by Holly Rayner
***
Megan went into the small bathroom and looked in the duffle bag in her closet. She’d come to the studio wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. There was no way could she go to a bar in that. There were a few costume pieces in the closet in the back of the studio, however. Maybe something in there would work.
She thought quickly, trying to recall what was there. None of the dresses would work; they were all made for dancing and included sheer skirts. The top of her leotard under her jeans would be slightly better than her T-shirt, but the shoes? She had an idea, and hurried back into the studio.
“Just a minute,” she said as she rushed past Zaakir and went to the closet in the waiting room. At the bottom she found what she was looking for: a pair of black jazz shoes. Those would be much better than sneakers. She dug through the hangers, seeing what else was there, and stumbled upon a red dress. This had been an outfit for a lyrical number, and the skirt was the same stretchy fabric as the bodice. She’d forgotten all about it. It had a low, asymmetrical cut that hung at her knees. The back was wide open and scooped low—too low—except that her black satin crop jacket from a hip hop number was there as well.
Megan took the items back to the bathroom and changed. It still wasn’t anything like the simple black dress hanging in her closet at home that she would have worn had she known she was going out, but it was better than jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt. She touched up her makeup using the compact from her purse and shook out her long, wavy hair, running her fingers through it to get out any tangles.
She walked down the hall to the waiting room. Zaakir stood as she approached, his eyes widening as he saw what she was wearing.
“This is what you travel to work in?” he asked, bemused.
“No. This is what I had in the costume closet.”
“You look fabulous.”
The heat in his gaze brought warmth to her cheeks and chest. She managed a “Thank you,” then walked through the door as he held it open for her.
The black car was there, waiting for them at the curb. Zaakir opened the door and waited as Megan locked up, then took her hand to help her in when she reached him.
They’d been traveling for a few minutes by the time Megan asked, “Where are we going?” A clear panel separated them from the driver, but she could see the streets and buildings flying by. They were still in Manhattan and there were plenty of upscale bars in the area, but they didn’t seem to be slowing down.
“Just a little place I like to take friends sometimes,” he said.
A few minutes later, the limo came to a stop in front of a building with no name over it. Zaakir opened the car door, took Megan’s hand again to help her out, and led to her a plain silver door. In normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have even noticed it, or known it was any sort of establishment. Zaakir held the door open for her and Megan walked into a small, unremarkable room where a portly, middle-aged man was standing in front of another door.
“Good evening, Sheikh Al-Hosseini,” the man said, nodding his head slightly. He opened the second door and Zaakir motioned for Megan to walk through first.
The space Megan then found herself in was unlike any bar she had ever been in before. There was a long, lighted bar where an attractive blonde stood, mixing drinks, and immaculately-dressed waiters and waitresses were carrying plates of food out to the tables. The space glittered in silver, gold and white. It looked pristine, and prestigious—like it must be frequented only by the rich and famous, and those in the know. In that moment, Megan felt very, very glad she hadn’t just worn jeans and sneakers.
A woman with silvery blonde hair approached. “Good evening, Sheikh Al-Hosseini. Would you like your usual table?”
“Yes, please, if it’s available.”
Megan raised an eyebrow at him. The woman walked away before Megan could say anything and Zaakir held out his arm, indicating she should follow.
The hostess led them to a small table near the edge of the building. It sat under a glittering chandelier and at the center of the table was a thin vase that held a single rose.
Zaakir held out her chair and Megan slid into it. He took the seat across from her and leaned in. “So, how do you like it?”
“You must come here a lot,” she said. “They all know you.”
He shrugged. “The staff are paid to remember the names of those who spend the most money. Or who hold any sort of title they deem important.”
“And you’re both?”
“I suppose.”
“Well, it’s a very nice place. I’m glad I had something to wear besides sneakers and a T-shirt.”
“I would have never put you in a position to feel uncomfortable.”
Did that mean they would have gone somewhere else if she had no choice but to wear her street clothes?
Another woman came to the table, this one tall and pale, with dark hair that hung to her shoulders. “It’s good to see you again, Sheikh Al-Hosseini. What can I get for you tonight?”
Zaakir looked to Megan. “Order anything you’d like.”
“Oh, just a glass of wine. Red, please.”
“Bring us something from my private collection,” Zaakir said to the waitress. “We’ll take the bottle.”
The woman nodded and walked away.
“Your private collection?”
