“And you, Jenna?’’ he said over dessert. “I hear you’re developing a good young practice.”
“I can’t complain. I have enough paying customers to make ends meet and still have time for a little research.”
“A new book?”
“No, not yet. Just general research. And I do some volunteer work at a shelter for battered women.” It was something she had just started, driven by Carolyn’s experience—and her own.
Donald frowned. “That’s fine, of course, but you don’t want to go too far along those lines. One thing I’ve learned”—and now he smiled—“is that rich people have problems just like poor people.”
“That’s certainly true.”
He glanced at a chunky gold Rolex and said, “I have to get back to the mines. But what’s your schedule? Maybe we can get together later, talk over old times when we’re not so rushed.”
“I wish I could. I’d love to see Robin again.” Robin was Donald’s wife. “Actually, she’s out of town—a family emergency.”
O
Jenna took a taxi to the Brearley School, stationed herself outside—and waited. Would she recognize the little girl she had helped deliver on a bed of straw?
She did. Dark hair, almond eyes, the older Laila’s heart-shaped face, some- thing, too, of Jihan Badir. A touch of Malik, of course, but harder to define than mere resemblance: something in the set of the girl’s shoulders, something brave yet vulnerable that reminded Jenna of Malik as he had been a long time ago.
Laila stood apart from a clutch of her schoolmates. A bit of a loner? Nothing to be alarmed about, Jenna-the-psychologist assured herself; she’s still the new girl.
A stretch limousine pulled up. Jenna’s heart leapt. She was sure she would see her brother, catch a glimpse of the face she’d missed for so long. But no, the man who stepped out of the car and greeted Laila wasn’t Malik, only a chauffeur whose thick shoulders and watchful eyes practically shouted “bodyguard.” A few moments later, he and Laila were gone. Jenna stood there, staring at the space where her niece had been, as if to somehow prolong the all-too-fleeting vision.
Well, now you’ve seen her, she told herself, as she finally forced herself to leave.
That will have to be enough.
O
But it wasn’t enough, and a few weeks later, she found another pressing reason—a bit of library research that could have been done by telephone— to go to New York. And once again, she stationed herself outside the school. She would look, nothing more, that’s what she had promised herself. No danger in that, either to her or to anyone else.
After a short wait, she saw Laila talking with several other girls. Good— her niece had made some friends. No chauffeur this time—good again. The little group left the school, walking west. Against all reason, Jenna followed.
Kidding and laughing like any teenagers, the girls turned south on Fifth Avenue. They stopped at Bergdorf Goodman, Jenna slipping in behind them. In twenty minutes, the little group collectively spent a sum that, Jenna estimated, many of her clients would be happy to earn in a week. Unconsciously, she shook her head in disapproval.
The group moved on to Saks. They went inside, Jenna entering behind them. This time, they seemed inclined just to look and were soon headed for the door. But wait, what was happening? A man moved quickly, grabbed Laila, and pulled a silk scarf out of her bookbag. She had been shoplifting— and now she was caught!
Laila began to protest, then to cry. The other girls had vanished, melting into the crowd of shoppers. Without a moment’s thought, Jenna moved into action, not knowing what she was doing, yet knowing she must do something. She stepped between Laila and the man. “What are you doing, sir!’’
“Who are you?”
“I’m this young woman’s mother. Who the devil are you?”
“Store security.”
The manager appeared. Jenna turned to him, trying her best to put on a show of indignation and injured innocence. “I asked my daughter to meet me here, to pick up the scarf this man is holding. It’s just like the one I have at home. I’m sure she was looking for me when he … when he jumped her! Is that how you treat valued customers, sir? Because if it is …
The manager looked Jenna over. A stunning woman and obviously affluent, the very picture of a valued customer. But he knew all too well that shoplifters came in many guises. Still, the girl hadn’t left the store. The security guard, a new man, should have waited till she was outside—the point at which she could safely and incontrovertibly have been charged with stealing. The manager yielded. Jenna produced her Gold Card and paid for the scarf.
