“Oh,” Mom said as she shook it. Recapturing her hand, she ran her finger over the Occupy Democrats poster in her hand.
“Oh,” Dad said. He touched the PETA pin on his hat, probably wondering if her “boyfriend” intended on showing up for Tofurkey dinner on Thanksgiving this year.
They needn’t worry. Joe wasn’t actually her boyfriend. Kay swallowed a lump. If only he were. She let out a sigh. Also, now she’d have to flirt with him all through dinner and then invent a breakup. Why couldn’t he have come up with any other cover story?
As Mom and Dad walked into the parking lot, Kay swiveled to Joe. “You shouldn’t have told them you were my boyfriend.” She’d probably never see him again after this dinner. A mistiness rose in her throat.
“Mariam made up that stupid cover story about a high school dropout security guard, which you despised me on account of for days. I’m not having your parents despise me too. Besides,” Joe smiled. The Harvard street lights reflected off his light skin. “Would you rather I’d introduced myself as your husband? Because that’s still true.”
Kay sighed then braced her shoulders as she prepared for the unpleasantness of this meal. Pretending a guy was your boyfriend was no way to get over your feelings for him. If only Joe actually did like her.
“Want to go on a date with me to the embassy Monday morning to figure out how many thousands of hours of paperwork we need to do for a divorce?” Joe smiled at her.
“A first date filing divorce paperwork?” She bumped her shoulder against his upper arm. The solidness rammed against her. “You’re so romantic.” He’d said the word “date.” Did he mean it? Or just another cover story? Her heart fluttered.
“I’m taking that as a ‘yes.’ And you didn’t even ask if your father could accompany us as chaperone, so a double win for me. I might even be overcome by passion at the sight of your scandalously bare shoulders and do something horribly forward like try to hold your hand.” He grinned and gestured to her ragged fingernails.
Kay brought her eyebrows down. “I don’t think it’s entirely respectful to make cracks about Saudi culture.” What she needed to do was create a women’s rights organization for the Middle East.
“Saudi culture?” Joe let out a laugh that rustled the leaves above them. “I was making fun of homeschool culture.”
“Homeschoolers don’t have a thing against holding hands.” She tilted her chin, which now smelled like peach lotion rather than gunpowder.
He smiled that enigmatic half-smile where she could never tell if he was joking or not.
“Do they?” She squinted in the dark.
“Courtship, the famous anti-dating book. Also, there was this weird movie set at the Christian Harvard where the couple touches fingers. Never mind, way too long of an explanation.” Joe smiled at her. “I’ll take you to dinner at Mistral’s afterward, assuming I can scare up a reservation. Make up for the intense ennui of embassy lines.
Mistral? Chandeliers filled that French restaurant and their fine crystal possessed the very ambiance of love. Felipe had put her off when she’d hinted about going there. The place was expensive. “I know you have CIA bridges to repair because of me. You don’t have to take me to dinner just because you’re stuck with the unpleasantness of spending hours in line with me for divorce proceedings, which you only have to go through because you saved my life.” She teared up as she smiled at him. He had the richest eyes, which possessed so much compassion. Would she ever see him again?
“I’m not asking you out of obligation. I want to take you.”
Warmth rose through her. Perhaps he did like her a little. She hid a grin. “You weren’t entirely making things up in front of my parents then? You do like me a little?” She stopped mid-breath. Had she gone too far? He’d used the word boyfriend to her parents, what if he thought she implied that she wanted that? Even if he did keep asking her out, a define-the-relationship talk wouldn’t happen for months.
“Like you? I’m head-over-heels in love with you, Kay Bianchi. I’d ask you to marry me here and now, only that would be stalkerish and I really should take you out on some dates before I propose.”
She stared at him. He didn’t even blush. “You realize you said that aloud?”
“What of it?” Joe glanced at her, no consternation on his face.
She coughed. “No one says that on a first date. Except maybe long-dead G. A. Henty knights.”
