A swarm of younger woman, around twenty years old, like Zarah, rushed her to the platform. Joel had to admit, Zarah was stunning, with dark silky hair, bronze skin, and deep brown eyes. Her natural beauty was accented by at least thirty thin gold bracelets on both arms. This was the first time he’d truly looked at her entire face.
Joel stood with Zarah. They were handed garlands at the makeshift altar while the priest chanted some type of religious hymns. The two exchanged garlands signifying their acceptance of each other as a married couple. The priest rubbed oil on Joel’s feet and hands to ward off evil spirits. If they could have gotten married in the States, a quick trip to the justice of the peace would have eliminated the ceremonial marathon, half of which Joel had no idea what it actually meant. He was certain God wasn’t attending. Then again, he hadn’t invited Him. Joel glanced over his shoulder at his mother, seated near the platform and dressed in her Indian sari.
Musar stepped forth and linked Joel and Zarah’s hands. He wrapped a strip of silk material around their hands, tying a knot. Musar turned to face Joel with a small container of water. “I entrust my daughter to you. I pray that you always have food, that you live with good health and energy,” he said, sprinkling salty water over the two of them as he continued. “That you live in happiness, that you have many children, that you have strong cows and good animals, and that all your seasons are plentiful. May you be successful and free from hindrances. May you be blessed with pure love.”
Joel wanted to shout in victory. He’d survived the ordeal. He didn’t remember every element of the program, but when they got to the part where Musar spoke his libations, the end was near. Joel couldn’t be more thrilled.
“You are husband and wife,” the priest said. Joel didn’t have time to hold his new bride or whisper into her ear. The platform was overtaken by a group of women who rushed to the front and claimed her. Secretly he hoped they didn’t step on his bare feet.
Sherry rushed to Joel and embraced him. “You did it, son. You’re married. Congratulations, I think,” she whispered.
“Mom, don’t even think about it,” he said.
She hugged him tighter. “I won’t.”
Joel shook Musar’s hand and so did Sherry. They were family. In four days he’d enlarged his family beyond the two-person team he’d come to accept as his lineage. Joel rescued Zarah and followed the wedding crowd to the lobby. He didn’t know if there was going to be a decorated car or horse or elephant, pretty much the same to him. A few laps around the immediate area and they could pack for the airport, once he put on a pair of shoes. Detroit and gratification were in sight.
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A day after the wedding ceremony, Joel prepared to leave. The driver loaded the bags into the car. Zarah’s family crowded the hotel lobby—a massive group of people squished into the tiny space. Some were crying, others gave gifts. From what he could tell, most of the gifts were thin gold bracelets or earrings, which was good since the luggage was already packed. Nothing large was going to fit. The crowd aggressively tried to get to Zarah, Musar’s only child.
Joel stepped aside, grateful for a moment of pause. He had his shoes on this time and was secure in his comfort zone. The surge of energy resonating from finally having the deal done and being on the precipice of inheriting a large chunk of much needed capital recharged him. He could go another couple days, easily, but wasn’t complaining about flying out today. Between the time zone and return flight, they’d be home tomorrow. They had a two-day trip, leave on Wednesday and arrive on Thursday. The time change made it seem like they were gaining a day, but actually it was the same long grueling trip it took to get them there. The original plan was for Musar to join them, but he was too weak for extensive travel. He’d conserved and expended his burst of strength for the wedding festivities. Joel was impressed at the extent to which Musar was willing to go for his daughter. He was reminded of his father and how much he missed having him around, a person he trusted. Of course his mother was with him, but he meant someone with a sharp business mind. Those affirmations and chunks of wisdom were no longer there now that Dave Mitchell was gone. Joel had to continue making success happen on his own, playing the cards from the deck he inherited.
Joel should have felt guilty for hopefully anticipating the receipt of Zarah’s inheritance, but he didn’t. Musar made it very clear that his death was a natural transition to the next phase of his existence. That was Musar’s belief. Joel didn’t know what he believed anymore. For now he was content in his ability to revive his own dreams with hard work, wisdom, and a shot of cash from Musar.
The driver approached Joel, appearing reluctant to speak and not consistently making eye contact. “Mr. Mitchell, it is time that we go, in order to make your flight.”
No problem; the words were like music to his ears. He knew where Zarah was. By now, both of her arms were lined with at least twenty new bracelets each. The ones she wore at the wedding were packed. If the Indian airport was anything like the U.S., extra time was definitely required to get Zarah and her two armfuls of bracelets through security. He wasn’t about to miss the flight. They had to go. He peered around the crowd in search of his mother and caught a glimpse of her near the registration desk. He beckoned for her while maneuvering through the crowd to get to his wife. The word didn’t ring well so he wasn’t likely to use the label.
Finally Joel had his family in the car and en route to the airport, leaving behind a tearful farewell at the hotel. Zarah was sobbing softly. Joel was going to comfort her, but Sherry was already in the process. He left it alone, suspecting that there would be plenty of opportunities for him in the upcoming months, especially with Musar being so ill.