He shrugged again. “It sounds so much fancier than it really is. I have my own wines shipped in and they keep them in the cellar for me. It’s simpler that way; I don’t have to look at a wine list and wonder about authenticity, or if a certain vintage will work with the food. I have my personal collection available at a few places in the city. It just makes things easier.”
The waitress brought the bottle of wine and uncorked it at the table, then poured two glasses. Megan looked at the dark bottle. It wasn’t a label she recognized, but usually she drank bottom-shelf wine and didn’t give it much thought. She watched Zaakir swirl his wine in his glass and take a long sniff, then a small sip. He nodded at the waitress and she walked away.
Megan sniffed at her glass, but it just smelled like wine to her. She took a sip. It was good – really good - but it didn’t taste obviously expensive. Her mother surely would appreciate it, but Megan had never had much interest in attending the wine tastings her mother frequented. There was always another dance class to take.
“Do you like the wine?” the Sheikh asked.
“Sure. But I’m not much of a connoisseur. Just don’t tell my mother.”
“Never,” he said with a grin.
She looked around at the people seated at nearby tables, all expensively dressed in designer labels. “This seems like the type of place my parents would frequent if they lived in the city.”
“Oh yeah? Where do they live?”
“In New Hampshire. That’s where I grew up. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
“Why is that?”
“Not enough going on, too much of the high-society life. My family is from old money, so it’s all dinner parties, and teas and luncheons; who is marrying who and who is going to what school. You can bet I’ve been the topic of much gossip over dinner, I’m sure.” She held up her hand and said in a mocking voice, “Oh, those poor Van Liedens, did you hear? Their daughter went to dance school. Can you believe it? And she’s moved to the city to open a dance studio, of all things. I give her a year, tops, before she comes crawling home, begging to be set up with one of the men her parents picked out for her.” Megan let her hand drop and rolled her eyes.
Zaakir chuckled. “An accurate impression, I’m sure. I’ve seen and heard much of the same. Though the arranged marriage part wasn’t something I escaped. And I did follow in my father’s footsteps. I’m sure for my parents’ friends it was all, ‘that Zaakir is really going to make something of himself. Marrying a fine young Al-Sharrabian woman and doing everything his parents ask.’” He sighed. “But alas, I’m not like you, Megan. Happy. Free. I should have done what you did. But I had no dre
ams of my own. My parents told me what to dream and I listened.”
Megan reached across the table and touched his hand, then pulled it back when she realized how intimate it felt. “But you have your family. You haven’t disgraced them! Look at how well you’re doing; you have a private wine collection all throughout the city! That’s not nothing.”
“But none of that is important. Money, titles—who cares? Maybe I’ve been in the States too long. My mother did warn me about American romanticism. I think I’ve fallen in love with the idea of love. I want more for my life than to just marry the woman they chose. I want to live for more than money.”
Megan traced her finger along the rim of her wine glass. “I know exactly how you feel. I gave up a life of money to do what I loved. In the end, I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered. My parents are nearly broke now, anyway, though you’d never know it. And just because your parents chose your bride doesn’t mean you won’t end up loving her.”
“These things rarely turn out so well.” He paused, and looked concerned for a moment. “What do you mean about your parents being broke?”
“They used to have money; they were both born with it. But they made some bad investments together, and lost almost everything. Now they’re living off their savings and the credit they can get based on their name, which they can do so long as everyone still thinks there’s plenty of money there. They keep borrowing more and losing it. And they run around spending it like they never lost a dime.”
Zaakir refilled their glasses. “Money is easy to lose, harder to respect. It’s nice to live a life of flashy cars and palaces, but what do you have left when it’s gone? Do your parents still have love, at least?”
Megan shrugged. “I guess so. It’s hard to tell.”
“My parents don’t.”
She met his eyes for a moment and saw that they were full of sadness.
“I am destined to be alone, like this rose. Even in marriage, if there is no love, I will always feel alone.” He touched the red petals lightly, letting his fingers move slowly down the thin silver vase.
“But look how beautiful it is.” Megan moved the rose to the center of the table, between them.
He stared at it for a long time. “You’re right. It is beautiful. It’s long and slender and full of vibrancy. Yet it stands on its own, tall and perfect. Now that I think of it, this rose is much more like you. You need no one. You have made it on your own.”
Megan let her eyes fall to the table and felt the warmth spread through her, trying to convince herself that it was mostly from the wine. He said the most incredible things. And now she was starting to understand why. He wasn’t marrying for love, and perhaps he had feelings for her as well—but he was still getting married and nothing was going to change that fact. Megan stood on her own, yes, but she wanted someone to stand with her. She didn’t want to be the single rose forever. She wanted a partner, and a family.
