Where the Lotus Flowers Grow

by MK Schiller

  “Oh, my God. Did you do this?”

  “Yeah, the plan was for us to have a dance right here, but I don’t think it’s wise since your feet hurt.”

  The flower on the far fountain was the largest. I sat on the stone ridge of the structure staring at the blossom. It had a soft pink tinge on each petal. I knew it to be mine.

  “Liam, I swear this is my lotus flower from Jaipur.”

  “It is, lass. The new owners hadn’t started construction yet. I convinced them to let me have it. I had it flown here.”

  “You did all that?” I pointed to my chest. “For me?” My God…was he real?

  “I wanted to prove a point to you.”

  “What point?”

  He sat next to me. “The blossom maybe delicate, but it is strong, too. It can always find a new home.”

  I leaned my head against his chest. “Don’t let go of me.”

  “Never, but this isn’t what I wanted to show you.”

  “I can’t handle anymore.”

  “Sorry, lover, this one, this one we can’t skip. It’s a full moon, and I’ve timed it just right.” He scooped me up in his strong arms and carried me to the beach. He set me down on the sand so we were facing each other. The foamy sea lapped against our bare feet. “I’m so relieved you didn’t make me wait ten years, but I would have. I would have come down to this beach every night, waiting for you and praying for your happiness at the same time.”

  He took my hands and fell to his knees.

  “Liam,” I gasped. “Yes, I’ll marry you!”

  He shook his head, stood, and brushed the sand off his knees. “Shit, this isn’t a ring either.”

  “Oh,” I said, not hiding my disappointment. “How about you stop getting on your knees in front of me?”

  “Yeah, in hindsight, it wasn’t the most fitting gesture.”

  He took a rock out of his pocket, an actual rock, and handed it to me. I stared at it, wondering if he was doing some sort of symbolic Penguin gesture. Then I saw what it was. “It can’t be.”

  “It is.”

  “How did you…?”

  “My mum bought it. I helped her fashion some wire into a lotus flower pin. We pasted this in the center. I didn’t even know I had it until Stephen dropped off this box of my old stuff. I’ve had it all along, but it really belongs to you. I’m giving it to you under the full moon.”

  I held it up against the moonlight. I said a prayer for our happiness. Then I handed it to him and closed his hands around it. “Dadima told me to give it to my true love. So I’m giving it back to you. I am bound to you in every way.”

  “I was hoping you’d do that.” He hugged me and whispered in my ear, “I love your soul, Mary Costa.”

  “I love your soul, too.”

  I shivered against the breeze. He picked me up again, and this time he did carry me to the bedroom. We fed each other strawberries dipped in Sidr honey. He made love to me. I finally let the darkness go.

  I finally survived it.

  * * * *

  When I woke in the morning, he was staring down at me.

  “Morning, janu,” I said.

  “What does that mean?” he asked, twirling a piece of my hair in his fingers.

  “It means ‘love.’”

  “I like it,” he said, stroking my hair.

  “How long can we stay here?” I didn’t want to break the spell of this magical place, but I knew we had other, more practical things to talk about, like where we were going to live. Not that it mattered as long as we were together.

  He smiled. “You like the cottage, lass?”

  “I love it.”

  “How does forever suit you?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I bought it. It’s ours.”

  I sat up. “Don’t you have to work, Liam?”

  “When the IPO happened, I sold my stock. I gifted a few shares to Stephen, giving him controlling interest.”

  “You sold your stake in the company?”

  “I never wanted it, Mary. I just thought I did. I gave the lion’s share to charity, but I kept enough so we’d be comfortable while I pursue a new career choice.”

  “You’re going to paint?” I asked with excitement.

  He grinned. “No, baby, I’m going to be a professional arm wrestler. What do you think?”

  I elbowed him. “Liam!”

  He tickled me. “Yes, I’m going to paint. But only if my muse promises never to leave me again.”

  “I promise, janu.”

