by Holly Rayner
In the back hallway, I place the serving tray on a shelf along with the others, then lean against the wall to catch my breath and gather my thoughts.
Dawn brushes past me with a water pitcher in hand. “I just seated a couple at table four. You doing okay? You look pale. Need a cup of peppermint tea?”
Should I tell Dawn what I’ve just heard?
She’s gone before I can make up my mind. “I’ll make you one,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll bring this couple a menu. They’re the last ones for the night. You’ll be out of here by nine thirty.”
“Thanks,” I say weakly. I manage to peel myself from the wall—not an easy feat, given the way my legs have suddenly turned to jelly and my stomach is a ball of yarn.
I hear Neville ring a bell in the kitchen, which means that a meal is ready. He doesn’t like the food to sit for more than two minutes, so I suck in a deep breath and force my legs to march forward, into the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve brought out the latest dishes, served a second glass of wine to table three, and have taken table four’s order. The whole time, the news about the factory is lying like a rock in the middle of my heart.
I find myself with a spare minute, and squeeze into the corner, by the back staircase that leads up to Neville and Dawn’s apartment, tucked in the back of the hotel. There are black, cordless phones scattered throughout the building, and this staircase has one, just at the bottom of the stairs. I dial my parents’ house, and my dad picks up.
He’s worried that I’m calling past eight, but I brush off his concern. “I’m fine,” I say. “Well…kind of. Not exactly fine. Dad, I’m working at the restaurant. There are two men here…brothers, from the Middle East. I just caught a bit of their conversation and it sounds like they’re here to…evaluate the plant.”
“Evaluate?” My father’s voice is deep and warm. I can picture him in his easy chair, facing the television, which is probably playing a rerun of the latest football game. I’m sure my late-night call has captured my mother’s attention as well, and she’s probably listening in to his end of the conversation from her seat on the nearby couch.
“They said something about deciding whether to invest money into the factory, or…” I swallow hard. “Or shut it down, Dad.”
The stone in my heart is cold and heavy.
The line is quiet.
“Well…” My father says. I hear it in his voice. He doesn’t want to repeat my words, and worry my mother. “That’s very interesting. I’m sure my bosses will be busy for the next few days, showing these men exactly what our factory is capable of.”
His optimism makes me feel better, but only for a moment. Then, I picture what would happen if the factory doors closed. All of those people out of work. “What should I do?” I ask.
“Nothing, sweetheart. Serve them their meals, that’s it. It’s not up to you to do anything. I didn’t know you were waitressing tonight.”
“Wasn’t planning on it. Joan couldn’t get down of Perkins Peak ’cause of the snow.”
“Well, don’t take on any extra shifts this Sunday. Your mother and I are expecting you for dinner.”
“Obviously!” I say. I catch sight of Dawn passing by, down the hallway, with two dessert plates on a small tray. “Dad, I gotta go.”
I hang up in a rush and catch Dawn before she reaches the dining room. I sweep the tray from her hands. “I’ll take that,” I say.
“Oh! I didn’t see you. Thank you honey. And your tea is at the serving station.”
“Perfect.”
I squeeze past Dawn and out into the dining area, where I deposit the desserts in front of a pair of happy diners. After stoking the fire and then wrapping up with a few more tables, the dining room starts to quiet down. I notice that the Middle Eastern men are finishing up, and I return to their table, which I’ve been avoiding, to offer dessert.
They decline tiramisu or sorbet, but Jabir requests a cup of coffee.
I brew a fresh pot as I write up their bill, and then bring out both with barely another word. I’m still too stunned by what I’ve overheard to make small talk.
I think that Jabir notices my change in demeanor, because he’s looking at me in a funny way. He’s very handsome—much better looking than many of the men around town. He’s muscular and lean, and his fit physique kind of reminds me of my friend Amanda’s boyfriend, who was the captain of the Melrose minor league baseball team. All the girls, myself included, used to swoon over him when Amanda was out of earshot, but this man is even better looking than the baseball captain. In addition to his athletic body, he has a face that looked like it could be in a magazine. His features are perfectly modeled. The dark shadow of a masculine five-o'clock shadow covers his jaw. His brown eyes are deep and intense.
