Power and Passion (19 page)

"Really, don't worry about it, Sara," Maryam
offered as well. "It won't be as difficult as you think. And who
knows? Maybe it will be a good dry run for when you have to give
your presentation to the Special Olympics people."

"Oh, yes," Joan said, nodding at Maryam than
glancing over at Sara. "I forgot to ask. Have you set that up yet?
We really can't go too much further in our planning until we know
if we have the organization's backing or not." She smiled a bit.
"If we don't, well, then there won't be any more planning to do
anyway."

Sara's happiness faded just a bit. She put a
hand up to her forehead. "Oh, you know, with all that's been
happening this week, I just didn't think about that at all." She
looked at Joan. "I'm sorry. My head just hasn't been on
straight."

Joan lowered her eyebrows at that; Maryam
made a similar expression of concern.

"What's going on, Sara?" Joan asked. "Is
everything okay?"

Sara glanced at the both of them, their eyes
searching her eagerly, imploring her to share her thoughts.
However, she hesitated. She still hadn't told anyone about Pierce
and wasn't sure if she was ready yet.

If not now, when?
she asked herself.
It had been more than a week. Could she keep the whole thing
bottled up inside herself forever? That wouldn't help her, and she
knew it.

She let out a deep sigh. "I don't know," she
said. "I mean I'm all right. I just don't think—"

"Stop beating around the bush," Maryam said,
just as direct as she'd always been. Sara remembered all the times
when they had cried on each other's shoulders when they were in
college together. They had seen each other through many good and
bad times, always supporting each other. How was this different
from any of that?

It wasn't, Sara realized, and suddenly knew
she could confide in her friend and in Joan, too, whom she had come
to think of as a confidante as well. Perhaps they hadn't shared as
much about their personal lives as they had about business and work
and the gala and all of that, but Sara sensed there was a kindness
in Joan, a sort of wisdom born out of years of experience and life.
If there were two people she should talk to about what was going
on, she thought, these were probably her best choices.

"All right," she said, looking back and
forth at each one of them in turn. "All right." She paused then
just dove into it—no sense in putting it off any longer. "Pierce
broke up with me last week."

The other two women gasped, and Sara could
see the confusion in their eyes.

"He did what?" Maryam asked, leaning forward
again. "What…when?"

Sara sat back, actually feeling relieved now
that she had said it. Just pushing the sentence out of her mouth
had released much of the tension she had built up by trying to keep
it hidden inside.

"He broke up with me," she repeated, a sad
expression settling on her face. She looked at the other two. "He
said he's seeing another woman."

"Oh, Sara," Joan replied. "That's just
terrible. I'm so sorry."

Sara nodded and tried to smile, but that old
feeling of misery was threatening to pull her under again. "It's,
uh—" she began but wasn't able to finish.

"It's hard," Maryam said, nodding her head
in understanding. "Oh, dear, we know. It's hard. Breakups are
awful, especially when cheating is involved."

Sara winced at the word. Despite all Pierce
had told her about the woman from London, she'd never actually
thought of it that way: she'd never thought that he was
cheating
on her. Just that he had made a mistake, and
unfortunately it had meant their relationship had to end. Picturing
it this way now, she felt a new emotion roiling up inside of her:
anger that he would dare to betray her trust that way.

Seeing that her face was turning red, Joan
jumped in with some advice. "Sara, I know this is a difficult time.
You're probably feeling all sorts of things: sadness, confusion,
rage, all these emotions. And I know they're hard to control.
That's okay—you just let them wash over you as they come. There is
no shame in that. Like I said before, you're only human, and part
of being human is allowing ourselves to grieve when we lose
something that has meant a great deal to us. Like a fiancé. Like
love."

Tears welled in Sara's eyes, an
uncomfortable pressure building up behind them. What Joan had said
was so spot on. She hadn't just lost Pierce; she'd lost her entire
future. She had planned to marry him, to spend the rest of their
lives together. Who knew where that might have taken her? They
might have moved to another country. Maybe she would have kept
working; maybe she would have stayed home with their kids. There
had been so many possibilities, and he had taken them all away from
her in one fell swoop. "It just doesn't seem fair, you know?" she
said, her voice cracking as she continued to speak. "We made all
these decisions together: to date, to get engaged, to get
married.

Now he made this one decision by himself
without even one thought about me."

Maryam shook her head. "That doesn't mean
that you're not worth thinking about." She paused, waiting for Sara
to look at her. Then she continued. "Please don't let one man's
mistakes cloud your judgment for the rest of your life. Sara,
perhaps it was not meant to be. The right man will come along at
the right time. Remember: there is more to life. There is more to
you
. It might not seem like it right now, but you have so
much to accomplish, and you will do that with or without a man by
your side." She smiled then, casting a quick glance over at Joan
then back at Sara. "Besides, you'll always have us."

"Darn right you will," Joan said, tapping
her fist on the table, making their cups clatter. They all laughed
at the sound of it, Sara through her tears. "Sara, you can't deny
you are a strong woman. I knew that from the moment I met you, and
honestly if you'd been any different, I might have had second
thoughts about working with you. Yes, you are kind, and you are
gentle, but you are also more powerful and resourceful than you
seem to want to admit. And someday, if you want him, a man will
come along who appreciates that—who appreciates all of who you are
and lifts you up instead of putting you down."

Sara let herself cry for a moment, not just
out of sadness but now out of a growing sense of joy as well. A
feeling of empowerment. Both Joan and Maryam were right in their
own ways: she absolutely didn't need a man, and she certainly did
not need a man like Pierce. Either way she had so much else to
focus on right now, how could she even worry about her love life or
lack thereof?

