"That's very thoughtful."
"It's Jasmine who was thoughtful. She was worried about Ben. Did he tell you what happened?"
"He hasn't spoken to us about any failed romance, but then he doesn't share his romantic life with us at all."
"I think her name was Sara."
"Sara? Hmmm. He dated someone named Sara back in Bezikstan, but that was a long time ago."
"Perhaps they reconnected."
"Maybe Ben told Elizabeth about it," Neil said. "If you want to bring the book by tomorrow, I'm sure Ben would appreciate having something that Jasmine thought was important for him to read."
"I'll do that."
"Are you sure you're all right, Parisa? Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No, I'm good. I just want Jasmine to come home."
"She will. You must not give up hope or faith. It's what gets us through the hard times. We must continue to believe that all will be as it is meant to be."
"I'm trying to stay positive. I'll see you tomorrow."
"I look forward to it."
She disconnected the phone and looked across the counter at Jared. She'd deliberately avoided his gaze while making up her elaborate story. It was easier to lie without an audience.
"That was impressive," he said, a gleam in his eyes. "A book of poetry that Jasmine had inscribed just for Ben to heal his broken heart. Who could refuse that? How long did it take you to concoct that story?"
"About ten seconds."
"And you think I'm the better liar?"
"I didn't say you were better. I just said you were a liar."
"Good point."
"At any rate, it looks like we can talk to Ben tomorrow."
"If he comes home."
"Do you have resources who might be able to find him tonight?"
"My resources have been coming up empty on that front."
"Then I guess we have to wait. Is that steak done, because I'm starving?"
"It's ready. Why don’t we eat at the table?"
She nodded, moving over to the table where he'd put out two place settings. "This was nice of you to do. With this being the city of incredible takeout, it would have been easier for you to order something."
"I've done that a lot. I felt like a good piece of meat." He brought their plates to the table and then grabbed the glass of wine he'd been enjoying while he was cooking.
She cut into the filet, and it was a perfect shade of pink. "Just the way I like it," she said.
"I should have asked."
"It's perfect." In fact, she couldn't remember having a steak this good in a very long time. Or maybe she was just that hungry.
As they ate, she couldn't help thinking that Jared hadn't asked a lot of questions about her earlier phone call with Damon. Was that because he'd gotten his own information from some other source? She'd been asleep a long time. Long enough for him to have shopped for food, cooked dinner, and probably talked to whoever he worked for or with.
"So, tell me more about you, Parisa," he said, interrupting her thoughts.
"What do you want to know?" she asked warily.
"I was wondering about your mother and stepfather. You said they were good friends with the Kumars. Why weren't they at the party?"
"They're out of the country. My stepfather retired last year, and he and my mother travel often for pleasure. They're in Bali now, on a month-long spiritual and meditative retreat."
"That sounds…relaxing."
She smiled at his choice of adjective. "Does it? It sounds stressful to me. Forced quiet is not my kind of thing. But apparently getting in touch with your soul requires structure and rules. My parents seem to love it. This is the third time they've gone on one of these retreats in the last year. I guess it's good they both enjoy it. It would be more difficult if only one wanted to go."
"Sounds like they have a happy marriage."
"They do. Harry married my mom when I was eight years old. My real dad left when I was three, so I barely remember him. Harry has been the only dad I've known. He's a good man, very smart, well educated, well spoken. He cares a great deal about the world. He has lived a life of service, and it has often inspired me."
"What about your mother? What's she like?"
"She was born in India. Her name is Riya. She came to the US when she was eleven with her parents. She's creative and kind, quiet and beautiful."
"Like her daughter."
She smiled at his words. "Nice of you to say, thank you. I'm not that creative. I try to be kind. Quiet—not so much, and beautiful, well, I do look like her, although my skin is a bit lighter than hers, probably because my biological father was blond and pale."
"Does your mother work?"
"She worked in a university admissions office before she met Harry. After they fell in love, she focused on being his wife and my mother. We traveled to whatever post Harry was assigned to. It was a nomadic life, but it was happy." She paused. "My mother and stepfather have had a powerful love story since they first met. They've always been extremely devoted to each other. Sometimes, I felt a little outside of their story, not that they ever wanted me to feel that way. It's just the way it was. It probably would have been different if I'd had a sibling. I wouldn't have felt so alone." She took a sip of her wine. "Now it's your turn. Tell me about your family."
His expression tensed. "There's not much to tell."
"Then it won't take long," she said, giving him a pointed look. "And think about your answer. Make sure it's truthful, like mine just was."
Their gazes clung together, and then he gave her a subtle nod. "All right. I can give you the truth." He got up from the table and walked over to the desk, pulling open the bottom drawer. He came back with a folded piece of paper that had yellowed with age. He sat down and slid it across the table to her.
She felt a bit of nervous trepidation as she unfolded the paper, not sure what she was about to learn, but sensing that it was going to be important.
The paper was a copy of a newspaper clipping. There was a black-and-white photo of a smiling woman with dark hair and light eyes, whose features looked quite similar to Jared's. Next to the photo was an obituary. The date was September 15, 2001. The woman's name was Carol Montgomery.
