An Illusion of Trust
Linda Cassidy Lewis
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Two-Four-Six Publishing
AN ILLUSION OF TRUST
Copyright © 2013 Linda Cassidy Lewis
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author. For more information, contact [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-0983336525
Visit the author’s website: http://lindacassidylewis.com
Cover design: Linda Lewis
Front cover photo credit: Srebrina Yaneva
For my sister Sandy, with love.
Thank you for always asking about my writing.
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
The Brevity of Roses
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
October, 2008
When I woke this morning, I never expected to be sitting on a cemetery bench in Coelho, but here I am. A thirty-minute drive took me from the chilly fog of Bahía de Sueños to the warmth of the autumn sun in this impossibly blue sky and brought me to an iron-fenced section large enough for at least ten graves. It contains only one. What I discovered this morning rocks me again as I face that black granite stone.
Jalal doesn’t know I’m here. I had to stop at the office near the entrance to ask for the location of Meredith’s grave. As it turns out, this cemetery is smaller than I expected. If I’d driven around first, the starkness, the loneliness, of her marker would have caught my eye and though it sits back a dozen yards from the road, I wouldn’t have missed the name engraved along its top—VAZIRI. Six weeks ago, that became my last name too.
I’m the new wife to replace the dead wife. The young substituted for the old.
I know more about his first wife than Jalal realizes. During the four months since he finally accepted her death, he’s volunteered glimpses of her when speaking of his past, but rarely are those bits something I didn’t already know from secretly reading Meredith’s journal. One fear she mentioned several times led me here today.
A gust swirls past, whipping the branches of the elm behind the bench and showering me with amber leaves. I glance around, seeking assurance I’m alone. People do this all the time, come here to talk to the dead, right? I feel like I know Meredith from her writing. Somehow, I think she’s aware of me too.
I face the dark stone again and focus on Meredith’s engraved name. I’m trying to ignore Jalal’s name and birth date beside hers. Isn’t it totally stupid to feel jealous seeing their names linked like that? Of course he planned to be buried next to her someday. He loved her so deeply he couldn’t let go, even after she died. He loved her so much he couldn’t imagine ever marrying again. He just didn’t plan on me getting stranded in Bahía de Sueños and walking into his life—literally. But I did. And now I’m sitting here about to reveal a secret to his dead wife.
“Hello. I’m Renee, Jalal’s new wife.” I glance around again and for a moment, hide my face with my hands. I have to do this. I need to tell her. “I know you believed he should have a younger wife, and you’re probably disappointed that he married someone like me, but he seems happy. He’s doing better, at least. And I love him. I’m taking care of him, keeping constant vigil.”
I hope Meredith won’t take what I’m leading up to as a boast, but it’s not an apology, either. “Anyway, you wrote how much you wished this for Jalal, so I wanted to tell you that I’m giving it to him.” I sit up straighter and take a deep breath. The final words I came to say rush out on the exhale.
“Meredith, I’m pregnant.”
One
July, 2010
I stand at the foot of the crib set up in the smallest guest room in my in-laws’ Seattle home. I’m waiting to kiss Adam goodnight. For once, he didn’t resist bedtime. His first birthday was an all-day event with the Vaziris—enough to tire anyone—and he’d lain limp and drowsy when we carried him upstairs. Jalal removes Adam’s tiny jeans and changes his diaper.
“Pajamas?” he whispers.
“Just let him sleep in his shirt.”
Adam’s eyes fly open. They’re gray eyes, the only visible sign of my genetic contribution. “Ticky,” he says.
Jalal lifts Adam’s shirt and gently brushes his chin across his son’s belly. This tickle, a secret message of love between father and son, began when an accidental brush of Jalal’s beard rewarded him with Adam’s first real laugh. Now too sleepy to laugh, Adam only smiles and closes his eyes again. Jalal tucks a blanket around him and then straightens up, towering over his son and standing a foot taller than me.
I study my handsome poet while he studies his son. Jalal was clean-shaven when we met, had always been, as far as I know, but he started growing a beard and mustache on the day Adam was born. He keeps both fashionably shaped and closely trimmed, a fine black etching. A symbol. I’m a father now, it says, a real man.
Jalal smiles at me and reaches for my hand to guide me around the end of the bed. I bend to kiss my sleeping son and brush his black curls away from his face. He hasn’t had his first haircut yet, so though Adam’s hair is finer, he looks like a miniature version of Jalal. When I straighten, Jalal pulls me back against him, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“Will you trust the baby monitor tonight and let him sleep here?” he whispers. “At least long enough for me to spend a little quality time with my wife?”
I turn in his arms. “Will you make it worth my while, Mr. Vaziri?”
He feigns offense. “When have I not?”
