Exiled Heart

by Jennifer Haynie

  “Absolutely. I guess it’s universal.” She glanced at him as they strolled among the tourists on the sidewalk. “Thanks for listening. It means a lot to me. And to know you still want to be friends, even after last night.” She cut her eyes toward him. “Now it’s my turn. May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.” He savored his strawberry cone as they crossed South Battery Boulevard and headed into White Point Garden.

  A few more minutes passed as if she gathered her thoughts.

  “Claire?”

  “Oh, sorry. Just thinking about how to phrase this.”

  “Phrase what? I am your friend, yes? I promise you will not offend me.”

  She stopped so her back was perpendicular to the harbor. “Last night when you stayed over, did you, um, happen to wander around the house without a shirt on?”

  How had she found out? And what could he say? “Uh… well…”

  She began chuckling. “Did I ever catch you off guard!”

  This was bad. Truly humiliating. “How did you find out?”

  “A little birdie told me.” She guffawed. “Actually, it was my neighbor, Mrs. Chitworth.”

  Oh, no. What conclusions had the woman drawn? “I… you spilled piña colada all over me. I needed to wash it.”

  “She told me I should hold on to you.”

  “What?”

  “I think she thinks we’re dating.” Her laughter simmered just beneath the surface. “She’s harmless. Really. And she’s one of the most caring people I know. I mean, she kept an eagle eye on me that first year after Jackson died.” More mirth burbled forth. “I can see her now. She’s got these opera glasses in her den, so she probably sat on her bench and stared at you through them. She said you were good-looking.”

  He wanted to slink away and hide. “I am so embarrassed.”

  “She’s right.” Claire cast him a sideways glance. “You are handsome.”

  She nudged him.

  The wind caught her skirt and pressed it against her, revealing the outline of her figure. Heat built inside of him, and for a brief, insane second, he envisioned pulling her close. No. He couldn’t. “Tell me what Faith and Grace are doing this summer.”

  As they returned to the 4Runner, she obliged him. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into her driveway. He opened her door for her. “Let me walk you to the door.”

  “Ben must have taught you well,” she said as she slid from the SUV.

  A subtle scent hit his nose. Soap or body wash, he didn’t know. He wanted to take her hand. “He did. He schooled me quite well.”

  Her lips quirked upward. “Like not staring?”

  “What?”

  She nudged him again. “I haven’t forgotten the way you stared when you picked me up for the rehearsal dinner.”

  He laughed. “I was nervous.”

  Just as I am now. The soft sway of her hips, emphasized by the skirt she wore, drew his eyes toward her. What was going on?

  “Would you like to come in?” Claire asked once she’d opened the front door.

  He would, except he suddenly needed to get away from her before he embarrassed himself once more. “I am quite tired. I truly enjoyed our evening.”

  She leaned against the door frame and lifted her chin. “I did as well.”

  Suddenly, he feared he wouldn’t see her again. “May I call you sometime?”

  “To continue to make amore?” She winked at him.

  He groaned. “You will never let me forget that.”

  “Nope. And yes. I’d absolutely like you to call. Let me get you my number.”

  He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  She pulled a Post-It note from a drawer and scribbled her number on it. “House and cell numbers, just for you.”

  Their fingers brushed as he took it, folded it into a neat square, and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Have a good week.”

  Ziad fled to the 4Runner.

  Claire turned on the porch light before shutting the door.

  He slid behind the wheel. Automatically, his gaze drifted to Mrs. Chitworth’s house. He could have sworn the curtain in her front window twitched. He grinned.

  Lightning flashed. Time to get home before the building storm hit. He arrived just as rain began pouring down. More lightning created a strobe pattern through the live oaks and Spanish moss.

  He was wide awake. Unpacking was an option. No. That held no appeal, not when thinking about his evening with Claire consumed him. After dropping his wallet and keys on his dresser, he returned downstairs and settled on the freshly delivered soft leather couch.