But my attraction is stunted when I replay his words in my mind: “We’ll make our decision after the meeting.”
This man is going to decide my father’s fate. Many people’s employment, including my father’s, is lying in his hands.
I can’t help but frown as I collect the billfold, into which Jabir’s brother has placed a credit card.
“Be right back.” My voice is barely above a whisper. Jabir eyes me like he knows something’s wrong.
When I return with the bill, Jabir is no longer at the table. His brother signs the credit card slip, and then stands as well. He says goodnight, and I want to ask where Jabir has gone, but I don’t.
I return to the back hallway and place the slip on top of a pile of others on top of the serving station. My tea! I’d almost forgotten about it. I pick up the white mug, and find that it’s barely warm. I cup it in my hands, trying to extract any lasting warmth from the ceramic container.
“Ready to head home?” Dawn asks.
I set down my cup, and pick up the stack of papers. “Just have to calculate my tips!”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle it, and put the tip money in your envelope. I’ll clean up the dining room, too. It’s been a long day for you.”
“You’ve been at it longer than I have!” I protest, gripping the papers.
“Yes, but I’m used to it. And all I have to do is climb up those stairs”—she motions to the staircase behind me—“to get to bed. You’ve got to drive to the edge of town. And you better leave out the front door. Neville’s just shoveled the front walkway, but the back’s covered in a foot of snow.”
I give in. Dawn always gets her way, and I do have a snowy drive ahead of me.
I pick up my tea, and pop into the kitchen to say goodnight to Neville. He’s red-faced from his shoveling efforts, and now he’s standing over a sink, scrubbing out a large pot. Though it’s nine o’clock and any other seventy-year-old would probably be in bed, he looks cheery and energized.
“On your way out, love?” He asks me, in his English accent. Neville moved to New Hampstead in ’65, when the Mountain Laurel opened. Despite his decades in Pennsylvania, his accent has barely changed.
“Yep.” I place my mug of tea in the microwave to warm it up for the drive home. I know Dawn won’t mind if I take the mug, as long as I bring it back eventually. I thank Neville for the delicious meal, and he wishes me safe travels.
I change into my boots in the back hallway, grab my purse and jacket, and then traipse through the dimly lit lobby, past the desk where I worked that morning.
Pausing at the front door, I set my mug down so that I can put on my jacket and dig out my hat and mittens from the inside of my messy bag. One hand is on the door when something catches my eye: the fireplace is still lit in the sitting area, just beyond the front lobby. Does Dawn know that’s still going? I’d hate for it to burn all night if it doesn’t have to.
I walk that way, and that’s when I notice Jabir. He’s sitting in one of the two armchairs positioned by the fire. He has his bare feet up against the ledge of the fireplace. I recognize the cup of coffee that I served him earlier, sitting on a side table to his left. So this is where he di
sappeared to.
He looks up as I approach, and his friendly smile catches me off guard. I find myself smiling back.
“Teresa!” He puts down the magazine that he’s been holding. “You were just on my mind!”
“I was?” I’m clutching my knit mittens and beanie in my hand, and I start twisting them nervously. I can’t help it. This man is so handsome. Combine that with knowing that he’s going to make a decision about my father’s employment, and the result is that my nerves are in a twist.
He holds up the magazine, Homestyle Country Baking. “I’m catching up on recipes. It made me think of the pies you recommended.”
“Do you bake?”
“No.” He motions to the stack of magazines that are arranged on the side table. I step forward to read the titles, and see that they are all different months of the same magazine.
“Dawn should put out some more…varied…reading material,” I say. “I’ll let her know.”
