And there he was, striding toward her with his arms outstretched, his sister behind him. He was dressed in creased khakis, loafers, and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to mid-arm. Trish locked her gaze on him as he did with her. This was the second she’d been waiting for from the moment she received the invitation to come to Dubai. She didn’t know what Malik was seeing in her eyes, but she knew what she was seeing in his. She smiled from ear to ear, her knees turning to rubber as she stepped into his arms, his grasp tight.
Patricia Holiday, also known as Trisha or Trish, had just met her destiny.
Malik released her, stepped back, and looked at her with such burning intensity, Trish was mesmerized. “It is so good to see you again, Trish. I am so happy, as is my sister, that you agreed to accept my invitation to visit us here in Dubai. I hope everything is to your satisfaction.”
“Oh, it is. It is. It was so kind of you to invite me. I can’t wait to see your world.”
“Come, come. We must sit and talk. You must tell me how things are back in Las Vegas, the city that never sleeps and has no clocks.”
Trish didn’t realize until that moment that Malik was holding her hand. It felt cool and dry, whereas hers felt like a hot rock. He squeezed her hand just before he motioned for her to sit in one of the deep, comfortable chairs in a small seating arrangement.
“It’s different in here,” Trish blurted as she looked around.
There was no gold or gilt here. What she was seeing could pass for a bachelor pad back in the States. Or an elevated dorm room. The room they were sitting in had the same kind of comfortable furniture she had back in Vegas. There were ordinary carpets on the floor, cone-shaped floor lamps, end tables with pictures of young American guys, probably friends from college. Green plants dotted the corners and looked healthy and lush. Huge pictures of the ocean, with giant waves crashing on shorelines, hung on the walls. Plantation shutters, a product of the South, covered the windows. Paddle fans hung from the ceiling and whirred softly. Bookshelves lined the far wall and were crammed with books of every size and description. A humongous television that looked to be at least a hundred inches was directly across from the seating area, along with a stereo system.
Beyond the sitting room was a small kitchen with stainless-steel appliances and four stools resting under the counter. Beyond the immediate kitchen was a bit of a dining room with a round table holding a bowl of fruit and four chairs with padded covers. Cozy. A carryover from Malik’s days in the States, which he wasn’t ready to let go of. Trish felt sad that in this mind-boggling building of gold and wealth, this little area was Malik’s personal oasis. There was no need to see the bedroom or bath. She could envision them with her eyes closed.
Malik laughed, his eyes lighting with mirth. “I rather thought you would like it. My sister thinks it is horrible. She said she could never live in such . . . I believe the word she used was squalor.”
“Stop it, Malik. He loves to tease. What I said was, it was much too small for me. As long as he can drink his American beer and toast hot dogs, my brother is happy. Rashid, too. Both of them are incorrigible.”
Trish winked at Malik. “I love hot dogs with the works and good cold beer. I swig from the bottle, do you?”
Malik burst out laughing, then couldn’t stop at the expression on his sister’s face. “I told you she would love dinner this evening! I’m making it myself. By ‘the works,’ I assume you mean chili, sauerkraut, onions, mustard, and ketchup?”
Trish was giggling now, too. “That’s the only way to eat them. Especially at the ballpark. I hope you have bibs! I dribble.”
Malik continued to laugh, slapping his thigh over and over. “I do, too. I just use a dish towel.”
“That’ll work for me.” Trish continued to giggle. “What’s your feeling about ramen noodles?”
“Ate them three times a week with my friends. We bought them by the case. That way we had more money to spend on beer.”
“You are hopeless, Malik. Our father must be turning over in his grave at the way you turned out. What is Trish going to think?”
Without any prompting, Trish spoke up. “I like it. Everyone I know acts like Malik. It’s like meeting my friends all over again. I guess you don’t like hot dogs or beer, huh?”
“You know what, Trish? She does. She just won’t admit it. She’s as stubborn as a mule. The last time I made them, she ate three of them and drank two bottles of beer. I had to carry her to her quarters.”
