Chapter Twenty-One
Abu Isra lived with his family above their restaurant, Isra’s Mediterranean Cuisine, named after their eldest child.
Her parents, Esa, Cal, Andy, and the Cookes were walking up when Sameera and Tom joined them.
Andy gave her a significant glance, but she ignored him.
She wasn’t ready to engage, not until she knew what she wanted to do.
When Esa glanced her way, she shook her head.
Hiba must have been looking out for them, because she opened the door and ushered them inside.
The restaurant was decorated in bright colors—turquoise blue, sage green, and vibrant yellow.
Pictures of framed seascapes hung on the wall, along with Quranic verses Sameera recognized.
Tables were grouped in small and large clusters, the kitchen in the back.
Though the restaurant was closed, the comforting aroma of garlic, za’atar, sumac, grilled meat, vegetables, and olive oil conjured up the ghosts of countless mouthwatering meals.
They followed Hiba up the stairs to a three-bedroom apartment, with a large sitting area, kitchen, and a balcony that overlooked the parking lot at the back.
Abu Isra and Hiba’s home was bright and welcoming, with comfortable furniture and soft cushions and blankets.
The walls were painted a bright blue with white curtains around the windows.
The apartment felt cozy and well loved, putting Sameera instantly at ease, while the tantalizing smells coming from the galley kitchen reminded her of her parents’ home in Atlanta.
Her mother always made sure her guests had a good time.
Even when she was younger, her friends had always commented on how welcome they felt in her family’s home.
Perhaps she had taken for granted Tahsin’s tendency to befriend people wherever she went—it had brought them the unexpected joy of new acquaintances during the holidays, after all.
Hiba bustled into the sitting room with a tray of glasses filled with homemade lemonade flavored with mint.
Their host was dressed in a green abaya and a beige hijab that went well with her peaches and cream complexion.
She had light-hazel eyes and laugh lines around her generous mouth.
Sameera accepted a drink and complimented their home.
“All due to Rob,” Abu Isra said, his voice booming from the kitchen.
He stuck his head into the sitting room.
Rob waved him off modestly, but Abu Isra continued, “I approached him about turning my small takeout into a full-service restaurant a few years ago. And suddenly, the red tape vanished. Thanks to the King of Wolf Run!”
Syrian Santa beamed, and Sameera realized that he wasn’t as old as she had initially thought, despite the silver hair.
“We need more businesses opening up in Wolf Run. And you make the best pita and hummus in the state,” Rob said, and everyone laughed.
Tom disappeared into the kitchen, his happy place in any home, and Andy sidled next to Sameera. “You heard Rob. Wolf Run needs more business. Did you and Tom have a nice outing? I’m sure you had a lot to talk about.”
Sameera smiled faintly. “We ended up filming a food video, baking the pies we brought for dessert.”
“Wholesome,” Andy said. “Any other developments?”
“Not yet,” Sameera said. Looking around to make sure no one was sitting close enough to eavesdrop, she lowered her voice. “Have you tried talking to Tom instead?”
Andy looked at her as if she were crazy. “How would that conversation go, exactly? ‘Hey, Tom, can you convince your dad to sell me your family legacy, since you don’t seem too interested?’”
“Sounds like a good start to me,” Sameera said.
Andy sighed. “If you want to be my lawyer, the first thing you should know is that I am an erratic billionaire used to getting my way.”
“You said you’re not a billionaire anymore,” Sameera said, and Andy laughed good-naturedly.
She didn’t trust that laugh. He was trying hard to be likable, but he had already revealed his true colors.
Maybe she should try another tack. “Why do you want this property? I’m sure there are plenty of options for a man of your significant resources. ”
“Firstly, thank you for complimenting my significant resources, even if your earlier crack about my reduced circumstances was uncalled for,” Andy said. “Secondly, Cooke Place is special. Trust me, I’ve looked for other properties to snatch up, and they don’t exist.”
Sameera doubted this. There must be a particular reason Andy was so obsessed with this tiny village.
She wondered if it had something to do with his experience visiting with Tom, before he became the Andy Shaikh who had profiles written about him, perpetually surrounded by people looking for favors.
“I expect my lawyers to perform miracles,” Andy said. “So, I guess it comes down to how badly you need this.”
