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His faint chuckle reached my ears. “Hold on to the rope with your free hand, Olivera. Don’t scream.”
“Don’t—oh!” A sharp tug propelled me off my feet and I was launched upward. Whit passed me on his way down, and I barely caught his flash of asmile before I flew up toward the ceiling, buoyed by his weight as he nearly landed on the ground. The blue flame illuminated the ragged walls of the cave, and the higher I went, the smoother the walls became. Whit slowed my ascent.
“See it?” he called up.
I squinted, using my legs to turn myself around. “No. What am I supposedto— Miércoles!”
I was staring at a stretch of ancient paintings in blues and greens and reds. A woman made of stars, having just swallowed the sun and moon, where they’d travel through her body to be reborn at dawn.
“It’s the goddess Nuit,” I whispered. Sweat dripped down my face from the heat of the fire, and my palms grew slick, but I didn’t care. I was staring at something so incredible it stole my sadness for a breath. I was weightless, seemingly floating with only the rope a reminder that I wasn’t alone.
Whit tugged and I looked down. He was barely visible. I whistled and he lowered me down, slowly and carefully. When my feet touched the ground, he loosened the knot around my waist. His hands were steady and sure, and I wanted them to explore my body.
“That was beautiful.” I cleared my throat, overcome. “Gracias.”
He smiled. It was one of his real ones. “Feliz Navidad, Inez.”
I cleared my throat. “I have something for you, too.”
“Do you?”
Without meeting his eye, I bent and retrieved my bag and rummaged through it. I pulled out the sketchbook and flipped through to the middle. A single sheet had been neatly torn away and on it was a sketch of Whitford Hayes. But not the one I had done in Groppi, all those weeks ago. This drawing showed Whit in the way I’d always remember him. His direct stare, his emotion hidden just beneath the surface.
Wordlessly, I handed the drawing to him.
He wiped his hands on his trouser pants and carefully took it from me. He lifted his eyes. His mouth opened, but then just as quickly shut. As if he couldn’t bring himself to lay bare his thoughts.
“Thank you,” he muttered hoarsely. “But you didn’t sign it.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought I had, do you have a pen? Pencil?”
He nodded absently, attention still riveted on the drawing. “In my jacket pocket.”
I walked to where he’d discarded it and rummaged through the pockets. He had all manner of things tucked within. Pen nibs, a handkerchief, loose Egyptian coins, a switchblade. Whitford Hayes was prepared for everything.
I kept rummaging. “Why do you have matches?”
“In case I need to blow something up.”
Chuckling, I continued my search. My fingers grazed something small and smooth. Curious, I pulled it out, astonished to recognize the button I thought I’d lost. It had been missing since the day at the docks.
When I’d first met Whit.
Wordlessly, I held it out for him to see. “Why do you have this?”
He glanced up, and immediately went still. Twin flags of deepest red raced across his cheeks.
“I’ve been looking for it,” I said, filling the silence when it became clear his reply wasn’t coming. “Why did you take it?”
“It was loose,” he said, a bit defensively.
I waited, sensing there was more.
He threaded his hands through his hair and gave me a slightly peeved look. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Your mother talked a lot about you,the books you’ve read, the pranks you pulled on your aunt and cousins. What you loved to eat, how much you loved coffee. That day on the dock, I thought I was meeting someone I already knew, but you still surprised me. I wanted to laugh when you fled from me, that cheeky smile on your face.”
A warm glow spread through me.
“I couldn’t bring myself to throw the button away…” He sighed, and then added softly, “Or give it back.”
