Sam grabbed me. “Let’s go home,” he said into my ear, but I fell to my knees in the sand, gasping with relief. The clouds moved away, unveiling the bright moon. I could see them as the sky cleared and glowed from moonlight. “Seals!” was all I could choke out. “Seals!”
Sam pulled me to my feet with one arm and we walked back to my house, leaning against each other, under a now bright silver full moon.
* * *
Sam closed the door behind us and locked it. He took the knife from my hand and dropped it into the kitchen sink. I stood there for a moment, shaking with relief, waiting for my heart and my breath to even out. How foolish. How very foolish of me.
“Hey,” Sam said, reaching out to take me into his arms.
I gave him a shaky smile. “Thank you.”
His fingers rubbed across my cheek. “Hey,” he said again, softly. We stared at each other, and I suddenly understood what he wanted. I could allow myself to want this, too. I could try to put my memories on the back burner and allow myself this one night. There was no one here but Sam and me and my memories. I could allow myself this.
Sam led me into my bedroom and, with shaking hands, slid off my wet, sandy clothes.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’ll be good.”
He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor. On his back, just below his neck, was a tattoo. A moody, dark blue, American eagle superimposed across an anchor, holding a trident in his claw and a cocked pistol in the other, fierce and dark and sharp, poised and angry, ready to protect him.
“You have a tattoo,” I said.
“Navy SEAL.” He smiled, shrugging. I traced it across his back with my fingers. He stopped my hand with his, then fumbled with the zipper of his fly before allowing his jeans to slip down.
“Help me,” he asked softly. “I need you to help me.” He sat down to guide me as I helped him with his leg. It was so natural and right, the smooth, eager rhythm of working together as we eased his leg to the floor, like we had done it a thousand times before. He kissed me, and held his mouth against my lips while pulling me down to sit next to him, to pull me close to him, closer, lying back against the bed until we fell together. I could hear the usual struggle of his breath.
“Hold me,” he said hoarsely. “It’ll be okay. Just hold me.” I relaxed into his arms. They had such strength. We held each other for a long time, while he methodically covered my face and body with a thousand kisses. More than a thousand. His face felt rough, but his skin was warm and smooth. He touched every part of my body with great gentleness and pulled my hand to him. I pulled away at first, suddenly filled with guilt and reservations, but he took my hand again.
“Do you really want to stop?” he whispered.
No, I didn’t. I touched him willingly, caressed him. I remembered all these things from a life before, even though it was our first time. I remembered what to do, and how to hold him, and even though his leg was gone, I wouldn’t have known. He remembered everything he had ever learned about a woman. He pressed on top of me, and I wouldn’t allow myself to think of anything but him.
There was no past, no cares about a future, no promises, just joy that we had found this moment.
I dozed off in his arms, waking to the sound of his voice. Startled, I looked around. He was in the corner of the room, on his knees, praying.
* * *
We spent the night making love and sleeping, and holding each other and falling back to sleep again in peace. I turned onto my side to face him—he was sleeping—and ran my hand across his body, his chest, his arms, his legs. I felt such sympathy for him; he had suffered such losses. His breathing was noisy from damaged lungs; the blanket outlined his good leg and what remained of the one torn from his body, and I leaned over and kissed his face. He smiled in his sleep and I put my head against his shoulder and allowed myself to sleep, too. We opened our eyes to the blue morning light, repaired.
He pulled himself over me to wake me and his dark hair fell into his eyes. He took my hand and ran it across the stubble on his cheek. “This is how I look in the morning,” he said. “A bit untamed. Is that okay?”
My hair was standing up in the back and I raked it down with my fingers. “Me too,” I said, without apology.
* * *
“I have an idea,” he said as I showered. He was standing in the bathroom watching; the night had entitled him to new familiarities.
“Did you pray again this morning?” I asked him. I liked that he prayed. That he kept in constant touch with God.
“Always,” he said, then “I have an idea. Maybe you can take the day off and we can go somewhere. Anywhere you want.”
