I don’t think Karim would, either.”
“That leads us to the second option: You go on as you are, but I provide protection. I can place men directly in the building, both where you live and where you work. The same with Karim. Something like the Secret Service.”
Jenna stared at him. “I can’t treat patients with a private army hanging around the door.”
“It would be more subtle than that, but still … I understand. So let me suggest something else. What if we go public with the whole story—newspa- pers, TV, the works? That might be the best protection of all. Our friend Ali has very serious political ambitions. Once the truth comes out, can he afford to let anything happen to you?”
“Malik, we’re talking about Ali. Who knows what he might do?”
He grimaced. “Of course, nothing’s certain. Maybe we should do both: let the truth come out, then guard you like the crown jewels anyway. But believe me, Amira—Jenna—you’re going to have to make some decisions soon. Just promise me that you won’t disappear again. I always knew you weren’t dead. I just knew it. But what I went through, wondering where you were, whether you were sick or well, how you were managing, alone with a child.”
“Don’t worry. I couldn’t go through it again myself.’’
He nodded, then smiled. “You’d probably like a shower, maybe even a swim. You’ll find some fresh clothes in your room. I try to keep a few nice things available for my guests. You’ll need more. There’s a personal shopper that I keep on retainer.”
“Malik! How long do you expect me to stay?” “We’ll talk about it.”
“I have patients, Brother, a practice to maintain.” “It’s Saturday. Lots of time. We’ll talk later.”
As he ushered her from the room, she noticed a piece of furniture that took her instantly back to childhood.
“Father’s chess table,” she said. “Yes.”
“It’s smaller than I remember it, but just as beautiful.” The table was a work of art, a masterpiece of inlaid wood in intricate geometric patterns.
Jenna remembered the day Malik had flattened Ali among the scattered pawns and knights and rooks. “Do you still play?” she asked. As she said it, she idly opened the table’s drawer. Instead of chess pieces, it held a squat black revolver.
She looked at her brother in alarm. He gently pushed the drawer shut. “Unfortunately,” he said with his most charming smile, “the games I play these days can be rather dangerous.”
O
Lunch was a very California affair, involving a cactus-bud-and-persimmon salad, grilled rabbit, and kiwi sherbet. Afterward, Jenna, Farid, and Malik lounged by the pool. At least Jenna lounged: Farid jumped to answer the poolside phone every few minutes. Sometimes he handed it to Malik; more often, he asked questions and gave orders himself. Obviously, her cousin was her brother’s top aide.
She still felt as if she might be dreaming. After the long years on her own, her old life buried deep, how utterly strange, yet familiar, to be with the boys of her childhood, her closest relatives now that her father was gone. She wished Karim were here. And where was Laila?
“I need your advice about Laila,” said Malik, as if clairvoyant.
Jenna summoned her courage for a confession. “Did you know that I’d seen her?”
“Not at the time. I found out later. I kid Ryan about it. The great detective is looking all over the continent, and my little girl has already found you.”
“I knew I shouldn’t do it. I knew I should stay away, not just for my safety, but for hers—and yours. But when I saw her, I couldn’t help myself.”
“Of course, of course.” Malik’s soft smile seemed to say, How could anyone not love my Laila? Clearly, she was still the sun, the moon, and the stars for him. Then the smile faded. “You know about … what happened to her?”
“I know she was raped.”
A tiny wince at the word. “Yes. That was the start of it. Not that long, really, after Genevieve was killed. I thought she came through that in one piece. But the … the other thing. She hasn’t really been the same since.” “I should have done something. But when she left New York and came out here …”
“It’s not your fault. I blame myself. For everything. I should have had bodyguards with her twenty-four hours a day. In fact, I did—for a while. But she kept begging me to let her lead a normal life. And”—his voice broke— “it’s very difficult for me to deny her anything.”