He grins. “It’s fine. I haven’t been reading long. Mostly, I’ve been looking at these drawings. Do you have any idea who the artist is?” He motions to the wall above the fireplace, where three of my charcoal sketches are positioned. It’s a series that I did last year, of the female eagle.
I grip my hat and mittens tighter, suddenly self-conscious. I feel myself blush. “I did.”
“You?” he asks. “Aren’t you the waitress?”
“I also work at the front desk…”
“What are you doing that for? You should be selling your artwork. It’s very good!”
My blush deepens, and I have to admit that his words make me happy. “Sell to whom?” I ask. “This is a very small town, in case you haven’t noticed.” Afraid my words sound harsh, I try to soften them. “I mean…thank you. I wish I could!”
“What about online?” he suggests.
I shake my head. “Impossible. We only have dial-up.”
“Dial-up!” He leans his head back gives a loud “Ha!”
I purse my lips.
“I knew it!” he goes on. “Somehow, my brother and I slipped into a time warp. How can I find my way out?”
His outburst is so silly that I giggle. He dramatically squints his eyes as he looks around. “I thought something was funny when I looked at the snow falling. I’m in a wormhole!”
Now I’m outright laughing.
He laughs too. “Hm,” he says. “Teresa, do you want to sit for a minute?” His voice isn’t goofy anymore. Instead, it’s soft and intimate. It makes me feel warm all over—or maybe that’s the flickering fire. “I’d love to ask you some questions about your work.”
I can’t say no. He looks so darn handsome, sitting there in the firelight. And I’d rather drink my hot tea by the fire than go out to my car and scrape off the snow in the dark.
Sliding around the empty chair, I place my purse down at my feet and then sit. I tuck my hat and mittens to my side, and cup my mug between two hands. “What do you want to know?”
He leans back. I can tell he’s happy that I’ve stayed. It’s in his eyes.
“Where do you find your subject matter?” he asks. “Is it in books? Photographs?”
“Real life.” I sip my tea. It’s still nice and hot. Dawn’s added honey, and the sweetness tastes good on my tongue.
“Real life… You mean nature? These eagles?”
I nod. “They nest right by the cottage I’m staying in. I take my sketch book out and try to draw what I see.”
He seems to like my answer. “Did you receive formal schooling?” he asks. His voice has a slight sing-song to it as it carries his thick accent.
I don’t really understand his question. “I…I didn’t go to college,” I explain. “But I did have some art classes in high school. It’s an elective.”
“Ah,” he says.
“Plus, my mom is an artist too. She paints wildflowers on wine glasses as a hobby. She had a paintbrush in my hand by the time I was a toddler. But I got tired of wildflowers pretty quick. Started paying more attention to the squirrels, chipmunks, and birds. And I moved onto charcoal, too… That’s all I use now.”
“I can see why,” Jabir says.
I start to tell him about all of the things I love about charcoal—the way you can move it around on the page, and create contrast between dark and light. Then, I realize I’ve been talking his ear off. I try to turn the conversation over to him. “What about you?” I ask. “Do you have any hobbies?” The word “hobbies” sounds strange. My sketches are so much more than a hobby to me, but since I work full time at the Mountain Laurel to pay the bills, it’s technically the right word.
He surprises me by picking up on that. “Oh, it doesn’t sound like sketching is merely a hobby for you, like building model airplanes or something. No, your whole expression changes when you talk about it. I’d say it’s your whole life.”
I’m shocked at how accurately he’s read me. It makes me like him more. “Yes,” I say. “I think you’re right. And you? What does your life revolve around?”
Chapter 4
Teresa
Jabir leans back in his chair, and sighs. “Right now, work,” he says.
“What do you do for work?” I already know that he’s involved somehow with the Canarra parts factory, but I want to know the details from him.
“My father owns Canarra,” he says. “Have you heard of him? Sheikh Mufid Abdullah.”
I know that the company my father works for is based in the Middle East, and I’d heard rumors about a royal family, but I never paid much attention. I don’t want to offend him, though, so I nod politely. “Of course,” I say. “Lots of people around here work for the transmission factory.”
