by Leylah Attar
“Yeah, good luck with that.” He laughs. He has those soulful puppy eyes that girls find irresistible. Goofy, but endearing at the same time.
“Mind if I cut in?” asks Troy, dancing up to us with Terri.
“Um...yeah. Sure,” Zain mumbles, but gives Troy a thumbs up when Terri isn’t looking.
Troy has always been his hero. Since the time he jumped into the lake after him.
“I want to do what Troy does,” he said when it was time to choose his college courses.
“Geek.” I can still hear Natasha’s reply. “He runs a multi-million dollar corporation. You should be so lucky!”
I watch her dance and smile.
“Are you happy, Shayda?” asks Troy.
“Don’t ask me...what you know is true...” I say as we glide through the dance floor.
“Is that your answer or are you just singing along?”
“I thought you like karaoke,” I tease. INXS’s ‘Never Tear Us Apart’ is playing in the background. “You asked me the same question at Jayne’s wedding.”
“And you didn’t give me an answer then either.”
I laugh. As if there is any doubting it now.
“You know your ears lift up when you laugh? The teeniest bit,” says Troy. “And if I watch real close, I can catch the hidden groove on your left cheek. But you have to be smiling really wide, cheshire-cat wide. like you are now, for that elusive sucker. It always hits me right in the chest—boom—when I score that one dimple.”
“I don’t have a dimple.”
“Natasha.” Troy turns to her as she’s gliding by with Nathan. “Tell your mum she has a dimple when she smiles.”
“Where?” She looks at me. “I’ve never seen a dimple.”
“Maybe it’s just for me then,” says Troy. “Like the roses.”
He nuzzles his face in my neck and takes a deep breath.
“You two are nuts, you know that?” says Natasha. “I hope we’re just as happy when we’re old.”
“Who’re you calling old? Forty-eight is prime time, right Beetroot?”
My breath still catches when he looks at me. I think maybe that was it. He always looked at me like he really saw me. Me, the empty woman with half eaten dreams and flaws and desires. And he filled me up.
He looks at me and I blossom, like a flower in the sun.
“Any age is prime time when I’m with you,” I reply.
He laughs and hands me over to Nathan. Then he sweeps Natasha off in a mad whirl.
“You think it worked?” asks Troy, when we’re seated at the table.
“They’re still dancing,” says Ryan.
We watch Zain with Terri, Ryan’s and Ellen’s eldest. They’ve spent many summers together, but it’s just starting to turn into something more.
“They’re so shy, they need a little prodding,” says Ellen. Then she laughs. “I can’t believe we’ve turned into those matchmaking parents we swore not to become.”
“Well, I for one am glad that our efforts at matchmaking didn’t get too far.” Grace laughs. “I’ve never seen Troy so happy.”
“To think it all started by the sidewalk outside our home,” says Elizabeth.
“Hmph.” Maamaan butts in. “They crossed lines they shouldn’t have, and we all know it.”
There’s an awkward silence before Troy gets up and holds his hand out. “Dance with me, Mona.”
“How many time have I told you not to call me that? It’s disrespectful. I prefer Maamaan.”
“But it’s so sexy. Moan-ahh. Just like you. And if you weren’t so sour, you could have any man here on his knees with a wiggle of your hips.”
Maamaan’s jaw drops. I brace myself for what’s about to follow.
“Come on, baby,” Troy prompts her. “Let’s cha-cha.”
She doesn’t respond for a long, strained minute. Then she smiles, a big, flaky, completely un-Maamaan like smile and takes his hand.
“Well, I never...” Bob stares after them, completely gob-smacked.
The rest of the table erupts into laughter.
The photographer arranges us before a cascading fountain: Natasha, Nathan, Zain, Hafez, Marjaneh, Troy and me. Now both sets of parents and step-parents with the bride and groom; then some mother and daughter portraits.
My favorite shot is the one of Natasha with all three of my men. Zain is standing behind her, on the ledge of the fountain, with his hands on her shoulders. Troy is on one side of her, and Hafez is on the other. It’s one of those moments that sears itself in your heart, where you realize that somehow, miraculously, through all the mistakes you make, through all the hurt and pain, happiness can still find its way through all the cracks in your heart.
