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“Mom…”
“I need to go with Uncle Don for a week.”
“A week?” Anxiety paints his innocent face. “Mom, please, don’t leave.”
I persevere with my look of authority, although inside, I’m going to pieces. “You stay with Pippa. That’s final.”
Escaping Raffi’s futile defiance, I scurry to my bedroom. I call Pippa while changing. We work at the same hospital. I apologize to her profusely—apparently, I’m about to ruin her date.
“Come on, princess!” Don yells. “We’re late.”
Jesus, this dress is so tight I don’t know how I’ll survive a long-haul flight in it.
As soon as I come out of my bedroom—complete with full hair and make-up as Don always expects—he takes my hand, dragging me to his car.
I turn to Raffi. “Pippa is on her way, baby. Be a good boy, okay? I love you.” Then I walk away from him, unable to witness his distraught face.
Don watches my hips wriggling in my dress as I try to sit properly in the backseat of his car. “Now, you’ll be a good girl, won’t you? Do as I say?”
“I’ve promised you, Don. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Good. I’ll allow you to sleep on the flight. But once we get to Nairobi, I’m expecting you to be the best goddamn escort I’ve ever had.”
4
CLAYTON
I’ve spent the last couple of days back in Oltepesi, continuing my hoop-off with the Elimu teachers, kicking balls with the kids, and filling in for their sick math teacher.
In the afternoon, I return to my hotel in Nairobi for the sake of security. An American citizen had been recently kidnapped for ransom, and it’s not new in this part of the world. Mrs. Makena could well be my bodyguard, but I refrain from making myself a target.
Back in Nairobi, bored to my head, I take the advice from the front desk to tour the Giraffe Manor and spend the night in the beautiful colonial-style resort.
It’s a brilliant idea—until it’s time to make a dinner reservation.
I call Mrs. Makena, sitting in my hotel room chair that looks more like a throne. “Mrs. Mac, would you be my date tonight?”
“Clayton! What has got into you?”
“I’m at the Giraffe Manor. When I told the reception that I’d be dining alone, she looked at me like… I don’t know, like I’d just been kicked off American Idol.”
“Like a loser?” She laughs. I can imagine her belly shaking.
“Now you know how desperate I am. Please.”
“I’m a busy woman, you know,” she raves. “But just for you. I’ll do it as long as you don’t mind the age-gap thing.”
“Well, I’m almost thirty-four, so that makes you—what do you say—three years older than me?”
She laughs even louder. Now that is a woman who makes me happy.
A couple of hours later, I fetch Mrs. Makena from the lobby, welcoming her as if I was the lord of the manor. She’s wearing akitengedress—traditional Kenyan clothing—in bright red and yellow, while I’m wearing a suit without a tie.
One of the staff ushers us to a table, and now it makes sense why the receptionist might’ve thought I was a loser when I initially booked dinner for one.
“This is ridiculous,” Mrs. Makena laughs as we enter a conservatory-like space, with pots of live orchids surrounding our private table. The furniture is dressed in white satin, generously lit with large candles.
I steal a glance at her creased features. “Are you blushing?”