“My brother and I—you met him tonight, Hassan—we’re twins, actually. My father is the ruling sheikh in our country. One day, my brother or I will inherit the title.”
“Kind of like our president,” I say, embarrassed at how little I really know about his title.
“Yes,” he nods. “Somewhat like a president in a democracy. Except in our country, the political hierarchy is based on family lineage, not elections.”
“Right.” I’m trying to search my mind for anything I’ve learned about the Dalai in my high school world history classes, but I’m coming up blank.
Finally, a word floats to mind. “A monarchy!” I say triumphantly.
“Yes,” he says. “Not a democracy. A monarchy. My family has been in power for many generations. That is one of the reasons I like your sketches so much. They remind me of our family crest, the steppe eagle. He has been a symbol of my family’s power since the 1800s. My father even chose it as the emblem for the Canarra brand. Here, it’s on my signet ring.” He leans forward and extends his hand.
I see a ring on his pinky finger. It’s golden, and firelight bounces off of it, making it look like a little spark of flame on his hand.
Suddenly, I’m leaning forward and cupping his hand in mine so that I can examine the ring. I’ve completely forgotten that I just met this man, a few hours ago!
As if he’s a girlfriend showing off a diamond, I examine the jewelry. The eagle on his ring is in flight. The lines are beautifully arranged, and capture the movement of the eagle through the air, a sight I’ve witnessed for myself many times.
Around the image are symbols I don’t understand— a curling, foreign language. I bend down farther to study them and my hair falls in front of my face, forming a curtain. I push it aside, and look up at Jabir.
He’s moved to the edge of his armchair, just like I have. His face is only a foot from mine. His intense, dark brown eyes are pinned on me with curiosity, and something else. Appreciation? I see that he likes sitting here with me, in the firelight. I feel, suddenly, that he likes the way I’m holding his hand to examine the ring.
That’s when it hits me.
This isn’t Janine’s hand I’m holding. Jabir isn’t a familiar friend—he’s a sheikh, for goodness sake! Royalty! I have no business holding onto his h
and like this.
My breath hitches in my throat. My heartbeat speeds up. But I can’t let go. As if my hands are glued around his, I continue holding onto him. His hands are warm; his skin feels good against mine. The ring seems to be made of solid gold.
“It looks like your sketch, doesn’t it?” Jabir says softly.
I can’t deny it. I nod, and my hair falls out from behind my ear, where I’ve tucked it. This time, I let it rest against my cheek, covering one eye. I can’t pull my gaze from his ring.
“They’re beautiful birds,” I say. “You said it’s your family’s symbol?”
“Yes, our crest, if you will. You know, a design that represents our heritage, over many generations. The eagle is a symbol of power, strength…forte.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like strength, but unique to one person or group. Like you—your forte is drawing. Do you see?”
“I see.”
“You are a very talented woman, Teresa, and I’d like to buy one of your pieces, if they are for sale. Specifically, I’d like the one of the eagle… It matches our crest so exactly.” He holds his hand perfectly still in mine, allowing me to turn it as I want to. His forearm is outstretched on his knee, managing most of the weight. His hand feels so significant in mine, it’s as though I’m holding a brick of solid gold, not mere bones and muscle.
My eyes flit to the sketch above the fireplace that I am sure he is talking about. It is a perfect match.
“Yes, of course,” I say. I’m sure Dawn wouldn’t mind if I sold the picture, and replaced it with another for her. “It does look like your… what did you call it?” I can barely think straight. “Crest?” I manage to find the word.
“Yes. Does your family have one?”
“A crest?” I laugh softly. Finally, I find enough self-control to release his hand, which I’m sure I should have done minutes ago. Better yet, I shouldn’t have reached for it in the first place. “No,” I say, folding my hands in my lap.
The moment that has just passed between us still has my heart fluttering. I reach for my mug, just for something to hold on to. The tea is now room temperature. How long have we been talking for?