Page 63 of The Fixer and the Fugitive

“All right, I give up,” he announced at last. He stood in the middle of the barn, his back to her. Celeste pondered what to do. Should she keep hiding and make him work harder to find her?I miss him too much,she thought, rolling her eyes at her pathetic internal dialogue. She was not a teenager anymore, unable to function without her boyfriend, fake or otherwise. But they had been together all day every day for days. Being apart today took a toll, more than she would have expected.

She decided to give in, but she wanted the element of surprise. Spying a rope tied a few rafters away, she silently picked her way to it and grabbed on, planning to climb down. What she hadn’t counted on was the age of the rope and mildew. Only a few feet down, the rope snapped, sending her plummeting about ten feet. She landed on her back and all the air rushed out of her lungs so quickly it felt like they collapsed.

Sam spun in time to see her fall, a horrified expression on his face. He darted forward, but not in time to catch her. He knelt beside her and clasped her hand.

“Ya eazizaa, are you all right?” His hand pressed to her forehead and he stared in her eyes, likely checking for signs of life.

For a second she felt panicked; there was no air in her body and she couldn’t seem to draw a breath. And then slowly, painfully, her lungs reopened. She gasped hard, taking in themax amount of air. It came out in a slow whoosh, and then she spoke. “I’m your darling?”

His lashes fluttered. “You know Arabic?”

“A few phrases.”

“I’m going to skip over the how and answer the question, but only because you’re injured. Yes, you’re my darling.” He lay down beside her, his hand making gentle passes over her hair. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She flexed her fingers and wiggled her toes to make certain.

He smiled at her.

She smiled in return.

His smile slowly slipped and he bit his lip, his eyes focusing on her cheek instead of her eyes. “Celeste.”

“Yes?”

“I think maybe I’m falling in love with you.”

“Oh,” Celeste said. The air left her in a whoosh again, like she’d taken another tumble off the rope. “I…”

He touched his finger to her lips, shushing her. “I didn’t say it to receive a reply, especially one you’re probably not ready to make. I just…felt it and needed you to hear it. You can think about it. Get back to me.” He shifted closer and kissed her cheek.

“All right,” she said. She felt muddled but also soft and fizzy all over. She hoped it was a response to his statement and not some latent nerve damage from the fall.

Instead of urging her to get up, Sam eased closer and slipped his arm over her, surrounding her with his steady warmth. She rested her head on his shoulder, nestling. “Even though I fell off a rafter, it’s been a good day,” she noted.

“Even though I don’t have a home and am being hunted by an international terrorist, it’s been a good day,” Sam agreed.

Celeste swiveled her head to face him. “Of course you have a home. This is your home. Youarehome.”

“I feel like maybe I am, which is rather extraordinary,” he said. His thumb traced a gentle path around her ear.

Playing hide and seek had been fun, but she liked this far better. “I might never get the hang of being normal,” she informed him.

“So what,” he whispered, giving her waist a squeeze.

“So what,” she repeated to herself, then she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

Chapter 29

The following few weeks were peaceful, gentle,healing, and not merely for Celeste. Sam was changing, too. For a few days after Esther and Leo left, he had slept. And slept. And slept. It was as if now that he’d finally found a place to rest, all the years of running finally caught up. No more subterfuge, no more pretending to be the bad guy when what he secretly wanted was to be good.

Celeste had already passed through the sleeping phase. While Sam napped, she organized the kitchen, arranging things where she could find them and writing them down when she had no idea what they were. Those items she began stacking in a corner of the kitchen. By the time she was finished arranging, the stack was massive. She brought her laptop to the kitchen and looked up each item, labeling it with its proper name and what it was used for as she went along—sifter, egg beater, egg separator, strawberry huller. The items had clearly been purchased before modern technology, but Celeste kept them regardless. She liked that they were old fashioned.

On one of her organizing forays, she found a stack of yellowed cookbooks, decades old. Some of them were toooutdated to be of use—what was aspic, and why had people ever thought it was a good idea to eat it? Three of the cookbooks proved both promising and timeless. She spent the next few days poring overBetty Crocker, Fanny Farmer,andThe Joy of Cooking,once again pausing to write down and lookup terms she didn’t know. It was laborious and she was putting in more effort than she’d ever given schoolwork. But in the end she had earmarked a stack of basic recipes to try.

This time she approached the process differently, or at least with a different attitude. It didn’t have to be perfect and probably wouldn’t be, given her lack of experience. She only had to try, and if she failed she would try again. Somehow giving herself permission to fail made her succeed, or perhaps it was because she changed her definition of success. Maybe having the courage to try counted as success.

In any case, she and Sam dined on beef stew, chicken kiev, and salmon chowder that were at the very least edible and, some lesser critics might say, almost good.

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