Laila looked bewildered, but didn’t make a sound. Jenna could see she was terrified. Even when it was clear she was being rescued, she didn’t relax.
Once outside the store, Laila whispered, “Thank you.’’ And then, “Who are you? Why did you do that?”
“I might ask you the same question,” Jenna responded. Taking charge, just as she did with clients who were too distraught to think for themselves, she led her niece to a nearby coffee shop. Without asking, she ordered two cups of tea. “I’m Jenna Sorrel. I’m from Boston. I’m a psychologist.” Jenna didn’t know why she added this information—perhaps from a need to say something.
“A psychologist,” echoed Laila.
Jenna smiled. “It’s OK. I’m off duty.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the girl, drinking her in, seeing the young woman she would soon become. Jenna had missed her family—the idea of family—for so long. And here was Malik’s baby, her niece, the child she’d helped deliver.
“You’re here for a convention or something?” asked Laila. “No. Just visiting.”
“I’m new here myself.” “Oh, yes?”
“Yeah. I’m from France.”
“Your English is wonderful.” It was true. The French accent was almost imperceptible. Far stronger was the Valley Girl patois that had spread across America—even to Boston—from California. The girl must have a good ear.
“Well, we’ve traveled a lot,” explained Laila. “And I’ve had lots of American friends.”
“That’s good. Good to have friends, I mean.” Careful, Jenna, she warned her- self, you have no right, no right to do this. But she couldn’t help herself. “But I don’t have any friends here. Like at school. Not yet, anyway.” “No?”
“No,” said Laila moodily. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Some- times I think it’s because I’m different. I mean, I’m from France, and my father’s from al-Remal, and I … look like him.”
“There must be other people from different backgrounds in the school, no? More likely, it’s just that you’re new. You’ve seen that in other places, haven’t you? Everyone’s slow to warm up to the new kid?”
Laila didn’t answer. “Maybe it’s because Papa is … I won’t tell you his name, because you might know it. But he has lots of money. Some of the other kids’ parents have money, too, but not as much as Papa. I try to be nice. I buy presents for everyone. They seem to like them, they thank me, but then …”
Jenna said nothing. This wasn’t the time to point out that the worst way to make friends was to try to buy them. Sooner or later, Laila would see that for herself.
“And then today. That was like a chance, you know, to be part of things, to belong. That was the whole idea. They said I had to prove myself. I had to steal something from Saks.” Watching Jenna’s face for signs of disapproval, she hastily added, “All the other girls have done it. It’s like a club, you know? Nobody ever got caught before.”
“I see,” said Jenna neutrally. So lonely, she thought. The girl needed someone—her father, obviously, but if not him, whom?
“And now I’ve screwed up,” Laila concluded, tears in the corners of her eyes. “Maybe you didn’t really want to do it,” Jenna offered.
An unhappy shrug.
“Did you ever notice,” Jenna went on after a sip of tea, “maybe in sports or dancing, that when you try too hard, you �
�� screw up? It’s the same way with making friends. Sometimes the worst thing you can do is to try too hard.”
“But what can I do except try?”
“Just be yourself. Take an interest in other people. Give them the chance to get to know you.”
Jenna knew the words weren’t enough. No words could be. Sitting across the table was a lonely child, a child who had lost her mother and who—from all accounts—didn’t see nearly enough of her father. Before she could think about the wisdom of what she was doing, Jenna blurted out, “Perhaps we could see each other again. Would you like that?”
“How much do you charge?” Laila asked. “Charge?”
“You’re a shrink. How much do you charge? If it’s a lot, I’ll have to ask Papa—and I’d rather not.”
The question broke Jenna’s heart. Was everything in Laila’s life bought and paid for? “I wasn’t talking about seeing you professionally. I meant … as a friend.”