I watch as Hafez and Natasha take their father-daughter portraits. Then it’s Troy’s turn. He behaves for the first few photos and then he scoops Natasha off her feet. She shrieks and throws her arms around him. Zain photobombs them just as the photographer clicks.
“Ha!” Hafez claps, his face lit up with a wide smile—the smile that I’ve always loved on him, except it’s there more frequently now and comes freely.
I know he will always be grateful to Troy for saving Zain, but their mutual respect has turned into an easy camaraderie. It always warms my heart when I see their two heads together, discussing business or family or the latest Leafs game.
I get called back for more photos as friends and family join in for group shots.
Natasha holds out her hand as the first drops of rain start to fall.
“Oh no,” she says. “We have to hurry.”
We cycle through the last of the photos as the thunder rolls in.
“I’ll go get the umbrella,” I say, heading back to the room where Natasha got ready in the morning.
I spot it on the tufted bench by the window, a little patch of red against the grey sky. I look out, to the fountain centred in the window’s arched frame, and press my palm to the cool glass pane.
The rain has started to come down now. Nathan is holding his coat over Natasha’s head. Jayne’s kids are running around, squealing with delight. Grace, Henry, Bob and Elizabeth are making a dash for the door. Maamaan is still standing, regal and proud, for the photographer, even as the feathers on her hat start to wilt. Baba is staring at her ass. Hafez, Marjaneh, Zain and Hossein are laughing at him. The rest of the party is in complete chaos. I can’t tell who’s who because everything turns blurry.
“Oh god. Not again.”
I turn around and find Troy standing behind me.
“Look at all these happy figurines, Troy.” Big, fat tears spill down my cheeks.
“You’re a strange one, Beetroot.” His fingers lift my chin, turning my face up. Then he kisses me, so deep that I feel like I’m being absorbed into him. I shut my eyes, feeling my body arch towards him.
Everything narrows down to this moment, this aching, unexpected ‘more’, so sweet that I tilt my head back, wanting to drain all of life’s precious, honeyed nectar.
We’re back to where we started. Right here before this window. Except the impossible has happened. I’m the one in his arms now, his rosary around my wrist, a ring of blue-black wire around my finger.
“So.” His breath leaves goosebumps on my neck. “Here we are, Mrs. Heathgate.”
“Here we are.” I smile and lace my fingers through his.
53. Letters For My Lover
June 17th, 2012
From:scarycherry1962@hotmail
Sent:June-17-12 8:20:30 AM
To:[email protected]
Happy 50th, Beetroot Butterfly. Like your bungalow on stilts?
From:[email protected]
Sent:June-17-12 8:21:15 AM
To:scarycherry1962@hotmail
You know I love it. And I have something for you too. Remember the story about the prince? I’m emailing it to you. Happy Birthday, Scary Cherry.
From:[email protected]
Sent:June-17-12 8:24:06 AM
To:scarycherry1
962@hotmail
Beetroot Butterfly to Scary Cherry. Why so quiet, Scary Cherry?
From:scarycherry1962@hotmail
Sent:June-17-12 8:27:30 AM
To:[email protected]
I’m reading, woman. So I was the prince? This is our story.
From:[email protected]
Sent:June-17-12 8:28:10 AM
To:scarycherry1962@hotmail
You like?
From:scarycherry1962@hotmail
Sent:June-17-12 8:35:18 AM
To:[email protected]
You totally censored the dirty bits. There was way more action, Beetroot. You need to work on those before I get this published.
From:[email protected]
Sent:June-17-12 8:36:06 AM
To:scarycherry1962@hotmail
Those letters are just for you—you’ll do no such thing!
From:scarycherry1962@hotmail
Sent:June-17-12 8:36:48 AM
To:[email protected]
Why not? You just gave it to me. It’s mine. I can do whatever the fuck I please with it. And I’ll be sending the first copy to Nasrin. Pass me another brownie, will ya?
