Strong as a Pharaoh

By Alison Lohans

Egypt! What better place to break free of painful ruts and crippling memories of two disastrous first marriages?

Megan, a blocked mystery writer, signs on for a tour of this ancient world of temples, pyramids and pharaohs, desperately needing to re-create herself in the aftermath of the suicide of her emotionally abusive husband. She no longer needs a man in her life...she thinks....

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Egypt! What better place to break free of painful ruts and crippling memories of two disastrous first marriages?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228621638

Alison Lohans

Alison Lohans began making up stories when she was five, and knew at age nine that her calling was to be a writer. Born and raised in Reedley, California, she did her undergraduate work at Whittier College and California State University, Los Angeles. Soon afterwards, she immigrated to Canada in 1971 with her late husband. They spent five years in British Columbia (where her husband completed his Ph.D., and Alison earned her Postgraduate Diploma in Elementary Education while working as a pharmacy assistant). They then moved to Regina, Saskatchewan.Over the decades since Alison's first YA novel was published by Scholastic Canada in 1983, she has published 26 books for young people with Canadian and international presses. These books range from picture books, early chapter books, middle-grade novels, and on up to mature YA novels. Her YA novel This Land We Call Home (Pearson Education New Zealand, 2007) won the 2008 Saskatchewan Book Award for YA fiction, and many of her other books have been finalists for provincial, national, and international awards. Alison has done over a thousand readings of her works in schools and libraries across Canada, and still loves connecting with readers in this way.In addition to her books, Alison writes short fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction. For decades she longed to write contemporary romance, and finally gathered up the courage to give it a try. She has taught writing and mentored other writers; she's taught instrumental music; completed her M.Ed. degree; done a bit of editing; and served as Writer-in-Residence at Regina Public Library in 2002-03. She has also served on countless boards of arts groups at local, provincial and national levels. Alison was awarded the 2012 Regina YWCA Woman of Distinction Award for her contributions to the arts.Alison treasures her connections with her writing groups: the Children's Writers' Round Robin; the Saskatchewan Romance Writers; the Saskatchewan Writers' Guild; CANSCAIP; and The Writers' Union of Canada.For fun, she plays cello, cornet and recorder in community groups, has resumed piano lessons after a decades-long hiatus, and occasionally sings in choirs. International travel is very high on the list of things Alison loves doing - and in some instances, books have been sparked by visits to new places.Regina has been home to Alison since 1976, where she lives with her dog Sebastian and two finches.

Book preview

STRONG AS A PHARAOH

By Alison Lohans

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9780228621638

Kindle 9780228621645

PDF 9780228621652

Print ISBNs

BWL Print 9780228621669

LSI Print 9780228621683

Amazon Print 9780228621676

Copyright 2022 by Alison Lohans

Cover art by Pandora Designs

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Dedication

To Anson Cheung Macaulay, my wonderful travel agent,

and to Sharon, who was there when the idea struck.

Also for Morgan and Laurel, who’ve shared some great travel adventures,

and The Ladies of the Nile from a 2013 tour of Egypt:

Dona, Eleanor, Jean, Donna, Gladys, and Sandy.

Special thanks to my beta readers:

Judy R; Sharon; Laurel; Sally; Judy M; and Morgan

Chapter One

Megan Holmes set down her backpack, heavy with laptop and notebooks, and let her pounding head sag against the wall. Her eyes were gritty after the sleepless overnight flight from San Francisco. Noises jarred her, babbling voices in other languages, the rumble of luggage wheels and people-moving belts, beeping carts, and boarding announcements in German. Why wasn’t there anywhere to sit? Her feet hurt, her lower legs were swollen, and sweat soaked the band of her bra as well as many other places. At home, it must be 3 a.m.

Something like twenty hours had blurred by since she dropped off her suitcase in Fresno. She hadn’t slept the night before either, with all the last-minute second-guessing about what to bring. How long had she been awake? She was too tired to do the math. After clearing Customs and having her passport stamped, she still had to wait before lining up at the EgyptAir boarding gate.

She’d been in the Frankfurt airport twice before, but never alone. Her group would congregate in Cairo. Why had she signed up for this tour, not knowing a single other person? A baby squalled nearby, the harsh, raspy cry of a near-newborn. Its mother murmured soothing words she couldn’t understand.