“And homeschoolers.” He grinned at her. “Guess homeschoolers really are a cut above.”
Joe had just gone religious nut job times a thousand, but she kind of loved it. Touching his other hand, she moved closer and pressed her lips against his. Joe Csontos, CIA field officer, loved her.
The stars twinkled above them, the heavens looking down to earth. The music of lyre and violin should have played at such a moment. A flush swept over her as the magic of love surrounded her. “Now you have to ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
“To say it back. Ask me, if I love you.” As she looked up into his eyes, she felt like breaking into dancing. Unlike Felipe, she’d not run away at a too-early expression of affection. Now that Joe had dropped the I-love-you bomb, she could get away with expressing as much emotion as she wished without coming across as crazy or clingy, which she was kind of in danger of at this moment. How did you not adore a guy who’d taken a beating for you, then saved your life?
“The girl’s feelings?” Joe mock scoffed. “Inconsequential.” His eyes glimmered as he grinned.
He hadn’t just said that! She shoved him in the shoulder. Still, the faintest hint of a laugh twitched up her mouth.
An AQAP Cell in Yemen
Sunday, Oct 28th, 4:17 p.m.
Rosna’s hands shook. She could no longer feel her feet. A red tapestry hung over the window of this cement block house AQAP had rushed her to after the drones. The tapestry obscured all daylight, blocking her connection to the sun and Lord Melek Taus the Peacock Angel.
“Come here, sabaya slave.” A man in a black turban slammed his drink against a rusted table.
A young man, Kamal they’d called him, hung back, consternation in his eyes. “But she . . . But I. . . Surely Allah would smite me for such lewdness.”
“This is halal, allowed, my brother. You do not even need to marry her, you can just enjoy. You will please Allah greatly.” The black-turban man reached forward and grabbed her wrist. He flung her at the youth.
Her knee hit the floor. A familiar sweat built on Rosna’s hands as the urge to scream overtook her.
“Yeah,” A big man spat on the dirty tile. “I heard one imam say if a Yazidi is raped by ten mujahideen her soul will be saved from hell. You are doing this sabaya, sex slave, a great service.”
“You first, my brother, then the nine others.” The black-turban man waved his hand across the other jihadists in the room.
The burn of fear seared through Rosna’s limbs. She couldn’t breathe.
“Ok?” Kamal took a step closer. He seemed unsure.
Rosna’s heart pounded in her chest. Her wet hair dripped on her cotton blouse. Whenever a mujahideen ordered her to shower it only meant one thing.
A dozen men sat in this room. She could calculate the numbers. A thousand times she’d attempted suicide these last months, but reverence for the Peacock Angel always stopped her before she took her life. Lurching away, she pressed back against the cinder block wall.
“Now, or I’ll kill you, sabaya.” Black-turban man stabbed his finger at Kamal.
Lord Melek Taus, the Peacock Angel said nothing against inviting death at a stranger’s hands. Her blood would be on this mujahideen’s soul, not hers. She sucked in a deep breath of the sweet-smelling air, her last breath on this earth. If only she could have seen the sun’s light one last time. The faint tinge of hummus spice warmed her nostrils.
“Now, sabaya, slave.”
Rosna stood her ground, feet spread, neck held high as she awaited the bullet or knife blade. Her voic
e rang out as clear as summer skies. “My name is Rosna, not slave.”
Crossing, black-turban man grabbed her by her hair. His foul beard scraped against her cheek.
She stared at his knife. “Do it quickly, please,” she breathed, nails digging into her palms.
“What, you thought I’d actually kill you?” The man spat in her face. “I paid good money for you. Besides, what kind of host denies his guests promised pleasure, sabaya?” He tore her shirt off.
Her breathing stopped, fear turning her to stone.
The man motioned to the youth. “You first, Kamal. Pray to Allah before and after. See what great favor he will shine on you for treating a devil-worshipper thus.”
CHAPTER 32
Six Months Later
The water dribbled around Kay’s ears into the gold-rimmed baptismal fount.
