weeks of heavy pants. Most of the evening was casual conversation. They were as pleased with the project – and as pleased to be done pounding wells – as I was. We had succeeded. It felt like there should be a large sign on our table – "Winners." We certainly sat like winners. Lots of smiles, shoulders back and heads high.

Martin did spend a few minutes outlining the days ahead. Tomorrow we would be off. Inge immediately suggested a salon we could use. If anyone's hair needed some salon care, it was mine. So we set a time to meet. After that? Two days at the ministry to write the report, one day to do PowerPoint slides for the presentation. We were scheduled to present Friday at 2. Fine. While we were still sitting at the table, I texted my assistant back in Bern – flights on Saturday, please. This adventure was pretty well wrapped up.

That week? I think I can summarize it pretty fast. The salon? First rate. They washed out the last of the sand and dust, and gave my hair some sheen. Inge also suggested I let them try to deal with my dry skin. I think they over did the moisturizer and the makeup, but she said I looked five years younger. Okay. For that, I was happy to hand over my credit card.

Inge also took me dress shopping. I only had three with me, and she thought they were dull. It was Africa. I should be wearing brighter colors. I bought four cotton dresses, each with more vivid prints than the last. Not sure how well they would go over back in Bern, but I thought Emil would like them.

The report? We had been keeping careful notes as we put in each well, so we had all of that in an appendix. The report itself was four pages with a statement of the project goals, a timeline, a summary of outcomes, and a reminder that the project would continue with quarterly monitoring of the wells to be reported annually to the ministry.

Simple stuff. Except. There was a political element to the report as well. Shipanga got a full paragraph describing his skills, his efforts, and his results. He had done a damn fine job, and I was happy to see that paragraph included. Next – some praise for the ministry. Yes, we were basically sucking up. But there was some basic truth to what we said – knowledge gained from the project would help the ministry plan future developments in the region, and help the nation better understand its water resources during a time of anticipated climate change.

Report done, now for the oral presentation. Shipanga joined us for this since all three of us would be speaking. We were working in a small conference room. This time he arrived on time, and not wearing a muscle shirt. The man owned a suit. We set up the slides showing lots of pictures of us working in the field. Most of the slides showed him in the midst of his equipment. We had been allotted sixty minutes for the presentation. We gave Shipango half that to describe his methods, his equipment, and his progress. Basically we were giving him half an hour to advertise his company, but I had no objection to that. Companies need to advertise. We certainly weren't shy about advertising Naturale.

Martin would do the open, close, and Q&A. Shipanga got the middle. Me? I got three slides, all maps, as I described what we were currently guessing about the nature of the aquifer. Lots of smiles, lots of hopeful comments about the water supply, congratulations to the ministry for making the effort to conduct the research, a few words of caution about the need to monitor carefully over future years. Maybe five minutes. But I was fine with that.

We practiced our presentations twice, mostly checking for time (Shipanga was going to be a problem), and cutting slides wherever we could. The second rehearsal went pretty well. We took our USB drives and laptops and went to dinner. Inge and Shipanga's men joined us. It was likely to be our last time together, our last chance to tell stories about this well, or that ant hill, or the thorn bush that had done the most damage. Two hours went by pretty fast. And yes, Shipanga smiled three times. I counted.

The presentation? We practiced again in the morning, got a quick lunch, then set up in the main presentation room. We had a bit of a stage with a microphone and wiring off to a larger projector. Minister Murang and his main guys sat at tables, note pads in front of them. Behind them were seats for several dozen lower ranking employees. In the far corner I saw two faces I knew – Elsa and Emil. My husband had flown fourteen hours to hear me talk for five minutes. Keep your chocolate boxes and flowers. You want to see love – I was seeing it sitting in the back row.

The presentation went long, but not too long. There were lots of questions, most fielded by Martin, but Shipanga took a couple, and I took two as well. For the final act, Martin walked to Murang with our written report, holding it in both hands and handing it over formally. It seemed a nice gesture. Murang responded by thanking all of us and leading a lengthy round of applause. And that was it. We were done.

There were lots of handshakes, and final comments between Shipanga and Martin and me as we packed up our gear (yes, Shipanga shook my hand and even showed a brief smile), but slowly the room cleared, and I was able to get to Elsa and Emil. I got the longest hug from Emil, but Elsa held on to me pretty long as well. Both said all the right things. I was impressive, enlightening, brilliant, et cetera, et cetera. I just smiled and waited until they talked themselves out.

Drinks and dinner? Elsa begged off. She needed time with Mirang and two other ministers. She expected those meetings to go really well. I would hear from her soon. She had some ideas. One last hug and she was gone.

Which left Emil. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and we were out of there.

Chapter 20

Emil

Life has its high points, as do marriages. That day was definitely both. Emil had flown fourteen hours to hear me talk. I had gone to Africa, I had done an important project, I had lived in the desert for almost two months. I hadn't been eaten, and I hadn't done anything stupid. We had done some good. And Emil was with me now to witness and celebrate my success. I'm not sure I was ever so proud, and ever so much in love.

That evening? There was a restaurant nearby. It had a large balcony that edged out towards Independence Avenue. We sat out there with a bottle of wine, and stayed for dinner. The air cooled nicely as the sun set, the service was great, as was the food, not that any of that mattered. What mattered was Emil. He sat across our little table and never took his eyes off me. I talked, he listened. My God, I talked. I am not sure I stopped at any point in the evening.

And he listened. And he looked at me. Really. He looked at me. You know how with men you usually get part of their attention? They do look at you, but they also are looking off to the horizon, maybe checking for prey, maybe checking for predators, maybe just looking at women passing by? I'm sure it's basic caveman stuff. These days you see them with their phones out. How now Dow Jones? Surely a crucial text will arrive any second. You deal with men, that's just part of the package.

Not with Emil, not that night. He not only looked at me, but he reached across that little table and held my hand, his thumb stroking my palm. A cute smile on his face. Maybe he was listening to me, maybe he was thinking about what would happen back in our room. I was fine with that. I was thinking about that too – as I talked, and talked, and talked.

As I talked, he asked questions. First about me – had I been safe, had I been comfortable, had I enjoyed myself? Then he asked about the project, about Shipanga's equipment, Martin's choice of drilling sites, my impressions of the aquifer, my opinion of the contract Van der Walt had negotiated, my suggestions on any future work with the World Bank. I'm sitting there in one of my new African dresses, my hair recently done, and it would have been nice if he had complimented me on either (he didn't), but he was doing something far more important – he was listening to me. I was having a great evening. The food was good, the service great, the air felt marvelous as we sat out on that balcony.

And then it changed. I was going on about the World Bank, how we should look for other work with them – not only could we pick up some contract income, but it would be another avenue to useful marketing information as we expanded our international sales. And he said...

"Will you make that company policy?"

"Emil, you make company policy." He just looked at me. Then he put down his fork and took my hand. Oh, oh. I guessed where this was going.

"Twenty more years, Emil. This little trip doesn't change that. This is your company for twenty more years."

"This is already your company, you just don't see it. Every picture you sent me, I showed around the office. Within a day I found them down in the Marketing Department, and even in the accounting offices."

"It's easy to entertain accountants."

"It's hard to gain their respect."

"It's too soon, Emil."

"The point of this project was to show the directors how well you can handle an international assignment. But there was a second objective. I needed to convince the one person who has the greatest doubts about your abilities – you."

I'm staring at the person I love, my husband, the best man in the world. I have no idea what to say. But I need to say something.

"There may come a time for me, but this isn't it. Let me do my castle tours. Let me watch you lead. Give me a few more years where all I have to worry about is whether my tiara will stay in my hair as we waltz."

"Okay, a little more time, but you have to agree to sit on the Board of Directors."

"I'll agree if you will pay the check and take me up to our room and..."

He paid the check, and we practically ran back to our hotel, hand in hand, probably looking like children. Back in the room? We slowed down. You get to an age you appreciate time to touch and kiss and hold each other. He slowly undressed me. Emphasis on "slowly." His hands touched me everywhere, stroking my sides and my ass as he slid that African dress off my shoulders. I untied his tie and unbuttoned his shirt (he was wearing one of his thousand dollar suits), but mostly I kept my hands on the back of his neck, holding myself to him as my clothes fell into a pile at my feet.

When he put me in bed, I was so ready for him. He was on me and in me. I got a grip on the back of his head and kept my mouth pressed to his as he rocked into me. When he climaxed I wrapped my arms and legs around him, clinging to him. His arms went around my shoulders. He knew exactly how to hold me. I didn't need to say "tighter."

At some point I was talking again, this time in whispers. I loved him, I loved the way he touched me, the way he held me. I was so grateful that he had come for me. I loved him. In between kisses he told me he loved me, I was beautiful, he loved holding me. You know, pretty much the best things you want to hear from your man.

In the morning I drove him crazy in the shower, and teased him like crazy, walking around in a towel as he dressed, playing with my hair far more than it needed, knowing that he was watching me as I did it, getting out the brightest Africa dress of all, and asking his help pulling it over my head, knowing it would take him even longer to get it on me, than it had taken for him to get the last one off me. Good man. He had nice shoulders for me to rest my elbows as I played with his hair and kissed him, and he, well his hands did very nice things.

Eventually I was sufficiently dressed that we could go down to breakfast. I talked through the whole meal. Not sure what I said, but I remember smiling a lot. He talked too. He had a plan. We would drive up to Grootfontein so I could show him a bit of the Kalahari, then over to a small village on the Zambezi before driving along the river to Victoria Falls. The company jet would be waiting for us there. Sounded good to me. Pretty much everything sounded good to me.

Our trip to Grootfontein? He had rented a four wheel drive something or other, and seemed fairly comfortable driving on the wrong side of the road. As we drove north, I pointed out places where we had turned off the highway and charged into the bush to pound our wells. I also thought it was very hot, so hot my skirt should be pulled up pretty high. He thought his hand should be on my thigh to hold me in case we ran into any elephants. Good thing the road was in good shape and there was little traffic. Neither of us was paying much attention to the highway.

When we got to Grootfontein I showed him where the road to Tsumkwe was, and he turned onto it. We dropped down into the Kalahari and created a cloud of gravel dust. Destination? He wanted me to show him where one of the wells had gone in. We drove twenty kilometers east and easily found where we had turned off the road with our trucks. The brush was still beaten down. He put the car in four wheel drive and quickly pushed through to where our orange painted pipe rose from the sand.

"This is where you camped?"

"Yes, we did two wells a day, so we camped in places like this forty five nights."

He sat and looked around – grass, thorn bushes, an ant hill, a few trees. The sun was hot, and now that the car was not moving, we could feel the heat build. Sounds? A few insects.

"The pictures you took make it look far better than it is."

"It wasn't this hot when we started. Only the last couple weeks."

"Forty five nights. You are one tough woman."

"Really, it wasn't that bad." It hadn't been. Peeing in the bush had been annoying, but it had been fun seeing the wells go in, and I had always felt comfortable with Inge around. How did I explain that to Emil?

I never found a way. He backed the vehicle to the gravel road and returned to Grootfontein. We used the same motel I had used before, but I enjoyed the bed and the shower even more.

The next morning we had a big breakfast, and then drove to the local store to stock up on water. We were going to drive the Caprivi Strip.

This next part requires a brief look at an oddity of history. Use Wikipedia for a complete description. Here is my quick overview. Bismarck and the big wigs among European powers have decided to divide up Africa. Each gets a few pieces, borders are clear so no conflicts will arise, ownership is established (for Europeans). Bismarck knows less about Africa than he does about farms in the next county, but he knows rivers are important. Portuguese Angola extends from the Atlantic on the west, to the Zambesi River on the east. England already had the land south of Angola along the Zambesi. Bismarck wants access to the river for the new colony of German Southwest Africa (now Namibia). Over brandies one night he convinces the other foreign ministers to give him a twenty mile wide path from the rest of his new colony to the river. Why not? The brandy is good, twenty miles of Africa is nothing. The Caprivi Strip is born. A road is established, and now Germans can ride from their country through to the Zambesi. Does anyone actually use the road or the villages along the river? Not so much as we can tell.

It takes us most of the day to get there. We drive north to Rundu along the Angolan border, gas up, buy more water, and then turn east. The strip? Two to three hours of gravel road passing through fields and trees. We never saw a farm, a person, or another car. Good place for four wheel drive and a car you trust.

The other end of the strip? Katima Mulilo – a village with a few stores, a gas station, probably a school (but we didn't see one), and two small hotels calling themselves resorts. Emil had made reservations in one of them, not that reservations seemed crucial. There was one other couple at the resort. Service was great.

Our resort? A moderate sized lodge with a restaurant that could serve maybe thirty (not sure if it ever has). A pool. Eight or ten cabins around the pool. If you have driven around rural America and seen some of the older motels with their rows of cabins, you have seen the cabin where we stayed. Not bad, really. Air conditioning, not much mildew, a good sized bed, a bathroom that worked.

The attraction for us was the river. What did Bismarck get for his brandies? What he got was access to a pretty good sized river – maybe two hundred yards across. Trees on the far side, trees on this side. It actually reminded me of the Wisconsin River in one of its wider stretches as it flowed through the forests near the Mississippi. Except here, there were no houses that we could see, and no boats.

What did they have? Crocodiles. As we walked along the river we saw several signs – "No swimming. Crocodiles." Good reason to use the hotel pool.

The other thing we found along the river was a floating tiki bar, anchored just off shore – thatched roof, bartender in the middle, twelve or fourteen seats around the outside. There was a narrow walkway to the bar, maybe two feet wide, and yes, here too was another sign – "No swimming. Crocodiles."

Let me think of all the things that are wrong with this picture. A two foot walkway to an object that floats up and down. A two foot walkway for people who have been drinking. A two foot walkway above crocodiles. And if you get to the bar without falling, you get to sit about a foot above a mess of crocodiles. I have no idea who their insurance carrier is but their rates must be interesting.

Did we laugh and keep walking? No. My husband decided we should give it a try. Really. I'm standing there looking for crocodiles, and he is already across and sitting at the bar. I crossed my arms and stared at him across the water. He ordered two glasses of wine, looked at me, and waited. I never finished high school, but I know better than this. I waited. He waited. You know how this ends. I walked across.

I sat with my feet as high up on the bar stool as I could get them and sipped my wine. No chance I was going to have a second. Emil, meanwhile, is talking to the bartender (young guy, good English, some German), and to the other couple – Germans, on their way to Victoria Falls, heard it is fabulous, definitely bucket list.

My breathing eventually slowed, and I took a look around. Being eight or ten feet out into the river gave a different view. We could see more up and down stream. Still no sign of boats or people. But the woods were interesting. The sun was setting, lighting up the trees across the river (the east side). On our side, we could see the sun between the tree trunks. Not a bad view. We sat out there until it was almost dark, then wandered up to the lodge for dinner.

Let me skim over the next ten or twelve hours.

We had dinner. Food? Perfectly fine, and completely forgettable. The room? The air conditioner was noisy, but we slept anyway, locked in each other's arms. Morning? We showered, packed, and went up to the lodge for breakfast.

And here's where things started. A couple owned the place, and having very few guests, we got special attention. I don't know where the husband was that morning, but the wife was all over us. Did we enjoy our stay? Might we come back after our stay at Victoria Falls? Did we need directions for our drive? If we had time, would we like a short boat ride to see more of the river?

We had time. The Falls was only about three hours down the road. Did we really want a boat ride? I think Emil agreed just to be pleasant.

Her boat? An aluminum row boat with an outboard motor. Three seats. She took the back seat to run the motor, Emil sat in the middle, I sat in the bow. Off we went. She kept it fairly slow, pointing to places along the shore where wildlife came down to drink. No wildlife that morning. She talked a little about the resort – when they had bought it, changes they had made, how nice it was to live along the river. Normal chatter. We cruised along, stared at the shore, enjoyed the cool breeze.

After about fifteen minutes she began to circle back. She had run out of things to say, or this was her normal circle. The boat turned toward shore, leaning a bit to the right with the turn.

And she hit a rock. I assumed that's what happened. The boat stopped and flipped almost over onto its side. I flew over the rock and landed in the water. I went under. I landed partly on my side, and partly on my head, and it took me a minute to see which way was up. I thrashed around and hit the surface coughing up water. Hair was all over my face, so even when I was up, I couldn't see much. I spun around looking for the boat and Emil. I can swim. Could he? We had never talked about that. Pretty important thing to know, and I didn't know it. I thrashed around, pulling at my hair and looking for Emil.

"Jess, here." I spun around. He was behind me – in the boat. Good. He was waving me toward the boat, and the lady was aiming the boat in my direction. And I saw her face. I have never seen a person as frightened as she was. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide, one hand back on the engine's throttle, the other raised in the air. Her mouth was open, but no words were coming out. Was the boat sinking? Should I swim to shore?

I took two or three strokes toward the boat, and I was quickly alongside. You don't get into a small boat from the side, you might pull it over. You use the back. I started to move to the back of the boat, hand over hand, but she was now screaming.

"Get her out of the water. Get her out."

Emil did what she said, and pulled on one of my hands. I wasn't sure if she was right to try using the side, so I didn't help Emil much. But he got my head and shoulders over the side.

"Get her out of the water." She even reached forward and pulled at one of my hands. Not that it helped much. I was still mostly in the water, and the boat was leaning well over. I thought about pushing myself back into the water and coming in from the back. But Emil got an arm under me and pulled up on one of my legs. That gave me some leverage, and I got the other leg over the side. I was also reaching toward the far side of the boat to try to keep balance so we all didn't go in when the boat flipped.

And that's when Emil screamed.

Suddenly the boat leaned over even more, and somehow it started moving sideways toward shore. What the hell? I rolled the rest of the way into the boat to try to stabilize it, but it was still leaning way over to one side, with Emil now halfway out of the boat. I grabbed his shoulders and pulled.

And Emil screamed. I will hear that scream for the rest of my life. High, loud, getting louder and louder as the boat kept sliding toward shore. I grabbed his neck, and rolled myself back across the boat, pulling him with me.

Emil screamed again. And then he rolled next to me at the bottom of the boat –most of his right arm gone.

The resort lady gunned the engine, turned the boat back up stream, and raced back toward her resort. I lay with Emil for a second, and then we both started grabbing at what remained of his arm. There was plenty of blood, but not enough to hide the two bones that now protruded out below his elbow. Everything else below the elbow was gone.

Did I know first aid? No. Neither did Emil or the resort lady. But how many TV shows do you have to watch to know you tried to stop the bleeding? She had a couple life preservers in the boat. She threw me one and I used the belt from it to wrap around Emil's arm just above the elbow. And I helped him hold the arm up.

He didn't scream any more, but he was in obvious pain. It must have been excruciating. He had his eyes clenched shut, and he was breathing in gulps. I said all the obvious things – we would be back at the resort quickly, they would have first aid equipment, we would get a doctor in to help. Did they have a first aid kit? Probably. Was there a local doctor? Who knew? I held his arm up and smoothed his hair out of his face.

Over the next several hours, everyone agreed they had done the best that could be done. The lady got the boat back to the resort. She ran off after her husband. He arrived with a kit and tried to get some bandages about the wound, not that it did much good. Anything that touched the wound hurt like hell, so the bandages could not be tightened. We didn't move Emil from the bottom of the boat. We just held his arm up and tried to get bandages on it. Blood seeped through any cloth we put on the wound.

Was there a doctor in Kalima Mulilo? The lady made some calls while sitting right next to us. This was not the day for the doctor to be in town. He was in Rundu. Nearest doctor? Victoria Falls. She got a number, called, explained a crocodile had taken a man's arm. Could they help? Yes, he could pay. I explained he had a corporate jet at the Victoria Falls airport. That seemed to help. One of the bigger hotels in Victoria Falls had helicopters to take tourists on short rides above the falls. Another call. Names, credit card numbers, half an hour later a doctor was on one of the helicopters. What did he do for Emil? An injection for pain, an injection for antibiotics, a bag of plasma. He and I got Emil into the chopper, and we flew to the clinic in Victoria Falls.

Here's where we had to make our first decision. Did we admit him into the clinic and treat him there, or put him in his jet and get him back to Bern? We did some of both. The doctor and two nurses spent two hours cleaning the wound. As they are working, the doctor is telling me about crocodiles. Their mouths are dirty. They have undigested meat between their teeth. The bite is always ragged. They don't bite to cut, they bite to hold, to pull their prey under and drown it. I don't want to hear any of this. I want to hear they can stop the bleeding and ease his pain. They do – mostly. He ties off several arteries and cauterizes others. The bleeding is reduced. Emil gets more antibiotics, more plasma, more sedatives. They drive him to his plane. One of the nurses gets on with us. It takes fourteen hours to get him to a hospital in Bern.

Chapter 21

Next Steps

Emil lived for two weeks. He lasted until December first. What a crappy day. Forget all that nonsense about winter in the Alps. The sky was gray, the snow came down mostly as sleet, any way you turned, the wind was in your face. Bern sucked. The hospital smelled of disinfectant. Every person north of Italy had sent flowers, but they still didn't cover the smell of the hospital, and ultimately, the smell of Emil. He was rotting.

The first week in Bern had gone well enough. There had been two operations. The first had taken his elbow. With a clean cut they thought the arm would heal. They were talking skin grafts and a prosthetic. Three days later they took the rest of the arm, and you knew it was too late. Fucking crocs. Shit between their teeth. Might as well be poison. The doctors gave me the name of the bacteria three times, I don't know why. What difference did a name make? It was poison, and it was racing up his arm. Maybe if they had taken the whole arm the first day. Maybe. But it was too late now. The shoulder turned black. And it smelled.

I got his daughters there right away the first week. He was in pain, but still lucid, and he talked, and smiled, and said all the right things. They agreed the grandkids might be frightened by all the medical equipment, so they were left at home with their fathers. None of us said anything about the smell.

His daughters were there every day, almost all day. I moved in. He was in a large room, and the nurses moved a second bed in so I could sleep there. When they brought meals for him, they brought meals for me and his daughters. We held his hand, we talked, we smiled. When the sedatives knocked him out, his daughters and I spoke in whispers. I told them about the boat trip. The resort lady had told me it wasn't a rock, it was a hippo. They can be aggressive. We happened to turn right into one. He charged from under us and smashed the boat. She said it was lucky we hadn't all gone in.

Emil? I explained he was pulling me back into the boat. The resort lady was worried the hippo would take me. Apparently they did that. His arm was in the water trying to get the last of me in the boat. A croc took his arm. What we didn't talk about, even in whispers, was what it must feel like to have your arm torn off.

The second week the doctors were full of explanations. They had used "full-spectrum antibiotics" (funny how some words stay with you), then some experimental drugs. There was the possibility of yet another surgery, this time to take the shoulder, but the pain would be immense and it was unlikely to make a difference. The croc had won.

We used the week to say our good byes. Funny thing about that week. He was in pain, and when the drugs hit, he was mostly asleep. But that week mattered to us. It gave us time to accept what was happening, time to say our final words, time to cry, time to hold his hand, time to kiss him and run our hands through his hair. Time. It must have been agony for him. The pain, the smell, the knowledge that he was dying. But even the last day he was lucid for over an hour. He joked with his daughters about things they had done as girls. He told me he loved me, and held my hand.

A priest – Father Hans - came several times in the final week, and administered Late Rites. He took Emil's confession while we waited in the hall. Sins? What possible sins did that man have to confess? When we came back into the room, Emil said he wanted the usual family funeral followed by burial in the family plot. Father Hans said it would all be taken care of.

He stayed in the room. I stood at Emil's side, holding his remaining hand and talking to him as his eyes closed. His daughters were right behind me, touching him. There were no nurses in the room. They had done what they could do. We could see Emil breathing, and then we could see he had stopped. We each kissed Emil, and stood around him. The nurses knew he had died from the equipment wired to him, but they stayed in the hallway. I looked over and saw they were crying too.

Finally the priest asked us to go to the chapel and pray with him. I wasn't going anywhere. I held Emil's hand, talked to him, and cried. Everyone was patient with me. Finally one of his daughters took my hand and said, "Let's go pray." And that was it. I walked away. Away from Emil.

I wasn't a very good widow. Maybe I had become a widow too many times. I yelled at the man who did the embalming and would move Emil from the hospital to the cathedral to the cemetery. He wanted me to pick a casket. He struggled to describe the various features in English. I just cut him off, and pointed to one. "That one." He wanted to suggest another one. I yelled "That one" and left. What possible difference did it make? A box was a box.

My daughters flew over for the funeral. I told them to leave the grandchildren behind. Maybe I shouldn't have done that. It might have been good to have kids to play with. But, I did what I did.

At the funeral I sat in the front row with my daughters and Emil's daughters, their husbands and kids. Before the service a number of people came to me and his daughters. They were all "so sorry." I shook their hands. I even stood and hugged a few. But I had nothing to say. When time came for communion, I didn't leave my seat. My husband was dead. I didn't think I was Catholic any more. Father Hans looked my way but didn't push it.

The cemetery was a million years old. The Grubers had their own section going back centuries. We buried him next to his first wife. I stood with his daughters after the priest said the words. More hugs, more "so sorrys."

There was a reception at the castle. Where else? Our cooks contacted a caterer to help. The food was okay. The day was shit. More snow. Hundreds of people tracked it into the Great Hall. Father Hans did a great job. He said the right things and allowed dozens of people to step up to the mic and say the usual things.

Johann the historian stayed near me. He was my guide through Swiss burial customs. Did I have to stand near the entrance and let people hug me? Yes. Did I have to stand at the mic and say anything? No, but it would be nice if I did. There had to be fifty people who wanted to say something nice while the rest of the room ate small plates of food. I waited for them to finish. And I waited until his daughters had spoken. They both did a marvelous job.

Then I walked to the mic. I was wearing a black cotton castle dress – long sleeves, long skirt. I wondered if I looked like a widow from centuries past. My words?

"Emil was gruff, even rude. You know that, his family knew that, he knew it. And he never changed. My first time with him in this castle, he yelled at me. I suspect he yelled at many of you. Yet here we are, mourning his loss. Because this rude man was also a good man. He was a good father, a good husband, a good leader. You chose this rude man to lead your family business. I chose this rude man to be my husband. And in the end, this rude man lost his life to save mine. Today we mourn his loss. I think it will take time for us to fully understand just how much we have lost, when we lost one of the rudest men in Switzerland, and one of the best."

I sat down, the priest said a few more things, and that pretty well wrapped up the afternoon. People started leaving. Johann suggested (strongly) that I stand by the door again, so I once more had to be hugged while people gave me their condolences. I did my best. Eventually it ended.

