The Brevity of Roses

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  “That’s enough!” She pushed the book away and jumped to her feet. “I don’t see the purpose of your questions, and I don’t want to answer any more of them.”

  Jalal closed the album and laid it aside. He sat quietly for a moment, leaning forward with head bowed and forearms resting on his knees. Finally, he stood up and reached for her hand. “Stephen was happy because he knew you loved him.”

  She said nothing, but she met his gaze. Jalal’s assertion inched through her mind trying to find a place to fit, trying to light some dark spot. She shook her head. Jalal was wrong.

  He sighed and squeezed her hand, bringing her back to the present. “Can you forgive me for letting you think I was unfaithful to you?”

  Meredith stared at him, not daring to open her mouth, not because she was angry, but because she struggled not to smile. His logic escaped her. She had taken him back believing he had cheated on her, yet he thought she might not forgive him now that she knew otherwise? “You’re a little hard to stay angry with.”

  Jalal pulled her close, hugging tightly until all resistance dissolved and she molded to him. She murmured against his neck, “Let’s get blitzed out of our minds.”

  He laughed. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I do like this sassy Meredith.”

  At 3:10 am, her eyes popped open. Though her sleep was deep and sweet after drinking wine, hard liquor always disrupted it. Between the two of them, she guessed they had finished off that bottle of Macallan’s. Still unsteady, she made her way to the bathroom.

  It wasn’t until she started to get back into bed that she realized Jalal wasn’t there. She had a second of total disorientation. I only dreamed him. She shook that thought away. Since when did she get naked and drink scotch until she passed out alone? She grabbed her robe and went in search of Jalal.

  He sat at the kitchen table, writing in his journal.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  He held up his glass. “No coffee. You need water, so you will not feel hungover tomorrow … today.”

  Meredith opened the refrigerator and took out a ginger ale. “How long have you been awake?”

  “About twenty minutes,” he said. “I tried not to wake you when I got up.”

  “You didn’t.” She sat down opposite him. “Are you writing about me?”

  Jalal nodded.

  “I’m a real mess, aren’t I?”

  He smiled. “No more than I am.”

  “But I have a warped concept of love. That’s what you were trying to tell me, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  With a fingertip, she traced a circle on the table. “I think my parents loved me.”

  “I am sure they did,” he said. “They just were not demonstrative.”

  “And I’m like them.”

  He shook his head. “I have been thinking about what you said—that your poems ‘were written by a woman yearning for love.’ I think you wrote from a desperate need to show love. Your parents were emotionally reserved and that is how they raised you, but that is not your nature. It is unfortunate you did not rebel against their reserve as you did against their racism.”

  Meredith nodded. She weighed his assessment of her feelings for Stephen against the memories invoked in the last twenty-four hours. A flurry of questions crowded into her mind. Had he truly been happy with their marriage? Was it possible Stephen understood that her respect, her admiration, her devotion to their work were her expressions of love? She racked her brain, and found no memory of words or actions showing he regretted marrying her. To the end, he had seemed to love her as much as ever. And what if she had shown her poems to Stephen? Would he have seen them as her longing to express her feelings? How many other people spent their whole lives censoring their hearts?

  “I’ve been thinking about you too,” she said. “Aren’t poets usually revered in Iran?”

  “You are asking about my relationship with my father.” Jalal laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair. He combed his fingers through his hair, laced them together behind his neck, and looked toward the ceiling. “I never knew my father’s father. He died before I was born, but I have heard stories about him. They say he was a tyrant, punishing any sign of weakness. He would have seen a man interested in the arts as weak. As less than a man. That is why my father became the man he is.”

  “So, you understand the reason for your father’s disapproval?”

  Jalal lowered his hands and sat forward again. “Understanding why,” he said, “does not make it less painful.”

  The sins of the fathers …

  Jalal went back to writing. While they sat in silence, she wondered how many of his poems—the ones he considered too dark—were written about his father. Jalal, she judged, would not have censored his heart. As freely as he expressed his love, he would have expressed his pain, if only in verse. Again, he laid down his pen, but this time he also closed his journal.

  She motioned toward the book. “Did you work it all out for me?

  “That is something only you can do,” he said. “And you will.” He stood up. “But now, we need to sleep.”

  Jalal took her by the hand and led her upstairs.

  Six

  MEREDITH LAY SUSPENDED in a half-sleep state, unwilling to rouse herself fully. She might have felt a nudge a second ago, but preferred to believe she'd dreamed it.

  “Wake up!”

  She opened her eyes, then slammed them shut, groaning at the sunlight flooding the bedroom. “What time is it?” she whispered.

  “Time to wake up and get dressed,” Jalal told her. “I am hungry, and you must be too.”

  True. Her senses now awakened, she felt starved. Peering through her lashes, she saw he had already showered and dressed. “I’ll be down in an hour.”

  “Thirty minutes,” he said.

  She sat up and set off a timpani concert in her head. The ginger ale had not done the trick. She should have listened to Jalal and opted for water. He didn’t seem to have the least bit of a hangover. “I’ll try.”

  “Do or do not,” he said. “There is no try.”