In spite of herself, Soraya laughed. “Sadly, what he says is true. Our problem is that Malik treats me to these American things, but he will not allow me to go there to visit. Nor would my father. It is a very sore point with me. He says I am too young to travel by myself. And yet he went with an entourage of his own. Tell me that is fair!”
Always outspoken on anything concerning women’s issues especially, Trish sat straight up in her chair and looked at Malik. “That is not fair. Why were you able to go, and she can’t? Is it because she’s a woman?” The edge in her voice had crept in without her even knowing it. She tried to backpedal by smiling.
“I said I would think about it, sister. I didn’t say no. Many plans have to be put into place.”
“Baloney! That’s his favorite word, more fitting than some he uses. That’s like telling a child you’ll think about giving them ice cream next week if you don’t forget to order it. I want an answer sooner rather than later.”
Malik threw his hands in the air. “No wonder my father banished you to the other side of the palace. All you do is nag and whine. And you’re doing it in front of our guest. Shame on you, Soraya.”
“Get off it, Malik. See? His sayings have rubbed off on me. I think with what I’ve learned from him, I could handle myself in America. Don’t you agree, Trish?”
“Well . . .”
“I think this might be a good time for me to start grilling our hot dogs,” Malik said, getting up. He winked at Trish as he rounded the corner.
“He just wants to show off that new range he bought. It’s a Jenn-Air and grills and does everything but eat the food for you. My brother, the chef!”
So, even here in Dubai, half a world away from her home, things were, to a certain extent, no different. Brothers and sisters argued and baited one another just like brothers and sisters all over the world.
Trish and Soraya made casual conversation while Malik bustled about his mini kitchen. “He is so proud of this . . . this apartment. He spends more time here than in his own quarters. He says he can think better here,” she whispered. “And he had this up and working in less than ten days. He is so proud of that Jenn-Air cooking range.”
Trish winked at Soraya. “You sound a tad jealous. Would you like a place like this yourself? You know, someplace to run off to where you could think or run naked through the rooms, do something silly or unexpected?”
Soraya whispered again. “How did you know?”
“Because I’m a girl, and you’re a girl. That’s what we do back home. We all need that sanctuary we can go to from time to time.”
“Do you have one?” Soraya asked, curiosity ringing in her voice.
“See, that’s the good thing. I don’t need one, because I live alone in my town house. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. There is no one watching me, hovering about me, telling me what to do and when to do it. I’m my own person. I’m independent. No one pays my bills but me. I am in control of me.”
“And you like that . . . that independence?”
“Well, yeah,” Trish drawled.
“Okay, dinner is served,” Malik called from the kitchen. “Everything is on the counter. Help yourself.”
“This is just like a barbecue back home,” Trish observed, giggling as she speared a hot dog and put it on a steamed bun. Thank God the ice was broken and they were just like three old friends, sitting around, eating, and enjoying each other’s company.
Soraya continued to bait her brother. “Show Tris
h what’s in that icebox you have.”
Malik leapt off the stool he was sitting on and opened the freezer-side door of the refrigerator to reveal stacks and stacks of Sabrett hot dogs. On the shelves of the freezer door were what looked like hundreds of packages of hot-dog rolls. He showed it all off proudly as he grinned from ear to ear.
“Now, show her the refrigerator side,” Soraya chortled as she bit into her hot dog.
Malik opened the other door to reveal shelves of Budweiser beer, condiments, and a small bowl with apples that were shriveled and angry-looking.
“I thought Muslims didn’t drink,” Trish said.
“They don’t. We don’t. Only in here can I do that. It’s like the Jewish guys I went to school with. Their parents, they said, kept a kosher house, but they ate pork and bacon on the outside. At home they kept the dairy away from the meat. It’s the same thing here.” He laughed, that delightful sound Trish loved.
“If you say so.”
“I say so. How do you like your hot dog?”
“Best I ever ate. Cooked just right.”
For the next hour, they laughed and enjoyed each other’s company. “Okay, I cooked. You girls can clean up.”