  His kiss was tender and fierce at the same time. He tasted like Sidr honey.

  His expression turned serious. “And you, Mary. What would you like to do?”

  “First, I’d like to visit Marcus and say a proper good-bye. Then I want a nice wedding with all our friends who have become family and all our family who have become friends.”

  “Brilliant idea.”

  “Then maybe while you’re pursuing your passion, I’ll go to school and learn some culinary techniques?”

  “A woman who can feed me. I’m such a lucky man.”

  “But before any of that, you have to propose to me.”

  “I have plans for that,” he said, kissing my neck. He worked his way down to my breast. His tongue flicked across my tender nipple.

  I yanked his hair, pulling his face up. “After last night, I don’t need anything else. You literally swept me off my feet. I think if you do one more grand gesture, my heart might just burst right out of my chest. I don’t even need a ring. Just ask me.”

  “Oh, I got a ring. You sure about this? Because I have a plan that’s already set in motion.”

  “Positive.”

  He opened a side drawer and pulled out a box. He kissed my stomach before placing a light blue box on it.

  “Mary, me—”

  “Yes,” I screamed.

  “I wasn’t finished.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mary…” This time he paused, smirking. “Me and you have been through so much.”

  I sighed. “Liam, please stop teasing me.”

  I expected the amused smile. Instead, he inhaled. “I’m sorry. I’m kind of nervous.”

  “Don’t be. We already belong to each other.”

  His smile was full of relief. “Yes, we do. Mary, mai tumse pyar karta hoon. I love you. I promise to be a good husband and the best father I can be. I will always safeguard your happiness. Marry me and make me the happiest man in the world.” He opened the box. Inside was a stunning platinum band with diamonds shaped into a lotus flower.

  I cupped my hand over my mouth, afraid to touch it. It was so lovely. He slipped it onto my finger and kissed the underside of my wrist.

  “You’re suppose to respond. That’s the tradition.”

  “Mai tumse pyar karti hoon. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  Epilogue

  Mary

  Liam was a grand gesture Raj. He’d already put so much work into the proposal, he insisted on carrying out his original plans. A fortnight later, he took the ring back from me and told me to go out to the beach. I stood there alone, a cool breeze flowing in the air, ripe with the scents of coconut and honeysuckle and spices, wondering what was going on.

  Then the music started. Musicians, dancers, and singers dressed in colorful outfits descended around me. They did a mash-up of Bollywood, Dusty Springfield, and even a little opera. Somehow, it all blended into the most harmonious song I’d ever heard. Then Liam made all my highlander fantasies come true by galloping down the beach on a white horse. Yes, a real white horse, and in a kilt no less. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life. It was a huge epic spectacle of over-the-top corny, but I loved every minute of it.

  We married in New York in a beautiful outdoor ceremony in Central Park. Spring in New York made me appreciate the city a hundred times over. All our friends were there. Liam surprised me by flying out Divya, Amira, and
their families. Stephen was Liam’s best man. He brought a very lovely woman with hair the color of strawberries as his date. Next month, we were flying back to New York for Jan and Stephen’s wedding.

  All of those huge memories would always hold a special place in my heart. But this…this right now was the kind of moment I couldn’t get enough of.

  Lying on the hammock of our veranda and watching my husband and son stroll the beach. I was wrong about our child being a girl. We had a beautiful, healthy baby boy. Marco had rich, dark curly hair and the same green-brown eyes as his daddy. He giggled as he ran down the shoreline, turning back to his dad. Liam ran after Marco, grabbing the boy around the waist and swinging him onto his broad shoulders. Then my janu turned to me, a goofy grin on his face. I returned his smile, my heart expanded to a level I didn’t think was possible. Wasn’t that the magic of love? Just when you thought you reached a level of fullness, the boundary lines stretched once more.

  I had lived through hell. Then made my own purgatory. Now…now I finally had emerged from the dark waters to find a love and happiness I would always fight for.

