A Cup of Friendship by Deborah Rodriguez Read Free Book Online Page B

him.
    “It’s a clinic and a home to orphans as well. You must come and see it,” he’d answered. “It’s in a green and lush part of my country. A place I know you will appreciate.”
    She laughed. “Because you want my support?”
    “Because I noticed you—how could I not?—during the conference, listening, taking notes, and I saw a woman with not only beauty and passion but a deep power to accomplish things.” He paused, smiled as her face flushed with the effects of his charm, and then added, “And I think you must love children as I do.”
    Were these simply corny pickup lines? It didn’t matter. She was hooked.
    And look where it had brought her: to this rich, verdant valley with this glorious man, where she would do something with her life, for once. Wakil gave her a real reason to be. Not just designer clothes, fashionable parties, a townhouse on Beacon Hill in Boston, and volunteering for this museum or that educational institution.
    He gave her life purpose. And she was, perhaps for the first time, excited to be alive.
    The car headed toward the cluster of trees in the distance below. She was eager to tour the school, meet the children, and see firsthand what Wakil was talking about when he spoke so ardently about building new lives and giving the boys hope, a new direction. He hadn’t been talking about her life, but he could’ve been.
    “There,” he said in flawless English, pointing out the windshield toward her side of the car. “Through the trees.”
    “Yes,” she replied, “I see it.” There were several buildings in the distance, a village.
    He turned to her. “My sweet Candace, my light. I cannot wait to show you everything. Then you will see what we have worked so hard for, and for such a long time.” He took her hand in his and held it firmly.
    She smiled. And she thought about everyone she could approach for money for Wakil’s project. Her contacts would come in handy. As the wife to the U.S. Ambassador to Pakistan (and many other Middle East and Gulf countries prior to that), she had met every important businessman and entrepreneur, every significant philanthropist and activist interested in the area. But she wasn’t stupid. She knew her divorce from Richard Appleton III had caused a lot of gossip and damaged her reputation. But she was confident in her own ability to persuade and attract attention. It was how she, the hick from Bumfuck, USA, had landed a Boston Brahmin in the first place.
    They drove through a grove of tall trees, the geography having changed dramatically since they left Kabul. The sun sifted through the leaves and in between the black trunks that passed by in a blur.
    “We’re here,” said Wakil, as they parked in a clearing circled by buildings. “The school first. Come, my love. Come see this place I’ve told you about for so long.”
    He came around the car to open the door for her. Then they walked into the building, out of the midday sun.
    Inside was one large room filled with boys sitting silently on toshak s on the floor, their legs folded and books on their laps. They all wore white, clean shalwaar kameez es and small hats of ivory wool, and they were rocking back and forth as they recited the Koran. An older man in a white turban sat facing them—their teacher, apparently.
    As soon as the boys noticed Wakil’s presence, they stood up, crossed their arms, holding their wrists, and put their eyes to the floor.
    “You see,” whispered Wakil, “the boys are Pashtun, Uzbek, Tajik, Hazara, Turkmen. They come from all over. Boys with no family, nothing, boys left orphaned, beggars. We give them an education. And from here, they will build lives, get jobs, be fruitful.”
    He went to one of the smaller boys and rubbed his head. The boy turned and tried to kiss his hand. Politely, Wakil pulled his hand away. “It is not me he should be thanking, it is Allah,” Wakil said to Candace. “I only do this because it is the right thing to do.”
    Candace