I still wasn't sure what crime the suits had committed, but I sensed that somewhere, in the middle of all that, she had meant to compliment me.
One of the suits was too long in the torso, apparently.
"It's fine," I argued. "I'll just sit up straighter."
"Nonsense," she said. "Ill-fitting clothes are one of the few horrors in this world that the Lord saw fit to give us the power to change. But the tailor can't adjust the bodice on this one, we'd have to order the entire thing as a custom, and there's not enough time for that." She raised one perfectly arched brow and held her hand out for the offending jacket. I sighed and took it off.
The next four were possibilities, apparently, but not so great as to allow me to stop changing clothes. I showed each outfit to Sadiq, who just nodded and asked Marilyn what she thought.
"Nearly, but not quite!" she said each time, giddy with power. She'd clearly determined that neither I nor Sadiq had proven a competent consumer, and it was up to her to make me presentable to the American justice system.
The eighth suit looked no more impressive than the others while it was on the hanger, but, when I zipped up the narrow skirt and buttoned the jacket, Marilyn clasped her hands together in front of her chest and release a breath so long it made me wonder if she'd been holding it since suit number one.
"That, my dear, is a revelation." She stood behind me and turned me to look at myself in the mirror. "Do you see?"
I tilted my head and pulled at the bottom of the jacket as I studied my reflection. I had to admit, there was something different about this one. The lapels were simple, not fussy. The jacket buttoned high, making it conservative enough for church, but it still showed the hollow of my throat and a hint of my collarbones. My neck looked long and graceful, my waist trim, the curves of my breasts and hips admirable, but subtly so.
"Well? What do you think?" Marilyn prodded.
"It's a lot better than the one that made me look like Cap’n Crunch," I deadpanned. She pursed her lips, disappointed at my lack of enthusiasm, and I felt a stab of guilt. I hurried to reassure her. "It's wonderful, really. I never would have found this on my own. Thank you."
"Well, it's certainly a challenge to fit a conservative suit to such a young woman. I hope you didn't find the process too taxing," she said tightly, picking at a piece of lint on my shoulder.
"I mean it," I said. "I love it. Sadiq's going to love it, too."
She didn't meet my eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips.
"Well, all right, then. Shall we show him?"
Sadiq gave his approval of the suit at once. I could tell that he didn't gush about it quite enough to please Marilyn, but she was happy to take his credit card as consolation for the slight.
"When will it be ready?" he asked
"Ready?" I repeated. "Isn't it ready now?"
"Goodness, no!" Marilyn said, as if I'd suggested something improper. "It's not been tailored, dear. Do you think we'd send you out with the skirt like that?"
I examined the skirt in the mirror, but could find no clue as to what she found so offensive. Whatever the problem was, the large woman from the store's alterations department felt the same way. She made a disapproving clucking noise as she put pins into the skirt and up the sides of the jacket. Through the open curtain of the changing room, I gave Sadiq a helpless look as he went up front with Marilyn to pay for the clothes, leaving me alone with the seamstress.
***
I was tremendously relieved when I was finally allowed to get back into my own clothes. I held onto Sadiq's arm as we walked out of the store. The weather was chilly, but there were still some shoppers out. The critical looks a few of them gave me didn't bother me. If always knowing how to wear the right thing and do the right thing in the eyes of the upper class meant being like Marilyn, I'd just as soon not fit in.
Sadiq put his warm hand over mine, and I looked up at him. My smile faltered. He always fit in. I wondered if having me around was embarrassing to him. I wondered what kind of woman was a proper companion for a wealthy and powerful Sheikh.
"Have you ever been married?" I asked.
His step faltered for a second.
"Why do you ask?"
I shrugged.
"I guess I'm trying to imagine you with a woman. You know, the right kind of woman."
He stopped walking and turned to me.
"And what, exactly, are you? The wrong kind of woman?"
His serious tone made me laugh uneasily.
"No, I mean. It's not a big deal. But I know I'm not the kind of woman who goes around with men like you."
"What kind of woman do you think I'd want?" He jerked his head back toward the store we'd just exited. "One like her?"
"I think Marilyn's a little old for you," I joked. "Maybe her niece or something."
"You do. You really think you're not right for me, all because of that foolishness."
He caught my hands in his, and I looked away, down at the pavement. People passed by us, but he seemed oblivious to their annoyed glances.
"Don't worry about it," I said, feeling my face go red. "I'm not trying to make this a serious thing. I know we're just having fun, as friends...or whatever. I just... I guess I just wondered if it bothered you, that I don't fit in with the people who are like you. When we go to places and people stare at us... I just wonder sometimes if you wished—"
He cupped my cheek in his hand and tilted my face up so that I was looking at him.
"Those people are strangers to me, Annabelle," he said, his voice suddenly hard. "And what we call 'fitting in' only means giving them the lies they prefer, for their comfort. Why would I want that more than you?"