Much to his surprise, the airport security was more relaxed. He didn’t have to strip down to his undies. Zarah did have to shed the jewelry, which took ten minutes alone, delicately removing each bracelet one by one. Taking off his wedding ring was quick, so quick that within a second he’d picked it up and put it inside his jacket pocket for safekeeping.
Joel periodically gazed at people, expecting to run into someone he knew, like he had on the flight over. The memory of that guy on the plane haunted him. He was familiar but Joel couldn’t quite place him. He had hours and hours of flying time to ponder.
A day and a half later, they were landing. The flight was long but tolerable, with a few intermittent tears from Zarah. He planned to get her home and get her settled. It would take a while for her to truly get settled, and he would do what he could to help, when he wasn’t working. She wouldn’t be alone, not completely. As they exited the plane, baggage claim, and customs, Zarah clung to his arm. Being flanked by a woman who radiated with beauty was commonplace. Dealing with the media was, too. As Joel, Zarah, and Sherry stepped from the secured area, with the skycap pulling the cart of luggage close behind, they were plagued by microphones shoved in their faces, camera lights flashing, and TV cameras descending on them. Zarah was nearly hysterical and latched onto Joel’s arm so tightly his muscle quivered. Bam, just like that it came to him, who the guy was on the flight to India and why he looked so familiar. There he stood, Samantha Tate’s cameraman. Joel already had Zarah close. He pulled Sherry close, too, and barreled around the circus. The skycap had to make his own way, unassisted.
Samantha Tate ran ahead and pushed the microphone toward Joel, but he didn’t stop. “Mr. Mitchell, is it true? Is this your new bride?”
Joel hustled, keeping his head low like they were in a war zone dodging bullets. The media attack was rapid fire.
“What’s her name? Are you officially off the market? Are the rumors true? What’s the state of DMI?”
Joel drilled past everyone. Catching a glimpse of his driver, he barreled to refuge. He gently shoved the women into the car. “Please help the skycap with our luggage and get us out of here as quickly as you can,” he said, handing the driver two one hundred dollar bills. “Give one to the skycap, and give him my apologies.”
<
br /> “Will do, sir.”
Abigail had come home early, not feeling well. She drank a cup of soup and relaxed on a sofa in the den, reading, mixed with some TV and nods of sleeps. The breaking news flashed across the screen. JOEL MITCHELL (CEO OF DMI) AND HIS NEW BRIDE ARRIVE IN DETROIT scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Abigail fumbled with the remote, eager to get the mute taken off and hear what they were saying. The woman attached to Joel was wearing a deep red and gold-accented Indian dress. Abigail couldn’t tell if it was Mr. Bengali’s daughter or not. Her face was on the screen for a second and Abigail had only met her one time at DMI months ago. She listened for a few seconds and then put the TV on mute again. She took another sip of soup and resumed her reading. Joel and the woman dashed in and out of her thoughts like surges of electricity. Abigail was determined not to cry, not to fall apart, not to give Joel the satisfaction of crushing her again. Wounds healed and she was positive hers would, she thought, choking back the emotions.
When the phone rang, she was alarmed and relieved at the same time. It was Don. She was grateful for the much-needed friendly voice.
“Are you watching the news?” he asked.
“Yes,” she responded.
“I’m sorry, this can’t be easy for you.”
“What can we say, Joel is on a track to hell and no one can rescue him except God.”
“God can, but does Joel want to be rescued?”
“I don’t know and I want to say that I don’t care.”
“But we both know that’s not true,” Don said.
“Not yet,” she said. “But I’m definitely getting there.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No, I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well, I’ll be here.”
Abigail allowed herself to receive Don’s consoling and felt an extra spark of warmth as a result.
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The limousine pulled into the circular drive, stopping directly in front of the double doors. They’d already dropped off his mother. Joel was exhausted from the travel and peeved with the press bombarding him at the airport. By six thirty, every nightly news program within five hundred miles would be featuring the airport shots. Zarah didn’t utter a word for the entire forty minute ride home, and he didn’t encourage her to talk. Musar would have made the ride more comfortable, at least for his daughter.
Silence didn’t bother Joel. Quiet was good. Frivolous chatter wasn’t his way, but Abigail entered his thoughts as he looked at the house. A part of it was reserved for her but purpose took precedence. Feelings were worthless unless used to accomplish his goals. Nothing and no one would stop him from succeeding as CEO. It was what mattered most. Those who doubted his worth and his mother’s would soon be permanently silenced. Casualties along the way had to be expected.
“Well, we’re here. Are you ready to go in?” he asked Zarah, trying hard to be sensitive after witnessing a look of fear on her face. He let his index finger lift her chin, letting his eyes chase hers until their gazes locked. “We’re home, let’s go in.” She stiffened. “You’ll be fine,” he whispered, not getting too close for fear of scaring her more. The driver opened Joel’s door. “Wait a minute and I’ll come around to open your door,” he said and got out. He opened the door and took her hand. She hesitated but he continued reaching out until her hand was secure in his. A step at a time and they were standing at his front door. Carrying her over the threshold crossed his mind, but that was for the romantic weddings, not theirs. Finally inside, she stood by the door. The housekeeper, who was more like a house manager, met them.