He gazed out over the pool to the desert landscape. “That boy, for example. I thought he was all right. He looked me in the eye and called me ‘sir.’ A good family. And then …” His hand clenched, unclenched, clenched again, relaxed. “She wasn’t even going to tell me. She was afraid I would judge her.” “It’s a common reaction to rape. The victim feels that the attack has diminished her, made her worthless, and that others will think so, too.” “I’m sure you’re right.”
“What happened to the boy?”
“Ah, the boy. I wanted to kill him, of course. But … well, this isn’t al-Re- mal. Instead, I considered bringing charges, as Laila’s therapist suggested. That’s when I found out how the law works in this country. From the beginning, the prosecutor told me how difficult the case would be to prove. He told me how the lawyers on the other side would handle it: blame the victim, make Laila look like some kind of—well, like a whore. Then, on my own, I found out that they knew about some of the gaps in her background, and that they even planned to suggest that our relationship was … not what it should be. I couldn’t expose her to that. We dropped the charges.”
“So he got off free?”
Malik was silent for a long, long moment. “It’s interesting,” he finally said. “A few months later, he was in a minor accident, and some drugs were found in his car. Not much, and they gave him a slap on the wrist—a good family, as I said, and no criminal record. But soon after that, somebody tipped the police, and he was caught with four kilos of cocaine and a large amount of unexplained cash. Right now, he’s serving about the same sentence he would have gotten for what he did to Laila. Justice, wouldn’t you agree?”
Jenna wasn’t quite sure what she was hearing. She decided not to ask. “Not that it helped Laila,” Malik continued. “Her eyes—the light was gone from them. I tried everything to bring it back. Everything. I left my business—just left it, indefinitely—and took her on a cruise. She used to love ships, the sea. But she hardly spoke the whole time. I finally cut the trip short because she seemed so miserable. That’s when she came out here. I built this place”—he waved his arm at the house—“so I could be near her if she needed me.”
Why, Jenna wondered, did her brother believe he needed a mansion in order to be near his daughter? “Didn’t you get help for her?” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh, yes. Three different psychiatrists. Laila quit them one after another. Then she changed again. Became one of these wild California kids. Every night a party, just drifting—I couldn’t stop her. Worthless so-called friends.” He lifted a hand. “Don’t say it: I know that my own life hasn’t always been exemplary. But at least I’ve learned which people to value. These people cared nothing for her.”
Jenna nodded.
“But then,” Malik continued, “she met this boy, this young man, and everything changed again.” He told the story. Laila had finally found some- one, fallen in love—for the first time, really. A young man who captained a full-rigged schooner that carried charter passengers on cruises to Catalina, Mexico, even Hawaii. And slowly, love had brought her back from the edge.
Jenna had a dreadful feeling that she knew where this was going. “Don’t tell me he dumped her.”
“What? Oh. No, not at all. What happened was that she found out the truth.” “The truth about what?”
“About me. About you. About her real mother. About herself.” He recounted Laila’s discoveries in Paris and her journey to al-Remal.
“My God,” said Jenna
when the reality sank in. It was a worst-case situation. The knowledge that one’s mother was not one’s mother would traumatize anyone. For someone in Laila’s unstable condition, it would be catastrophic.
“I don’t object to Ali’s interference in my business dealings,” Malik was say- ing angrily, still caught up in the scene at the airport. “A man is free to do as he wishes in such matters. But his treatment of my daughter—for that, he’ll pay. I swear it.” He sat silent for a moment, visibly working to calm himself. “When I got her out, we had a terrible scene. Right on the plane. She said things about me, about you, even about Genevieve. Eventually, I had to admit the truth, or most of it, about her mother, her true mother. But telling her the truth seems to have been a mistake, too. I thought she’d storm off to her fiancé. But she’s cut him off, as well, claims he’s just another liar like the rest of us. And instead of running away as I feared, she shuts herself in her room like a hermit.”
“Here?”
“Yes, right here.”
“She’s here now? In this house?”