I poked my head through the shower curtain. “I’m a working girl,” I said. “There is only one place I can go.”
“Right,” he said, disappointment in his face.
We dressed and I made him scrambled eggs for breakfast and insisted that he eat them. I had coffee and added a lot of cream until it looked beige while he put three sugars in his. I toasted my last muffin for him and he buttered it, then split it in half for us to both eat. It was so good to have him sitting at the table with me. The day was just awakening, but it was awakening to something lovely.
Then he said, “Listen, why don’t you come to dinner? My aunt Phyllis has been asking me to invite you. And my mother, too.”
My heart dropped. I knew what that meant. Meet the family, except I had known his aunt since forever and his mother had been introducing herself slowly at the Galley every morning.
“I don’t want to bother anyone,” I replied, a standard no in these parts. Normally, I would be thrilled to eat dinner with a whole family, but I was afraid this would send the wrong message.
“No worries,” he said. “Tomorrow night. I’ll tell them that you’re coming tomorrow night.”
“I don’t want them to think anything,” I cautioned. “Because we don’t know anything ourselves.”
He gave me a teasing smile. “We don’t?” he asked.
I didn’t answer him.
He changed the subject. “I am picking up my new truck today,” he said. “My aunt made the arrangements. I already paid for it. And then I am going to help you get Vincent back.”
“I just got a lawyer,” I told him. “He said he would do it.”
“Let me pay for him,” he said. “It was all my fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault at all,” I said.
He took my hand across the table and we fell into silence, contemplating the day ahead. There were things we needed to do to straighten out our lives.
He pushed himself to his feet and while I tidied the kitchen, he slipped into the living room to pray again. I finished the dishes to turn around into his open arms. He pulled me into an embrace by the door that ended in a million kisses.
“We can spend our nights together,” he said between kisses. “There was nothing special about nights until I met you.”
“Wait a bit. There’s a lunar eclipse coming soon,” I said, only half-joking.
“We’ll spend that together, too,” he said. “Until tomorrow.” He sealed his words with a dozen more kisses around my face.
I took my car keys from a silver dragonfly hook that Dan had hung by the door, then stared at it as it hung in place. A dragonfly symbolized change, Dan had told me when he hung it on the doorframe. Change was good, he said. It meant we were moving forward. Then he had solemnly promised that his feelings for me would never change and I promised him the same.
I sighed and threw open the door to the morning.
The sky was refracting gold-white sunlight against the house and glinting dapples in the bay like gold coins. The air was filled with flowers starting to open themselves to the sun; everything was fresh and clean and original, all of it waiting patiently out there beyond the house to start us on our day.
“It’s time,” I said.
“I know,” he replied.
And we left the house with great
reluctance.
Chapter 21
Miss Phyllis’s house was the pinkest one on Beach Six Street, the pinkest in the entire village, highlighted, of course, by her pink car screaming Follicles, parked in the driveway. Sam was waiting outside when I pulled up. I grabbed the bottle of wine I had brought while he eagerly opened the car door for me and then stood there, grinning happily.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, and almost leaned over to kiss my cheek as I got out, but stopped himself. I knew why as soon as I heard Miss Phyllis’s voice.
“Yoo-hoo.” She was already descending the porch steps waving a pink spatula. “Right on time!” she called. “Of course you would be punctual, having to open your store so early every morning.” She was wearing a light pink pantsuit, as she always did, with a white lace blouse and rose corsage on her wrist. Her curly hair was cropped close in its usual tight curls and dyed a light brown. She always dyed her hair for special occasions—red for Valentine’s Day, green for St. Patrick’s, pink and yellow for Easter, but I had no idea why she chose light brown today—maybe she was trying to match my cranberry-pecan loaves. Her dog, a standard poodle, dyed a light pink to match her clothes, was behind her, prancing in circles.
“You know my aunt, of course,” Sam said, guiding me toward her with his hand on the small of my back.
