“Well, uh, I’m pretty busy these days.” I feel a strange pang in my chest, longing for a soul mate like Taz. “I had a cat once, Willow. She lived seventeen years. I would’ve liked another cat, but I left for college, and then . . . My ex-husband was allergic.”
“Which is why he’s your ex.”
“Exactly.” Until now, I’ve focused on what I miss about Robert, not on the restrictions he imposed on my life.
Olivia throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you for helping me find this book.”
“It was just . . . there.”
“No, you helped.” She steps back, holding the paperback close to her chest. “It’s good to know someone else loved her cat enough to write his story. This bookstore could use a cat, don’t you think? Bookstores are supposed to have resident felines.”
“That’s up to my aunt.”
Olivia hands me a business card. “This is where I work. Come in anytime. I’m sure your aunt would love a cat.”
The card reads, Meow City. A No-Kill Cat Sanctuary. Fairport, WA. I tuck the card into the back pocket of my jeans. “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”
On her way out of the store, she turns to look over her shoulder. “Don’t think too long.”
Chapter 30
I watch Olivia walk along the block and disappear around the corner, her head down as she reads.
“What’s the title?” a teenage girl is saying to her friend as they stride past me in the hall.
“I forgot my book list for the stupid assignment,” the other girl says. They’re both dressed in black, wearing eyeliner so thick, they look dead. “It’s about some old guy who wants to catch a giant fish. I mean, how boring. And then he kills it, even though he calls it his brother. Come on, who would kill their brother? Totally lame.”
“Yeah, lame-o-rama,” the other girl says.
I clear my throat. “Um, I bet you’re looking for The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway.” How could I remember such a detail? I must have read the book in high school.
The girls stare at me as if I have a large blemish on my nose, but they buy two copies of the vintage paperback before leaving the store. Now they’ll have to read the book, no excuses.
I managed to open most of the windows, clear a few aisles, dust tables and shelves, and bring in more light. As the days pass, I fall into a rhythm, jogging on the beach in the mornings, visiting my parents, helping Gita make wedding arrangements. Each conversation brings back a painful memory, but I don’t complain. Gita deserves these fleeting moments of happiness.
I keep hoping to see a hint of Connor. I find I’m watching for him, spinning around when I feel a breath on my neck, jumping when the telephone rings.
The next Thursday morning, Auntie Ruma calls again.
“Auntie, you haven’t called in a week. I was worried about you.”
She sounds distant and perky. “My heart has been fixed, once and for all.” I can tell by her voice that she’s smiling.
I mouth a silent prayer of thanks. “I’m so glad. When did you have the procedure?”
“Procedure, ah, yes. Few days back.” I hear conversation and commotion in the background.
“What’s going on there? Where are you?”
“Just preparing for a little travel.”
“Are you well enough? Are you in the hospital?”
“Of course not. I’m quite well.” She sounds far away.
“Who’s taking care of you? Are you in Kolkata?”
“So many questions. I’ll tell you all, in time. For now, I’m safe and happy. You must keep my secret, nah?”
“I hope you know what you’re doing. Do you have a telephone number? When will you be back?”
“On schedule. Two weeks. How do you like working at the bookstore?”
“Just fine.” Maybe it’s the soft rain tapping the windows, my longing for Connor, or my general sense of disorientation, but suddenly I’m fighting off tears. “My boss arrives from L.A. tomorrow.”
“Acha. Make him feel at home, and perhaps you will stay a little longer, after I return?”
The heating system hums as the furnace kicks into gear. “I can’t. You know that. My clients probably think I died.”
“But what about the doctor?”
My heart is suddenly heavy. “I hope I see him again before I leave, but I’m afraid I scared him off.”
“Ah, I see.” She sounds disappointed, but not surprised. “Look, Bippy, there is something I must tell you, about Ganesh.”
“The statue in the front hall?”
“He is all knowing, remover of obstacles. He wrote the Mahabharata with his own broken tusk, but most people have forgotten. He helped me when I was very young, and so I agreed to help him keep the spirit of books alive.”
“How did he help you?”
She covers the phone, speaks to someone in a muffled voice, then comes back on the line. “I must go.”
“Wait. So Ganesh was your inspiration for opening a bookstore?”
The line is full of static now. “My talent passes down . . . women . . . family . . . inherited. You . . .”
The line goes dead. What on earth is she saying? Nothing I have to worry about now. I need to prepare to meet my boss.
Chapter 31
My second Friday morning in the bookstore, I’m once again dressed in a blue suit and heels. I haven’t worn pumps since I arrived. The straps dig into my feet. As I brush my hair, I silently practice my presentation. Soon I’ll return to sunshine, palm trees, and my real job. I try to focus on the Hoffman account. I check through the green bar reports, catch up on e-mail, and study stock prices and trends.
When Tony shows up, he whistles. “Whoa, girl. You look like you’re headed back to the city.” He’s in black today, as if mourning my pending departure.
I smooth down my suit and straighten the collar of my silk blouse. “My boss will be here in fifteen minutes. He wants to discuss my presentation.”
“I can’t believe you’re going back to that job so soon.” Tony’s face falls like a landslide.