What I wanted, more than anything in the world, was to go to my room and be left alone. It took three more days for that to happen. During those three days there were meals with Emil's family and my daughters. My daughters wanted me to return to Amberg, exactly what I didn't want. I didn't want yet another round of "I'm so sorry's" or worse yet, know the grandkids were being sent to me with some version of "Go play with Grandma. She is really sad right now." I told my girls I might do Christmas, but not to count on me. They left after two days, and frankly, I felt relieved.

With Emil's family there was the will to work through. The attorney came to the castle two days after the funeral. I had already seen Emil's will, as had his daughters. The point of the visit was to see if there were any objections (and to start collecting his fees). What was in the will? I got his life insurance (about a million francs, just over a million dollars), the girls got everything else, including the castle. I had no objection to that, and they certainly didn't. There was a note in the will that I got to live in the castle as long as I wished, but the girls didn't object to that either.

The girls, husbands, and kids left a day later. I retreated to my room. As far as I was concerned, I might spend the rest of my life there.

Chapter 22

Three Months

The afternoon I saw Emil's daughters off, I really did think I might go up to my room and never come out. I did spend a lot of time up there, especially over the next three months. But even then I had two things that pulled me back out.

First, "Christmas in the Castle." Every non-profit in Bern had some event at the castle prior to Christmas. It was their big fundraiser of the year, or their big celebration. Most of them had been holding their event every December for years. Their calendars were built around it. Now? They knew Emil was dead, but still, they were sorry to ask, but would I mind, would it still be possible... They funneled their requests through Johann Krause of the Historical Society. I told him Emil's daughters now owned the castle, but I would check with them. The girls? They had grown up in the castle. They understood the Christmas events. They were fine with letting groups in. I was in charge. I could approve any group I wished.

In the past, when Emil and I let a group use our Great Hall, we often spent some time with the group, maybe even joining for food or dancing. Now? I went down and talked to leaders of the group as they set up. I was wearing black, even a black shawl. I said "hello," wished them well, and then went back up to my room. No one asked me to stay. Black dresses will do that.

The second reason to leave my room? I still had a job. December I normally did one of my visits to the water plants that were currently in operation and the ones under construction. It had been a clever schedule. Not only did I talk with my managers, but I was home for Christmas. This year? I didn't want to go back. But I needed to do my job. I had at least weekly contact with the three plant managers I had hired, and daily updates through our computer record system if I wished. More important were the construction projects I had started before going to Africa. I had wells in and initial construction started on three new plants. I needed to monitor that construction.

But, as luck would have it, all construction had stopped. Why? Snow. Beautiful, white snow. Mountains of it. The winter was the whitest in years. It wasn't coming down in inches, it was coming down in feet. Really. One snowfall measured three feet. All three contractors had stopped work. They couldn't get anywhere near the job sites. Maybe, if melting happened fast enough, maybe they could get started again in May. I guess that's what happens when you purposely pick bottling sites in the Lake Superior snowbelt.

As for the three existing plants? They were in operation, but production was down. And all three managers said it might be better if I waited to visit until spring. I should point out that all three managers were not just people I had hired, they were friends. They knew Emil was dead, and they knew how he had died. They were happy to let me back off a bit. I needed time. They were managing just fine. None of them said it, but I am sure all three wanted me to have some recovery time.

So, aside from having brief meetings with people using our Great Hall, what did I do with myself? I sat in my room creating an ejournal. I went through all the pictures I had of Emil (and of course cursed myself for not having more), put them in a file and wrote the history of our marriage. I started with a picture of him in our entry hall, not how he looked that first night, but close enough. And I described that first conversation when I arrived to buy the Amberg water plant, and he gave me a hard time. I had digital pictures and plenty of words to cover the next two plus years. I even had a picture of us in Namibia, taken by the bartender as we sat at that tiki bar on the river (I also had a picture of that warning sign about crocodiles, but that didn't go into my journal).

I loved working on that journal. You might ask, didn't I get lonely sitting up in my room day after day? No. I always went down to the kitchen once a day to get lunch and grab some fruit and a sandwich to take up to my room for dinner. And I had great talks with Emma. Never once did she begin our talks with "I'm so sorry..." She talked about the groups that were coming in, or the latest with her family, or updates on the weather (I never left the castle, so I avoided a pretty bad winter). It was pleasant enough. Her food was always good. I ate it, grabbed my dinner plate, and went back up to my room.

Christmas? I was down to two employees – Emma, who did my cooking but mostly supervised the caterers who were brought in for the evening events, and Greta, who was nominally my maid but mostly coordinated with a cleaning service we used to clean up after events (event caterers where generally good about cleaning, but there always seemed to be something left undone). Anyway, I gave them both a three day holiday so they could be with their families, but both came back to make me a special brunch Christmas morning. My special treat? Two cheeseburgers. We laughed about American food and got started on a bottle of wine. It was fun. I was grateful for their time, but I sent them home before noon.

As for Amberg and my kids, the girls asked me to come back for Christmas, but didn't push. I said I needed time, and they respected that. As for the grandkids, turns out you can buy anything on Amazon, and they will ship it. I managed to get gifts for everyone, even my father.

January and February weren't much different from December. The weather still sucked, and we still had groups wanting the Great Hall. Obviously they had wanted their event to be in December, but if all dates were filled, they just called their event "Christmas in January" (or February). Fundraisers are pretty flexible.

Mid-January I sent off my first ejournal. There are some really interesting new businesses on-line. You attach a file, and three weeks later you get a book in the mail, your e-journal now a printed book with a bright cover and glossy pages. I spent days going through that, really enjoying it. But as I read it, I was reminded of other events and found other pictures. So near the end of the month I sent off another version of my journal. Call it Me and Emil, second edition.

How long was this new lifestyle going to go on? As I said, I think I would have been happy with a decade or two. But it ended in late March. Blame that on Johann.

Chapter 23

Maya the Lawyer Visits

Johann was a good friend. He was like an older brother. He tried to teach me German, he introduced me to every major figure in Bern, and he had guided me through Emil's funeral so I didn't insult too many people. But he had a problem. He was the head of the historical society, and they got most of their funding by giving tours of our castle. I hadn't been giving tours. He had a done a few, but fewer than in the past. A year ago their budget had been flush from all the busses coming to the castle. Now? Not so much.

He stopped by one afternoon. I was sitting in the library in front of the fire. If I wasn't in my room, that is where I sat. It was one of the places Emil and I went. We would sit on the love seat in front of the fire, he would put his arm around me, and... well, anyway, I still liked to sit there. That afternoon I had my feet pulled up under me wrapped in the long skirts of a dark wool castle dress, staring at the fire. Johann came right in, hugged me, and then sat on a chair to one side. Would I mind... They had been getting requests from tour companies. The companies would provide their own guide. It would be marvelous if I would just greet them at the door. But if I didn't wish to, that would be fine too.

I had known Johann for years. But he looked more concerned now than he had when I had struggled with yet another German vowel. I wondered how many times others in the historical society had pushed him before he finally agreed to come ask. Did I want to spend time with a bunch of tourists? No. I really didn't want to give any tours. Was I being selfish? Yes. But that's how I felt. On the other hand, I could not say "no" to the look I saw on Johann's face.

So the next morning I did a tour. I shouldn't have. I thought I was prepared. I put on a forest green heavy cotton dress – long sleeves, long skirt – very formal, but not black. I wouldn't greet a tour group in black. I stood as always, at the bottom of the steps, just inside the door, ready to shake hands and curtsey. But I was grumpy. I knew it, I tried to deal with it, but I couldn't. Before they ever opened the door, I knew there was nothing this group could do right. And in my own defense, they were pretty bad. They arrived about fifteen minutes late. Not the first time a tour group missed an arrival time, but fifteen minutes of standing by the door did not improve my mood.

And they were Chinese. Am I a racist to say they are the worst tourists? Maybe because they haven't had centuries of practice like other countries. But they just did everything they could to annoy me. I curtseyed to one of the men, and they just laughed. Half a dozen headed straight for the WC without even shaking my hand. Those who came into the Great Hall paid no attention as their guide tried to talk about the weapons and portraits on the wall. And at least three of them stole small items they found – a pen for signing the guest book, a stack of brochures, even a picture of Emil that was on a table. I grabbed that back.

Did I smile and try to guide them through the standard tour? Nope. I stood by the door and watched an ancient clock slowly move its hands. As yet another bunch moved past me to use the bathroom, it occurred to me this was basically a rest stop for them. One of them came out with a towel, and one of them came out with a spare roll of toilet paper. I let them keep those. Maybe China had a shortage.

It all ended after about forty five minutes. Their guide kept her smile on the whole time and even shook my hand as the last of the group exited the door. You have to admire her professionalism. Or her desperation for this job. I smiled and waved her out the door. No chance I was walking out to the bus. They had come, now they were gone, I was grateful.

I stood by the door wondering. Was it them? Was it me? Was it too soon for me to be around people? I had thought it might be good to hear voices in the big rooms. It hadn't been. I had been grumpy. I had been annoyed. I wanted them gone before they had been in my home for five minutes. Was that the new me? Shit. I didn't want it to be.

Maybe food would help. I climbed down the back stairs and sat down in the kitchen. Emma brought over a bowl of soup and two pieces of bread – well buttered. What is it about Europe? Their worst bread is better than the best bread we make in the US. Is this some kind of world secret?

Emma brought over a bowl of soup for herself and sat across from me. She was the only person I could speak to without it being an effort. At the funeral she had said her "I'm so sorry," and then it was done. No more sorry's, no "How are you feeling?" She looked over her soup and asked me how the tour had gone. And I let it rip. They were this, they were that, they stole this, they stole that... When I got to the toilet paper she smiled, and then she started laughing.

"It was probably made in China, and they were repossessing it." And of course that got me laughing too. Which led to us deciding if they stole paper from all places as a kind of weird souvenir, and how many they might have in the bus, and well, it just got funnier and funnier from there. God I love Emma. The weight of the world, or at least a substantial portion of it, dibbled down my back.

We got started on other weird tour groups that had come through and were laughing more than eating when Maya the lawyer came down the stairs. I had met her a couple times at the office, and she had done our pre-nups, but you didn't need to know her to know she was a lawyer. Anyone just seeing her on the street would know she was a lawyer. She was wearing a gray suit – a gray jacket over a white silk blouse, a gray skirt, all in wool and all tight to her. It fit like an army uniform – tight at the shoulders, tight at the hips. Her hair was pulled back and bound at the back her neck by a – you guessed it – gray silk scarf. She carried a black leather portfolio and wore black leather pumps. Lady lawyer uniform, right? I actually felt a bit sorry for her. Switzerland is a very formal country. Can you imagine how formal attorneys are? And how even more formal lady lawyers have to be? Day after day encased in wool, back straight, knees together, head held at attention.

And, as you might expect, she began with an apology.

"I am sorry to disturb you at lunch." Here she is apologizing, yet she is doing it in English, her second, third, or fourth language, using English to make things easier for me.

I came back with "Please join us," but I did it in German, which actually made things worse. Now she had two problems to solve – should she really join us or was I just being polite, and should she switch to German or stay with English?

Emma solved the problem. She patted the seat next to her and said – in English, "Yes, please join us."

And Maya did. Emma got her a bowl of soup, and then we went back to laughing about strange tour groups, wondering if any others were stealing toilet paper. And Maya began to relax, at least as much as a lady lawyer can. She had a nice smile. Late thirties, nice eyes behind huge black-framed glasses, I had to wonder if she was forbidden to wear contacts since that might make her too attractive.

She laughed with us, ate a little soup while I told a couple more stories, and then Emma got us moving again. She got up, gave me a hug, took our bowls off to the sink and then wandered into one store room or another to give us some privacy.

"I have some papers we should talk about."

"Let's give Emma her kitchen back." I led the way up to the library. I sat in the leather love seat across from the fire. In a major surprise, rather than take one of the adjoining chairs, Maya joined me on the love seat. I dropped my shoes and pulled my cold feet under me. Maya unbuttoned her jacket, her portfolio across her lap.

"This is the third conversation every widow hears," she began. "The doctors say 'We did all we could, but...' and then the funeral director tells you, 'This will be a celebration of his life...' And finally your attorney comes to you and says, 'Here's where the money is.'"

"There is no money. You did a prenup for us. Everything goes to his girls. We agreed."

"We will talk about that, but first we need to talk about insurance. You had a policy for each other. I have filed the paperwork for you. I sent in a death certificate. The money will go directly into your account."

"I don't know why we did that." And I really didn't. I stared at her, thinking she might remember why we had bought those policies. She just stared back. I guess lawyers learn patience. "Neither of us need the money. We have plenty, and our kids are grown."

"It's a final gift. Men do it all the time. And lots of wives now. They want to give you one more thing. In your case it is a million Swiss Francs, worth just a little over a million dollars." If there is one thing I have learned during my years in Bern is the exchange rate. For a second I was insulted she thought she need to do the math for me, but she was trying to be helpful. Did I mention I have been grumpy lately? I took a breath, nodded, and thanked her for her help.

"As for his other assets, you are right, they go to his girls. They get his stock, and that alone should keep them comfortable for life. They also get the cash in his accounts, all his property, and – this castle." She paused there in case I needed to process how that might affect me. Yes, his girls got the castle, and I knew that.

"It's only fair." I wanted to make that clear. "This is where they grew up. This castle has been in their family for generations. It should stay with them."

"They don't want it. They lived here. They know it is cold all the time. They know it takes huge amounts for upkeep and simple repairs. They are convinced the north turret is ready to fall, and it may be." News to me, but it would explain why it was blocked off and almost never used.

"Are they offering to sell it to me? I doubt I could afford it either."

"The price was twenty six million."

"I can't afford that."

"I know. But the company can. They bought it. They think it will work great for sales conferences, off-site meetings, and as an image for the company."

"I'm guessing they will want me out with this new use for the place. But I can just go back to Wisconsin and run my bottling plants from there."

There was a long pause while the lady in the gray wool squirmed. I am sure I saw her facial expression change three times. Finally it settled into a kind of smile. She had to put effort into it. Maybe those big black glasses were a good idea. It gave her less face to have to move into position.

"I'm going to have to tell you some things you won't like, but stay with me. I think you will like the final resolution." At this point she actually took my hand. Her hand was warmer than you expect a lawyer's hand to be, but I still can't say it made me very comfortable. What the hell was going on?

"You probably heard the board approved a new CEO. Kurt Meyer. You may have met him."

"Sure. I saw him around the office several times. Big guy. Maybe an ex-athlete. Late thirties. Marketing whiz?"

"That's him. Football. Played defense. Several years on the national team. Gave him all kinds of connections around Europe."

"Okay. Seems a reasonable choice." But she just stared at me. What am I missing?

"It's not unusual for a new CEO to make changes in management. In fact it is pretty common." Okay, now I feel which way the wind is blowing. "All division heads have been replaced."

"Including me."

"Yes. He will stop over to tell you personally tomorrow. He wants to talk with you."

"About my bottling plants?"

"No. He has already appointed your replacement, and they have worked out a general strategy for the plants. Gunther Handel. Engineering degree from Bern University. MBA from University of Michigan. The man even vacationed once near Lake Superior. They have all kinds of plans."

Has an MBA. Vacationed once in the region. Well, how much more qualified could anyone be? Sure doesn't need any advice from me. I think Maya was regretting holding my hand at that point. I was clenching every muscle in my body. I hadn't started screaming, but that was coming fast.

"Mrs. Gruber." Maya put her second hand on mine, I'm guessing getting prepared to break my hold on her hand, but she got my attention by using my name. Mrs. Gruber. Yes I was. I took a breath, let go of her hand, and looked her in the eye.

"What does he want?"

"Mr. Meyer has great respect for your skills. He has a new position for you. Director of Community Relations. You will continue to live here, give tours, meet with public groups, host events, do some videos for the web site and various publications."

"Bull shit. I'm back to being a hostess. Do I tend bar at these events too?"

Maya took my hand again. She just held it and looked at me until I calmed down.

"For most of the leadership of Bern, you are the face of this company. You are the mistress of the castle. The company needs you." At this point she is holding my hand with one of hers, while the other hand is on my upper arm, slowly stroking it like you might calm a child. It works. It worked on my daughters, and it is working on me.

"Those bottling plants meant everything to me. They were part of a plan Emil and I had. We called it the Highway 2 project."

"You were running the plants well. I saw the figures. But Meyer knows what he is doing. Those new plants will get built. Every time you go visit your girls, you will hear good things. In the meantime, this job pays two hundred fifty thousand, and you get to live in the castle."

"It won't be a castle any more, it will be an office complex."

"Jessica." She is leaning close, her voice nearly a whisper. The hand working my arm is now up on my shoulder. "I understand this is a tough time to make a decision. It is the worst time for a major change. You need time to heal. Time to look out familiar windows, and sit familiar places. This is your home. If you say 'no' to this offer, you will be on a plane in three days, and all the people you know, all the places you know here will be gone. That's too much loss to take. Say 'yes.' If you don't like the job, you can leave in three days, or three weeks, or three months. But you will be in control. There is not much in this world any of us can control, but this you can. Say 'yes.'"

"If the company needs me, they can go three hundred thousand."

"Two seventy five."

"Done."

She got out the papers, laid them on the portfolio, and I signed. I noticed the line for salary had been blank. So they expected me to negotiate. I guess they knew me. Maya wrote in the 275, and we shook hands. I was going to be the best paid bartender in Switzerland. What about Highway 2? I would watch. And wait. He was an engineer with an MBA. He might do fine. If he didn't? I came over here three years earlier to buy the Amberg plant. I still had the cash to do it if I needed to.

As Maya slid the papers back into her portfolio, she asked, "Should we have a glass of wine to celebrate?"

"I think I can find a few bottles." I led the way down back halls and then down a long set of stairs to the cellar. It was huge with ceilings that went up twenty feet. It was well lit, and staff kept it clean for any tours I might take down here. We had a wine cellar of course. If you have a castle, you have a wine cellar. But I think wine experts would be pretty disappointed. We had maybe two hundred cases in racks in one corner, but I doubted our collection would be much admired. If Emil or I liked a wine we bought a few cases. We never read Wine Spectator or any other guide, and we never spent more than thirty dollars for a bottle.

Germany is famous for its white wines. We actually preferred the reds, so I pulled a bottle and had it uncorked on a table while Maya pulled a couple glasses from a rack. The area was set up so you could stand and drink with a few friends if you wished, but this was not a place where we entertained. We had a simple table, maybe a couple dozen glasses, and a few stools. I poured before the wine had any chance to breathe, but we were down there to drink, so we drank.

Maya was a mile a minute with "I am so pleased..." and "You will do so well..." and "I think you will like the plans..." and she is on to her second glass before I am halfway done with my first. And I notice both the glasses and the jacket come off. I guess she is off duty now. Lady lawyer becomes lady. This is Maya when she is off the clock. Petty attractive actually. The white silk blouse fits her well.

I decide it is time for me to hold up my side of the conversation, so I talk about the wine we are drinking. Well, not really about the wine, but about where we bought it. And about Emil. I suddenly want/need to talk about Emil.

"We went biking. The summer before last. Along the Rhine. I barely biked as a kid, and as a grown up, before we went two miles I had a sore butt, sore back, and sore palms. But this is a special road that apparently everyone in Germany knows about. It runs along the Rhine, is flat, and is built with three lanes – two for cars and one for bikes. So we can pedal safely, and without too much effort, except for a very sore butt. I think we might have done ten miles a day, and even at that distance I was constantly stopping to massage my backside and shop at every little village we passed."

Maya is standing close and smiling. Very sweet. She is enjoying my story, and I find I really like telling it.

"We even camped one night. Emil had brought along packs, both of which he put on his bike. We slept in a tent, on the ground, built a campfire, and cooked some stew. No marsh mellows. Apparently not a German or Swiss thing. It's a nice campground along the river – permanent bathrooms with showers and real toilets. Other campers also enjoying the evening. I liked it. But I also like rooms with beds, indoor plumbing, and restaurants nearby."

More smiles from Maya. We are both on our second glass of wine by now. She has decided I have a lock of hair that needs to be moved across my forehead. She slides it across my face, and then leaves her fingers in my hair, her palm along my cheek. Her hand is cool, but not cold. I like the feel.

"We liked the little villages along the river. Good hotels, good restaurants, and good local wines. We visited a couple wineries and had a couple dozen cases shipped here. I really don't remember which village this wine came from, but we liked it, and it is still my favorite to drink."

Maya is standing real close. I can smell her scent. Lilac. Her hand stays in my hair.

"Tell me a story about Emil that you would not tell your girls." Her smile changes. She knows she is being challenging. But, it's a story I want to tell. All the time Emil was in the hospital, and for the days before and after his funeral, I got asked to talk about him, about us, but really, the most important moments between us, the moments that make a couple a couple, were moments I could not talk about. Now I did.

"We danced the waltz many nights. We both got very good at it. There were receptions in the Great Hall almost every night, and at least six or eight times a month there would be music and dancing. We almost always joined in. But we waltzed our way. You know the Viennese rules where you don't look at your partner, you look over their shoulder, your carriage upright and your face expressionless. What's wrong with those people? We ignored all that. We looked at each other, but we also had a secret. When we turned, Emil would have his hand on the small of my back, and he would really push, and even lift me as we came around. My feet were off the ground many times. That was fun. But. It was also foreplay."

Maya is standing right up against me as I talk, her hand in my hair, her other hand setting down her wine so she can put that hand along my shoulder. She has huge blue eyes.

"When we got into bed after a night of dancing, he would smile, and his right hand would slide down behind my back, and it would lift me and then slide me onto him. He had the strength to do it. And the whole time he moved me onto him, he would have this smile on his face. And I would see that smile, that look every time we waltzed. That look that said, I love you, I love holding you, and as soon as all these people get out of our home, you know what I am going to do. I would see that look as we danced, and I could barely keep from laughing. I would slide the hand I was supposed to hold properly on his shoulder, up to his neck and whisper 'I can't wait.' Some nights we didn't wait. We excused ourselves, went up to our room, and went crazy."

Maya now has her arms around my neck and her hands locked in my hair. I have my arms wrapped around her white silk. It has been too long since I have held anyone or anyone has held me. Just for a moment I wonder if my dress is coming off. Then she looks into my eyes and says, "Stay Jess. Stay. Go visit your kids two or three times a year, but this is your home. This is where you will find love." I get a kiss, then she is off me, her glasses and jacket back on, and I watch her ass cross the basement and climb the stairs.

I finished the rest of the wine, then brought the used glasses up to the kitchen. What was going through my mind? Not much. I went up to my room and slept through dinner.

Chapter 24

The Boss Arrives

It was over a week before Meyer finally arrived to tell me I had been fired from one positon and hired into another. But obvious changes had already come to the castle. Since the place now belonged to the company, it now used company security, company custodians, and company catering. Emma gets to stay as "catering coordinator". Greta is fired. I gave Greta a year's severance. Losing her hurt. I saw her more as a friend than an employee. Also, I didn't like the idea of being alone in a castle full of strangers.

My job took an odd turn as well. Someone from the downtown office came by with a script for me to use on tours. Since I was Director of Community Relations, nominally this young man worked for me. It didn't feel that way. He gave me a binder with three scripts they had worked on – one to use at the door, one to use on tours after the new displays were competed, and one to use when welcoming local groups in the evening. The essential element of each script was the repetition of the company's name every other sentence. I didn't head a very creative department. Should I go down to the office to talk to them? I thought I would wait until my new CEO made my position official.

As I said, he didn't make his grand entrance for over a week. By then the castle was a construction zone. There was lumber all over the Great Hall and throughout most of the second floor bedrooms. Apparently I would not be the only one living here. When I talked to the workers I learned several would be conference rooms, but at least twenty would be rooms for conferees to spend the night. It was a big castle. They still had the third floor rooms to update if they wished. So far, there was no work on them.

Anyway, the night my boss finally showed up, I had given two tours, carefully walking folks around construction areas and talking over pounding and drilling (In America everyone on tour would have been wearing a hardhat and goggles. In Switzerland not even the workers used protective clothing. OSHA didn't come this side of the Atlantic.) I didn't use any of the scripts, but I did get the company name in here and there (I may be a high school dropout, but even I could come up with livelier comments than "my" staff.)

I was in the dining room, just sitting down after a long and noisy day when he walked in. I remembered him being a big man, but now he seemed huge. Maybe being CEO can do that.

"Hello, do you remember me? I am Kurt Meyer."

"Of course I remember you. Congratulations on the new job."

"Thank you. May I join you for dinner?"

"Of course." I stood up. I was seated at the head of the table. Obviously that would be his spot now. But he shook my hand, motioned for me to take the same seat, and even held my chair for me. He took a seat next to me, and instantly plates and utensils appeared. The caterers knew who signed the checks.

What can I say about his appearance? He wore the required thousand dollar suit with white shirt and silk tie. His hair seemed a bit shorter than I remembered, but just as thick. He looked like one of those guys who kept his hair until death. Shoulders. You noticed the shoulders more than the face. The face was tanned, rectangular, and built up from a solid chin. Not bad. But like I said, you noticed the shoulders. At least I did. Sitting down, sitting close, he filled the space around him. Late thirties, but still looked like he could block a kick and take out any striker. (How about that? I had lived in Europe long enough to actually know a little about their football!)

"I'm glad we have some time to talk." He was using English, and using it without apparent effort. Good voice. Mellow, confident, enough volume to denote enthusiasm. I bet this guy never had trouble making his sales quotas. "I was impressed with the work you did in America, and in Africa, and I know you will do a great job for us here as we make this castle an important element of our sales efforts."

"I enjoyed my time expanding the North American division." Yes, a challenge, but a mild one, don't you think?

"And you did a fine job. I may have Gunther stop around to get your ideas before he goes off to continue your work." May? Or may not. Obviously Meyer and Gunther had their own ideas. They would take time for mine if their schedules permitted. My face must have shown what I was thinking, since he moved on.

"You make such a contribution here, I am please you accepted the director position. And since you live here, you will be witness to these transformations and help communicate their importance."

"Does the historical society have any concerns about changes you are making to the castle?"

"There is one set of regulations for residences, and another for companies. We plan to keep working with the society, and we plan to keep making the space available for community groups, but this is also a business, so some changes will be needed."

"How long do you think this construction will take?"

"The Great Hall display area should be done in three weeks. We estimate two months for the second floor meeting rooms and residences. We have the third floor remodeling in the next budget year. We are already scheduling sales events for this location. Two months from now I think we will keep you very busy."

"I see." My face must be like a pane of glass. You can see everything I am thinking. At the moment I was not thinking happy thoughts.

"May I call you Jessica?"

"Yes."

