rich with butter; perhaps even a mango from the tree heâd planted himself five years ago, if mangoes were in season. He wasnât sure. Out there, in the jungle villages, he kind of lost track of how the seasons passed, unless it was the rainy season and he found himself engulfed in mud. That was the way life was, but his work gave him the energy, the strength to go on. Still, it was good to be going home to perfect peace and quiet.
His flight was finally announced and they boarded. He was thankful he had spent the previous night in a hotel where heâd had the opportunity to take a proper shower and shave, though his hair badly needed cutting. He chopped at it himself every now and again. It was dark blond, floppy, thick, and dead straight.
He was tall, six-two, perhaps overly lean, but with a tight body gained from hard work and the deprivation of the jungle locations where he spent a great deal of his time, often forced to operate in the flickering light from a generator that sometimes went out completely.
He was respectable enough now, in his khakis and a white polo shirt picked up in the airport shop, his trusty Nikes, and a backpack so ancient it was certainly not recognizable as coming from Loewe, the prestigious Spanish leather company. His face was lightly tanned, well-seasoned he called it, laughing at himself, which made the lines around his dark blue eyes crease up and a furrow appear across his brow. He did not consider himself good-looking, and had no vanity. He was a medical man first and foremost.
Twice a year he allowed himself to âcome home.â The villa had been in his family for five generations, and was smaller than might be expected, never added to, never changed. It was basically still the simple white farmhouse it had always been, though now with modern comforts, like showers and electricity and a swimming pool. And a sort of beauty because Chad was a civilized man who hung his paintings on the walls and spent many an hour admiring them, and who filled his library shelves with rare editions as well as with paperback detective stories of the old-fashioned kind, which he found entertaining.
The villa itself was built from local stone for the first floor, and white painted wood for the second. There were no dormers and only a single chimney, venting the fireplace that divided the living area from the kitchen, an odd arrangement he found completely satisfactory because it saved time and effort. Log fires needed fueling and in winter heâd often fall asleep in front of the flames, drawing back his energy, his life.
The only problem with his villa was the driveway, which was shared with the house next door, the Villa Romantica. A dispute had been going on for decades about this, beginning with the original neighbor, Jerusha, the famed singer, actress, artiste supreme, and woman-de-luxe, mistress to many, it was rumored, and a superstar of her era. It was still unresolved but now that Chad owned the property, it was no longer an issue.
The flight attendant, a tall young woman with smiling dark eyes, showed him to his first-class seat, took his ratty old jacketâhe had not had time to think about buying a new oneâand offered him a glass of champagne, which, to his surprise, he found himself accepting. It was Taittinger, he noted with approval. He had not had that taste, felt that spritz on his tongue, the bubbles hitting the back of his throat in their sparkling way, in a long time. He enjoyed it but did not have a second glass. In fact, he extended his seat, turned out the light, put on an eye mask, and fell asleep.
He slept through the entire fight, waking only when the nice attendant shook him gently to warn him they would be landing in fifteen minutes. He went to the tiny bathroom, washed the sleep from his eyes, ran his hands through his hair, which looked even worse under the harsh light, straightened the collar of his polo shirt, and went back to his seat, where he