Her stomach churned as she skimmed through the obit. Carol Montgomery, a loving mother and wife, had died in her office in the World Trade Center on 9/11. She was survived by her husband, Brett, her two sons, Jared and Will, and her father Gilbert.
"Oh, my God," she murmured, glancing over at Jared. He'd lost his normal cocky smirk, his green eyes dark and serious, his expression tense. "This is your mother?"
"Yes. She was an accountant. She spent her days adding up profits and losses for a real-estate firm. She was sitting at her desk when the first plane hit the building, right at her floor. Everyone said she probably never knew what happened, that she was killed instantly. I pray that's the way it went down. I don't want to think about her being scared, knowing she wasn't going to see us again. But the truth is—I don't know. They didn't find her for hours. She was buried in rubble."
A sickening feeling swept through her. "That's terrible. I'm so sorry."
"I was sixteen years old. My brother Will was twelve. My father, Brett, was a high school teacher. He and I were at the same school. I still remember when he came into my classroom with terror in his eyes. And then we ran six blocks to the middle school to find Will. The sky was black. The air was thick; it was difficult to breathe. And there were so many sirens. We lived fifteen blocks from Ground Zero. We could see my mom's office from our rooftop deck."
She shook her head at the horror of his story. "I can't imagine what you went through."
"We didn't know she was dead until two o'clock the following afternoon. We waited up all night, hoping for a miracle, and worrying that the terror wasn't over."
She'd wanted Jared to tell her something true, and he'd certainly delivered, but his story made her sick to her stomach.
Jar
ed cleared his throat and took another sip of wine. "My dad was devastated after she died. He couldn't come to grips with what had happened. My mom was just an ordinary person doing a rather boring job. She wasn't ever supposed to be in danger. She wasn't supposed to go to work one day and not come back."
"No, she wasn't." She glanced down at his mother's smiling face. "I can see you in her features."
"I have her eyes."
"Why is her last name different than yours?"
"She kept her maiden name."
"Is that true or is your real last name Montgomery?"
"It's not important." He drew in a breath and let it out. "After her funeral, my dad finished out the teaching year and then he took me and my brother to a place in Upstate New York, a beautiful piece of property in a rural area where there was a pond and horses to ride, lots of open space, no skyscrapers to remind us of what we'd seen. It was supposed to just be for the summer, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. So, we ended up transferring schools, and we never came back to the city."
"It sounds idyllic."
"It was healing, but, eventually, I wanted more. I went away to college and after that I took a job in Boston for a few years. I've moved around since then."
"Is this apartment your first place back in this city?"
"It is."
"And it has a view of the Freedom Tower. Was that on purpose?"
"Actually, I almost changed my mind about staying here when I saw it, but then I thought it was a good reminder of how easy it is to lose everything."
"Do you need that reminder?"
"No."
"I didn't think so." She gave him a compassionate smile. "That's a sad story, Jared."
"It's my story."
"What happened to your father? Did he ever remarry?"
"He has had women in his life, but he hasn't made it down the aisle again."
"And your brother?"
"He runs a surf shop in Hawaii."
"That sounds chill."
"That would be my brother. Will decided that life is too short to not do what you love."
"That makes sense. Are you doing what you love?"
"Sometimes."
His vague answer reminded her that he was only willing to tell her some of his story, but she did appreciate that he'd opened up as much as he had. "Thanks for telling me about your mom. I know that wasn't easy." She paused, cocking her head to the right as she gave him a thoughtful look. "Why did you decide to share?"
"Because you need to understand my motivation. I know what it feels like to be caught in a terrorist attack, Parisa, even if I wasn't the one who died."
"Which is why you're so interested in the Paris explosion."
"Yes."
"But I'm still not sure what it is about that particular blast that is so intriguing to you. There have been others, some closer to home, some with more devastating consequences."
"One death is a devastation to that person's family."
"I know, but I feel like I'm missing something."
"Let's change the subject. Are you ready for dessert?"
She blinked at the abrupt question. "Uh, yeah, I guess. Do you have dessert?"
"All the fixings for ice cream sundaes: hot fudge, whipped cream, nuts, and, of course, ice cream."
"Sounds delicious."
He grinned, giving her a wicked smile. "Although I can think of a few other ways we might use the whipped cream."
"None of which we're going to do," she said quickly.
"It's not a crime to admit you're attracted to me."
"You're the one who's attracted to me," she countered.
"Well, I can't argue with that, not after that kiss we shared earlier."
"That was expedient."
"It was hot, and you know it."
She frowned. "I don't even know you."
"You don't have to know me to want me. But that bothers you, doesn't it?"
It did bother her, but she wasn't going to tell him that. "What bothers me more is that we lost Westley and Anika. We got distracted."
"So, you can at least admit you were distracted."
She sighed. "Fine. We have some chemistry, but we're not going to do anything about it. We're only together because of Jasmine."
"And because you need a safe place to stay, and for some reason you find it easier to trust me than the person you check in with every few hours."