"And you should call me Kurt." I nodded, but apparently my face didn't change.

"Jessica, this is very important. We can rent hotels anywhere in the world and get all the rooms and food we want. It would probably even be cheaper. What we wanted was something different. Obviously the castle has a very special look. But we want more. We want evenings of music and laughter and dancing. And at the center of that, we want a very special woman. You. You are the mistress of the castle. You turn a sales meeting into an event."

At this point he is holding my hand, turned toward me, his gray eyes locked on to mine. Sales pitch? Oh yeah. Maybe the most emphatic I've ever heard. Has anyone ever said "no" to this man? I won't be the first. I smile and say, "I'll do my best." And, at least at that moment, I meant it.

His big sale of the night now locked in, he moved on to the charm stage of the evening – a series of anecdotes about his playing days, all being some version of – I blocked the man three times, but missed a header and landed sprawled on my back as he put the fourth one in the net. Thus showing he was vulnerable (just one of us after all), but did block three mighty kicks and was willing to sacrifice his body and hit the dirt to help his team, so you can count on him to give it his all. Variations of that story lasted through three courses of very good soup, sauerbraten and sorbet, plus a second bottle of wine.

And I liked it. The guy was a charmer, but not too oily, and he was our charmer. I could see him doing a good job running the company. My job? It might work. It might not. I would see. As Maya had said, I was free to leave whenever I wished. For the moment, I would stay.

The guy was a charmer, but also a gentleman. When dinner was done, he walked me to the foot of the stairs, but made no effort to come up with me to my room. He thanked me for having dinner with him, shook my hand, and watched as I climbed to my room. When I reached the top, he smiled, waved, and was out the door, off to wherever guys like him go in the evening. I sat on my bed and wondered what he had really thought of me.

Chapter 25

Remodeling

I learned that contractors in Switzerland were like those in the U.S. Major renovations on the second floor of a castle in two months? Really? Try four. The initial sales gatherings set for the castle were moved to local hotels with just an evening meal and short entertainment at the castle. Even so, just getting in the door was a treat for these guys (almost all sales people were men). I greeted them in a castle gown complete with multiple petticoats so my floor length skirts filled out in the perfect bell shape. Once I went with something off the shoulder. And yes, I wore my historical society tiara. From their reactions, you would have thought I was the queen of Switzerland. We were off to a good start, even with all the construction delays.

Kurt stopped by every couple weeks. Always for dinner. The staff told me when he was coming, so I left the head of the table to him, and took a chair to his right, still near the fireplace, which was necessary no matter the time of year.

During the first few of these meetings our conversations were about the construction (they are having trouble with X, and one of the subcontractors is waiting for Y), augmented by Kurt telling yet more stories about goals made or missed. Or, summed up, there was a half hour of substance followed by an hour or so of charm (and the usual male bragging). The food was good, the wine was very good, and the evening passed. Dinner always ended with him walking me to the stairs, saying something nice, shaking my hand, and waiting for me to climb to the top before he left.

About month three, as the construction dragged on and the sales meetings were pieced together at the last minute, conversations changed. Now he wanted my take on how the evening meetings were going – too long? More bar time? Different kinds of entertainment? I gave my opinions, and I think he listened. Then, finally, instead of talking about himself, he asked about me. He seemed to be interested in my time in Dubai. Three dinners in a row he asked me about living there, my samosa business, even my marriage. It felt funny to talk about that time. It seemed so long ago. I was tempted to ask how business was going in the gulf, but I knew from emailed company reports (I was both an executive and a significant stockholder), things were great. Saanvi was punching wells in the ground at a rate never seen before. So why was he asking me about Dubai? I have no idea. I talked, he listened, the evening ended, and we were back at the bottom of the stairs, me to climb to my room, he to drive off to CEO land.

During these weeks I was busy, but not too busy. Each day I did one or two of the regular tours for the historical society. Johann joined me for many of the tours, always happy to help with questions (or with my German). I could see he was not happy with the big sales display in the great hall, but he said nothing. I actually dealt with the contractors on that one. They had been told to hang huge color posters showing beautiful streams bringing us the world's purest water. Nice posters, but garish against the century old carpets on the wall. I got them to take one poster down and move the other to a wall section devoid of artifacts. I got them to make the change without even yelling at anyone. Maybe I really was CR director after all.

A couple times a week there would be an evening gathering for sales people or top line customers. Usually drinks, sometimes snacks, sometimes full meals, usually a local musician for a long medley while people had yet another drink or two. I greeted them at the door, all curtseys and smiles, often wearing a ball gown. I joined them for meals, usually introduced the entertainment, and said a little something about the history of the castle and its connection to the company. As the evening broke up, I was back at the door thanking everyone for coming. Usually Kurt and one or two sales managers stood with me. Evening over, Kurt stood with me at the bottom of the stairs, thanked me, and smiled when I hit the top landing. My time was now my own.

As I said, I was busy, but not too busy. I had most afternoons free and most evenings to myself. What did I do? Some afternoons I just sat in the library, buried deep in that leather love seat. I thought about Emil, I sent long texts to my girls, I wondered if I was in the right place. Other afternoons I changed into jeans and climbed the hill behind the castle. I stood where Emil and I had stood, and I knew I was in the right place. How can you stand on a Swiss hilltop, look to the Alps and want to be anywhere else? Yes, I was alone, yes, I had lost a fabulous man, yes, my job was fairly silly. But just look at those mountains. Yes, look at those mountains.

Maya came to visit about every other week. She showed up later in the afternoon, after the tours were over and the workmen were packing up for the day. We would go into the library, close the door, and sit together on the love seat. She had her black lawyer glasses and gray lawyer jacket off before she sat down. One hand went to my hair, one hand went to the small of my back, and we kissed. One time I pushed her skirt up a bit, and another time she unzipped my dress, but mostly we held each other, kissed, and talked.

What did we talk about? Office gossip. I still had not gone into the office since being fired as North American director. Not bitter, just not sure what I would do there. So I stayed in the castle and let Maya be my eyes and ears. And she always arrived with good stories to tell.

Saanvi? Pregnant again. Baby number five. Maya was convinced it was how her husband kept her under control. I had to laugh. She had nannies and house keepers. If she was pregnant, it was because she wanted to be. She was birthing her own dynasty.

Gunther Handel, my replacement? Spent a month living in Superior. Not his cup of tea. Moved to Minneapolis. His performance? He was making his sales quotas, but just barely. Is it wrong to wish for someone else's misfortune? Of course it is. But I had to smile at Maya's news.

Kurt Meyer? Doing well, and saying good things about me. Hmm. Never bad to hear.

What was developing between me and Maya? Maybe more than friendship. Maybe love. Not sure. I know I did love to wrap my arms around her. A very nice lady wrapped in white silk. I think my favorite times with her were after the gossip when we just sat holding each other, sometimes kissing, mostly just sitting together and looking at the fire. I asked her to stay for dinner several times, and if she had, we might have ended up in my room. But she begged off, put her black glasses and gray lawyer uniform jacket back on, and walked with me out to her car. She checked, and if there was no one around, we would kiss good bye. I always stood and watched as she drove away.

The two month remodeling job took four months, and then five. I can appreciate their problems. They were putting bathrooms in each room, plus bringing up heat, and had lots of pipes and such to somehow get downstairs without it being seen. In the end they ran it all out the back of the castle and down inside some new stone that somehow had to look like old stone. That took some skill.

Inside each of the rooms they not only put in the baths, but they sanded down three hundred year old floors, added closets, and updated woodwork and wall coverings. They left the exterior stone walls alone, but everything else was new – although carefully detailed to look old. With a bit of imagination you could believe that this was how the knights had lived three hundred years earlier – assuming they took a morning shower and twisted a control near the door to raise the temperature in their room. And of course each room had a large canopied bed, dressers, carpets, chairs, and a large flat screen TV. And wifi. Three hundred years ago, those knights had lived pretty well.

Most nights I walked the second floor hallway before going to bed. I could see progress each day. I could also smell paint and see piles of wrapping papers and cardboard boxes. There was a lot of stuff being brought in. Each night I dodged around the refuse and looked to see how the three conference rooms were going (long oval tables with ten or twelve office chairs), then the twenty sleeping rooms.

As I walked back up the long hall toward my room I usually went into the room next to mine. This was being set up as a suite. Basically they took two of the rooms, built a large double doorway between them, and used one room for a bedroom and one for an office. I usually walked into the office area to see the progress on the suite. Lights were low, the castle was essentially empty, this was my time to explore.

I was standing, staring into the bedroom one night when I realized I was not alone. Kurt was in the doorway.

"Yours?" I asked.

"Yes. They will put in the electronics in the next couple days. It will be my office when I am here for meetings."

I stood and stared at him. He stared at me. I couldn't think of anything else to say. So we just stood there in the half light from the hallway. I bet five minutes passed while we looked at each other. Finally he just held out a hand, palm up. I walked over and put my hand in his. Backlit by the hallway lights, somehow he looked even bigger. I could make out his face, just barely. I wondered if he could even see me, now in his shadow.

"You have been doing good work."

"Thank you."

I moved closer and put my other hand on his chest. It was warm, and I could feel him breathe. We stood looking at each other for yet another eternity, and then I took my hand out of his and brought it up to his face. His hands slid behind my back and pulled me to him. I slowly rose up on my toes and brought both my arms up around his neck. We continued to stare at each other. I guessed I was the one driving this, so I did. I kissed him, and then buried my face in his neck. The only word I said was "tighter." He held me tighter, my feet now off the ground. I can't begin to tell you how good his arms felt. God, how I needed to be held, to feel two huge arms wrap around me. I buried my face in his neck and held on tight. I think I would have given him anything at that moment, just to have him hold me. Me in the dark, in his shadow, holding on for dear life, wrapped around a man I barely knew, grateful for his arms, wanting only one thing in the world. Tighter.

He held me. And we stood in that doorway. Then slowly he turned, moving me out into the hallway, into the light. I wasn't very good about it. I kept my arms clamped around his neck, my face in his neck. But I could feel his hold loosen. He let me down. Lowered me. I held on, then slowly let go. I stood in front of him, our faces close, and I kissed him again. I stared. He stared. I desperately wanted to kiss him again, but I didn't. I took a step away and then walked slowly back to my room. Would he follow me? Hold me again? I fumbled with my door, standing, waiting, and then finally went in. I left the lights off. I sat on my bed and watched the door, listened for footsteps. I probably sat there half an hour. But he never came through my door.

Chapter 26

The First Sales Weekend

So, what's going on with me? Pretty obvious, isn't it? I'm lonely. I need somebody. And right next door to me is this huge man. Right through this wall, right past my bed. If I listen carefully, I can hear him moving around in there. And, far more importantly, I can still feel his arms around me. He held me. Maybe he will hold me again. Maybe.

The next morning I am up at dawn, hit the shower like I am racing, then spend an hour in front of my mirror struggling with my mousy hair and irksome makeup. I try for a light glow, some color, an effort around my eyes. Maybe. I go with one of my cotton castle dresses, long sleeves and floor length skirts, but this one has a nicely scooped neckline, lemon yellow with a bit of sheen, and ruffles at the hem. I go with two petticoats to give it shape, and to add a bit of flounce. Well, I am the one flouncing, but as I move in front of my mirror, I see the skirt do what I want. Low heels in a matching shade of yellow, and I am off. Down a million stairs to the kitchen.

And. He is there. He and Emma are sitting at the table talking. All business from what I can tell. The first overnight will be in six days. Leading sales managers and their wives. Emma is advising him on the menu. His caterers will do the cooking while she manages the kitchen. There is lots to talk about. I take the chair next to Kurt, my skirts brushing his leg. He smiles, I smile. He tells me more about this first group. I have already seen the agenda. I know my role. I tell him I am sure things will go well. I am looking at him. He is looking at me.

Emma gets up to get me some breakfast. Kurt finishes his coffee and stands up. He is off to some meeting.

Emma puts some eggs and toast in front of me and sits down with a cup of coffee for herself.

"He has a woman."

"Am I so obvious?"

"It's your best trait." She takes my hand.

"Where is she? He seems to be alone."

"Greece. One of the islands."

"For how long?"

"It's been a while." She smiles and shakes her head. "But not that long." She gives my hand a squeeze and then wraps her hands around her coffee cup. I have nothing clever to say. I eat my breakfast and wonder if I will see him again that night. No, truth be told, I am desperate to see him again that night. I can still feel his arms across my back. If he comes anywhere near the second floor, I will jump him. I am just that crazy.

But he doesn't come to the castle that night or any night until the sales managers arrive. I spend the days giving tours and prepping for the manager weekend. One day before they arrive the last of the cardboard and wrapping paper goes out the door. Custodians go crazy with mops and vacuums. Caterers add three round tables to the dining room and set up bars and high top tables in the Great Hall. The castle is filled with people and motion every day until six or so. Then it is just me. Me in an empty castle. Me walking down dimly lit hallways, checking to see that rooms are ready. Me standing in Kurt's suite, hoping he will join me. He doesn't.

The next morning all the marketing support people from corporate arrive before I've even finished breakfast. I've been up since dawn, but there was hair and makeup, and deciding one more time what dress to wear. I finally went with a pink cotton print with half sleeves and skirts flared enough to get petticoats under them. I had matching three inch heels I thought I could stand to wear all day.

I did one more pass through the second floor and then down through the main level. I heard loud voices and lots of laughter. Not a good sign. Here is something you might not know about business people – they hide their nerves. They will never say, "Gee, I hope this goes okay." Not allowed. Instead, they will say, "Wow, what a great day. Everything looks perfect." Of course this is just another way of saying, "I hope the plumbing doesn't leak or one of the circuit breakers pop." The louder and more confident they sound, the more nervous they are.

What can they be nervous about, you might ask. These are not customers arriving, these are our own employees. Wrong. The most important customers you have are your own sales managers. They can't sell a concept until they have first bought it themselves. In this case, we are selling them the castle concept – a new way of branding the company (look at our traditions, we even originated in a castle). And we are selling an experience. If they like a weekend in the castle, they will be thinking about how much their lead customers would enjoy the experience, and how likely they would be to buy even more to get another weekend. So, we don't want problems this weekend, and we certainly don't want our managers to wander around the place thinking, why am I wasting time in a drafty old museum?

So there were nerves. Sixteen sales managers and their spouses were on their way, and our corporate castle was about to have its grand opening. I walked the rooms, smiled, patted shoulders, complimented every flower vase and each correctly folded napkin, and then walked to the door to await our first overnight guests.

Kurt was already there talking to a series of corporate guys who had last minute questions and last minute jitters. I butted in and straightened his silk tie. It had already been perfect of course, but if you want to get a man's attention, women can always use the tie ploy. I straightened it and looked up at him. He looked down at me. I moved to his side, facing the door and waiting for our managers. And yes, I briefly touched his hand.

The sales managers had come from different regions on different flights, so they arrived in waves, three or four at a time, wives in tow, luggage being handled by half a dozen young men we had for the day. Kurt kissed cheeks and shook hands. I hugged the women and did a formal curtsey to the men. So far, so good.

One of the marketing people guided new arrivals up the stairs to their rooms while Kurt and I stood at the base of the stairs doing greetings. Pretty soon we had a flow going both ways, new folks up, settled folks down. Couples coming down were ecstatic. The rooms were a hit. We heard comments about décor, about amenities, about size. Two of the guys were already talking about major customers they would like to bring in. If they are already planning their sales, things are going well.

Once the last couple had arrived, I worked the room, doing impromptu tours, mostly with the women, talking some history and saying nice things about their appearance. I did my job.

The first day agenda? Lunch, then women off to a spa while the men got an update on sales, new products, and competitive positioning (what was really going to happen is there would be an hour or two of bragging about sales followed by the arrival of three portable bars, after which there would be even more bragging).

Lunch was in the dining room, one long table, three round tops. Candles everywhere. And service? The crystal looked Czech, the plates had to be Dresden, the utensils gold. I have no idea what each place setting cost, but I was glad I wasn't paying it. But it did what Kurt wanted. Every single person was impressed the moment they entered the room. The caterers managed to repeat that performance at every meal. Yes, the food was great too, but the presentation sold it before anyone touched it.

After lunch, we women took a bus to the best spa in Bern. I went along. I needed it. I had not been to a salon since before Africa. My hair is not much to begin with, and these days I even have a few gray strands. We went the whole route – massage, nails, face, hair. And we were there forever. It had to be after seven before we finished. But we figured the men had a bar, so let them wait.

I should say this about the women. I would guess the average age to be thirty eight. A couple were pushing fifty, a couple still in their twenties (wife number two or current "friend.") They were nice enough people, and nice enough looking. I suspect the label most would get would be "pleasant looking." Not a show stopper, but decent looking. After the spa, with hair touched up and face professionally done, these ladies looked fine. We got back on that bus knowing that we were going to make some men very happy to know us. And that included me. I had my own agenda.

Back at the castle, we all went up to our rooms to dress. Dinner was at eight thirty. Our men would come for us and take us to dinner. I think every woman up on the second floor had an agenda similar to mine. We would be wearing our best, looking our best, expecting the best from our man.

Me, I went with a deep blue satin number, off the shoulder with very small sleeves, floor length of course, flared over petticoats, ruffles down the skirts. If I moved, it moved more. And it rustled. Add some scent, and I would fill his senses.

Kurt was to be my co-host for the evening. He arrived on time. Rather than open the door, I just asked him to come in. Let him come to me. I stood in the middle of the room, and let him look. He looked. And he looked. And he came closer. I was holding my tiara.

"I was thinking of wearing this tonight. What do you think?"

"Yes, I think they would like to see it."

"Can you help me put it on?" I handed it to him, and then moved closer as he raised it above my head. I put my hands on his chest and leaned into him.

"You know men have their limits." He settled it into my hair and then put his hands on my shoulders.

"Women too." I slid my hands up and around to the back of his neck. I pulled myself up and kissed him. His hands went across my back and pulled me to him. "You have no idea how good that feels." He held me. I whispered "Tighter." He held me tighter and I kissed his neck. Men do have their limits. Before he reached his, I let him go. I stepped back, smoothed my clothes and then his, took his hand and walked down to dinner. My agenda had more steps.

The dining room was already full. We spent a few minutes talking with each couple, asking for their reactions to the castle, and making general small talk. Then we suggested they take their seats. We paused a bit here. We wanted them to experience the room in candlelight, the wall paneling glowing, the crystal ware shining, the floral arrangements bursting in color, the women radiant in their gowns. It was an amazing scene.

Kurt and I each had a few words to say. He told them how much he appreciated their work, and how important they were to the success of the company. My pitch? "This is your castle. Use it. Use it for a quiet lunch with a good customer. Use it for an evening gathering. We can schedule a weekend for your prospectives if it will help make the sale. This is your castle. Tell us how we can use it to help you." I looked around the room and knew I was just confirming thoughts they already had. Sales folks. They had been thinking about making sales since the minute they stepped into the castle.

Kurt sat at the head of the long table. I took one of the round tops. Dinner was fabulous, the conversation nonstop, kind words and smiles from everyone.

And then came dancing. Well, drinking and dancing. We were still on our final course when we could hear a small orchestra warming up in the Great Hall. That moved the meal along. When the last fork went down, Kurt stood, I stood, and we all moved to the Great Hall. There were small tables with deserts, three portable bars, and a huge dance floor.

Kurt took my hand, and we led the dancing. Waltzes, of course.

Over the next two hours we danced with many partners, but we always came back to each other, him with a bow, me with a curtsey and a smile. I liked the way he took my hand, I liked the touch of his fingers on my back, and I rejoiced at the look I saw on his face when he took me in his arms. Six hours in a spa, a pretty, shiny dress, and this old girl can still draw some attention. We danced, we turned, I got closer, and I felt him draw closer too. By the last dance we were standing side by side, hand in hand, a couple.

Several couples had already drifted up to their rooms by the time the last dance finished with a round of applause for the band. Others now took to the stairs, Kurt and I saying pleasantries to each as they left the Great Hall.

Then it was just us. Well, us and the caterers cleaning up and putting away, and the orchestra packing their instruments. But it was the two of us, with me still holding his hand. We gave the last couple a five minute head start for the stairs, and then we followed, one of my hands grabbing fist full of skirt as I climbed, but other hand holding Kurt like he was a lifeline. We made it to the stop of the stairs and to my room, and I didn't even hesitate. I opened the door and pulled him in. This was not a time to be coy. I wanted him.

I wasn't sure what he wanted, but I wasn't going to wait around while he decided. I had his tie off and his shirt half unbuttoned before we were two steps into the room. I also kept the lights off. What light was being generated by a pair of digital clocks was all the light I needed. My standard ploy worked. I leaned in to him and asked him to reach around to pull the zipper on my gown. He did. And, I might add, he did it well, one arm around my shoulders, while the other slowly took the zipper down. The boy had moves. While he did his job, I undid his belt and his pants. No long conversations, no second thoughts, I got us out of our clothes pretty fast, everything just a pile on the floor.

The icing on the cake? I had a white satin nightgown folded on my bed. I handed it to him and raised my hands. It looked at bit like I was surrendering, but I was getting just what I wanted. He took it and smiled at me, then reached it over my head and over my hands, and slowly slid it down my body, his hands sliding with it, all the way down my sides and then around to my ass. I felt him tighten his arms, and I knew he was mine. I backed to my bed, pulling him with me. Over I went, him on top of me.

What was he like in bed? Marvelous. He was in me just when I wanted, and that was great, but there was more. Where men seem to lean down on your chest as they rock into you, he had his arms around me, and actually pulled me up against him, somehow riding on his elbows and huge shoulders, his arms under my back and one hand under my head lifting me to him. As much as I loved having sex with him, the way he held me was special. I needed those arms, I loved those arms, I wanted those arms. And I got them for a very long time. I was also wrapped around him, and kissing him as he came into me. I was also whispering and moaning and gasping for breath. I am pretty sure he knew what he was doing to me. It never hurts to show some appreciation.

He spent the night. Resting now, on one shoulder, but his arms always around me. I'm not sure I slept at all. I would run my hands along his side, and I kissed him again and again. I liked the feel of him. I liked the smell of him. I loved those huge arms around me. He held me so tight I could barely breathe – exactly as I wanted. As dawn came, I pulled him onto me again. And it was every bit as good. I'm not sure what I liked more, the huge arms across my back, or that hand under my head, pulling me to him, pulling me exactly where I wanted to go.

I let him shower alone. Probably my one mistake. But I thought he would want to dress and leave my room before others were up. He would need to hurry, and I knew there would be no hurrying if I was with him in the shower. We were lovers, but not yet public lovers. I had no idea how we would make that transition, but he was the CEO, he could work it out. As long as I had him in my bed at night, I could wait for whatever he wanted to do during the day.

He was pretty good about leaving my side. He showered, dressed, and then sat on the edge of our bed. I had already slid one strap of my gown over my shoulder and messed up my hair. Oh, look at me – the half-dressed woman you ravished last night. He slid a hand under my head and leaned down to kiss me. If I was Sleeping Beauty, I was awake now. To make sure he knew it, I slid a hand up his thigh. He smiled, gave me a second kiss, and left. I laid my head back down, slid around under the covers, and just enjoyed being me. There was a man back in my castle.

Chapter 27

Why didn't She Stay in Greece?

I assumed I wasn't going to be the only lady who came down late for breakfast. So, I took my time in the shower and in front of my mirror. My hair still looked great from the salon, and my face had a fresh glow. I still used makeup, but I put it on with confidence. Dress? Castle hostess dress of course. I went with a blue cotton print, half sleeves, a nicely scooped neck, and floor length skirts flared enough to get a petticoat under. I would flounce. Just watch me. The lady in blue seems to be dancing as she comes down the hall. Yes, that dancing lady is me.

I didn't see Kurt when I went down stairs. It looked like a few men had stepped outside to smoke. Other men were standing in the Great Hall by the corporate display. I wasn't sure if they liked it or not. There were seven or eight women in the dining hall. Breakfast was served buffet style, so I filled a plate and joined three women at one of the round tables. They wanted to talk, interrupting each other as they praised the food, the castle, the rooms, the dancing... Name it, they liked it. I smiled, nodded, and worked through my eggs and toast.

Somewhere through my second piece of toast, I could see three women from the marketing department standing in the doorway between the dining room and the Great Hall. They were keeping their voices down, but you could see they were pretty intense about something. Oops, our first problem of the weekend? I excused myself and walked over to see what was up.

Odd, but all three told me there was nothing wrong. But they were practically whispering as they told me we didn't have a problem. And they were mostly looking at the floor. Something had happened, and they were embarrassed. I asked again. What was wrong? One of the women looked toward the front entrance and then stared at the floor again. What the hell?

I strode across the Great Hall, but then froze at the doorway into the entrance hall.

She was in orange. Mid-thirties, five nine or so, taller in Italian shoes with five inch stilettoes. She was maybe a size four, but her silk dress was even smaller. It looked painted on. Off the shoulder, and so low it was nearly off the chest. I'm not sure it made it half way down her thighs. There's an old Hollywood line – that's not a dress, it's an invitation. This invitation was shouting – take me right here, right now, and do it fast. Who was the dress shouting at? Kurt, of course. She was inches from him, and while I could not hear her words, I could hear their cadence – quick, sharp, emphatic, demanding. She was not shouting, but she was making herself very clear. There was a world full of facts, and she was explaining each fact to him.

And then, she put a hand on the back of his neck, pulled herself up, and kissed him. And Kurt? No hesitation. His arms went around her, one around her shoulders, and one across her ass. She waited until the hand hit her ass, and turned her head to look at me. She knew who I was. She looked, made sure I saw, and then turned back to him. She had disposed of me.

And me? Do I fight for my man? I had just begun to consider that possibility when the door opened. Young men where bringing luggage in – hers. White leather. Beautiful, actually. There seemed to be a stream of carriers. Four, five, all in the door and up the stairs.

And then there was Maya.

She came in rushing, looking quickly around, and then straight to me. She grabbed my wrist and pulled, back past the happy couple, out the door and to the parking lot and her car. She opened the side door and pushed me in.

"Wait." I was pretty sure I needed to do something, and running off with Maya wasn't it.

"Get your skirts out of the way, and buckle up." I pulled my skirts up, and she slammed the door.

"What's going on?" Pretty dumb question, right? She was already doing ninety down a narrow mountain road.

"You fuck the boss' brains out, what do you think is going to happen?"

"But she left him. She was in Greece."

"She wasn't on Mars. She hired a jet, and here she is." She let that echo around the car a bit. "Jess, she rented a jet to get here."

"Okay."

"Not okay. They have known each other since childhood. They went to college together. They dated. On her thirtieth birthday he proposed. They have been engaged five years."

"A five year engagement? No one who really wants to get married waits five years."

"I'll bet your severance check they get married before today is over."

"Severance check?"

"Oh, Jess. You think she will let you sleep in the room next to him?"

The car kept flying down the road. She was actually a pretty bad driver. She kept crossing the centerline and tailgating anyone doing the speed limit. I had one hand on the dash and another on my door handle. Stupid, I know. They weren't going to keep me from flying when we hit a tree.

"Now what?"

"That's a question you should have asked a couple days ago. The answer is we go to my apartment and wait for HR to process your papers."

What can you say to that? Nothing, really. I held on tight, leaned into the curves, and hoped we would get to her apartment in one piece. As we flew along the river I looked over at her and noticed she was wearing a dress – not the lady lawyer gray wool suit, but a dress. Nice material, but beige. Beige? Who wore beige? That was the color white turned when it had been left in the dryer too long. Nobody wore beige. Nobody should wear beige. If there was a contest for worst color in any pallet, beige would win by a landslide. It was just a dumb color. I felt myself getting angry about it. Beige? If beige had somehow walked up to me, I would have punched it. I would have punched a color. Which is to say, I was confused, angry, and probably dangerous. Maya kept driving, and I kept holding on.

It turned out her apartment was along the river, in a building designed to look like a Swiss chalet – red tile roof, lumber trims over stucco, three stories, new but built to look old. She pulled me out of the car and pulled my up about a million stairs. Her hand never left my wrist. The top floor was hers, and in we went.

What can I say about her apartment? Worst decorating ever. White on white on white. Wasn't that a thing in the eighties? Big central room, sun light pouring in through a wall of windows, I wanted sunglasses. She pulled me across the room to a white couch that was faced toward the windows. She pulled me on to it, still holding my wrist.

"Now what," I asked. Seemed a reasonable question.

"We wait for HR to do its job."

"Am I allowed to complain about all this? Yes, I slept with Kurt. I liked it. I am pretty sure he did too. How does that get me fired?"

"This is a family business. The family picked out his wife. It was a good match. Yes, they took forever to get to a church, but they lived together for years."

"Not if she is in Greece."

"So, okay, not everything went perfectly. People argue. People fight. She did what she did, he did what he did, that's over now."

"He did was he did. Are you talking about me? That's it? He did what he did?"

"Jess, he wasn't yours, and he wasn't going to be yours." At some point she let go of my wrist and started holding my hand. We were both leaning back in the couch, our heads turned towards each other, our hips and shoulders touching.

"You didn't see us dancing together last night."

"Most of the company saw you dancing together last night, and half the company saw you pull him into your room."

"Where we did more dancing."

"He has danced with a dozen women in a dozen cities, so I am sure he is good at it. But he has never done it in Bern before, in front of family and employees."

"So the family calls the fiancée, and she flies up. Did you see her in that orange dress? I am surprised she could breathe in it."

"Jess, you should be grateful to her. You and Kurt were never going to work out."

"No?"

"What do you know about him?"

"Well, he played soccer – football – and he was a successful salesman."

"He's been in an out of the castle for months, and that's all you know?"

"Well..."

"Jess, what you knew was he was big, he was the CEO, and now he would live in the castle. He was your new Emil. That's what you wanted, so that's what you made him. Three days from now, or three weeks from now, you would have seen he's not Emil. And you would have been a mess. Charlotte saved you from that."

"And I should be grateful."

"In time, you will be." She brought a hand up to my face and pulled me to her. We kissed. I kept my head close to hers, and we looked at each other.

"You pull me out of my castle and bring me to your home. Are you acting on behalf of the company or on your own behalf?"

"That's up to you to decide."

"Once or twice, when we were talking in the library, I asked you to stay for dinner. I had plans for after dinner."

"I thought you might, but I didn't see what I wanted in your eyes. I'm not easy, Jess. I want a lot from you." As she is saying this, she is rolling toward me, one leg now across my body, her hips on mine, her chest leaning on me, both her hands in my hair pulling my head back against the top of the couch. This time when she leaned down to kiss me, she kept her face on mine for a long time, watching me as she kissed me.

Me? I was still plenty unhappy about how the morning had started. She rented a jet? Slut. And I can't say the ride down the mountain made me feel any better about the world in general. I didn't belong down here, I belonged back in my castle.

Meanwhile, I had this face hanging over me, and a chest pressed against me. Not a bad chest, actually. She had a leg on each side of me, and one of my arms was caught under her leg. The other hand was free and I slid it up her thigh, pushing her beige dress up ahead as my fingers slid across her skin. Hmm. I think I was approaching sensory overload.

While I was confused, Maya seemed to know exactly what she wanted. She took ownership of my head for starters, kissing me and sliding her hands in and out of my hair. And that chest, well, she slid it slowly across mine. All the time she was watching me, waiting to see how I was reacting.

"Maya, this feels great but..."

"Shut up and kiss me."

Two things happened at this point. First, she found the zipper at the back of my dress and pulled it down, then pulled my dress and bra forward and down around my waist. One of her hands went to my breasts. The other stayed in my hair. Meanwhile, she kept leaning her chest against mine, her face just above me. My head was lying on the top of the couch, my only view back up into her eyes. She looked really good with her glasses off.

Second? Her phone started chiming. It was clear she was getting a series of texts. She set the phone on the top of the couch and scrolled through texts while still working over my breasts. She would look at her phone, then back at me, then back at her phone. I'm now competing for her attention? It is illegal to text and drive. Isn't it a worse crime to text while ravishing? She was all over me, but she put one hand on that phone and kept it there. It couldn't wait?

"They want to negotiate your termination."

"A million francs."

"Jess..."

"What's the going rate for dumping an inconvenient lover?"

"They could argue you were the guilty party. He is engaged and you violated that contract."

"Spoken like the corporate lawyer."

"Which I am." She was holding the phone with one hand and sliding her other hand over my face. She kissed me several times while she waited.

"I'm not in the best negotiating position."

"The hand on my ass says different."

"That hand operates on its own initiative."

"I like that hand. Now. Pick a number."

"What is normal severance?"

"One year's pay."

"But I am also losing my home, aren't I?"

"The castle belonged to Emil, and then to his daughters, and now to the company."

"You know what I mean. I loved that place. It was my home."

"Yes." She put down the phone and put both hands in my hair while also sliding that beige dress across my bare chest. She was negotiating. Her chest was warm, and her hands felt good. She hesitated and then kissed me again. "This could be your new home."

"Your decorating is terrible. But I like the view."

"Do you mean the river, or me?"

"Yes." She was all over me again. She negotiates well.

"I want one year's salary plus company stock. Two hundred thousand shares."

"That's half a million francs."

"I was due for another stock option. This just gives me what I might have gotten over the next year or two."

"I'll ask."

Now things got even more strange. To text, she needed both hands. So she leaned into me (that felt good), and held the phone back behind my head, with both arms reaching over my shoulders and around my head while her thumbs went to work. I kissed her neck. She slid her chest tighter against mine.

"They will approve one year's severance, and shares, but only one hundred thousand."

"They expect me to pick a point in the middle, and settle for one hundred fifty. No. Tell them two hundred. And keep leaning in to me. I like it."

She leaned into my while she typed. And I did like it. I went to work on her neck. Time passed. But not too long. There must have been board members sitting there with the HR people.

"They agree. They will send the contracts over. But you are not to return to the castle. They will pack your things and ship them to Wisconsin."

I just stared at her. I was about to get a pile of money, but I was losing my castle. I couldn't even go back and pack? One more day walking the halls? I just stared at her.

"I'll tell them yes." She leaned on me again and did more typing. I laid my head back on the couch. She pushed her breasts in my face as she typed. And yes, it did help. I slid my one free hand up her back and held her against me.

"They'll send the contracts over for me to review and you to sign." She set the phone on the couch and took my head in both her hands. "Jess, this is going to work out. This is your home now."

Probably not the best thing to say. I was trading a castle for a white on white on white apartment. But it appeared a lover came with it. She was all over me. I felt her hips on mine, her chest against me, her hands in my hair and on my face. And she kissed me... Well, she was pretty good.

Contract discussion done, I assumed we would get up and move on to whatever came next. But she held me on that couch. I can't say I objected. I was an unemployed, unhoused, rejected lady. The couch was comfortable, Maya was warm, and it felt like Maya cared. Right at that moment, her caring mattered a great deal. So I relaxed back against the couch and enjoyed the feel of her.

We were probably together like that for another hour. An occasional text hit her phone, and she would glance at it, then she would go back to me. She had good hands. Any place she put them felt good. Maybe my hair was best. She would stroke it like you might stroke a pet or a child. And like a pet or a child, it calmed me. I felt like I was melting into that couch, and I was fine with that.

Then there were several texts in succession followed by a knock at the door.

"Come in."

What? I'm half naked and she is all over me, and she wants someone to walk in on us? She did stand up, but she took her time doing it. Whoever had just come in could see what we had been doing. Me? I ducked down on the couch and began pulling my clothing up. My damn bra caught on something and I had to take my arms out of my dress sleeves to get it right, then I had to get back into my dress and pull it up, all while lying down on the couch. Meanwhile, I can hear someone take several steps into the room and stop, obviously waiting for me. Marvelous. Finally I got my dress up over my shoulders and sat up so I could reach my zipper.

And there stood Kurt.

Halfway across the room, a suitcase in one hand, a manila envelope in the other. He stood looking at me. Maya stood just behind me, next to the couch, taking forever to adjust her skirts. Then she finally reached over and helped with my zipper. She seemed to take millennia getting it up. When she was done, she kept a hand on my shoulder, the other hand pulling my hair back into some kind of order. She stood tight up against my back, the hand on my shoulder holding me down on the couch. And maybe showing ownership. The hand in my hair stayed in my hair, just in case I had any ideas about moving.

"Everything else is being packed and will be shipped, but I thought you might want these valuables. Passports, bank books, jewelry..." He raised my suitcase, then set it down on the floor by his feet. "And I brought the contracts." He raised the envelope and then set it on the suitcase.

"Thank you." About a million words also ran through my mind just then, but those two were the only words that came out.

"The real reason I came was to apologize. Everything that happened last night was my fault. Everything that has happened to you today is also my fault. I am engaged. In fact we have agreed to marry Saturday. I should have told you I was engaged."

"Nothing happened last night that I didn't want to happen. Everything that happened last night I enjoyed." I stared at him. He stared at me. I moved my legs under me and prepared to stand. Maya tightened her hand on my shoulder and in my hair.

"You did great work for the company." Somehow he seemed to be half a step closer. "We all appreciate that. We will miss you. The historical society is already in mourning."

"I will miss you too." God, he had big shoulders. And a good chin. And gray eyes. He looked at me. I looked at him. There was a moment. Then he said "Good bye," turned, and left. I heard him on every step as he descended to his car.

And I went after him. Or at least I tried. I got my feet under me and twisted to one side to get around Maya. But she was way ahead of me. She wrapped both arms around my chest and actually tripped me so we went down on her carpet. We barely hit the ground when she climbed on top of me, got her legs between my legs so she was kneeling on my long skirts, trapping my legs. And she tightened her arms around me like a python. I tried twisting out from under her, but she had me trapped up against the couch, and my long skirts worked against me, getting around my legs and under hers, so she could pin me to the floor.

"Get off me!"

"No."

"He wants me. He's waiting outside in his car. I know it."

"Maybe. But he knows better, and you know better."

"I know he wants me." And I gave a huge push, twisting out from her at the same time. She just wrapped her arms around me tighter. I twisted, pulled at her arms, tried to push her away. She was locked on to me.

"Let me go." And I hit her. I had an arm mostly free, and I made a fist and slammed it into her back. I couldn't get a full swing, but I am still sure I hurt her. "Let me go." And I hit her again. She laid her head next to mine and kissed my cheek. She actually kissed my cheek while I was pounding on her.

Enough. I reached up and grabbed a handful of hair. I pulled her head back.

"He's waiting for me."

"If he is, and you go to him, he is breaking a promise to his fiancée. The family will never forgive him. His career is over. The family will never trust him. Your time with the company is already over. Do you want to take him with you?"

"The family will get over it."

"No they won't. And I won't." Now that I held her head up, I could see she was crying.

"Now? You tell me this now? We had months together." I felt like punching her again. "I tried getting you up to my room at least twice. What about those times?" I may be slow, but I was able to answer my own question almost the same instant I asked it. "You were with someone."

"Yes."

"And now?"

"Now I'm with you. Or at least I would like to be."

Now what? Brains are pretty useless at times like this. My brain was telling me I should let Kurt drive away. My brain was also telling me that Maya was getting tired. If I gave it one more good twist, I might get free. Then I would be down the stairs in seconds. Meanwhile, hormones did what hormones do. I saw Kurt, I saw shoulders, I felt his arms as we danced and as we made love. But I also felt Maya's thigh between mine. And her arms around me. And her cheek as I let go of her hair, and she brought her face back to mine. She was also wearing a scent. Lilac. And she was whispering in my ear.

"This can be your home, Jess. Stay with me."

Interesting point – a home. I had no home, and no job. But I loved Bern. Emil had made it my home. I loved the river, the mountains, the shops, even the cobblestones that twisted my ankles. I didn't want to leave. I loved it here. Even without a castle. Even on a white carpet in the worst decorated apartment in Switzerland. I wanted to be here.

I punched her once more, then opened my hand and rubbed it across her back. It took me a while, but slowly I relaxed. It took me forever to catch my breath, but I laid my head back, moved a hand up to her head, and now held her head against mine, our cheeks touching, while she whispered in my ear.

"Stay with me Jess. This is your home now."

"Promise you'll be good to me."

"I'll take care of you, Jess." She whispered to me, and kissed my cheek. I believed her. I slid my hand down to her ass and started pulling her skirt up. She reached down and held my hand where it was.

"Tell me you love me and want me."

"I do."

"Say it, Jess."

"I love you, and I want you."

"Say it again without prompting, and tell me what was going on that afternoon in your wine cellar."

"I had been alone for three months. I hadn't touched anyone in three months. When you took off your glasses and that stupid lawyer jacket, I could see you were pretty. You stood so close. Your hand on my cheek was cool, but I could feel heat coming from your body. You were wearing a scent – lilac. When I put my hands on you, I could feel you under that silk blouse. I spread the fingers of my hands so I could feel more of you. I was hoping you would stay with me."

"And now?" She let go of my hand so I could move it across her ass. She shifted her weight and moved her legs between mine, slowly sliding them against me. She seemed to have more weight on my chest. She was heavy, and she was hot. Both her hands were now deep into my hair holding my head. She smiled as she looked down into my face. She had me. She knew it. I knew it.

"It's been half a year. More. I've been alone. Yes, I wanted him. But this feels good too. You're pretty in a dress. Is that why you wore one this morning? Your thighs are driving me crazy. I love looking up at you. I want you to kiss me. I want you. Is that what you want to hear?"

She kissed me. I put both hands on her ass and pulled her to me as her thigh worked between mine. She had so much weight on my chest I could barely breathe. But I liked it. She smiled down at me. She owned me. The castle slut would have Kurt. I would have Maya. And, lying on my back, buried under her, that is what I now wanted. I wanted her.

"Jess, I was going to seduce you next week. I checked the castle schedule. You had three days next week with no groups coming in. I was going to invite you to an inn up in the mountains. I was going to get you into a room and drive you crazy. Would you have gone with me?"

"Yes. I would have gone with you. I would have worn something pretty. I would have held you hand and gone into our room and stayed there. I would have looked up at you for three days."

"And..."

"I want you. I will love you."

We stayed on that white carpet for a long time. Definitely long enough for Kurt to give up and drive away. If he had even stayed. Long enough for me to forget about him – well, mostly. Long enough to relax, lay my head back, and get comfortable under Maya. She was heavy, and hot, and I loved it. She felt so good in my arms. Wasn't that my old line? Hold me, kiss me, tell me you love me, and I am yours. Now I was hers. I was. I was certain of it. My hands stayed on her ass, and I kissed her as often as she would let me.

She spent her time studying my face. She was watching me react as she moved on me. I didn't mind. She was learning how to please me. Yes, she was also learning how to control me, but that's part of the arrangement, isn't it? Time passed. I was happy to lie there under her.

Then she moved.

"Come with me."

She got up off me. I tried to get up too, but it wasn't that simple. I had skirts wrapped around my legs, and they got more twisted as I turned to get up. Where were we going? No surprise – her bedroom. You can guess what it looks like, right? White carpet, white walls, white duvet on the bed, even white furniture. Her decorator saw her coming.

She stood me by the bed and slowly took my clothes off. Her hands were on my body as she slid off my dress. Her arms were around me, a hug that lasted as she unhooked and unzipped. So far, good plan. She just dropped everything in a pile at my feet. Next, her clothes, also on the floor. Beige dress on a white floor. It looked like a dirt smudge. She stepped over the clothes and got a small white garment box off her bureau and put it on the bed. Cover off, tissue paper pushed aside, there's a white satin night gown. It takes a minute, but she gets it on me. Short sleeves, scooped neck, bodice with a little spandex, widely flared floor-length skirt that seems longer in the back. A train? It's beautiful. And it is an obvious imitation of a wedding dress, complete with brocade flourishes and lace edges. Very obvious. Very nice. She takes forever to arrange it around my body. Really just an excuse to grope me. But I'm fine with that. Better than fine. I swing the gown around my hips. I love the feel of it. My wedding dress.

While I am playing with my new gown, Maya has pulled another gown from the box. A deep gold. Plunging neckline, slightly flared skirt down to her ankles, spandex in the bodice that shows off all her curves. It turns out she has an excellent shape. And gold is definitely her color.

"I bought these for our time in the mountains. I knew you would look beautiful in a white gown, and you do."

"Yellow is your color. Yellow or gold. You would have had me, wearing that. I wouldn't have been able to keep my hands off you." And that's the truth. With that white wall behind her, she seems to glow. I have my hands on her hips in an instant. She smiles and then takes a small box from a corner of the garment box. A ring box. She opens it for me to see. Gold band, a string of diamonds across, half carat or such each. She lets me look, then takes it out of the box, takes my right hand, and slides it on my ring finger.

"I thought I had waited long enough for you, Jess. Once I got you into that gown, I was going to finish this. This ring is my proposal. I love you Jess. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I will support you. I will care for you. I will be good to you. I will love you every day. I want you to be my wife."

At this point she kissed me, wrapped her arms around me, and waited. And waited.

"Your turn, Jess."

Yes, it was. She had one arm around my back and a hand behind my head. We were essentially the same height, but somehow she had me bent back and was looking down at me. I studied her face. She was pretty. I had been attracted to her from the start. But when I thought of her as a partner before, I had thought of myself as the leader. But I could see she would lead. She would initiate. This was her home and her bed. She would dominate. I would follow. Could I follow? I wrapped my arms around her back and continued to study her face. I guess I also studied the way she held me. Her arms were firm. And warm. The hand behind my head slowly stroked my neck. She knew what she was doing. I felt I could trust her. So, yes, I could be hers. So I said what needed to be said.

"I will love you. I will obey you. I will submit myself to you. I will be faithful to you. I will be your wife, now and forever."

While I kissed her, she lifted me up into her bed – our bed. She arranged me. She put my arms at my sides. My bodice was to come down. She pulled the shoulders of my nightgown down over my arms, my breasts now exposed. She lay on me as a man would, her knees between mine, her hips on mine, her mouth on mine, one arm around my shoulders while her other hand swept over my body. I had been right. She would lead. She would take me. And she did. She held me, kissed me, and pleased me. She got me plenty hot and breathless. I lay still and felt her as she ran her hands over my body, enjoying her touch, loving her touch and her kisses. She pleased me like few others.

Chapter 28

Life with Maya

Funny thing, the time I felt the best, felt the most in love with her? That night. Not when she was pleasing me, but later, when we were lying together on the edge of sleep. The sun was setting that first night. She pulled the duvet over us, wrapped her arms around me, and held me. And I slept. I woke up once or twice, leaned into her and kissed her, my arms still at my sides, wrapped in satin, her arms still around me, leaning across me, her leg between mine. She was warm. I could smell lilac on her. I was half buried by her, but I liked it. I think I was fully relaxed, maybe for the first time since Emil died. I nestled in close against her, kept my face near hers, and slept completely at peace. Want a definition of love? That has to be one, doesn't it? To slide tight against your lover and sleep completely at peace.

Morning? Mornings had their own rhythm with Maya. She woke me with a kiss, pulled the duvet to my chin and told me to stay in bed. Off she went to the shower. Alone. Hmm. No Jessica shower ceremony. And she wasn't much of a talker. While she was in the shower, I slid out of bed and pulled a satin train behind me as I explored the kitchen. What did she have for breakfast? Not much. I found a nearly empty box of oatmeal and made her a bowl. I also figured out how to use her coffee machine. She must have had a hundred of those little single-serving cups. All black. All some blend from Kenya. Apparently once she found something she liked, she stuck with it. I guess I could take that as reassurance about our relationship.

Out of the shower, dressed in her lady lawyer gray suit, Maya sipped her coffee, took two spoons full of oatmeal, and said maybe five words. They were the right words, and she had her arms around me when she said them, but it was clear our mornings together would be quiet.

Five minutes after she entered the kitchen, she gave me a spare house key, and a kiss, and was gone.

This would be my new life. Fired from my job, thrown out of the castle I loved, living in a snow white apartment. Regrets? Concerns? I had plenty. But I was also happy that morning. Funny how that works. I don't pretend to understand emotions, especially my own. But something in my body was saying things were fine – maybe better than fine. My chest was still warm from where she had leaned against me, my mouth still wet from her kiss. I liked both. I liked the idea that she would be coming home in another eight hours, and she would hold me again. I moved that satin nightgown across my hips. I would be ready for her. I would be ready to be held. Ready to be loved. And if that happened in this snow cave, well, love is what mattered, right?

So, how would I spend my day? First, I went exploring. I tried the kitchen again. What did I find? Lots of empty shelves. Not only did she not have much for breakfast, she didn't have much period. I counted six microwavable dinners in her freezer (limited calories, limited taste, limited nutritional value, limited time to cook). In the cupboards? Five cans of soup, all with dust on them. Half a package of spaghetti noodles. A loaf of something that might have once been bread. In the fridge? Three jars of instant coffee, and a bottle of creamer.

What did I just learn about my lover? Hopefully she ate a good lunch at work, because she was getting nothing at home. This girl was headed for scurvy. Too busy to cook? No interest? I got out a piece of paper and started making a grocery list. Clearly, I would be doing the cooking.

Next stop? Her/our bedroom. Her closet actually. Just curious. I had only seen Maya in lawyer clothes and one beige dress. What else did she have? Short answer – nothing. I counted ten lady lawyer suits, all in shades of gray – hung in order of grayness – lightest to darkest, the darkest being black, or nearly black. Looking at them arranged that way, they reminded me of one of those color charts they have in the paint section of hardware stores. You want gray? Let me show you the shades of gray available for your approval. And yes, some of her suits were cotton and some wool, so there was some difference in material, but cut and color was all the same.

Anything else? Yes. Her beige dress. Who wears beige? My lover. I took it off the hanger. It needed washing.

She had maybe ten pairs of slacks (yes, all in shades of gray), and then far in the corner was a bit of color. I slid the other hangers across the bar so I could get a look at it – an honest to goodness cocktail dress in fairly bright yellow. I pulled it off the hanger to get a good look. It still had the tags on it. Very recent purchase. For our weekend in the mountains? If so, she had picked well. I bet she would have gotten my attention in it.

Next? I did some laundry. My blue castle dress had had a rough afternoon. I found the laundry room and put my dress and some of Maya's things in the wash.

Now what? I explored some more, but there wasn't much left to see. The apartment had been built with two bedrooms, but like many singles, Maya had converted the second bedroom into an office. She had a desk and a computer. Not much to see.

So I went back to the main room and sat on the couch facing the river. Nice view. River below, some chalets on the other side, then ridge after ridge of trees all in their late summer green. Alps in the distance. The view was spectacular. When the leaves changed in the fall, the view would be amazing. I pulled my legs up under me, wrapped the train of my nightgown around my feet, and watched the trees move. It wasn't like watching my poplars back home, but it was plenty good.

As I looked across the river, I played with my ring. I had a ring on my finger. Was I married? By the way, a row of diamonds might look good in the store, but every time the ring turns or your fingers move, the diamonds twist into the adjoining fingers. And it hurts. I would have to work on positioning the ring carefully before I used my right hand. But I would wear the ring. She wanted that. And I wanted her. I did. The day before I wanted a big man who could waltz with me. Now I wanted her. Not sure how that works, but that's the way it was. I would commit to her. I guess I already had.

Anyway, the first load of laundry came out of the drier, and I got dressed in my castle gown. At the moment, it was the only dress I had, so I would wear it to do my shopping. My wedding/night gown? Truth is, I loved it. It was odd to walk around with a train behind me, and I tripped over it more than once when I changed direction. But I thought I looked pretty good in it. Maya might have terrible taste in clothes for herself, but she knew what to put on me. I took it into the laundry. I would wear it again – and again.

Shopping I had to do in two shifts. Clothes first. It seemed odd to buy more clothes when I already owned more than any ten women in Marinette County, but those clothes were either in Amberg, or on their way. I really didn't want to wander the streets of Bern always wearing a long blue gown. So, I walked down the street about five blocks to several women's stores. I had shopped in all of them at one time or another, so the clerks knew me. I took about two hours, but I walked out with three cotton day dresses and a little black dress for evenings. More importantly, I bought six dresses for Maya, all in some shade of the gold that looked so good on her. One of the clerks helped me carry it all back to the apartment.

Next? I changed into a cotton day dress, took my night gown out of the washer and hung it to dry, and I was out the door again, grocery list in hand.

There was a Tesco about four blocks away, so I wouldn't have to carry groceries far, but realistically, two bags was going to be my limit. I figured that if I went to Tesco every day for two weeks, I might eventually have most of what a working kitchen should have. For today? Salad fixings, several kinds of pasta, bread, garlic, onions, mushrooms, tomato sauce, and two bottles of wine – red.

Of course that pretty well established how I would spend my afternoon – setting up the kitchen and doing early preparation of our dinner.

Work days at the company ended at five, so I figured she would be home around five fifteen. At five I opened a bottle of wine to breathe, and then changed into my night/wedding gown. I was at the door when she walked in.

What was her evening return going to be like? Quiet. She came in, smiled, kissed me, held me, and then broke away to take her portfolio into her office and do something quick on her computer. This is to say, she was home, but her mind was still on the office. Fine. I could wait. I poured two glasses of wine and stood in the doorway so she could see me. If she didn't want to talk, fine, but there is a lady with wine, wearing a satin gown you bought her, just standing here waiting. It took five minutes, but I finally got her attention.