From:scarycherry1962@hotmail
Sent:June-17-12 8:38:49 AM
To:[email protected]
Helloooo? Bee-hee-troot. If you’re not going to feed me, you’ll have to find other ways to keep me entertained.
From:[email protected]
Sent:June-17-12 8:38:53 AM
To:scarycherry1962@hotmail
Stay where you are, Troy! No, Troy, n
He takes the laptop off my lap kisses me. “We made it, Beetroot.”
I look out the window, at the setting sun and the swaying palms. The whole week has been a slice of heaven: our own thatched roof villa, perched over a pristine lagoon with expansive panoramas of mountain peaks and endless ocean. Colorful fish and spotted turtles glide past the glass panels on the floor. Flower decorated canoes deliver sumptuous meals to our deck—trays laden with exotic fruits in the morning, and extravagant full-course dinners under star studded skies.
I smile and look at Troy. I was right. His eyes are all the shimmering shades of the water in the South Pacific.
We drink in each other’s faces, the lines where there were none, the subtle changes in our eyes, the kind that happen on the inside, removed from the passage of time.
“What’s wrong?” I trace the tattoo on his chest.
“Just thinking.”
“About...?”
“Your test results will waiting in when we get back.”
“Someone once told me that the only way to feel truly alive is to start living fearlessly.”
“An enlightened soul, no doubt.” He grins.
“His body’s not too bad either.” I ogle his powerful, bronzed physique from under my lashes. “I’ve stopped waiting for those results, Troy. Every year we stress over them and every year we get another extension. And maybe our luck will hold, and maybe it won’t. But it’s no different from anyone else. No one knows how many tomorrows they have. That’s what makes it all so precious.” I lean over and give him a kiss. “Besides, we have a special kind of magic on our side.” I dangle my rosary-wrapped wrist in front of him.
His thumb caresses the beads. “Tired?” he asks when I stifle a yawn.
“Someone kept me up most of last night.”
“Are you lodging a complaint, Mrs. Heathgate?”
“I will, if you don’t follow up with the same tonight.” I pat the pillow, but feel sleep catching up to me.
“Hey.” He slips into bed with me.
I smile, trying to stay awake. I don’t want to miss a minute of this.
“Close your eyes.” He kisses them shut. “Let go.” His fingers stroke my brow, back and forth. “Let it all go.” He smooths the hair away from my face.
I feel myself slipping away. “No kanoodling?” I murmur.
“What do you think this is? We’re talking level seven kanoodling.” His voice starts to fade.
Lying in his arms is the best place in the whole world.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the first person who read my first novel—Michelle Wolfson, of Wolfson Literary Agency. Sometimes we just need someone to believe in us before we can believe in ourselves. Thank you for igniting the spark.
I am indebted to Sara Izadi, Talia Farahmand and Setareh for their enthusiasm and hard work on the book trailer.
Didi H, thank you for swaying me from the George R.R. Martin School of Total Annihilation.
Tasha B—the world’s best beta reader—you rock!
To the girls club: YD, NM, SM, TV, RL, WLR, AD, SB, ADW, SA, JG, MK, EL, WC, ZA, FN, MM, HZ, SQ, SV, RI, KS—thank you for so many years of love, support and friendship (not to mention the juicy stories).
My deepest gratitude to my parents, siblings and family. You add spice, humor and a dash of madness to my life. Without you, my world would be colorless.
To my son, for bestowing endlessly creative titles to cheer me on. Princess Dunce Kuriboh of the Puffy, Grunt and Walrus Race, Vanquisher of Evil, loves you. Endlessly. No, you still can’t read this book.
And finally, to my husband, who always has bigger dreams for me than I can possibly have for myself. You are the glue that holds me together. You help me weather the tough times and make the good times shinier.
BONUS: DELETED SCENE
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Watch the book trailer.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Leylah Attar writes stories about love—shaken, stirred and served with a twist. When she’s not writing, can be found pursuing her other passions: photography, food, family and travel. Sometimes she disappears into the black hole of the internet, but can usually be enticed out with chocolate.
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From His Lips
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