Long after the sun had set, the guests began to disperse. The golden platters on the spread-out tables stood empty, and the music had changed from a lively tune to a melancholic serenade.
Mahsood had spent the entire afternoon in the company of various gentlemen. Once in a while, he would get up, move from one group to another, and resume conversing. At present, he talked with Awad and some younger men. With his back straight and his shoulders rigid, Mahsood nodded a lot, but his lips remained motionless.
Jane sighed and rubbed her numb legs. If he chose to stay away from her, he should’ve at least enjoyed the party with his friends. What’s with the constant frown? The talk with Uncle Gafar popped up in her mind again. Even though the old man wanted her to convert, Mahsood had never mentioned it. Or was he delaying this conversation until after the wedding?
Jane bit her lip and followed Mahsood with her eyes as he took a careful sip out of a fragile-looking teacup. His fingers holding a table linen went up to his full lips and glided across them.
Jane’s body tensed up, and she pulled her gaze away. If her saying a couple of phrases about God would bring Mahsood happiness, she could do it. Religion had never been a large part of her life—even Christmas, which she’d enjoyed as a child, had gotten lost in year-end deadlines, and her bachelorette apartment hadn’t seen a holiday tree in years. But, was that the answer? Oversimplified solutions rarely produced the desired outcomes. She shook her head. No drastic steps for now. She would keep those as a measure of last resort.
“We can go,” a familiar baritone rumbled above her. Mahsood towered over her, the corners of his mouth curved downward. “My car’s upfront.”
He turned away and walked toward the double-door exit from the mansion.
“Hang on. What about the luggage?” She picked up and chased after him.
“Rafa and Samira are loading it.” He stepped outside.
In front of the porch, a brand-new red Audi stood with its trunk and the back doors ajar. Two of the Khans’ domestic workers were stuffing boxes and bags inside the vehicle.
“Everything won’t fit.” Samira, a tall lanky lady in her thirties, shoved a still-life of pear by an unknown artist on top of an antique candelabrum.
“Some of the presents can stay behind.” Jane approached and peered inside the baggage compartment.
A porcelain china set worthy of Queen Elizabeth nestled on top of a case with twelve silver spatulas and a pack of golden napkin holders. An exotic vase enameled with a spiraling dragon peeked out from the back seat.
What was she going to do with this junk? Hosting crème de la crème parties at her nine-hundred-square-foot rental unit would be a joke. Let’s hope the pantry would fit it all. She proceeded to the passenger side—Mahsood had occupied the driver’s.
The interior of the car smelled of leather, and the dashboard sparkled with fresh polish. Uncle Gafar had presented the luxury sedan as a wedding gift to Mahsood.
Jane ran her fingers across the front panel. Nice. Her Prius lost in comparison.
A knock on the glass. Aunt Ilma pulled the door open. “Food from the reception. Until you figure out how to feed your husband.” She passed Jane a grocery tote. “And if you need help, call me. Don’t be shy.”
Jane blinked. “Um…thanks.” She grabbed the package and placed it on the floor between her feet. She had always thought that cats and goldfish needed feeding and people could take care of themselves. None of her exes had puzzled her with the problem of nourishment. The rich, married Walter had preferred fancy restaurants. Ian from the midtown condo had whipped up gluten-free creations with limited help from her. The police officer, Chris, relied on take-out. She would grab a salad here or sandwich there, too preoccupied with ongoing projects to worry about sustenance. Maybe not cooking for her boyfriends had become her fatal mistake. If she had provided tasty meals to her men, perhaps they would’ve stayed. She glanced sideways at Mahsood. Would he consider her a disappointment as a wife?
The odor of spicy lamb chops and suffocating orange curry spread throughout the cab, mixing with the new-automobile aroma. The motor roared. Her husband’s large palm squeezed the shift knob inches away from her thigh, and they jerked forward.
Jane’s abdomen fluttered. Oh gosh! She clutched the seat belt that crushed her thorax.
The headlights illuminated the street ahead as they whirled out in front of an approaching pickup truck. A long honk broke the night’s quiet, followed by an exclamation and an incomprehensible tirade in Urdu. Her husband shot his hand heavenward as if complaining to his God about careless motorists. The Ford overtook them, the man behind the wheel flashing an indecent sign.
Jane covered her eyes. She hated road fights.
Mahsood cut off two more cars, sounded a signal in a traffic jam, hung on someone’s tail for ten minutes, and upon making a left, almost collided with a van. Unhurried southern drivers scattered from them.
Her knuckles white, Jane clenched the handhold above her. This wasn’t the time to die, not even from a heart attack. Her breaths came out in rapid thrusts.