"I'm not..." I shook my head, fighting tears. "You're not embarrassed to be seen with me?" I looked at him, feeling foolish, and somehow naked.
His expression turned tender. A single tear escaped down my cheek, and he wiped it away with the rough pad of his thumb.
"I'm unconcerned about 'being seen' with you, Annabelle. This is not why I want you. It's true that many in my world take great care to choose a woman who will gain them the approval of others, but I'm not that kind of man. I learned years ago that it's folly to pay to do what others expect, in the hope of gaining their approval. You bring me joy, little thief, and I'd come to believe that such a thing was no longer possible for me. I'd never trade our time together for some society mannequin."
His words made my heart ache in a way that was almost physical, but I didn't know if the ache was one of sorrow or joy.
It should be easier to distinguish love from pain, I thought as I reached for him. I slipped my arms around his neck and drew him down to me. His arms came around me at once, holding me close as I kissed him. He returned my kiss in earnest, and it soon became impossible to say which of us clung to the other more strongly.
When we moved apart, only slightly, I saw in his eyes the same raw longing that burned in my own chest, in my lips and hands... Every part of me wanted him.
"Annabelle...?" He breathed my name like a question. I understood what he asked.
"Sadiq, I..."
I think I might love him.
The realization jolted me. It terrified me. I took a half step backward; Sadiq released me with an expression of hurt confusion.
I'm going to prison. I'm about to disappear.
"I need to go home," I said. I turned away and pressed my fingertips to my temple.
"What's wrong?" His hand touched my shoulder.
This isn't fair, not to you, and certainly not to him. You can't start to love him right before you disappear.
"I just want to go home," I said. His hand on my shoulder was still, then fell away.
"All right," he said. "Come on. I'll take you home."
FOURTEEN
I'd learned everything I knew about the legal system from television. After I asked for a lawyer on the day I was arrested, I’d expected to be given one right away. Throughout the lonely hours I'd spent in city holding
, I'd kept one eye on the door, anticipating that some public defender in a suit would appear, briefcase in hand. I'd imagined sitting across a table from them, telling them my story, making a plan. We'd go into my preliminary hearing together, and we'd go prepared. I thought we'd know each other a little by then, my lawyer and me. He'd squeeze my hand while I waited nervously to stand before the judge. He'd give me a heartening smile, maybe a thumbs-up.
I didn't meet her while I was in holding, nor on any of the days leading up to my hearing. My calls to the number on the yellow carbon sheet printed with the date and time of the hearing yielded no results. Each time I called, the annoyed voice on the other end of the line told me that I would be contacted by my attorney when one was appointed for me; that the public defender's office had a backlog of cases, and I should be patient. But no one called me, and each passing day caused my panic to grow.
I considered calling Sadiq, telling him about my problem, and asking for his help in hiring a lawyer. He'd do it for me in a moment, I was sure. But I hadn't seen him since the day he'd bought me the suit. My strange behavior after our kiss on the sidewalk had confused him, I was sure. He hadn't called me, nor had he come by. I worried about what he might be thinking, and if my abrupt withdrawal had hurt him. I wanted to explain everything to him, to tell him that I couldn't give my heart away only to sit in a cell for years. I'd never ask him to wait for me, and I'd drive myself insane imagining him moving on, going on with his life while mine stood still.
I started to think that maybe this way was better. Sadiq would think I was just another flakey girl, intrigued by a mysterious and wealthy man, but quick to move on to other things. Wouldn't believing that be less painful than being separated from me by prison bars? Wouldn't this other version of why we parted ways make it easier for him to find happiness somewhere else, with someone else?
Whether my motivation was kindness or cowardice, I wasn't sure, but I stayed away. I met the New Year alone in my living room, drinking cheap bourbon and thinking of how it had felt to doze in his arms as he told me stories by the light of the dying fire.
I woke early on the morning of the hearing. My piece of paper told me to arrive at the courthouse no later than nine in the morning, and that I could be called at any point during the day. As I showered and brushed out my hair, I hoped desperately that my case would be called quickly. I intended to explain to the judge that I hadn't gotten a public defender. My plan stopped short of optimism, though. At this point, I felt that anything could happen when it came to the court of criminal justice. Nothing about the system was as I’d thought it would be.
As I looked into the foggy bathroom mirror, I held my hair up in my hands and tried to decide what to do with it. I settled on a simple but elegant bun at the nape of my neck. It was too easy a style for me to mess up with my nervous fingers, and it would make me look serious and penitent. Or, at least, I hoped it would. I put on more makeup than I usually wore, but kept it as conservative as possible. In my mind, I imagined Marilyn the saleswoman's face and tried to reproduce some version of it on myself. When I was finished, I wasn't sure if I'd succeeded or not, but it would have to do.
