Page 12 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

Y OU ARE PLAYING WITH THOSE rocks as if you’ve discovered a great treasure,” I tease him.

“Of course. I’m a geologist. Rocks are always a great treasure.”

I roll my eyes, mostly because I know he’s telling the truth.

The sun is shining brightly overhead, the sky a deep shade of blue, and the warm temperature perfect for a day at the lake.

Around us are the excited cheers of kids playing football on the shoreline, while the air is heavy with the scent of grilled meat from dozens of barbecues.

Most of our classmates are already splashing through the water, laughing at various antics.

But we have wandered away to carve out a sliver of privacy, respectfully close enough for public scrutiny, while being just enough alone.

“Did you know,” he says now, gazing at me with dark eyes that send a shiver down my spine, “that Afghanistan has mineral deposits estimated to be worth nearly a trillion dollars? It’s one of the reasons so many foreign powers fight over us.

They might make a good speech about freedom and liberty, but mostly, money is money, and the new global currency is rare earth elements.

Everyone needs them. And we have them in abundance.

“Except of course, we don’t have.” His tone turns to one of disgust. “Because that would require long-term investment in infrastructure and political security, and what government minister wants that when he can line his pockets instead?”

“Maybe it will give the Americans incentive not to abandon us completely,” I try. “They must want these resources, too.”

“You would think.”

But I hear the doubt in his voice. Feel it, too. In a matter of months, all American troops will be withdrawn. And judging by the stories we hear from the countryside…

With a single swipe of his hand, he sends the pile of pebbles tumbling.

“What is your treasure?” he asks me.

I don’t have to think about it. “Words.”

“Not numbers?”

“No. Books, stories, poems.”

He gives me a sideways glance. “And yet, you study with Professor Ahmadi.”

I shrug. “He’s a brilliant mathematician.”

“He’s an old man with a younger man’s appetites.” He makes a fake coughing sound. “Dokhtar Baaz.”

I understand his less than complimentary label. Professor Ahmadi has a reputation for hiring only pretty young assistants. Not that he’s such a handsome man, but genius can be attractive in its own way.

I flash a smile. “Jealous?”

“Always. Forever.” But his expression is serious. “You should be careful.”

“He’s an excellent teacher,” I state firmly. “And a friend of my father’s.”

“An old man with a younger man’s appetites,” he repeats.

“Jealous,” I chide him.

“Always and forever.”

Later, we go diving into the crisp lake, our loose clothing at first plastering to our limbs, then spreading atop the water like a silvery halo against the dark depths.

The foreigners play in the shallows, wearing swim trunks and tiny bikinis that expose their overly pale skin.

The baby-rocking aunties and pipe-smoking grandpas shoot frowns of disapproval, but for the younger crowd there are only exchanged grins at the outsiders’ ignorance.

We understand the fierceness of the bright sun shimmering overhead.

There’s no such thing as gentle beauty in our country.

The sun burns, the mountains bite, the wind batters.

And we would have it no other way.

We swim deeper into the lake, until we are bobbing shapes in the distance, bodies modestly covered, my head respectfully wrapped. While beneath the lapping waters, a brush of toes against ankles, fingers dancing down backs, palms sliding around waists.

“Jigarem,” he murmurs the endearment as his hands slip beneath the hem of my shirt, stroke a long line up my ribs.

He touches, I sigh.

He retreats, I protest.

We drift atop the water, playing, not playing, playing, not playing, till our skin is pruned and we know it’s time to return to shore.

At the last moment, I tighten my hand around his.

I feel like a child again, kneeling at my mother’s bedside, desperate for her to stay.

This day is so perfect. And I already know with a terrible sense of dread, we will never have such magic again.

“What kind of fool falls in love when the world is burning?” I murmur.

He regards me seriously. “What kind of fool doesn’t?”

If you are reading this, Zahra, my precious girl, then the worst has happened and I, too, have left my daughter much too soon.

Forgive me.

I love you. Forever and always.

And now, sweet child:

Chin up.