At last, they entered the parking lot in front of her building and halted.
She heaved and leaned back, remaining still for a few seconds. Once, during a business trip to New York, she’d ridden in a taxi, dodging through traffic under the nonstop blasting of horns. Her husband had recreated that experience on a near-empty roadway in a Birmingham suburb.
Mahsood sat back and stared at her.
Jane offered a small smile. She grabbed the container with the leftovers and, on shaky legs, climbed out. The heavy humidity of a summer evening descended upon her along with the hypnotic singing of crickets and a whiff of tobacco. Jane wrinkled her nose and glimpsed up.
The upstairs resident, a heavy-set dame with a ponytail, was smoking on the landing. On the second floor underneath her, a row of dark rectangles contrasted with the brightly-lit windows all around.
Nessa must’ve been out. As expected. Jane’s freedom-loving roommate spent her days on eternal photography excursions or with various lovers. She didn’t bother to warn about her comings and goings. As Nessa often said, if she didn’t call, then either she was fine or it was too late for help. Jane had ceased worrying about her long ago. Nessa would return once she grew tired of hopping between hotels and boyfriends’ houses.
With the provisions weighing down her arm, Jane proceeded to the rear of the automobile. She found her gym bag and hung it over her shoulder, pulled out the flower holder and secured it in her armpit, took the canvass in one hand and the carton with spatulas in the other. “If you carry your suitcase and the candleholder, we can get most of it in one go. The tea set can wait ‘til tomorrow,” she said and glanced up at her husband.
He had gotten out and was standing a couple of feet away, his gaze following her manipulations. One side of his mouth inched upward as his fingers reached toward her, sliding inside her grasp.
For a second, she stopped breathing. His skin burnt and tickled hers as he unclenched her fingers and released the painting. Her body tensed up.
Mahsood set the picture on the ground, leaning it against the car, then lowered the caddy and the vase that she was holding. He brushed his palm against her back, moving the belt of the travel bag upwards and over her crown, then off her.
Jane didn’t move. Her eyes traced his chiseled jawline that passed inches from her forehead.
“Go on.” His hoarse voice caressed her ear.
She swallowed. “What?”
“To the house, angel.” Mahsood’s eyes crinkled.
She simpered, heading for the stairs, and upon reaching them, looked back.
Loaded with their property, Mahsood trudged behind her.
A warm wave engulfed Jane’s chest. With an unusual lightness in her limbs, she flew up the steps almost like a real angel. On the second level, she halted, fumbling in her pocket.
“Everyone’s crawling to our country. Why can’t they sit at home?” The hushed words sounded from above. A streak of ash fell from the top balcony and floated to the ground. “Damn terrorists.” Someone spat, and a cigarette bud shot down. The mutter grew louder. ”Another fucker down there. Very fucking awesome.” The door slammed shut.
Jane dropped her keys. How disgusting. She exhaled, picked up the keychain, unlocked, and tumbled inside.
Heavy, measured footsteps resounded in the entranceway.
Mahsood didn’t hear that woman’s rumbling, did he?
His figure appeared on the threshold. He rolled in his trunk, put down the boxes, and took off her overnighter. Yawning, he went back for the rest.
He either didn’t comprehend the insults or was pretending. A burning sensation grew inside Jane’s chest. She slid down against the wall, cupping her face in her hands. That neighbor was an ignorant, narrow-minded swine. How dare she say those things. Hot wetness engulfed Jane’s cheeks.
“Angel, what happened?” Mahsood towered in the doorway with the candelabrum and the fruit artwork.
She jumped up and dabbed her tears with her sleeve. “Nothing. Just, you know, so much has come down in recent days. Let’s go settle you in.” She hastened down the hall.
Mahsood caught up with her in the kitchen and, pulling her elbow, spun her around. Onyx-colored irises beheld her. “I forbid you to stress. I will take care of everything. You have a husband, and he solves the problems. Do you understand?”
She nodded and squeezed out a smile. No need to care about those nasty comments. She had to concentrate on making Mahsood comfortable in a new place. Where should she put him up? The night before he hadn’t slept in the same room with her, so she shouldn’t force him into her bedroom, and Nessa hadn’t moved her things out of the second one. Sending him there wasn’t an option— Nessa could barge in the middle of the night and claim her room. For the time being, he would have to manage on a futon in the living room. “You can bunk on the couch for now. I mean until we get used to each other,” she said.
He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Good.”
“The bathroom is that way.” She waved straight ahead. “Towels are in the linen cabinet. Tomorrow, I’ll find some space for your clothes. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do. Good night, angel.” His intonation softened.
“Good night, Mahsood.90Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNhXPQCWBYY
