The Sheikh's Bride Bet

by Holly Rayner

  There was a silence at the other end of the line. I flicked my fingers across the top of my counter, collecting the crumbs from my morning toast. Just when I wanted to yell, to scream, to demand an answer, my mother coughed into the phone.

  “Well, the cancer hasn’t spread yet,” she finally said, sounding weak.

  “Can Dad get you a glass of water or something?” I asked, my eyes growing wide.

  “He’s upstairs, sweetie.”

  “Mom, you sound like you need some water,” I said, feeling my throat begin to quiver with fear. “Did they tell you anything else? Do they know when…?”

  “Darling, they don’t know when it will spread, or if it will,” Mom said, sounding weak and exhausted. “All I can really tell you, baby, is that although I’m happy—happy as a clam—to hear about your wedding, I won’t be able to be there. I’m a bit too weak to travel these days.”

  I felt, suddenly, as if someone had punched me in the gut. For some reason, I hadn’t allowed myself to consider the fact that my mother might not make it to my wedding.

  My entire life, I’d had a beautiful image of my wedding ceremony. I wanted it held at my parents’ church, surrounded by family, by friends. I yearned for my father to walk me down the aisle, for my mother to hold my hand just before the ceremony and tell me I had found the secret to happiness. I wanted every little detail of my daydream wedding. And yet—as I was latching onto Rami’s reality, Rami’s bet—I couldn’t bring the two worlds together. They would have to stay apart: my fantasy and my reality, separated by my mother’s disease.

  “Are you sure?” I asked my mother, my head swimming. “Maybe if you regain some strength in the next few weeks, we can change the date of the wedding. We can ensure you make it over…”

  “Honey, I don’t know when I’ll have that strength,” she said. “It seems like strength is something that happens to other people now.”

  Tears began to sweep down my cheeks, taking their familiar route. I heard my mother begin to cry, as well. We were both swamped with a sudden and horrible sadness, knowing that the images of my potential wedding day that we’d shared were now impossibilities.

  “Well, that’s what photographers are for,” my mother said, trying to instill some optimism into the conversation. “Just make sure this one takes a photograph of every single second of the entire day. Including the breakdown you inevitably have, right before. We all know how emotional you are.” My mother said it with a joking voice, between her own sobs. “Don’t you remember when you cried yourself to sleep the night before the prom, just because you were so excited to go?”

  I chuckled at the memory, which seemed like it happened to someone else. I still remembered the floor-length gown I’d chosen, how it swirled around my ankles. The heels I’d slipped onto my feet, feeling like some kind of princess. The boy I’d gone with—who I’d thought was the love of my life, naturally—had held onto my hand when we’d entered the school gym, so happy to have me beside him.

  “I was a lot to handle back then. I was a raw nerve,” I said.

  “And you’ll be just the same on your wedding day,” my mother affirmed. “Although it seems so strange to be a part of all these big events in your life. The prom, for one. Your first driving lesson. The time your tooth fell out at the movie theater—”

  “Blood everywhere!” I laughed, shuddering. “All over the popcorn.”

  “I just can’t imagine that I have to miss this,” my mom continued. “But I suppose we’ll both have to get used to this. You’ll have to live your life without me. And I’ll have to accept it.”

  “Mom…” I felt my throat grow tight with the horror of what she was saying. That she was going to accept her fate. “Don’t—”

  “I don’t want to talk about me any longer,” my mother said, sniffing. “Let’s talk about this Rami. Tell me. What’s he like? You said he was handsome, but what else? He must have other qualities.”

  He did. I spun with all the confusion. He was cocky and arrogant, and yet also compassionate and kind. He listened to my stories, remembered them and comprehended them, and seemed to genuinely care about my mother’s illness. And yet there was also something troubling about the entire thing. The fact that he was willing to marry me, a stranger, all for a bet. When he had all the money in the world.