“I think this is where I say good night and leave you two to yourselves,” Soraya said, sliding off her stool.
Trish was already off her stool and gathering up the paper plates and napkins. She had wondered when Soraya would leave them alone or if she would. She now had her answer.
“Let’s take a walk in the palace garden,” Malik said to Trish. “I’d like to show you how we grow things here in the desert. You look tired, Trish. Would you rather go back to your suite?”
“It’s just the jet lag. I would love a walk in the garden. I love the evening air.” She would love anything, she wanted to say, as long as she was seeing or doing it with Malik.
Ten minutes into the walk, with Malik holding her hand and explaining the palace’s horticulture, Trish leaned against a stout trellis and tried to keep from falling asleep on her feet. She closed her eyes and felt her knees start to buckle. Once again, she felt strong arms reach for her and pick her up. Her eyelids felt like they were lead weights. She forced them open a crack and murmured, “You have the most beautiful eyes, and I love your smile.”
Malik cradled her in his arms and smiled down at her. “We really have to stop meeting like this, or people are going to start talking about us.”
“Hmm, yes, but I feel safe here with you.”
“I will always keep you safe, Trish Holiday.”
Trish murmured something else. Malik had to lean down to hear what she was saying. He thought she said, “It takes forty-eight hours to digest a hot dog.” The silly grin he was feeling stayed with him.
Within forty-two seconds, the palace grapevine was twittering and chittering about the sheik carrying the American houseguest from his cave to her suite. Thirty seconds after that, the chittering and twittering confirmed that the sheik returned to his cave with a silly smile on his face.
The smile wasn’t just silly, but it was sappy, as Malik returned to his cave to finish the cleanup. He popped two bottles of Budweiser and carried them to his sitting room, where he waited for Rashid’s knock.
“Come in, Rashid!”
“Like old times, eh, Malik?” Rashid said, sitting down and propping his feet on the coffee table. “So, how did it go?”
Malik turned so that he was facing his old friend. “She’s the one, Rashid.”
“Does she know she’s the one?”
“I think so. I guess you heard the palace grapevine?”
“That’s why I’m here. What happened?”
“Jet lag. She leaned back against the trellis, closed her eyes, and that was it. I caught her just in time. Kismet! She said I had a beautiful smile and beautiful eyes. She said she felt safe with me. Yes, she’s the one! Tell me your thoughts, my friend.”
“My thoughts are, I am happy for you, Malik. Now what?”
“I have to make a plan. I don’t want to scare her off. This life is strange to her. I want to show her everything, so I’m going to need you to step into my shoes, cover for me at meetings and do my job, while I do that. Will you do that for me? By the way, did you know it takes forty-eight hours to digest a hot dog?”
The stupid look on Rashid’s face caused Malik to laugh out loud. “No, I didn’t know that. Of course I will do whatever you want, but only if you assure me that Soraya won’t be breathing down my neck every minute of the day. If you can guarantee that, I’ll step into your shoes.”
“Done! Want another beer?”
“You know it! How’d she like your cave?”
“She loved it. As much as I do, and as much as you do, but you won’t admit it.”
“The palace is buzzing tonight,” Rashid said.
The old friends laughed and clapped one another on the back.
“Life is good, Rashid. Let’s hope it stays that way.” Malik twisted the caps off the beer bottles and raised his. “To happiness!”
“To happiness.”
Chapter 5
THE DAYS LEADING UP TO THE END OF TRISH’S VACATION passed in a whirlwind. There were times when she barely had time to catch her breath, with all there was to see and do. Malik was the perfect host. Soraya was just as perfect when Malik would have to disappear for several hours at a time “to attend to palace business,” as he put it.
The only regret Trish had was that the romantic part of the vacation, which she longed for, had simply not happened. There had been no kisses and no sex, something she was sure would have happened by now. It was hard not to throw herself at Malik and ask him what was wrong with her that he didn’t at least want to hold her in his arms and kiss her. If nothing else, at least on the cheek.
