Three Daughters: A Novel (49 page)

The letter was in her pocket to give to Nijmeh during a gathering of the clan at Miriam’s. She wanted a chance to get Nijmeh alone and was searching for her around the back of the house. She passed a pretty trellised porch when she heard—through the crisscross of wood and wisteria—the compelling sound of her own name.

“Money isn’t everything,” said a feminine voice—Diana’s. “If it was, Peter would have had an offer for Delal.”

An embarrassed giggle followed. “Oh, that’s cruel.”

“The cruel thing is to put her next to Nijmeh. God might strike me, but I’d say he’s the cruel one.”

It was a stunning blow. She felt cheap and pathetic. People must see through her. Repeating waves of heat lapped at her until she was burning with shame. She touched the forgotten letter in her pocket and sucked in her breath with surprise. Here was her weapon to fight this war. She’d never give Nijmeh the letter. Let her know how it felt to suffer rejection.

The next day the envelope was put far back in her office desk drawer under a ceramic dish for moistening stamps, where it was soon joined by two more letters from Edinburgh. When Nijmeh finally asked if mail had arrived, Delal looked wistful and shook her head. Nijmeh, looking forlorn, invited an opinion.

“Well, let’s see,” said Delal with exaggerated concern. “What could have happened?” She stretched her mouth to signify her opinion of men’s promises. “His plane could have crashed. His hand could be broken. He could have amnesia. Or he could be a faithless skunk. Take your pick.”

Nijmeh smiled weakly and shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that.” A dull protective anxiety insulated her from daily life and the need to plan a future. James was her future if she could hold on to his reality. Approaching twenty, she was overeducated and biding her time to receive her baccalaureate.
Please, James
, she whispered into her pillow,
don’t slip away.

Peter George waited two weeks before interfering in his daughter’s love life. He called Paul Halaby into his study. Delal, who had been detained at work, would have screamed with horror over what he was about to do.

The room was pleasantly furnished with a leather sofa, bookshelves, a soft-colored Persian rug, and richly paneled walls. Peter had turned off all the lamps and allowed the irresistible golden light of dusk to transform the pleasant room into an entrancing, sensual delight, where leather and wood and colored wool were bathed in a flattering glow.

Paul was impressed. “What a fabulous room. This is what I would like my office to look like.”

Peter grunted. He was in a hurry. “Your purpose on this visit was to find a wife, no?”

Paul looked at him quickly, then recovered. “If it happened, yes. I wasn’t going to force it.”

“I understand. In these modern times, I’m sure a man like you wants to feel he is marrying because he wants to, not because his parents have arranged a match. I know this is the modern way.” He left no doubt that he didn’t think much of the modern way. “The young ones want to choose for themselves, although we didn’t do so badly with the old ways. Divorce is not uncommon in America and perhaps that comes from marrying for passion.” He spat the word out. “That’s what the current generation mistakes for love—lust. I happen to believe one chooses a wife for other reasons and love follows. It happened so in my life and in many lives I know.”

Paul listened. He wasn’t there to agree or disagree, but he liked and admired Peter George. “Those thoughts were on my mind when I made this trip . . . but also I was anxious to see the country again, even if a wife didn’t materialize.”

“Has Delal convinced you differently?”

He laughed. “She’s a very interesting woman. I enjoy her company.”

“No more than that? I can see that you have some feelings for Delal,” he said tentatively. “Am I wrong?”

“No.” Paul looked ill at ease. “You’re not wrong.”

Peter didn’t like what he was about to do. He knew his wife would disapprove and his daughter would be wild, but he did it anyway. What was the harm in sweetening a deal that was already eighty percent accomplished? He sat back in his oversized cushioned chair and twirled to face the windows. “Paul, I’m an indecently wealthy man”—he sounded almost morose—“and because I no longer care much about making money, everything I touch returns a healthy profit.” He twirled back to face his desk. “There’s a bittersweet side, however . . . you see, I’m a generous man. It would be my pleasure to have ten daughters and give each one a dowry and a wedding fit for the queen of England. But what am I to do? I have one child. One.” He held up one finger. “Delal is a wealthy woman. She is almost wealthier than I, because I’ve invested her holdings more conservatively. She has land, a trust fund. She knows nothing about it. Nothing. At age twenty-five she’ll come into half a million dollars.”

“But Peter, I . . .”

“No, no.” He held up a hand. “I know this is the farthest thing from your mind. It is I who wish to bring it up, because it’s been weighing on me. Delal could do well for herself without me. She’s capable of earning a living at any number of professions. But”—he threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness—“I love her with all my heart and it’s my pleasure to make her rich.”

Paul laughed nervously. “That makes it nice for Delal.”

“In the old days, you know, the suitor and the father struck a bargain before a betrothal.” Peter George, who could negotiate six-figure deals with a London banker while perusing a luncheon menu and eyeing the waitress’s derriere, had his heart in his mouth, awaiting the next words from the young man before him. He paused and fondled a gold paperweight. “Have you any inclination to do such a thing?”

Paul laughed again. Peter didn’t like that. Laughter at this point was a sign of indecision. “I feel it’s between Delal and myself for now. But I can tell you that she’s a delightful girl. Delightful.”