  “Oh, Rami? There’s so much to say, really,” I said, hearing the insecurity in my voice.

  “What about his family? What does he do for a living?” my mother asked, probing. “You’ve surely met them, if he’s from Al-Jarra?”

  “Not yet,” I said, my throat constricting. “I’m going to, of course. It’s in the plans. It’s all just moved so quickly…”

  “Well, how did you meet?” she continued. “It must be a romantic story. Something that swept you off your feet?”

  “Erm. We met at a…bar?”

  “A bar. Well.” I heard my mother’s tone shift. “You must have spotted each other, and known…”

  “I’m not sure. I mean…” I staggered through my words, trying to craft a story that even I could believe in. But the reality wasn’t there. Despite having countless conversations that seemed to sizzle with goodwill and interest, there was still so much I couldn’t know, or understand, about Rami.

  After several more questions, I found a way to get off the phone—telling my mother that it was nearly midnight, that I needed to get some rest. She understood, saying the same. We said our goodbyes and parted—with me reminding her, again, that I would give her every last detail from the wedding. She thanked me.

  After we hung up, I dissolved into tears. I placed my forehead on the chilly countertop, feeling my temples pulse. My shoulders shook with sadness and fear, and my heart swam with confusion. A marriage, for what? Was this all really worth it? Wouldn’t my mother have wanted me to marry someone I loved—a good man—beyond anything else? Was this actually the right move?

  I realized that I had a bit more excavation to do before I fully committed myself to Rami. I had to discover if he was truly a good man, as I suspected. Or if his “good person” act was only that: something to get me closer to the altar, and therefore closer to his money.

  If he revealed himself to be the arrogant fool that I’d suspected him to be, initially, then I knew I had to back out. I had to do it for my mother’s sake. I had to do it for the sake of my happiness, and my self-worth. I would find another way to pay for my mother’s surgery. I would leave Rami out of it if I had to.

  Chapter 12

  Rami

  The minute the newspapers hit the stands, I knew I’d get a call from my mother. I let it ring several times, watching as the phone blinked with her name. Mara Waheed, the impeccable fifty-something with more sass and energy in her little finger than I had in my entire body.

  It was true what I’d told Angie about her. I’d never seen a single strand of her hair out of place. She had a fierce loyalty to my brother and me, but she also put us in our place more often than I could count.

  Finally, on the evening after the engagement, I answered the phone.

  “Mother. Hello.”

  “Here he is, finally answering his phone,” my mother said, sounding fierce and sarcastic. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been avoiding your mother for, all this time. Can you?”

  I stuttered slightly, gazing toward the far corner of my penthouse apartment. Across from me, the window revealed the glittering city below, which stretched toward the sea and the desert, on the other side. I was alone, above it.

  “That’s funny, mother, because I was about to call you,” I said.

  “Nice try. I know you haven’t even spoken to your brother about her,” she said. I could visualize her angst-filled expression, the lines that always curved up from her eyes when she grew distressed.

  “It all happened pretty fast,” I told her.

  “Faster than a phone call? Faster than mentioning her last week, when you met your father for tea?” she said.

  “I�
�m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I blurted out, drawing my fingers through my hair and yanking at it with sudden frustration. “I can come over tomorrow morning for breakfast and explain everything.”

  “Oh, so you think you’re going to get breakfast out of this?” my mother said, her voice rising. “At this point, I want to toss you out on the street. Not feed you scones.”

  “Mother, come on. What do you suggest we do, if you don’t want to talk about it?”

  After a long, stunted pause, she sighed. “Fine. Be here at eight-thirty. You know your father and I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  The following morning, I got up from my bed early, scrubbing at my eyes. It was six-thirty, two hours before I was required at the mansion, and I forced myself through my morning ritual of weight-lifting, trimming my facial hair to the perfect amount of stubble, and donning an immaculate suit. I wanted to show my parents that I was making adult choices—and not just following a bet all the way to the bitter end.