Megan shook herself. By bedtime, so long overdue, she’d be in her hotel room in Cairo. Definitely too late to back out. Not that she wanted to…

Egypt had been on her bucket list for a very long time. It might be just what she needed to break the dull greyness of the writer’s block that had gripped her for five excruciating years. With no new mystery novels coming out, the reading world had long since forgotten about the intrepid sleuth Holly Webber, created by lower mid-list author M.E. Holmes. What better spot for a mystery than Egypt, with its ancient gods and pharaohs, its pyramids, mummies, and hieroglyphs? The Nile cruise alone would provide a treasure trove of material, and she was certain to hear stories about Hatshepsut, the first great woman pharaoh of recorded history. Some accounts even suggested that it was Hatshepsut, as a princess, who found the baby Moses…

May as well indulge your little hobby.

Megan recoiled. The cutting voice from the past stung just as sharply as it had when Elliott was still alive. Would she never be free of that man? Therapy had helped a lot, but it was an ongoing process, healing not only from the emotional abuse, but from his suicide as well.

A wash of tears threatened, and the Frankfurt airport was no place to break down. She clenched her jaw and swallowed forcefully. When she bent to pick up her backpack, something collided with it. A light touch on her arm steadied her as she teetered off balance.

I’m sorry! Are you okay? The man actually spoke English, not even with an accent, in a voice that resonated with warmth. Through blurred eyes she saw that he was fairly short, not that much taller than she was.

She mustered a smile for him. I’m fine, thanks. I appreciate your asking. Since he was a total stranger, there was no need to say more. She hoisted her backpack over her shoulder, swaying momentarily under its weight. She’d get herself back together in a restroom…

It turned out to be a long walk before she finally found a sign with a skirt. Safely in a stall, she rubbed her knuckles across her forehead, kneading the tension.

Everything’s going to be fine, she told herself in a low voice. Affirmative self-talk, one of the useful products of therapy. Set a clear intention, and your goal is already closer. She’d already jettisoned the house with so many terrible memories, and now had a smaller place with the title in her name alone, and no mortgage. This tour of Egypt would be fascinating, and a great opportunity for more new beginnings.

At the sink, Megan grimaced at the bedraggled woman in the mirror, who looked much older than her forty-seven years. Splashing water across her face provided a good escape from that reflection. Though the hand soap didn’t lather well, anything was better than the clinging travel grunge. She pulled a moist wipe from her purse. Washing her neck, reaching beneath her sweater to address her shoulders and between her breasts, then at her waistband to freshen up, she quirked a faint smile. Nearby, other women were doing the same thing, brushing their teeth, applying deodorant. If she could break through that immobilizing writer’s block and actually write a travel mystery, this could be in a scene for Holly Webber, overseas to…? The possibilities shut down. She was too tired to think. If ideas actually began to kindle… In the past, Elliott always made it clear that her writing was of no interest. She’d clearly been of little significant interest either, for most of their marriage.

A bracing cup of coffee would help. At a little café, she did her best to place her order in German, then made her way to an empty table.

As she settled the weight of her backpack on the floor, Megan forced thoughts of Elliott from her mind. No way were those memories coming along on this trip. Now she was utterly free — no diapers to deal with, no moody teenagers to wait up for, and especially, no angry, neglectful husband to try to please…

As she stirred brown sugar into her coffee, ironic guilt flashed. These days her twin Australian shepherds were her primary family, actually more central to her life than her kids. Both Jess and Aaron had been independent for a while now. Her daughter was teaching English in Japan. Her spendthrift son only got in touch if he needed money, and she’d already made it clear that she was no longer his banker. Her dad died shortly before Elliott did, and her mother was in a care home with Alzheimer’s.

Megan swallowed a couple of ibuprofen and wondered idly about the man she’d somehow collided with. She’d never know, but it was nice of him to ask if she was all right. As she took another sip, the hot coffee relaxed her throat, bringing more clarity. What time was it, anyhow? Her phone was packed away somewhere, and the hands on her watch told her nothing. Was it on German time? Glancing at an arrivals and departures monitor, she twisted the tiny knob until the times matched. Egypt would be yet another hour ahead. Almost reluctantly, she gulped the last of her coffee. Time to get moving again.

It was a long walk to the EgyptAir boarding gate, amidst countless other travellers and security police with their large guns. A crowd had already gathered for the Cairo flight. After standing in line for the passport check, there was no place to sit. Megan looked around, wondering how many of these people would be on her tour…likely the ones who looked as exhausted as she felt. Would they all be couples? Going solo in a group of couples could be grim… Her best friend, Andrea, had often remarked that she was really brave to be travelling on her own. But this was something she was doing for herself, to build a stronger, more independent, Megan Holmes.

