Chapter 23
Belle and I exchange a deadpan look. Cooking?
Edgar, the man that summoned us, motions toward some tables under a tent. There are a few other women moving around in the area, coming and going, moving supplies.
“Ladies, we’re going to have some hungry workers after this night. The local produce market has provided us with lots of vegetables. They need to be sliced and cooked.”
The last time I touched a kitchen knife was in my father’s home in the Appalachian mountains. Not a fond memory. At least I didn’t stab him like I thought about doing.
Belle gives me a half-grimace. A kindred look of discomfort.
Instead of grumbling, I remind myself this is not about me. I pull out my pleasant voice. “Okay. Is there somewhere I can wash my hands?”
With a flick of his hand, the man says, “Over there. We have everything you need.”
Belle follows me as we weave our way between the busy kitchen staff. “I hate onions,” she mutters under her breath.
“Well, I never cook.”
“What do you eat?”
After I scrub my hands in the portable sink, I reach for a paper towel. These people have obviously done this before. There’s an entire industrial camp kitchen, complete with propane cooktops and serving equipment.
“I have a good relationship with the little restaurants around my apartment. Besides that, I usually grab yogurt, cereal, and salad. You know. Things that are fast.”
She blinks at me like I’ve spoken a foreign language as she shakes her hands off. “Weird.”
“Weird what?”
“I can’t imagine not cooking.”
“It’s a lot of work.”
“Very rewarding work,” she counters. “I just don’t like onions. Especially by the bulldozer load.”
As we walk back to the table where a literal mountain of onions and peppers are waiting, I shudder. “Well, it was pretty much my living hell when I was a teenager. I was expected to cook for my father and brothers. It wasn’t a choice. Since then, after I got the hell out of there, I promised I’d only cook again if something made me feel differently. Not like I was when I was ordered to do it. Specifically, not when I was being used because they were too lazy to take care of themselves.”
Belle grabs one of the chef’s knives from a box of tools. “Well, I can understand that. I guess I see cooking good food as a privilege. I didn’t have anything nice when I was growing up. My dad was awesome, don’t think I’m dissing him. He was a loving father. But we lived off of canned food and day-old discount stuff. We were poor. I didn’t see a bottle of spice until I was out on my own.”
With a violent whack, Belle chops off the end of an onion. I do the same, but I notice her eyes are a little red. But the onion hasn’t hit me yet, so I wonder if that redness is from emotion.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Frowning at the onion, she gets busy chopping it into strips. “I was just thinking about my dad. He did all he could. It was just so hard after he emigrated from Portugal.”
“Where is he now?”
“He got injured on the job and lives with a friend of the family. I hope I can get him out of there sometime. I’d like to get him into an assisted living community, but it’s expensive. I don’t see him all that often because I’m on the road too much right now.”
“Don’t you want to take a job that doesn’t require travel?”
“I do, but I needed to get out of there for a while. This is constructive. I make great money, and Dad’s in a good safe place. We have our differences. This gives us space to work through them.”
Belle’s Portuguese American and her mom left her dad with an infant. I know her story, even though she hasn’t told me herself.
We fall into a funk. Both of us chop, loudly whacking when we start a new onion.
Belle was right. Our baggage is affecting us both.
I glance up when Edgar, the guy who recruited us, appears at the table where we’re working. I wonder if he came to inspect our output, but he asks, “Does your organization have snacks that kids would like?”
I push the chopped onion pieces aside and blink at him. Water is shooting out of my tear ducts like a firehose. “We do. I can get some if you like.”
He makes a face and takes a gigantic step backward. The kitchen boss isn’t much of a conversationalist. Or maybe he’s trying to avoid the toxic cloud of onion vapor air.
“Yes. The onions can wait.”
Belle puts her knife down and wipes her hands on a paper towel. “I’ll come with you.”
“Why don’t you stay? I’ll find Pembrook or Brian and make them go.”
“Smart thinking, although I might need an eyeball transplant when we are done.”
The man is still standing there. Now he’s scowling at us. “Why don’t you have on safety glasses?”
“We didn’t bring any,” I say.
He grumbles and walks off.
I shrug, and Belle lets out a wry chuckle. Her face is covered in watery streaks. She looks like a hot mess just like I feel.
She picks up her knife and takes aim on another onion. “I have a feeling we’re going to have some glasses when you get back.”
“Good, because if I keep going like this, I’m not sure I’ll ever see right again. I’ll hurry. I won’t leave you to die on this hill alone.”
“I know where to find you if you don’t come back,” she mutters as she rubs her forearm across her nose, making mud out of the dust and tears.
I dash out of the tent and around a cluster of rescue trucks. The colorful logos on the side of the vehicles say they belong to a rescue team from Colombia. From there, I trot through the tents, random vehicles, and cracks in the ground, trying to stay in the lighted area.
I pass a tent where workers are napping on cots.
Mercy. They look completely wiped. There’s an IV bag running to one of the men’s arms. I hurry past as I continue my search.
Where did Brian and Pembrook go?
I jog to a cluster of blue tents. Everyone inside has on matching yellow and white vests.
No sign of our guys.
I walk a little farther. As I go, I scan for any signs of rebels, but I think we’re safe in the operations area. All the people seem to be part of the rescue teams.
I’m surprised to hear a woman’s voice call out to me. “Are you Camile?”
I spin and find a smiling woman. She’s wearing a long gray skirt with sturdy boots, and a bright yellow t-shirt.
“Yes, I’m Camile.”
“The red hair. I figured.” She smiles, then tips her head to the left. “There’s a man over there asking for you.”
“Oh!” My chest squeezes. “A big guy with dark hair?”
“Si. That way.”
“Is he injured?”
She blinks at me over the big box she’s carrying and offers a little shrug. “He looked fine. But, I don’t know.”
“Thank you.” I take off like a rocket toward the area where Belle and I had been waiting. When I get there, it’s crowded. There’s a nervous buzz of conversation in the air.
Where did all these people come from?
Santa Rosa doesn’t have this many residents. People must be coming from the surrounding communities.
I slowly work my way through the crowd. My nerves are jangling. After this morning’s skirmish with the gun-toting maniacs, I’m rattled.
Come on, my beastly friend. Where are you?
Beast is well over six feet. The crowd isn’t a particularly tall group. I should be able to see him.
Damn. I spin around standing on my tip-toes.
“Camile!”
My anxiety and eagerness to see Beast slam together. I twist around, holding my breath, searching.
“Camile!”
A man in a black baseball cap is smiling at me as he pushes his way between people to reach me. His face is shadowed by a thick, tightly trimmed beard. His eyes are hidden by the brim of his hat.
Disappointment and confusion halt me in my tracks.
I can’t stop the frown that transforms my hopeful face to an annoyed one. “Do I know you?”
The crowd jostles around, and I stumble into the man’s barrel-chest. He grumbles and glares angrily at some guy who knocked into us. “Watch it, idiot.”
His attitude rubs me the wrong way. I demand again, “Do I know you?”
I startle when his hand latches around my wrist. I squeak, “Let go.”
His voice is gruff. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
With a violent yank, he snaps my head back as we burst out of the crowd. I scramble so I don’t lose my footing.
This asshole is seriously pissing me off. “Wait! No. I can’t leave?—”