  When I arrived at the mansion, the same home in which I’d grown up, I parked the Lamborghini at the side of the driveway and tossed the keys toward the valet. The keys landed with a jangle in his outstretched palm, before falling to the pavement below. The boy grimaced, his cheeks growing pink. I knew my mother had a tendency to react sarcastically when things like this happened. But I patted the him on the back reassuringly.

  “It’s okay, kid. We’re all having a bad day,” I murmured.

  I reached the entranceway and tapped at the wooden front door, expecting one of the maids to appear on the other side.

  Instead, it was my mother who opened the door with a flourish, standing in all her intimidating glory in long, purple robes. Her hair hung in dark curls around her ears, flashes of gray hair visible in the light from the foyer. She smiled thinly, her eyes seeming to take in every part of me, reading me.

  “Hello, Rami,” she said, her words cold. “You’re early.”

  “Better early than never, right?” I joked, giving her a crooked smile. But the smile didn’t work on her the way it did on so many of Al-Jarra’s citizens. I stepped inside and leaned down, kissing her on the cheek. “You look beautiful as ever.”

  “Compliments won’t get you anywhere,” she told me. “Not when you’re in the doghouse. Head into the breakfast nook, now. Ammar’s in there waiting for you. Your brother couldn’t make it. All the better, really. He wants to tear you apart.”

  “I can’t understand why,” I said.

  I entered the breakfast nook to find my father reading a newspaper and nibbling at bits of bread. His bald head reflected the light streaming in from the far window, and before him sat a scrumptious breakfast spread of hummus, olives, pita bread, cheeses, and other delights. When I entered, he looked at me down his nose with a half-smirk. It was clear that he wasn’t pleased with me, but he was amused.

  “You’re tearing your mother apart,” he said dryly.

  “Good morning to you, too, Dad,” I huffed. I bowed my head and joined him, reaching for a juicy olive. “What’s the big deal, anyway? Aren’t I supposed to get married, to fall in love?”

  “Of course you are,” my father said. He took another piece of bread. “We just imagined you with someone, oh, a bit more…”

  “A bit less American, certainly.” My mother entered from the far doorway, carrying a jug of orange juice. “I mean, can you imagine what the country is thinking? That our son doesn’t think any girl in Al-Jarra is good enough for him? That he has to find one elsewhere?”

  My heart felt squeezed. In all honesty, before speaking with Alim the day before, I hadn’t considered this facet of the bet at all: that my parents had a specific destiny in mind for me. One that would benefit our family, as well as the country at large. My deeply entrenched love for my country beat through my veins. I sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted.

  “I didn’t fall in love with her to spite you,” I began, feeling the falseness of my words. Certainly, I wasn’t in love with Angie. I hardly knew her.

  My parents exchanged glances. As my mother poured a glass of orange juice and passed it to my father, he tilted his head to the left, trying to read me. He was always doing this, trying to find my inner truth.

  “Why don’t you bring her over here, then?” he asked. “If she’s going to be our daughter-in-law, then I suppose she deserves a seat at our table.”

  “I considered inviting her this morning,” my mother said, “but I wanted to see if we could talk you out of it first.”

  “Out of my own wedding?” I asked, my heart beating rapidly against my ribcage. “That’s not how this works.”

  “Great,” my mother said, tossing a grape into her mouth, her eyes penetrating mine. “Then have her for dinner, here. Tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll have to see that her schedule allows for it…” I began, trailing off. I clasped my hands in my lap.

  “If she doesn’t have the time for this family, then I don’t have the time for her,” my mother said.

  “She’ll be here,” I sighed, my nostrils flaring. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Good. We want to hear it from the both of you; how you met and fell in love. I think we deserve it,” my mother continued, helping herself to another grape. “We’ll see you then.”

  The moment I left my parents’ house, an hour or so later, I sped the Lamborghini out toward Angie’s school, knowing that this was a ticking time bomb. I had to address it right away, tell her the ugly truth.