Among her fellow passengers she spotted a slim grey-haired woman with an incredibly sour down-turned mouth and, beside her, a little bald man who seemed to be talking incessantly. A tall, very thin Englishman with slicked-back dark hair reminiscent of several decades ago, was going around shaking hands with people. He was wearing a cardigan and a tie, of all things! A woman in a niqab, with two small children, wouldn’t be on the tour… Two couples sat leaning in toward one another, smoking as they talked. Might any of these people turn into characters in a Holly Webber book?

Would you like to sit down? That backpack looks pretty heavy.

Megan jumped. A short Asian man with glasses and salt-and-pepper hair was looking at her with kind, dark eyes. In a casual black jacket, jeans and running shoes, he had a quiet, confident presence. Was he the same one who…? Thanks, she said gratefully.

He reached for the backpack and their hands brushed as he grasped a shoulder strap. What’ve you got in there? Machine parts? The warm humor in his voice made her smile.

Laptop, and things. She felt ready to collapse as she followed him to a chair which he quickly emptied of a similar backpack, and then gratefully sat down, resting her aching feet on her own pack. The considerate stranger moved over and leaned against a pillar.

Perhaps she actually dozed; a sudden loss of balance jerked her awake. Passengers were milling around, some already boarding. The PA system was announcing something in…Arabic? Whatever the language, she didn’t have a clue. But the meaning was clear. It was time.

Once more she swung her heavy load onto her shoulder.

* * *

Daniel Nishimura crammed his backpack into the overhead compartment. At least for this flight there were only two seats on a side. The flight from Heathrow had been packed, and late, after an equally-packed airline bus from Oxford. Having nearly completed his teaching and church music sabbatical, he was looking forward to seeing Egypt before wrapping up and returning to California. He’d learned a lot about English choral music of the Renaissance era, particularly William Byrd, and if he set aside time to write, there would be at least two good journal articles from everything he’d learned. Would he be able to get his choirs to reproduce that unique English vocal sound? And the pure Latin vowels? Unfortunately it would take some real work, with his church choir.

Standing there in the aisle, he felt caught between worlds. Once he was back home, he’d miss the scholarly atmosphere of Oxford, with its majestic, ancient buildings and chapels. Also, the peaceful grounds behind Christ Church College, whose walking path bordered a pasture where docile English longhorn cattle grazed. Massive trees so old they were like sentient beings… A lazy river, where punters drifted along. But England’s dreary rain was not among the things he’d miss. Egypt in February would be a great antidote.

Egypt wasn’t sabbatical material, but there was no way he’d miss this opportunity. The place had fascinated him since he was a little boy. Pharaohs, pyramids, temples… The Nile river cruise had enticed him from the start.

Something bumped his back as he tucked a dangling strap into the overhead compartment.

Sorry, said a cultured British voice.

Turning, he acknowledged Roger Holmes, who’d also been on the Oxford bus. Pretty crowded, isn’t it? To make way for the tall man to get by, Daniel slid into his seat.

The woman with the heavy backpack occupied the window seat beside him. Her head drooped against the oval pane and her pack was jammed in at her feet, cramping her space. She didn’t move as he reached for the seatbelt. Jetlag, no doubt.

Daniel studied her thoughtfully in a way that wouldn’t appear intrusive. In her forties, probably, with shoulder-length light brown hair pulled back in a clip that rested on her collar. He couldn’t resist a quick glance at her breasts, which looked pert and appealing beneath the green sweater she was wearing. At their first encounter, she’d been upset. That meeting wouldn’t have happened at all if she hadn’t inadvertently lifted her backpack straight into his path. North American and travelling alone, she almost certainly was one of the thirty people who’d be on the tour. Her left ring finger was bare.

Straightening his glasses, he leaned back and shut his eyes as people squeezed by in the narrow aisle. Why was he noticing this particular woman? A lot of years had passed since Celeste left him, and their only connection now was through their daughter Krista. Otherwise, his job at home kept him happily busy, along with weekly visits to the farm to help his aging parents.

Now a flight attendant was into her spiel about the safety instructions — the seatbelts, exits, oxygen masks, and the like. He could’ve recited the whole thing himself, with all the right inflections. Not in German, though, and of course not in Arabic. German… His church choir seemed averse to singing in that language, often tripping over its unfamiliar vowels and consonants. Sometimes, even during concerts, he’d hear people like Mavis Butler singing glorious soprano renditions of Watermelon, watermelon, I want watermelon! rather than the sacred text. When he pleaded with them to please learn the words, the result was always a fervent promise, followed by more watermelons with an occasional tractor, race car or freeway thrown in.