  Earlier that evening, Claire had almost begged him, if not in words, to hold her. He should have, as a friend. She spoke by touch, as did he. A nudge. A hug. A hand on the arm. He’d seen her do such with her family. Why hadn’t he reciprocated? His culture. That’s why. Most likely frustrating for her. And somewhat so for him as well. He was in a new place. Why couldn’t he shake old ways?

  Once sitting on the edge of his bed, he picked up the slip of paper that held her number. Such messy handwriting. And so Claire. Like that dark hair of hers. And her figure. And that scent of soap. He warmed.

  That wasn’t right. Ziad jumped up and paced as he ran his hands through his hair. “It’s too soon! Sabirah has been gone only a year.”

  His words echoed off the high ceiling. He braced himself against the door frame of the French doors as he thought about it. Strange how he and Claire had been locked up for a year after great loss. Only his had been involuntary and a true prison while hers had been voluntary and in a gilded cage of sorts. They both had waded through their grief, lived it week by week, day by day, even hour by hour. Sure, he’d never thought he’d be happy again, but gradually, he’d felt himself ready to make a life in this new country.

  Did that include Claire?

  No. He shook his head. Sure, he may have found his way back to the land of the living, but he would respect Sabirah. Never could he imagine being with someone else. Never.

  And that was the end of it.

  19

  Two weeks after what she called her make-up meal with Ziad, Claire sang in a sultry alto along with Norah Jones on the stereo. Candles glimmered on the fireplace mantel, and lamps provided dim illumination save for where she worked.

  Bright light from the recessed lighting in the kitchen flashed on her knife as she cut up some strawberries, oranges, and apples. She tossed the fruit into a serving bowl she’d set out later along with the sides the others were bringing. The guys could grill the steaks.

  She pulled out a serving plate and small bowl for the French onion dip. The dip went into the bowl, and she grabbed the carrots. Those, celery, and cucumbers would make the perfect appetizer.

  As she reached for a vegetable peeler, a shadow crossed the French doors leading to her screened-in porch. “Hey! You remembered.”

  Ziad grinned. “Official friends use the back door, yes?”

  “Absolutely. Come on in.” My, my. Clothes definitely made the man, especially his sailcloth shirt and jeans. His silver watch gleamed on his wrist.

  He joined her in the kitchen. “They did come out in the shower.”

  “What?”

  “The speckles.”

  She laughed as she recalled the papier-mâché spider she’d been making the night before with her niece. The balloon they were using had popped, spattering them both. “Yes, they did.”

  She picked up the knife and began slicing the carrots lengthwise. “How was work?”

  “Tiring. But something happened.” His dark eyes gleamed. He leaned on one elbow against the island.

  Oh, that scent, that delectable combination of peppermint from candy and spice from his aftershave. She tried to focus on spreading out the carrots and chopping the ends off the celery. “What?”

  She began slicing the celery lengthwise.

  “A naked guy came into the store this morning.”

  “Huh?” She stared a
t him. Sharp pain burned across her finger. She’d cut herself—and it was deep. Automatically, her gaze flicked downward.

  A thick trickle of scarlet beaded and slid down her skin.

  Oh, no.

  Her pulse thudded in her ears.

  Dizziness assailed her.

  Her knees grew weak.

  “Claire?”

  “I’m… I’m…” She began sliding to the floor.

  Warm arms encircled her. “I have you.” He eased her onto the tile so she leaned against the cabinets. “What happened?” He pressed something over the cut and kept pressure on it. Warm fingers touched her pulse, then brushed across her cheek. “Claire?”

  She forced her eyes open.

  Ziad knelt in front of her. Concern radiated in his gaze.

  “I—I’m fine.” She glanced down at her finger, which he’d wrapped in his handkerchief. Bright red blood stained the cloth, and waves of dizziness crashed over her again. She moaned and leaned her head against the cabinet with a thump.