  Meet the Author

  M.K. Schiller is a hopeless romantic in a hopelessly pragmatic world. In the dark of night, she sits by the warm glow of her computer monitor, reading or writing, usually with some tasty Italian … the food, that is! She started imagining stories at a very young age. In fact, she got so good at it that friends asked her to create plots featuring them as the heroine and the object of their affection as the hero. She hopes you enjoy her stories and find The Happily Ever After in every endeavor. M. K. Schiller loves hearing from readers. Find her on Facebook, follow her on Twitter @MKSchiller, and visit her website at www.mkschillerauthor.com.mk@mkschillerauthor.com

  MK Schiller’s first cross-cultural romance, Unwanted Girl, has received a starred review from Publishers Weekly and an Amazon editor pick. A heartfelt tale not to be missed.

  On sale now!

  Unwanted Girl

  When a man loves a woman

  Recovering addict Nick Dorsey finds solace in his regimented life. That is until he meets Shyla Metha. Something about the shy Indian beauty who delivers take-out to his Greenwich Village loft inspires the reclusive writer. And when Shyla reveals her desire to write a book of her own, he agrees to help her. The tale of a young Indian girl growing up against a landscape of brutal choices isn’t Nick’s usual territory, but something about the story, and the beautiful storyteller, draws him in deep.

  Shyla is drawn to Nick, but she never imagines falling for him. Like Nick, Shyla hails from a village, too…a rural village in India. They have nothing in common, yet he makes her feel alive for the first time in her life. She is not ready for their journey to end, but the plans she’s made cannot be broken…not even by him. Can they find a way to rewrite the next chapter?

  Chapter 1

  Nick Dorsey ran every morning, although he no longer ventured to guess whether he was chasing dreams or fleeing demons. As he exited the brick building on Bleecker to a grim, grayish sky, the promise of another sunless day revealed itself.

  His feet pounded the pavement in a stride that ranged from sprint to run to jog, matching the same footpaths as TS Eliot, Faulkner, and Poe. He’d insisted on the Village because it was a literary mecca. Although, these days, it could be argued the high rents favored capitalists over the creatives.

  He’d hunted for months with a petite blond realtor until she found a place in his price range. The realtor was intelligent and assertive—during negotiations and sex—two traits Nick valued. In the end, it got him a nice place in the West Village with a working elevator, architectural charm, and original hardwood floors. It got her a fat commission check and about the same number of orgasms. Too bad the only thing he turned on these days was his computer…and that relationship was near terminal.

  He rounded Thompson Avenue, passing the bookstore where his latest novel occupied the window. He allowed the smallest flicker of pride before picking up speed. How far he’d come from the poor kid whose life was hand-me-down clothes and secondhand books.

  He reached Washington Square Park ready to do a complete loop. Nick’s runs used to consist of random thoughts about his characters and plot points. The beauty of being a writer was you could work anywhere anytime. One of the best scenes he’d ever written was during a tax audit. Now, his mind lacked the spark required to conjure creativity. He emerged from the park, slowing his pace until he reached the glass door of The Ole Time Floral shop with its annoying wreath of greenery and bells that signaled his arrival.

  “A white rose, please,” he said to the florist, who was already reaching into the barrel to retrieve the item.

  “You know, dear, its romantic how you buy her a rose every day, but I’m sure she’d be more impressed with a whole bouquet at once.”

  Nick frowned. “I don’t want to impress her. I just want her to know I’m there.”

  The lady arched a bushy brow, waiting for further explanation, but Nick did not intend to satisfy her unsolicited curiosity. He shoved the money at her and clutched the thorny bud in his hand. She no longer asked if he wanted it wrapped with a sprig of greenery.

  He ran an additional mile until he reached the tranquil snow-covered grounds behind an ornate metal gate on Sullivan Street. It looked like a park with its lush landscape of willow trees and benches, but the stone angels, marble pillars, and simple markers jutting from the ground gave away its identity.

