Rosewater and Soda Bread (31 page)

“What do you think?”

Marjan laid her menu on the table. “I'm not sure. You just appear, out of thin air, quoting Rumi. … I don't know. It seems all too perfect.”

“It is you who are perfect, Marjan Aminpour.”

“Thank you.”

“I meant every word of it.”

Marjan looked down at the menu again. “You always know exactly what to say. I don't know if that's a good thing or not.” She looked up again, staring intently into his eyes. She could take the compliment and leave it at that, but the small voice in her gut told her to be fearless. She wasn't going to let him get away with standing her up without a bit of a jab.

Julian looked back at her, his gaze unwavering. “It's true, I hide behind words. Or rather, they are my conduit. Without
them I'd be helpless.” He paused, reaching over to touch Mar-jan's cheek. “I am helpless.”

There was nothing she could say to that, thought Marjan. Whatever upset was left over from the night at the Wilton Inn evaporated in the time it took for Julian to caress her face with his fingertips. Now she was helpless as well.

The waiter arrived with their champagne. He poured them two flutes.

Julian smiled. “So, fancy the notion? Irish and Persian?”

“It's a challenge,” Marjan admitted, grinning back.

Julian raised his glass. “Here's to the challenge. To the future, then.”

To the future, thought Marjan, her insides tingling with anticipation.

AFTER DESSERT, a beautiful chocolate fondant and pineapple compote, Julian helped her into her long woolen coat.

“I want to show you something,” he blurted, signing the bill the waiter had handed him. Placing his hand on the small of her back, he guided her out a side door, through a pavilion lit by wall-mounted torches. A walkway led past a fountain gushing with arching streams and finally to a ring fort on the lake's shore. Steps rose into the half-circle structure, where a diamond-shaped window opened onto the darkened Corrib.

Julian led her to the ledge. “Towers were built all around the lakefront. For protection,” he explained. “To be a lookout.”

He raised his hand to brush aside a strand of hair that had fallen in her face. “Thought you might like a warning before I do this.” He reached down, grabbed her waist, drew her hips to his.

His mouth opened on hers, his tongue gently skimming her parting lips. She felt herself melt into his chest as his golden hair touched her glowing cheeks. Her head fell back as she surrendered to the sweeping wave, no longer thinking of the past, no longer worried about anything.

As the lake water lapped insistently outside the stone altar, his mouth found its course along her neck, skimming down her collarbone and to her beating breast. Her insides tugged at her in matching rhythms, wanting more, needing him.

She let herself go, flying free, clinging only to his arms, her skin humming with pure joy.

MARJAN WAS STILL FEELING the heat of his hands on her when she stepped into the Babylon's dining room. Locking the front door behind her, she made her way across the carpeted floor, pushing through the kitchen doors. The lights were on in the kitchen, but all was quiet upstairs. It was nearly midnight, after all.

And then she saw the car. The lights flickered once. Opening the back door, she crossed through the garden to the wooden gate. As she unbolted it, Estelle Delmonico cut the engine on her yellow Honda and opened her car door.

BAHAR STAYED GLUED
to the sofa. She had not moved from it during the entire exchange. With her mouth set in a stern line, she had watched as Marjan and Layla helped the girl onto the landing, then into the bedroom, where she was now lying on Marjan's bed. Following them up the stairs had been a rumpled Estelle, her face a clear portrait of panic.

All of them, including that person who had attempted such an unspeakable crime, were now clustered in the bedroom. Maybe that was why she couldn't talk, thought Bahar. She had been rendered mute by the horror of it all.

Imagine, trying to kill your own flesh and blood with your own two hands, piercing that part of you without a thought to the evil you were inviting inside. How could she have done such a thing? How could that girl have deliberately cut her insides like that?

Marjan hadn't said how the girl had tried to do the deed, but
it didn't take much for Bahar to speculate on the implement of choice. Anything sharp, easy to hold, would do the job. But how could she have actually hurt herself, Bahar asked herself again. Only men did that sort of thing. Men and their batons. Bahar shuddered at the thought. She ran her hands up and down her lap, trying to smooth down the goose bumps rising on her thighs. She'd had only her nightgown on when she heard the commotion in the kitchen, Estelle and Marjan rushing about as that girl had sat silently, perched on a chair at the round table.