“Why do you say your parents don’t love each other?” she asked suddenly.
“They care only about money. I doubt they even loved me or my siblings.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Where I’m from, it’s not like how things are here. In Al-Sharrabi, children are created for a purpose and marriages are chosen for strategy. You find the person who will most benefit your family and you marry off your son or daughter, then they have children to become heirs. There are no great love stories. No joy of children and the pitter patter of little feet as you say here. The children are looked after by tutors and servants. As I said, we often didn’t even see each other, let alone our parents. We have nothing like American love.”
Megan chuckled. “What’s so great about the American version of love? It just leads to heartache and pain.”
“No. In America, you feel. Yes, pain is unavoidable, but that’s because you love so deeply. There is no pain in Al-Sharrabi, not like heartache, but it’s because there is no love. No passion. Our pain is in loneliness. In America, people die for love, they make sacrifices and do incredible things for the person they love. They hug their children and take them to dance classes. It’s all for love.”
“You make it sound amazing. But love can suck. It doesn’t last, and when it ends, it hurts.”
“Isn’t it worth it, though? To feel so alive?”
She took a long sip of wine. “I guess. Unless you end up loving the wrong person.” Or having feelings for someone who isn’t available in the first place, she thought.
“I should probably get going,” Megan said.
“We just got here. You can stay a little while, can’t you? We at least have to finish the bottle.”
It would be a shame to waste it. Besides that, Zaakir had learned the tango so quickly that he wouldn’t need any more lessons. He would be married in a matter of days, and this would be the last time she saw him. Why not take advantage of every minute, if they were all she’d ever have?
“Okay,” she said. “But enough of this talk of love. Tell me more about your work.”
“It’s not all that interesting, really. I buy businesses and sell them. I make investments and collect the money when they pay off.”
“You make it sound so easy. I know it’s not. I watched my parents fail.”
“I have good contacts and advisers. I’ve been learning about business since I was a small boy. I have an instinct for these things. I do make bad investments and bad deals on occasion. Everyone does. But overall, my profits outweigh my losses.”
“I sense an understatement there; the limo, the wine, the outrageous amount of money you paid me for two private lessons. You’re obviously a big success.”
“Oh, I do well enough,” he agreed, “but I don’t consider myself a success.”
“How is that possible?”
“I have yet to win the love of a woman.”
“But you’re about to be married. Surely you’ll win her over with your charm and wit.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think women in my home country are all that impressed by charm and wit. Money, yes. But there is more to me than that.”
“She’ll see that. You just spent two nights learning the tango so you could dance well at your wedding. That shows dedication to a bride you haven’t even spent much time with.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I think she’s a very lucky woman,” Megan said, avoiding his unasked question. She tipped the last of the wine into their glasses and set the bottle down. “I hope I’ll find love someday too.”
How she wished it could be Zaakir. Not that she needed his money or fame—she’d had enough of that life. But when she thought of how he held her when they danced, how he glided and turned with her on the floor, she knew she didn’t want someone else. What was it he had said? Like water, like music when they danced. But she also felt electricity, heat, and his undeniable strength. If she was water, he was the earth beneath her. If she was music, he was the cry of the violin strings. She wished they could stand up and dance right now.
“I know you will. You are a fine woman, Megan.”
She took a long sip, finishing her wine. “I really have to go.”
Zaakir looked as though he was about to say something, but held back. He motioned to the waitress for the check.
“I thought this was your wine?” Megan asked when the waitress had brought the bill.
“Yes, but there is a corking fee and a serving fee. And, of course, the tip.”
“Right.”
He signed the slip and stood. She followed him out of the building and to the limo that was waiting by the curb. He held open the door for her to climb in.
“Shall I have my driver take you home or back to the studio?”
“Home would be nice.”
He pressed a small button on the clear panel that separated them. “Omar, we’re going to take Miss Van Lieden to her home.” He turned back to her. “What’s the address?”
She gave him her address and tried to f
ocus on enjoying the last twenty minutes she had with Zaakir, but it was impossible. She wanted to reach over and take his hand. She wanted to kiss him goodnight and feel his smooth lips against hers. It felt like they had only just set off when the car slowed to a stop in front of her building.
Zaakir got out and held the door open for her, then walked her to the door.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” he said softly.