It was close to midnight, and Trish was getting ready for bed. Malik had seen her to her door. He squeezed her hand and wished her a good night’s sleep. She wanted to scream at him. How can I have a good night’s sleep when all I do is dream of you? But she’d said no such thing. She bit down on her lip and somehow willed herself to force a smile she was far from feeling.
Two days to go, and she would be headed back to the States with bags of new clothes Soraya had insisted on buying for her. Jewelry Malik had insisted on buying for her. Trinkets and souvenirs she had purchased with her own money for her sister, her niece, and her friends. Just proof that she had been here. A once-in-a-lifetime vacation that hadn’t begun to live up to her expectations.
She was in bed, nestled between silk sheets that were changed every single day. She leaned back into the nest of pillows and called her friend Connie. She started to babble, almost immediately complaining about Malik’s behavior. “Either there is something wrong with me or he’s gay. I’ve done everything but throw myself at him, and he just smiles at me. I just give up. Two days to go, then I’m homeward bound. You have any advice for me, Connie?”
“We’ve skirted around this for almost two weeks now. Are you in love with Malik, Trish?”
“No. Yes. Oh, Connie, I don’t know. The customs here are so different from ours. For all I know, he might have a woman stashed somewhere, and he’s just being nice to me because . . . I don’t know why. None of this makes sense. Why bring me all the way across the world just to be nice to me? I guess I hoped . . . I read the signs wrong. That just makes me a foolish woman. I wanted so badly to talk to Soraya, and while we are friends, Malik is off-limits in our conversations unless she brings up his name. I would never dare ask Rashid anything about Malik. Women over here have their place, and you stay in that place unless you are invited out of said place. I tried talking to my sister the other day, but she has her own problems, and she never approved of my coming here to begin with.”
“Well, you have two more days, Trish. What’s on your agenda for those two days?”
“I don’t have a clue. Malik and I meet for breakfast, and he outlines a plan for the day. We dine here at the palace in the evening, and us
ually, Soraya or Rashid joins us. It’s all very formal. After dinner, Malik and I take a walk in the garden. There are many gardens here, each one more beautiful than the previous one. He holds my hand. That’s it. He holds my hand. Are you telling me you have no advice for me?”
“I guess I don’t, Trish. What do the two of you talk about?”
“Everything and nothing. Malik’s time in the States. His cave, where he goes to unwind and relax. He talked at great length about his father’s passing. He wasn’t ready ‘to step into his father’s sandals,’ as he put it. He thought he would have at least another thirty years of being a prince before he became a sheik. He said his father sent him to school in the States so he would learn business, because the oil is running out here and it yields only a six to eight percent return.
“He needs to run this country commercially, and I guess he’s pretty good at it, to his own dismay. Everyone over here is concerned about the country’s prospects when the oil runs out. He said that Dubai would be doomed if his father hadn’t seen the handwriting on the wall earlier and put plans into motion for the country. Now he has to follow through on those plans.”
“It sounds like he has a lot on his plate,” Connie observed.
“He does. Soraya told me several days ago, just in passing, that Malik did not want to step into his father’s sandals, but he had no other choice. Here’s the kicker, Connie. Soraya would love the job, but since she’s a woman, that can’t be. The only way, according to Soraya, a woman could step in is if she was married to the sheik and he passed away. Only then could a woman, the wife, step in. I don’t know if that’s carved in stone or something Soraya just thinks could happen. Sometimes, to be perfectly frank, she’s a little ditzy. Can you imagine a life dedicated to shopping, massages, manicures, pedicures, facials, and having teas? That’s her whole life.
“Soraya can be a bit of a spitfire, though. She refuses to marry any one of the men her father picked for her. Malik says she’s going to be an old maid if she doesn’t make up her mind soon. The flip side to that is there is no chance she can find a man, because she is not free to pick one and goes nowhere where she could find one. Secretly, I think she has a thing for Rashid.”
A Family Affair Page 5
