Chapter 4
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It turned out Reza did, in fact, just want to check out Hena’s room.
Resting her head against the car window, she fought back a yawn the next morning.
While the rest of the wedding guests were grabbing breakfast and preparing to head to South Beach for an art deco architecture tour, she sat in the passenger seat of Khala Simki’s Toyota Camry, being ferried to Luxe Boutique for her mandatory shopping spree.
Her mother sat in the back with her home health aide, Gita, and the car was blessedly silent.
Watching the scenery flit past, Hena’s thoughts drifted back to last night.
She had never hooked up with a stranger before, but there was a first time for everything.
And Reza, with his perfect bone structure and crooked grin, was an ideal candidate.
When he knocked on her door and she let him into the foyer, it took everything she had to not draw him to her then and there.
She’d restrained herself. Opted to give him the promised tour first. They’d end up where they needed to be.
Vista Del Sol’s VIP suite was opulent enough to rival any Hena had ever stayed at.
The arabesque touches were ever present here, from the brass fixtures and polished maroon walls to the latticework tracing the ceiling and plush rugs with dizzying geometric patterns.
A trio of gold-framed abstract paintings hung above the sofa, their spiraled tilework of red, silver, and gold seeming to shift and swirl of its own accord.
Reza trailed behind her as they walked through the space. He took special note of the chandeliers (tasteful) and the grain of the hardwood floors (high-end). He even knelt and ran a hand along the baseboards, then tapped a knuckle against the wall. “Solid,” he said, nodding with approval.
They swung past the kitchen, which would never be used but nevertheless featured stainless steel appliances and marble countertops, before sneaking a peek at the bathroom with its heated floors and rainfall shower. At last, they ended up in the bedroom.
“So this is what luxury looks like.” He set her keycard on the nightstand.
Luxury was an understatement. The custom California king was enclosed beneath a thick velvet canopy, its curtains drawn back and tied to each post with tasseled cords. The scent of jasmine clung to the air. Hena traced a hand along the linen embroidery stitched with intricate looping designs.
“Frette,” she said with surprise. “My favorite brand.”
Could Lulu possibly have remembered?
“You have a favorite brand of bedsheets?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Reza took a step toward her, his eyes crinkled. “I think I speak from a place of authority that most people definitely do not.”
He stood so close she could smell the sandalwood of his aftershave. See the subtle hint of stubble along his jaw. She should have felt apprehensive. Instead, she wanted nothing more than to erase the space between them. But before she could touch him, his gaze shifted over her shoulder.
“I completely missed the balcony.”
He strode toward the French doors, opened them and stepped outside. She joined him as he rested his elbows on the railing. The deafening symphony of the swamp—frogs croaking, birds chirping, and the incessant buzzing of unseen insects—filled the night sky.
“You’ve got total privacy here,” he said. “My room overlooks the parking lot.”
Hena took in the bougainvillea creeping across the terrace and stole a glance at his profile.
What just happened? One minute they were talking about bedsheets, his eyes fixed on hers—and the next, they were looking at the marsh.
Had she been out of the game so long she could no longer read the signals?
But the more they chatted, the more her awkwardness faded. As familiar as these swamplands were to her, they were unexplored terrain for Reza, having grown up in a tract home in the suburbs of Orlando.
“Sorry to say, but Orlando is the worst that Florida has to offer,” she told him. “Landlocked and ten degrees hotter, no matter the time of year.”
“We’ve got the theme parks, don’t we?” he protested. At her side-eye, he laughed. “Fair point.”
“I’m just saying, you have the same mosquitoes, the same humidity—but without ocean views or a breeze to make up for any of it.”
“I can’t argue with that.” He grinned, and she tried not to stare too hard at the dimple deepening in his left cheek.
“Are you going to swing by and see your family while you’re in Florida?” she asked. “Orlando’s, what, three hours from here?”
“It’s just my sister and her family there these days,” he said. “My mom passed away when I was nine, and I don’t really keep in touch with my dad. I should try to head up there, though. It’s been a minute since I’ve seen my nephew.”
“I’m sorry about your mother,” she said. “I was older—seventeen—when my father died. It was forever ago at this point, but in some ways, I feel like I’m still processing that he’s actually gone.”