She didn't look as Bahar had imagined, much more fragile and innocent than her actions. You just never know who crosses the line, Bahar reminded herself. She didn't have her prayer card with her, but she uttered the prayer silently to herself all the same:

Easier said than done, she thought. Father Mahoney was right: faith was a continual challenge to the system. As was courage. Courage and faith. Two virtues this girl, this runaway from Lord knows where, lacked.

What would the priest say to what was happening in the café tonight, she wondered. Was what they were doing even within the law? Not likely, not by a long shot.

“This is Marjan's sister. Layla. Yes? She and Bahar over there are going to stay with you, okay?” Estelle's voice carried out to the sitting room. There was silence. “I will see you tomorrow. Tomorrow you come back and we walk the garden, okay?”

After a few more moments of silence, the Italian widow and Marjan reappeared at the bedroom door.

Bahar looked up. “Where's Layla?”

“She's going to keep her company until I get back,” Marjan whispered, closing the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?” Bahar stood up from the sofa and came to them.

“I'm going to make sure Estelle gets back home all right.”

“Oh, darling, I will be okay.” The older woman wrapped her crocheted shawl around her shoulders. “You stay.”

“What if the guards come here now?”

“Not likely at this time of night. Besides, they don't know anything yet.”

Marjan looked around, trying to locate the keys to the van. She spotted them on the television.

“Marjan, they already ask questions to all the hospital people,” Estelle pointed out. “They already know. And now my Dr. Parshaw is in trouble too.”

“Are you sure, Estelle? Is that what Dr. Parshaw said?”

“I don't know. He would not say to me. All he said is ‘Mrs. Delmonico, you be careful. Those guards are coming to see you too.’ ” Estelle paused, shaking her head. “But I can tell he is in trouble with his job. They can send him back to Pakistan. Suspended license. Terrible, absolutely terrible.” Estelle tugged at the embroidered handkerchief in her sleeve, wiping her eyes with it.

“But he didn't do anything wrong,” said Marjan.

“He must not lie, and lie he did. It's my fault.”

“Of course it isn't. It's no one's fault.”

“Yes, but maybe I could take care of her in my house. No need for a hospital.”

Bahar stayed silent, though secretly she agreed with Estelle. A lie was a lie no matter how you looked at it.

“There was definitely a need for the hospital,” Marjan assured the older woman. “She may have some special abilities to help
you with your pain, but the antibiotics the doctor gave her helped her with hers. There was no other way.”

Estelle nodded, sniffed.

Marjan patted her arm. “I have an idea,” she said, stepping onto the landing. “Don't worry.”

She looked back at Estelle and Bahar. “I'll drive you home in your car, Estelle. But I have to do something right now. Just give me a few minutes and I'll be back.”

“Where are you going?” Bahar asked anxiously, following her down the stairs. “What are you going to do?”

Marjan stopped and looked over her shoulder. “I'm going to give all those gossips what they want. What they deserve.”

“What's that?” Bahar's eyes widened.

Marjan smiled, tossed her scarf over her back. “A confession. A big old burning at the stake.”

“RIGHT, YOU BOTH KNOW what to do. Leave the old woman to me. Leave the talking to me as well while we're at it.”

“No need to tell us how to do our job, Padraig,” Sean Grogan grumbled. “I've not held the post of sergeant for these past twenty-nine years on my looks alone, you know.”

The guard tugged on his bobby stick as he followed the councilman up the gravelly walk. His officer, Kevin Slattery trailed reluctantly behind, doing his best to keep from sliding down the steep incline.

The sergeant cast his deputy a pitying look before turning back to Padraig Carey. “Best thing is to have us have a look around while you keep the chat going,” said Sean. “It's a mighty charge to bring on anyone, and I'm not one for placing blame where's there's no cause.”

Padraig raised a finger in warning. “We're talking of a law broken, Sean. The Offenses Against Persons Act comes with a sentence, you know that.”

Sean grunted with discomfort. “You're not expecting me to take in an expecting mother and put her in a cell, are you now? I thought we had it down pat—just a chat, a house call, and we'd leave it at that.”

“Who's in charge here, eh?” Padraig said, feeling his gathered gumption trickling away at the sergeant's bulloxing. “It's the grand Republic we're looking after, don't forget. Its mores and ways. Its bloody virtue!” He gave two abrupt knocks at the cottage door. “Just keep your wits about you. The both of you.”

“
Si?
” Estelle Delmonico stood in the doorway, a frilly cream apron spanning her broad chest.

Padraig cleared his throat. “Hello there, Mrs. Delmonico. Padraig Carey, your local council officer here.”