  “Where is your first aid kit?”

  “The half-bath.” She took a deep breath, then another. Stay upright. Don’t faint. You can do this. She drew her knees to her chest and cradled her hand against her shoulder so her finger was above her heart. She kept her eyes closed.

  Fabric whispered, and he grunted as he settled in front of her. Gentle hands grasped hers. “Let me see it.”

  Claire risked a peek as he pulled the handkerchief away and examined the cut.

  “It is not too deep, so no stitches required.”

  She barely heard him as her eyes remained locked on the scarlet staining the handkerchief. She felt the blood draining from her face. A moan escaped her.

  “What is wrong? It may look like it, but you have not lost a lot of blood.” More pressure. “Here. Place your hand here.”

  He now knew her most embarrassing weakness. “I—I can’t stomach the sight of my own blood. So I’m sorry if I’m not opening my eyes.”

  His amusement clearly echoed as he said, “You, a nurse, who deals with everyone else’s blood every day, cannot handle the sight of your own blood?”

  “Nope. Go ahead. Laugh.”

  “What does Ben say? I laugh close to you but not at you.”

  “Hah.” Despite herself, her lips twitched upward.

  Water ran into a bowl.

  Then came that delightful, delectable scent of his. As if he handled fine china, he took her hand and removed the cloth. “It seems as if it has stopped bleeding. Let me bandage it.”

  He washed not only her cut but also her hand. Where his fingers pressed, heat rose. Her heart sped up. Was it her imagination, or did he linger? Keep it up! her mind cried. Huh? Where had that come from?

  To distract herself, she opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t when another thin line of red appeared.

  “Just rest.” He layered on some ointment. “Yes, this morning was very interesting. I was ringing up a customer who had bought some gas and a couple of candy bars. I looked up as a naked man wandered into the store.”

  “Oh?” She kept her eyes closed as he pressed some gauze over it and began wrapping it.

  “Yes. It did not take Mira and me long to figure out he was drunk, especially when he staggered to the counter with his next pack of beer under his arm. I called the police. At least they put a raincoat on him before arresting him.”

  She chuckled.

  “Finished.”

  Claire stared at her finger, which was now ensconced in a thick white bandage. “I guess I won’t be cutting.”

  “I will do that. Can you stand?”

  “I think so.”

  He rose, took her left hand, and pulled her to her feet.

  One last round of dizziness swooped over her, and she toppled into him.

  He caught her with his hands on her waist.

  She rested her chin against his sailcloth shirt so they were almost cheek to cheek.

  Oh, dear. Her nose quivered, and if she just—

  “Are you all right?”

  Moment broken. Thankfully. She forced herself to pull back. “I—I’m fine.”

  “Sit, and let me do the rest.” He guided her to one of the bar chairs before picking up the knife.

  She rested her elbows on the granite and her chin in her hands.

  A smile crossed his lips.

  “Ziad?”

  Oh, that dark, dark gaze once more cut into her soul. “Who would have known?”

  Yes, who would have known? Who would have known that just Ziad’s touch made her come so alive? And that’s what scared her.

  #####

  “Where should I put this?” Ziad rinsed a serving plate and dried it.

  Claire gestured toward a pull-out drawer in the island. “In the cabinet over here.”

  Once he’d done so, he turned to wiping down the counter. “Your attorney friend is especially interesting.”

  “Sonja’s wonderful. When I was in my year of mourning, my Bible study leader, who was too stubborn to let me quit on her, introduced us and said we’d hit it off. We did.” She gazed at someplace only she could see. “Do you want some hot tea or coffee? That’s the least I can do.”

  “Hot tea, please.”

  As she filled the shiny kettle with water, her shoulder brushed his. Intentional or not? He couldn’t decide. Halfway focusing on his task, he watched her. That white T-shirt, those jeans. Modest by American terms, but they would have earned her jail time in Jeddah. He immediately knew why since he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “You’re staring.” Amusement echoed in her voice.