Daniel relaxed further in his seat as the plane crept along the runway in the usual start-stop, start-stop sequence of the queue for takeoff. Queue? More than once lately he’d discovered Briticisms coming out of his mouth, along with an accent that was definitely foreign at home. Hazards of a musical ear… The engine roar crescendoed, and then the familiar thrust of takeoff pressed against him. He opened his eyes briefly to see the grey receding concrete of Frankfurt, and then settled back for a rest. Today had been a very early start.

* * *

Oh my God! There’s a pyramid! A woman’s voice cut through the drowsy haze of jet-roar and the burbling musical pitches that droned during a flight. Other passengers exclaimed as the plane banked. For a moment Daniel’s eyes remained shut. He was so very comfortable…

With a start, he awakened fully. The woman’s head nestled against his shoulder. She was sound asleep, breathing with the faintest whisper. Her pleasant warmth extended along his arm and side, his thigh… Trying not to disturb her, he peered out the window. Unfortunately, his view consisted of a massive stretch of wing and tilted city buildings. No pyramids.

A flight attendant was coming through the plane, checking seatbelts and items that needed to be stowed for safety. She gave him a quick smile. Would you please wake your wife?

Wife? he nearly yelped, but caught himself just in time.

How to go about waking a total stranger?

Excuse me? he said in a low voice. We’re about to land.

She murmured something and burrowed deeper into his shoulder. Her hair was mussed; some of it had loosened from the clip, and spread in strands across his jacket sleeve.

An astonishing feeling of contentment washed through him. This was among the many things he’d missed since Celeste left. If only he could pull the woman closer, rest his head against hers, and… His heartbeat quickened. But she was a complete stranger, for goodness’ sake! What was wrong with him, reacting in such an adolescent way?

Excuse me? This time, a bit louder. We’re — He didn’t even know her name. And here he was, feeling all protective. He couldn’t jostle her; that would be rude. But any kind of awakening would be a shock. The last thing she’d want to find out was that she’d been sleeping on a stranger’s shoulder.

Trying a different strategy, he straightened the contents of the seat pocket, making sure his movement eased her gently in the right direction.

Oh!

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her sit up straight as she realized the predicament. A flush rose in her cheeks. Was I leaning on you? How could I be so stupid? I’m sorry, I’m so jetlagged I… Her color heightened.

A surprising warmth touched his own face. Hey, don’t worry about it, okay? I fell asleep too. Then, because she was still looking at him and didn’t seem to know what to do, he followed Roger Holmes’ example and stuck out his hand. I’m Daniel.

Hesitantly she accepted the handshake. Her hand was cold, and that seemed to bother her. Even so, her clasp was firm, and fit perfectly with his. I’m Megan, she said. Are you going on the tour, by any chance?

Daniel smiled. The Nefertiti group? Yes.

The jet bumped down on the tarmac and bounced. The roar of the thrust reversers made further talk a challenge. The main airport building sped by, an unusual shade of reddish-brown.

As the plane came to a full stop, there was the usual chorus of clicking seatbelts. Daniel stood to remove his backpack from the overhead compartment. Megan was having problems extricating her bag from beneath the seat. Here, he said, leaning in to help. I’ll get that. The quarters were so close that now their shoulders pressed together, of necessity. The contact simmered with an unsettling, interested warmth that made him want to move closer yet… But he was helping an exhausted fellow traveller with a piece of stubborn luggage, not making a move. On the third tug, the backpack finally slid out. It was so heavy… How had she managed to haul that thing everywhere she went? "Are you sure you haven’t got machine parts in there?" he joked, turning to look at her.

Surprisingly, she laughed. Her hazel eyes crinkled; her cute stubby nose lifted. He noticed that her teeth were straight and even. Their faces were very close. Immediately they both pulled back. If you call a laptop a machine, she said. Her expression shut down. She unzipped one of the pouches, digging for something inside.

Daniel stood up, nearly bumping his head on the overhead compartment. The line of people clogging the aisle had begun to move. It was best to mind his own business. If things were right, there’d be plenty of opportunities to get to know her during the tour.

Something else to think about: was he completely over Celeste, despite the stresses of her illness, and the years that had gone by? She appeared in his thoughts, sometimes his dreams, and it was often the good memories, not that painful period when she’d decided it was time to move on. Or those occasions when she went off her meds and her brain chemistry wreaked havoc, resulting in a trip to the psych unit where she’d sometimes stayed as long as two months before she stabilized. As long as she’d taken her meds, she did a pretty great job of holding it all together. Maybe he was a one-woman man. If so, it wouldn’t be fair to this Megan to allow her to think otherwise.

Despite the fact that she was cute and appealed to him in ways that nobody else had in quite a while. And this was something over which he had no control…

Chapter Two

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" she hissed to herself as she lagged behind the others. Her large suitcase rolled along behind