I kiss him. It’s true; he always takes care to please me, as though it’s a point of honor. Possibly it is, and his offense is real. “You’re a dream husband,” I say. “And father.” I lay my head against his chest. Is this the right time or should I keep the secret to myself a while longer? This time, assured how much he loves his role as father, I will tell him first. I seek Jalal’s eyes and find his questioning squint. The man has a sixth sense; I’m sure of it. “I’m pregnant,” I tell him.
For the next thirty seconds, he nearly squeezes the breath out of me and then he pushes me away at arm’s length. “You are happy about this, right?” he asks. “I am. Are you?”
The contradiction of his concerned delight makes me smile. “Yes, Jalal, I’m happy. It’s a little soon to have another—”
“I will help. And we can hire a nanny if you want.”
“Hell no.” His eyes flick toward Adam, and I sigh. “He’s asleep, Jalal. He didn’t hear that. We’re both home all the time. Why would we need a nanny?”
“We promised.” He glances at Adam again.
Crap. Do we have to go through this every time my tongue slips? Has it never occurred to him Adam heard these words long before he could try to repeat them? “I’m trying to watch my mouth. But if we’re pointing fingers, what was that word you used last night when you got up and stubbed your toe on the way to the bathroom?”
He answers with a kiss and a subject change. “Can I tell everyone or is it too soon? How far along …”
“About eight weeks. But if you tell your mother tonight, she’ll keep us up late, talking about it. I thought you wanted some ‘quality time’ with me.”
“We will give them the news and then I will explain this has been a long day, which is true, and you need to rest, which is also true.”
“And then we won’t rest?”
“Not for hours.”
“Hours? Hot damn.”
“Renee.”
“What? I can’t even say damn?”
The crowd we left in the living room has dwindled to Jalal’s parents and his sisters Shadi and Azadeh. Of his four sisters, these two are the most opposite. Shadi, sophisticated and cool, probably wields as much influence on this family as Jalal’s father Korush. Opinionated and bossy, she’s the sister who understood when I took a hardline approach to Jalal’s depression. Aza, sweet and pretty, is the quiet sister, the tenderhearted one, the one most like Jalal. With the Vaziri family, she’s my ally and—even with Jalal sometimes—my insider.
Jalal’s mother is thrilled to hear another grandchild is on the way. She also takes the news as an opportunity to return to a long-running discussion. As she has since the day Adam was born, she renews pressure on us to move from our California beach home to Seattle.
“We are settled there, Maman,” Jalal says patiently, as though he hasn’t told her the same thing a hundred times before. “Bahía is home to us. And I have business properties there to manage.”
Nasrin shakes her head. “But you have no family there. Your children should grow up around family.”
Jalal squeezed my hand when I flinched at her no family comment. Now, he smiles at his mother and says, “You mean they should grow up under your eye.”
“They should grow up knowing their grandparents.” She turns to her husband. “Talk to your son, Korush.”
Korush looks from Nasrin to Jalal and sighs. “We would enjoy having you here more often,” he says, smiling. But the hesitation in that smile carries an apology to his son.
“Thank you, Baba, but—”
“And Nasrin,” Korush says, “you forget that they do have family down there.”
Nasrin’s eyes grow wide and she turns to me. “Oh. Forgive me, Renee. I know Adam has Jennie and Eduardo. I only meant—”
“That’s okay,” I say, “I know what you meant.” Jennie and Eduardo are not Adam’s blood family. Though I’ve only known Jennie for two years, she mothers me more than Becky ever did.
“And now that I am willing to fly,” Jalal says, “we are only a few hours away. Have we not been here for every family event?”
Nasrin agrees, but she casts a skeptical eye at Jalal. Since a rough flight when he was twelve-years-old, he’s avoided flying whenever possible. It’s only since Adam’s birth that he’s agreed to frequent flights to Seattle so his parents can be part of our lives. Nasrin glowers at her hands clasped in her lap. Seconds later, she lifts her head and smiles at Jalal. “Now you will need a bigger house,” she says, “so if you are going to move anyway—”
“We already have a bigger house,” he says.
A moment of silence follows his statement. It takes me that long to realize he’s speaking of the house in Coelho, the house he inherited from Meredith, the house he has entered only under duress since her death more than four years ago.
Shadi is the first to react. “Finally,” she says. “It’s been a ridiculous waste letting that place sit empty except when we come down to visit you. And Aza and Kristen should move in to help out with the babies.”
“Shadi!” All eyes turn to Azadeh, who glares at her older sister. “It’s not your place to—”
“I think that’s a great idea, Aza,” I say. “You’d be only thirty minutes from Ryan’s school, so you could see him more often.” The look Shadi gives Aza confuses me. I would swear she just signaled I told you so.
“What would Kristen think about moving?” Jalal asks.
“She’ll adapt,” Shadi says. “Your daughter needs a … change of scenery, Aza. It’s the only way.”
Jalal and I exchange looks. “Is something going on with Kristen?” he asks.
Aza ignores him. “Nice way to steal Jalal and Renee’s thunder tonight, Shadi.”