Laila pulled back, her eyes narrow with suspicion. “Why?” she asked. Of course, Jenna thought, after all that had happened to her, she was bound to question a stranger making overtures. “There’s an old Oriental proverb that says if you save a person’s life, you’re responsible for it from that moment on. I didn’t exactly save your life, but I think the same principle applies. I just want to know that you’ll be all right. Besides, I’ve enjoyed our talk.”
Laila cocked her head, then bobbed it. “Okay. But if Ronnie sees you, he’ll ask a lot of questions and tell Papa.”
“Ronnie?”
“My chauffeur. And kind of a guard.”
“I certainly don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Oh, don’t worry. He’s not around all the time—just when Papa’s worried.” Laila put on a serious look. “I told Papa that I need some space, you know? To be myself, like you said.” Her glance wandered to a clock on the wall. “Oh, my God. I’ve got to go. Sure, I guess it’s okay if we get together again. The best place to find me is at school. We get out at three. It’s the Brearley School. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“So come by sometime.” “Well … thanks.”
“Thank you. For … you know—what you did. By the way, my name’s Laila.” “Jenna.”
“See you, Jenna.” And she was gone.
O
Two weeks later, Jenna again made the trip to New York. She felt guilty about getting to know Laila under false pretenses, but at this point, false pretenses seemed to be the only ones available. Besides, she rationalized, she really meant it about wanting to make sure Laila would be all right. How could she not?
“I was surprised to see you,” Laila said as they walked along peeking into shop windows on Madison Avenue. “I thought you might have, you know, disappeared. Like maybe I imagined you or something.”
Over tea in an unpretentious little restaurant, she talked freely about her father, although still concealing his last name. When he wasn’t caught up in business, which often meant travel to far places, they went to the theater, made shopping expeditions, and sometimes took wonderful holidays aboard his yacht. “It’s just that he’s … so busy,” she ended wistfully.
Jenna wished she could call Malik. Or write him an anonymous letter:
“Your daughter needs more of you. Now, not later, not when you have time, but now. In another two or three years, she’ll be her own young woman.” But, of course, she couldn’t do that. But why couldn’t she?
“I hope you didn’t come down just to see me,” Laila was saying. “What?
Oh … no. I had some research to do.”
“I’m glad, because I have to go. A friend of mine asked me to her house to study together.”
“A friend? From school?”
Laila grinned. “Yeah. Things are getting a little better. Like maybe you were right, you know?”
“I hope so. It would be nice to be right once in a while.”
Laila put on sunglasses. “Sometimes people recognize me,” she explained. “Like photographers. Because of who Papa is.”
“Ah.”
“I’m sorry to rush off. I enjoyed this. Can we do it again, say another two weeks? I’ll make more time.”
“Why not?” said Jenna happily.
O
Back in Boston, in free moments between patients, or while doing some mindless household task, Jenna found herself fantasizing about her niece. She envisioned them visiting museums and art galleries, sharing long walks in Greenwich Village and Soho. She imagined drawing the girl out, listening to her problems, offering help and advice (not minding if it wasn’t taken, she cautioned herself) when a boyfriend broke off with her or she with him. She saw herself praising Laila’s achievements at school, supporting her dreams.
She knew that she was picturing herself in the role of a parent. But so what? Laila needed someone. Of course, there were risks. But wasn’t there some way to carry it off? What if she swore Laila to secrecy? What if they made it an adventure, like spies, never meeting in the same place twice? Laila needed her. And Jenna was so very hungry for the family she had left behind.
But before fantasy had a chance to become anything more, the past again stepped in. The tenth anniversary of her disappearance was approaching. A Reuters reporter, doing a standard follow-up, discovered that someone else had been investigating the nearly forgotten case. It was Ali, of course, although the reporter’s inquiries through the Remali royal press secretary met the long-established official response: What Princess Amira had been doing in Anatolia was a mystery, perhaps part of an elaborate abduction scheme; she was assumed to be dead, although the prince still held on to his faint hopes.