  She threw her pillow at him.

  When she entered the kitchen forty minutes later, no scent of cooked food greeted her. Jalal sat reading. “What happened to breakfast?”

  He closed his book and stood up. “We are going out.”

  “Where?”

  Instead of responding, he held out her jacket. She shook her head. “I can’t go out dressed like this. I thought you were cooking.” She headed for the stairs.

  “You look fine.” His exasperated sigh followed her.

  When Meredith walked into the kitchen again, Jalal was standing by the door leading to the garage. This time she took her jacket and he held the door open for her. Again, she asked where they were headed, but he kept his silence while they drove. After a few minutes, she sensed where they were heading, and he confirmed her hunch when he pulled into the shopping plaza where Pain sur la Table was located. “I thought you didn’t like the food here,” she said.

  “I do not.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  He parked the car, then leaned over and kissed her. “We are here, dear Meredith, because I want us to start over from the beginning.”

  “Less wine this time,” she said.

  “Are you wimping out on me, Sassy?”

  “Never.”

  The restaurant was crowded. She counted three other couples and a group of five waiting to be seated. “We could go somewhere else.”

  “No need,” said Jalal. “Vaziri,” he told the host, who immediately led them toward the table where she had sat the day they met.

  “You made a reservation?”

  “For this very table where you used to sit all alone, hiding from the world.”

  Within a minute of taking their seats, the server appeared with a fruit plate and bottles of Pellegrino.

  “Have you already ordered too?”

  “Of course.”

  Jalal filled
their glasses. “Now” he said, “imagine it is the first of September, about two o’clock, and I have just walked in. What are you thinking?”

  “What? I have no idea.”

  He put on an exaggerated pout. “How could you not remember?”

  Meredith sighed. “Are we going to go through this whole thing again?”

  He nodded. “Especially the part where you take me home with you.”

  “Oh, yes, especially that.” She took a bite of strawberry and held out the rest toward him. He opened his mouth and took it from her. If Jalal wanted to re-enact their meeting, she would play along. “Délicieux.”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “The strawberry?”

  She continued in French, “No. That’s what I’m thinking. Tall, dark, and handsome. Delicious.”

  Jalal stared at her for a moment. Then he grinned. He took a bite of mango and sat back, ready to enjoy her story.

  She posed with her chin resting lightly on her hand, fingers delicately curved, and let her gaze lick him. “You appear sophisticated, yet somehow … naive. I’m curious.” She raised her other hand and beckoned with her index finger. “Come here, boy.”

  Delight sparked in Jalal’s eyes, but he said nothing.

  “Of course, you rush to my table. I say, Sit there, love, let’s talk. Have a glass of my wine.” She speared a slice of kiwi and nibbled it, making him wait. His eyes now focused on her mouth, so she ran the tip of her tongue over her top lip, corner to corner, a slow tease.

  Jalal cleared his throat and reached for his water glass. The server approached with the pre-ordered omelets, but without taking his eyes off her, he waved them away. The bewildered girl retreated.

  “I’m bored,” she said. “I crave excitement. I desire it.” She leaned closer, her voice now a velvet purr. “What a luscious mouth you have. And your hands, do you know how to use them? Can you please me, boy?”

  Jalal blinked. He swallowed. And then, he laughed, pulled out his wallet, and slapped some bills on the table. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Surrounded by two flats of plants and gardening tools, Meredith and Jalal knelt side by side before the flower border.

  “Why are you pulling these up when they are still blooming?” he asked.

  “Because they are summer annuals and will die or look scroungy in the cooler weather. We’ll replace them with the winter annuals we bought.”

  “I see,” he said. “So, gardening is just a vicious cycle.”

  She threw a handful of soil at him.

  Laughing, he brushed it off. “After we plant a garden at my house, will we have to do this twice a year there?”

  “Hmmm, maybe not; it’s a different zone. We may plant all perennials. I think we’ll probably wait until after New Year’s to start your garden.”

  “Was your mother a gardener?” he asked.

  “No. Gardening was my father’s hobby.”

  “You never mention what work your father did.”

  Meredith exhaled in a huff. “I thought you wanted to learn how to plant.”

  “Yes, Mistress, but can we not talk while we work?”

  “Hand me a pony pack of the snapdragons.”

  “Pony pack?”

  “A six pack.” She watched for a minute, amused at his attempt to choose the correct flat. “The taller ones, with white flowers,” she said, finally.

  “All right, I admit, I know nothing.” He held out the snapdragons to her. “My grandmother had a garden … well, of course we had a kitchen garden, but she also had flowers growing in every available space and pot. Apparently, I only learned the names of the vegetables.”

  “Oh, Jalal! That never occurred to me … would you like to have some space for a kitchen garden here?”

  “No, no,” he said, “this is too beautiful. I would like to keep it as it is. Anyway, the markets here have wonderful produce. Although …” Jalal looked around her garden.

  “What?”

  “Maybe a few herbs,” he said. “I mean, you already have rosemary and lavender. A few more would be nice … if you could spare the room.”

  “Pots?” she offered.

  “Yes! Good idea. Herbs grow very well in pots.”

