CHAPTER ONE
Spring 1985
THEIR EYES MET across a crowded room. Not a ballroom or the formal parlor of an English country estate, like two characters in the Jane Austen novels Sarah Harper had been teaching at the University of Tokyo, but at the departure gate at Los Angeles International Airport. In a contemporary romance novel, it could have been a “meet cute” moment. But for Sarah Harper, it was more of a “why here? why him?” moment.
Sarah had every reason to hate John Mannion. All right, perhaps hate was a bit strong—as an English literature professor she valued the appropriateness of the perfect word—perhaps scorn would come closer. He had, after all, broken up with her at the very moment she’d been expecting a proposal. Only an hour after having made love to her! Loathe. That was it. She nodded, pleased that she’d nailed it. She loathed him.
Unfortunately, he seemed to have mistaken her nod as a gesture of acceptance, because even through the fog of cigarette smoke from those waiting to board, she couldn’t miss the way those deep blue eyes she’d once drowned in zeroed in on her. Then, oh, damn, he bent, picked up a worn brown canvas backpack, left the check-in line and began weaving his way through the standing-room-only crowd toward her.
The man whom she’d spent her entire life expecting to marry drew the gaze of more than one woman as he made a beeline for her. He was wearing dusty khakis, a rumpled brown T-shirt that displayed strong, tanned arms, and hiking boots. At six four, lean and lanky John Mannion had always stood head and shoulders above others. There’d been a time when Sarah had found him perfect.
She didn’t need this. After the long ride from her Tokyo apartment to Narita International Airport, additional hours waiting to board (a control freak, she always arrived way ahead of time), then a twelve-plus-hour flight to LAX, during which she hadn’t slept a wink, she was exhausted. Still ahead of her was a two-hour flight to the Seattle-Tacoma airport and a ferry ride before she’d reach her hometown of Honeymoon Harbor.
She looked down at her watch. She’d been first in line at the check-in and already had her seat assignment to Sea-Tac. Having no inclination to speak with the only man who’d ever possessed the ability to break her heart, she turned on the practical two-inch heels of her black pumps and strode toward the women’s restroom, where she intended to remain until it was time to board.
* * *
WHAT WERE THE ODDS? Of all the airports in all the towns, in all the world, Sarah Harper just happened to walk into the same one where he’d been waiting in line to pick up his ticket. At first John Mannion thought she was a hallucination born from the chaos, cacophony and architectural dystopia of Los Angeles International Airport.
Having lived for the past two years in Nepal, with the background sounds of singing meditation bowls and prayer wheels, the mountain breeze through the limbs of fruit trees and the snap of colorful Buddhist prayer flags flying from rooftops, the discordant voices of the airport crowd, loudspeaker announcements and background elevator music had him feeling as if he’d landed in one of Dante’s lower rings of hell.
John hadn’t gone to Nepal for the mountain climbing. Also, unlike others searching for inner peace in that remote corner of the world, he hadn’t gone seeking enlightenment. Ironically, while spending the past two years assisting communities with fruit tree propagation and building a water system, he’d achieved both.
He’d been working in the Lamjung District—at nearly a mile high, barely a midway elevation point in the country. Opting against the chaotic and nine-hour-long bus ride, he’d sprung for a car to the local airport, then taken a flight—offering a spectacular farewell bird’s-eye view of the crystalline snow-clad peaks of the Himalayas—and had made it to Kathmandu in five hours. After another twenty-hour flight, much of it spent sleeping because one of the things he was taking home from his Peace Corps gig was the ability to sleep whenever and wherever the opportunity arose, he’d please, baby Jesus, finally get home to Honeymoon Harbor before he totally lost his mind.
But he wasn’t so bleary-eyed that he couldn’t recognize the only woman he’d ever loved. The woman whose heart he’d broken. The very woman he hadn’t stopped thinking about his entire time in Nepal. John didn’t have many regrets about his life so far. But Sarah Harper was at the top of his list.
As their eyes connected, the chemistry flashing between them like lightning over the Olympic Mountains during a summer storm, he acted on impulse. He picked up the backpack he’d carried for two years and countless miles and left the check-in line. John had spent many nights staring up at the wide, starry Himalayan sky, pondering different scenarios to win her back. Being thrown back together like this hadn’t been one of them. John had no idea if it was coincidence, luck or fate. But whichever, he sure as hell wasn’t going to question it.
Damn. While he’d wended his way through the crush of passengers, she disappeared. Deciding it would be futile to search in the teeming mass of humanity waiting at the gate, he returned to the end of the line, figuring he’d ensured himself a middle seat somewhere in the back of the plane.
“Good morning, Mr. Mannion.” The uniformed ticket agent greeted him with a dazzling smile when he finally reached the counter fifteen minutes later. “Welcome back to the US.”
“I’m happy to be home.” He watched as she tapped on her computer keys, waiting for the bad news. “I’ve got you in seat 6A to Sea-Tac,” she informed him, taking a red sticker and putting it on his ticket.
“That’s first class.”
“It certainly is.” Her smile impossibly grew brighter.
“But I’m in coach.” Except for funds needed for emergency projects, the Peace Corps could make Scrooge look like a big spender. Volunteers were expected to live at a level comparable to their host country counterparts, and his monthly allowance, paid in Nepalese rupees, while enough to survive on, hadn’t allowed for luxuries like first class.
“You were in coach,” she agreed. “However, when I arrived this morning and saw that your ticket had been booked through the Peace Corps Departmental Organization office in Kathmandu, I upgraded you.” Again the smile flashed. “My mother grew up in Nepal and coincidentally married a Peace Corps worker from LA. Which is how I ended up here and you ended up in first class.”
“Small world,” John said.
“Isn’t it?” Now that he knew her background, he could hear a bit of Nepali lilt in her voice. The idea of a wide, comfortable seat, a hot meal and a quiet space called to him like a siren. But there was one problem.
“I’ve been traveling for twenty-six hours already,” he said. “I suspect I’m a bit overly aromatic for your typical first-class passengers.”
“No problem,” she assured him, not, he noticed, denying his claim. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but there’s a restroom with a shower you can use next to the infirmary. If anyone asks, tell them Dina Brooks sent you.” She pulled out a map of the terminal, took a red pen and circled an unmarked spot. “There you go. Have a good flight home. And thank you for your work in my mother’s homeland, where so many of my family still lives.”
“I got back a lot more than I gave,” John said, meaning it. “Thank you.”
Taking his ticket, he went over to the bank of pay phones on the wall and pulled out his calling card, which required punching in enough code numbers to send a rocket into space.
“Hey, Mike,” he said. “I need you to do me a huge favor.”
“No problem, dude,” his younger brother assured him after John had told him what he needed. “You do realize that Dad’s going to hit the roof when he finds out what you’re up to.”
“I’ll deal with that when it happens.” He may have taught the villagers sustainable agriculture, but in return, they’d taught him to find not only his true self, but his true purpose.
Five minutes later, with the first part of his plan to win back Sarah Harper in place, John was whistling as he headed off to the secret shower.