Next move? I took her hand and led her into our bedroom. I had her new dresses lying across our bed.

"Think of them as a wedding present. Try one on, please." As I am saying this, I have put my wine glass down on a dresser, and I am taking her clothes off. I wasn't very subtle about it. I unbuttoned and unzipped everything she wore, and then waited while she picked a dress. Several were cotton, but the others were silk or satin. You can guess what I was leaning toward. She went with silk. Yea. I helped her get it on (mostly I got in the way, but she didn't seem to mind). Zipped up and straightened up, it was a stunner. I got her to walk up and down a bit, although I had my hands on her a lot, so it was not your typical runway walk.

"Can I get you to change into one of these when you come home?"

"Yes. And will you wear what you are wearing?"

"Mostly." And we kissed like newlyweds.

I went into the kitchen to make dinner while she hung her new clothes. She came into the kitchen, refilled her glass, and started groping me from behind as I worked. So. Okay, now I knew the pacing of our evenings. Quiet when she first gets home. A bit of groping with the first glass of wine. Serious groping with the second. I could work with that.

Dinner? I lit two candles. She looked really good in candle light. She said she liked my pasta dish. I pushed a bit more on her, and made sure she had some bread. We finished the wine.

Conversation? I asked about work. That was a non-starter. "A few contracts, two law suits. Falls on slippery floors in the bottling plants." I asked how sales were going. She said they were "fine." Nothing else. I wanted to hear about the company. It had been my company for years. But it wasn't my company any more. I tried to push for more, but she interrupted.

"Jess. Insider..."

She was corporate attorney. I was a stockholder. Some things I would learn with each quarterly report. Anything else could be considered insider information. Shit. I was cut off.

So, what did we talk about? What would we talk about every evening for the rest of our marriage? We struggled a bit to find something. She asked about my day. I talked a bit about crowds at Tesco. Would that be my daily contribution to conversation? Shopping stories? Finally I asked about her. Not her day, but how she got started. That got her talking about law school. We moved to the couch facing the river, she put an arm around me, and she told story after story about those days. Okay. For one night we found a way to connect with words.

By nine we were in bed, and we connected there too. And she held me all night. I really liked that.

The days after that pretty much followed the same pattern. I got her to eat a little more breakfast each day, but mostly she wanted coffee. I wore my nightgown and walked her to the door. Her hands were all over me, although one held a portfolio. Days, I shopped, I cleaned, I cooked. I made several more trips to the dress shop I liked, and daily trips to Tesco.

I also worked on redecorating the apartment. Maya didn't stop me. If she had known anything about decorating, the place wouldn't have looked as it did. I started small – throw pillows on the white couches – just squares of color. When she didn't object, I hired painters to put some color on the walls, brought in new curtains, and went with throw rugs to break up the white floor. I'm no decorator either, but I thought the room should feel some connection to the river, trees, and mountains. So I picked associated colors. I think it worked. The rooms certainly felt less frigid.

Five fifteen each night I was at the door for a kiss, and then I left her to do what she did in her office. I clocked it at fifteen minutes, and then brought her a glass of wine. She drank most of it, then went into our room and put on something far nicer than her lawyer uniforms. We ate by candlelight, we sat staring out at the river, we found something to talk about, mostly things we did when younger.

If you are wondering, was that enough? Days of shopping, afternoons of laundry or cleaning or cooking, long walks on warm days, watching out the window on rainy days, days of quiet, weeks of quiet. Yes. I was content. After years of drama – and yes, deep, deep love – I was happy with quiet. Give me more quiet. I once spent an afternoon just standing alongside the river, watching fall leaves flow with the current, some yellow, some red, all lovely as they bobbed in the water. That was a good day, made better knowing I had a woman to love who would be with me that night and every night. I had what I wanted. Quiet never felt so good. Buying a bag of groceries never felt so fulfilling. I loved that summer and fall.

As the fall progressed, there were a few nights when we went out to dinner, or walked among the shops while the weather was still warm. September was nice. October was mostly okay. By November we went out less often. Switzerland gets cold.

Early November we were invited to a party – a gallery opening. Maya knew the artists. We took a long time that evening getting dressed. She decided I should wear my little black dress. I had second thoughts. It was a little too little, and a little too tight, but Maya liked how it looked on me. She wasn't quite drooling, but she was close enough. I picked a golden satin number for her, also sheath cut and V necked. If I was going to show some skin, so was she. We both wore heavy coats. These dresses weren't going to keep us warm.

The party was about eight blocks away. A bit long for walking in heels, but we made it. The gallery? It was in amongst a group of older single family homes that dated from the last century. No longer fashionable, they had been converted into apartments on the upper floors, shops at street level. The gallery was about the size of Maya's apartment, but with much higher ceilings, mat gray walls, and hanging lights pointed at an endless line of paintings, all seemingly original. There was a description under each painting, and a price tag. Nothing was under five hundred francs, and many already had "sold" signs on them.

There were several dozen people there, enough so the rooms looked full, but not crowded. Mostly middle aged, mostly women, but seven or eight men. We got hugs at the door, lots of introductions, and guidance to a room to leave our coats. Once in the main room, I saw Maya had picked the right clothes for us. There was lots of skin, lots of shiny fabric, and lots of tight skirts. Maya seemed to know most of the people there, and she introduced me to almost all of them as we worked our way to the drinks. Wine glasses in hand, we moved around the rooms, talked, and complimented the artwork. Conversations were mostly in German, with some English here and there, mostly about art, mostly said with enthusiasm and big smiles. I liked some of the paintings, mostly the ones where I could tell what the painting was. Others, I just followed Maya and nodded as she compared one blotch of colors to the work of someone else who apparently initiated the concept of color blotches. I sipped my wine, nodded, and worked my way through one room and then another.

The third room actually had pictures of things I could recognize. They were all ink drawings. Black on white, maybe two foot square. The room seemed especially dark, I guess to contrast the drawings, each of which had a ceiling light aimed at it. Standing in the middle of the room was the artist, a woman who had to be six feet tall and probably the shot put champion of Switzerland. Maya did the introductions. Berta something. She was happy to explain her work to me, one hand on my shoulder as she led to the first drawing, and then essentially pushed me from one drawing to the next, telling me about each, her inspiration, the artistic school she had adopted, each and every stroke of her pen. I learned about composition, I learned how you did shading even when all you had was black and white, I learned how white was not empty, but was emphasis. Some of what she said was in German, some in English. She seemed pleasant enough, but I was soon counting the drawings left before we got to the end of the wall and the end of her lecture. Maya, by the way, had long since departed.

Eventually, finally, at last, we got to the end of her drawings, but we also got to a corner. She continued talking, her hand still on my shoulder, and now her huge body blocking my exit. I should describe her. I said she was large, certainly six feet tall, maybe six two. But she wasn't fat. Well, maybe a few pounds over, but mostly she was just wide, in this case wide enough to give me no way out of my corner. She was dressed in some black shiny material that clung to her. Maybe it was to make her look a bit slimmer, but mostly it made much of her invisible in the dark room. What was visible? Her dress was V-necked, with the V coming well into her cleavage. And this was a woman with a cleavage. She was at least a double D. Above that very white chest was a very white face. Round. I swear, almost perfectly round. She had black curly hair that reached just to the tops of her shoulders. It framed her face, or would have if there had been more light in the room. As it was, it just left her face perched up on her neck like a balloon. I guess that sounds unkind. But that was how she looked. White V-shaped chest, a thick neck, topped by a round face. I will say it seemed a kind face. She seemed interested in my opinions of her drawings, and her hand on my shoulder was light, her fingers far slimmer than you might expect.

But my interest in the drawings was pretty much gone, and I assumed Maya was waiting for me somewhere. So I made the usual comments people do in such cases.

"Thank you for taking so much time to explain your works. But I should get going. I am sure Maya is looking for me."

"I think it would be best if we gave them some more time together." Them? What? Her hand moved from my shoulder to my arm, and she seemed to inch a bit closer to me. I stepped back but came up against both walls. I wasn't going anywhere. What was she talking about? Meanwhile, she kept talking.

"I have spent too much time talking about my work. I was excited when I heard you were coming. I am such a fan of your portraits. I have the book. I hope you will autograph it some time."

"My book."

"The one the Hollywood photographer did. It is astonishing. He did such great work, and you look stunning." Jim Thomas. She had to be talking about the pictures Jim Thomas had taken. There were books of me here in Switzerland? Five hundred dollars for fifty pictures of me. Jim sent me an occasional check. I was still uncomfortable about the pictures. No nudity, but far too much intimacy.

"May I?" Still holding my arm with one hand, she used her other hand to start adjusting my hair. "I have so many favorites, but I think this is the best." She moved the hair around my face so that now my left eye was mostly shielded, then pulled her fingers through my hair and spread it wide across my shoulders. I knew the picture she was recreating. It was morning. I was just getting out of bed. He asked me to look at him. I did. He took the shot, caught me looking at him with just the start of a smile. We had had a great night together. Berta finished with my hair, and then took my chin in her hand and turned my head as it had been in the picture.

"I see you in this picture and I am instantly in love. You look so innocent. So pleased. Even proud. You are looking at the man you love, and you know – with perfect certainty – that he loves you. Every woman wishes for just one moment when she feels as you did that morning. It is enough for a lifetime."

"A year later he stood and took pictures while I confronted a bear. I looked at him a lot differently that day."

"I am sure you were beautiful then too." Her hand was in my hair, her palm against my cheek. Her palm was cool. I put my hand in the middle of her chest. I started to press and immediately realized I couldn't move her. She put her hand over mine.

"You wish to go. I understand. I hope I may see you again." She didn't back away, but she did turn slightly. I could slip between her and the wall. The hand that had been on my arm now dropped down to my hip. It rested there as I inched to the side. As I moved, she took the hand that had been in the middle of her chest, and slid it on to her breast. She was warm, and soft, and I left my hand there, held in her hand as I edged past her, my hips now touching hers, my breasts against hers. The hand on my hip slid back, her fingers now on my ass. I put my hand on hers, but didn't push her hand away.

I looked up at her big, round, moon face. Nature had not been kind. Her chin was too large, her mouth too small, her cheekbones extended too close to her eyes, making them recessed and small. Her eyes were deep brown. They were focused on my face, studying me. I stopped moving and looked back.

"You saw the picture he took. You didn't see him. He was beautiful. He was strong, yet tender. I loved his touch. He was smiling at me. He was happy to be with me. We had been all over each other all night, and I knew – with certainty – we would be all over each other again that night. I loved him. I loved talking to him, loved his hands on me, loved knowing he wanted to be with me. I felt proud to be with him. I still remember every moment of that morning. I remember the way he looked at me as he raised the camera. I remember the way the sun felt on my face. I remember the movement of my skirts across my legs as I turned toward him. You can't see it in the picture. But my hand was reaching out to him. I can tell you the exact position of each of my fingers as I extended my hand. I wanted to touch him. I will always want to touch him."

Berta's hand slid across my back and held me. I liked the feel. Not too strong. Warm, and reassuring. I put a hand on her massive shoulder and lifted myself onto my toes. She was so much taller than me. And I just stood there, inches from her round face.

"Thank you for talking to me, Jessica. I hope we may become friends."

"Thank you for telling me about your drawings. I liked them."

"May I kiss your cheek?" I nodded and turned my face. She kissed my cheek with just a gentle touch of her lips. How could such a huge woman be so tender? I moved my hand from her shoulder to the back of her neck, pulling myself even higher – and closer. And I kissed her. I kissed her and held myself against her. I have no idea why. The moment? The thoughts of Jim? The way she held me?

"Thank you for listening." Funny, I felt on the verge of tears.

"That's what friends do." She lifted her other hand and played a bit with my hair. She smiled. It wasn't a bad smile. And it changed her face. Improved it. We stood together like that for far longer than made any sense. We weren't lovers. We had just met. But I liked standing with her. I liked the warm arm across my back and the gentle hand smoothing curls from my cheek.

Finally I gave her one more quick kiss and then slid down onto my heels and finished inching past her. She held my hand just a little longer, and then let me go. She was still smiling, and I guess so was I.

I had no idea what to think about Berta. I could still feel where she had kissed me and touched me. My hand was warm from her breast. But. Maya was somewhere. With someone.

I checked the other exhibition spaces and finally tried the room where we had left our coats. Maya was in there, sitting on a couch with another woman. Sitting very close. Maya had a hand on the back of her neck, her fingers up in her hair. The other woman? She had a hand between Maya's legs, well up under her skirt. Both smiled at me, and neither moved. If anything, the other woman moved her hand just to make sure I saw where her hand was. Two happy ladies who obviously were not meeting for the first time.

"Maya, I think it is time for us to leave."

"Of course. I'll get our coats." She took her hand from the other woman. The other woman took her own sweet time sliding her hand down Maya's leg, but eventually they were free of each other. Maya rummaged around in the pile of coats on another couch, while the leg lady smiled at me. Proud of herself? Yup. My reaction? Not a damn thing. Maya brought me my coat, and I walked out of the room as if I had never seen leg lady.

Once we got out on the street, however, I had a few things to say.

"Is she a new friend, or an old friend?"

"Old. We were together for several years. Then it ended."

"She's the one before me?"

"Yes."

"I promised to be faithful to you. Are you going to be faithful to me?"

"Yes."

"Good." I took her hand, and we hurried home. It was too damn cold to fight. It was a lot warmer in our bed. She drove me crazy, and I lay with my arms wrapped around her neck, clinging to her, as she made me moan. Later, I kept my arms around her, wondering for the first time if she was still mine to hold.

Chapter 29

Berta

The next few weeks were excruciating. The weather turned. November came in cold and wet and gray day after day after day. Just walking for groceries was a chore. I stopped any other kind of shopping. Mostly I sat in the apartment staring down at the river or up at the trees across the way. Without their leaves, they were far less attractive. Just bare gray branches. Empty. And cold.

Maya and I got petty revenge on each other. I stopped putting on my nightgown to greet her at the door after work. My cotton day dresses were more comfortable. And well, if she wanted more from me, she could say so.

Maya stopped rushing home every day after work. She might get home at five fifteen, but she was just as likely to get home at six or even six thirty. No one works late in Europe. Even managers stop work at five and go home. Where was Maya going? Maybe a bar, maybe an artist's studio about eight blocks away. She didn't say. I didn't ask.

We ate dinner in silence. I still lit candles, but she didn't change into her nicer dresses. Some days she even kept her gray lawyer jacket on. Candlelight reflected on gray wool? Not very inviting. She might compliment the food and help carry dishes to or from the table, but that was the limit of our interactions.

The one place where some semblance of normalcy occurred was the couch by the windows. We sat side by side and watched the river. She no longer put an arm around me, but we did hold hands. She might tell me about a lawsuit she was working on (there was a bottling plant in the Netherlands where every third worker was falling on "wet" floors and suing). I might tell her about good or bad service at Tesco. I think strangers sitting next to each other on a train might have had more intimate conversations.

This went on for about three weeks when I broke the silence.

"How did you meet her?"

For the next hour I learned about their meeting, and about Maya's first months in Bern. A girl from Geneva, she had gone to school there, but had come to Bern thinking there might be more work for attorneys in the Swiss capital. She found a temporary job, rented a cheap apartment, and worked. Evenings? She was alone. She knew no one in Bern. The people at work seemed indifferent to her – she was just a temp. One night she stopped in a coffee house. There was art on the walls. Local artists, uneven quality, but very cheap. She bought a picture. As she took it to the counter, the cashier asked her if she wanted to meet the artist. She pointed to two women sitting at a table – Gertrud and Berta.

They spent time together, and yes, they had become intimate. It lasted several years, but by then Maya had gotten the job at Naturale, she got busy with new workmates, and she drifted away from her artist friends.

"And now?" I asked.

"They were having this exhibit. They reached out to me. I thought you might like them."

"And Gertrud?"

"Yes, I still have feelings for her. Maybe more than I had thought."

"You should have told me."

"Yes."

At this point she wrapped her arm around my shoulders and pulled me to her. I buried my face in her shoulder. It felt so good to be back with her. I think I even cried. She wrapped both arms around me and held on tight. I pushed her ugly gray wool skirt up her leg and said, "Tighter."

Two evenings later we were back on the couch, pretty much back to normal. I was back in my nightgown/wedding gown and she was wearing one of the nicer dresses I had bought her. Snow was drifting past the windows. We didn't notice. She had a pretty good hold on me and my hands were all over her when she started the conversation I knew we would have eventually.

"Jess, I would like to work out something with Gertrud and Berta. I would like us to be friends."

"By 'friends', I am guessing 'close friends', and you get Gertrud. I get Berta."

"It doesn't have to be that way. Maybe we just have dinner together on occasion, or go to art exhibits together."

"Maybe."

"How do you feel about having them over for dinner, and we see how things go?"

This is where being stupid is a real handicap. No way I wanted those women in my apartment. No way dinner together was going to go well. I knew exactly how it would end, with Maya in the arms of Gertrud. The only reasonable response from me was "No way in Hell," but I knew those were the wrong words. I needed better words to say the same thing. But I didn't have the words. So, I looked at Maya, hoping she would withdraw the request. She ran a hand through my hair, a big smile on her face, happy to be holding me – and happy to be thinking of entertaining Gertrud. I just nodded and let the disaster happen.

Maya wasted no time. Two nights later would be the big dinner. She came home from work early to change – and to change my clothes. I had thought the blue castle dress with long sleeves and skirts to the floor. Maya decided I would wear a red cocktail dress with spaghetti straps and a skirt that never got near my knees. I was wearing an invitation, and I knew it.

I prepared a chicken and pasta dish, and chilled several bottles of white wine (red gave Berta a headache). Dinner was at seven. By six thirty Maya was pacing the room in four inch stilettoes. I was even more nervous, but I stood in place, in the kitchen, a towel in hand as I wiped and rewiped each of the wine glasses. The glasses shone. My back ran with sweat. Best outcome? They got sick at dinner.

But no one got sick. The ladies arrived just after seven. They brought flowers and another bottle of wine. They were all smiles and lots of hugs. Lots of hugs. I waved them to the living room. The middle of the room was two white couches facing each other. I took the flowers to find a vase. Maya poured wine. When I got back to the living room, the disaster was already underway. Gertrud was on one couch, Berta opposite. Maya had passed around the wine and sat next to Gertrud. My choice of seating? Berta. So we were already paired up – in the wrong pairs.

Maybe I should describe the ladies. Gertrud? She looked like a marathon runner. Thin. Very thin. Good hair, nice enough smile. Maybe five nine. She was wearing a little black dress that rode well up her thighs when she sat. Where did she sit? Close to Maya of course. Berta? Like I said, probably six feet tall, maybe taller, and large. Her body was large, her face was wide. Never in her life had she been pretty. She had worked on her hair – long with some curl. And she did the best she could with her eyes. She knew better than to go with a short skirt. Hers was dark blue satin, and sheath cut to hide just how wide her hips were. The bodice was tight and low cut. Her one attraction was large breasts, and she made sure they were prominent. Where did she sit? In the middle of the couch, so no matter where I sat, I would be tight against her. I could barely get my backside between Berta and the arm of the couch. Berta greeted me with a big smile and took my hand.

Things went well enough during the first glass of wine. We spoke mostly in English but crossed to German for some of the local names and events. Berta held my hand and lectured me on a new exhibit coming to one of the main studios. She would have three items in the show. Okay so far.

Second glass of wine? Berta was now leaning much closer and explaining how my dress worked perfectly with my coloring. Lots of smiles, lots of touching.

Third glass of wine? I suggested we go in to dinner. But Maya opened another bottle and poured. Berta now had an arm around my shoulders and was leaning across me. Her arm was warm. It might have been comforting if I had been in a mood for comfort. Instead, I was watching and listening to the other couch. Things over there were moving right along. No kisses, but lots of touching and endless happy conversations about old times and old friends. Their eyes never left each other.

On my couch, Berta put down her wine and used her free hand to tell me how nice my hair was, and of course she was running her fingers through it as she spoke. Then the hand was alongside my face, turning it toward her. Her smile was huge. She leaned across me, now so close she could kiss me.

"Don't." I know I had kissed her at the gallery, but now was not the time. This was not the place. Not tonight.

"Jessica," she said so quietly it was almost a whisper. She kept her arm around my shoulders, and her hand against my face. That big moon face of hers was just inches from mine. "Jessica, I will never do anything you do not wish me to do. Never. But I ask five minutes."

"Five minutes?"

"Free in-home trial."

While I was laughing, she kissed me. I was surprised by the kiss. She was so big, I assumed she would mash her face into mine. But her kiss was light. Just a touch on my lips. I relaxed. Well, I relaxed at least a little.

"Jessica, I wish to do your portrait." Her hand stayed aside my face, and she kissed me after every sentence. Her face never was more than an inch from mine. I looked into her dark brown eyes as she talked.

"I want to show how beautiful you are. Your hair. The beautiful sheen and color, and the waves aside your face that show your cheekbones." She played with my hair as she talked. "Your eyes will be a challenge. They are big, and shaped well, but what makes them special is how open they are. You are interested in the world. You want to see it. You want to be part of it. After all you have been through, you still want to engage in the world. I need to show that." She was sliding a thumb across my eyebrows as she said that. Funny, I could see a bit of concern in her face. She really did see it as a challenge.

"Your mouth will be key." She had my chin in her hand, her thumb sliding under my lower lip. "You leave it slightly open. It is the key to you. You are open to the world. You never purse your lips, or pout. You accept the world. You enjoy the world. That is so clear from your mouth." What a nice thing to say. I turned my head and kissed her. She pulled me closer. My right arm was pretty well trapped under her. She took that hand and placed it on her breast, then leaned into me so my hand was locked there. I didn't mind. She was warm, and soft, and I enjoyed hearing her talk.

"I want to be your lover, Jessica." She said it so softly, I wasn't sure I heard her. But I felt her hand leave my face and slide down to my thigh. Her fingers were light on my skin. She made small circular motions, almost like a helicopter coming in for a landing. Each circle her fingers were slightly farther up my thigh, and then under my skirt. Her thumb slid along between my legs.

"I will please you, Jessica. I will care for you. I will cherish you. I will make you smile." Her fingers kept their motion up my thigh and then under my panties. Her thumb slid deeper between my legs. It too made circular motions, always a little deeper, than back a little before going deeper still. I knew where she was going. She was teasing. Her mouth stayed on me now, her arm holding my shoulders, her lips on mine, and her hand, well, her hand was getting closer and closer. I felt waves of heat rush through my thighs. My back arched and I gasped for breath.

"I want to be your lover, Jessica." Her thumb slid against my labia. Just a light touch, but I threw an arm around her neck and pulled myself against her.

And then I heard the other two. They were up, near the door, pulling coats from our coat tree.

"I think we'll give the two of you some privacy." If it's possible for middle aged women to giggle, that's what they did. I turned my head to look at them, and saw smiles that were really leers. And then they were gone, laughing as they raced down the steps and out the main door.

I froze. Berta put her huge hand against my cheek and turned my face back toward her. Then her hand went back to my thigh.

"Do you wish to chase after her?" Berta even leaned back from me. If I wished to get off the couch I could now. But her hand stayed on my thigh, her thumb doing slow circles between my legs.

"Was this their plan?"

"Yes."

"And you helped."

"I spent the last three weeks dreaming of doing exactly what I am doing now." I wish I could describe her face. She was close to me again, leaning across me. I supposed I could still push past her, but I studied her face. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes as large as they ever got. I could feel the heat coming from her body.

"What happens next?"

"They will be together again. Maybe a few days, maybe a few weeks. Then they will fight as they did in the past. You will get Maya back."

"And you?"

"That depends on you."

"You get the leftovers."

"I get the most beautiful woman I will ever hold in my arms. Maybe you will let me stay with you tonight. Maybe you will let me do your portrait. Maybe you will tell me to leave. But, I have had my moment. There was love in your eyes that night in the gallery, and there was love in your eyes a moment ago. I will remember the way your hair lay against the couch, the way your skirt felt as I slid my hand up your leg, the way your eyes closed as I reached the top of your thighs. You have made me very happy."

"Stay with me tonight."

She slid her hand down my thighs and pushed under my knees. She lifted me onto her lap and held me. Slowly she slid to the edge of the couch and then rose straight up with me in her arms. I held on tight, my face buried in her neck.

My bedroom was dark. A bit of light came in from the hallway, a bit from outdoors. She stood next to my bed, still holding me in her arms. I slowly turned out of her arms and stood in front of her, my hands on her shoulders, my hips pressed against hers. I began undressing her. First the straps of her dress down over her massive shoulders. I kissed her shoulders, and then her breasts as I got her dress unzipped and down around her ankles.

I stopped there and waited as she undressed me. I have never been touched so slowly and carefully. Her finger tips traced my neck, my shoulders, my breasts, and then my hips. I keep my nightgown under my pillow. I found my satin bridal/night gown. Berta slid it over my head, then reached past me for the gown under the second pillow. It was a huge satin caftan. Hers, obviously.

"Maya prepared for this."

"It was a gesture, Jessica. Think of it as wishing us well." That's not what I thought of it, but Berta had me in her arms again, lifting me as if I were a child, and placing me in the bed. Here I have to admit to some fear. She was huge. Her hips were wide and would be heavy. I wondered if she would hurt me. But she lay next to me, her arms around me, her big warm hips against mine.

Her arm went around my shoulders, her face next to mine on the pillow, while her other hand went back to my thighs. I opened my legs and was soon gasping for breath, my hands all over her face, my mouth locked on to hers. I pulled her to me as tightly as my arms would let me. And she pleased me. I pushed myself tighter and tighter against her, and pulled her over me. Heat rushed through my thighs. I said lots of things. Whispered lots of things. Brought her head down onto mine and clung to her.

Finally, I said, "Stay with me."

She did, and it was very good. Every night was as good as the first. Especially for me. She did everything to please me. I have never been touched so tenderly and so often. I was breathless night after night.

It was our third night together when I recognized what I had been doing, and also what I had not been doing. Once again she carefully undressed me and slid my nightgown over my head, her hands sliding it down my sides. Then she reached around to unzip her own dress, but I stopped her. It was my turn to please her.