The white-robed priest held his hands high. “I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
People filled the rows of wooden benches. A plain cross dangled beneath the brilliant colored glass depicting some Bible scene. A hymn board hung to her right, wicker offering baskets spread across the wood communion table. Outside the high windows, the sun broke through clouds as if God above watched the ceremony.
A sense of peace wrapped around her. An invisible God, a strange concept, but the world made more sense with God than without Him.
The gray-haired choir sang as she stepped down from the podium and walked through the aisles to wind her way to the little foyer behind the sanctuary. She slid out of the white baptismal robe.
“Kay.” Joe moved in front of her. A pressed shirt replaced his normal Walmart wear. The top few buttons were undone.
“You came.” She smiled at him. For the last six months, he’d traveled between Cambridge and D.C., banned from the Middle East until he completed the CIA’s internal review process. Poor guy. He’d risked his career for her.
After six months working full time for the refugee center, she’d like to get back to the Middle East too. Thanks to Dr. Benson blacklisting her, she’d never earn an Ivy League PhD now. Benson had spent two weeks in federal prison, then been cleared of charges and reinstated at Harvard. She’d spent countless hours making appeals and fighting Dr. Benson’s decision, but the time had come for her to admit she’d lost.
Even without her PhD, she would find a way to help Middle Eastern women. She’d like to start a women’s shelter and feminism league near Saudi Arabia.
Joe touched her hand. His fingers surrounded hers. He—
No! Her jaw gaped. He couldn’t be.
His knee hit the tile. He’d just lowered himself to a kneeling position. A kneeling position! Like some knight of long, long misogynistic centuries ago.
He looked up at her, the roughness of his hand over hers. “Kay Bianchi, will you marry me?”
“You didn’t seriously just drop to one knee?” He’d asked her to marry him. Marry him! Her head pounded as she stared at his buzz-cut hair.
“Of course, I did. I’m proposing to you.” He held up a ring box, lid open. A beautiful diamond glistened in the blue setting.
She blinked, but Joe still knelt in front of her, very real and un-dreamlike. “We’ve only been dating for—”
“One hundred and eighty days. Actually, four more hours until we reach that six month mark.”
“You’re supposed to take the girl ring-shopping, not just pick out a diamond.” She moved her gaze to the lovely stone. He’d asked her to marry him.
An image of white silk, red roses, and the smooth sand outside her parents’ beach house passed through her mind. She could see herself walking through a crowd of friends and family to take Joe’s hand as waves crashed against the sandy shore and the summer sun shone overhead. She’d never even considered marrying before she reached her thirties. Engagements and wedding planning could last several years though.
“Why?” He blinked.
A laugh rose inside her. “This is so nineteenth century.” But she couldn’t stop looking at him.
“You marrying me or not?” He stood, ring box still in his hands.
“Yes, I’ll marry you.” In one swift step, she moved next to him. Leaning up to him, she touched her lips to his. “I love you, Joe Csontos.”
A noise exploded outside the open foyer doors. Both their gazes jerked toward the parking lot. A diesel engine rumbled as a truly abominable gas guzzler stormed into the church’s gravel lot. A fifteen passenger van? How many garage sale finds did one person truly need to haul?
“Quick confession. My parents planned to come to town this week. They wanted to meet you, well surprise you.” Joe took the diamond from the ring box and held it out.
Her knees went weak. “I’m supposed to do the ‘meet the parent’ visit with zero emotional lead time post-proposal?”
“In all fairness, they only told me an hour ago.”
Kay glanced at her six-inch Prada heels and pencil skirt. She’d have chosen something a bit more Amish if she’d known this was “meet the parents” day.
“My parents are going to love you.” Joe slipped the ring on her finger.
“No, they’re not.” Her heart pounded. Sweat collected in her pores. “They’re going to bring out a ruler to measure my skirt and start interrogating me on how many grandchildren I plan to give them. I imagine any number under seven is unacceptable.”