It was enough for an item on a television magazine show, full of speculation and rumor that Amira might still be alive. The writer was astute enough to suspect that Prince Ali Rashad was not so resigned and disinterested as he wished to appear, and this suspicion was voiced in his story.
When Jenna read a sensationalized version—“Have You Seen This Princess?’’ complete with an old photo—in one of her habitual tabloids, she felt the old fear as if it had never left her. After all this time, all this deception and disguise, she still wasn’t safe.
Her self-deception ended. She couldn’t continue to see Laila—it might endanger both of them. Even as it was, the girl had to dodge paparazzi, and certainly Ali could employ more subtle methods.
She could easily vanish from Laila’s life. The girl didn’t even know her last name. But she couldn’t do that, just couldn’t.
Feeling a wrenching sense of loss—it wasn’t fair, she thought, yet again to have to let go of someone she loved—Jenna kept the appointment Laila had suggested. They went to a diner—a trendy Upper East Side version—and shared an oversized cheeseburger and a platter of French fries. To anyone watching, thought Jenna, the two of them must look very much like a mother and daughter from the upscale neighborhood. It made what she had to say all the harder.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to see you so often,” she began. “In fact, not very often at all. I’ve been neglecting my patients. And I have a book contract that’s going to eat up every free moment.” None of it was quite true, but there was enough truth in it that it wasn’t exactly a lie, either.
Laila’s eyes reproached her, then turned away. “That’s okay,” the girl said with forced casualness. “I always wondered how you found so much time for me. And to tell you the truth, I had to lose Ronnie today to see you. These last few days, I don’t know why, but Papa’s become really worried about me. So it won’t be easy for me anymore, either. No wonder nobody wants to date me,” she added morosely. “It’s like going through Israeli security.”
Jenna smiled in spite of herself. Imagine Malik, the old rule-breaker, now the rule-maker. Yet, it wasn’t so funny, not from the standpoint of her niece’s happiness.
She tried to think of something to say, something that didn’t sound pat and professional, something that would tell her niece she really car
ed. But nothing safe came to mind. “Maybe later, when we’re both freer,” was the best she could do.
“Could I have your phone number?” Laila asked suddenly. “I’d like to talk to you once in a while—if that’s okay.”
Jenna couldn’t resist. “Of course, it’s okay. Anytime. But will you promise to keep it just between the two of us?”
“Be, like, secret friends?” “Yes.”
Laila laughed. “Sure. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to run home and tell Papa about the lady who rescued me in Saks.”
Jenna laughed, too. “I never thought of it that way. So, have you decided on a college yet?” Anything to prolong the moment, the talk, the presence of her niece.
“Columbia. Papa’s been hinting he’d like me to go to the Sorbonne, but I’d much rather stay in New York. I love it here.”
Did Laila’s choice have just a little bit to do with her? Jenna wondered. It was a pleasant thought, a consolation prize.
They shared something called a Chocolate Crisis for dessert. When the last morsel was gone, there was no avoiding the fact that their time together was ending, too. The decision had been made. But Jenna’s heart pleaded for a reprieve, for a few minutes more.
“Shall we walk a bit?” she asked. She would miss her plane. Too bad. “Sure,” said Laila.
They strolled down Fifth Avenue, along Central Park. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, Jenna tried to pretend this wasn’t the last time she would see Laila. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe …
When they reached the Plaza, they hailed two taxis. “Well … ciao,” Laila said, trying to smile.
Forgetting caution, Jenna threw her arms around her niece and held her tight. “Good-bye,” she said. Good-bye, my dearest Laila.
Cameron
The call came on a cool September night.
“Can you come over, Ms. Sorrel? Like right away?”
“What’s the matter, Josh?” His voice had changed so much she hadn’t recognized it for a moment.
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