"Let me brush your hair." I pointed to a stool Maya had in front of her mirrored dressing table. Berta sat on it – carefully. It was a small stool, and the wood creaked as it took her weight. But it held. I picked up a brush and began sliding it across her jet black hair. She wore it long, and she took care of it. There was a gloss from whatever product she used. I kept one hand on the top of her head in case the brush pulled, but I was able to pull it down all the way to her shoulders in stroke after stroke. I went slowly, first to be careful, and then to give it full effect. I leaned my hips into her back as I brushed, sometimes kissing the top of her head as I finished a stroke.

How long did I brush? I think a long time. I could see her face in the mirror. At first she stared directly back at me, but slowly she seemed to relax, and then her eyes began to close. I kept brushing.

At some point I put the brush down, pulled her hair over to one side, and began kissing her neck. As I did so, I unzipped her dress and slid the straps over her shoulders, my lips on her neck, and my fingers sliding across her neck and shoulders. I don't know the first thing about massage, but I tried to be gentle, to keep my movements smooth, waiting to feel the muscles in her neck and shoulders relax.

Slowly I moved my hands down around her shoulders. Now I pulled the straps for her bra down. I have never seen any so wide. I pulled her dress farther down, and began unhooking her bra. The back was wide. There had to be six hooks and eyes. The material was heavy, some elastic, but lots of cotton cloth sewn double. When I separated the last hook, I slid the bra and her dress down around her waist. My hands now reached around from behind, sliding over her breasts, doing circles over her skin while I continued to kiss her neck and lean against her back.

Finally I took a knee and slid my hands lower, reaching under her dress and pushing my hands along her hips, my thumbs riding the top of her thighs. I could feel her thighs warm as I caressed them.

And then Berta was up. She finished getting out of her dress and bra, turned, and lifted me like I weighed nothing. She put me on my back in our bed, her arms around my shoulders, her thighs between mine – tight between mine. I wrapped my arms around her waist.

"Jessica, I know I am not beautiful. But you make me feel beautiful."

"You are beautiful to me."

That seemed to be the start of a different level of affection between us. Of course there was the Jessica Shower Ceremony for starters, a ceremony she relished and soon took over. But there was also so much casual touching. We'd be in the kitchen making coffee, and suddenly we would be wrapped around each other. I'd see her sitting and come up behind her, get her zipper down, and have my hands all over her, while pressing myself against her back. And, yes, there were times when she just picked me up and took me to bed. That never stopped feeling good.

Did we spend all day every day crawling all over each other? Sure, there were days when we barely got dressed. But there were days when we went out for a meal and to see an exhibit at one gallery or another. I always took Berta's hand as we walked there (there had to be ten galleries within an easy walk). We did a careful review of each picture we saw, which is to say, Berta talked about each work, and I nodded my head. I didn't think any work was as good as Berta's but I didn't say anything. I held her hand, walked slowly from one piece to another, and nodded. If I started getting bored, I took Berta's hand and pulled it behind my back, sliding even closer to her. If that didn't work, I laid my head on her shoulder.

We were in that position one day when the exhibiting artist came by to talk. Or maybe it was to gloat. I gathered we were in one of the better galleries, and she was having a major show. All the pictures looked like paint blotches to me, but this lady was pretty proud of her blotches.

"Berta, so glad to see you again."

"I am enjoying your new collection."

"Will we be seeing anything new from you? I have seen your ink drawings several times now. Abstract landscapes? Interesting, but I wonder when we might see something new."

"She's doing a series of me. Nudes." My head was still on Berta's shoulder, her arm around my back. I smiled. I liked the look on the lady's face. An instant of confusion followed by a small frown, followed by a forced smile.

"I'm sure it will be lovely." And she was off, noticing she had a customer at the other end of the gallery.

"Nudes?" Berta brought her free hand around to my cheek and turned my head so she could see my face.

"If you wish." And the funny thing was, I was comfortable with the idea. She had talked about doing my portrait. Why not a nude? I would sit, and she would look at me, and that was fine.

We didn't quite race out of the gallery, but Berta did get me out of there and back to the apartment pretty fast. And she got right to work. There was more to it than I had expected. She had me sit in half a dozen places around the apartment, taking photographs each time and looking at me from every angle. I wasn't surprised when she decided the bedroom would be the place.

Then there was the question of what I might wear, and where I might wear it – cloth draped here and there. She moved me, turned me, posed me, and moved things around me. It was dinner time before she had what she wanted. When she was done, I recognized the pose. She was doing a version of the picture Jim had done. My pose? I was on the edge of the bed, my nightgown rumpled and mostly dragging behind me, my face looking up, obviously smiling at my lover.

She didn't draw that evening. She wanted to work in the mornings. Better light, she said. I wondered if I might have fewer wrinkles first thing in the day. Whatever the reason, we started working the next morning, and every morning for over two weeks. I didn't like sitting still that long, and my back would bother me and my nose itch, but I was looking at my lover – Berta – and right now, for her, I would sit, and smile and tilt my head just a bit.

I did a different pose every morning. Always on the bed, sometimes more covered than others, mostly sitting, but also lying. Always looking at her. Always some expression of love. And I did love her. I didn't think I would ever truly understand art, especially the abstract blotches of color she took me to see, but I loved being with her, holding her hand, resting my head on her shoulder. And nights? Well, there was a reason I looked the way I did in the morning.

The drawings went well. (She let me see all of them. I was surprised to see myself as a series of ink lines. But somehow it worked. In some ways, my feelings were more clear than they had been in Jim's photos.) I was proud and happy. I don't know how artists rate each other, but it looked to me like Berta had done an outstanding job and should be recognized for it. But that was for another time. Right now was our time to finish the drawings, and enjoy each other.

And then Maya called. She wanted to see me again. I told her "no", and then I told Berta. We were in bed. I waited until we were tight against each other. We shared the same pillow and barely spoke above whispers.

"I know things are over between you and Maya. But they are ending for us too."

"No."

"Jessica, I go half crazy every time I touch you. I am grateful for every minute. But we are not a match. Do you see yourself spending year after year following me from one art gallery to another? Is that to be your life? Am I to be your woman? A woman twice your size. You see how people look at us when we enter a restaurant."

"They don't see you the way I do."

"Thank God for that. But it doesn't change the fundamentals. And it doesn't change who you are. You are not the lady to hold my hand and nod your head while I describe why one collection of colors is superior to another. I love the way you nod, by the way. The movement of your hair against your ears gives me joy every time." As she is saying this, her hand is on the side of my head, her fingers playing in my curls.

"I hope I am a fond memory for you," she continued. "One that makes you smile as you sit in your kitchen or lie in your bed. But I want one more sitting from you in the morning, and then I will drive you to the airport. You have children and grandchildren, and you belong with them."

We argued deep into the night. Until, somehow, I realized she had thought about this ending. Even while I had been brushing her hair and groping her from behind, she must already have been thinking about our ending. She knew I wouldn't stay. She knew. That hurt a bit. I had been thinking about us, and she had been thinking past us. That didn't sit well. I punched her back. Then I wrapped my arms around her.

I did the final sitting she wanted in the morning.

It didn't go well. It was obvious she needed more time. Or more something. She was rushing, and she was frustrated. Finally I patted the bed next to me. She sat at my side. I wrapped my arms around her and leaned back, pulling her onto me as I lay across the bed. I had as much chance of pulling her over as I did pulling over a tree trunk, but she knew what I wanted, and she went with me, even putting me somewhat more onto the bed in the process.

"Berta, the drawing will be beautiful whenever it is done. Right now I want you, not a drawing."

"Well, you have me." Her moon face hovered over mine. There was frustration there, and stress, but I played with her hair, and she finally relaxed – at least a little bit.

"Tell me a story, Berta. A story I will think about and smile about whenever I lay on my back like this. And by the way, as you are telling me the story, I want to feel more of you on me." She slid across me, one knee now between mine, her thigh in a very good place. I got one of my hands on her ass, and she smiled for the first time.

"Did I tell you about the Olympics?"

"Not a word."

"I was on the Swiss team. Discus. I can spin in circles faster than anyone."

"I wondered about the shoulders."

"Shoulders and knees." I kissed her shoulder but kept my hand on her ass. She was wearing a smock over her dress, but I had untied that and was having a great time playing with her skirt.

"Two things you should know about the Olympics. First, everything they build is over budget and late. The athletic residences are always done last, and they are always defective. Half the time we didn't have hot water, and if you plugged in a hair drier, you could blow circuit breakers all over the building. Second thing? You get thousands of athletes from around the world in one place, and they are like rabbits. Our coaches gave out condoms by the gross. I had an endless stream of men and women in my room. Most were just hit and run. By the time I knew what country they were from, they were on me, in me, and gone.

"But there was this wrestler from Russia who kept coming back. He was huge. Over a hundred and fifty kilos. Russians treat their women like dirt, so I would have avoided the guy, but he had real talent. He could really get me going. One afternoon we were totally fired up. I thought the headboard of my bed might go through the wall. But no. Instead, the whole damn bed collapsed. I dropped straight down, and he landed on top of me. My first thought was, oh shit, my back is broken. It wasn't, but I was bruised pretty badly. The next day we had our first heats in track and field, and I could barely move. I couldn't tell my coach I had a Russian land on me, so I complained about pulling one thing or another during workouts. I got scratched, my Olympics now over. And I never saw the Russian again."

I couldn't tell which of us was laughing harder. I dug my fingers into her hair, pulled her face to mine, and kissed her while still laughing so hard I could barely breathe.

"Love the story. But now every time I pull someone over me, I'll be wondering how good my bed is."

"Just avoid Russians. Now, your turn."

My story? It took me a second, but then my mouth started moving, and I was halfway into my story before I even thought about it.

"I live in a trailer. I think you call them caravans. Or at least the Brits do. It sits in the middle of four acres of forest. I was raised in that trailer, and it was where I raised my two daughters. When they were very young my mother was with us, and she helped, but after she died, it was just me and the girls, trying to make it on waitressing. It was tough. I would get the girls on the bus, then race to the diner to help with the breakfast folks, stick around for the lunch crowd, and then get home to get the girls. I was tired all the time, and broke. Tips meant the world to me. Sometimes I got good tips, some days I didn't. Then there was the truck that kept breaking down, and sometimes the girls would act up. I might see a guy I knew from high school and wonder if he would call. But they never did. You get it. Tough times."

"I know, a little sad. Here's where it gets interesting. My trees. After the girls went to bed, I went to bed too. By nine I would be flat on my back. Right about there..." I pointed to my right toward where my bedroom window would be. "I had a window, and I could always hear my trees. Poplars, mostly. They have huge leaves, and if it is raining you can hear rain plopping from leaf to leaf all the way down. In the fall, you can hear the leaves rattle as they shrivel and clatter against each other. But the strangest time is winter. Poplars go maybe forty or fifty feet. Please don't ask me what that is in meters. Anyway, they are incredibly skinny, and they will bend way over in a wind, even in winter when all the leaves are off.

"Now here's the strange part. They don't bend in unison. You know how when wind blows across a field, all the grass will lean together, long waves of grass moving in unison. Poplars don't do that. One will lean way back and already be moving forward while another poplar starts leaning the opposite way. Only there's not two of them, there are fifty or eighty, all moving in different directions. And they hit each other. You can hear them all night, this series of 'bops' as they bang into each other, then swing around, and hit each other again. It always reminded me of those silent movies where the cops moved around in jerky motions, night sticks out trying to hit the bad guys but mostly hitting each other. Really silly cops. And I had really silly trees. And that would be the final thought I would have as I fell asleep. Yes, I need to refill the propane tank, and yes, we are down to two cans of spaghettiOs, but my real problem is I own four acres of really stupid trees. Somehow that would make me smile. Then I would fall asleep and do it all over again the next day."

"This is where you will go now?"

"Yes, if you don't let me stay with you. You are sending me back to my stupid trees."

"And to your family."

"Yes." We groped each other for a while, our final time on that bed. She was wearing a fragrance – mint – that I will always remember, and I will remember the feel of her huge breasts. And I will remember her story.

She stayed on me. I loved the warmth of her, and the strength of her as she moved across me. Huge shoulders, but very gentle hands. Very talented hands. But finally she got up, and then she just lifted me back to my feet.

"Time to go. Pack your clothes while I pack my brushes."

I cheated. I didn't pack anything – or, almost anything. I had arrived wearing my blue castle dress. I would leave in the same dress. The long skirts might look a little odd, but they would be warm on the plane. My other clothes? I just left them. I pulled a fairly large shoulder bag from the ones in my closet, put most of my jewelry in the bottom, then added my wallet, bank books, passports, and three scarves that I really liked. That was all I would take. I took off Maya's ring and left that and my key on her dresser. In the front closet I chose calf-high boots and a very nice woolen coat. I was ready to go.

Berta stood with me at the front door, an armload of canvases and art supplies with her. I think she was waiting for me to say something about Maya. But what could I say? I had loved her. Now I didn't. We took one final look around the room and then clomped our way down the stairs and to her car.

Switzerland may be a long way from Wisconsin, but getting from one to the other is not all that complicated. There was at least one flight an hour that went from Bern to Frankfurt, and six or eight carriers made the Frankfurt to Chicago run. Tickets were easy.

I did have one stop before we left town - my bank. Emil's insurance money was there, along with my severance, and most of my wages for the prior two years. I did a wire transfer of almost all of it to my bank in Wisconsin. Damn near two million dollars. I left a few thousand francs in the account in case I had any credit card bills left, but the rest of the cash I transferred. I was forty five. I can't say I had any incredible insights from all my years, but I had learned that things do end. It was pretty clear to me my time in Switzerland was over. I might cry about that later. For now, I would just move my money and take the next plane.

Berta was pretty good at the airport. No tears. I wrapped my arms around her waist, buried my face in her neck, and held on. She got her huge, warm arms around my shoulders and held me. I said "tighter," and she did. We didn't make any promises to write or call. We just held each other. When the time came to walk to my gate, we kissed, I turned, and I walked.

About twelve hours later, I was in Green Bay, Tiffany and kids waiting for me.

Chapter 30

Winter in Amberg

I think I have complained plenty about winters in Amberg. It is dark at 4, the cold is brutal, snow shoveling is the local sport. Every day you hope your car will start. Things are so bad, some people take up ice fishing to pass the time. If ever there was a sign of pure desperation, it is ice fishing.

But I was home for the first winter in three years, and I was back with my family. Family. Do you mind if I brag about my family? I promise it will just be a page or two.

First, my daughters. Tiffany's kids were now old enough for day care and kindergarten, so she was back to work at her clinic half days. Husband Ben was constantly inventing new ways to run lab tests and was in contact with a company about patenting a new machine (please don't ask me for details, I can't even pronounce the name of the test). His success was nice, but what I really liked to see was how he was with the kids – and with Tiffany. The kids crawled up on his lap, and he and Tiffany still touched each other and smiled, so I figured things were going well. In some ways Tiffany had taken over for me. The U.S. has two huge holidays – Thanksgiving and Christmas. Families gather for both. In the past, they had gathered at my trailer. Now the girls split them – Thanksgiving at Tiffany's, and Christmas at Britney's. I brought sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie, but it was the girls who did the hosting, and they did it well.

Speaking of Britney, she was still helping my dad with the laundromats and working one morning at the Niagara Clinic. Patty and Amy were both in preschool. Britney mentioned that there might be a third baby soon. Good for her – and Billy. Billy had taken over the repair of all the laundromat machines, and had even begun repairing the machines for a place in Iron Mountain. He was still working at the bottling plant. He had finished his on-line engineering technology program at the voctech and had done all the machine repair trainings at the plant. It was clearly time for him to be promoted, but that hadn't happened yet. Something was odd about that, but I hadn't gotten to the bottom of it yet.

So, daughters and husbands doing well, grandkids growing up, losing teeth and gaining personalities (some stubbornness, lots of curiosity, generally good demeanor, very little whining), basically all a mom and grandmom wants to see.

As for my father, well, he was deep into his eighties and it showed. He was gradually selling off all his businesses (some I hadn't known he had owned), turning some things over to Billy and Britney, but keeping the Amberg bar, which was now where he spent all his afternoons. Britney still stopped by daily to get him some lunch and check up on him, but he seemed to be doing fine. Winter can be dangerous to older folks – one slip in the snow and the hip was gone and walking might be permanently gone. But the guy he hired to snow blow the sidewalk in front of his businesses also ran it around the side of the bar and over to dad's front door, so the walk was fairly safe, and dad used his walking sticks pretty well.

One problem with dad? Some moron at the bar had shown him how to use Amazon. Now the guy who had been shut out of my childhood and my daughters' childhood by my mother, was finally able to be around preschoolers – his great grandchildren. He spent an hour a day on Amazon picking things he was certain his great grand kids would love. And they did. But he had toys coming their way on a daily basis. My daughters had to stop him. It was too much for the kids. They set limits – birthdays, holidays, and maybe one thing a month. He decided months had just three weeks in them, but mostly he kept to the agreement. Why my grandkids weren't completely spoiled is one of life's mysteries.

Me? I had Sunday dinner with Tiffany one week and Britney the next. Wednesday nights I had dinner with dad and did some cleaning and laundry for him. Mostly I saw dad at the Amberg bar, because I went back to bartending for him Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. Morgan was still his main bartender, meaning that I still had lot of cleaning to do on Thursday, but I also had lots of quiet times to talk to dad, and several evenings to catch up with old friends. Dad gave me a raise – I now made nine fifty an hour, plus maybe three bucks a night in tips.

Life fell into a routine, as all lives do. I put new tires on my Toyota and filled my propane tank, so I was ready for winter. I grocery shopped at the Wausaukee IGA and sometimes stayed for lunch at the Wausaukee diner. Sometimes I ran into people I knew, and we would stand and talk until we got cold. My trailer needed cleaning, and boxes kept arriving from Switzerland, so I had all that to put away. Every few weeks I drove over to the Hilton resort for dinner. A few people smiled, and I shook a few hands, but I ate alone. You get the basic idea – it was a little of this, and a little of that, and time passed.

January and February dragged on as they always do, but March came with longer days and heavy snows followed by some melting. Sap started rising in the trees. And sap started rising in people. The bar seemed busier. I know we sold more beer.

I started feeling a bit restless. I decided my trailer could use an upgrade. Maybe a garage. Maybe a shed. Billy connected me to a contractor he trusted. He came over to the trailer, and as things often go with contractors, by the end of that afternoon I was signed up for a basement and an addition. The basement would be work (we'd have to raise the trailer before putting a basement under it), but it made sense. Trailers just sit up on a few blocks, and even if you put some wood panels around the base, wind and cold still get under the trailer and your floors are always freezing cold. No one walks around a trailer with bare feet.

The addition? Once we started playing with paper and pencil, it just seemed to naturally flow. We would build an eighteen foot addition along the back of the trailer, all of it over the new basement, with both the addition and the trailer covered by a new roof. It would more than double the size of my home, while still keeping the parts that I had lived in for forty five years. The addition would include a second bathroom (that would have been heavenly back when the girls were in high school and spent forever on their hair), and a new bedroom, but most of the space was just to extend the living room so I would have more space when the kids and grandkids visited. Turned out I knew the contractor's family and trusted them. So I signed the papers and waited for the spring thaw. It was pretty exciting.

And then some other things started happening. You know how years later you can always point to one moment and say, "That's when it all began?" But it generally begins in ways you don't recognize at the time. That's how it was with this. I was tending bar. I heard a name. I had a conversation. And everything flowed from that, not that I knew it at the time.

The conversation? It began with three guys at the bar, one of whom was Billy. They were just in for a beer after work. They came by maybe once a week. I gave them their beers, then went over to another bunch – loggers – who wanted beer and our really bad pizzas. I'm standing by the pizza maker, waiting for it to "ding" so I can take out bad pizza dough covered with fake cheese and wafer thin pepperoni slices, and on the other end of the bar I can hear the guys with Billy laughing and using the term "Celloman."

Finally the pizza is done, so I give it to the loggers and then wander over to my son-in-law.

"What's the joke?"

Billy just holds up his phone. There is a picture of Gunther Handel, my replacement. He is wearing white tie and tails, and holds a cello between his knees. He is staring into the camera as if contemplating the infinite value of music. Below his picture is his name, and a few sentences describing his involvement with "Classics Four," a string quartet found at the best receptions and conferences in the Twin Cities.

"Did he quit the company?" I ask.

"No. He is still division head, at least on paper." This from one of the other guys from the plant. I think I went to school with his mother.

"But the guy has been ghosting us." This from Billy. "I know Eileen has been trying to reach him for weeks about a machine that really should be replaced, and he keep postponing the training he wanted us to do with the guys at the new plant. He doesn't return calls. He doesn't respond to emails. We couldn't figure out what was going on with the guy. So we googled him, and now we know. He has become Celloman."

"Well, I guess the guy is entitled to a hobby." What else can I say? It's pretty bad form to bad mouth your replacement. There was some more conversation from the guys, talk about work not getting done, decisions not getting made. I didn't like the sound of the conversation, so I decided it was time for me to make another pizza. As I walked away, I worried about Eileen. I had hired her as plant manager, and as far as I knew, she was doing a good job. Now it appeared she was stuck between her boss and her employees, never a good position to have.

Two days later I got Eileen's take on the situation. She came in after work and sat at the far end of the bar. Obviously she wanted privacy, not that it was much of a problem that day. Only two other guys were in the place, and they were parked in front of the TV, arguing with my father over why the Packer defense was so weak. Dad was giving them a long lecture about Reggie White, which didn't seem really relevant since White had retired and then died, but if you mention defense around my dad, you hear about Reggie White.

I brought Eileen a beer even though I knew she would just sip a bit of it. We hugged across the bar, and we asked about each other's family, and even wasted time on the weather before she was ready to talk about what she had come to talk about. Conversations take time in Amberg.

"I understand Billy has talked to you about Mr. Handel."

"We had a short conversation. Just general comments about things taking longer than Billy thought they should." My guard is up at this point. Eileen is an old friend, but Billy should not be complaining about senior managers.

"Billy is right." Okay. Now I'm more concerned. Eileen should not be badmouthing her boss, and certainly not to me. I can see heads rolling, starting with hers. But she came to complain about the guy, and she is just getting started.

"He hasn't done a plant visit in almost a year. He completely ignores our maintenance problems. We have an extruder that should have been replaced last fall. If it weren't for Billy making constant repairs, that whole line would be shut down. If I call, he is out. If I email, there is no response. The only contact I ever have with the man is a five word reply to my monthly production reports – 'Thank you for this update.' The same five words every month."

"What do you hear from the other plant managers?"

"They have the same problem. The guy has just vanished. He has moved to Minneapolis. No one sees him. Ever."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Jess, I am hoping you can do something for me. I am sure you still know people in the home office. Could you call and maybe see what is going on with the guy? Maybe let a few people know there are problems here?"

"If I make that call, they will figure out pretty fast that I am hearing complaints at the plant – maybe you, maybe Billy. One or both of you could get fired." I let that sink in. "What if I try something else? What if I just go talk to Handel?"

"Yes, that might help." Did her face light up at this point? Great idea, Jess, problem solved? I feel so relieved now. Sure. In real life I am looking at Eileen and seeing uncertainty and frustration. This is a woman who has run a bottling plant for years and done it successfully. The fact that she has to come to me for help doesn't sit well with her. She's embarrassed. And I think she is also angry. And, I think she is also aware that she may end up losing her job. She wants to do what's right. But what's right when your boss is a dick?

She writes out the dick's contact information, and we spend a few minutes talking about friends we have in common. She sips a bit of her beer and leaves.

It occurs to me she is placing a lot of trust in me. If I screw this up, she will pay the price, not me. Not a happy thought. Meanwhile, the two guys by the TV are tired of arguing with my father. They are trying to move the conversation to fishing. But get dad started on Reggie White, well... Prepare to listen.

It was about a week later that I had my conversation with Celloman. Getting an appointment was easy. I called, he answered, he would "love to see me again." We set a time Monday morning. So far, so good.

Getting from Amberg to Minneapolis isn't impossible, but our roads don't make it easy. Basically Wisconsin highways are designed to get people from Chicago up to resorts in our north. So, driving south to north – easy. Driving east to west – complicated. I actually drove south to Green Bay and then west on 29 (four lanes), getting to St Paul in about six hours.

Why St Paul and not Minneapolis? Because St Paul has a hotel I once owned. I hadn't been there in years, and I guessed all my old friends in the front office would be gone (they were), but I had to see how the place was holding up. Pretty damn well, if I have to say so myself. I got my bag up to my room (great river views from every window), and then wandered all over the place, a huge smile on my face. I had owned the place when we did the major renovation on it, so I knew every decision about window placements and key design features. I even decided where all the ferns would go. Did I do well? It sure looked like it.

I sat in the bar and sipped a glass of wine while looking out at the Mississippi (still mostly iced over), then moved to the dining room. Just on a chance, I asked if Shirette Conner might be cooking that night. Five minutes later both she and her sister Clarissa came rushing over to my table. These two cooks and Shirette's daughters had helped me do the catering for the Oregon Trail movie. I had helped them get their current jobs when the movie finished (sorry, I know I should call it a "film.")

What did I learn in between all the hugs and greetings? Both women were happy in their work. And Shirette was so proud of her daughters, she was telling me about them before we got to the second "It is so good to see you." Both girls had been admitted to the University of Minnesota (first point of pride), and Jolene was already doing her residency for the physician's assistant program (second point of pride) with a good chance of going on to med school in two or three years (pride now off the charts). Marlena was getting a degree in secondary ed – history- and had published two articles about the Oregon Trail (fourth point of pride? I was losing track). In sum, we hugged, talked, laughed, hugged some more. They finally had to go back to the kitchen, but they said they would take care of my meal.

And they did. On the road to Oregon their challenge had been to cook on small stoves with limited ingredients, and they had done fine. Now that they had a real kitchen and a dozen other cooks to share recipes with, well, the food they sent out was a whole lot better than we had ever had roadside in Nebraska. And they picked up the check. Maybe that was point of pride number five.

So I was still feeling pretty good the next morning when I pulled out my phone and used my favorite app to direct me to an office complex in northern Minneapolis. Not easy, and they can say what they want about "Minnesota nice," you put a million commuters on eight lanes of concrete and getting from point A to point B is anything but "nice." But I made it, no white knuckles, and limited heavy breathing.

Guenther's office? Just a single room. Sign on the door, "Guenther Handel, President, North American Operations, Naturale." Probably twenty other offices for twenty other companies on the same hallway. I knocked and went in.

Should I describe him or the office first? The office. It was huge, and nicely decorated. Good quality carpet on the floor, oak paneling on the walls, maybe a ten foot ceiling. And it was mostly empty. It had to be twenty feet wide and thirty or forty feet deep, and the only thing in it was his desk (at the far end), two leather chairs by the desk, and a music stand and cello to one side.