“My parents have mellowed over the years and they’ll be touched by your conversion story.” Joe moved his arm around her waist. “To think, all that time I wasted trying to argue you into converting, and God had it covered from the beginning.”
He had been super annoying with the arguing thing. “What about us being engaged?” She glanced at the sparkling diamond Joe had given her. The white gold contrasted with her skin. “Should I take off the ring? Don’t want to overwhelm them.”
“They’ll be happy. They thought I should propose at Christmas.” He slid his hand around hers and caressed his thumb over where his ring circled her finger. The darkness of her skin contrasted with the fairness of his.
“When we’d known each other for two months?” Her jaw hit the tile floor, collecting dust and communion wine stains. She stared at him.
“Courtship, homeschool, avoid the temptations of the flesh by marrying quick, you know.” He gestured with his free hand.
“You mean end up divorced within the year because you don’t even know the person.” Her eyes widened to mixing bowl size as she watched person after person tumble out of that fifteen passenger van. “What is this? Medieval knights’ marriage by capture?”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, his arm still around her as he followed her gaze. “At Christmas your parents put up a ‘no weapons’ sign by the mistletoe hanging from their front door, which is unconstitutional. I have the legal right to take my concealed carry anywhere.”
Turning toward him, Kay patted his shoulder. “You only surrendered one of the twelve-inch knives on your person, and none of the guns.”
“Also, women’s rights marches.” Joe’s voice rose. “You’ve been in like three a week ever since the election and have I said a word? No, I have not said a word. Though if you touch my car with a Sanders bumper sticker, it’s over.”
She took a sharp step back. “You’d call off the engagement for a bumper sticker?”
“Of course not. I’d sell my car for the least fuel efficient truck Ford sells and fly down highways with it.” His blue eyes glinted with mirth as he caressed his thumb against her cheek, pushing back her hair.
She laughed.
“One thing though.” Locking his fingers around hers, he held up her left hand. The diamond glistened in the sunshine that streamed through tall windows.
“Yes.” She arched her eyebrows as she smiled.
“Don’t tell them you got sprinkled not immersed at your baptism service. You’ll never recover their good opinion after that.” He wore that enigmatic half grin again. In the last six months, thoug
h, she’d learned to read it.
With a smile, she looked up into his eyes. “Can’t fool me. You’re joking.”
He glanced out to the parking lot. A groan escaped his teeth. “If only I were.” Looking back at her, he smiled. “Finally passed my internal review board. I got a post in Dubai. Start next week.”
“Dubai? I’ll miss you.” She circled her arms around his neck.
“I want you to go with me.”
To Dubai? “I thought you weren’t supposed to live together before marriage in Christian principles?” She glanced back into the sanctuary at the cross that overhung the altar.
“No, I mean we can get married.”
“In a week? No, that includes travel time. It takes a good thirty-six hours to reach Dubai and then you need time to report to your job. This is like five days. You want to get married in five days?” Her voice rose with adrenaline.
“The waiting period in Massachusetts for a marriage license is three days. We can hit the courts tomorrow. My parents are already in town.”
“What about my parents?” Anxiety increased her pulse. Where did one even find a wedding venue in five days? What about a dress? She hadn’t known him a year yet.
“They’re headed in actually. After I told them I was proposing today, they said they planned to drive down to take us to Oleana Restaurant. I think we’re going to have to change that to Burger King though. No way my parents can drag eight siblings to Oleana.”
Dropping his hand, Kay stared at him. “My parents knew you were proposing before I did?”
“I had to ask your father’s permission. Which he gave, by the way, with genuine happiness. They’re the nicest Tofurkey-eating, anti-Second Amendment socialists that I know.”
Kay groaned. “This is so feudal system patriarchy.” The diamond on her finger glistened in the sunshine, the loveliest white gold setting she’d ever seen. Medieval knights probably covered up their patriarchy with bribes of jewels as well.
“Your dad even agreed to let me take him to the range this week,” Joe said.
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