Andy took a seat beside Rob and Barb on the large couch, leaving her to fume silently.
He had seen right through her, had correctly gauged her weakness and desperation to save her job and fix her life.
The threat of her meeting with HR in the new year hung over her even now.
If she lost her job, it would take months to find a new one.
Her finances were so precarious, even spending a month unemployed would be catastrophic, and her consulting contracts didn’t pay enough on their own to keep her afloat.
Sameera tried to breathe deeply and will herself calm. It wasn’t fair that people like Andy, who had been blessed by fate, had so many resources, while people like Sameera floundered, no matter how hard they worked.
Her phone buzzed with a message, interrupting her panicking spiral, and she was relieved to see it was Bee, though disappointed her sister had yet to respond.
Sorry I missed your call. We drove to Mom’s for Christmas. Everything ok?
Sameera moved to a quiet corner before replying: Just thinking about you, and navigating a tricky situation with Andy. I’ll fill you in later. Tell your mom I said hi. Miss you.
Her friend replied immediately: “Never trust a billionaire” is my life’s motto. Also, waiting on that shirtless Tom pic.
Sameera smothered a smile. Not sure Lorenzo would like that.
Bee’s cheeky reply made her snort: He’ll consider it motivation. Love you!
Her friend’s brief interlude gave her some breathing room, enough to calm her anxious thoughts.
She still wasn’t sure what to do, so the best course of action was to focus on what was happening right now.
Sameera put her phone away just as Hiba brought out several trays of appetizers: hummus topped with aromatic olive oil and decorated with parsley; muhammara, a red pepper, garlic, and walnut dip, slightly sweet and crunchy; freshly fried kibbe, dumplings shaped like miniature footballs made from barley, stuffed with spiced minced meat.
When she returned to the living room with another platter piled with freshly baked pita bread and a third with stuffed grape leaves, everyone protested that the family had gone to too much effort.
“We cook for our customers all day long,” Hiba said with a smile. “We are happy to share food with friends today. Eat, eat!”
They needed no further encouragement. The adults squeezed around the dining table beside the kitchen and passed around the appetizers, while the children, including Esa and Cal, ate on a sheet spread on the floor of the living room, reclining on cushions.
From their peals of laughter, Sameera could tell the younger set were delighted by this arrangement.
Tom helped Abu Isra and Hiba transfer platters of grilled meat, fluffy white rice studded with raisins and sliced almonds, a curry made of eggplant and chunks of beef and tomato, toum garlic dip, a large fattoush salad, and another green salad garnished with olives and crumbling akkawi cheese, drizzled with a tangy dressing and topped with crispy fried pita bread.
Everyone ate with enthusiasm, exclaiming over the burst of savory flavors.
While Sameera reached for another pita—the muhammara was truly addictive—she noticed Tom had disappeared into the kitchen.
What was he up to? When she peeked inside, she spotted him deep in conversation with Abu Isra, who was putting the finishing touches on another platter of grilled chicken and lamb kabobs.
Back in the sitting room, Hiba was sharing her family’s migration story. “We applied as refugees at the start of the civil war. I have an aunt in Texas, and she helped us. We were the lucky ones.” Her face clouded with the memory of those she had left behind.
Barb reached out and squeezed Hiba’s hand. “It’s heartbreaking, what your family went through. I’m so sorry for all you have lost, Hiba, and I hope you can take solace in a new hope for the future of your country.”
Hiba’s eyes were wet, but she accepted Barb’s kindness readily. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “We have happy memories, too, and will make more when we return, inshallah. Would you like to hear how Younus and I first met?”
She called to her husband and coaxed him into sharing the story.
“I was not a good student when I was younger,” he started, with a grin.
“Too impatient to make money. I learned soon enough that I would always be considered less than a man with a degree, even though I was smarter!” The party laughed at Abu Isra’s bravado.
“I returned to school, to finish what you would call high school, and then I enrolled in the local university in Damascus. I was close to thirty by then, and even my mother had written me off as a hopeless case. All of my other brothers and sisters were married and settled, but not me. My father was more patient with me. He told me I was just like him, a late bloomer, and that when I met my bride, it would feel like fireworks. It had been like this with my mother.”