Peter George sighed and stood. He hadn’t accomplished anything. Delightful? Delightful meant nothing. After being offered a healthy sum of money, all he could come up with was
delightfu
l
? It didn’t look good, damn it. “I understand. And Paul, as far as Delal is concerned, this little talk never took place. She would feel humiliated if she suspected I spoke to you with such frankness.”

“It never took place,” said Paul gallantly. Both men walked innocently out into the living room at the precise moment Delal walked in.

“Have you two been talking about me?” She looked at her father accusingly.

“Of course not.” He winked broadly.

She knew what that wink meant. Paul must have said something to him. Perhaps he had asked for her hand. She felt such a thrill of happiness it was difficult to make sense.

That night, after a concert of baroque music at the YMCA, they climbed into her MG that Paul was driving, but he didn’t start it right away. The air was velvety, with just enough warmth to comfort the skin. They had begun the evening with dinner out of doors on the terrace of the King David Hotel. Delal was wearing a black silk crepe dress she had purchased that afternoon. It was cut on the bias and flowed over her body in one provocative line. She felt beautiful. She had her hand on the side of her seat because the car was small. It was very close to his thigh. He looked down and placed his hand over hers and then removed it and rested it casually on his lap. Unconsciously or not, he seemed to be directing her to touch him. She knew enough about that. Men needed physical release and maybe he was trying to tell her. But suppose he wasn’t saying that at all and he found her actions repulsive? She searched his face for a reading and saw that he had a strange smile.

“I don’t want to be a tease,” she said, trying to forestall any misunderstanding. “Tell me what you’d like me to do. Does this do anything?”

“Of course.” There was an embarrassed pause. “Something is happening right now.”

“Oh.” She jumped and lifted her hand.

“Don’t be frightened. I won’t do anything you don’t want.” His voice was serious and breathy. “Give me your hand back.”

She didn’t want to do it, but there was no graceful way to refuse. He placed it back over his crotch and this time she didn’t need him to tell her what was happening. She felt as if she were suffocating in that small space, as if her head was swelling, too. She looked straight ahead. His arm had gone around her waist and his hand was on her outer leg. “I love your backside,” he said huskily. “I’ve been waiting to do this for so long.” He moved his hand over her buttocks and under her seat and at the same time he kept eating at her skirt with his fingers so that he could get to some part of her skin. His questing fingers pulled at her outer buttock, gathering the skin the same way he had gathered her skirt. It forced her vagina apart and when his persistent fingers reached their destination, she was very wet. She was also terrified that she was ruining her chances with him. “Paul, please. No.”

“Shh, it’s all right.” His voice was impersonal and she was already sorry that it had progressed this far. She began to take her hand away, but something told her she couldn’t stop now. That would really anger him. Somewhere she had read that once a man was aroused he had to complete the act. Almost as if affirming her thought, he clamped her hand down on him and moved it up and down. “Like that,” he urged and again there was that impersonal tone. “A little faster.” With each instruction she became more upset. She didn’t want to do it. She wanted it to be over. She wanted the evening to end and the carefree promising relationship they had before to come back. She was also afraid to make him angry, so she moved her hand up and down and finally he grabbed at her buttock in a painful squeeze and held down her hand hard against him, making a noise like a long slow whistle.

“Now I’ve done it,” he said, regaining his composure. “Ruined a perfectly good pair of pants.”

“Was it all right?”

“Well, I would have preferred it to be more intimate, but that’s not possible right now. Your father would skin me alive, wouldn’t he?” His voice was teasing again. “Anyway, I wouldn’t do that to you. This was the best we could manage, but you have to let me do the same for you.”

“It’s not necessary. I don’t expect . . .”

“I don’t want you to feel ashamed. I can do to you what you did to me without violating your virginity.”

She wanted to die. As bold and sophisticated as she felt, she had no frame of reference for discussing such intimate things. “It isn’t necessary. Really, it isn’t.”

“Of course it is. Don’t you desire me? Don’t you have physical longings?”

“Yes.” Pause. “I do.” Right now she didn’t. Nothing.

“That’s good, because if you didn’t I’d think we were wasting our time. You’ve got a terrific body, Delal, don’t shut it away.”

A terrific body? Oh, maybe it was going to be all right. She felt her hopefulness return. “I promise. I won’t.”

As she prepared for bed, she rehashed it all again. He didn’t seem any different afterward. He had even been eager to help her do the same. Maybe her anxiety was for nothing. Still, she lay awake for a long time. She couldn’t shake off the sound of his voice while he was being stroked. He was so cold and impersonal.
Like this. Up and down. A little harder.
It didn’t sound as if he were talking to someone he cared about. Maybe he was just using her while he looked elsewhere for someone to marry.

Why did that thought lead to thoughts of Nijmeh? No one had ever forced her to do what Delal had done. No one would ever tell her she had a terrific body, as if she were just a piece of meat without a soul or feelings. Maybe he had no intention of marrying at all. He hadn’t taken her in his arms and called her darling or told her he loved her.

The next afternoon she called him. They hadn’t made plans and she wanted to find out if he would come by.

“Tonight I’ve got to be a good boy and visit my mother’s family—cousins of cousins—the Mishwes. Do you know them?”

“Of course. One of them married my mother’s brother.” Right there she had a premonition that made her feel a thud in her stomach. She wanted to get off the phone. “If you get away early, call,” she said quickly.

“Let’s hope.”