Kawkab Khala’s expensive leather suitcases were gone from under my bed, neatly folded outfits and jewellery removed from my dresser. She had also done a thorough rummage through my closet and drawers, piling all the clothes she deemed “unsuitable, unflattering, or just plain ugly” (according to the Post-it note she left) into four garbage bags at the foot of the bed. And then she had taken it upon herself to rearrange my remaining clothes. She had also moved around my furniture so that the airless bedroom felt more than twice as big.
There was a long note left on the bed, written on heavy, expensive cream stationery.
My dear Hanajaan,
Your room was not comfortable at all. I suggest you make a bonfire of your lumpy mattress and deflated pillows, as I will probably be back to visit sometime before I die. Don’t worry, I’ll make it a surprise, so you can’t think of an excuse and run away before I arrive. I’ll expect a new double bed, and for God’s sake, get rid of that leopard-print hijab!
If you ever come to Delhi, I will take you shopping and try to teach you how to coordinate your clothes so that they will distract from the scowl on your face.
I flipped the page, grinning.
I saw what you did at the festival today. I’m not sure if it was one of the bravest things you have ever done or the stupidest. Doubtless you would like to know how my conversation with your admirer went. For that, you will have to ask him. I am sure, once he gets over the shock of learning thathe has been lied to all his life, he will forgive you for participating in his deception, however briefly.
I never got a chance to tell you that I enjoyed your radio programme. It was the first time I had heard my story being told to me instead of about me, and it was an interesting experience. I think perhaps you made me seem a bit more adventurous than I am. After all, it took me this long to visit you all in Canada.
I think also that you are not so terrible at this thing you have decided to do with your life, Hanaan. Perhaps the next time we meet, I will tell you a few more stories. The “bride in the tree” tale is the one that everyone knows, but it is not the most interesting, by far.
Do you know that Hameed never married? He was too scared to have his mother arrange another marriage after my little stunt, and too timid to look for his own wife. I found him on Facebook. He still has all his hair and he lives alone in Mumbai. I might pay him a visit on my way back home. I hope he doesn’t have a heart attack when he recognizes me.
Khuda hafiz, my love,
Kawkab Khala
The room still smelled like her—a mixture of Yardley English Rose powder and the musky Chanel perfume that would have overpowered a lesser personality. I folded the letter and put it in the pocket of my jeans. Then I carefully closed the door to keep her scent inside the room a little longer, and went downstairs to sleep on the couch.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Aydin knocked on the door of Three Sisters two days later, while I was cleaning in preparation for the renovations slated to begin in a few days. I nearly dropped the rag in my hand when I spotted him.
His hair wasn’t neatly combed and his face seemed harder somehow. But when he caught my eye through the glass, his shoulders dropped and he leaned against the door.Please?he mouthed, motioning. As if there had been any doubt.
When I let him inside, he handed me a bouquet of bright yellow daisies. Our eyes tangled, his gaze hot on my face.
Taking a deep breath, I said, “I should be giving you flowers. I’m so sorry. I should have told you about your mother right away, as soon as I figured it out. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t think it was my place, and your father...” I trailed off. I wasn’t sure if he knew that Junaid Uncle had tried to buy my silence, or if it even mattered anymore. “I’m sorry for the way things ended between us at the festival.”
Aydin removed the bouquet from my hands. “Things haven’t ended between us,” he said. “They’ve barely begun. Why do you think I’mhere?” He smiled, and I recognized forgiveness and a delicate tenderness in his eyes. It made me want to put my arms around him and cry. Or laugh. Maybe both.
“I did put your mom out of business,” he added.
He hadn’t heard. “Mom has sold the restaurant to Rashid. He’s shutting down to do some renovations and upgrades. A coat of paint, maybe some tablecloths, and bigger, brighter lights to perk up the place,” I said, echoing his suggestions from long ago. “Three Sisters should be open again in a month.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Machiavelli will be my competition?”
“I should warn you, Rashid plays dirty. He’s hired Zulfa to manage his publicity campaign.”
Aydin threw back his head and laughed out loud. My heart lifted. I wanted to hold on to that joyful laughter. I wanted to bottle the sound and play it back on demand. I wanted to listen to him laugh for the rest of my life.
Now he leaned in close. “I knew I wanted you from the very beginning. From the moment we first met, I was intrigued, and then I was fascinated, and then I was in love. I just needed to figure out some things first. Hana, Anony-Ana, are you ready for this?”
He was teasing and he was serious. I knew him well enough to understand what he was really asking. Was I ready to stop playing games and let this beautiful untested thing between us unspool?
His eyes darkened as he looked at me, and I flushed. Yes. Yes, I was ready.
“Nice to meet you, Aydin,” I said. “My name is Hanaan Khan. I’m the daughter of Ghufran and Ijaz Khan, sister to a soccer star, niece to a warrior queen, cousin to Machiavelli. I am a wielder of microphonesand slinger of stories. It’s been a rough few months but I’m ready to face whatever comes next, together. What about you?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “For as long as we both shall live, my answer to that question will always be...yes.”
* * *