  He fell to his knees, the crunch of fresh snow against hard earth disturbing the serenity. Nick gulped in the cold desolate air, reading her gravestone for the thousandth time, even though every curl of the fancy lettering chiseled on the surface was already etched into his brain. He’d become a creature of habit, and the repetition of every act provided a strange comfort. He bowed his head, joined his hands together, and begged in silence for forgiveness that would never come.

  An hour later, showered and freshly dressed, he walked through the heavy wooden doors of the old church on Grand, the location of his second daily errand. Nick originally chose the ten a.m. timeframe to avoid crowds. It was flawed logic, bordering on reckless naiveté since the term “avoid crowds” was a fool’s ambition in this city. Although there weren’t any stockbrokers or executives, plenty of actors, singers, and housewives packed the large room. They all chatted amicably while drinking percolated coffee, which Nick, a coffee connoisseur, admitted was the best he’d ever had.

  He sat in the uncomfortable metal chair, waiting for the meeting to come to order. When the time came, Nick spoke clearly and honestly.

  “I’m Nick Dorsey, and I am a meth addict. It’s been eighteen months, two weeks, and three days since my last fix.” He talked about his addiction until his three minutes of indulgent introspection were up and his Styrofoam cup runneth empty.

  He arrived back at the Bleecker Street loft with all his errands accomplished, but no sense of accomplishment for it. Gaping at his keyboard, a fresh cup of caffeine in his hand and a stifling lack of imagination, he sat down.

  Wanting to alleviate the harsh glare of the blank page, he clicked on the keyboard in quick snapping strokes. The rain fell in thick sheets as if the sky weighed in on Max’s decision.

  Shit.

  Did he actually start the fucking book with a weather report? The greats—George Orwell, Charles Dickens, or Dr. Seuss were capable of such openings, but Nick Dorsey was not. He hit the backspace, erasing every individual character with a scorning strike. He wondered what other words could describe rain. He walked over to the large bookshelf that spanned an entire wall. As it turned out, Webster’s had thirty-two words for precipitation from the descriptive drencher to the very simple wet stuff.

  He slammed the book shut, tired of his pathetic attempts at procrastination.

  He didn’t mind the timid knock at nine p.m., though. That was a welcome break from the unrelenting flutter of the cursor.

  Sandwich girl was her
e and right on time.

  He opened the door, and there she stood as she had almost every night for the past year since he’d discovered the corner deli delivered. The tall, thin girl with raven hair offered a nervous smile. He often speculated on the length of her hair. She always wore it in a tightly coiled bun except for the few loose strands that framed her face.

  When her smile widened just right, it would create the slightest dimple on her left cheek. As much as he enjoyed the appearance of the dimple, what struck him the most was her accent. He’d heard all kinds of Asian accents, but never one as lyrical as hers with each simple word drawn out softly, a seductive hum as it left her lips. Her loose trench coat, too mild for this weather, slipped off one shoulder as she inched her knapsack higher on the other.

  “Hello,” she said cheerfully, handing him the brown paper bag that contained his turkey and Swiss on whole wheat.

  “Hiya, Sandwich Girl.” It was their usual greeting. No names—the time for civilized introductions had passed long ago.

  He fished a twenty from his wallet. She shoved her hand in her pocket searching for change.

  “Keep it,” he said.

  “Thank you. That’s very generous.”

  Why they went through the same motions, he didn’t know, except she was polite and unassuming, and he found a certain comfort in the repetition. “Don’t mention it.”

  Her head began shifting downward, but she paused and lifted her gaze to meet his. In the beginning, the shy girl would never look him in the face, throwing the bag at him and taking off before he yelled after her that he had yet to pay. Then she’d slowly shuffle back, her head down, holding out her trembling hand. Now, they held actual conversation between them, and although it lacked any depth, those few minutes became the most enjoyable part of his scheduled day.

  “It’s getting nicer outside. I think spring will arrive early this year,” she said.