Miss Phyllis may have been a bad hairstylist, but she was a cordial hostess and gave me a big lung-impairing hug, beating out her dog, who was next in line to jump me.
“Darling!” she boomed into my ear. “We don’t get many people visiting. This is wonderful! I even wore flowers to mark the occasion.” She held up her wrist. “Are you hungry? We have so much food! Dorothea and I have been cooking all day.” She released me and I caught my breath just as the poodle stood on his hind legs trying to lick my face before ominously sliding down my leg to humping position.
“Isn’t that cute!” Miss Phyllis said, pulling him away. “Carnation loves you, too. Well, come in, what are we waiting for? Come in.” Carnation led the way, followed by Miss Phyllis and Sam and me.
* * *
Stepping into Miss Phyllis’s house was a bit like stepping into someone’s stomach lining. Pink walls blended into the pink furniture, drapes, and rose floral prints on the walls.
Carnation continued to lead us ahead into the dining room, Miss Phyllis behind him, Sam and I behind her single file. We passed a black motorized wheelchair parked in the corner of the dining room with several canes hanging over the back.
Sam noticed that the wheelchair caught my eye.
“Mine,” he said softly. “Sometimes I need to use it.”
The dining room table was set with pink and green dishes and pink glass cups. A short vase squatted in the middle of the table, resembling a bulldog or a Martian, depending on the angle, holding a bunch of purple and orange flowers.
“Don’t you love it?” Miss Phyllis gestured to the table. “I decided on that centerpiece because, you know, the rules of good decorating say that you should strive for the unexpected.”
“It really was,” I murmured, and held out the bottle of wine. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Thank you for a lovely gift,” she said, accepting it. “I won’t serve it tonight, but I’ll look forward to you coming over one night and we can have a glass or two together.” She tucked it under her arm and ducked into the kitchen.
“Sorry about that.” Sam turned to me when she left; he took my hand between both of his. “You know, wine is haram, forbidden to Muslims.”
“I didn’t know,” I gasped. “I’m so sorry!”
“No worries.” Miss Phyllis reappeared from the kitchen. “I’m not Muslim, so you and I can definitely enjoy your wine another time.” Sam’s mother was behind her looking festive and bright in a red and white dress and a matching red floral hijab. She was carrying a small tray of very dark coffee in thimble-size cups. Miss Phyllis presented her. “This is Sam’s mother, my sister, Dorothea Ahmadi.”
“So nice to meet you again, Mrs. Ahmadi.”
“Welcome to my table,” she said with a little bow of her head. She was polite, very polite, but there was a warmth missing. “Please make yourself comfortable.” She handed each one of us a cup, and following her lead, we gulped the coffee down. It was very bitter.
“That is to honor you and welcome you to a meal,” Sam explained. “Please sit.”
I chose a chair and Sam sat next to me. Miss Phyllis and Sam’s mother made small talk while bringing in heaping platters of tempting and colorful food and placing them around the table before settling themselves across from us.
“This is so nice, to have you in my home,” Miss Phyllis said, putting down a bowl of fragrant rice and lentils. “This is called mujaddara. My sister made it.”
It was all interesting and delicious. Mrs. Ahmadi carefully explained the contents of each dish and how it was prepared. Tabbouleh was a salad of chopped cucumbers and tomatoes and peppers in yogurt sauce. There were stewed tomatoes called galayet, and what was obviously Sam’s favorite, mansaf, a stewed lamb, vegetable, and rice dish, along with a pile of hot flatbread that we used to scoop up the food.
“Sahtanya,” Mrs. Ahmadi declared as she started passing the food. “May you eat with two appetites.”
A glass teapot filled with black tea, fragrant with sage, was passed around and I filled the little glass cup in front of me and added a lump of brown sugar. I watched, smiling inwardly, as Sam and his mother simultaneously added three sugars each to their tea. Sam heaped piles of food on his plate and then laughingly apologized for being so keen. He looked like an eager little boy, he was enjoying it so.
