what brings you to the other side of the world, other than the superb medical care?”
Grant gave a vague description of his research in India, delighted to have a young, attractive woman for company. As he spoke, she hopped onto the knee wall and sat cross-legged next to him. He noticed a two-inch-wide strand of burgundy hair nestled in among her natural jet black locks. Like her hands, her face suggested a delicate bone structure, but she held his gaze as confidently as she’d held her grip. Her eyes shone with an intense blue that one might find in a person of Scandinavian descent but were shaped like the Asian heritage her last name implied. While the hair and the clothes said “artsy” to him, not his type—too much unpredictability and drama—she was stunning. He tried not to stare.
When he finished describing his journey, she asked, “So, religious studies PhD—planning on becoming a priest?”
“Me, a minister?” He laughed. The image of his father immediately popped into his head: the flushed face berating his parishioners about the consequences of their sins and frightening them with his mythology of the End Times with the same sanctimonious tone he used to hound Grant at the dinner table. He forced the memory out of his mind.
“No, I’m strictly an academic. Research and writing. Maybe teach some, if I can get around my whole public speaking problem.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Something in the directness of her gaze made him forget about his internal censor. Admitting a weakness like that was not the way to impress a woman.
“A speaking phobia,” she said, as if turning over in her mind what this said about him.
“Oh, it’s not a phobia, I mean, I’m not even that bad at it. I just prefer one-on-one discussions where I can delve into the issues deeper with a person.”
She smiled at him like she wasn’t totally buying it.
He decided to change the subject. “So, Kris, how did you end up here?”
“I’d prefer you not call me that. Only my sister called me Kris.”
“Sorry, Kristin,” Grant said, taken aback. He noted the use of the past tense but decided not to pry.
She tossed her hair from her face and toyed with one of the silver elephant earrings that dangled from ears that, to Grant’s surprise, only contained a single piercing each. “Travel writer.”
“Professionally?”
“Freelance for several magazines.”
A writer. So, he was correct. The artsy type. “Must be a tough life, never in one place for long.”
She shook her head. “Don’t have to answer to anyone, and I can pick up and go at a moment’s notice.”
“Isn’t it lonely?”
“Never needed someone to take care of me.” She winked at him. “Plus, I meet interesting people everywhere.”
“Sounds liberating.” Actually, Grant couldn’t imagine a life so unstructured.
“We have something in common.” She touched his forearm. “Before coming here, I was in India too. I’m doing an article for Vanity Fair on Eastern religious rituals and celebrations.” She moved her hand to his cast, where she tweaked a bit of the torn plaster. “Late as usual for my deadline, though.”
Grant found the final piece of information unsurprising—attractive and creative, but disorganized. Then he remembered the state of his own work.
“Here, take a look,” she said. “Photos of my travels.” After fiddling with a few buttons on the back of the Nikon, she handed it to him. “Hit the right arrow to scroll.”
Grant stared at the three-inch LCD screen. Although the image was small, the rawness of the emotion grabbed him. An Indian girl in her early teens gazed at him. Her face was feminine, beautiful but smudged with dirt. The expression in her eyes, however, affected him most—a melancholy resignation, the result, no doubt, of having grown up in conditions he couldn’t even comprehend. The subsequent photos all featured girls and young women—some introspective portraits and others just details: a hand with dirty nails but intricate henna designs painted on it, the back of a woman whose sari was flowing in the wind like a colorful sail while she bent over to wash her laundry on the banks of a river. He and Kristin had both just traveled in the same country, but she had seen a completely different side of it than he had.
Grant was unexpectedly moved. When he handed the camera back, their fingers touched. Her skin was smooth and warm. “You could be a photographer,” he said.
“Just a hobby. I take some shots for my articles when the magazines don’t send a professional along.”
“So after India, you came to Bhutan?”
“I traveled here to report on the annual Thimpu Tsechu.” She brushed her hair from her eyes again. “Heard of it?” She continued without pausing for a breath or an answer. “A festival of elaborate costumes, masks, and dances in Bhutan’s capital city. Then I hooked up with a tour group to come here to check out the dzong; it’s the country’s largest, you know.”
As he observed her speak with her hands as animatedly as with her mouth, a realization struck him. This attractive woman and her expensive digital SLR camera could be the answer to one of his conundrums: documenting the discovery that he couldn’t take with him.
But he immediately questioned whether he could trust sharing such an important archaeological find with a woman he’d just met. And a journalist, no less. Then he realized that he didn’t have to trust her fully, or even confide in her, to get her help. He took a chance. “When you were in India, ever hear of an ancient saint named Issa?”
She shook her head. “Even in my writing, it’s difficult to keep straight the bewildering array of Hindu gods and goddesses. Part of your dissertation research?”
“Related to it. The library here may have some manuscripts helpful to me.” He didn’t need to reveal the true importance of Issa to enroll her in this project. “Want to meet a friend of mine? The monk who runs this place is in one of the temples right now.”
“Sure.” Kristin surveyed the courtyard. “Looks like my tour group abandoned me anyway.”
Grant saw that the only other people in the courtyard were local villagers. He recalled Kinley mentioning that some Bhutanese holy man was visiting the monastery to give blessings in the main temple that day. Kinley had invited Grant to watch, but Grant had thought a breath of fresh air would do him more good than participating in the superstitious ritual.
Kristin zipped her camera into the small daypack slung over her shoulder and jumped to the ground. “Here, give me your hand.”
“No, I’ve got it.” Grant attempted to stand, but the weight of his cast swinging off the wall caused him to stumble. He would have fallen to the ground, but she caught him without flinching.
“Sorry about that.” His face flushed red. As she straightened him onto his good leg and handed him his crutches, he caught the scent of her hair.
She put her hand on his upper arm. “Might as well earn some good karma by helping out a cripple.”
Her teasing felt comfortable to him,