  “They want to meet you. Tomorrow,” I told her. Her students raced past me, on their way to recess. They bobbed around me, chuckling and grabbing their snack bags. Angie stood at her desk, her expression aghast.

  “Oh God. I wasn’t ready for this,” she whispered.

  “I know. Me neither,” I told her.

  “I suppose I should have thought about it. It is all over the papers. Even some of the students saw it and recognized me…” Angie collapsed at her desk chair, placing her perfect face in her hands. “And Rita, my God. She’s already pulled me into her office to ask if I should be put on hold from my teaching activities, since I’m supposedly some kind of celebrity now.”

  “Who’s Rita?” I asked, unable to comprehend the severity of this problem. I shook my head, feeling fear rise within me. The only real problem, I wanted to tell her, was my mother and father. My world, judging her. Not the other way around. I knew this was selfish, but it was true.

  Angie looked pained for a moment. Swallowing dryly, she placed her hands on the desk and looked at me. “All right. When are we going? And what should I wear?”

  That night, the night before Angie’s fateful meeting with my parents, I took her out shopping for the perfect dress. We dove through the designer shops, with Angie gazing at the dresses with fearful eyes. She stroked the delicate fabrics, aghast at the sky-high prices. But I told her, in a dark and dominant voice, that she had to look the part of my fiancée. That meant showing up in a dress worth no less than several thousand dollars. “And if something higher than that catches your eye, say something,” I told her.

  In the end, she chose a gorgeous dark green gown, which made her skin gleam and created a perfect contrast to her dark, raven hair. As she tried it in the dressing room, her face was serious and straight, unsmiling.

  I realized, in that moment, that she wasn’t happy, but I couldn’t find a way to tell her it would all be okay, when I wasn’t entirely sure it would be.

  The following night, I drove Angie out to my parents’ mansion. Her eyes scanned the unfamiliar neighborhood. She looked graceful, doe-eyed beside me, with her hands folded over her lap. When I parked the car in the driveway, she said nothing of the grandness of the building. She acted cool, poised. Every bit the type of woman my mother would appreciate.

  I realized I had been hard on her. I realized the depth of my arrogance. But in these moments, I didn’t have the words to apologize. We pressed on.

  This time, a maid opened the door and led us down th
e hallway, into the dining hall. My father and mother were on opposite sides of the table, waiting for us. When we walked in, they both rose, bringing their hands out to shake Angie’s. They assessed her every movement, her face, her hair. My mother’s face softened and I knew she approved. She, too, was floored by Angie’s beauty.

  “Angie, it’s wonderful to meet you,” my father said, his voice deep and commanding, yet warm. “I’m sure you know it’s been all rather fast for us, learning about you.”

  “It’s been quick for all of us. My parents don’t know what to think either,” Angie said.

  I felt a stab in my chest. I realized I hadn’t asked her how she was handling her mother and father, with regards to the wedding. Would her mother be able to travel across for it? How had I been so foolish, avoiding these questions? I smoothed my napkin across my lap and made a mental note to ask her later.

  “That’s right, Angie. Where in the States are you from?” my mother asked.

  “South Dakota,” Angie said. “It’s a little place, with good people.”

  “Some of the best places in America are the places I don’t know about yet,” my father affirmed. “I’ve only been to New York, California, Chicago…”

  “None of those places really resemble South Dakota, unfortunately,” Angie said, giving him a soft smile. “Even though I needed to leave, to give myself a better sense of the world, I still miss it all the time. As is to be expected, I suppose. Your home gets in your blood. I know Rami could never leave.”

  At this, my parents gave me a warm look. My mother cleared her throat, looking almost flustered, as if she hadn’t expected the woman I planned to marry to be really this perceptive, this kind.

  As the first course was served, I watched as the conversation unfolded, adding bits and pieces here and there, when I could, but Angie was managing just fine.