Veil of Roses by Laura Fitzgerald

Author:Laura Fitzgerald
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780553903379
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2006-12-26T05:00:00+00:00

The weeks pass. One day after class, I invite Eva to join me for a coffee, but she tells me she has other plans, so I walk alone to Starbucks. My nervousness increases the closer I get. So far, every day I have gone, he has been waiting for me. But all the other days, I have been with Eva. Will he be there? Or won’t he? Which is better? Which do I hope for? As soon as I see Ike waiting for me on the patio, I know the answer. I am very happy to see him. Very, very happy. So happy I cannot stop smiling like a fool.

Haroun is still out of town; his business trip has stretched on and on. But I do not mind. We talk most evenings on the telephone and the situation is very friendly between us. When he tells me that he will try to stop traveling so much after we are married, I urge him not to change a thing about his career for me.

If I am to marry Haroun, I would like for him to be a traveling husband. And in the meantime, I am well aware that I will, perhaps, never again be as free as I am right now. So yes, I am glad to see Ike waiting for me.

“Hey there, Persian Girl,” Ike greets me. “Where’s your sidekick?”

“Eva? I think perhaps she is growing tired of me.”

“No one could ever grow tired of you.” Ike smiles at my blush and continues, “She’s trying to set us up, you know.”

I pull back like I am startled at the idea, although in truth, I know this very well to be true. I hear the words Ike and eminently fuckable from Eva’s mouth about ten times each day. In response, I always tsk-tsk her and roll my eyes, and I fear this just encourages her. She remains committed to corrupting me.

“Will you join me for a proper cup of tea?” Ike asks and offers me his arm.

“Not that horrible mango tea?” I say this with a bit of a tease in my voice.

“Today, we’re going to have real Middle Eastern tea like you’re used to.”

“Really?” I link my arm through his and feel very daring.

“Yep. Come right this way.” He leads me around the corner of the coffee shop. We walk past Starbucks, past the hair salon, and past a French bistro in the Geronimo Square plaza.

“Are we going there?” I point ahead to a restaurant that has gaudy purple silk curtains framing the door. Sinbad’s, it is called.

“Indeed we are.”

He holds the door open for me. Now, this is not a Persian restaurant, but I think perhaps a Jordanian one. Yet I feel at home, with the music and the smells of familiar spices.

We seat ourselves and in an instant, a Middle Eastern man brings us menus. He greets us first in English and then greets me a second time, in Arabic.

“I’m sorry, I do not speak Arabic.”

“Farsi?” he asks. I nod.

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