"Well, maybe this was a blessing in
disguise," she said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her
thick, cloth napkin. "Getting rid of some dead weight so I have
more freedom to work on the gala."

"Hey, that's the spirit," Maryam replied,
giving her friend a big, bright smile.

"That's what we like to hear," Joan joined
in, and within a few minutes the three women were talking again
about venues and catering, about meetings and music and all the
little details of the gala they had to work out. All the while,
Pierce was not even a momentary thought in Sara's mind.

A
h, yes, I'm here to see a Mr…." Sara glanced
down at the paper in her hands, scribbled over with names and phone
numbers and times of meetings. "Adam Rahim?" She looked back at the
young woman behind the hotel's front desk.

"Yes, ma'am," the woman replied. "I'll page
him for you. Why don't you have a seat? He will be with you in a
moment."

She gestured out to the wide-open lobby, and
Sara turned around, following the direction she indicated. "Sure,
thank you," she said a bit absently, struck once again by the
grandeur of the place. Ever since she had walked in, her eyes could
not stop roaming over the walls, the high ceilings, even the marble
pillars and floors. Everything polished to a high shine, in shades
of white and eggshell and the faintest of beiges and creams. It was
like being on a cloud.

She made her way over to the sitting area,
an enclave of small tables, couches, and chairs decorated with
embroidered pillows. Toward one end she saw four handcrafted
dhows—boats built right into the lobby's atrium—and the tops of a
cluster of trees, and she heard the faint sound of a stream that
was running through the atrium's indoor gardens. There were palm
trees and grand vases with fresh, exotic flowers all around as well
as a spectacular chandelier with strings of hexagonal crystals that
hung like pearls.

As she took a seat, Sara looked around at
all the sculptures and the unique painting that adorned the wall.
The artwork reminded her of the history of Dubai and its desert
features but at the same time reminded her of the sea. As she
waited, she people watched; men and women of all ethnicities and
nationalities streamed through the lobby along with valets wheeling
carts of luggage before or behind them. Some wore regional dress,
the white kanduras and dark-colored abayas, and others wore suits
of all varieties— dresses, skirts, trousers, and Indian. Some of
the hotel's guests were more obviously tourists in their casual
pants and shirts. Some even wore jeans.

Those must be the Americans
, Sara
thought with a bit of a smile, remembering her American friends
back at UBC and how dedicated they had been to their number-one
fashion choice.

"Miss Sharif?" a voice said then, breaking
into her reminiscence.

"Yes. Uh, yes," she stammered, automatically
standing up. Then she saw who had addressed her and was stunned
into awkward silence. Mr. Rahim, she had expected, would be an
older gentleman, perhaps wearing a rather stuffy suit and a
tie—something befitting the man in charge of events and
entertainment at such a prestigious hotel. Judging from how curt
his assistant had been, and her insistence that he was very busy
and didn't have much time to meet with Sara, she had expected a
rather cool reception, a perfunctory tour of the facilities, and
then a quick ushering right back out the door.

But that was not at all what she saw right
then. Instead there was a man around her age, maybe a year or two
older at most. He stood at least six feet tall, a head above Sara,
with tanned skin and wavy, dark hair. His face was clean-shaven,
his eyes a beautiful light brown. And he smiled so brightly at her
that she couldn't help but give a shy smile back.

"Yes, I'm Sara Sharif," she went on when she
was able to find her voice again. She thrust out her right hand to
shake his. "Mr. Rahim? It's such a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," he said. "Why don't you come
back to my office so we can talk? It's a little bit quieter in
there," he added with a laugh, gesturing to the bustle of the lobby
around him. "It's hard to hear yourself think out here when
check-in and check-out times come around."

Sara laughed, too, but nervously then
followed him as he led the way back past the front desk. He waved
at the young woman who had helped Sara earlier.

"How are you today, Zhang-Jing?" he called,
and she told him she was doing well. He waved again and kept going,
pausing only to open a door with a keycard he took from the back
pocket of his pants. He held it open and motioned for Sara to pass
through.

"Thank you," she said as she did so then
found herself in a hallway—the business center of the hotel, she
assumed, judging by the looks of it. Finally they reached his
office. He held the door open for her again, and Sara went inside.
There were the usual: a desk, some chairs, a seating area, and some
shelves full of books. He gestured for her to take a seat then he
settled himself in the large, leather chair on the other side of
the desk.

"So what can I help you with, Miss Sharif?"
he asked in a distinct British accent, settling back and folding
his hands on his lap. He looked at her, awaiting her response, a
mildly pleasant expression on his face. For a moment Sara could see
what everyone probably liked about him. Something in his face just
made her want to talk to him.

"Well, first, call me Sara, please," she
said, a bit of a flush coming to her cheeks.

"Very good," he replied. "And I'm Adam."

"All right, Adam," she agreed then cleared
her throat, trying to steady herself and remember the pitch she had
practiced for so long the night before in front of her mirror at
home. She'd seemed so sure of herself then, so confident in what
she had to say. Now that the time had come to deliver it to an
actual person, she felt like her tongue was tied up in knots.

"So," she began again, "as you might know,
I'm here on a recommendation from Joan Harrison."

"Oh, yes, yes," he said, leaning his elbows
on the arms of his chair and steepling his fingers in front of him.
"That's right. I spoke to Mina last week. We go way back. Studied
at university in London together."