Nasrin stands. “No more talk about my family moving away,” she says. “I want to celebrate the good news. Who would like a cup of tea?” She heads toward the kitchen, a clear signal she expects us all to follow. And we do.
Jalal winks at me and then leans close. “Just one cup,” he whispers.
Wrapped in the warmth of afterglow, we lay on our sides, skin against skin. I stare at the monitor as though I’m watching Adam rather than listening for him. Jalal plays with my hair, smoothing it down over my shoulder, measuring it against the length of my arm. It’s my best feature, he told me once. I think he would take it as a personal offense if I ever cut off more than an inch.
So, I guess we’re moving to Coelho—and not just the three of us. Shadi jumped in with the offer for Aza to move with us so quickly I’m wondering if that’s why only she and Aza hung around. Was this move something they were going to propose anyway? That would explain Shadi’s told-you-so look. When Aza lived in Meredith’s house two summers ago, while she went through her divorce, she loved taking care of Meredith’s rose garden. She’ll be happy there again.
I love Azadeh. How could I not? For the first few weeks after I met Jalal and Aza, I thought they were twins because they were so close, so much alike. Dreading the separation, Aza confided her apprehension about Ryan going to school in San Luis Obispo with his cousin Jason, but she’s said nothing to me about a problem with Kristen serious enough to cause her to move to California too. I’m surprised Jalal doesn’t know what’s up, though. “What do you think Shadi meant about Kristen?”
“Aza has mentioned only normal teenage problems with Kristen.” He brushes my hair off my shoulder and caresses the bare skin with his lips. “I will ask her more tomorrow,” he says between kisses.
“Well, it must be serious, if she needs to move her daughter out of state.” Though I’m concerned about Aza and Kristen, I’m also trying to ease into asking Jalal about his decision to move back to Meredith’s house.
“How would you feel about living there?” he asks.
My mouth drops open. Again with the sixth sense. “The house in Coelho?”
“Yes.”
I don’t really know how I feel. I never thought he’d want to live there again. “It’s a beautiful place, Jalal … but I worry about the pool … with Adam.”
“We can do something about that.” He cups my breast, brushing his thumb against my nipple, and my body responds, low and deep.
“How—” I gasp and then still the distraction of his hand’s exploration. “How do you feel about living there again?”
“I feel good. It feels right. It is just a house, not a monument.” He nuzzles my hair further aside and kisses the back of my neck. “What I said tonight was not spontaneous. I have been thinking about moving for a few months. I have changed.” Kiss. “You strengthen me, sweet love.” Kiss. “You make me whole.”
I turn to face him. “Oh yes. I feel that … again.”
“Why, Mrs. Vaziri, you have a dirty mind. I said whole, not hard, but now that you mention it …” He rolls to his back, pulling me on top of him.
Adam fell asleep while we waited to board the plane for the flight home. As we walk down the jetway and enter the plane, Jalal continues the near silence he kept during the ride to the airport and checkin. He motions for me to take the windo
w seat and hands me the baby’s bag but keeps the baby. Jalal’s preoccupation makes me nervous. Maybe he’s upset with me. Every time we visit his family I worry that I’ll do or say something to embarrass him. They all loved Meredith. It’s not easy following in her wake.
Jalal sits down beside me, holding a limp Adam in the air where he hangs for the few seconds it takes me to fasten Jalal’s seat belt. While I push the bag and my purse under the seat and secure my seat belt, he settles the baby back against his left shoulder. I can’t stand his silence any longer. “What are you thinking about?”
“Are you honestly in agreement with Aza moving in with us?” he asks without hesitation, as though we’re continuing a briefly interrupted conversation. “She could still move to Coelho and buy a house of her own.”
“Of course I don’t mind. You know I love her and I’ll be glad to have the extra help when the baby comes.” I punctuate my statement by kissing Adam’s head. “Besides, the house is huge. It’s not like we’ll be living on top of each other.”
“I am not convinced she told us the whole story about Kristen,” he says. “I understand Aza wants to get her away from the ‘gang kids’, but moving out of state seems a drastic solution.”
“Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Kristen was too involved with one particular boy.”
“Oh.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Man, she is only fifteen.”
I lay my hand on his. “She’ll get a new start in Coelho.”
Jalal nods. For a couple of minutes, he casts vacant eyes in the direction of his knees while he draws circles on Adam’s back with his fingertips. I watch the fuel truck pull away below us. I fear Jalal is slipping into one of his black moods. As a distraction, though I already know his answer, I open my mouth to ask if he thinks we should just drive on home after we land at LAX tonight, but he speaks first.
“I think we should renovate the apartment above the garage for them.”
I could play it straight, but sometimes it’s just too much fun to mess with him. “The servant’s quarters, you mean?” There it is: the little quirk of his mouth that tells me I’ve temporarily dispelled any darkness.
“I believe a remark like that qualifies you as an anti-snob, Renee.”
An Illusion of Trust (Sequel to The Brevity of Roses) Page 1