“My aunt will return healthy and ready to clutter up the place again.” But my throat is dry, and I want to hug Tony. “She belongs here, not me.”
“Yeah, whatever.” He turns on his heel and strides away, as if I’ve offended him.
“Hey, wait!” I say, but he has gone into the library. Fine, let him go. I need to focus on my meeting.
When Scott Taylor arrives, he exudes his usual brash confidence, the personality of a boss. I forgot how tall he was, how commanding, although he’s slim, narrow shouldered, and not obviously overbearing.
“Hell of a time getting here.” His voice projects through the house. He stamps his rain boots on the carpet in the foyer as he snaps shut his umbrella. Water drips from his thin Armani raincoat. He’s underdressed for the weather. The soaked shoulders of his jacket have become nearly transparent, revealing the white dress shirt underneath.
“Let me take your coat. I’m glad you could make it.”
“Almost didn’t. The ferry was running late.” He yanks off his wet jacket and hands it to me. I hang it in the closet.
He stares at the statue of Ganesh. “What’s the elephant for?”
“He’s the Hindu god of new beginnings, remover of obstacles. You kneel, touch his feet, and pray to him.”
Scott laughs. “Can he get rid of all this drizzle?”
“I’m getting used to it. I almost find the rain . . . soothing.”
“Soothing, huh?” Scott looks closely at me, as if I’m hiding behind a screen and he can’t quite make out my features. “You do look different.”
I touch my hair. “Different how?”
“You look good. This vacation is doing you good.”
I smile, although I would not call this a vacation. “Thanks for coming all the way out to our blustery island.”
“I had a client meeting in Seattle anyway, so I figured I could make a quick detour out here on th
e ferry. Took longer than I expected.” He pats his briefcase. “Where can we get to work?”
“I cleared a space in the back,” I say, leading Scott down the hall to the tea room. Now I remember how to walk in these heels. I’m good at it. I don’t wobble. I’m smooth on these designer stilts, even if my feet are squished.
He follows, his shoes echoing across the hardwood floor. “I hope you’ve been preparing your presentation.”
“I’m on it,” I lie. “Don’t worry.” My stomach turns upside down. I can catch up, no problem. How could I have fallen behind?
In the tea room, he opens his briefcase on a large table and extracts a few manila file folders. “Coffee would be great,” he says.
“Black, strong, no cream, one spoonful of sugar.”
“Hey, you remembered.” He smiles.
“Coming right up.” I pour him a mug of coffee, bring him the mug and sugar, and sit across from him. “How’s everyone at the office?”
“Working hard,” he says, pulling a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. He doesn’t mention anyone else vying for the Hoffman account.
“Carol?”
“She’s working on a big one. Now, let’s get to the Hoffman account.” He pats the sheaf of papers. “We need to emphasize our accelerating returns, diversification. Keep these notes and go through them.”
“Sure thing.” The papers smell like ink from a copy machine. In a way, I miss that smell. The odor of challenge.
“Let’s go over the talking points.” He pulls two copies of a memo from his briefcase and hands one across the table. A familiar exhilaration rushes through me. I’m good at making presentations, at conveying the best that our company has to offer.
“I know these by heart,” I say, grinning at him.
“You’re good. But let’s go over this anyway. . . .”
Someone wanders into the tea room—the blotchy-faced man who sought picture books for himself when I first arrived. My heart skips a beat.
“. . . returns for equity,” Scott is saying.
“Mmm-hmmm.” I try to focus on the memo.
The blotchy-faced man looks around, shoulders hunched. He needs help.
“. . . and performance reports,” Scott says.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve got it all down.”
Tony pops his head in the door and motions to the blotchy-faced man, who then follows Tony down the hall.
“. . . when you give your presentation, focus on the chairman of the board,” Scott is saying. “I mean, chairwoman. She’ll have questions. Be prepared.”
“I’m always prepared.” I strain to hear what Tony is saying to the blotchy-faced man in the hall. I can’t make out the words.
Scott taps his forefinger on the table. “Are you with me? You look distracted.”
“I’m listening.”
“Good.” Scott glances at his watch. “Wish we had more time. I have to catch the ferry back. I’ll leave the papers with you.” He drops his copy of the memo into his briefcase, then gets up and heads to the foyer for his coat. “Review the files,” he says on his way out.
“You know I will,” I say.
I’ll be prepared. I’ll blow them all away with my expertise, and Scott will make me partner. The Hoffman account will be the culmination of years of hard work. I’ll rake in loads of money and live happily ever after in my new, private condo on the beach, in luxurious sunshine, Robert and Lauren be damned.
Chapter 32
For the next week, I get up early to practice my presentation. I pace in Auntie’s apartment, the floor creaking, and talk to myself, gesticulating, using an imaginary pointer. I read every sheet of paper that Scott left for me, memorize every talking point.
Then I walk the beach. I inhale the wild, salty scent of the sea. I don’t bring my oversized handbag or my cell phone.
One evening, my parents and I visit the Mauliks again, but the atmosphere is muted, subdued. Sanchita has not returned. Mohan has hired a nanny to help with the children.