  Jalal smiled and grew silent for a minute. She could tell he was making a mental list, pleased with the idea of having fresh herbs right outside the kitchen door. She planted a row of snapdragons and was ready for the pansies before he spoke again.

  “You still have not told me about your father’s work,” he said.

  “He was a businessman.” She reached for the next flat.

  “What sort of business?”

  Meredith handed him the trowel. “You need to dig holes as deep as this,” she said, indicating the depth of the pack. “Start there.”

  He dug the hole where she pointed. She showed him how to grasp the plant at soil level and tease it from the pack. “These are not root-bound, so you can put them straight in. Otherwise, you would have to loosen the roots first.” Jalal dropped in the pansy, and as instructed, tamped the soil around it. “Now, plant the rest, six inches apart.” He didn’t move. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I am waiting for an answer.”

  She sighed, but said nothing.

  Jalal rephrased his question. “Was your father in the Mafia? A porn king? A drug czar?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! I told you he was respectable. He was in the right place at the right time, founded a company, and made some money, all right?”

  “From that answer, I would guess he made a lot more than some.” His eyes narrowed, Jalal studied her. “Hmmm. You lived in Minnesota, your maiden name was—good god! Dahlberg BioTech. That was your father?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Would you care to see a printout of my portfolio?”

  “Hell, yes!”

  “I was being sarcastic, Jalal.”

  “I was being serious.” His eyes shone. “I would find your portfolio fascinating.” Then, he did look serious. “You do have a reputable firm managing your money, right?”

  “Jalal!”

  “Sorry. Of course you do.”

  “Could we finish planting now?” she asked.

  He dropped the subject, but every so often while they worked, he looked at her in wonder, shaking his head. As she began to plant the last row of annuals, he laughed She sat back on her heels. “What’s so funny?”

  “The Wanton Women have no idea how much you are worth, do they?”

  She sighed. “If you haven’t guessed, I don’t like discussing my finances.”

  “I know, but I was just thinking how I would love to see the look on Judith’s face when she found out.”

  Despite herself, she smiled at the idea. “The shock would probably kill her.”

  “If not the shock,” said Jalal, “the envy would.”

  “We’re terrible,” she said, but she was laughing with him.

  “Hurry up,” he said. “Finish planting.”

  “Why?”

  Jalal lowered his voice to a comical macho bass, “Because, woman, big portfolios turn me on.”

  For the second time that day, Meredith pelted him with soil.

  Jalal had made good on his threat to teach her how to cook, and today they were starting a French stew—daube he called it—which would be marinated, cooked, and cooked again over three days. He had set out an enormous pile of garlic cloves for her to peel. She had never eaten the dish. “This had better be worth all this trouble, Jalal.”

  “You will love it, I promise … and besides—” Jalal’s cell phone was ringing. He answered and motioned for her to keep working while he listened to the caller. His eyes widened and he said, “When? … you are driving? … at my house? … of course, I do, Goli—hold on.” He blocked the phone mic with his thumb. “My mother and sisters want to visit.”

  She said, “Oh,” but then, not sure he meant this visit to involve her, said nothing more.

  “Well?”

  “Oh! You mean here? Y
es, of course. Yes.”

  He put the phone back to his ear. “Let me talk to Shadi,” he said and headed for the door to the hall. “I will give you the directions from MapQuest.”

  Meredith went back to peeling the garlic, until reality hit. Good lord, I can’t meet his family! He had barely told her anything about them, and what he had, she suddenly couldn’t remember. And what did they know about her? Or had they even known she existed before today? Did they know how old she was? Maybe it was time for that new hairstyle, something younger. And the house. What about the guest rooms? Dusting and vacuuming was the only attention they had received in years. She could buy new linens, at least.

  Jalal returned to the kitchen. “They will be here in about an hour,” he told her.

  “What? No!”

  “But you said—”

  “Yes, yes, I want to meet them, but not right now! I thought they were only planning the visit.” She dropped her knife and wiped her hands frantically. “Look at the house—look at me! Oh, my lord! What day is it?” She grabbed the phone with one hand and searched the list of numbers on the wall beside it with the other. “Maybe Lorena is free today and could rush right over. She could bring her sister. Oh, Jalal, how could you do this to me?”

  Jalal laughed. “Meredith, slow down.” He took the phone from her and hung it up. “You look beautiful. The house is lovely. My mother and sisters are excited about meeting you.”

  “But the guest rooms … and baths, they need to be cleaned, the linens—”

  “You and Lorena keep the whole house spotless. And my sisters can make their own beds. Just relax.”

  Eyes popping, she took a step back from him. “Relax? Relax! Are you completely insane?” Jalal laughed and pulled her into his arms. He tickled her until she had to laugh too. Then he kissed her throat and undid the top button of her shirt. She squirmed in his grip, but he wouldn’t let her loose. “Don’t you dare start something now!”

  “All right, then get to work on that garlic.”

  “I will not! I need to get to work—”

  “You need to relax,” he whispered in her ear.

  Meredith covered his mouth with her fingertips and pushed his face away. “Let me go.”