Back in my bedroom, I opened my closet and took out the garment bag that held the navy suit Sadiq had bought for me. I sighed as I unzipped the bag and took out the pieces. They fit even better now than they had in the store, no doubt thanks to the work of the disapproving seamstress. I put on my last pair of pantyhose without runs in them, and finished the look with a pair of simple black flats. I suspected that Marilyn would disapprove of this choice, but I didn't have any pumps that even came close to matching. I didn't have any navy-colored shoes, either. These would have to do.
Anyway, no one's going to see my feet if I'm on the witness stand.
The thought should have made me feel better, but it didn't. I stood in front of my full-length bedroom mirror and stared at the terrified stranger reflected there. I forced myself to stand up straight, to square my shoulders. I forced the fear from my face.
This is as good as it's gonna get. Let's do this.
I grabbed my purse and coat and headed to my front door. I opened it, and stopped short when I saw the black Jaguar in my driveway. Sadiq stood beside the car, facing away from my house. He wore a heavy black overcoat over his suit and was smoking a cigarette.
Relief blossomed inside me, and I wanted to run to him. Instead, I locked my front door behind me and walked carefully down the ice-slick step of my front stoop. He turned toward me, looking much like he did the day I met him; handsome, tired and sad.
Today, though, he smiled for me.
"You look beautiful, Annabelle," he said, putting out his cigarette.
I shook my head, embarrassed, and fussed with the buttons on my old wool coat.
"I look like I'm going to go prepare taxes or something."
He kept his hands in the pockets of his coat and strode toward me. He stopped a few feet away, and waited until I met his eyes.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. "Really?"
My nervous smile faded. I shrugged.
"I don't know. Scared, I guess. Really scared." I wrapped my arms around myself. "I thought I'd get, I don't know, a rush of adrenaline, or enlightenment... Something that would make me feel like I was strong enough to do this. But I don't feel strong enough." I wanted to say more, but I also didn’t want to start crying and ruin my makeup. I knew that if I gave words to the terrible dread that rose up when I imagined the cell that waited for me, I'd come apart.
Sadiq came closer and put his arms around me. He pulled me close and just held me there, tight against his chest, as long minutes passed. Rather than passion, his embrace communicated only comfort and protection. I breathed in the scent of him—male skin, winter air, and a trace of smoke. My body relaxed, and I felt some of my fear leave me. Not much, but maybe enough.
"Ready?" he asked, when I pulled back.
"Yeah."
FIFTEEN
It was eight thirty when we arrived at the courthouse. Getting through the metal detectors and finding the room where my case would be heard took another fifteen minutes. We were some of the first people to arrive in the room, but it began to fill up quickly. People came into the courtroom in ones and twos, some dressed formally, others wearing loose jeans and untucked shirts. But all of them, all of us, had the same intractable anxiety in our eyes. I squeezed Sadiq's hand and watched the clock tick.
It was almost exactly nine when I was startled by the sound of my name being called. The judge hadn't taken the bench yet, and I looked around to see who'd called me. It was a woman standing at the front of the courtroom, off to one side. She wore a brown suit over a cream-colored silk blouse that tied at her neck. She carried a briefcase in one hand and a handful of folders and loose papers in the other. Her shoulders slumped and the corners of her mouth turned down in what I guessed was a permanent frown. She scanned the courtroom with tired eyes.
"Annabelle Christensen?"
I stood up and raised my hand.
"Yes, that's me."
She looked at the paper at the top of the stack in her hand, and then back to me. She made a motion with her head, indicating I should come with her. I started toward her, then stopped, and glanced back at Sadiq.
"Go on," he said. "I'll wait for you."
I forced a smile and continued toward the waiting woman. When I was still a few yards away from her, she turned and began walking toward a side door leading out of the courtroom. I hurried to follow her. She led me from the room into the crowded hallway. I dodged around people standing, in groups and alone, as they waited for their turn to stand before a judge. I craned my neck to keep sight of the woman as she moved through the crowd with practiced ease.
As we got further away from the courtroom, the crowd thinned. Soon we stood alone in front of a huge window that looked out over the city street. The woman didn't address me, or even look at me right away. She bent over, put her briefcase down on the floor and started s
huffling through her stack of papers. I struggled for patience as I waited for her to speak. Finally, she seemed to find what she'd been looking for.
"Aha, yes." She looked from the paper to me. "I'm Meghan Brogden, your public defender. And, if I'm correct, you’ve been charged with eleven counts of burglary, one count of possession of stolen goods, one count of evading arrest..." My stomach turned as she read down the list of my transgressions.
"Yes, that's correct," I said, though it was the first time I'd heard the full list. "Should we discuss my defense? I was thinking I would plead guilty. They know it was me, anyway, and I was hoping—"
"You'll do no such thing," she said. "If these charges were going forward, we could almost certainly get them reduced, but—"
The Sheikh's First Christmas - A Warm and Cozy Christmas Romance Page 10