I focus on my work, and on reading. I discover H. P. Lovecraft, marveling at his propensity to use big words like eidolon and eldritch and Cyclopean. Nabokov and Wordsworth. I excel at story time, and when the book group meets, I sit with them in the tea room to discuss literature.
Early Sunday morning, a week before I’m to return to California, I carry the memoir Connor’s father wrote back into the parlor and shelve it. “I guess he doesn’t need another copy,” I say to myself.
“I can always use another copy,” a deep voice says behind me. I whip around, and there he is, striding down the hall, bringing the smell of fresh air and forest.
My heart kicks up to a frantic beat. The blood rushes through my head. “You’re here!”
“I’m glad you’re happy to see me.” He stands in front of me in a black jacket, cargo pants, and T-shirt, the antique watch on his wrist.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” He takes me in his arms and spins me around as if I’m weightless. I’m pressed against his firm chest. I don’t want him ever to let go.
I catch my breath after he puts me down. “I thought I would never see you again—”
“I wanted to give you some time.”
“You could have called.”
“You needed your space.”
“I’ve had enough space.” My thoughts are racing as fast as my heart.
“Listen,” he says, holding my hands, “let’s go away from here, just for today. Unless you have other plans.”
“Connor, I—”
“Bring the memoir—I would like to borrow it.”
“It’s yours.” I grab my coat and purse from the closet. “Wait there. I’ll be right back.” I dash to the office, running on air, and call Tony at home. “I’m gone today. Can you come in and hold down the fort?”
“Did Connor come back?”
I nod and whisper, “He’s standing in the front hall.”
“Go for it, girl. Just close the store.”
I hang up and race for the front door. Connor’s hand is on mine. “Wait. The book.”
I retrieve the book and hand it to him. He holds the memoir close to his chest, and the edges seem to glow. The front door swings open, and we step outside into the bright morning.
The wooden porch plank squeaks beneath my feet. Clumps of soft green moss cling to the railing. The sky stretches away in solid blue, scoured clean by the nighttime rain. A soft, cool breeze wafts across my skin, redolent of the salty sea and kelp. All around us are the sounds of morning—a car engine revving, a symphony of birdsong, the rush of the surf. Steam rises from rooftops and fences warmed by the morning sun.
Connor steps outside and takes a long, deep breath. He still clutches the book to his chest. “I love the fresh air,” he says in that deep, resonant voice. His irises are deep turquoise, almost unreal.
My heart fills with sweet, pure joy.
He puts the book down on the porch, then stares at his hands, turning them over, as if seeing them for the first time in sunlight. He lifts me into his arms and laughs. “I’m here with you, out in the morning!”
“Yes, you are! I’m glad you’re so happy.”
“You look beautiful in this light,” he says, touching my hair.
“And you, too. I mean, you look handsome.” I’m trembling, not from cold.
“I want to explore, live these moments with you. We haven’t any time to lose.” His wavy hair shines—lighter, sun-bleached strands mixed in with the dark. He seems taller, too, and broader, more substantial than he did in the bookstore.
“We could take the ferry into the city. Or stay here.”
“Whatever you choose. I want to be with you.”
“To the beach,” I say. “Come on.”
He’s right behind me as I run down the sidewalk in my sneakers.
He catches up and grabs my hand. The firmness of his fingers, and the heat, send my heart soaring. I can hear his breathing. “I feel the blood i
n your veins,” he says, squeezing my hand. He throws back his head and laughs. “You make me feel alive, Jasmine Mistry.”
I’m awash in happiness. Still holding his hand, I lead him down to Fairport Beach, past Sunday morning joggers, walkers, and proprietors opening their shops for the day.
We’re on the sand now, racing to the water, away from the buildings of Harborside Road. A few people dot the beach, and a golden retriever leaps in and out of the surf.
We dodge the waves, laughing. I let go of his hand and dance in circles, collapse up on the beach. He flops down beside me, grabs a handful of dry sand, lets the grains slip through his fingers.
“I want to kiss you again,” he says.
“Yes, kiss me,” I whisper. This time, I give in to him. The kiss lasts a minute, an hour, forever. Time stops, the seagulls hover, and the ocean waits. I sink into Connor’s arms, and then we pull back, gazing into each other’s eyes.
“I love kissing you,” Connor says, his hand on my chin. “I wanted to kiss you the moment I saw you in the bookstore, looking like a drowned city transplant.”
I laugh. “What do I look like now?”
“You’re always beautiful.” He pulls me close and kisses me again, and then we’re up, heading for a rugged stretch of rocky beach. He takes my hand and pulls me up onto a flat-topped boulder. The blood pounds in my ears. I’ve never felt more awake.
“How did you get so good at climbing?” I say. “You’re like a mountain goat.”
“I grew up climbing these boulders,” he says. “How about you?”
“I grew up halfway across the island,” I say. “Near the forest. My parents don’t live in that house anymore.”
“Do you miss your old house?” he asks as we clamber across the rocks.
“My sister and I planted a garden in the front. Our dad put in a sidewalk. She and I embedded colorful stones in the concrete before it hardened. I haven’t been back there in years.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Childhood seems so far away now.”
Haunting Jasmine Page 14