Guenther? Mid thirties. A bit taller than average. Posture that said he hit the gym every morning. Hair a bit long for the US, but fine for Europe or for musicians. Decent looking. Not a heart throb, but as the saying goes, no one would throw him out of bed. He had been sitting behind his desk when I arrived, a computer screen nearby, but I didn't have the sense he had been looking at it. He had been waiting for me.

He instantly came around his desk and gave me a hug. "It is so good to see you again."

The hug surprised me, as did the comment. I think we had attended the same director meetings once or twice. I don't recall a single time we had shared a meal. But, okay, if he was going to be friendly, that just made my job easier. He held the hug, gave me a big smile and then directed me to one of the leather chairs. Rather than go back behind his desk, he took the other chair, pulling it to mine, the two chair arms now touching, as were our knees. All smiles.

Okay, my turn to say something. I had a six hour drive to think up a brilliant opening line, but now that I was there, the best I could do was point to his cello, and say,

"I heard you are really quite a talent."

"I love the cello. You can play most of the same music as the violin, but the tone is so much deeper and richer. I have been playing since I was five, barely able to get my arms around it. By high school I was in the youth symphony. When I was working on my MBA, I played in the Ann Arbor Symphony. If the MBA program had lasted a bit longer, I would have made first chair." I am getting smiles, motions forward with his body, his hands reaching out and touching mine. No question, the guy loves his cello.

"And now?"

"I play when I can. I am in two string quartets. We play here and there. It is a great way to meet people. You'd be surprised by the network it can create."

"So music and business..."

"Music and business and math. You'd be surprised how often musical talent and math abilities go together. I was a math prodigy. To me the connection is most obvious in Bach. I think he was the best mathematician of his era. When I hear a Bach Fugue, I feel I am hearing elegant equations."

Elegant equations? Okay, this is so far over my head, I can't even nod my head like I do when I look at art I can't understand. I am just staring at the guy.

"But, you didn't drive all this way to hear about Bach." There is a smile on his face. Very reassuring. And he even reaches over and takes my hand. Is this where I ask why he won't buy a new extruder for the Amberg plant? Probably not.

"I was passing through town and hoped you might give me the latest on how the new plants are coming."

"I thought you might have an interest in that." Big smile. Somehow he seems to be sitting even closer. He is now holding my hand in both of his.

"I think I may have to disappoint you, Jess. I know you worked hard acquiring those properties and getting construction started." I am seeing more sympathy on his face than I have seen since Emil's funeral. "But the numbers never worked. I was able to complete construction on three of the plants, but of course the real costs are in machinery. I would go to the semi-annual capital budget meetings, but I could never present a return that was anywhere near what other presidents could guarantee. We were always bottom of the list. With Emil running the company, I had some hope of eventually getting my approvals, but once he was gone..."

Long pause, sad eyes, his hand is now stroking my wrist.

"So the buildings are just standing there?"

"Oh, no. Don't worry about that." Big smile. "You did a great job siting them along Highway 2. One is being used by a trucking company as their main warehouse, and WalMart is using another as a distribution center. I am negotiating with another trucking company for the third." The guy is really proud of himself, and the look on his face says I should be proud too. After all, I had sited them – exactly where Emil had told me to site them.

"And the wells?" Can you hear the desperation in my voice? This guy has undone years of my work.

"Oh, the wells are still there. We plugged them for now, but if the outlook for bottled water ever improves, we can start pumping again pretty quickly."

"We were hoping to pump now so we could record seasonal variations and do a general trend analysis."

"Yes, I know you and Emil were very concerned about Global Warming, as we all should be." His left hand is now stroking my right arm. His touch is light, but why is he touching me? I shift forward in my chair, thinking I might stand, but of course that just puts me closer to him. "But we are talking fifty years down the road, Jess. In the meantime, we have investors who have kids in school and homes they need to pay for. Forty five years from now, I promise you, if there is a water shortage, we will start pumping."

Forty five years? I am at a complete loss. There was so much more that needed to be done.

"Jess, in the meantime, we keep the current three plants open. We will have to squeeze every dime to stay within ROI guidelines, but we can do that. You want that, right?"

"Of course." I stand. Not sure why, other than I find it impossible to sit. I worked my ass off finding those plant sites and now WalMart is filling them with Chinese imports? He stands too. He has this big reassuring smile. He puts his hands on my upper arms, his body tight to mine. I try to step back, but my calves are up against my chair.

"I want to do that for you, Jess." Pause for a smile and a nod. Then his voice changes. Quieter. Like he is telling me a secret. "I also want to help with your other problem." Huh? I am back to staring.

"I know how things are. I know how things went with you and Kurt and then with Maya Frieden. You have been out of work almost a year now. Whatever severance they gave you is gone. You are back in Amberg, back living in a trailer and tending bar. I was very sorry to hear about all that, but I can help you with that. Obviously I can't give you a job with Naturale, but I have a large network. When you said you were coming, I made some calls. I found a great office assistant job for you just down the block. You can stay with me while you are getting settled." He is looking at me like he expects me to jump into his arms in gratitude. That smile. That salesman's smile. He has the exact product this customer needs – and at a very special price. His hands have slid past my arms and to my back. I am wearing a sundress with a fairly low back. I can feel his hands on my skin. I can smell his morning coffee on his breath. As he pulls me closer, I can feel the bulge in his pants.

"I don't need a job, Guenther."

"I think you will love my apartment." Whatever I said didn't register. He just continued the sales pitch. "It is huge, and right on the river. It even has a Jacuzzi. All the best shops are close by. It will feel like you are back in Bern." Big smile. Warm hands across my back.

"I don't need a job, Guenther." Any chance he will hear me this time?

"Of course you don't need to work if you don't want to. You are very welcome to stay with me and take care of my apartment." One of the hands on my back has gone fully across and is now pinning my arms to my side. The other hand is sliding down to my ass, going very slowly, as it pulls me tighter to him. I need to be careful. His blood is up, his dick is up, this is where men can do very stupid things.

"Guenther, I didn't come here to become your mistress or your maid." He is still smiling, his hands stroking my back, convinced he has made the sale, even if I don't know it yet.

"Jess, I understand." The look on his face says he has read my mind, and he has it all taken care of. "I know it didn't work with Kurt. Maya? Not so good either. You struck out. It happens. But this will be a fresh start for you. I will take care of you. All this trailer business is over. You will really like my apartment. And Minneapolis will be good for you." His face is close, and I can feel myself being bent back, his face now over mine. This is getting very bad, very fast.

"Guenther, I just stopped by to talk. I don't need rescuing." Am I still talking? Not that you can tell from his reactions.

"I think you will like it here. Wait until you see some of the places I perform. I remember you used to dress well. I'll buy you some clothes so you look good again. I will take you with me to performances and introduce you around. You will be impressed by the people you meet." His hand has made it all the way down to my ass. And he is leaning in to kiss me. Shit.

"Guenther, pay attention." My arms may be pinned to my sides, but my hands are free. I push both thumbs into his ribs. "I didn't come here to be your mistress. I am going to leave. You will let me go, or there will be big trouble."

"Jess, stop the pretenses. You don't have a home. You don't have a career. You didn't finish high school, yet I found you a job if you want it. I have a very nice home for you to share. I won't marry you, but do what you are good at. Warm my bed, and I will help you find your next meal ticket. This is the right move for you. Really your only move. Let me show you around Minneapolis. Buy you dinner. Show you my apartment. Spend some time with me. Your life will get better – starting today."

The hand not pulling my hips tight against his dick, has slid up my back and is now deep into my hair, holding the back of my head. I know how things go from here. He kisses me, and I go along with it, or we wrestle a bit. Either way, odds are we end up on the carpet with me on my back or on my knees. This has to stop now. I jab his ribs harder while staring eye-to-eye.

"You're going to let me go now, or it's going to get ugly."

The hand on my ass pulls me tighter against him, tight against his bulge. He is testing me. I don't blink. Time passes. The math prodigy works out the next steps.

"Last chance, Jess. There is a lot here for you if you want it. You drove all this way for this. Don't back out now. You won't get another chance."

"No. And I mean no."

"Your loss." He drops his arms and steps back from me. I've got nothing more to say. I just turn, push my chair out of the way, and walk to the door. I catch my breath, step out into the hallway, and go to my car. I didn't cry, I didn't shake, I just walked. The man was a complete piece of shit. Worse, the hand on my ass was the least of my troubles. Forty five years? The lazy bastard wasn't going to do anything now or in forty five years. It would be so good to have Emil to talk to right now. Fucking crocodile.

Chapter 31

Off to Iron River

You might think I sat out in the parking lot rethinking all that had happened with that creep. Nope. The best response to guys like that is to walk away and forget them. I had forgotten him before I was even back to my car. What was I doing? I was fiddling with my phone. It had gotten me across Minneapolis. Now it needed to get me back to Amberg. I love the option to just hit "home." Seconds later it is all laid out. In this case there were three paths marked on the screen. The highlighted one took me back through Green Bay. But there was another path that ran north – along Highway 2. You know which one I tapped.

My phone said it would take two hours and nineteen minutes to get to Duluth. Three hours later I was at least close. I didn't expect to see as much of Minneapolis as I did, but hey, at least now I'm an expert on which interstate exits are not the ones to use.

Duluth is where I would pick up Highway 2. It was lunch time. I found a truck stop and put down a stack of pancakes while staring at my phone. I knew Highway 2. I had spent years working my way back and forth as I picked plant sites that were now warehouses. Most were clustered near Duluth. It made the most sense. Water would need to be moved. Highway 2 got us to Duluth. Duluth got us to Interstate 35, the main north/south interstate linking the middle of America. I had put all the plants in the right places. They must have been the right places – WalMart was now using one of them.

What about farther east – closer to Iron Mountain? Closer to home. They would be more distant from Lake Superior, but still in its watershed, and still in the snowbelt. What if I put some plants along there? Yes, that is what I was thinking as I ate my pancakes. What if I built some water bottling plants? Me. With my money. Near my home. Emil wanted water plants built. He was right. They should be built. Guenther and his company were not going to build them. I could.

And I would. I'm not sure if I was high on pancake syrup and coffee, but I had a complete vision of how I could do it. I would take one town and put three to six wells there. Three to six plants selling bottled water. I could see each plant in my mind – the exterior, and even the interiors, complete with how the production lines would be laid out. I had a timeline. One up and running before snow fell in the fall, three up within a year from today.

And I knew the location – Iron River, Michigan. One hour from Iron Mountain, well under two hours from Amberg. The drive was even pretty. From Iron River, I could move my bottles west to Duluth (three hours), or south to Green Bay (two and a half hours).

What did I need to do now? Get up off my butt, pay the check, and drive east. I would be in Iron River in time for dinner.

Actually, I got there a little after four. Maybe in time to do some business. First, a quick description. Like a lot of towns in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (the UP), the town had once been bigger. Even until the 1950s it had nearly five thousand people. Then the mines closed. Now it was down to under three thousand. But. It hadn't completely disappeared like Amberg. It had a ski hill and a golf course, both of which demonstrated it had people who had at least minimal income, and it had folks able and willing to work at a ski hill and golf course. It had a labor force. Maybe not a huge labor force, but I didn't need huge.

What did the place look like? It was the classic wide spot on the highway. Highway 2 was Main Street. You slowed down to 35 on your way through town. You passed a school, two gas stations, two motels, residential streets running perpendicular left and right, and they even had a small mall, basically an IGA, laundromat, and two insurance agencies. And – and here's what would matter to me – as you passed through the middle of town there was still one block left of the old commercial district – a row of two story brick buildings, retail at street level, and apartments above. Don't ask me how I remembered, but I recalled seeing a real estate office on that block during one of my past lunches. Why I would remember that, I have no idea.

But, it was there. I parked in front (no problem parking anywhere in town. Parking they had, people were the shortage). Even in late March they still had plenty of snow piled high along the street. Someone had shoveled a narrow path from the parking to the sidewalk. I stepped through the path and arrived at Iron River Real Estate LLC. The large display windows were papered over with show sheets for at least fifty houses. You want a great deal on an older home? This is your place. Just glancing, I saw prices from thirty thousand to fifty thousand. What wouldn't buy a dog house in LA would buy three or four houses here.

But I wasn't interested in houses. I wanted to see what land might be available. It's now four thirty five, and I think maybe the place will be closed, but I tried the door anyway and stepped in. I shocked the hell out of a woman who was in the process of getting her coat on and had turned to get some things out of her purse.

That was how I met Stacy Haavisto, real estate broker and third generation Iron River resident. Obviously a Finn, obviously a descendent of the miners they had imported a century earlier. Maybe five four, stout (but not really fat), middle aged, and a bit flustered to have me walk in out of nowhere.

We did the usual greetings. She took her coat off, I took off mine, and we sat across a very small, very old desk. She had a pleasant smile, and I had a long story to tell. I held nothing back. I explained the business I planned to build, told her about my past work up the road with Naturale (she said she knew about those plants), asked her about available land.

And here's where Stacy Haavisto became my hero. She got out a township map and a county map, and she told me about all the mining that had been done and the toxic waste that had been left behind. She knew each location and put an X on the map for each of them. There was even a SuperFund site. Yikes. The place was a mess. So much for my project.

But. I had found an honest person. She told me where the town had drilled its wells to get water, and she showed me the area north of the town that had never been mined. We might have to go north five or ten miles to be absolutely safe, but the town roads were good in that direction. She would have to do more checking on waste sites and old mining operations, but she thought she could find me something.

And then I got invited to dinner.

"I need to go home and feed the family. Would you like to join us? The kids would kill me if I didn't at least ask." I must have looked confused (which I definitely was). "It took me a minute, but then I made the connection. Before the bottling plants, you were in movies."

"I did a walk-on in one, and thirty eight seconds in another."

"Thirty eight seconds more than anyone else in town. Would you mind?"

So, that's how I had dinner in a house identical to those being sold for under fifty thousand dollars.

I liked the family. Husband Pekke managed the local IGA. The girls, Tuula 16, and Katri, 18, both worked weekends at the ski hill. So I learned lots about local businesses. I also got an earful from both Pekka and Stacy about the mining companies that had walked away from town, leaving toxic waste dumps and jobless families. Pekka had worked the mines, as had his father and grandfather. As he told the story, there were two Iron Rivers – the one with the mines operating, and the one since. The current version felt like it was sleep walking.

Stacy was right about the girls. They wanted to know all about Hollywood. I had to explain I had never been there – we had done all our shooting on location. But I did get to tell them about driving Miles Martin's camper, how his eyes really were as blue as they looked on screen, and how he had once kissed me. I followed up with some stories about Melanie Davis and the real Narcissa Whitman, and the girls seemed happy. They went off to do homework, and I asked about local motels.

Both Stacy and Pekka walked me out to my car. I got a big hug from Stacy and a serious handshake from Pekka (yes, he had the hands of a miner). We planned to meet at nine at the real estate office and maybe visit some sites.

I ended up spending two more days in Iron River (I needed to be back behind the bar in Amberg for my usual shift on Thursday). We didn't look at properties the first day. We went to the local Department of Natural Resources office and talked to three guys who normally worked on forestry projects, but they also knew fish, so they knew water quality. They all seemed to agree with Stacy about which areas north of town were most likely to be free of mining debris.

We were making good progress with the rangers when the local mayor showed up. Don't know who said what to whom, but he wanted to shake my hand, welcome me, and assure me he and his staff would do all they could to assist me. I'm never sure of these guys. Do they start out with superficial smiles and easy handshakes, or does that come after a certain number of years in office. On the other hand, he was about sixty, had a huge hand (another ex-miner?), and Stacy seemed to respond well to him. So, maybe, this guy was still a normal human being. I was open about my plans. He was clear about permits. I had the impression we might be able to work together.

Day 2 – Wednesday – Stacy drove me around. We followed the Iron River for a while, visited a lake still covered with ice fishermen (she said it would be mid-April before the ice went out), and drove though mile after mile of pulpwood forest. It looked like the area around Amberg – birch, poplar, plantation pines – wood to be harvested every twenty years to make pulp for paper.

What did I notice? The roads had been plowed pretty well. We could get trucks in and out. She also made sure I saw the tracks used by the Canadian Northern. She thought a spur could be laid if shipping volumes warranted. Good to know, but probably two or three years down the road.

It was after lunch, nearly time for me to start back to Amberg, when she pulled into the driveway of an abandoned farm. At least I hoped it was abandoned. The barn had long fallen over, and the farm house was slanting east.

"Two hundred acres. Land up here goes for four thousand an acre, but that is for smaller blocks guys buy for hunting. The asking price is nine hundred thousand. It has been on the market seven years."

"I know the rules. You represent the seller, so you cannot advise me on the offer I should make. I won't ask you to. I will make an offer – six hundred thousand. While you contact the seller, I need to get back to Amberg. I will be back Monday. See if you can find me two other locations similar in size."

And that is how my new business started. It took three weeks of negotiations (the farm was part of an estate and needed the approval of six cousins who had inherited), and the final price was seven hundred thousand. But I had my land. It was June before I closed on two smaller farms, one eighty acres, another one twenty. But both were in the general area I wanted. "Hope Springs" was launched.

Chapter 32

Hope Springs LLC

I had an interesting spring. By late April the frost was finally out of the ground, so my contractor jacked up my trailer and started digging. Assuming my trailer didn't fall off the jacks, in about three weeks I would have a basement. Maybe two months after that I would have an addition.

I moved in with my father. Not my best idea ever. Britney and I had been cleaning his place for years, but when you actually live in a place (and use the bathroom and kitchen), you see the need for a whole new level of clean. At least I saw it. Dad, not so much. He stood, watched, and mumbled while I scrubbed the kitchen linoleum with one product after another. I got a rug scrubber in for the living room carpet. Again, lots of work, not much improvement. Finally I got Wausaukee Hardware to retile the kitchen and bathroom and recarpet the living room. I would have replaced the kitchen cabinets while I was at it (and all the kitchen appliances), but change does not come easy when you are in your eighties. We didn't have a major blow up over the changes I made, but I did hear at least three times a day, "that linoleum would have lasted another five years for sure." I decided to give him some space and some time, so I moved to the Hilton. Two months later my trailer was seated on solid basement walls, I was back in my home, and dad now liked the kitchen tiles but thought maybe they didn't go well with the counter tops. I smiled, nodded, and left things well enough alone.

As for my new company, I know what I know, and I know what I don't. I guess that's the long way of saying I needed help from my accountant, Amy Tippin. She had all my hotel money and most of the money I had brought back from Bern (I never let my local bank account drop below one hundred thousand dollars. I might only be getting four or five dollars a month in interest, but I also knew I was always going to have enough money to keep my propane tank filled and gas in my Toyota).

I drove down to Galena early in April to get her help. We had a long dinner together while I described my vision, and we spent the next morning in her office, me asking a few questions, but mostly taking notes and nodding. The basics?

1 – I could afford this. My investments had grown, and since I had not taken any income from them, I now had over twenty seven million dollars. (Plus a hundred thousand in the Pembine Wausaukee Bank to keep me in propane).

2 – I should use some of my money, but I should borrow most of what I needed. Banks were sitting on piles of cash they wanted to invest, and I could get rates that were lower than what I was earning on my other investments. She would make some calls and get me a five million dollar line of credit. If I needed more, she would find me more.

3- Starting small is not what you did any more. Economists might talk about economies of scale, but the real reason to go large was to find a distributor. It was too much work for them to deal with little clients. They wanted fewer, and bigger. So even the first plant should be as big as the plant in Amberg – at least two extruders and two fill lines producing a minimum of a thousand cases a week.

4- I should register as a limited liability corporation. She would call around and find me a qualified law firm in the UP.

You know how when you begin to relax, your shoulders begin to lower? Not sure why that happens, but by lunch time my shoulders were practically at my elbows (well, maybe not that low). Two things I knew and didn't have to write on my list. First, Amy had my back. I had been around bottling plants enough that I was pretty sure I could get one built and get it running. I could hire the staff and find contractors to move my product. Finding a distributor might take some work, but I could do that. Now that Amy would help with financing and legal issues, I was confident I could make this company happen.

Second? I was confident I could make this company happen. I was going to do this. Hope Springs LLC would bottle water now, and it would still be bottling water fifty years from now when my grandchildren owned it. This company was going to happen.

Amy and I had a long, leisurely lunch, talked a bit about the old days (the resort was still doing fine, sometimes people asked about me), but mostly we talked about the days ahead. She said she wanted to see Iron River, and she would come up when I got the LLC paperwork going. I liked the idea of her seeing the place for herself. I thought she might like the town.

Back in Amberg I lived in my trailer even while the addition was put on. I was usually out of bed and dressed before they started hammering. It was fun to see our early drawings come to life. I especially liked the windows. I would have big south-facing windows, windows with lots of sun and lots of poplar trees waving around in the wind.

I cut my work hours at the bar. I needed to be up in Iron River more, but I also needed to keep contact with my dad and the rest of the family. So I worked Mondays. Sundays I had dinner with the kids and grandkids. Mondays I cleaned up after the weekend crew (the new guy was not much of a cleaner), restocked the bar, and phoned in the weekly order to our supplier in Peshtigo. Dad came in a little after noon (after Britney had stopped in and made his lunch), and he and I talked while he watched whatever ball game was on TV. Spring was basketball and then baseball, and both the Bucks and the Brewers won enough games to be worth watching. They weren't the Packers (who was?) but they passed the time until the Packers hit the field again in August.

What did dad and I have to say to each other? The kitchen tiles seemed a bit slippery some times, but the little kids seemed to like the new carpeting. So much for the changes I had made. Then it was back to the Packers. Only a couple more months and we would see if the new draft choices would work out. He could name each one. I memorized the list so I could hold up my end of the conversation. When he wasn't looking, I Googled whoever he was talking about and commented on their college.

Tuesday mornings I drove up to Iron River. Staying the local motels got old fast. Beds sank towards the middle, and the heating systems thumped all night. Solution? Remember how the buildings in the old commercial block had stores at street level and apartments above? I bought one of the buildings on that block. It had two storefronts (both empty), and two apartments (also empty). Stacy found me a contractor who turned the storefront into a pretty good office for me (I modeled it pretty much after Stacy's real estate office next door), and then completely remodeled both apartments upstairs. I figured I would sleep in one, and the other would be for the kids if they wanted to come up and do some skiing.

The remodels took a month (more nights in the sad motel), but when done, I was pretty happy with the result. I had a very nice sign made – Hope Springs LLC – and hung it proudly over my office. Somehow it made things even more official.

Did everything go perfectly? Of course not, but there really weren't that many problems. Amy connected me to a law firm in Iron Mountain to do the LLC paperwork. The lawyer they assigned me was old, semi-retired, and semi-interested. He wanted to talk about the Iron River golf course. My business? Just one more set of forms he had completed a million times. But the paperwork got filed, and I got a business ID from the state.

The construction got off to a very slow start. I think it rained every day in May and June. Since I was here for the water, it seemed unfair to complain about the rain, but still, did it have to rain every day? The contractor was pretty good. I had used him on two of the buildings I had built for Naturale (now warehouses). I am pretty sure he used the exact same plans for my new building (although I made some changes to the exterior of the office area so the copying wasn't too obvious). I hung around the construction site, and maybe hung around him a little too much. It was pretty clear he wanted to get into my pants, and maybe I thought he would do just fine once he got there. You should have seen the shoulders on the guy. But I kept it professional, not without some regret.

I put four wells down. Each drew plenty of water at fifty feet. I went down another hundred. Wherever the water table was in fifty years, I wanted to draw from it. I piped water from two of the wells, ran them in the back of the factory (once I had a wall), and we were ready to go.

Finding a distributor took some time. Thank God I had done this before, and at least a few of these folks recognized my name. I had several face to face meetings, and as discussions progressed, I also had one big decision to make. Did I create a brand and sell using my name? Or did I use store labels? In the end, I agreed to use a store label – the one you find at Costco. I could always build a brand later.

What's that leave? Machinery. And a family decision. I could assemble and repair any of the extruders generally used to make water bottles. But so could Billy. This project would be a whole lot easier if I had him around to help. Should I hire him away from the Amberg plant? Before our usual Sunday dinner, I did a whole lot of thinking about what I might say. But he and Britney were way ahead of me. I barely mentioned the Iron River plant, and Billy said, "I was wondering if you were going to ask me."

It was actually Britney who did the negotiating for him. Title? Plant manager. Salary? Sixty five thousand, plus annual bonus. Responsibilities? He did the hiring. Oddly, it was the last requirement that slowed me down. I had expected to do all the hiring. Heck, I wanted to do all the hiring. I had already assumed I would hire both Stacy's daughters if they decided to work rather than go to college. But. He was right. If he was really the plant manager, he should do the hiring. But I did say I might have some recommendations to make.

Since Billy and Britney lived in Niagara, he would have about a ninety minute commute. Britney had already spent some time on that. She said they would look over the school and maybe move to Iron River. Of course what she was telling me was that they had already given the matter a lot of thought. They were prepared. I also liked that they trusted me enough to go with a new company – my company.

Next surprise? Dad. Billy had been fixing all his laundromats. He wouldn't be doing that from Iron River. Was Dad going to fuss? Nope. He had already sold one laundromat and was negotiating for the rest. It seemed I was the last to know about family decisions that had already been made.

So, here we were in early July, the rain had mostly stopped, we had a concrete floor and most of the girders up, we had wells, we had a distributor, and I had a plant manager. Billy's first job was to start ordering machinery, and he got right on it. I sat around my newly renovated office and smiled. Things were going far better than I had any right to expect, and they were about to get better.

Chapter 33

Elsa Meets Iron River

The rains were back that morning in July. It had rained all night, but it was a soft rain, a gentle rain. It wouldn't interfere with construction. It just seemed to freshen the summer air. It came straight down so I was able to leave my windows open a few inches and listen to the drops hit my building and the street outside. There was a breeze on my face as I lay in bed, enough so I pulled the covers to my chin, but not cool enough for me to close the windows. I must have laid awake since four, but I was in no hurry to get up. I laid there, listened, and felt fresh air on my face.

What finally got me out of bed was a desire to watch the rain. I have no idea why. It's not like I had never seen rain before. But after hearing it for several hours, I wanted to see it. I stood in the front windows up in my apartment and watched trucks splash through puddles. Then I decided I wanted to get out and feel the rain on my hands. Odd, I know, but somehow the rain just felt special. So I got dressed. I picked a sun dress rather than my usual jeans. Don't ask me why. I made myself a mug of coffee, and went down the stairs to Main Street, also known as Highway 2. My office has a covered entryway, so I stood in there, coffee mug in one hand, the other reaching out to feel the cool rain. I have no idea if anyone saw me out there. I know I would have looked a little foolish, a bit like a four year old thinking about playing in the rain. And maybe I did feel a bit like a child.