“Welcome back, Mr. Mitchell and Mrs. Mitchell,” the housekeeper said as the driver set the luggage inside. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“Not for me,” Joel responded. “But Zarah needs help getting unpacked.”
“Absolutely. Would you like to show her the master suite first while I have the driver bring the bags upstairs?”
“No, you go ahead and show her. Maybe you can give her a tour around the house, too.”
“Oh, okay,” the housekeeper responded.
Joel detected the uneasiness from everybody except him and the driver. “I’ll help with the luggage while you give Zarah the grand tour and help her get comfortable,” he said, fully aware that there was just a small amount of luggage since most of Zarah’s belongings were being shipped. Joel’s phone buzzed in his jacket. He extracted it and glimpsed at the screen. The ID showed UNKNOWN CALLER so he let it go to voice mail. The phone buzzed again—UNKNOWN CALLER. The persistence swayed him to answer the call.
“Mr. Mitchell, this is Kumar.”
“How can I help you?” Joel didn’t want to hear that somehow the contract process had gone awry and Harmonious Energy didn’t truly belong to him. The deal was done, no backing out. Joel glanced at Zarah. He had made good on his portion of the agreement. Musar Bengali had to honor his. Joel had bills to pay, and he didn’t believe Uncle Frank’s investors were the keep-them-waiting kind. He prepared to protest intensely if they tried stiffing him for the West Coast division without adequately compensating him. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, there is a problem,” Kumar responded.
Joel hustled outside so he could berate the attorney freely. “Look, we have a deal. It’s too late to back out.”
“I’m calling about Musar.”
“What about him?” Joel said, prepared to hear the word “transitioned” or whatever term Musar’s religion allowed. Last time he saw Musar, his father-in-law was rapidly deteriorating. Joel walked down the driveway, away from the window, careful not to be seen or heard inside. Admittedly, the weight of paying back Uncle Frank’s “investors” would be relieved if Musar passed away, but Joel wasn’t orchestrating the predicament. Musar was already terminally ill the first time Joel met him. Joel wanted to be cavalier about the business transaction, but he couldn’t help feeling badly for Musar and for Zarah.
“He’s in the hospital,” the attorney said, his English shrouded in a thick accent.
Joel wondered why Musar was at the hospital—he expected Musar to let death take him during his sleep with no resistance. Going to the hospital sounded like he was putting up a fight.
“He collapsed on the way to the temple. The driver took him to the hospital unaware of Musar’s wish to be left alone when it was time for his transition. Now the hospital won’t release him until his condition is stable.”
“What, is he in a coma?” Joel asked, hoping he was wrong.
“He’s very ill and believes his time is near. There isn’t very much the hospital can do.”
Joel couldn’t figure out why they let Musar go to the temple, as frail as he’d become. It made no sense, but it was a question to be saved for another day. “Is he breathing on his own?”
“Yes, he is. His belief does not allow the hospital to help him breathe with a machine. It must be his breath.”
Joel didn’t know how to process the news. In order to be of the most value, Musar either needed to be alive and well or dead and gone. Flopping back and forth between the two worlds was the worst scenario for Joel. Musar had to commit.
Joel returned to the house, deciding on the best way to tell Zarah that her father, the only significant person in her life, was dead or dying. In his mind Joel had rehearsed the scene several times. When he finally got the word on Musar’s transition, Joel would push for the estate settlement to be accelerated and hopefully have cash in hand within ten days. His back alley investors could be paid off in record time.
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Joel entered the house and stood in the grand foyer. Zarah and the housekeeper weren’t there. He went upstairs to the bedroom suite, which occupied the entire west wing and was segregated from the other rooms for total privacy. He found the two unpacking clothes in one of the four walk-in closets located throughout the
suite. It was an Abigail touch. She’d modified the original floor plan to include a shoe closet, ladies’ winter and summer clothes closets, and an oversized one for Joel.
“Excuse me,” he said, interrupting the two. “I need to speak with Zarah for a moment.”
“Sure, call me when you’re ready,” the housekeeper said and left the room.
Joel wasn’t sure where to start or how to say it. It felt like yesterday when he lost his father. The wound was fresh. He decided to blurt it out. “Your father is ill, very ill.” Joel waited for her reaction before saying more. Her eyes were silent. Unsure what to do, he embraced her delicately, reluctant to get too close. “He’s in the hospital.” She still didn’t say anything. Joel wanted her to speak, to cry, to scream, to laugh, react somehow. “If you want to fly back to India, I will make the arrangements.” She remained quiet. Joel couldn’t tell if she heard him or what was going on. This marital arrangement was already showing signs of difficulty.
“No, I will stay here with you. I must be with my husband. My father is ready for his transition. He is ready,” she said with tears welling in her eyes, although she didn’t cry.
“Are you sure you don’t want to fly home?”
“This is my home now. I must stay with you,” she said, clinging to him.
Clinging was unpredicted. He was accustomed to having his space, but compassion rushed in. She was alone and her father was dying on the other side of the world. He had to give her support. He took her hand and led her through the suite and into the hallway, looking for the housekeeper. He found her sitting in one of the other rooms upstairs, located on the other side of the house. “We found out that Zarah’s father is very sick in India.”
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