“Right. It’s like they’re still with you in some way. Though if my mother were here right now, she’d be dragging me back indoors.”
“She was scared of the dark?”
“She was scared of jinn.”
“Ah yes. The unseen. Of course.”
“She took it seriously.” He laughed. “She said nighttime was when the veil between our world and theirs was thinnest. You never know when they’re listening.”
An owl hooted in the distance, deep and mournful, but with the moon shrouded in clouds, she saw nothing but darkness. Feeling his gaze on her, she looked back.
“Do you believe in them?” she asked him.
“No,” he said quickly, then ran a finger along his jaw. “I mean, maybe? It’s not like you can prove they don’t exist, right?”
“True. Hard to prove a negative. I guess they could be out there, but honestly, there’s so much I know to worry about that the unseen gets bumped down my list of fears.”
“That’s the appeal. Better to be afraid of what you can’t see than think too hard about what you can. She died when I was so young, her stories stuck. It’s a good thing she’d already debunked the tooth fairy, or who knows?”
He grinned and the softness in his eyes made her breath hitch.
It was easy to talk to him. So easy she barely noticed the hours tick past until pink and lavender streaked across the horizon.
But the only time he touched her was before he left—when he thanked her for her company and lifted her hand to kiss it as though they were starring in a Jane Austen adaptation.
She pretended the warmth of his lips didn’t send shivers through her.
Didn’t make her want to squeeze his hand tighter and draw him closer.
A man like Reza was probably accustomed to women reduced to putty in his presence.
It was just as well. Adding potential drama to what would already be an exhausting week wasn’t the wisest strategy. At least there would be a friendly face to chat with during her time here.
—
“Finally! It took long enough.” Her mother’s voice rang out from the back seat, dragging Hena into the present. “You drive as slow as ever, Simki.”
“I’m following the speed limit,” Khala replied, pulling into the parking lot and turning off the engine. “The police around here can be sticklers. You know that.”
“I personally think we made good time,” said Gita, her mother’s aide. “This part of town can get so congested.”
Hena surveyed the scene. Except for a Ford Explorer next to a fitness studio two doors down, theirs was the only car there.
“Are you sure this boutique is even open?” she asked. It was early—barely nine in the morning.
“Of course it’s open,” her mother snapped. “Muni came in three hours early so we could get this matter sorted straightaway.”
That tracked. Who would dare say no to her mother?
Khala and Hena got out of the car while Gita retrieved the wheelchair from the trunk. She was around Hena’s age, and effortlessly plucked the steel chair free, setting it on the pavement.
“Stay where you are,” Gita warned as Ammi began opening the passenger door. “I’ll be there in a second.”
“I’m perfectly capable of walking a few paces,” her mother retorted.
Except she wasn’t. She took one step and lurched forward, but Gita swooped in and stopped the fall, gripping her by the elbow and easing her into the chair.
“I certainly don’t need to be strapped in,” her mother protested as Gita picked up the seat belt.
“I can’t have you flying out, can I?” Gita retorted. “No arguments. Safety first.”
Here we go, Hena thought. She waited for her mother’s eyes to narrow. For her to fire Gita on the spot. Instead, her mother chuckled.
“I’m seeing things,” Hena said as she and Khala walked up the steps to the shop. “I must be. How can anyone talk to her like that and not get swatted at the very least?”
“Gita’s a gem,” Khala said. “I can’t explain it, but she has a way with your mother.”
“There must be sorcery of some sort involved.”
Gita set Ammi’s purse in the back storage pouch, secured the oxygen tank holder, and adjusted her breathing tubes. Looking at her mother, a knot of grief formed in Hena’s throat.
She’s dying, Hena reminded herself. All of this—the wheelchair, the oxygen tank—was to be expected. Still, her mind struggled to accept it. How had the fierce woman she’d known all her life transformed into this fragile figure?
Turning to Khala, Hena leaned closer.
“What is Ammi thinking, coming out here?” she asked. “You and I could have sorted this out ourselves. She’s in no condition.”
“Gita cleared it. Your mother wanted to spend time with you.”
“Let’s try that again.”
“It’s what she said,” Khala insisted. “Things are complicated between you two, but she loves you, Hena.”