“Oh, yes. That’s the new thing. She shuts herself in her room, hardly comes out, sleeps all day, sits up all night.”
Jenna shuddered. The behavior was all too familiar, chillingly reminiscent of Jihan’s.
“I’m hoping,” Malik concluded helplessly, “you’ll be able to do something.”
A deep breath. “What have you told her about me?”
“Just that you are, indeed, my sister, who vanished long ago and let everyone think she was dead, for reasons that I don’t fully understand. Which is basically the truth. Of course, to her, it makes you a liar, too.” And she’s right, thought Jenna. Hardly the ideal beginning for a therapeutic relationship.
“I’ll do what I can,” she said, “but it may not be much. Don’t look for a miracle.”
“I stopped looking for miracles a long time ago. In al-Remal. You remember the occasion.”
“Can I see her now?” “Why not?”
O
The woman who opened the bedroom door bore little resemblance to the fresh-faced girl Jenna had rescued in Saks. Laila was only in her mid-twenties, but she looked aged, tired, remote—very much like Jihan in her last days.
“Well, look who’s here. My secret friend.”
The little flare of bitterness encouraged Jenna: where there were living emotions, even negative ones, there was hope.
“Yes, it’s me. And I am your friend, as well as your aunt. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the last part. I didn’t think I could. Maybe someday you’ll let me tell you my reasons.”
“I don’t want to hear them.”
A mechanical response, but the choice of words was significant. Jenna would make notes as soon as she could. She had already decided to stay, at least until she found a suitable therapist for her niece. She couldn’t treat Laila herself; she was far too involved for that. But perhaps she could be of value as a nonjudgmental female friend and relative, someone who would listen and understand.
“I’ll come again tomorrow, Laila. About this time. Why don’t you think about what you’d like to talk about? I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Just think about it. I’ll see you then—or whenever you’d like.” Jenna had her own patients to think of. First, she called the Sanctuary hotline and let Liz Ohlenberg know she would not be in for at least a week. She gave her answering service the same message.
O
For much of the next day, Jenna called patients, rescheduling some, turning others over temporarily to colleagues.
Again and again, as she punched in the 617 area code, Jenna thought of Brad. Call him? But what could she say? She had no answer for his question. And if she told him the truth—well, she couldn’t tell him the truth.
That afternoon, Laila was deeper in her shell, her responses even more monotonal.
“All right,” said Jenna. “I’ll do the talking. I’ll tell you all about Amira Badir.” And she did.
O
On Monday, she contacted a Los Angeles psychiatrist highly recommended by several colleagues in Boston. She explained the situation and liked the man’s analysis of it. They agreed that even though there was some danger in the present situation, the best prospect lay in getting Laila’s approval for starting therapy. That afternoon, Laila was still uncommunicative but seemed to be waiting for Jenna to begin. Jenna took a chance. “Would you like to hear about the woman who gave birth to you? She was my best friend—Amira’s best friend.” And she went through it all, including, as gently as possible, the last night and day of the older Laila’s life.
When it was over, Laila went into the bathroom and vomited. When she returned, pale and shaking, she said, “Do you know I went there, to al-Remal? I found this woman who had nursed me, or so she said. A poor woman. Shriveled up early, like so many of the people in that village. God, I hate that place! And do you know what I was thinking? I was thinking, ‘Is this my real mother? Did my father ’” She broke off. After a time, she lay down on the rumpled bed and slept.
The third day, Laila refused for a long time to open her door. When she finally did, Jenna greeted her, but then sat in silence.
“No more stories?” Laila finally asked, her tone surprisingly like that of a little girl being tucked into bed.
“I’ve been jabbering for two days,” said Jenna. “Highly unorthodox in my line of work. Maybe you’d like to tell me how you feel.”
