I opened my mouth to sayEveryone, but then shut it. We went back to contemplating the sky.
Chapter Sixteen
The next day I had a rare day off. A text message from Lily jerked me from my fitful sleep at nine a.m.
Ice cream for breakfast? Please say yes!
I stared at the screen, blinking. Who could think of ice cream at that godforsaken hour? I had planned to continue researching ways to shut down Wholistic Grill, but I had had trouble falling asleep, my mind spinning in circles because of Thomas and Marisa’s betrayal. I turned off the screen without replying to Lily.
Kawkab Khala came clomping down the stairs, immaculately dressed in a pink and cream silk salwar kameez. I shifted irritably on the sofa, burrowing beneath the blanket. I could feel her gaze contemplating my fake-sleeping form, but she said nothing.
Ten minutes later, the smoke from green chilies roasting in a pan made me cough. I threw off the blanket, walked into the kitchen, and turned on the exhaust fan.
Kawkab Khala wordlessly passed me a mug of milky tea. Boiling hotand rich with the taste of cardamom, cloves, and ginger, the brew was strong and sweetened with a heavy hand. It was also delicious. I took another, more appreciative sip.
“Made from real Indian tea leaves, not that brown water you call chai in Canada,” she said. “By the end of that cup you will be hooked.”
“Why don’t you drink coffee if you want something stronger?” I asked.
“In Delhi we drink chai. Also, I own a tea plantation.”
Of course she did. I rubbed the back of my neck, knotted from a week of sleeping on the sofa, and tried to think gracious-host thoughts. I didn’t get too far beyondI gave you my bedroom, why do I have to make small talk too?
Kawkab Khala added three eggs to the pan of green chilies before turning down the heat. Then she buttered toast and carefully divided the scrambled eggs between two plates. She nodded at the tiny kitchen table.
“I don’t usually eat breakfast,” I said.
“And I don’t usually cook. Sit down. I have spent time with your sister, but not you.”
I should have checked on Fazeela. I wondered if she was up or listlessly watching a screen again. I resolved to check on her later and took a single, cautious bite. The scrambled eggs were creamy, spicy, and somehow fluffy.
Kawkab handled her fork and knife with the precision of a surgeon. “Thank you for being kind to my friend at the restaurant yesterday,” she said.
I realized she was speaking of Sad Aunty. “How do you know her?”
“An old school friend from India. It was a coincidence that we both planned to visit Canada at the same time. I told her to call me onceshe arrived, so I could introduce her to my family. We are thinking of working on a mutual project together,” Kawkab Khala said.
I couldn’t imagine my sarcastic aunt working with someone so shy and withdrawn. “Is that why you came to Toronto, to work with your friend?” I asked, remembering my father’s words from a few nights ago.
My aunt was silent as she chewed, eyes steady on my face. “So suspicious, Hanajaan. The project is a side interest only. I wonder why you cannot fathom that I am here to visit my family. You have the instincts of a journalist.”
She was changing the subject, but I appreciated the flattery. Besides, she was right. I had no real reason to be suspicious of her motives—just because she hadn’t bothered to let my parents know she would be coming until she arrived with a half-dozen suitcases and vague plans to stay indefinitely.
“Have you heard anything new about that Junaid Shah?” Kawkab Khala asked, and I shook my head no. I hadn’t talked to Aydin or his dad since our confrontation at the Golden Crescent BOA meeting.
“Junaid has not changed from when I knew him in Delhi,” she added casually.
I was surprised. “You know Junaid Uncle?”
“Everyone in India knows each other,” she said, slanting her eyes at me.
She was joking, but as I watched her sitting at our ancient IKEA table, a regal, sharp-eyed witch, I wasn’t completely sure.
“Don’t underestimate Junaid,” she said, taking a sip of her chai. “If one wishes to get the better of such a man, one must be prepared to stoop to his level.” She skewered me with a hard look. “Your mother is an intelligent person, Hana, but she has not accepted the gravity ofyour situation. She still has hope. You are a few steps ahead of everyone in that respect, I think.”
I smiled wanly. My pessimism was coming in handy after all.
My aunt neatly aligned her now empty mug and plate. “Our social circles are small, back home in Delhi,” she said quietly. “Just like in this neighbourhood. There have been whispers about the Shah family for years, about Junaid’s business practices from when he first started out. He bribed government officials in Delhi, then razed a tenement to the ground so he could sell the land at a profit. I heard he only grew worse once he’d moved to Canada.” She picked some lint from an immaculate cuff. “No doubt he has raised his son in his image,” she added.