I was probably out there an hour, my coffee long gone, long past time to open my office and do something more adult. After all, email was always beckoning. But I was still standing here, my hand wet with rain, when a large SUV pulled right in front of my office. Out stepped a tall, beautiful blond. Elsa. She stood beside the car, looked at me, and smiled. She had rain on her face, rain in her hair, rain on her dress, but she just stood and smiled at me. What an entrance. I finally waved her over, and we stood hugging. Now I was in the rain too.

I had forgotten how tall she was. She easily had five inches on me. I wrapped my arms around her and got on my toes to kiss her. Both our faces were wet, and so was that kiss. I took her hand and pulled her up to my apartment.

How do I sum things up? She said she could only stay two days. She stayed for four. We were much more physical with each other than we had been in Africa. But even when we weren't climbing all over each other, we were constantly touching. I loved to get my fingers in her soft blond hair, and she seemed to always have a hand on one of my breasts. She did nice things with that hand.

We kissed, sat close, laid our heads down side by side, whether on a pillow, or on the back of the couch.

And we talked. We didn't stop once in four days. I am surprised we got any sleep at all. We talked in the kitchen, we talked in my living room, in my office, and in my car. And once in bed, our heads inches apart, we whispered for hours, like two girls at a sleepover. My hand in her hair, her hand stroking my breasts, our mouths never stopped moving.

You can guess most of what was said. There was talk – and tears - about Emil. Funny, I thought I never wanted to tell that story again, but I went through every detail. She held me while I talked, and stroked my hair as I cried. I rested my head on her shoulder. And I think for the first time I opened up about my guilt. If I had been looking where I should have been looking, I would have seen the hippo. If I had been holding on tighter, I never would have gone into the water. If I had gotten into the boat faster, his arm would not still have been in the water. If... She held me tighter and kept stroking my hair. She said nothing. What do you say to "if only..." She did say it was clever of us to get the tourist helicopter to bring the doctor to the resort and get Emil to his plane. She said she wouldn't have thought of that. I am sure she would have, but it was nice of her to say.

When I stopped crying, she told me the latest on the Kalahari project. All the news was good. It turned out water levels dropped in the wells as the summer progressed, but there was still plenty of water in each well through all the initial checks. They were going to pump a few wells so they could see how the aquifer reacted. They would try to irrigate a small farm and supply some water to wildlife. Everyone was happy with the project.

Elsa had her own stories to tell. She had been involved in several more projects, including a similar desert effort, most recently in the Gobi Desert of Mongolia. Less water, but interesting times. There was a guy. He even learned a few sentences in Swedish. It was over in less than two weeks, but those had been really interesting weeks.

How did we spend that first night? I made some popcorn, and we watched The Gods Must be Crazy just as we had in Elsa's apartment (I had bought a copy so I could show the kids what the Kalahari looked like. It's amazing what you can buy on Amazon). I held the remote and stopped it to talk about places where we had put wells. I also talked about Tsumkwe – not about the lady selling wine, but about buying a Coke at the general store and how good it felt to drink it while walking down their main street.

Elsa had her own ideas about where the movie should be paused, so we ended up wrestling around on the floor, two grown women fighting over a remote. Eventually we got what we wanted – her on top, and me just where I wanted to be, looking up at her smile. That might have been the one time in her visit we stopped talking. I just laid there, as happy as I had been in a long time. I held her to me, she kissed me, and the only thing I could think to say was "Thank you."

She arranged her hair down the sides of our faces – her "truth tunnel."

"Truth. I was afraid you wouldn't want to see me. I thought you might blame me for getting you to Africa, leading to Emil's death."

"Africa was another place for us to love each other. The man flew fourteen hours just to watch my five minute presentation, then drove out into the Kalahari Desert just so he could see one of the wells we put in. That's love."

"Yes, it is." She held her face above mine. I watched her expression change. Concern moved to calm, moved to affection. She dug her fingers deep into my hair and kissed me.

"Truth. This is love too. You have a million places you could be in the world, and you came to my tiny town in the U.P."

"Yes, this is love too." She kissed me many more times. She was very good at it.

Eventually we got up off the floor and went into my bedroom. We undressed each other and put on the two shortest nightgowns we owned. We did some serious wrestling in my bed. And every move ended up the same – with me looking up at her smiling face. I can still feel my arms around her, and her mouth on mine. My God, I loved that woman.

The second night I told her about Kurt and Maya. She wanted to hear all about how I had seduced Kurt. She decided she would be him, and we waltzed for hours in my living room, her being Kurt, but Kurt with skirts flying at every turn. And yes, I did finally pull her into my bedroom and undress her just as I had undressed Kurt. According to Elsa, my technique was flawless.

We didn't talk much about Maya, but I told her about Berta. Elsa had actually heard of her. She thought one of her ink drawings was in the World Bank offices. I hoped that was true.

What did we do when we weren't climbing all over each other and waltzing? I took her out to see my projects. The girders were still going up on the first plant, and we stood for two hours watching and walking around the site, both wearing hard hats. I then drove her to the two locations I had already bought, and the third I was considering. She liked the first two, but wondered if the third might be a little far from Highway 2, and maybe hard to reach during winter snows. Good points all.

We had meals out several times, once at the ski hill where they kept their little restaurant open for lunches during the summer. She liked the hill, and was good about not laughing at how small it was compared to places I am sure she had skied in Sweden. She also like the railroad car restaurant. But that was Elsa. She liked pretty much everything.

Time went by unbelievably fast. Suddenly it was the last morning, and we were cuddling in my bed. Elsa was lying partially across me, one hand doing great things with my left breast. I had one hand in the hair at the back of her head and kept pulling her face to mine so I could kiss her. My other arm was under her, and I was using it as a wedge to slide more and more of me under her. I wanted all of her on me, her face above mine where I could look up at those blue eyes. Eventually she slipped one leg between mine. I hooked one of my legs over hers, locking her in place and pulling our hips tighter together. I also managed to get my lower arm around her, my hand on her ass. I'm tightening my grip on her, pulling us together ever closer.

And we are still talking.

"Elsa, I'd like you to stay."

"I'd like to stay too."

"I mean permanently." My hand was deep in her hair, and she was stroking my breast. We kissed long and hard before I continued. "Same sex marriage is legal in the US now, so we could get married, or we could just live together, or if you want, you could find a house in town, and we could pretend that we are just good friends. But I want us to be together."

"Tell me about our marriage." She moved the knee that was between mine, and I grimaced.

"I need to feed you more. A cheeseburger a day for a month. I need to round out your hips and knees."

"Too boney?"

"Beautiful, but much too boney. I need to put twenty pounds on you. A softer, rounder Elsa."

"I like it this way. You are the soft one. It feels so good when I slide over you." And she did slide more of herself over me. I could reach more of her ass now and stroked her through her nightgown.

"For a skinny girl, you have a great ass."

"Go back to our marriage. Tell me about it."

"It will be in September." As I am saying this, I know it will not be in September or any other month, but I still like telling her the story. My hand stays on her ass, and I feel like maybe the marriage is real. "It will be sunny and warm, not hot. And we will do it outdoors. There is a park by the river with a gazebo. We will stand there. We will both wear white wedding gowns."

"Yours should be strapless so I can see the tops of your breasts."

"Yours should have lots of ruffles and petticoats to round out your hips."

"What's wrong with my hips?"

"They feel like titanium when I run my hand down your side. Trust me on this. A cheeseburger a day for a month. The all-American diet. When a man slides his hand down your side, it will stay there."

"I thought you were going to be sliding your hand there."

"I will, every chance I get."

"Back to the marriage. Will there be music and dancing?"

"Yes, we will do the reception at the same place we do the wedding. I will hire a four piece band – acoustic – and we will waltz. We will kick off our shoes and dance barefoot in the grass. We will be a blur of white satin with every turn."

"My ruffles will fly?"

"And the wedding veil I will still have pinned in my hair. After every dance, you will bend me back, kiss me, and tell me I am beautiful. I will wrap my arms around your neck and tell you I love you. You will hold me close. Both of us will wish our arms were stronger so we could hold each other tighter. We will dance until dark, then you will lead me to a waiting limo and drive me off to someplace mysterious and romantic. Maybe Duluth."

"I like that wedding."

"Maybe someday it will happen."

"Maybe someday it will. You know I love you. I fell in love with the girl I saw on YouTube, holding a sign and hoping for better times. You are still that girl. I am proud to be near you."

"I think I'll buy us those gowns, and we can waltz in them next time you visit."

"Remember, yours is to be strapless. You do have perfect breasts."

"And I will buy ruffles for you, but do try to eat more."

Did we say more? Sure. Like I said, we never stopped talking. We were in the shower going crazy when she caught her breath and told me about her next stop. Canada. The Arctic Circle. She was driving up to Thunder Bay yet that day. She would catch a single engine bush plane and go north. The project? Villages along the arctic were falling into the ocean as the shore collapsed. They needed to move, but with permafrost melting, roads were breaking up, whole fields were becoming craters of the moon. So where should the people go? She had a week to audit the project, and then move on to another problem.

She had a long drive ahead of her, but she didn't rush off. She decided I should wear one of my brightest sun dresses, very girly. She brushed my hair, and put some makeup on me. She smiled when she did my lipstick, knowing she would be kissing much of it off. I had my arms wrapped around her while she did my face. I pretty much had my arms around her permanently.

What did I put on her? Nothing, really. Where she was going it would be jeans, work shirt, and layer after layer of mosquito repellent. I did get to brush her hair – before she pulled it all back in a ponytail.

We spent a long time standing by her car and necking. We were pretty open about it. It was a small town, and I suspected most folks were Trump voters, but to me, love is love, and if you don't like it, well, that really isn't my problem, is it?

Finally she got that SUV pointed west, and I was left on the sidewalk. I stood in that pretty dress, the wind pressing my skirt back against my thighs, and hoped she was looking back in her rearview mirror. Who knew – maybe I would get lucky and see her again. Maybe this September, maybe another September.

Chapter 34

We ship some bottles

September arrived. Elsa didn't. It would have been wonderful if she had come to me, but, I can't say I was too surprised when she didn't. Who knew where she was and what she was doing. Maybe Mongolia again. Maybe this time the guy there said the right things in Swedish.

But I had my plant to work on.

Or did I?

A funny thing happened a few weeks after I hired Billy. Maybe it even happened earlier, and I hadn't noticed. But this became Billy's project. Little things at first. I sat with him one morning and showed him the web site from one of the companies that made plastic extruders for bottles. He said he had already done some checking and thought we could get a much better deal buying a pair of used machines from a company outside Chicago. He was going to drive down and take a look at them. As it turned out, the machines were in poor shape, so we bought new, but the fact that he had taken the initiative on the machines surprised me.

Then there was his work with the building contractors. He was out at the site every day, and every day was pushing the general contractor on one thing or another. Since I had used the contractor before, I pretty much left him to do as he chose. Not Billy. He wanted the parking lot here instead of there, the office windows in one arrangement rather than another, the loading bay configured with more space between each door. And he got the contractor to agree to each change, and to do so without additional charges.

I saw he was in complete charge when the equipment started arriving. I had assumed he and I would assemble it. Poor sweet Matteo had put me through all the classes during my time with him in Bern. I knew the machines. I had trained others (including Billy) in their maintenance. But Billy had made his first two hires – two guys just out of high school – and he wanted them to help build all the machines. If they built the machines with him, they would be better prepared to do scheduled maintenance and repairs. Okay. Very reasonable. But what did that leave for me? He reminded me I had other sites to prepare. I was company president, not manager of this one plant.

This from Billy Simmons. Billy, the young boy who had dated Britney three times in high school and been dumped by her. Tiffany was already in college; Britney knew she would be there soon. Billy was nice enough, but he wouldn't be going to college. This was the cruel calculus of high school girls.

What happened to Billy? He joined the Army like my Tiny and a million other boys from small towns who knew college wasn't on the horizon. He was in some delayed entry program. Off to basic training and then some specialty school in November. While he waited, he took a job logging – like dozens of other boys from Wausaukee High. Only a tree got stuck on the way down, bounced off another, and hit him. Three weeks later he was back out there with a chainsaw and a back ache. November came, he started his training, then washed out when his back couldn't take the strain. By January he was back out in the woods with chainsaw and bad back. He was there for years. This was during my bartending days. I saw him in the bar. We talked. Nice kid, but headed to a life like so many others – hard work, bad pay, nights in the local bars.

Somewhere in there, Elias got me on a plane to Bern, made me love him, and then passed me off to Matteo. Poor, sweet, Matteo. It was Matteo who put me in the office of the newly completed Amberg bottling plant. Public relations and Human Resources. I had a desk, a computer, and complete control over hiring all the people who would work the plant. My first hire was Billy.

Months go by, and gainfully employed Billy has contacted Britney, and they date. This time around she is interested. Maybe there is just more to Billy now than there had been at seventeen. I see him grow to be a great husband and father, the holder of an associate's degree in Engineering Technology, and a leader at the Amberg plant. Now I am watching him take over my project. Well, this part of the project.

This takes some getting used to. I still drive out to the site most days, and Billy and I talk about all major decisions, but he obviously knows what he is doing. So, I back off. Yes, it probably took me months rather than weeks, but I eventually gave him the space – and the respect – that he deserved.

My initial vision to have my first plant shipping water by November? Not a problem. Billy has the equipment installed, the people hired (eighteen men and women, most young, but several who had worked for the mines), the plastic beads and wooden pallets coming in, and cases of bottles ready to go out. Little Billy Simmons, now Mister Simmons, plant manager.

So, we made my initial goal and shipped in November. I remember the date – November 10. We had been sending water out for testing since the very first wells went down, and weeks earlier we had shipped two pallets of bottles to Costco so their quality assurance people could do their reviews. But November 10 was the day we filled our first truck load and sent it on its way.

Water is heavy, so we didn't stack the pallets. But still, our forklift guy had to work his way around inside a semi-trailer for the first time, and that was a learning process. He also took some ribbing if he turned too fast or bumped a wall. He had plenty of spectators. At first it was just a couple guys "to help," but soon it was all of us. I stood taking pictures with my phone, and Billy stood, well, he stood there because he was in charge.

The truck driver was a little impatient at how long it took, but he was fairly good about it. I gave him one of the sub sandwiches I had brought in, and he kept quiet even when the forklift backed into one of the semi walls. And eventually every pallet was where it was supposed to be. I hung a banner across the last two – "Thanks Costco." We closed the doors on the semi, and he drove off while our entire crew stood at the loading dock and cheered.

It was near quitting time anyway, so we all assembled in the break room. Billy had made special labels for two cases of water, and each worker got two bottles – one to drink now, and one to save. The labels? "First shipment. November 10, 2020. Hope Springs. Iron River, Michigan. Superior water bottled by superior people." And there was a map of Lake Superior. We all drank some water, and all the subs disappeared pretty fast. Billy gave a short speech, but a good one, about how our water was now going to people who would be grateful – grateful now for its taste and quality, or grateful later if they saved it for an emergency. I just thanked everyone.

That evening I went to Billy and Britney's new house and made sure I showed all the pictures to the girls, and told all of them about Billy's speech and how well the employees liked it. Britney kissed Billy and the girls both laughed.

All in all, a pretty exceptional day.

Chapter 35

Klaus

But, there was another day, two weeks later.

The day started out pretty crazy. It was Monday of Deer Gun season, and I was working at dad's bar. Owner of a bottling plant or not, I would be spending most of the week working at dad's bar (he did pay me $9.50 an hour). He needed me.

At its peak, deer season had drawn 600,000 hunters into the Wisconsin woods. Like everything else in Wisconsin, we were down from our peak, but there were still half a million guys out there wearing blaze orange, carrying deer rifles, and tromping through the woods or sitting on stumps waiting for anything with antlers to walk by. Hunting was allowed from dawn to dusk (roughly seven thirty to four thirty) but by noon lots of guys have decided their feet are cold, or their butt is cold, and wouldn't it be nice to go someplace warm, especially if that someplace warm also sold beer.

Bars like ours were overwhelmed. We did more business that week than we did most months. So I not only worked my usual Monday, but I had been there all weekend, and would probably work the rest of the week. (Back up in Iron River, most of the guys had requested vacation that week, so we were really down to half production anyway).

But it gets crazier. The NFL decided that this week's Monday Night game would feature the Packers – at Lambeau Field. Oh, and let's add a little more drama, as if any is necessary, let's schedule the Cowboys to come up to Green Bay. You want crazy? Try half a million cold hunters crowding any bar north of Milwaukee to get warm and see the game.

We normally open at noon. I was there at nine to do basic cleaning (I had bags of trash piled in the snow behind the bar), restock the bar, and call our supplier in Peshtigo hoping for an extra delivery. Dad was there at nine thirty, sitting at his usual stool in the middle of the bar, directly opposite the TV. I poured him the beer that would sit in front of him all day, got maybe two words in about the Peshtigo distributor, and then hunters started coming in. I guess if the Packers are playing, you get cold at nine thirty instead of noon.

From that moment on, I poured beer – well, beer for the regulars, Miller Lite for the outsiders. I was wearing jeans and a sweater, my hair pulled back in a ponytail, basically my work hard and fast outfit. My most important accessory was my boots - heavy work boots I wore over thick wool socks. My legs were already tired from dragging those boots from one end of the bar to the other, but at least my feet were warm on that concrete floor.

By ten every seat was taken at the bar. By noon men were standing two deep waiting for a beer. I worked fast. I also worked simple. Down at one end of the bar I had a guy wave a five dollar bill to get my attention (which meant I made him wait even longer), and when I finally got to him, the idiot asked for a "Brandy old fashioned sweet, please." Sure, I've got time to crush sugar cubes in the bottom of a glass and cut up some fruit. I stopped moving, stared at him until I was sure I had his attention, and said, "Okay, Waukesha, I understand you want a beer and a shot of brandy, right?" The idiot started to say, "No, I..." at which point some portion of his brain began processing correctly. "Yes, that will be fine." He got his beer and brandy, and no one else made any stupid requests.

I turned the TV on at noon. Retired players spending the next seven hours talking about the game. It at least provided a distraction while I raced around with beer glasses and a brandy bottle. I did have two guys ask for a pizza. I told them the machine was broken but the restaurant next door was open. Can you see I've got shot glasses in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other? What do you think you are most likely to get from me?

I was on my fifth half barrel of beer and fourth case of brandy (only two cases left. Where the hell is the truck from Peshtigo?), when he walked in. The only guy not wearing blaze orange. Khaki work pants, khaki work shirt, heavily padded leather jacket unzipped. About forty, about six feet, fairly wide, square face, short sandy brown hair, blue eyes that studied the bar and then went straight to my father. Some business deal they had going? Not sure, but dad immediately turned to him, shook his hand, and started a real conversation. You ask, what's "real?" Real to me is when dad turns to look at you while he talks. Which he never does. At least not in the bar. If you want to talk to dad, you sit on the stool next to him, you talk, and he continues looking at the TV. If he responds, it will be brief, and it will be from the side of his face. He doesn't mean offense. That's just the way he carries on a conversation. You talk to the side of his face, he talks to the TV.

Not so with Khaki man. Dad actually turned on his stool and looked at the guy. Very strange.

Even stranger was my reaction. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I would carry beer down to one end of the bar, but look over my shoulder as I passed. I would pour brandy and look up to see if he was still there. The room was full of men I had known all my life, and I talked to them, and said "hello" to the new guys, but my eyes always pulled towards dad and the guy.

Here's where it got stranger. I should have just walked over to see what the guy was talking to dad about. We had no secrets. If he was buying the laundromats or another of dad's businesses, it would make sense for me to know about it. But I kept my distance.

I suddenly had this memory of ninth grade. One of the crueler things teachers do is arrange after school dances in the gym. It must be funny to them. There's music playing, but the boys are at one end of the gym, and the girls at the other. Each is looking at the other, but no one is crossing the gym. The girls are all huddled up in their social groups, looking like prey herding for protection from predators, but as they talk, they keep looking over at the boys. The boys are also talking, also looking, not yet ready to cross the floor.

That's when Tiny came for me. Years later, it occurred to me he came for me because I was the one girl not in a group. I was trailer trash, so I had no social group. It was just me standing alone. He asked me to dance, took my hand, and led me to the center of the gym. I was the first girl asked to dance! Maybe I am beautiful. Maybe I will be popular now. I was so excited. I can still feel his large, very wet hand holding mine, and his hand on the middle of my back. We were not allowed to stand too close, and mostly we just rocked from side to side, occasionally moving one foot forward or back, basically doing a very slow, very awkward circle.

Other boys now crossed the floor. Popular boys. The ones on the basketball or football team. They came in twos and threes and asked the prettier girls in the girl circles. And the music played. Tiny told me he was in my history class (he was sixteen and still a sophomore, but he held my hand and danced with me the rest of the hour that had been allotted for the dance).

He got his driver's license the next month, and I found the backseat of his dad's car soon after. Tiffany and lots more came from that backseat and that after-school dance.

Why am I thinking about this now, in the middle of a bar, pouring beer and brandy for fifty guys? Because, for some reason, this forty five year old mother of two and grandmother of four, feels like that ninth grade girl looking across the gym. Some solid looking guy wearing khaki pants and a leather jacket talking to my dad. He's over there. I'm over here. I look. Occasionally I see him look. Are they talking about me? I smile, carry on endless conversations about why Jerry Jones is a toxin infecting the NFL, pour beer, and look to see if he is looking at me. Sometimes he is.

A half hour passes. TV is showing past Packer Cowboy games, and of course they show scenes from the Ice Bowl. When Starr sneaks into the end zone, there's a cheer like it is all new, all happening now. I use the noise to walk over to my father. They are both staring at the TV, and now that I am between them and the TV, they are both staring at me.

"Hi." It seems a simple way for me to begin. I look from one to the other. It's dad who replies.

"Jess, this is Professor Klaus Jergens of Heidelberg University." I say hello, the khaki professor says hello. But I'm not sure we have actually gotten anywhere. Why is a professor in my bar?

"Mrs. Gruber, I see I have come at a very busy time, but may I speak to you a moment?" Okay, he knows my married name, and he is from Germany. I'm guessing this has something to do with my old company. I'm afraid I just stared at him. He kept going.

"I am a new member of Naturale's board. In September, a very angry woman from the World Bank yelled at us for an hour. She told us what we could do, and should do, and she told us what you are doing."

"I'm assuming this angry lady was tall, blond, and Swedish."

"Yes. Since her visit, the board has had many discussions, and we now have a proposal to make to you."

"I'm not interested." I had my head up, my posture correct, my eyes straight at his. Could I be any more direct?

"Forgive me, but I did some checking. You still own stock. You own nearly two percent of what has become a billion dollar company. I think you have some interest."

About half the bar had decided that our conversation was much more interesting than ESPN. I heard one guy tell a friend, "two percent of a billion dollars. That's like twenty thousand dollars!" I always feel sorry for the math teachers at Wausaukee High. They must cry themselves to sleep at night.

Did I own that much stock? Yes. Emil and I had bought every share we could get our hands on. It was a way to help him keep control of the company. I had sunk nearly a million dollars of my money into it, plus I took every stock option my position allowed. I even took shares as part of my severance. After I left the company, I had my dividends reinvested in stock. Two percent? I wish it was fifty one percent. The company could be so much more than it was. What did I say to this guy?

"I have my reasons."

"I understand there have been issues in the past. But I think we may be able to help you. For instance, I am a geology professor. I may be able to help you with the positioning of your wells." Actually, that would be handy as hell. I still had concerns about the toxic waste sites the mines had left behind. But what else did these people want?

"You've done water projects?"

"I've done them in much of the world."

"And what do they want in return?"

"They have a number of ideas they would like me to discuss with you. I was hoping we could discuss them this evening – at this location." And he pulls two Packer tickets from his pocket and lays them on the bar. I see the section and row number. These are great seats. Then, while I am still looking at the tickets, he turns to my father.

"Sir, may I have permission to take your daughter out this evening?"

"Yes, but make sure you have her home by midnight." At this point half the bar is laughing and looking at the three of us.

"Yeah," I respond. "And who is going to get beer for all these guys?" I'm saying this as much to all the eavesdroppers as to dad.

"I have already called Morgan. She'll be here in a couple minutes. Now go."

So, what do I do? The guy has forty yard line seats to see the Packers versus the Cowboys. He's a geologist. He has blue eyes. Deep blue eyes. And not a bad smile. He's looking at me, I'm looking at him. He has crossed the gym floor. Do I dance with him?

I nodded and went back into the storeroom for my coat. I also checked a mirror. A pony tail wasn't my best look. I took off the band and combed out my hair. When was the last time I had been to a salon? I had some lipstick in my coat pocket. Did I put it on? No, maybe later. At least the coat was nice – the warm wool coat I had worn home from Bern. I buttoned it up and then pulled my hair out over the collar.

He was standing near the door. I walked to him while every man in the place watched. You don't do a runway walk in work boots, but I held my posture and walked to him with my head up. He took my hand at the door. His hand was large, and warm, and surrounded my hand nicely. He held my hand firmly as we left the bar and walked to his car. Firm. Not too hard, not too soft. The grip of a man who knows how to be around women.

When we got to his car I stood and waited for him to open my door. It seemed like the sort of thing a European professor would do. But he just stood there, holding my hand.

"I talked to Elsa after she yelled at us. I liked her. She told me about you. Not just the Africa project, but earlier. She told me to look you up on YouTube. She said there was one segment that explained you. I think I saw the location when I drove through Wausaukee. She was right."

"That was kind of her." Funny, I wasn't blushing. I was watching his face as he talked. He had nice eyes.

"The company has a proposal to make. I have my own."

"Just remember you have to get me home by midnight." And I kissed him. What else are you going to do?

Author's Note:

The towns mentioned in this novel are real. Amberg, Wisconsin – still there, still tiny. As you drive up Highway 141, you may or may not see the sign for the town, depending on how fast you can read road signs. Iron River, Michigan lost much of its population when the mines closed. When I took my kids skiing up there, you could buy half the houses in town for $12,000. The Gods Must be Crazy is a movie worth seeing. The star did live in Tsumkwe, and the local store does have a huge Coke billboard. When I visited, a local woman was illegally selling wine to Bushmen. She was not the principal's wife. The lodge in Katima Mulilo exists, and does have a tiki bar on the Zambesi. The crocodile signs do warn of swimming. I took the ride in the small boat, but fortunately had no problems with hippos or crocs.

Amberg, Iron River, and Namibia are nice places well worth visiting.