  Busted. “No, I was not.”

  A knowing smile crossed her face. “Do you want to sit on the porch for a bit?”

  And have more time with her? “Of course.”

  “Go ahead out. I’ll be there as soon as this is ready.”

  Ziad hung the towel on a rack and wandered onto the screened-in porch. A nice night, for sure, though a little cool with a breeze blowing from the harbor. He eased onto a glider. He inhaled. Marsh scents, organic and salty at the same time, reminded him of Jeddah. From nowhere, a lump spring up in his throat. Can I not get past this?

  “Here you go.” Claire handed him a steaming mug. She settled with a sigh on the end of the couch closest to him.

  He peered at the running lights of a couple of ships, one large and steaming toward Fort Sumter and the freedom of the Atlantic beyond and the other smaller, faster, probably an evening sailing venture. He focused on the silkiness of the breeze and the soothing motion of the glider. “This is nice.”

  Claire tucked her feet underneath her and leaned against the cushions. “I love coming out here. This is where I spend most of my time when it’s warm enough.”

  He sipped the hot brew. Once more, he compared the closeness of Claire and her friends with his almost solitary existence. Though he’d begun making friends, it was like a wall existed between him and them, one created by his reticence about his past. If only he could get peace about it! “How did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Find that peace I feel emanating from you.”

  Silence, as if she expected a better explanation.

  How to put words he could barely phrase in Arabic into English? He carefully considered them. “I have been thinking about… last year.” He couldn’t tell her about being framed for eight murders or the imprisonment that had followed. She’d never understand. “I still do not feel a… a peace about it.”

  “It takes time.” She fell silent for a moment. “Time and God.”

  His head snapped up. “What?”

  “During my year of mourning, I’d come out here and stare at the harbor, just like you’re doing now. And yes, many times with a mug of tea in my hands.” In the lamplight, her gaze grew sad. “At first, I felt as if a wall existed between God and me.”

  Too familiar. Allah didn’t care about the problems of mere humans.

  “Then Sonj
a challenged me.” A brief smile crossed her face. “A week after Elizabeth introduced us, the doorbell rang. It was Sonja on my front porch with two Chick Fil A milkshakes in hand. I told her she’d taken a risk coming by without calling. She only laughed and said she knew I’d be home.”

  “A brazen statement from her.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. She stayed for three hours that afternoon. We talked about a lot of things, and I told her exactly what I just said about God. She asked if I’d talked to him about it.”

  “To God?”

  “Yeah.” Claire leaned against the couch’s arm. “She said it’s okay to ask tough questions, to talk to God as if he were my father. Why not? He is my heavenly father.”

  Her statement startled him since he didn’t see Allah as his father at all.

  “She challenged me to get personal with him, to get real. He’s the creator of this world. He could take it. Over the next month or so, that’s what I did. I asked him those tough questions, like why did he let Jackson and Little Jack die? And why did he allow me to miscarry so badly that now I can’t have children?”

  Her words were strange to him, almost too difficult to take in. “What did he tell you?”

  “He’s sovereign.” She sipped her tea. “I’m his daughter. Nothing happens that surprises him, and nothing happens without his permission.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Not like you and I are talking, no. But as I prayed, I came to see that.” She raised her mug to her lips. Steady, as if she were sure of her statements.

  Impossible! He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “And you accepted that nothing happens without his permission?”

  “Not right away. But yes. As I grieved that year, I felt Holy Spirit surround me and comfort me. God was with me, as he still is. Then that day when Delia came over, it’s like my chains of grief fell off. I was ready to live again.”

  Too much to think about, to accept. He clenched his jaw as his breath shortened. He set his mug on a side table with a clunk, then rose. “I am sorry. I—I need to go.”

  Almost instantly, she stood at his side. “Did I… did I somehow offend you? Because if I did—”

  “No, no. I… need to think.” There. Where had those words come from?