We ate a lot of food and chatted easily with one another, Miss Phyllis doing most of the talking. She told me how Sam and his brother had been born in the States but spent their childhood in Jordan because their Jordanian grandparents were elderly and had to be cared for. Sam had come back to attend high school, staying with his aunt Margaret, a third Reyes sister, on Long Island. His mother returned from living in Jordan after many years of taking care of her in-laws, to be by Sam’s side while he recuperated from his injuries. His father and brother had visas to return but had been stopped at the airport. It was a terrible problem. Sam and his mother talked about politics and war and policy and borders, and their fears of how things might change for them, when Sam’s cell phone suddenly rang. He took it from his pocket and looked at the number.
“Wow—it’s the leg,” he said, pulling himself up from his chair. “Let me take this; I’ll be right back.”
Miss Phyllis looked delighted and his mother smiled easily for the first time that evening. “It’s his new leg,” Sam’s mother remarked from across the table. “It just came on the market. It’s buoyant, so he can swim with it.”
“We chipped in together to buy it,” Miss Phyllis explained. “It was very expensive.”
“Oh, I am sure that Miss Aila isn’t interested in all the financial details,” Mrs. Ahmadi said.
“Well, it will make a big difference to him,” I agreed, remembering what he had told me about his problems swimming.
“We are so appreciative that you have taken an interest in him,” said Miss Phyllis. “He always loved the water—”
“He misses the water very much,” said his mother. She passed me more food and I started to protest, but she insisted. “We have a saying in Jordan, There is always room for forty bites more.” She added more food to my plate.
“Sam even asked me about my old boat last week,” said Miss Phyllis, picking up another serving dish and refilling my plate with rice. “Do you remember me taking my boat out, Aila?”
“A little bit,” I said, thinking back to my childhood. “I did spend a lot of time in the water when I was young.”
She smiled at me, and I thought I saw sympathy in her face. “Yes, your grandmother took you to the beach every day. Even if the weather was terrible. I worried for your health, sometimes.”
Her concern sur
prised and annoyed me a little. “I grew up fine,” I said softly.
“Yes, you did.”
She took a sip of her tea and leaned back in her chair. “He’s so excited to get the leg. It’s been very hard for him. His injuries were so severe.”
“I know,” I said.
“He just gave up,” Miss Phyllis continued. “That’s why he spent all that time in the psych—”
“Phyllis,” Mrs. Ahmadi sharply interrupted her sister, “why don’t you pass Miss Aila some more bread. Family business is private.”
“Oh, poo, Dottie, we can talk,” Miss Phyllis said, handing me the bread. “I’ve known Aila since she was a little girl and she is a good person. We want him to make friends.”
Mrs. Ahmadi pursed her lips. “It’s my job to protect him. I understand him.”
“Aila understands him,” Miss Phyllis countered. “Don’t you, dear?”
“I think so,” I answered.
“He’s very sensitive,” Mrs. Ahmadi said.
Miss Phyllis gave a dismissive flap of her hand. “He just went through some mental troubles. Aila knows what that is—her own grandmother went through mental troubles because of you know what.”
“O-oh,” I stammered, wondering just how popular a topic my grandmother had been in her day and exactly who knew what.
“Of course, Sam’s problems were a lot worse,” Miss Phyllis added, “but I hope that doesn’t change your opinion of him.”
My mind was spinning, quickly putting all the pieces together from earlier conversations with Sam. “I think he’s a . . . great guy.”
“I used to sit with him all night,” his mother said softly. “His nightmares were terrible.”
“Everyone is afraid of people who have been in the psych unit, you know,” Miss Phyllis mused. She piled more stew on my plate. “Especially a vet. They think that something is going to happen—that he might just snap and attack them for no reason. ‘The psych unit’ has bad connotations.”
My heart jumped. “Psych unit,” I repeated dumbly, adding another piece to the puzzle. “Right.”
And All the Phases of the Moon Page 13