“A shrink for sure,” Laila said bitterly. “ ‘How do you feel about that?’” Her face contorted. “How do you think I feel? I feel like one of those stupid toys you knock down that bounce back up. ‘Your mother’s dead, Laila, only she wasn’t your real mother—but that one’s dead, too. Oh, by the way, that woman you met, your so-called friend, she’s really your aunt.’ Damn you, damn you! Damn you all!” She was punching the bed with her fist. “Knock me down. But this time, I won’t get up!”
You’re already up, thought Jenna with relief. Now the job is to keep you up.
O
Over the next few days, Laila gradually came out of hiding. One night, she appeared at dinner. The next, she put on makeup. She hinted that she would be willing to talk with someone else, if Jenna thought it would be a good idea. There even came a moment when she took the role of therapist: “Are you going to tell your son the truth?”
It was Jenna’s turn to be evasive. “I’m not sure the time is right. You know my story. Who I was. Who I’m still married to. I just don’t think the time is right.”
“You think Karim can’t handle it? Or are you afraid that you can’t handle the way he handles it?”
It was a good question. Too good. “I’m just not sure yet. Someday …” “Tell him now. As soon as you can. There has to be a way. He’s your son. You can’t keep lying to him forever.”
Jenna hadn’t thought about forever; it was a luxury she had left behind long ago.
O
Hats. Dozens of hats, one more outrageous than the next. “Each of you pick one,” Malik told Jenna and Laila, “and then you can find an outfit to go with it. We’re going to the races—opening day at Del-Mar. Hats are de rigueur.”
It was a celebration, a kind of coming-out party for Laila, but also a big day for Malik, who had shipped a number of his top thoroughbreds to the California track for the racing season.
They helicoptered down with Farid as a fourth, and Jabr and one of Malik’s regular bodyguards providing security. The scene at the racecourse was like a southern California version of Ascot. Women costumed as if for an Easter parade promenaded with men dressed in designer sportswear. Jenna recognized half a dozen movie stars, mostly of the older generation.
Malik’s private box afforded some refuge from the crowd, but even there, a number of men who looked as if they were not accustomed to being so deferential came up to shake his hand. An inordinate number of them seemed to be Texans who had horses at the meeting.
> In the fifth race, Jenna and Malik sentimentally backed a desperate longshot named Desert Exile, and when the lightly regarded beast romped home ahead of the field, they jumped and hugged like children.
“Telephoto, boss,” said the bodyguard.
Jenna saw the photographer aiming a long lens at them from twenty rows down in the stands.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Malik to the guard. “It’s a free country, they tell me.” But Jenna sat down and lowered the broad brim of her hat.
The next day at breakfast, a grinning Malik dropped a popular tabloid on the table. A front-page photo showed Jenna looking fearfully into the camera, her arm around Malik’s neck. The headline read: “Mystery Woman Billionaire’s Latest Flame?” Twenty-four hours later, the mystery was solved: “Feminist Doc Is Megabucks Malik’s Palm Springs Playmate” proclaimed bold type above a picture of Jenna tugging furtively at her hat brim.
She felt violated, yet at the same time, had to laugh. After countless excuses for avoiding book-jacket photos and television interviews, this! And what did it really matter? If Malik was right, a picture or two wouldn’t make much difference in whether or not Ali found her.
That night, she made her habitual call to her answering machine, hoping for word from Karim. To her surprise, she heard Brad’s voice. The message was brief: “I see that I’ve misjudged you. Good-bye, Jenna.” At first, she thought he was referring to the deadline for his marriage proposal. Then she realized that he must have seen the tabloid story.
Well, my God! She wanted to catch the first plane home, tear out the answering-machine tape, and throw it in the fireplace—and do the same to Brad, if she could find him. How dare he jump to conclusions like that! Pompous, self-righteous bastard!
It took hours for her anger to cool, but when it did, the chill went deep. She didn’t want to lose him. It was that simple. She called his home number. A servant, after asking her name, informed her that Mr. Pierce was unavailable. His receptionist told her the same thing six times the next morning.
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