“The pleasure was mine, really. And thank you for the ridiculous tip. It’s way too much, but thank you.”
“The pleasure was all mine, as you say.”
Megan took a moment to really look at his smile one last time, trying to preserve the image, before she turned and walked away.
FIVE
Try as she might, Megan could not get to sleep. As she lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, all that came to mind were thoughts of Zaakir, tangled with thoughts of her parents, her absent love life, her decision about a child. Parts of her night with Zaakir kept coming back to her; the talk of love, the rose, his impending marriage.
When she woke the next morning, she felt exhausted. She made coffee to take with to the studio and drank nearly the whole 16 ounces before she got to the door. Inside, she began her morning cleanup routine: mopping the studio floor, wiping the mirror free of fingerprints, running the little sweeper across the carpet in the waiting room.
When she’d finished, she took out her phone. It was probably too early to call Rachel, who’d been needing lots of extra sleep lately, but she could text her.
So, I not only had the second dance lesson with the Sheikh, but then he asked me out for drinks. Call me ASAP when you get up!
She put her phone on the desk beside her and picked up her class binder. She needed to finish entering the costumes into her order online. It was a long process and somewhat complicated; several hundred students, most with multiple classes and costumes meant a lot of chances to order wrong sizes or forget to order everything each student needed.
She was nearing the end of entering the order when her phone rang and Rachel’s number displayed on her screen.
“What happened last night?” Rachel said, as soon as the call connected. “That was a heck of a text to wake up to.”
“Yeah. Well, it was a heck of a night.” Megan explained how the lesson had gone and how she’d ended up going out with Zaakir afterward.
“Wow. Just wow,” Rachel said. “If he’s not marrying for love, then…”
“I know, but his country has its traditions, and it’s already too late. It’s not like he could back out of the wedding now, and it’s not like we even had a significant enough encounter to back out of a wedding over.”
“Too bad he didn’t come to get lessons months ago.”
“I know, I know. But, I think last night I figured some things out.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
Megan leaned back in her chair, preparing to say this all out loud for the first time. “Okay. Well, I think first of all, that I’m too picky to find real love. I—”
“What? Oh come on, you’re not that picky. Don’t say that.”
“No, I just think my view of love and romance is too… I don’t know. Too Hollywood? I want to be swept off my feet. I want to be surprised. But that’s beside the point. I don’t think I want to wait until I’m married to have a baby.”
“Okay… But don’t you think you should think about this a little more?”
“I’m still thinking. I’m not going to make a snap decision about something like this. I have the studio to worry about, and unless you were able to start working again when the time came, I’d have to find someone to take over for me for at least a few weeks. But, there’s something bigger than that.”
Rachel laughed. “Bigger than deciding that love will forever elude you and that you should have a baby alone?”
“Yup.” Megan leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. “I’m going to try to reconcile with my parents.”
“Really? What brought that on?”
“Zaakir and I talked a lot about our families. I’m hoping that after a year of me being here and doing well I will be able to convince them I’m a success. And maybe since they’re so broke, they’ll have gained some humility.”
Rachel huffed. “Doubtful.”
“Yeah, but I have to try. The thing is, if I’m going to have a baby, I’d like that child to know his or her grandparents, even if they’re not perfect.”
“Megan. Are you serious? They’re going to flip out.”
“Probably, but maybe they’ll come around. Maybe they’re ready to stop caring what other people think for the sake of their grandchild. I hear becoming a grandparent is a big deal. People go nuts over grandkids, don’t they?”
“They do. Trust me.” Megan could almost hear her friend rolling her eyes at that. “My parents and Matt’s parents are driving us a bit nuts. But Megan. You’re not married and having a baby. And while I fully support the single parent thing, you know your parents won’t. And it’s not like you just got pregnant after sleeping with someone. You won’t know who the father is and you’re paying for his sperm.”
“They don’t have to know that part.”
“What, you think you’ll keep it from them?”
“I’ll refuse to tell them and if they’re persistent about it. I’ll think of something - say it was a horrible one night stand and I don’t even know the guy’s name.”
“I’m not sure that’s any better than telling them you went to a sperm bank. At least then you could tell them you picked a donor with a few million in the bank or something.”
“I have plenty of time to figure that part out. What do you think of all this, though? Am I nuts?”
“Of course not. I think you’re doing what you’ve done your whole life, Megan. You’re going after what you want and doing whatever it takes to get there. And, like everything else you pursue, you’ll succeed.”
“Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