"Well, as you've mentioned several times, you have saved my life, and the safe house the FBI put me into didn't work out too well. So, let's make some sundaes and then we'll figure out what to do next."
Ten
Parisa surprised him with the awesome magnificence of her sundae: two scoops of ice cream—one vanilla, one chocolate—plenty of hot fudge, a couple of swirls of whipped cream, nuts and a cherry on the top. He'd thought by how slim she was, she might have either foregone the sundae or settled for a small scoop, but she was eating with pure pleasure, her dark eyes lit up, and dollops of whipped cream clinging to her lips with each spoonful.
He was so fascinated by watching her eat that he left his sundae untouched.
"Yours is melting," Parisa told him, as her tongue snaked out to catch a drop of hot fudge.
"You're really enjoying that," he said, scooping up a spoonful of ice cream.
"I love a hot fudge sundae. It's actually my favorite dessert."
"Then I made a good choice. It was this or the cheesecake."
"You definitely made the right choice. I'm going to need a run after this."
"Are you a runner?"
"I am—which is a good thing, since I also like to eat." She flashed him a guilty smile.
He grinned back at her. "So do I. Have you ever run a race?"
"I've done half marathons. Maybe one day, when I have more time to really train, I'll do the full version. What about you? Do you like to run?"
"I prefer cycling, but I also run and swim."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're a triple threat."
"I did the Iron Man triathlon in Hawaii two years ago."
"I'm impressed."
"Don't be. I finished out of the top 20 percent."
"That's still amazing. Or do you only feel successful when you're the best?"
"I do like to win. Not that I was expecting to win the triathlon, but I was hoping to make the top 10 percent of entrants."
"I like to win, too. I've always been competitive, and I have no idea where I get it from. My mom is the least competitive person I know. I can't seem to shake my drive to win."
"Why would you want to? It's part of who you are. Maybe you get it from your biological father. You really don't know anything about him?"
"I don't remember him, and my mom never talks about him."
"What about your biological grandparents?"
"I know even less about them. They apparently didn't like that their son married an Indian woman."
"Is that why he left your mother? Did he succumb to family pressure?"
"Maybe. My mother has never been forthcoming on that topic. I know he left her in a bad place. Her mother had died a year earlier, and her father had decided to move back to India after that. So, she was alone with a three-year-old. As I mentioned, she worked in the admissions office at a local university during the day, and she picked up tailoring jobs at night. She could sew anything. I did not inherit that skill. She used to lament that I couldn't even hem a pair of pants. But I didn't have the patience. Once she married Harry, however, she found a much easier life."
"How did they meet?"
"It was at the university. He came to a fundraiser. He said he saw her, and he was smitten."
"Love at first sight. Do you believe in that?"
"I do, because I saw it happen with my mom. She fell for Harry hard and fast. She tried to resist, because her first marriage had not gone well, and she'd lost confidence in her instincts. But Harry wouldn't take no for an answer."
"So, you started a new life with a diplomat. W
here else did you live besides Bezikstan?"
"Singapore, Brussels, Rome, and Barcelona. It was a wonderful life."
"Where did you go to college?"
She hesitated for the first time, as if she'd suddenly realized they were getting closer to her more current past. He wished they could tear down the barriers between them, but to get her to open up, he would have to do the same, and he wasn't ready for that. It wasn't just about him. He had to think of the bigger picture.
"I went to Berkeley, in California," she said. "What about you?"
"I went to the University of Virginia."
"And what did you study? English? Journalism?"
"Among other things."
"Like…"
"Political science, international studies. I wanted to understand the world that took my mother away."
"Did it help?" She gave him a soft, compassionate look that almost undid him.
Why on earth had he told her about his mom? That had probably been a mistake. But he couldn't take it back.
"Not really," he said shortly, realizing she was still waiting for an answer. He finished off the last spoonful of ice cream and set his bowl aside. "Nothing can really explain away an act of terror. There's no good reason. There's no lesson to be learned from evil."
"I completely understand. I used to try to make sense of an attack that I lived through a very long time ago—the night my parents and I had to leave the Bezikstan embassy while under fire from rebels."
"Tell me about it."
"I was sixteen. I loved our life in Bezikstan. It's a beautiful country, magnificent mountains, clear lakes, colorful people—music, food, and dance. The country is tucked between India, Nepal, and Bangladesh and for hundreds of years it was a peaceful place. We lived at the embassy, and I became friends with the US staffers and also the native Bezikstani people who worked there—the cooks, the housecleaners, the administrative support. I felt like we were all one happy family."
She sat back in her chair, a smile of fond remembrance on her face. "The week before the attack, we'd hosted a party at the embassy. There had been champagne and music, laughing and singing. I wasn't allowed to be at the dinner; it was adults only, but I watched them from behind a heavy curtain. Jasmine and Anika were there, too. We even managed to steal a bottle of champagne. It was almost empty, but there was enough left for us to have a few sips." She laughed. "We thought we were drunk on the bubbles. We were just three silly girls."
Elusive Promise GO PL 2 Page 10
